#but I truly don't know when I'm going to be able to update ye olde Law :/ what with the whole unemployment thing

[kscribbs]

Miller's Law Snippets

Snip 1 💤

And so she stayed like that. One arm curled around his torso, face nestled into the narrow space between his shoulder blades. — A protective barrier, shielding him from the darkness of his own mind.

Whenever she sensed that he might be submitting to it again she’d move their conjoined hands to his chest/heart, trying to imbue as much warmth and comfort and… well, love, as possible. Willing his heart-rate to return to a normal rhythm. And she'd speak to him. Using the same soft, consoling timbre she reserved for anxious patients. It seemed to work, for he’d soon grow still again, drifting back into what she hoped were pleasant, happy dreams. Dreams of things and people and places he loved. The rose garden at Frost Manor. His favourite memories with Jacqueline and the Twins. Endless games of Elemental Ball…

He was fully-thawed now, but his fingers remained icy, frost creeping from his palms, across the counterpane, and after awhile Lucy’s own fingers began to ache and burn. But still, she didn’t let go. She stayed there for hours. Hours upon hours, watching dawn crack over the horizon like a robin's egg, spilling its golden light across the Canton de Bern. Watching the sky shift from pale blue to silver-grey and snow begin to drift down in large, fluffy flakes. Watching morning bleed into afternoon, and afternoon into evening, and night settle into all the room’s nooks and recesses like the ink in the creases of her palms.

Still, she didn’t let go.

Eventually the clouds cleared, and the sky stretched before her as a great, glittering vault. The silver river of the Milky Way was so much more vivid out here. She never saw this many stars in New York. 

And Jack stayed sleeping, snoring softly, stirring minimally, his hand tightening in hers, every so often, the odd murmur drifting from his lips. Sometimes they were unintelligible. Other times she could make out certain words. Names, more oft than not. His mother’s. Jacqueline’s. Even her own, on one occasion. 

She was overexerting herself, she knew. Using her powers to excess. He was going to be cross with her, when he did wake. Chide her, lecture her. But she hardly cared. She would make sure he got the rest he’d been so sorely deprived of if it killed her. 

How long had he been suffering like this? she asked herself, again and again. He’d said they came in cycles, but how long had they been this severe? And how bad of a doctor — a friend, moreover — was she, for not having uncovered the truth sooner?

After a full twenty-four hours she was forced to get up to use the washroom, as well as grab something to eat and drink, all of which she did as swiftly as possible, before returning to his side (his other side now, seeing as he was one of those people who tended to gravitate, catlike, towards the centre of the bed) with her laptop in tow. He had begun to look a little strained in her absence, so she carded her fingers through his hair, pressed a kiss to the groove between his brows. And that seemed to do the trick.

She put on Season One of Gilmore Girls, keeping the volume low, and settled in for another long shift. 

The room was well-lit and warm now, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, and Lucy couldn’t help muse that, amidst all the grief and the horror — the gaping, cavernous knowledge of her own infirmity -- she felt… oddly at peace. Like they were living in a kind of vacuum, away from the rest of the world. A perfect, snow-capped bell jar.

It helped, she supposed, that Gstaad had a real fairytale feel to it. Like something out of a Hans Christian Andersen story.

Finally, around fifty-three hours after he’d first fallen asleep, and while she was almost-but-not-quite drifting off to Monty Python and The Holy Grail (a favourite of his), she felt a groggy chuckle reverberate against her left side, and glanced up to find him grinning at the screen. His hair was a complete mess, thanks to her ministrations; making him look a bit like a lion coming into its mane.

‘I love the Pythons,’ he said, huskily.

‘I know.’

‘Most people don’t know why they named it “Monty Python”. It was because they thought it sounded like a really bad theatrical agent. Did you know that?’

‘I didn't,' Lucy said fondly, angling the laptop more towards him. ‘Good Fact. I'll remember it for next time I see dad.'

He sat up a bit, rubbing his eyes with the hand that wasn’t connected to hers. A little colour rose in his face, when he took notice of the fact, but he didn't let go. Quite the contrary, actually -- he gave it a gentle squeeze, running his thumb over her knuckles.

‘Mmgh. Jeez. My joints are killing me. How long was I out for? Couple hours?’

'Uh... little more than that, actually.'

'How much more?' His fingers trailed over his chin, which was noticeably stubbled. He frowned. 'Wait a minute...'

__

Snip 2 📱

‘Christ, I know. She’d be beside herself. But there’s very little we can do right now to—’ Melusine was cut off by the sound of a phone ringing. ‘…Do you hear— ? …Who’s is that?’

Lucy’s, it transpired; recognisable by its bright pink, flowery case. It lay abandoned on the kitchen table, half buried beneath a tea towel. The contact flashing on the screen made Jack’s skin crawl with dislike. 

“Matt (Weird Sevens Guy)”.

‘Oh, he can bugger right off! The rotter,’ Melusine growled, tossing her empty bowl into the sink as if it had just declared itself a close associate of said "rotter"(...?). ‘That’s the LAST thing Luce needs right now. I can’t bleedin’ stand that man, Jack. Always sniffing around her, like a hyena.'

'Yeah, what's up with that? It's like, uh, hello? Get a hobby, maybe? ...Preferably one that involves heavy machinery and very lax safety regulations.'

'Too right. He's trouble, I swear. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to answer, blow a raspberry down the phone and then hang up.’

‘W-- now, Melusine,’ Jack chided, yanking her back by the hem of her blouse. 

‘What? That’s funny!’

‘Funny, sure. But somehow I don’t think Lucy’d thank you for it.’

‘So? She’s not here to nag me about it, is she? And what’s more, she’s not the boss of me. Or you, I hasten to add. …Actually, scratch that.’ She smirked at him. ‘We both know that’s not true. You’d stand in the path of an oncoming train, if she asked you to. Oh wait—’

‘Yeah, yeah—’

‘--You did do that! What a lark.’

‘Hmno. No, no. SHE did that. Charged full tilt towards it, in fact. I just happened to be clinging to the back of her broomstick, at the time.’ Jack shook his head ruefully. ‘It was—’

‘Attractive?’

‘—terrifying.’

‘Terrifyingly attractive. Tell me I’m wrong.’

‘…The woman has a screw loose, is-is what I’m saying.' He cleared his throat. 'Stark raving bonkers, as you Brits would say. And here I’d been under the impression that she was the better adjusted, of the three of us.’

‘Oh come now, you always knew she had a reckless streak.’

‘A reckless streak, yeah. Mm-hm. Totally. The key word there being "streak". What I didn’t know was that she was the second coming of Knievel. Sectionable, by all accoun… what’re you doing…?’ 

Melusine now had Lucy’s phone in hand, and Jack was concerned to see her typing up what looked like a—

‘Virtual curse,’ she explained, casually. ‘Nothing too serious, of course. Won’t do him any real harm. Just turn a very specific part of his anatomy into an eel. Eheh. See what me makes of th— oi! Give it back!’

‘Are you serious right now?’

‘Look, I know you’ve developed a “conscience”, or whatever, since your thaw,’ she huffed, standing on her tiptoes to try to snatch the phone from his grasp (a difficult feat, given their difference in height). ‘And that’s lovely — bravo. Very happy for you. I, on the other hand, misplaced mine centuries ago and have yet to rediscover it. I suspect it’s buried at the bottom of a sock drawer somewhere, though I really can’t be arsed to look… I’ve therefore ze-ro scruples about giving our mutual nemesis the ol’ what-for.’

‘This has absolutely nothing to do with “conscience or whotever"; I couldn't give less of a shit about what happens to that guy. In fact it would give me no greater pleasure to watch him have to waddle his way to the DMI ward. I'd just rather not end up in Lucy's bad books, as a result. Things are going really well between us right now, if you hadn't noticed? And I'd prefer to keep it that w-- ...don't look at me like that.’

‘Oh, but it’s just so sweet.' Melusine simpered, clasping her hands together kittenishly. 'The Great and Powerful Jack Frost, all… twitterpatery. Never thought I’d see the day!’

‘I’m not— i-it’s not because I—' She raised a sculpted brow at him. 'Look, shut up, okay?! I just can’t afford to lose any more strikes! I only have the one left! And I really don’t wanna find out what happens when I reach naught.’

‘She’ll probably just make you do lines or something. I wouldn’t worry.’

‘Or, she might jinx me! Put me in a full body bind.’

‘Don't act like you wouldn't enjoy it.’ Melusine sent him an arch look, making him flush. ‘But fine. If you're that much of a jessie, I'll take the brunt of any potential Miller ire.’

‘Pfft. As if I’m going to trust that.’

‘It’s the truth!’

‘You’ll have to forgive me for being the slightest bit dubious, given… you know. Every single one of our interactions over the last two centuries.’

At her mulish look Jack sighed, realising that he was fighting a losing battle. Though he truly didn’t want to buy himself a one-way ticket to the dog house, he couldn’t deny that seeing what’shisname (Mason? Murray? ...Sketchy, overly-solicitous guy who didn't come anywhere close to deserving the object of his "affection"?) receive a good cursing was an attractive prospect. 

A very attractive prospect.

Hm. 

‘Y'know what...? Fine,’ he relented. ‘Whatever. You reap what you sow, Melville. Do as you please, just leave me out of it.’ 

‘What I’m sowing is chaos, and I have my fingers crossed for a bountiful harvest.’

‘…In that case, an electric eel would be far funnier. Just a thought.’

‘My, my!’ Melusine's brows did the milage to her hairline. ‘Two good ideas in under twenty-four hours. That must be some kind of record! Remind me to mark the occasion in the official "Jack Had an Idea" Excel spreadsheet.’

Jack was just about to respond with his own (far more cutting) witticism when a sleepy voice from the doorway said, ‘Why do you guys look like you’re scheming?’ 

The two of them jumped, turning to find Lucy standing over the threshold, looking charmingly dishevelled.

While Jack smiled dotingly, all other thoughts fleeing his mind at the sight of her, Melusine, startled by her appearance, grabbed the phone from his hand and lobbed it at the window, which shattered.

There was a moment of confused silence.

‘…Bollocks. Could’ve sworn that was open.’

__

Snip 3 ⏳

‘What’s the matter?’ 

And there it was, Lucy thought. The Look. The one that always made her feel like he could see under her skin. The familiarity of it, after all these years, was like a blow to the jugular.

‘N-Nothing, I--’ She drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I’m just... having a bit of a hard day, s’all.’

‘Why?’

‘…I… miss my friend. ...A lot. I haven’t seen him in a long time, you see. A very long time.’

‘Where is he?’ The boy cocked his head curiously, resembling a bird listening for earthworms. ‘Did he die?’

Kids. So forthright. 

‘No. No, honey, he didn’t die.’

‘Then why can’t you see him?’

Lucy’s lips twitched. 

Hiking up her skirts, she knelt down to his level, studying his narrow face. The same face she mapped out in her mind each night, before she went to sleep, so that she wouldn’t forget. Every line, every furrow. Every repressed spasm or overexertion of emotion.

Piece by piece, the memories settled around her. Like snowfall. -- A worried grimace as he sat at her bedside, holding her hand through what, at the time, had been her worst surge to date. A sleepy grin, as he watched Monty Python over her shoulder, while the world outside faded to white. Deep concentration pulling his features taught as he tinkered at his Steinway. The panicked, pleading look he'd sent her when she left him slaving over a hot stove with her mom and Nana, while she, Charlie and her dad retired to the basement to "assemble furniture" (drink beer and watch the Bears game). Countless looks of gentle reprove, mixed with grudging amusement, whenever she teased him about his eccentricities. The brief flashes of pride and adoration she'd grown increasingly better at catching, in the months preceding her "Jump".

The mingled shock and delight, that afternoon at the cottage, as the heady scent of magnolia drifted in through the window and the rain thundered on the roof. Arguably her favourite memory of him.

...The abject terror, as he lay writhing in pain--

No.

No, that one she would not think of. That one she made a concerted effort to bury, stifle. Locking it away, in the deepest, darkest recesses of her mind.

This face, though… this face was smooth and bright, filled with earnestness of childhood. The lofty bone structure, the crooked nose, the dimpled cheeks. The blue, blue eyes. It was all him. And at the same time, it wasn’t. Not quite. Not yet. 

To look into his eyes after all this time and not have him recognise her, even a little bit...? Hurt more than Lucy would've ever thought possible.

‘It’s… it’s complicated, kiddo,’ she said, eventually. ‘Grown-up stuff, y’know?’

‘Well.’ He drew himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest importantly. ‘I don’t wanna brag or nothin’, but I happen to be very mature.’

‘Oh, is that so?’

‘Yep! My teacher said so. Said that I’m the most prec-- prero--'

'Precocious?'

'Reprocious boy in my class. And that's why I find it hard to make friends.'

'You do?' Lucy put a hand over her heart. 'Oh dear.'

His ears turned a little pink, as if he'd disclosed more than he'd intended to.

'N-Not that I care! Why should I? They're all dunderheads anyway. And I'm special. I'm gonna do Big Things when I leave school!'

‘Really now? Golly.'

‘Mm-hm! And then they'll ALL wanna be my friend. But by that point it'll be too late, 'cause I'll be rich and famous and everyone will know how great I am.'

It made so much sense, in hindsight. So much sense. All he'd ever wanted was to be accepted. Understood. Lauded for his intelligence, his studiousness, his unparalleled talents. To make the people he looked up to proud. He'd just gone about it in a totally roundabout way, steered off-course by his wicked old uncle. His deepest insecurities warped into something far more sinister than they would've been otherwise. At his core he was just a troubled little boy, who's enormous capacity for love was being tempered, stifled.

It would be so easy, the thought came to Lucy suddenly. So easy to simply… scoop him up in her arms. Thaw him there and then. The curse wasn’t overly evident yet; not to the untrained eye, anyway. But it was there. Lurking just beneath the surface. His big blue eyes had a near-imperceptible chill to them. His face, though more flushed than that of his adult, frozen self, was nevertheless quite pale. He was a ticking time bomb.

If she diffused that bomb now none of it — none of the pain, the heartbreak, the guilt and the regret — would come to pass. He would have those years his present self mourned so dearly. He would have his family. His sister. 

He would be happy. 

And oh, how she wanted that for him. For all of them. The zany, ragtag family she'd grown to love so dearly, over the years.

But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. She’d been given strict instructions by Father Time. Though it went against her every instinct, she had to let things play out the way they were meant to. The way they already had, for her to be here in the first place.

'Annnnyway, point being: I think I can handle “complicated”. So if you need someone to talk to, I'm your guy.' He grinned at her, all dimples and charm, and Lucy’s heart swelled with affection. She found herself caught between laughter and tears. It seemed inconceivable that her love for him could continue to grow any more than it already had, and yet... grow it did.

It might’ve been easier to believe him, on the "maturity" front, had he not been talking with a subtle, but nevertheless noticeable, lisp — most likely a result of his missing front teeth. To say nothing of the sizeable blob of jam in the corner of his mouth.

‘Even so, lil' man; I wouldn’t wanna bring you down,’ she said, with a gentle smile. ‘Plus, I… I don’t really feel like talking about it right now.’

‘Hm. That's understandable, I s'pose.’ He nodded seriously. ‘Welp. If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he misses you too. Your friend.’

'You think?’ 

‘Sure! I mean... you seem like a nice person. I think I’d miss you, if I were him. Or he were me. Or whatever.' A little more colour rose in his face, and he glanced away bashfully, scuffing the ground with the toe of his shoe. 'I think... I think I'd be really glad to have a friend like you, actually.'

When he looked up again it was to find silent tears running down her face.

'Oh! Ah… was it… something I said?’

‘No, no, I just… that’s very s-sweet,’ Lucy warbled, dabbing her eyes with the sleeve of her cloak. ‘Thank you.’

In the next moment she found a familiar, embroidered foulard being thrust into her grip. She took it gratefully, letting it sit in her hands for several seconds. The silk was softer than she remembered it being.

‘This is l-lovely. Are you sure you don’t mind me using it?’

‘'Course not.' He waved her off. ‘My father says a gentleman always gives a crying lady his kerchief. It’s the chirivus-- chivrulus-- honourable thing to do.'

‘Oh and he's quite right. Your father’s governor, isn’t he? Governor Frost?'

'Ya-huh! That's the one.'

'He's a great man. I mi-- like him very much.’

‘Sometimes he takes me to work with him, and I get to boss people around. It’s really fun.’

‘Mm, I bet.’

[louroth]

Well, well, well. Would you look at what the cat dragged in. (it's me, Lou!)

The time is here, and oh man, do I have a lot to say! Ever since this post was posted on my personal tumblr, on the fifth of may, I have been working like a machine on all things OUROBOROS. I had originally planned for this to just be a progress report/ announcement on what I will be working on now that I am free of the shackles of work, but, somehow, I managed to finish all bullet points, and more. So, let's get into it!

First off, the title.  Ouroboros becomes all capitalized OUROBOROS. Idk. It's neat. Next!

Art. Whew. I didn't think I could draw like this anymore- drawing has been more of a struggle than writing has been, forever, always- it was something I really strived to become good at, for a time. And I gave up. Only to pick it up again when I started ouro, and ever since I released that pressure, something just clicked and I have been churning out art like never before. I don't know if this is a fluke, a stroke of luck or if all that hard work I once did slaving away with menial art practice… but I'm grateful nonetheless. (A note on official RO art: I lost my ipad pencil somewhere on the lawn, lmao. I haven't been able to get a new one yet, so there is a slight delay here.) I am hoping that I get to make some commissions too, in the near future. Visit the forum to see some works in progress (amongst them, Yor's RO portrait!)

Onto the hellscape that is coding! I have been growing more proficient with CSS and html with the help of the ones that run so that we can walk; I have studied and researched and tested and tinkered until my eyes crossed, finding my way into this medium with the incredible guidance of the giants of whose shoulders I stand on. I will talk about this in detail on a later date. So I think it's finally time to reveal that yes, I am working on a twine version of ouro. I will develop it in tandem with choicescript; the porting over from one to the other isn't the herculean task I thought it would be.

Why am I doing this? Because I need to have a save system. I am continuing to write the whole alpha draft in choicescript in hopes that CoG will announce the ability to have a native save/checkpoint system, but if that doesn’t happen, I can’t publish this story without one. Unfortunately, I am not willing to code in a savesystem in choicescript myself, because this will be a large game, with far too many variables for that to be sustainable. Trust me, no one is more disappointed by that fact than me. If it comes to the point that twine publishing will be what I do, I will set my sights on writing a smaller game for hosted games. 

Now the meatier announcements!

New Socials!

Tumblr: You are looking at it!  This is the new, exclusively OUROBOROS blog where I will share all announcements and sneak-peeks, and future updates. I worked together with the dev of the theme and made it oh, so pretty and functional. Please check out their portfolio here, if you are ever in the market for sprucing up your (desktop version) of tumblr. They were a pleasure to work with. Amongst other things, it has a gorgeous header (again, only if you visit on web and not mobile) where I am showcasing fanart and official art. Go check it out! This month, I am showcasing a truly breathtaking art from KAIRELART, and you can find the full art here, or follow the links in the “FEATURED ARTIST” tab in the top bar.

I hope you enjoy this new haven for OUROBOROS! I will be answering questions once a week (saturday) and ramping up as I adapt to this new schedule, more on that further below.

My old tumblr, honeypeabrain, will revert back to being my personal blog. Feel free to keep following me there, but know that it will be inundated with shitposts, crass humor and the occasional poetry dump and personal post. You’ve been warned!

Discord!

By the good graces, this was ROUGH to set up. Working with discord bots is akin to wrangling code, and it was well and truly, a war. But with the help of many, it is finally all done and ready for anyone to join and talk to me and others about OUROBOROS and anything else between heaven and earth. 

I will also greatly appreciate if any future bugs and feedback are submitted through here, so I can keep easier track of it. Come join us! (18+ ONLY.)

Patreon & Ko-Fi

Yep! Ko-fi is just a place to toss me a coin if you wish to help me towards the goal of new PC parts to make testing easier, or to just show appreciation for those that have it to spare. Patreon however, already has a multitude of posts and will be a hub for exclusive NSFW sidestories that you get to vote on, loredives and extensive sneak peeks, Q&A’s, polls and weekly dev logs. 

Right now, there are only two tiers, but I expect it to grow as my story does. I have many plans, but I am going at a steady pace. 

Amongst tiered content, there is a (free) NSFW story with female MC and Idren to read there right now, if you want to check it out! I am mgoing to post it on tumblr and the adult thread here over the weekend.

NOTE: I stupidly didn't realize that patreon had a review process after I pressed launch, which I did just a few minutes ago. Sigh. I am going to post the short on tumblr and the adult forum thread as soon as I get to it.

It is not mandatory by any means, so if you do choose to support me, you have my eternal gratitude as these places will be the sole source of income for me.

Onto writing:

The best news out of this whole bunch is that I have worked so hard on editing and writing, that in the past month I have all but finished a two chapter update! I have a chunk of about 5-6 thousand words left to write, and I am going to buckle down over the weekend to see it through. I wanted to have it done so badly for today, but I lost three days of writing time last week due to still being weighed down with work. I hope it isn’t too disappointing to have to wait until monday for the demo update! I am going to post a link to an as-I-write updated demo on Patreon and Discord, if you want to see the ugly face of raw wip drafts. Otherwise I will post the demo update here on Monday with a comprehensive post!

And now!  the biggest news is… from now on, I am writing full time!

This is what I have been tossing and turning about every night ever since Easter. It started as a silly idea while talking to some friends and family about how I was looking for a change in career. And then, little by little, that idea whittled down to a plan, carefully carved by my partner and his whispers of a happy future, a finished dream project, and something to be proud of until the day I wither and die. 

Somewhere between then and now, I grasped a tiny sliver of bravery and held on for dear life. 

I quit my job as a teacher, and instead of accepting a cushy office job, I started behaving as if OUROBOROS and writing was my work (for all the moments I could afford). I have researched and tried different methods from week to week, and although I was still tired from work, I felt like I was onto something that could build into a sustainable future. 

I have no doubts that this journey will be bumpy and long, but sometimes all it takes is to take that first step, and do it with determination. It might all crash and burn and fail in a spectacular way, or with a whimper, but then I will know that I have tried. I will know that I gave myself the chance to be who I want to be, work on what means so much to me. 

And that’s it. I think the hardest part of formulating this post (I’ve written about 50 versions of it!) is getting to the point; the kernel of what makes it so special to me. So, in my heart of hearts, what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm gonna give it my all- and while I know the road to having a sustainable career in writing is rough and ever winding, I do know for sure that I am ready for a challenge, to pour my heart and soul into it until the day I rush out of the office screaming IT IS DONE. IT IS DOOOOONE!!! 

If you decide to join me, I will treasure your company like a lantern in the dark. Hand in lovable hand, let’s fucking go.

[gaspshichat]

hi chat. pearl made me cry at 9:30 in the morning so y'all know what time is it. warning there will be swears [i say the f word ☹️] bc i haven't slept but i'm somehow not sick rn which. hasn't happened in weeks

[and a quick health update: pretty sure i have narrowed down what's making me sick to three possible things. i'm hopefully seeing my doctor soon bc the refill on my meds expires in june. we're so close and i haven't been able to breathe]

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OH MY GOD. Y'ALL. IF YOU'RE FOLLOWING ME AND SOMEHOW AREN'T A PEARL FAN. HOW ???? GO. GO BE A PEARL FAN. IT'S A THREAT

pearl is funny and kind and caring. there is a reason i gave her 10k bits the other day. she deserves the entire world and more. i don't know what the world did to her that made her so kind

i'm not the only one who has a message though !! here are a few messages from people but i've seen so many in reblogs and tweets and whatnot

.

from my lovely partner tay aka twitter user PandoraRxse: I can’t catch streams very often but your videos always make me smile and I always look forward to a new upload. Keep doing what you’re doing, you’re amazing Pearl

from lovely twitter user SKYBL1NGS: shes like genuinely super funny and has great content that everyone can get into and shes really pretty and i loce pearlecentmoon

from a lovely anonymous twitter user: she is genuinly such an amazing artist, both in minecraft and in real life, all of her art is so lively in a way that i'm not sure how to describe best. also she is such a kind human being :))

from lovely tumblr user sapphicwhimsy: pearl is such a lovely and sweet person. shes SO kind to everyone in chat, new or old, and creates such a lovely environment to hang around in. her streams are the only ones i can sit through fully, and she has SUCH a lovely voice! i could listen to her read the dictionary, because im sure she would make it interesting. she has such a way to make everything interesting! even things like sitting still for thirty minutes can be something interesting in a pearl stream, because shes always got such amazing things to say. shes absolutely beautiful, inside and out, with a kind soul that matches her through and through. the fact that she always tries to read everyone out personally, and tries to pronounce their names correctly - and accepts corrections wholeheartedly - is so nice. and shes so wonderfully accepting to all of her community, and always has well wishes for everyone. shes truly a very wonderful and accepting person, who deserves the world! honestly the sweetest person ive ever came across.

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anyway onto the next part of why i made this post

HOW THE FUCK IS SHE SO PRETTY. WHAT. IT'S GENUINELY UNFAIR. SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE COULD BE A GODDAMN SCULPTURE

LIKE COME ON. I WISH I COULD DRAW SO I COULD DRAW HER. SHE'S BEAUTIFUL. WHAT THE HELL. LOOK AT HER

featuring other GORGEOUS women. my god. i am so

anyway :)) it took me an hour and a half to write this bc i kept getting distracted. in short. pearl is so amazing and wonderful. it's weird how she remembers things about me and actually cares ???

also. SHE PRONOUNCED MY NAME CORRECTLY ???? I'VE HEARD SUCH TERRIBLE PRONUNCIATIONS BUT PEARL. SHE SAID IT RIGHR FIRST TRY. WHAT. i kind of want to hear how karn would attempt to pronounce it

[bc yes. i'm okay with anyone, including streamers, calling me vyren. you know me better than my dad does. it's okay to call me vy, vyren, gasp, or gasps]

sleepy brain wrote this post and i want to say so much more but i can't. i had a better message when i did my 10k bits message but that thing is long gone. the only way pearl knows about those bits is if she sees this

and to her community: i love y'all. y'all are lovely. thanks for helping make my shitty life a little brighter. the world may not be kind to me, but y'all are. thank y'all for that. y'all are so lovely

pearl, if you see this, sending all the love to you and your three cats. and yes. karn is the third cat

[parkitaco]

ok people. i really don't want to have to be saying this but i am once again being struck by the lack of etiquette in the byler fandom and just in current fandom in general so i just. have to say something ok

first off i'm gonna say that fandoms come from a place of love and i know everyone most people have good intentions and love their fic authors but the etiquette around fics and art and all that lovely stuff is,, how shall we put it,, literally nonexistent.

listen. i love writing fic. i love that people like reading my fics that's insane hello?? i love getting comments and kudos and getting messages from ppl who are excited about my future projects it's great!!!

that being said, when i receive messages asking when things will be out/comments on wip wednesday snippets asking if the fic is out yet/messages asking me to tag them when the fic is published, regardless of how good the intentions are it comes off as very demanding and doesn't make me feel good as a writer who is doing this Voluntarily and For Free.

fanfic writers do this for fun!! we are not machines, we are people with our own lives outside of fandom and those lives have to take priority most if not all of the time. this means that yes!! sometimes fics take a while to write!! sometimes chaptered fics take a while to update!! and guess what?? that is totally ok. fanfic writers taking their time is not a bad thing. it means they care and are taking their time to create quality content. it means that they are spending time tending to their real personal lives, which is a normal and healthy thing to do.

there are plenty of posts about why demanding faster updates is bad, and i think that's pretty common knowledge, but i want to talk specifically about these very enthusiastic comments/messages/etc because i don't think anyone means harm but the thing is that fic authors simply do not owe you anything. we don't owe it to you to let you know when a fic will be out, we don't owe it to you to tag you when it is, and we definitely don't owe it to you to provide information that you can easily find out for yourself. as a writer i'm already putting insane amounts of pressure on myself and receiving it from other people, even if that's not the intention, is just not a good feeling.

especially because much of this information is readily available to you!! while you may not be able to find out when a fic will be out (which is probably because the fic author doesn't know either), you are entirely capable of checking the timestamp on a post to see how old it was, then using a little thing called Critical Thinking Skills to determine whether it's likely the fic has been posted or not. if so then great!! most authors have their ao3 accounts linked somewhere on their blog page so YOU (yes, you!!) can go look for the fic on ao3!! if you don't find it, ao3 has a super cool feature where you can subscribe to an author, so you'll get an email notification whenever they post!! and while you're there, if you're truly desperate for something to read, you can always go through the fics they've already posted, and if you've read everything there already and/or they haven't posted anything yet, check their bookmarks and see if there's anything there you like!! and as a last resort, there's always the trusty old search bar on ao3, which you are capable of filtering to every last preference!! the byler fandom is huge and there are tons of fics out there so undoubtedly something will fit your taste.

i know that can feel daunting, and i know it's disappointing when a fic hasn't been posted or updated yet, but the good news is that if you're seeing a snippet it means the author is working on it!! a little patience never hurt anyone, and taking those steps to determine for yourself what's going on with the fic rather than bugging an author who is just trying to go about their life and work on content during whatever free time they have just proves that you care. the simple fact of the matter is that fic authors don't do this for attention, they do it for fun, and therefore we can't cater everything to you or answer questions that you should find the answers to yourself. it's not our responsibility to keep track of people who want to be tagged when a fic is published or want to know when it will be out, because all our energy is going into creating the content you so desperately want!! i'm just begging everyone to be a little bit independent. asking an author for this information just shows you don't care enough to find it for yourself and this sort of laziness is part of why fandoms die.

tldr: fic authors are not machines designed to please you, use some critical thinking once in a while, and please for the love of GOD just go touch grass. breathe some clean air. you'll feel better i promise

[superblysubpar]

leather and lace masterlist | leather and lace playlist

Chapter Summary: Your first day back in Hawkins is interesting to say the least, involving several unexpected reunions - good and bad.

8.1k words

Warnings: we'll be kicking up the angst from here on for a bit, but with plenty of fluff in between I promise (but I won't mention this necessarily after this as a heads up), mentions of reader celebrating Christmas, weed mentions/use, police/ "arrest" mentions | please see masterlist for overall warnings.

A/N: Thanks for your patience as I worked through mega writer's block in getting this out friends. I'm *extremely* excited to keep going with this series and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Endless thanks to my hive mind and @boomhauer for beta'ing.

Side A | Track 02: "Escape" by Metallica

“Yes, well, I don’t know Margaret, she said she got laid off and now she’s home.” 

Your body tenses at the sound of your mother’s hushed voice drifting lazily past the living room entryway. Sure that if you opened your eyes, you’d find her with the phone cord and receiver in her hands, pacing, just like a gossiping high schooler. 

Counting to five to make sure she’s passed completely, you roll over on the scratchy living room carpet, ending up face to face with your drooling and snoring little brother. 

Late last night as you blinked sleep heavy eyes, you had hoped to sneak into your childhood home unannounced and avoid any confrontation with the family until morning, but you should have known your brother wouldn’t let you slip in quietly. He was out the door and running barefoot through the snow before you could even take the keys out of the ignition. 

It’s interesting how easily you were able to fall back into old habits as he flung himself into your arms and you ruffled his too long hair. Hip checking and semi-wrestling with each other, whispering ‘you look like hell’ and ‘what took you so long’, when you really meant ‘I love you' to each other. And then you entered the living room to find a pizza and several VHS tapes already laid out on the coffee table. He turned to you looking far too old and yet younger than he ever had as he pointed and in a stern whisper accused, “You promised.”

And you had, so you stayed up too late, catching up, eating food that was bad for you both and watching terrible movies—ending with both of you passing out right there on the floor just like old times. 

Glancing around your family living room, it truly was like nothing had changed. Aside from a few updated decorations that you’re sure your mother was pressured into buying by other moms in the neighborhood, it was all the same. 

"Maybe she could get a job here. She's just so stubborn..."

Exactly the same. 

Suppressing your sigh, your eyes land on your brother’s now open ones and that terrible pitying look that you wanted to avoid at all costs is plastered across his face as he whispers, “She means well, you know that.”

He isn’t wrong, you do know that deep down. But just because someone is your family, and you love them, it doesn’t mean you have to like them all the time. Even if you were able to choose them, you use that magical word ‘family’ to describe them even once and you’re stuck with them. The word, and by definition who you’re describing when using it, is a funny thing. Family is a core value for many, a word to summarize people - and almost a feeling that can't be described. Sayings like 'Home is where the heart is' and 'We don't have much but at least we have each other' on pillows like the one behind your brother’s head or embroidered hangings on the wall come to mind. A group of people that get you in a way no one else ever will because they lived the same places with the same people, experienced the same or similar things. Their life is not yours nor yours theirs, but that connection will always be there. Not a choice for most, and if you're lucky, you may end up with a pretty great one. Which, even the most blessed people will forget every once in a while. Forgetting how lucky you are to have them, guilty when you remember how quickly it could all be different - how it could all change. Sometimes it's tough, and you really have to work to remind yourself that they're your family and you do love them. 

Which is perhaps why you choose to ignore your mother’s penchant for gossip and neither confirm nor deny his statement and instead poke his side and whisper, “Your breath is absolutely horrendous.”

He grunts in protest at that, whacking the back of your hand in sibling code for ‘get away from me or else’ as he hisses, “Your face is horrendous.”

You poke him again and roll away from his retaliating kick as you pout, “Wow, pretty rude to say to someone who will get you a donut for breakfast and a ride to school…”

He grins, knowing you’ll still do both of those things even if he kicks you and is about to say so when your mother’s voice is loud above your heads, “Oh good! You’re both up!”

Though upside down, you can see your mother dressed in her morning work out clothes from the electric blue leg warmers to the lime green sweatband simply used for poofing up her already styled curls, telephone pressed to her neck to avoid the speaker and a bright smile on her bubble gum pink lips. It only makes sense to the people of Hawkins to wear a full face of makeup to exercise.  God forbid you look like a normal human being while working up a sweat.

Despite her early morning gossiping centered around your predicament, you are happy to see her and you jump up to hug her, though she tries to push you away. “Oh no, honey, I’m all sweaty! Let me hug you hello when I’m- oof!” breath knocked out of her as you push past her protests, she laughs into the phone, “Margaret let me call you back!”

A little bit of the mother that didn’t revolve around the other moms, the town or its gossip and pecking order - the mom who lounged in her sweats and drank coffee all day makes a resurgence as she clicks the phone off before Margaret can even reply. She hugs you back tightly, whispering, “Welcome home, kiddo.”

It is easy to forget, if only for a few seconds, why you were home when you’re in your mother’s embrace. Easy to pretend it’s all okay while she runs her hands through your hair three times before she kisses the top of your head, just like she had always done. 

But as she takes in a deep inhale, signaling the onslaught of questions and pity that she is about to bombard you with, you remove yourself from her grasp, spinning towards the stairs. “Glad to be back. I’m gonna take the dweeb to school, so I’ll see you later?”

She frowns, arms still outstretched like you were still in front of her but she nods, recovering quickly and smiles as you disappear up the stairs two at a time. 

Escaping into your room, you fall against the door, closing it with a soft click, and let yourself exhale as you look around the space that feels a little like stepping into a time machine. 

Your posters of bands you loved in high school line the walls, bedspread still the bright yellow covered in daisies, polaroids pinned around movie tickets and a dried corsage from prom that you swore you threw in the trash. Even your cassettes are littered across your desk, like your family couldn’t bear to change a single thing about the space in your absence. 

Fingertips brushing over the stack of them, you smile as you find one of your favorites. Easily slipping back into old habits, you pop it into your stereo. Blasting it loud enough while you get ready for the day that your brother has to bang on your door to get your attention several minutes later, “Y/N! Jesus! Let’s go!”

Smiling as you swing your door open, he rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head. You race him down the stairs, ignoring his protests about cheating and head starts. You argue the whole way to get donuts about the best kinds of frostings and sprinkles or no sprinkles, filled or not filled, new music and movie opinions making cameos in between. You’re happy to pretend everything is okay, but you know it’s not and it all starts to sink in as you get closer and closer to Hawkins High. 

While your brother babbles on about Dungeons and Dragons, driving down the familiar streets to that school, it’s like your failure is blinking in a flashing sign above your car. Stomach twisting in knots as you recognize spots that once held happy memories, now just reminders of what you left behind willingly because you believed you were above it all - better than the town and the people in it. 

Pulling into the parking lot, you blow out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “What time is your game over? I can pick you up.”

“Um, it’s not just a game and -” he turns to hold a one second symbol out to the group of familiar friends. Their hats pulled down over hair too long just like your brother’s, hands shoved in puffy winter coats and scowls across their faces until you’re grinning widely at them and waving. Slight nods from all of them and half-hearted waves back. Some of the boys turn bright red, ducking their faces down as two girls shove elbows into them all, shaking their heads. Your brother groans and mumbles, “Idiots.”

Ruffling the top of his head as you laugh, "Relax dude. Whatever it is, I'll be here. So again...what time does it get over?"

He's digging in his bag, opening the door halfway, the chill from outside swirling around the car and making you shiver as he mumbles, "No, I don't need a ride, Steve usually gives the few of us without cars all one home. Speaking of which," he dumps five VHS tapes into your lap, "Can you return these for me today? Steve and Robs will pluck Mike's eyeballs out if they’re any later. He took the - Hold on!” he shrieks out the door at the grumbling from a few feet away before continuing, “Anyways, Wheeler said he forgot but really it was my fault and…”

So lost in so many different questions, you don’t hear the end of his sentence as you blurt out the first thing you can think of, "Steve? Who's this Steve that gives you rides?"

He blinks at you like it's obvious, his tone even and slowed down as if he's sounding it out for you as he replies, "Hair - ing - ton."

"Steve Harrington gives you rides home from your Dungeons and Dragons game?"

He rolls his eyes but nods, half out the door as he zips his bag back up, "Yes he does and -"

"The Hair? King Steve?"

He huffs, “He doesn’t really go by that-” the school bell's shrill ring sounds out and he groans, jumping out of the car fully.

You shout an apology behind his body and the closing door and then, “Wait! Harrington works at Family Video?!”

He waves you off as the door slams and he’s racing past the group that’s all shouting at him as they all scurry into the building, shoving each other as they go. Somehow, despite their broader shoulders, longer hair, and taller bodies, they were still that group of awkward misfit kids to you. 

Glancing down at the tapes in your lap, you can’t help but wonder how the hell your little brother got wrapped up with Steve Harrington. You push your car into drive, ready to find out. 

The trilling chime you’re expecting as you step inside Family Video halts after one ring and you glance up to see a tiny piece of string pulling the bell back - just enough to stop it from hitting the door hard enough to ring out repeatedly. 

Glancing around the familiar rental store, you see no customers and more importantly, no Steve Harrington. 

As ‘Temple of Doom’ blasts from the TV’s hoisted in the corners, you make your way towards the counter and set down the stack of tapes your brother dropped on you. A shiny bell sitting on the counter with a post-it attached that reads ‘ring me and you die’ crossed out with harried and blocky writing that says ‘she’s kidding’ and another note below it saying ‘no I’m not’ piques your interest and you tap your finger on it despite the warnings. 

Pausing for several seconds, but when nobody appears you tap it again, and for good measure a third time right in a row, causing a loud groan to echo from the ajar door leading to the back. Shuffling feet and a high pitched and irritated voice calling out, “Steve, I swear to god, if you ring that bell to get my attention one more time-”

A girl about your age, maybe a little younger, stops dead in her tracks as she rounds the corner. Bright red and scuffed chucks knocking into a cart as she flails, trying to catch herself. At about the same time you go to help her, the door lets out the pathetic singular ding and a deeper voice yells out, “Oh shit!” 

The girl has toppled over the cart and is blowing her bangs out of her eyes as she hisses up at the boy, “Yeah ‘oh shit’ Steve! Can you-” she gestures to you, picking up the jumbled tapes, voice dripping with fake polite sweetness, “just help the customer please.”

He nods and finally turns in your direction. He’s got a giant soft pretzel in his hand, a dab of mustard on the corner of his lips, and the famous brown locks atop his head. Steve blinks at you, clearing his throat before squinting and asking, “Y/N?”

Nodding as well, you take in his appearance further. He’s different and yet the same as you remember him. A small amount of stubble around his jaw and upper lip that he quickly wipes at the corner of with the sleeve of his deep green sweatshirt - but you can see the collar of one of his familiar polos peeking out underneath. He’s taller, taller than you now, and his hair - he’s learned how to steer into the mess of it, it seems. It flops in all the right ways. It's not stiff from product and he runs his free hand through it in a way that tells you he does it all the time and makes you a little envious of the hand. He still seems to very much be the King Steve you recall from high school - the one who was popular enough to have seniors over at his house. The one you and your friends included in hot or not lists and flirted with constantly, the one girls bought bikinis strictly for pool parties hosted by him for. The one who still drives a maroon BMW that makes your little rusting bucket currently sitting out next to it look like a piece of shit. 

How did that Steve turn into a guy who gives your brother rides?

He’s still holding the pretzel and his mouth opens to speak again when the girl stands from her stack of tapes on the floor, cheeks blushed pink and a scowl on her face, “Oh good. You know each other, I’m going back to finishing my essay and you,” she shoves the stack into his chest and he cradles it between his one free arm and chin. She snatches the pretzel and takes a bite before speaking around it, “can finish putting these away.”

She seems to have a lighter skip in her step as she takes another bite of the pretzel and he shakes his head at her retreating back before dumping the perfect stack onto the counter behind him, all of them toppling over and out of order again. He turns back to face you and extends his arms towards the now fully open door, “Don’t mind her, she’s dealing with finals and super cranky and-”

“I heard that, Dingus!” echoes from the room.

“You were supposed to!” he shouts back before turning to face you, rubbing the back of his neck, “Um, so, what…how…you’re…”

He starts too many questions for you to even attempt to answer when the door chimes again and you feel all the color drain from your face. Fingers and toes becoming numb as you see the hoard of bright fuschia, patterns, teased and poofed hair, and denim jacket clad women coming towards you. You were not prepared for all of these reunions on your first day back. 

“Y/N?!” one of them shrieks and then the whole crowd descends, shouting out squeals of ‘I can’t believe you’re here’, ‘what are you doing here’s’, ‘oh my god we miss you’, ‘did you do something different with your hair?’ 

Overwhelmed does not even touch the tip of how you’re feeling and you blink at Steve, who none of the girls have even spared a glance towards. He’s quietly opening the tapes you brought back, cheek pulled in as he bites at it. 

One girl steps forward from the pack and your stomach rolls. Brittany Hartman, your best friend growing up, laughs and waves her hands down at the others. “Oh my god, ladies, let her breathe!” She turns to you, a full wattage smile poised on her face, tossing her perfectly curled blonde hair before her arms extend and pull you into a suffocating hug, hairspray filling your nostrils and something overtly peachy as she squeezes you and squeals, “It’s been so long! How are you? Are you home for Christmas? How long are you staying? How’s your mom?”

A snort to your left and you see the girl from earlier is now next to Steve and she covers her mouth and turns quickly to face the back counter, ears turning red and Steve bites his lip trying to hide a smirk. 

Brittany rolls her eyes before turning back to you, her fingers running through your hair absentmindedly with a slight look of judgment as you stumble through all of the responses to her questions, “It has been a long time, yeah, um…” you pull your sleeves over your fists at your side, “Home for Christmas, she’s good, thanks for asking.”

Some of the girls have dissipated between the shelves, twittering amongst themselves about Tom Cruise and what movie to pick. Brittany leans against the counter, elbow knocking over some of the tapes. Steve’s jaw clenches as he catches it and turns to the computer, typing in something. She twirls her hair and nods, her smile stiff as she asks, “How’s the big city? Still living the dream? How long do we get you for?”

Unsure why you didn’t prepare some sort of response before going out in public in this town, you’re kicking yourself for not realizing you’d have to answer this question eventually. Shrugging as you reply, “It’s great, I love it there. I…um…well,” you can feel your throat tightening, the pit in your stomach only growing as you look anywhere but at her as you spit out a half truth, “I’m actually gonna be home for the rest of the school year…”

Her eyes go wide at that, her head tilting to the side, “You can take that much time off?”

The familiar prick of tears you’ve been avoiding is hitting behind your eyes, body suddenly feeling hot in all your layers and then you catch Steve’s eyes. He offers a small smile and you know he knows and you’ll kill your brother if you make it out of this situation alive. Your eyes land on the counter as you blink them repeatedly and mumble, “Actually, I don’t have a job right now?”

Cursing to yourself that it comes out like a question, you swallow harshly and tighten your fists as Brittany gasps, some of the other girls letting out quiet ‘oh no’s’ and ‘that’s terrible’. Brittany’s fingers tap on the counter as her voice drips with fake disdain, “Oh my god, that sucks! What happened? Was teaching really hard?”

Her tone, the situation, some of the girls hiding their smiles behind their hands has your blood boiling over as your head snaps up, trying to control the shake in your voice, “Excuse me?”

She laughs, cold and a little heartless as she waves her hand, “Oh I just, I remember your mom telling my mom that you were teaching? So if you’re not, it must have been hard? Or did something happen?” she gasps again, eyes wide, “Oh my god, did you get fired?”

Words fail you, you’re trying, you really are, to tell her that she’s wrong. That you’re good at your job. That it wasn’t your fault. But she’s technically right, and as her eyes lock with yours, you both know it. 

She frowns, mock pity that you’re familiar with from your years of friendship thick in her voice as her fake sincerity slips out of her lips, “I’m so sorry. Some people just aren’t cut out for city life, I guess.”

The girl behind the counter with Steve lets out a scoff and Brittany tilts her head again, bright blue fingernails tapping on the counter as she questions, “Something to say over there?”

The girl turns, honey with a hint of red small curls that fall from the bun atop her head swaying with the sharp movement as she mocks the tilt of Brittany’s head and shrugs, “Oh, just wondering how you would know that?”

Brittany sneers at the girl whose name tag says Robin before glancing at Steve and responding, “You’re so right. Silly me. It’s pathetic to stay in Hawkins and work here, huh Harrington?”

Unsure of how a dynamic this big could have shifted between a girl like Brittany and Steve in the years you’ve been away, you’re shocked when he stands, smiles and hands her a tape, “Pretty pathetic, Brit. I’ll see you next week, same time.”

The girls around the counter clear their throats and Brittany snatches the tape before turning to you. Her eyes soften, but you know the malice that lies behind them and she isn’t fooling anyone when she squeezes your wrist, “I really am sorry. Let’s catch up soon, okay? I wanna hear all about it and be there for you.”

Squeezing your fingers, but before you can even reply, she’s turning and the hoard of girls follows behind her, calling out their goodbyes. 

The sound of the movie's credits is the only thing that fills the store for several minutes as you stare blankly out the glass front doors. Ashamed you couldn’t stick up for yourself. Embarrassed that you were once best friends with her. Gutted that somehow, still, after all of these years, a shallow level inside of yourself seeks and wants their approval. 

Feeling the need to make your apologies - for freezing, for not defending Steve, for your past friend’s behavior, for your brother clearly not rewinding any of the tapes as you watch the girl named Robin plop one in the rewinder. She shakes her head, "Don't you even think about apologizing."

Blinking at her as she smiles and waggles a finger adorned with a ring attached with a small silver chain to a bracelet, "It's all over your face," she leans onto the counter, crossing her arms, "And you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about."

Steve nods once in agreement and flops down into the rolling chair, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling, "Except maybe not teaching your brother how to return things in a timely manner."

Robin kicks his shin and he doesn't even flinch, and your eyes bop between the two of them - curious who this girl is, why Steve and Brittany don't get along anymore, and how Steve is not doing any of the things you once imagined he would be and is instead, working here.

He rubs his temples and Robin extends her hand to you, "Robin Buckley."

Shaking it, you introduce yourself and she smiles widely, "Oh, I know who you are."

She must sense your embarrassment of not knowing who she is or trying to recall if you've met before and just forgot because her smile softens and she shrugs, "I was class of ‘86 and we didn't exactly run in the same circles. Besides," she shifts and jumps up to sit on the counter, "A senior hanging out with freshmen? Who'd do something so crazy?"

Steve pulls his head up and rolls his eyes at her which reminds you why you're in the store in the first place. Tapping your knuckles on the counter, ready to interrogate him, Steve replies before you even ask, "It's a very long story, one I'm surprised your brother hasn't told you already, but," he waves his hands and then leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, "Would you...we can...coffee?"

Robin rolls her eyes at him and you can't help but smile at the jumbled question. The smooth talking younger boy is not as full of confident charm as he once was as wide and hopeful hazel eyes stare up at you.

Shrugging, you reply,  "Sure. Since I know the dweeb clearly told you, and you would've found out from that lovely encounter," you nod your head out towards the parking lot before letting your arms fall open at your sides, "I have plenty of free time on my hands."

Steve smiles and nods, "Cool, I'll call you."

"Cool."

Robin's eyebrows raise and she whispers, "Cool."

Biting the inside of your lip as you try to fight a smile, you start to head towards the door, and spin back to face them, "This is going to sound incredibly lame and you're going to think I'm a total loser who really doesn't have anything going for her anymore but um...do you...do either of you know..." you rub the back of your neck before finally spitting out, "Is Rick still..."

The pair share a glance and then Steve stands and nods, "Yeah, he's still at the same spot out by Lover’s Lake. He's more of a...supplier now though?"

Your eyebrows raise and Steve grins, "The town is booming, didn't you hear?"

Laughing as you back into the door, "Clearly I underestimated Hawkins potential should have never left," you push the door open and then turn to say sorry for what occurred with Brittany.

Robin holds up her finger, "Nu-uh! What'd I say!?"

Grinning at her, you nod and let a tiny, "Sorry," slip out before turning towards your car, as the door falls shut you hear her groan.  

The parking lot covered in icy sludge makes you shuffle slowly to your car, wincing as the door hinges squeak, before settling into the front seat.

Determined to turn the day around and quell some of the anxiety from the interaction with Brittany, you turn the key in the ignition and make the trip out to the one person who supplied anyone in town for their parties with the good stuff you haven’t been able to afford for the last year - hoping your “friend” can cut you a deal for old time’s sake. 

Making the familiar drive out to Rick’s house, you hate that your thoughts are still swirling around Brittany, the town, and how long it will take for her to tell everyone about what happened. What about if anyone sees you going into Rick’s and the assumptions they make?

Knuckles tightening their grip on the steering wheel until they’re drifting to your stereo, turning up the knob fully in hopes that the wailing guitar will drown out the anxiety that’s threatening to pull you under. 

Pulling into his drive, you throw the car in park, pressing your forehead to the top of the steering wheel and take several deep breaths. Did it really matter what they thought of you anymore? Why do you care? Sick to your stomach that it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours back in this town and already you were falling back into their clutches of controlling stereotypes. 

Thoughts continue to eat away at your nerves, you bite at your thumb as you pull the keys from the ignition and slam the door. Stepping up the front steps, your head ducks down to shield yourself from the biting wind now that you’re closer to the lake. 

Pounding on the door a few times, you hear a muffled ‘one sec’ from somewhere deeper in the house and you mentally prepare yourself for the conversation with Rick - one that would be longer than necessary due to being interrupted by his large bong rips most likely. Hoping he was in a good enough mood to offer you some sort of deal and maybe, somehow, you could still escape with a little of your dignity. 

When you don’t hear any further footsteps to signal he’s coming, your fist connects with the wood harshly again, worried he was too high and had already forgotten that someone was at the door. 

A louder voice cries out, “I said I was come-” the door flies open and his sentence falters off much quieter, “-ing.”

As if the day could not get any worse, Eddie Munson stands before you, a bag of chips between his teeth that drops to the floor when his mouth falls open as he blinks at you. 

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow into a glare as you stick your chin up, “What are you doing here?”

He rolls his eyes, bending down to pick up the chips as he sighs, “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He turns back into the house, leaving the door open but not telling you to follow him. 

Debating if you really needed the weed that badly, your resolve is paper thin at this point and you step inside and close the door behind you. Eddie turns to look over his shoulder, eyebrows raising as he sees you standing in front of the now closed door. 

He tosses the bag on the kitchen counter as he opens cabinets, “So, really, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Chicago?”

Curious how Eddie Munson knows you lived in Chicago - the town is small, but the people who knew where you lived definitely wouldn’t have been going around telling “the freak” about it. Scuffing your shoe against the floor, you go with a half truth again, “I’m home visiting for Christmas. Is Rick here?”

Eddie laughs as he closes the cabinet, “Really? Cause I heard you got canned and had to move back home,” he winces with fake apology, “Tough break, shortstack.”

How the hell did he know that? And how dare he use that nickname now, after all of these years. 

Seething at the thought of the one person you couldn’t stand almost as much as the town knowing your failure, your voice is cold and sharp, “Well if you knew that, then why the fuck did you ask?”

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his black denim jeans, tapping it on the counter as he squints at you, “Someone is bitter…” he drags out the last word as he pulls a cigarette from the pack and lets it dangle between his lips. 

Eddie is similar to Steve in regards to not having changed much - appearance wise. Still long and unruly dark curls cascading over an old band t-shirt, a band you hated to admit you liked too. His jeans have the same holes in the knees, he’s got a little stubble on his jaw, just like Steve had, a reminder that you’re all a little older. The difference between Eddie and Steve is that Eddie seems to not have changed his personality at all. 

“Glad to see you haven’t changed - still an asshole. Again, is Rick here?”

Eddie pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips and places it behind his ear as he shakes his head, crossing his arms and leaning up against the counter, “So what happened, shortstack? All those book smarts didn’t give you enough street smarts for the big ol’ city?” He pouts his lips and blinks his eyes in false pity. 

Picking at the skin on your thumbs with your forefingers, you try to keep your voice level as you retort, “At least I got out of this town and did something, Munson. What’s your excuse for doing absolutely nothing with your life?”

Eddie tucks his tongue into his cheek, big brown eyes hardening into a deeper shade, almost black, as he practically growls through a clenched jaw, “Says the girl who failed and had to move back in with mommy and daddy.”

“What the fuck is your problem Eddie?” you shriek at him.

He stands taller, fingers pointing into his chest, taking a step closer and towering over you like he always has, voice ringing out through the house, “What’s my problem?! I’m not the one who’s had a stick up their ass since we were twelve, sweetheart!”

Shoving a finger into his chest as you take a step closer, “You’re the one who humiliated me in front of the entire tow-”

“You are un - fucking - believable! Are you kidding me?” he interrupts, whacking your finger from his chest with wide hands. 

“Woah, woah, woah, dudes - your volume is not appreciated right now.”

At the sound of Rick’s voice and cough, you physically jump back from Eddie like he shocked you. Feeling the muscles that had tightened and coiled in your body at the growing tension with him start to untangle themselves. Rick looks between the two of you, holding a finger up, and a small, “Ah, yeah, I forget, what happened here?”

Eddie and you glare at each other, both of you mumbling and turning from the other. Eddie a quiet, “I don’t know,” and you an even quieter, “Nothing.”

Rick shrugs like he couldn’t be bothered to know or not and he falls into the plush couch, kicking his dirty barefeet up on the coffee table littered with rolling papers, and baggies full of bud and nods towards you, “What do I owe the pleasure of this house call, former princess of Hawkins?”

Recoiling at the nickname and everything that goes along with it - you hate that that’s how people can still think of you. You were never the queen, or as popular as someone like Steve, but you did run with that crowd. A princess and a pawn in their kingdom you begrudgingly have to admit. You risk a glance at Eddie who immediately looks at the floor, pretending you didn’t just catch him staring. 

“Well, I’m in need of a couple of those bad boys,” you gesture to some of the rolled joints resting in a tin and flash him a smile that always used to work wonders, “Had to come see my favorite guy for them.”

Rick laughs, flicking a lighter in his hand, “Well, I don’t really do that anymore,” he nods his head backwards to where Eddie is filling his old metal lunchbox with baggies on the counter, “My guy took over a few years ago so I could wash my hands of all the messy sales stuff. Gave away too many free joints to the pretty ones,” Rick winks at you.

Disgusted with yourself, you pull out the old charm for the man four years your senior and flirt like your life depends on it, “Oh really? I thought that was something you only did for me, Ricky?” you pout your lips, clasping your hands in front of you.

Eddie makes a choking sound and you ignore him, gesturing to the door, “But that’s okay, I understand. I’ll just tell my friends we can’t get the good stuff tonight and -”

Rick holds out his hand stopping your retreating, “Wait!”

Eddie groans, “No. You seriously did not fall for that pathetic excuse of-”

Rick picks up the tin and shoots Eddie a glare before turning back to you, dopey smile on his lips, “Alright, one free joint for the once upon a time princess who’s always been too sweet to me,” he hands you a joint and you smile at him, batting your eyelashes. 

He pulls another one out, “A second free one for the inconvenience of driving all the way out here and not knowing your old buddy took my gig and his mean yelling earlier-”

Eddie cries out, “Oh my god! Come on, man!”

Rick holds up a third one, “A third and final free joint to save for a special occasion - for old times sake,” he winks at you as you steal it, backing away before Eddie can convince him to change his mind. 

“Thank you Rick! It’ll be our little secret that they were free, and I’ll spread the word that you still have the best stuff in town!” blowing him a kiss that he pretends to grab and slap his cheek with as you laugh.

Eddie stands behind him shaking his head, hissing as you turn your back on the pair of boys, “Rick, this is exactly why you hired me to sell. What the fuck was-”

Rick’s voice follows you out and you wish you were quicker to close the door before hearing, “My man, you of all people should know the power that girl’s smile has on a guy.”

“I thought you didn’t remember-”

“Dude. Everyone remembers.”

Upon returning home, you quickly shuffle up to your room, and click the lock before heading over to your closet. Digging around on the top shelf for the old shoebox covered in collaged pictures and magazine cut outs to hide your newly acquired contraband like you used to in high school. Opening the lid, your stomach churns at the contents of the box you forgot you had kept and hidden away. You dump all of it out and onto the floor and slip the three joints inside, placing one of your old t-shirts atop them. Deciding you’ll smoke the last bit of flower you had been saving first and ignore the pile of tainted memories. 

Placing an old cassette tape into your stereo, and turning the volume up, you blow the smoke out your window and let the high take over, everything that’s gone wrong that day melting away as your muscles relax fully. 

Body and mind lulled into a blissfully unaware and relaxed state, you slowly unpack the things you brought back home. As you take down posters and hang new ones up, replacing framed photos of you and the girls from Hawkins with your polaroids and frames of Chicago, you don’t notice the sun shifting squares across your floor throughout the day or the number of tapes you replace as the songs click to their end. Pausing in between your slow unpacking and decorating to light up the last little bit in your bowl, hollowing your cheeks and sucking in the definitely burnt and past its prime drug.

After the last suitcase is emptied and shoved under your bed, you turn to the pile full of tokens from memory lane hell you had dumped on the floor. Photobooth pictures of you and Brittany where he enters the last frame kissing your cheek. Lace from the bottom of your prom dress that was tailored. Ticket stubs from date nights. A small box that you knew if you opened would be a necklace with his initial dangling on the gold chain. Slowly dropping items into your wastebasket, you pause at a few of them. A pop bottle cap necklace you allow to return to the box. A polaroid of your brother and Dustin Henderson shoving ice cream cones in your face, a handmade card full of drawings your brother made, and a ticket stub to The Breakfast Club all make the cut too. Folded pieces of notebook paper are all that’s left. Several have tiny hearts and your name on them that you quickly shove into the trash, but most of them have striking doodles of dragons and knights, a crown, frogs and various favorite animals from over the years on them made in black sharpie that disappear into the creases of the strategically folded paper. Those you return to the box as well with a lump in your throat and pull out one of the new joints. 

The items sobering any sort of high you had been feeling, you notice the sky darkening, the once gray and bright day fading into a hazy blue twilight as the front door thudding closed and echoes of boys filter up the stairs. 

Excited to greet all of your brother’s best friends with more than a wave from the car, you stick the joint in your pocket and race down the stairs, jumping down the last two and practically falling over at what waits for you in the entryway. 

Your brother grins, “Hey! We brought home pizza!” 

Lucas Sinclair holds up the box and grins at you as well and you gulp as you wave at the young boys, greeting them as your eyes remain on Steve’s and then Eddie’s, “Hey guys, long time no see.”

Dustin Henderson, the closest of your brother’s friends races forward to give you a hug, practically your little brother too and you laugh as you hug him back, “Holy cow, you all got so tall!” You ruffle the top of his head as he pulls away and frown, looking around, “What’s with all this long hair though?”

Eddie narrows his eyes at you and leans a shoulder against the wall and you fold your arms, glaring back at him. 

Steve looks between the two of you and then at your little brother who looks like he’s in pain when Mike Wheeler hitches his thumb at Eddie, “He thinks it’s because of him.”

“Yeah, he’s always been pretty full of himself,” you reply without looking away from Eddie. 

Eddie opens his mouth to respond and maybe it’s some lingering effects of the weed, but you beat him to it, not caring about the audience you have, “Why are you here?” 

Lucas speaks around a bite of a slice he slipped out of the box that Dustin snatches from him and closes, “Eddie runs Hellfire.”

Will Byers pipes up at your blinking when Lucas’ mouth remains full, “Our DND Club? He’s the best Dungeon Master Hawkins has ever seen.”

Turning your gaze to your brother, he rubs the back of his neck and whispers, “Did I not mention that Eddie still ran DND?”

Shaking your head at him, it’s all the final cherry on top to your massively awful first day back in Hawkins, “Nope, must have slipped your mind when you were too busy telling everyone about my mistakes and failures instead.”

Steve clears his throat and nods at the younger boys and the kitchen, slowly shoving them out of the entryway as your brother starts to apologize, “I didn’t mean to tell them all, I was just happy to have you back home and-”

“Whatever, it’s too late now, but,” you point at Eddie who hasn’t moved from his spot leaning, “You’re not hanging out with him anymore.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight you on your order, surprisingly, it’s your brother who does, “Excuse me?”

Shoving past Eddie, you start to pull on your shoes and coat, “You heard me.”

He scoffs, “Hate to break it to ya sis, but you’re not my mother. Why can’t I hang out with Eddie? Just because you don’t like him? He didn’t live up to the Hawkins princess’ standards, right? Cause it sure as shit can’t be because of the pot like you used to claim since we can all smell how you’ve been spending your day without a job.”

The words land across your skin in a harsh slap, cold and biting, just how they were intended and you see his shoulders fall and the immediate regret on his face, but it’s too late, and he can’t take them back. 

The kitchen turns silent, Steve closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck and Eddie stands up straighter, all three of them opening their mouths.

Shaking your head as you open the door you mutter, “Save it,” and slam it behind you. 

Fingers fumbling with your keys, you hold in the tears until you’re in your car and down the block, letting them fall silently. Aimlessly driving around, desperate to escape the town you had worked so hard to get out of already, until you end up at a diner along the highway just outside of Hawkins. 

Opening the center console, you rifle through your tapes until you find your favorite Metallica one. You turn the knob so the opening soft chords of ‘Fight Fire With Fire’ fill your car. The cold pads of your fingertips swipe at your tear stained cheeks and you let the metal music fill your brain, trying to let it take over the thoughts sending you into a spiral of self loathing and pity. 

The joint sitting in your pocket seems to be burning a hole there as the lyric, ‘the gods are laughing’ cuts through your wallowing. Pulling it out, you place the joint between chapped lips as you search for your lucky bright yellow lighter. You can’t help but think about how different this scenario is from your previous smoke sessions in Hawkins. Boys always lighting them for you before Chicago, only daring to have a few passes from fear of being labeled a stoner like classmates around you. Now, your hands work with a mind of their own, the steps to smoking alone are second nature, twirling it to get an even burn and as the paper catches the flame, you hollow your cheeks and let yourself become numb. 

The smoke leaves your parted lips as ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ starts and you adjust the volume a little louder, letting your body relax into the smoke and sounds filling the car. The events of day replay in your mind like some private showing of a sick and twisted horror movie starring yourself as the paper slowly burns down and the album continues on. As you hear, ‘no one but me can save myself, but it’s too late’ you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a colossal mistake in coming back and a fresh wave of tears starts to gather on your lashes.

Reminding yourself it wasn’t exactly by choice, but you’re sure if you would have picked up a third job, found roommates, something, you could have made Chicago work. But you gave up, your expectations and the bar you set for yourself lower than they ever had been. The fact of the matter is, your entire confidence was shattered as the dream you’d always reached for, the perfect life in the perfect city, came tumbling down around you after one setback. You’d had it extremely easy for most of your life and though you worked hard in school to get a scholarship, worked a job throughout high school to save up for the same brands other’s simply purchased with family credit cards, you were doused in privilege and naivety. Somewhere along the way you let yourself feel unstoppable until the universe reminded you that you’re nothing special and the world is not always going to be fair. 

Maybe everyone was right. You were a princess of Hawkins, a part of a crowd that had life handed to them and you were no better than anyone else. A hypocrite. A failure. And certainly no role model for your brother. 

The tears finally fall and you quickly wipe at them and snuff out the butt of your joint. You’re not sure how this day can get worse, and you’re wondering if this is your rock bottom. Surely you can turn it all around, climb your way back up. Nudging the volume up again, you’re determined to not continue to wallow once your favorite song comes on and you sing out “Out for my own, out to be free…” closing your eyes and headbanging along to the fast guitar as you remember the girl you were when the album came out. First year in the city and full of drive and ambition - full of hope. 

Three quick, loud raps on your passenger door window snap your eyes open. A man with a large mustache and decked out in a uniform doting big blocky letters spelling out the word ‘Police’ is glaring at you and you now notice the swirling red and blue lights in your windshield through the lingering hazy smoke. 

As the diner full of families glare out through frosted windows as you’re escorted into the back of the cop car, you let your head fall forward, fighting off the laugh that was threatening to escape your chest at the universe’s cruel sense of humor.

Correction. 

Maybe this was your rock bottom. 

🖤 Thanks again for being here - any interaction is so appreciated & I’d love to know what you thought about it! If you’re able, please consider reblogging to help get my work seen. 

tag list: @boomhauer @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @christalcake @marymunsonloves @big-ope-vibes @hellkaisersangel @aysheashea @aftermidnightwriting @idkidknemore

[coexistentialism]

i was curious it you were willing to share how you worked out you had DID and not another dissociative disorder? you talk about the experience differently to what people normally portray and say you generally don't relate to how most people speak about their experiences, so im curious about how you worked out it was a possibility?

(really hoping this doesn't sound like fakeclaiming, that's not at all what I'm trying to do)

No worries, it doesn't sound like fakeclaiming. 👍

Hmmm... This one's hard to answer.

This is mostly speaking from a standpoint of someone who is no longer in an abusive home environment. Although I first started to question it when I was still living with my dad, I don't really have many memories of living there, and I didn't really take it seriously until after moving out.

A LOT of research. An absolute assload of research. Lmfao 😭

Surrounding myself with systems so that I could ask them questions, although this one can also be less helpful and more hurtful. I would stay away from most DID/OSDD-centered Discord servers. I know it sounds weird because I literally own one, but mine is the only good one out there so it's an exception (this is a half-joke 😭)

No, but seriously. A lot of them fucking suck. I have not been in a single good one besides mine throughout my entire years of questioning. This isn't an advertisement to join my server, but yeah 😭

Especially if the server has a lot of minors. It's not a "KiDs ThESe daYS" type of thing, it's more a "a lot of teenagers are highly uneducated about DID and OSDD and many of them tend to gravitate towards the more expected kind of DID presentation, which is. Very unhelpful. For everyone." And other issues too, but yeah, try to stay away from servers with a lot of minors. If you're a minor yourself, I'd say even moreso to try and avoid them if you can.

I recommend the DID/OSDD PsychForums. I still update my own thread every so often. I should've chosen a different username so that I'm not easily noticeable, but I guess it doesn't really matter to me if people figure out what account is mine. It's fairly obvious. If you know and see it, you'll know.

It took me, like, 3 years until I was fully able to really accept that my moods truly are what DID is. It was mostly me asking my therapist a lot "but I'm just always me, I'm always conscious, I'm never just someone else?" And her confirming multiple times that "yes, that is what DID is." Which I know is not very helpful for a lot of people.

I would still be questioning and in doubt if my therapist wasn't able to fully confirm that Yes, These Experiences Really ARE What DID Is.

The hardest part was/is actually trying to relate to the symptoms and such because of how unaware I was/am about my symptoms, and how unrelatable that a lot of the given descriptions of how the symptoms feel for people are.

I have a post in my drafts about what things have helped me and what things have harmed throughout my time questioning, and I'm sure that post would be super helpful when I can finish it one day, might try and see if I can do that later lol

Lots and lots of journaling. It never seems helpful in the moment, but trust me, you will be reading back things you've journaled about and the symptoms will become a lot more apparent.

Just yesterday I was going through my oldest Discord messages between me and an old friend, trying to archive my vents and such mostly, and I was appalled reading how DISTINCTLY different I would be based off of my typing, the things I would talk about, my general personality, and more. I never felt like a different person really, even in these moments when my friends would say I was different, and reading back these messages had me going "who the fuck WAS that HELLO??" 😭

If you use Discord frequently, it can be helpful to look back at old messages and see if you can notice any patterns, or just notice if you're describing any of the symptoms at all. I've been wanting to make a post sharing some of the stuff I've found from old messages where I was perfectly describing things like switching, etc. without even realizing it.

Noticing patterns is the biggest thing. It's the only way I can figure out my alters, is by figuring out patterns of my behaviors, feelings, etc.

It can be easy to dismiss anything and everything as "but that's not DID/not switching/etc. Because (xyz)", but take it from me: no matter how unhelpful you think it is to write something down, do it anyways. Your future self will thank you.

When people told me to try journaling, it frustrated me because I never saw the point because "I always remember the stuff I write down. What's the point? I don't find things I don't remember writing :/" which is still true for the most part, but the thing is, you might write something down and then in the FUTURE read it back and not remember it or not understand it or might notice a pattern, etc. So write shit down! No matter how silly, dumb, unhelpful you think it is.

Also, not sure if this will apply to anyone else, but I sometimes will feel silly/embarrassed/anxious about writing out something, and I have to remind myself that I am the only one who can read these things and I have control over who I may or may not share these things with. If that makes sense? Don't police yourself, kill the cop in your head. Write about anything you want, don't let the cop in your head make you feel cringe or embarrassed or like a bad person for writing certain things. It's okay.

Throw away the community labels. Forget about trying to figure out "do I have OSDD or DID or partial DID or???????-" forget about all of that and just worry about figuring out your experiences.

I wanted to know For Sure whether or not I had DID. I didn't wanna be told "write down your daily symptoms ^w^" I wanted to figure out whether or not I OBJECTIVELY was experiencing the symptoms. At all. Whatsoever. And I didn't know how to do that without having to look super deep trying to see if any of them even applied to me at all in general.

But figuring out your symptoms and experiences is precisely what will help you figure out if you have DID/OSDD.

My dissociative walls have been lessening a lot more precisely because of things like having epiphanies like realizing "oh, I struggle to throw away food when I don't like it/don't want it because growing up I wasn't allowed to jot eat food I didn't want or didn't like and I was shamed for it. I had to go to lengths to hide me trying to discard my food growing up, even going as far as flushing it down the toilet." And then giving myself permission to discard food I don't want and don't like.

Small things like that. Making realizations. They seem unhelpful and dumb in the moment, but they go a long way.

The biggest thing is this: You will figure things out with time. Be patient. Don't push yourself to know everything so soon. I kept expecting myself to have had it "figured it out by now", but it takes time. It takes a lot of time. Time will pass quickly and you will feel as if you made no progress, but time will pass and you will figure out things you didn't realize before.

There's definitely more helpful advice out there, but that's all I got.

People will also say symptom tracking as in "figure out when you dissociate; figure out your flashbacks; etc." But I still don't know how to tell what flashbacks are and I can't tell you if I'm dissociating, so my advice ends here 💀

[captaincravatthecapricious]

20 questions for fic writers

Thanks @bluejayblueskies for the tag!

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 

58!

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 

463,287

3. What fandoms do you write for? 

Malevolent! But I do have a tma long fic going on that I am still working on and updating regularly.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

After the Circus (tma)

Can't Get Up (tma)

Broken Ribs (tma)

Things You Said When You Were Scared (tma)

Cold as the Rain that Falls in December (Malevolent)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! Comments mean a ton to me so I try to respond to them!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? 

Oh man either Things You Said Through Your Teeth (tma, a little study on Martin grieving everyone throughout the seasons, ending with him pushing Jon away) OR I Don't Want to be So Sober So (Malevolent, that ended up with Arthur possibly drinking himself to death. I mean you could chose to believe that John got him back home. I don't think I've actually decided, even when I wrote it).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? 

I mean... all the rest of them, probably. I write happy endings. Angst with happy endings. Maybe the Jumanji fic? The first one ends up pretty happy.

8. Do you get hate on fics? 

Not that I know of? Am I popular enough to get hate?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? 

Nope.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

GODS, okay so this isn't published. Hell it's in an old NOTEBOOK, but once I wrote a crossover between Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog and Bones.

Of the things published, I do have a tma Jumanji au, but I wouldn't call that a crossover.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? 

I don't think so?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? 

Not that I know of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? 

I was going to, once upon a time, but it fell through. That was a very long time ago.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? 

I'm not sure. I like queerplatonic ships over anything else. I really like playing around with the inbetween relationships of Jon and Tim (tma) and Arthur and Parker and John (Malevolent). But I'm not sure if I really write or ship any of them romantically. I like the messy inbetweens. And being aro ace, I kind of explore the plasticity of relationships through that lens.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? 

I'm pretty methodical with things so I don't have a lot of projects left undone. I would like to write a third chapter for my oneshot fic called Coffee. And I would like to fix up the second chapter enough that I can actually post it.

In a wider sense. I have so much more I want to do in the Parker Lives AU, but I have no idea what I'll be able to do with time/work/mental health constraints. I'm certainly not done with the AU. But will it ever be truly finished?

16. What are your writing strengths? 

rambling. Endlessly. Which is also a weakness. But I sure can do whump and stream of consciousness.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? 

I haven't the foggiest idea how video games work and I am writing a video game au.

In a more serious sense. I have a lot of trouble with pacing. I fill everything up with my rambling and I have no idea if I am getting the original point across or if it's gotten lost along the way. It also tends to make it hard to stick in important details in a longer form work. I get too busy with tangents.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? 

I don't think I know other languages well enough.

19. First fandom you wrote for? 

Ice Age 3, Dawn of the Dinosaurs. And it was written in marker in a plastic spiral bound notebook. And it will never see the light of day.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

For tma, probably If That's What it is

For Malevolent... I'm not sure. I love of Cold as the Rain (and that might be my top pick overall) but I am also really proud of myself for finishing Phosphenes and Pasts. I guess my readers will have to be the judge of that once I finish posting it!

Tagging @genderfluid-druid @thisstableground @cannibalthoughts @cappurrccino @sokkas-first-fangirl @breannasfluff @acewithapaintbrush @late-to-the-magnus-archives

[simshousewindsor]

GRIFFIN PARK GRANNY

[Buckingsim Palace, Buckingsimshire 12:23 PM WST]

Rowena, Queen Mother: Are you sure they said the Yellow Drawing Room? It looks dark down there?

Alfred Culpepper [Estate Manager]: That's what Her Majesty said, ma'am.

Alfred [E.M.]: I'll check to make sure this is the correct location.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Thank you, Alfred. I'll just turn the lights on and wait in here.

[ALL]: (excited) Surprise!!

Rowena, Queen Mother: (gasps) Oh my goodness! What are you all doing in here? (laughs)

Queen Katherine: We know how tough things have been for you the last few weeks so the kids wanted to surprise you with a 'Grandma Appreciation Day'.

Rowena, Queen Mother: What a lovely surprise!

Queen Katherine: Phillip desperately wanted to see again you before going back to Cheaves.

Princess Grace: Welcome to our party, grandma!

Prince Phillip: (scoffs) It's not our party, Grace. It's grandma's party.

Queen Katherine: Phillip, don't be mean to your sister.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Samuel! Look how big you've gotten in two weeks! Oh, Kate, this is just what I needed. We didn't get to spend much time together in Henford for the memorial.

Queen Katherine: I'm so glad Granny Niema is finally at rest, and that you were able to be with her.

Rowena, Queen Mother: So do I.

Queen Katherine: I can't believe they're already five months old.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Time flies, darling.

Rainier, Prince consort: Michael said he wants a kiss from grandma too!

Rowena, Queen Mother: [to Michael] Hi, sweet face! Grandma's big boy!

Rainier, Prince consort: They both have a busy schedule of eating, napping and pooping.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Twins! It still blows my mind. George would be so tickled. (sighs) So much has changed over the past year.

Prince Phillip: This was my idea, grandma! I want you to be happy.

Rowena, Queen Mother: You've made me very happy. I bet that big slice of cake is about to make you happy also!

Queen Katherine: He wanted to do something to cheer you up. Babies always put a smile on my face. I knew grand babies would do the same for you!

Rowena, Queen Mother: It truly did!

Queen Katherine: There is something I'd like to talk with you about, though. Let's take a walk.

Queen Katherine: Royal Lodge needs more repairs than expected. I know you feel displaced right now but I have a solution.

Rowena, Queen Mother: What is that?

Queen Katherine: Granny has chosen not to move to Griffin Park. She'd like to remain here at the palace, and I agree. She'd be more comfortable staying here. As such, Griffin Park is now an option for you!

Rowena, Queen Mother: Being on the mall, it's closer to the palace also!

Queen Katherine: It makes more sense. Griffin's been vacant for quite some time, but I'm sure it requires far less updating than Hardy Manor would have. Being a royal property, the duchy will cover repairs and updates.

Rowena, Queen Mother: (gasp) This is the best news ever! Now, I can keep the money your father left me!

Rowena, Queen Mother: (hug) You're my favorite granddaughter, you know that?

Princess Grace: (laughs) I'm your only granddaughter!

Rowena, Queen Mother: I'm so glad you're enjoying Cheaves.

Prince Phillip: Yes. Mommy said it's the same school grandpa went to.

Rowena, Queen Mother: It sure is!

Rowena, Queen Mother: (hug) You be a good boy, now. Grandma will try to visit you at Cheaves in a few weeks, okay?

Prince Phillip: Okay.

Rowena, Queen Mother: When you're home for the summer, I'll take you to Brindleton Bay. I know how much you love the boat shows there.

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[literaticat]

Hi Jenn! For books that change titles after publication, who makes the decision? Is it solely up to the publisher, or does the author have a say, 1) that it should happen (like if a title becomes problematic) and 2) what the new title should be? Or will the book just not get another printing? How would a change affect book sales, would it be treated as a brand new book, does anything special need to be done like with ISBNs or catalogs? Example: Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.

First of all, this doesn't happen often at all, so it's probably not something that will ever come up, if you are reading this like !!! -- pls, calm down, you don't need to add this to your brimming catalogue of concerns.

Occasionally -- RARELY!!! -- a title will change after the book is already published. It's rare because it's a bit of a pain in the ass. IF this were to happen, it would most likely be at one of two times, for one of two reasons:

First: IF the book truly did NOT do well in hardcover, but they still believe in it and want to publish it in paperback but totally reimagine the packaging and "rebrand" to get a fresh start. (It does OFTEN happen that a paperback will get a new cover look from the hardcover -- but that rarely extends to the title itself. As in, over 500+ books I've had published, this has happened to me once.) In that case, the publisher said, hey, we want to rebrand this and give it a new title what do you think? And we brainstormed new titles and cover directions together. It was a good thing, because whatever confusion that might have happened in the marketplace (wait -- did I read this book already? Is this the same book or...??) was fleeting -- after all, hardly anyone DID notice the book the first time around, so there weren't very many people to confuse, that was the whole point! And it did say on the book "previously published as [former title]" so people could figure it out. And there was no issue with ISBN, because the paperback had a new ISBN anyway.

Second: If the book has done very well over the course of years, but for some reason the title has become A Problem. The case you mention, AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, is an example of this; the original UK title was offensive even for the US in the 1930's and I'm certainly not typing it, click the link if you don't know. We published it under another name here, and it has changed to be more offensive and then less offensive and changed back a couple more times over the course of decades. Obviously they didn't want to put a popular book by an extremely famous author out of print, so different publishers over the years have opted to tackle this in different ways, and Agatha is famous enough and the book popular enough that everyone just rolled with it. (I think everyone has finally settled on AND THEN THERE WERE NONE for the book, play, and new adaptations!) These changes might have been the idea of the estate itself, or might have come from the publisher, but either way, they'd both have to agree. Yes, a new edition with a new title would have a new ISBN and the updated version would be in catalogues and able to be ordered, the old version would just go out of print.

This has also happened to me once over the years with a book I repped, MELISSA by Alex Gino. It was originally published under a different title and won many awards and I don't think it's a stretch to call it a Modern Classic of MG fiction. It's about a trans kid (the titular MELISSA!) -- but the title of the first version was her "boy name." This made sense back in 2010 or whenever the author first conceived of writing the book, and we (author, agent, editor, publisher) didn't think much of it even when the book was published in 2015; that was what everyone called the protagonist, so it didn't feel weird at the time -- but after a while, Alex came to feel that this title felt inappropriate since Melissa IS Melissa throughout the whole book, even if other people call her by a different name; they wanted to change it. And times by then had changed quite a bit, people's understanding of how to talk about gender and such was just different, so while the publisher did balk at first (after all, changing that book meant potentially confusing A LOT of people, as well as changing the covers of ALL Alex's books that mentioned this award-winning first book), eventually the publisher decided that the benefits outweighed the risks and did change it. So a bunch of things happened: All Alex's other books had their covers changed in reprints, MELISSA's cover and ISBN changed and the old version went out of print, and new jackets that said MELISSA were created so people who already had the hardcover with the old title could swap it out if they wanted, and they did a lot of PR around the name change so people would hopefully understand why and what was happening and be excited about it rather than potentially annoyed.

As you can see, doing this with a popular book is quite an undertaking and not something a publisher would take lightly -- and while the decision might come from the author OR the publisher, at the end of the day, EVERYONE would have to be on board.

I strongly suspect that a book that had a "huh, is that kosher these days?" title that was NOT popular would just end up going out of print and fading into memory.

[your-local-grubdog]

Together in the Storm Chapter 13: What Cetacea Saw

Story Summary: Olimar is back home once again, ready to rest and recuperate from everything that had happened. Yet the universe keeps throwing unwanted surprises his way, making rest difficult. He just wants to make his (now rather large) family believe that he’ll be okay. Because he is, for he has to be.

Story ratings: No archive warnings apply, Teen and Up Audiences, and General/Non-Ship Focused

Chapter Summary: Cetacea tells Olimar about some data that it has been decoding.

Sorry for another short chapter, I just didn't need something longer to get this idea across. The next few chapters are also shorter for similar reasons, but the end is also coming up so they should lengthen out again for it!

Read on Ao3 here!

===

"Captain Olimar?"

"Yes, Cetacea?"

"... I don't mean to alarm you but, uh, could you perhaps close the door...?"

Olimar was sitting in his office at home, getting ready for when he would soon have to return to work. He wasn't... Thrilled by the update, to say the least, but he had no choice in the matter unfortunately. He'd still have to go back to work despite the aching protests of his still healing body. He was uncertain about why Cetacea would want the office door shut, but he nervously stood and closed it as requested. He then turned to the little hub on his desk.

"Okay, what is it?"

"It's about when I was offline. See, we ships have a feature meant to help us still collect data even when ruined as my hull was. It's intended to catch acts of vandalism and space pirates."

That made Olimar raise an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall. "So, you could still "see" and "hear" even then? Were you still... a-aware?"

"To answer your second question: no. These emergency systems run on the bare minimum necessities. So I was not aware that I was off until I was turned back on again. Though, even if I was, I wouldn't be in any sort of pain."

Olimar looked away then. "I - I know but... s-still."

"Sir, please do not worry. We cannot feel pain, or abandonment, or anything else for that matter. We are merely complex AI, not truly self-aware people."

The captain only made a weird sound of discontent at that.

With a sigh, the ship's AI continued; "The catch to this system is that the data takes a while to decode. I've been back online for twelve days already, and have only now been able to access this information. And what I saw was..." it then trailed off, pausing for a few moments, before finishing with "You may want to sit down for this."

That made Olimar's ears pin back as he slowly walked around his desk and sat back in his chair. "W-What happened, was it bad?"

Cetacea remained quiet for perhaps too long before responding with "I think so, but I'm uncertain."

Olimar took in a shaky breath, willing himself calm. "O-Okay. What is it?"

"Well..."

===

It was a rainy day in the Garden of Hope, Cetacea's old hull laying broken in the mud, its parts whirling away weakly. The area had recently been picked clean of fruits by the Koppaite crew, and as such neither they nor the pikmin were to be found here.

Something else, however, was here, picking over the ruins of its old home.

The wraith was fairly small, actually, and dusty purple in color. A long hole stretched down its back, not unlike the one the Plasm Wraith had. It seemed to sing to itself as it looked over the remains of the mireclops, soon plucking the various flowers growing on its corpse. It seemed at peace, almost enjoying itself as it continued to cradle flowers in one of its four arms.

The peace wasn't to last for long, however.

A second wraith soon slithered in, a long snake-like tail present where its legs should have been. It was larger, clear crystal in color, and had horn-like protrusions on its head. Upon seeing the smaller wraith, it let out a loud screech, an indescribable yet distinctly unholy sound. The purple one dropped its flowers, soon screeching in return. The two wraiths slowly circled each other, a low rumble emitting from each. They seemed to just stare and growl at each other for the longest time.

Then, in a swift move, one of the clear wraith's arms crystalized as it dashed towards the other. The small purple one dodged with ease, a cloud of spores soon surrounding it. The clear one, however, was unaffected by it. As it began to seemingly laugh, the purple one turned to flee. The clear one grabbed it, crystalizing its arms again to gain a better grip, before slamming it against the ground. Before the purple wraith could recover, the clear one morphed its crystal arm to have a clawed hand with which it stabbed into the purple one with. The smaller wraith let out an agonized screech as the horned one ripped out a dusty purple cube from within it. It then used its new claws to penetrate the cube, black goop spilling out of the fresh wounds. Soon after that, the purple wraith went still, then melted into a small puddle on the ground.

The crystal casing around the clear wraith's arm vanished then, a tendril wrapped around the purple cube. The wraith then absorbed the cube, which slowly dissolved away within the wraith. After a few moments, the clear wraith let out a cloud of spores for no discernible reason.

Seemingly happy with itself now, the wraith left.

===

Olimar was left frozen after Cetacea finished its story. It took the captain a long time to say anything at all as he stared blankly at the wall. Eventually, he shakily started with "S-S-So there... There's more wr... W-wraiths..."

"Affirmative, captain."

"And they... They kill each other."

"I am not sure what the motivation was. If it was predation, or a territorial dispute, or something else. But yes, they can and do seem to kill each other."

Olimar was quiet for a few more moments before shakily asking "And when they do, they.... They gain the others' powers."

"That appears to be the case. The spores were identical to each other as far as I could tell."

"Is that why they kill, then? For power?" He asked. The wraiths were, as far as he could tell, just like people. But they also weren't, they didn't act quite right. Like a Hocotation infected with rabies. Even that, however, didn't feel like an apt description. Regardless, killing for the sake of power sounded like something they were capable of.

"... I can add that to the list of theories." Was Cetacea's eventual reply. "We have no proof of anything thus far."

Olimar merely nodded in response, lost in his own thoughts. Then, in a quiet voice, he asked "So how many wraiths did the Plasm Wraith kill?"

Cetacea didn't answer that question.

"It had so many abilities. Fire, water, crystal, electricity, illusions... At least four others killed, then, more if I'm unaware of other abilities it may have..."

And it has captured him. Kept him. Cared for him. Hurt him. Worried over him. Nearly killed him.

The two didn't exchange any more words, both merely silent as Olimar's head reeled with countless possibilities and worries.

But now, he found himself hung up on one question.

What was the Plasm Wraith's original ability?

[askfpslol]

RULES AND ABT SECTION

I will add to this periodically when needed <3

This blog currently updates whenever I am able to do so. Sometimes I am not able to for a while, or I just flat out forget, so please be patient with me. Apologies in advance for unannounced hiatuses :(

I don't know if this is normal for ask blogs? But I'm not necessarily roleplaying as any of the characters. If you send in an ask, I'll have the characters replying thru comic form lol. Sometimes I'll also just post random comics I make.

All asks must be legitimate and not things such as harassment or spam. thank you in advance for following this guideline. If you disobey this, you will be blocked. No warning, just a block.

~FAQ~

What games does this blog contain?

For now, it contains Doom, Metroid, Halo, Half Life, Dead Space, Atomic Heart, Postal, Duke Nukem, and Wolfenstein. Depending on how I feel/my ever-expanding, autistic interests, this list will expand accordingly.

Do you ship any characters?

Yes, as of this time solely Samus and Doomguy. If you dont like it you can block the tag, as I'll tag them accordingly.

But Master Chief isn't transfem! Gordon Freeman isn't Black! etc.

Yes, in canon this is true. Media is meant to be interpreted though and I have fun with it on my end. If you dont like things like that, this blog isn't for you. Sorry bud.

Don't you know Atomic Heart is Anti-Ukraine Propaganda?

From where I stand, I don't think it is. I say first and foremost, I 100% support Ukraine and I havn't actually bought the game, I got it off of gamepass. But due to the concepts and actual development of the game starting years ago (concepts go back to as far as 2008 if you look hard enough), from my opinion I don't believe the game has Communist propaganda. I do not support Russia in any way right now, I just want to like my silly, stupid game. I want to get that out of the way in case I get any asks about it, although I don't know if that controversy is still on-going.

I can't think of many other rules, so a proper introduction to the admin, yours truly!

My name is Flynn, and I'm a 17yrold transmasc autistic dude lol. I have a great fondness for old games, particularly FPS boomer-shooters, and I'm fuckeng insane lol. I like making shitty (or sometimes not so shitty) forms of art to express this fondness. Outside of making comics for this blog, I occasionally do serious art I might post here, along with 3d modeling, being a part-time game dev, and I love collecting things, naturally games and old mlp toys from the 80's. Also if you couldn't tell by the PFP and straight up what my name is, I project HARD onto Doomguy I am so sorry about this guys. Anyways,

[grasslandgirl]

What’s your plan when you finish noble pining au? Is it going to be like a chapter a week situation? Are you even a no wips published person or is noble pining getting special treatment? Is it even going to be called noble pining or are you going to come up with a different title?👀

so genuinely anon, getting asks about noble pining makes my day SO bright it brings me joy unlike anything else <33 so thank you thank you thank you

What’s your plan when you finish noble pining au? Is it going to be like a chapter a week situation?

yes! currently the plan for when i finish writing noble pining is to try and post a chapter a week! which will take. a very long time lmao bc im currently at 18 chapters with at least a few more to go after the one im writing rn jskfbvkfb but yeah you'll definitely hear about it when i finish and start posting because the plan is to post a chap every week !!

Are you even a no wips published person or is noble pining getting special treatment?

i actually do try to finish wips before posting as a general rule- there are a couple exceptions ive posted as i've written, but more often than not when i post chaps on a wip before ive finished the whole thing i tend not to finish writing or posting it at all, which i don't love bc then i have unfinished wips hanging out on my ao3 </3 having the promise of getting to post my work and getting to share it and get feedback about it is a big motivator for me, so even when i know a wip is gonna be a multichap, i usually wait until the whole thing is done before posting

and especially with noble pining, because it's so long and involved, a large part of my process especially when i'm blocked is to go back and edit and read back through old chapters- updating and changing things that warrant it and getting inspo for later chapters, and i like having the freedom of being able to do that without having to worry about updating already posted chapters!

Is it even going to be called noble pining or are you going to come up with a different title?👀

the plan was always for "noble pining" to be a working title for the fic lmao, it was something i came up with ages ago when i was first talking about the idea with casey and got tired of typing out "the princess adaine guards fabian and gorgug fic" and came up with noble pining as a stopgap working title until i came up with something more formal lmao, and that's still the plan- i'm considering between a couple formal titles right now, but when i eventually do post it ill probably still call it noble pining as well as the actual title i decide on, because i recognize it'll probably be a little confusing to refer to it solely by another name when ive been blogging about it as noble pining for so long (honestly i never expected to get back so much interest and so many asks about noble pining! i always thought of it as my silly little niche passion project, and so to receive so much interest and excitement about it is truly so lovely and heartening to hear!)

anon again thank you so much for sending in this ask !!!!!!! it's so exciting and lovely and heartwarming to know that there is interest about noble pining out there from people other than y handful of friends i've bullied into letting me talk about it, and i'm thrilled to answer any asks or questions you guys have about it while i work on it !!!

[heromaker-if]

Thanks for the kind words and quick reply, I slept for 4 hours or so with a heartbreak, thanks to someone :3 Now for the first part *cough*, firstly, I don't mind how long the demo was, it was actually great that it was that long, I love to read such a masterpiece :3 Secondly, I have scroll through your tumblr update and I am amazed by how fast you were writing the story, great work there, you are really amazing!!!! (●'◡'●) So with that, I want to ask about your upcoming dev plan, like how many book are you intending to write and how many chapters intended for the Book One? And do you have a plan to when you are going to finish this project?

Now for the other second part *look at my prepared list*, well, for once I finally understand why so many risk and do stupid things to bring back their loved one ಥ_ಥ Great, you have helped me realize my irrational and emotion-drived part .-. (Though if there had been a choice to kill my child along with myself there with Frey, I would say bye to the whole world future and die with him there, extreme yes but my best choice :) )

Next, can we have revenge against the Demon Lord please, pretty please 🥺Offff courseeee not the "kill in the most brutal way possible", pffft, I want to make him fall in love with me and then trample upon his love, in the most cruelest way possible. I will make him to bowl down to my spouse grave for what he has done, make him cry out of despair and guilt every single night, wow that would be great as hell. Hmm, I will curse him even in your epilogue haha, with the scene of me in the bed, dying of old age, whispering of hurtful words in his ears, how I will never forgive him and curse that he will be alone forever, yes I will spend all of my life hate him :)

Phew, sorry, that was longer than I expected, sorry XD But I just love the game so much there are so many things I want to talk about it!! Thank you for having read all of this, truly XD

PS: If we can meet Yennefer again, can we keep both her and Arthur? 🥺

Love this long ask! Thank you. I will put the rest below so I don't clutter people's feed.

I hope you get better sleep next time! But thank you. I hadn't realised the Demo was so long because I just get lost in it LOL

Glad you enjoyed it though.

And thank you! I am indeed a fast writer because I have an obsession with it 🧍‍♀️

Regarding my dev plan... it's very vague. But I'll let you know of what I have planned. I have two books planned, this one and the next one. And between 5-10 chapters. I don't know yet, I always end chapters when it feels right! So there could be more chapters than I predict, or less.

No idea when I'm going to finish though. I'm currently studying auto mechanics, and learning how to drive (aside from having a job as well), so I'm busy all the dang time 🙃

But I'll always have time for this story!

I am glad I managed to touch on the sheer desperation to bring someone back from the dead. Grief can be scary, and drive us to do crazy things. Whenever a piece of media gets me to feel like that, I always get so immersed, so I'm glad I was able to reproduce that!

Although your rendition of what would happen if you seduced the Demon Lord is amazing to read, things will definitely be far harder and less black and white than they seem, especially if we go down that route. I will say, I will add a way for you to gain the Demon Lord's trust, but he is also a manipulative and tricky demon, so... the MC might be betrayed before they can betray.

Don't worry about the long ask! I loved it and I love how interactive you are with the blog. I crave to form a community here so feel free.

And yes! I don't consider this massive spoilers so I will say, there are two ways to keep Yennefer, one of them you will have Arthur as well. 🥰

Thank you!!!!

[gentil-minou]

do u have any atla fic recs 🥺👉👈 pls i am begging

Okay so it's been quite a bit since I read atla fics and I'm a hardwired Zutara shipper so if that's your jam I got some stuff I super recommend! But because it's been so long and I can't remember them all I would say go through my Ao3 bookmarks here for a better list and my fanfiction.net account that has another list with old fics too I think (just remember that this account is from 2008 and will be cringe sdhgs)

Though I will plug a couple of my faves (though some of these are ancient in fandom years dsfjkshd):

Tempest in a Teacup by akaVertigo (T, complete with a sequel WIP)

Fate puts Katara in the Fire Nation to grow up in the company of a Dragon, a prince, and a lot of good tea. AU Zutara...of a sort.

BABY ZUTARA. They are everything to me and this fic is a staple of early zutara fandom I think. Also the writer reemerged last year after a decade and I almost cried I was so happy dsjfhds

Finding You by PearLynn (AU, complete, M)

"For each life you live, you shall suffer. This is your punishment: never to die, never to settle. Never able to love nor truly live, cursed to jump back and forth through time. You will spend the rest of eternity repenting for your actions, living a half life with no purpose."

No matter where, no matter when, he always found her. A Zutara story.

I think about this fic a lot. So much. All the time. Just read it. It's beautiful.

Moonlight and Sunshadow by GrapefruitTwostep (M, AU, Complete)

The dragon offered Katara a deal: protection for her family and tribe if she lived with it for a year and a day. And she said yes. Because what other way was there to save her people?

But there was more to the dragon than Katara bargined for.

An "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" retelling.

I love everything this author writes but this one was just...it was incredible. A literal epic with a wonderful story of romance and adventure and ahhhh I love it so much. Also Zuko is a cuddly dorky dragon and that's great I think

Enslaved by sharkflip (on ff.net) (T, incomplete but ends in a good place)

A triumphant war party returns with an exotic slave, a gift for the ruling house. Katara and Zuko AU

A common trope was capture fics but this one was Zuko getting captured and I LOVED it. It explores an interesting dynamic where he has no idea how to communicate with his capteurs and it's fascinating as a reader because the writer has us learn about Katara's culture along with him. I consider this a must read because it's just incredible.

Acquiescence by Ladyflick (ff.net) (T, complete)

Zuko, Katara and Sokka go under cover into the Fire Nation.

This is also super old but I remember loving it so much.

The Sparrowkeet Series by audreyii_fic (E, canon divergence, series)

Ba Sing Se has fallen and Katara has been captured by the Fire Nation; a more adult take on the potential progression of S3. AU series of interconnected one-shots. Zutara.

What kind of person would I be if not for Sparrowkeet? I don't know but I think I read this wayyyyyy back over ten years ago when it was on ff.net and I still love it man.

didn't know my heart by babyfairy (E, canon divergence, complete)

And yet, in a matter of days, she has managed to worm her way under his skin, has cracked open his rib cage and has begun to patch up the endless amount of wounds on his heart.

A retelling of the show but with added Zutara. I don't remember much of it as it's been a few years but I remember loving it! (EXPLICIT CONTENT)

Anything by damagectrl and brotherkupo, who also write for ML! (seeing their stuff when I started reading ML was so lovely ahhh)

Honestly I have so many recs now that i started sgkhfdjk but I really recommend checking out some blogs on tumblr for a better more updated list. I know there was also a Zutara Mini Big Bang that you can check out here, but I am grossly behind on the fics there but they look so good!

And if you're not a zutara fan then rip i guess i read them pretty much exclusively jfhsdjk

[favoniuscodex]

ataraxia. - ch. 5 [ diluc x reader ]

ch. 5 - regularity's dawn pairing: diluc x gn!reader warnings: mention of prior-obtained injuries. diluc is rich. uh,,, typical warnings for this series. words: ~1.9k words fic masterlist [ prev ] - [ next ] chapter summary: just you (a farmer), diluc (an unknown variable), and a dog (of the canine variety) existing in your house. you, of course, wish there were only two of you there... you think. well, no matter what, the dog is staying. a/n: mmm domesticity except the reader can't handle domesticity. but hold on guys,,, hold on,,, its happening,,, slowly !!! :D sorry it's been 28 years for this update lol

"y'know," you set the bags of groceries down onto the kitchen counter as diluc hobbles into the room after you. "fatui presence in the city is increasing."

today is the twenty-first day since diluc has arrived at your doorstep. things have changed in your home and in the world outside. for starters, you've begrudgingly acclimated to the presence of another within your household. diluc is rather polite, much to your behest. he doesn't pry into your past, he doesn't rifle through your things, and, from what you can tell, he hasn't gone into your bedroom without permission.

diluc respects the boundaries between the two of you and it pisses you off. for a man who showed up half-alive to your place of residence, diluc keeps himself together in a frustratingly fascinating manner. he's gotten accustomed to crutches. he washes dishes for you, despite the cast on his wrist and insistence that you can do it yourself. hell, with his pyro vision, you don't even need to worry about firewood nor kindle for the kitchen stove. diluc is oddly self-sufficient for a man as injured as he is.

however, it's not like you're not looking to take care of him. it's just irritating to see this man being able to pick himself right back up and act like everything is okay, even if crutches are tucked into his armpits and supporting his weight. you're no fool, though. you know things aren't perfect for the redhead. you can see it in the wistful glimmer of his eyes when it rains and you can see it in the way that it looks like he wants to speak but doesn't know how.

diluc picks himself back up from his injuries, sure, but you can tell it's a hollow husk of the person he used to be. besides, you're wise enough to know that a broken wrist doesn't cause the solemnness you see in his expression. the source of that pain likely occurred long before you met him.

"the fatui?" diluc asks and you immediately regret having internally praised him for recovering so well from his injuries. maybe if he hadn't, you wouldn't have been asked such a dumb question.

"yes, the fatui. that's what i just said," you snap in response and, much to your surprise, diluc lets out a laugh. it's short-lived and it's more of a bark of a laugh rather than a wholehearted chortle, but it causes you to glance over at him, shooting him a glare as you angrily unpack the grocery bags.

"you do not talk to many other people, do you?" diluc asks, causing you to tilt your head in confusion. his eyes gleam with a mirth you've never seen before in them and it serves to do nothing but baffle you.

"neither do you?" you respond and your words come out questioning, rather than the harsh retort you originally hoped for. diluc pointedly looks down at his broken appendages and shrugs his shoulders to move his crutches. you stare at him blankly, unamused by his nonverbal sass.

"fatui presence," diluc quickly redirects the conversation before it can fall in to an awkward silence. "are there any recent events that would lead them to increase their numbers in the city?"

you furrow your brow in thought. "i... i'm not sure. i'm not exactly the best informant. outside of what i see at the newspaper stands, there's not much i can go by."

diluc falls silent, expression mimicking yours. "each time you go into the market, could you purchase a newspaper?"

you stare at him, baffled by his question.

"diluc," you begin slowly, as if he doesn't understand. "those are expensive." printing is not yet widespread to teyvat, with most effort going into the publication of books and kamera photography. spending several hundred mora on the weekly copy of the teyvat times is a luxury that someone like you can't afford. most other farmers you had the (unfortunate) pleasure of knowing are in the same boat, with just enough money to live, yet not enough to indulge in disposable newspaper. however, diluc seems to care little about such things.

"i'll pay for it," he says and you narrow your eyes at him. you don't dare challenge him.

of course this random enemy of the fatui has enough money to pay for newspapers. of course! its only convenient that he can just afford whatever he wants. its infuriating. of course he can pay. he always does. he pays for his dumb expensive grape juice, he always offers to pay the bills, he indulges in everything that you have to work so, so hard for while giving absolutely no indicator as to who exactly diluc is.

hell, you don't even know his last name, but you're sure as hell not about to ask. to ask would show an indicator of wanting to get close and you've already overshared with the redhead enough. you bite back a sigh of frustration as he balances on one leg, setting his crutches to the side and begins to help you unpack the groceries.

diluc is only trying to help, you remind yourself. he wants to make life easier for you because you're helping him. yet, you want to scream and cry at him for it. diluc shouldn't be so diligent and determined all of the time. he should be weak, he should be human, but he's not. he's not human to you, not even close.

he's just this stranger who you help to avoid a guilty conscience. it irks you that he's helping you because you're not helping him out of goodwill. you're only helping him so you don't hate yourself later.

you let out a nearly silent sigh, before resting the palms of your hands on the kitchen counter, splaying your fingers out.

"diluc, go sit down," you state exasperatedly.

you need to rest, you want to say, but your concerns remain unspoken. you're not concerned over him, you tell yourself.

"no," diluc states. you press your lips into a tight line as he turns to put a bag of flour in the pantry. yet, even you are smart enough to know this is a fight you cannot win.

you let him stay, you let him pay, you let him win. it eats away at your autonomy and, even though your brain screams at you to hate him for it, a small part of you is thankful for his assistance and company. you feel the familiar rush of angry tears beginning to well up behind your eyes, yet you swallow the lump in your throat.

you realize now why diluc bothers you so much. you realize why you completely and utterly loathe him. you realize why he's nothing but trouble and how you can't wait for him to finally, finally leave.

you hate diluc because he reminds you of what you truly are: vulnerable.

---

you check the kitchen. nothing. you check the bathroom. nothing. you check the living room. nothing. you check your bedroom. nothing. you check the supply closet. nothing.

which leaves one place left unchecked: diluc's room.

in typical "i'm the owner of this house" fashion, you knock lightly on his ajar door and, without waiting for a response, swing open the door. at this point, diluc is unsurprised and you can see his brow furrow slightly in annoyance as he looks up from his book.

good, you think to yourself, satisfied with his reaction.

"where is eos?" you ask, eyes scanning around the room. you crouch down to glance underneath the bed diluc is resting in.

"what?" diluc asks, confused. "what is eos?"

you stand up straight, staring at diluc with a nearly aghast expression. you take it back. the dumb, well-read redhead isn't smart.

"the dog," you say, as if the information is obvious (and it is!).

"oh," diluc says. "i was unaware it had a name."

"he has a name. it's eos. it's written on his collar and everything," you state, voice growing distant as you look over the room. determining that he very clearly isn't here (thank archons. you don't know what you would've done if your own dog picked diluc over you.), you narrow your eyes at diluc, staring daggers at him.

"do you know where he is or not?" you ask.

"he," diluc begins pointedly, as if trying to rectify for his earlier mistake. "appeared to need to... relieve himself outside, so i let him out when i was up earlier."

you bite back a groan. the weather today was great, which meant your dog surely wasn't coming back any time soon.

"you can't just let him out," you begin exasperatedly, rubbing a hand down the side of your face. "he likes to bother the chicken coop."

"he had to use the bathroom. in case it is not obvious, i am not quite in a condition to walk him out there," diluc states. you flutter your eyes closed in frustration, exhaling deeply.

don't bicker with him, you tell yourself. it's not worth it. you'll just sound like an old married couple.

wait, what? your eyes shoot open at your thoughts and diluc looks taken aback at your sudden wide eyes and startled expression. old married couple? you ask yourself, wondering what the hell your brain was thinking to make that thought pop into your head.

"whatever," you huff, shaking your head slightly to clear the weird thoughts out of your head. "sorry for bothering you. don't let the dog out again. i'm going to go get him."

you turn to leave, but the clearing of diluc's throat has you stopping in your tracks. you turn to look at him, tilting your head questioningly.

"'the dog'?" diluc quotes your words. the corners of his lips twitch up in amusement. "he has a name. it's eos."

diluc laughs at his own joke. it's soft and reserved and beautif-

"yup," you say, unamused, ignoring the way your heart clenches at the way his smile leaves his face. without leaving room for any more conversation, you walk out the room and close the door softly behind you.

idiot, you think to yourself, yet for once, the thought isn't directed at diluc. whatever. no time to dwell. you had a dog to go fish out of the chicken coop before he started barking angrily at the chicken eggs. last time eos had gotten loose in the chicken coop, the chickens were uninjured, but eos' ego was not. they had gifted him with a scratch of their claws, unamused by his barking antics.

you have your dog. you have your farm. you don't need diluc and you certainly don't need the way he nearly giggles at his own little jokes. yet, for some reason, it's all you can think of as you walk to the chicken coop.

"idiot," you mutter to yourself. "should've left him out in the rain."

after all, if you had left him out in the rain twenty-one days ago, you wouldn't be trying to furiously scrub the gentle upward curve of his lips out of your head, nor wishing he reserved such smiles only for you. archons, you are hopeless.

taglist: (please send in an ask to be added or removed to/from the taglist! name in italics means i am unable to tag you!)

@quixoticmirror @fishyfish-y @just-some-stars @karlitaburrito @lotsoffandomstoimagine @zhowongli @yakus-yakult @beanst0ck @nonniechan @justyoureverydayqueer @spice365 @lanicoco-12 @seokflwr @yamssoggyfries @callums-keith @gladly-olus @ferzia @just-some-stars

[alottanothing]

Kismet

Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.

Previous Part: Hope

Word Count: 5707

Warnings: Language

Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.

Jonny did not know how to keep a house.

In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.

Oh, how she wished she had.

Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.

If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.

Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.

For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.

Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.

With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.

"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."

Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.

"I didn't even say yes."

"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.

"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.

"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.

"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.

"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"

"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.

As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.

"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.

Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.

"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."

"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."

"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.

A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.

"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.

The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.

"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.

Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.

“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”

A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.

“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.

“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”

Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.

With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.

“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”

For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.

Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.

“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.

With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.

With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.

Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.

Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.

Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.

Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."

Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.

"Come in."

Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."

He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.

"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."

"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."

There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.

"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."

His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.

"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.

She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.

"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.

"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."

The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.

"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.

"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.

Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.

"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.

"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.

He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.

"How much pasta would you like?"

Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.

"Enough," he grinned.

The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.

Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.

"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"

Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.

"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."

Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.

"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.

He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.

"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.

"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"

All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.

"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."

Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"

"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.

"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."

"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.

"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"

"Does she still work there?"

Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.

"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."

Shit!

Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.

"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"

He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."

"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.

For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.

He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.

A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.

"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.

Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.

"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.

When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.

“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.

When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.

The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.

“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”

A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.

“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”

“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.

“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”

“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”

Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.

“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”

That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.

For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?

No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.

When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.

“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”

Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”

When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.

“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”

Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.

“Alright,“ he smirked.

She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.

Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.

When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.

Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”

Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.

“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”

A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.

She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.

Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.

It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.

She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.

The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.

“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”

Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.

Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”

Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.

"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."

Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.

"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.

Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.

"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."

"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."

Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"

Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.

"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."

"Me too," she murmured.

Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.