#how does everything feel more Sisyphean than ever

[forourtimetoo]

God aren’t you tired like the cops killed another Black man in Memphis just trying to go home and now there’s troops in the streets because god forbid we say enough is enough. Last week they killed a protestor in Atlanta trying to protect the forest from being turned into another site where they train cops to kill us. There were so many mass shootings this week that I can’t remember them all. More people have died in mass shootings this year than there have been days of the year, and that line doesn’t even hit me anymore. Texas prosecutors are investigating a teenager for a miscarriage, and the Alabama AG is trying to walk back earlier comments saying they’d use the state’s chemical endangerment law to prosecute people for self-managed medical abortions. 30,000 people were hospitalized this week with a virus the country is determined to pretend is over. Aren’t you tired? The Supreme Court is about to overturn affirmative action and make it easier to do racial gerrymandering and get rid of the Indian Child Welfare Act and make it so businesses can discriminate against gay people. Aren’t you tired of being scared of what the conservatives would do if they thought they could get away with it—the fetal personhood bans and the contraception bans and the criminalizations of trans & queer people and the attacks on the unhoused and all the other monsters under the bed that get realer every day? Aren’t you tired of being scared for your life, if you’re Black or Asian or trans or queer or disabled? Aren’t you just so tired some days?

[bronanlynch]

it took me over nine months to finish ace attorney 5 but here we are with the lawyer rankings (of whose file clerk I'd rather be)

athena: once again I draw the line at working for a teenager, and also I would be so uncomfortable if she ever tried to tell me what emotion she knew I was feeling. cannot stress how miserable that would be for me, and also a discrimination lawsuit waiting to happen. also, emotions-based lawyering doesn't seem likely to produce as much paperwork as I would like, since that leaves me with less to do. 2/10, of course there's discord in my heart I'm at work leave me alone.

apollo: if he started his own firm I would work for him in a heartbeat but unfortunately him leaving and then coming back to the wright anything agency is not great in terms of like, job security for his hypothetical file clerk. like, do I get laid off when he leaves and then brought back when he returns a few days later? I want a little more stability than that, sorry. 7/10, he would at least help get my benefits paperwork sorted out and I appreciate that in a boss.

phoenix: Idk has he learned how to pay his staff yet because judging by the repetition of the ending bit abt how he doesn't want to buy them noodles the answer seems to be no. "your bonus this year is a pizza party" kind of boss except you have to buy your own pizza. sure he's learned how to be a more supportive mentor to athena than he was to apollo but my boss's faith in me will not pay my rent. 3/10, phoenix you're dating the chief prosecutor surely you can do better than this.

edgeworth: he's gotten his shit together in a way that makes me very proud of him, and he does seem to care abt his employees. also he looks good in those glasses. 8/10, if he can get blackquill's conviction overturned he can make sure I have dental insurance.

payne: the thing about payne is that he doesn't listen to the things people tell him and he doesn't seem to learn anything ever, and that's a very frustrating quality in a boss. the kind of boss that tells you to do something but explains it badly and when you ask a clarifying question he responds with even more incomprehensible bullshit. half of your email responses to him are just copying and pasting things you've already told him. 2/10, every interaction with him is a sisyphean nightmare.

blackquill: trying to process the ethics of an imprisoned prosecutor (they make him wear a shock collar in court jesus fucking christ) makes my brain short-circuit but that's also just the ace attorney experience. other than that he seems like a decent boss, as long as you can overlook some of his uh dramatic tendencies and also as long as he doesn't sic taka on you. but I think if you had a good rapport with him it would be fine, even if it would probably mean a lot of transcribing bc presumably he'd have to hand-write anything he wants to file with the court and send them to you via bird and then you'd have to type them up and actually submit them. 6/10, honestly he gains several points just because I want to pet taka.

professor means: he's so smug, is the thing. he's just the smuggest man and he treats his students like idiots so I can't imagine he'd be any better and less condescending to his employees. he's probably looking for every excuse to be like "gotcha! you made one (1) minor error (that isn't even actually an error, it's just that he personally would have done it differently" and because everything has to be a Teaching Moment he'll bring it up in department meetings and also use you as an example in his classes. 3/10, he gains a few points for his awareness that the legal system is fucked up and rigged in favor of the prosecution and then loses most of those points for being a condescending asshole.

klavier: he would be fine probably. presumably his office is in the same state as it was in aa4, which is not ideal, as it stresses me out when filing cabinets are so full/disorganized that you can't close the drawers. on the other hand maybe that was just because he hadn't gotten around to dealing with it yet and he's not living like that on purpose and he would appreciate a file clerk to help him get his shit together. 7/10, just don't call me fraulein and we'll be fine.

( aa1 | aa2 | aa3 | aa4 | aai | dgs1 | dgs2 )

[invested-in-your-future]

So rewrites are pointless?

I mean...as pointless as anything really so depends on what is the intent and one's view on it all.

Personally I do think any rewrite that just tries to fix specific one volume or character leaving everything else after the same is in a way kind of meaningless. Because like I said before, it assumes that the show goes back on-track after some point and the fixes can slot right back in into the overall intent.

And that's not the case.

I think its pretty obvious at this point that there's no endgame. The writing team genuinely has no idea where they want to take the show and hasn't really since the fall of beacon. There's no narrative intent, no thematic or character arcs. There's no planned progression or long-term planning, just "what can we throw together this volume". Sometimes it off-handedly references the critique on something that happened in the show before, sometimes teases the fans with something they wanted to uphold sales, sometimes I am pretty certain they just throw darts at the dartboard (whoever placed "talking animal magic tree realm" on that dartboard as a joke, well joke's on you pal, joke's on you), but its pretty clear that the show's current direction is not having a direction, as seen by the fact that you can kind of remove entire Volumes and nothing changes in the show as well as by the fact that no matter what happens in said volumes nothing ever changes in the show. The show will last as long as it can and once it can't they will just throw something together quickly (or won't), then Jaune (obviously, who else) will wish upon a star and suddenly Salem will be defeated when she...uhhh...will get rushed by bunch of... squirrels and...um...slip on a banana peel into, um...whatever there is and that's the end, mission accomplished. Because that's pretty likely how planning goes at this point.

So at least for me personally, at this point, a rewrite that tries to "fix" something that happened (while keeping everything else the same) feels a lot more self-defeating than trying to actually redo/rewrite what is there into something new.

Like, honestly, as I outlined before, fixing specific episodes or volumes is something I tried and its an extremely Sisyphean kind of effort. You can't account for where the show might go because the show itself doesn't know. You just end up running after the show and the changes you do snowball very quickly anyway that you are better off with a clear cut-off point, after which you just build onto what you already did.

So is it pointless overall? Eh. For me, trying to make sense of where it could have gone is honestly kind of personal matter of closure?

For one, I accept V1 through V3 as they are, flaws and all and trying to piece together a somewhat coherent different version that comes after that can honestly feel fun and decently freeing - an interesting situation because in a way accepting V1 through V3 in on itself imposes interesting limitations and problems. There's honestly a lot one can work with, which makes what rwby-proper actually does with it all (nothing) kind of pretty damning?

[raigash]

Just For The Day

[Inky Depths Masterlist]

Pascal and Rose content for the first time in a little while! Their story needs a bit of restructuring, but I wanted to write a new taste of them before I got to work editing the old. TWS for intimate whumper, victim blaming, and the most prominent- fever/illness whump! I hope you guys enjoy!

There are ghosts swimming in the shadows, and for the life of her, Rosalind cannot figure out what it is they want from her. Wispy clouds of pitch black dance along the baseboards of this haunted home, and she can hear their whispers. Can feel their frozen fingertips reaching ever closer to her heated skin.

Her world feels like it’s on fire, and freezing over, all at the same time. Everything hurts. Every breath she fights to take feels Sisyphean as her chest flutters and collapses within seconds of each inhale. The rough fibers of the study’s carpet dig into her exposed skin, reminding her just how exposed she truly is.

She doesn’t even remember when the bedroom melted away into the study. She barely remembers making it there from the dining room table before that. Time has been a fickle keeper these last few….days? Hours? Seconds?

She doesn’t know. And that, in and of itself, is a problem.

Her mouth is dry. It has been since that awful tasting liquid was held to her lips, and she was forced to swallow the bitterness down in shuddering gulps. The pressure behind her eyes has eased some since, but her shoulder still screams in agony that refuses to be quelled. Is it bleeding, still?

She shivers, unable to feel a difference between untouched skin, and that which has been carved by Pascal’s fury. Everything hurts, right now. Every old wound rising from the depths of her mind feels brand new as her body screams in pain that it cannot escape. For good reason, apparently.

That thought keeps surfacing as the waves of fever crash over her again and again. Keeps digging claws into her and forcing her to remain alert through the torment. She was here for a reason. This was all happening for a reason.

That reason does little to soothe the nausea, but it keeps her from giving into exhaustion’s pull. What right does she have to sleep? To rest? To reprieve? This was her doing.

This was her penance.

The Study door does not squeak when it opens- she has taken too much care in her duties to allow that. Still, though, she hears the change, and with Herculean effort, she lifts her head from the floor.

Save me. Heal me. Remake me.

Words bounce around her head in fervent spirals, cascading thoughts and pleas and condemnations all splintering into nonsense before dissolving back into the dark, and being given new form. She is lost in this darkness, in this sweltering abyss from which she cannot escape. And she looks to this artificial lamplight in the absence of the sun’s warmth.

There are words, but they are… garbled, at best. She squints to try to get a better view, and her world spins violently- so much so that she whimpers as her head drops back to the floor. Everything hurts.

The garbled sounds continue even as she feels icy fingers trailing up her back, touch gentle, but searing. Maybe these are her ghosts. Maybe that’s why they taunt her so. Maybe they are gifting her back the memory stolen from her by time.

Pascal draws closer to the shivering form on the floor, face set in a frown as she remains unresponsive. She is bare, save for a pair of tacky sweatpants that he keeps for times when things may get messy. The tepid wound festering on her shoulder blade certainly qualifies for the occasion.

She shivers, face burrowed into the carpet as though it’s a pillow. Her skin is soaked with sweat, and her breaths come in ragged puffs. This shouldn’t be happening. He has never had something like this happen before, in all his years. And this is far from the first time he’s done a carving in this manner.

He has a feeling it is more than a simple infection, but either way, he may have to procure a physician to assist in getting her back on her feet. He is not losing his prized paragon. Not like this.

Pascal crouches beside her, then, examining her closer as he brushes a hand through her sweat soaked hair. It needs combing, but he supposes it’s fine given the circumstances. A small noise of worry, followed by another attempt of lifting her head, is the response Rosalind is able to give.

He takes pity on her as he watches her neck begin to falter, and cups her cheek in his hand, supporting her head. Her foggy gaze falls just below his cheekbone, just as it should. Her skin is practically on fire, and his expression twists further into one of worry.

He’ll need to find someone fast

Without wasting time explaining, he scoops his little songbird up easily. The sudden change in elevation startles her, and she cries out, only to be shushed back into miserable silence. She is carried from the study, down the hallway, and into the master bedroom. The sheets feel prickly against her skin as she is laid atop them, but less so than the floor. It is a miracle she recognizes where she is enough to be utterly confused.

It must show on her face as she nestles deeper into the uncomfortable embrace of satin, because Pascal answers her with a hum, and a hand though her hair once more. “Just for the day. Don’t get used to it, little dove.”

He leaves her there, then, without another word, and closes the door behind him. Alone, Rosalind closes her eyes and drifts in the tumultuous sea of existence.

[gukyi]

[!] fic alert [!]

THE ART OF THE ROM-COM | JJK

↳ COMING SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH AT 10:30PM EST

summary: FILM395, the art of the rom-com, was supposed to be an easy a with one of your favorite professors. it's not. instead, it's a sisyphean torture that comes namely in the form of fellow film student jeon jungkook, who has no problem responding to every one of your discussion posts about the consumerist ideals underlying every romance movie with his own paragraphs on the beauty of love, or whatever. and when the two of you find yourselves partnered up for your final project, which is to create a short film on rom-coms, jungkook, the world’s #1 hopeless romantic, decides to take it upon himself to show you just how attainable love can really be.

{enemies to lovers!au, college!au}

pairing: film major!jungkook x film major!reader (female) genre: fluff, comedy, slight angst, this is literally a rom-com in fic form est. wc: 30k warnings: college alcohol consumption, emotionally constipated characters, film major shenanigans, blonde & tattooed jungkook who’s also in a hip hop dance troupe a/n: as promised, here is my contribution to all of the valentine’s day fics! you guys first got a sneak peek of this fic when i made that poll back in the summer and did all of the BLM drabble commissions, and here we are! hope you guys are as excited for this fic as i am!!

PREVIEW:

“Who would we even get to star in a rom-com we filmed? It’s not like the two of us could do it.”

You regret the words the instant they come out of your mouth. In horror, you watch as they sink into Jungkook’s brain, etching themselves into his mind as a lightbulb turns on, a bright idea popping into his thoughts. 

He opens his mouth, but you get there first. “No. Whatever you’re thinking, absolutely not. I am not starring in a rom-com with you.”

That is something you can say with one-hundred percent confidence. Something that you know will never change. 

“Just hear me out,” Jungkook pleads, looking a little desperate as he wrings his hands together, aching to spill the bubbling plan that’s been stewing in his head. 

You narrow your eyes in suspicion but lean back into your chair, a silent signal for him to continue. It’s not as if you have any better idea.s 

“Okay. It’s not a rom-com. It’s a mockumentary,” he says, something that (and you can’t believe you’re saying this) actually piques your interest. Moreso than anything else he’s ever said to you. “You think love is totally manufactured, right? That Hollywood creates the illusion of it to sell to people paying twenty dollars for a movie ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do that. Let’s prove it’s manufactured.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” It’s not like you can walk into a factory and ask them to make the “love” emotion for you. 

“We’ll be the stars.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it’s your best idea by a long shot, the home run of all home runs, your golden ticket to an A.

You scrunch up your nose, hesitant. “Wait, I don’t know—”

“It’s perfect!” Jungkook exclaims, eyes wide with excitement. “Think about it. It’ll be a mockumentary of a stereotypical rom-com. Except it won’t be this big Hollywood production, it’ll be real life. And it won’t be between two paid actors with years of experience under their belt, it’ll be us.” His eyes are practically bulging out of his head, big brown eyes glinting with excitement.

“So what are we gonna do? Act out our own rom-com in an attempt to see if either one of us will fall in love with the other?” You say, an eyebrow raised. 

Jungkook shakes his head. “Not necessarily. It’s a mockumentary, right? So it’s grounded in real life even if it is based upon the stereotypical boy-meets-girl rom-com. It won’t be super scripted or anything. Think of it more like… a chronicle.”

You scoff. “Of what?”

“Of us,” Jungkook says easily. “Of the time we have to spend together to film this damn project anyway. I say that rom-coms are emblematic of the natural human desire for love, and that deep down love is the thing that makes us happy. You say that rom-coms are consumerist propaganda, or whatever it is you think they are—”

“They are, and you can’t change my mind about that,” you interrupt, just for clarity. Can’t have Jungkook thinking he’s going to somehow convince you otherwise.

“—so, with this project, let’s see which one of us is right. If the time we have to spend together, making this mockumentary rom-com, will really change how we feel about each other, or if it won’t.”

How you feel about each other? You almost laugh when Jungkook says it out loud. There’s no room for questioning in your mind when it comes to how you two feel about each other. Two desperate-to-please students with opposite views on the entire structure of a class and three years of experience arguing your points in essays under your belts. 

Jungkook believes in destiny, right? Then he must know that the two of you are destined to never get along.

“You should be a car salesman,” you joke. Jungkook’s certainly excellent at pitches. 

“So, you in?”

You narrow your eyes, still a little wary of whatever it is Jungkook’s putting down. But it’s not like you have anything better. And the sooner you agree on something, the sooner you can get this goddamn project over with and never have to sit in class with Jeon Jungkook ever again. 

“Only because this’ll finally prove to you that not everything can be solved by finding love,” you say. It’s about as good of a ‘yes’ as he’s going to get out of you. 

Jungkook grins, mischievous as always. There’s certainly something else he’s plotting, you just aren’t sure what. Maybe he’s in cahoots with Pollack. You wouldn’t put it past her. “Or,” he begins, lips curling upwards, “you’ll just fall in love with me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He holds out his hand, palm facing up as he waits for your response, that devilish glint that you hate twinkling in his eyes. 

As if you’re going to fall in love with Jungkook. For this stupid project? No way. Just because it’s a filmmaking project doesn’t make it any more bearable than your other assignments. It’s a partner project. They are, by their very nature, excruciating. You’ll be surprised if you end this project and you aren’t even more irritated with Jungkook. Does he really think you’ll actually develop some sort of affection for him?

You take his hand on your own, palm pressed against his, and you eye him carefully. Just because Jungkook’s got something up his sleeve doesn’t mean you don’t. Finally, finally, Jungkook will see why love is stupid and manufactured and fake. Why it doesn’t bring people together but instead tears them apart. 

Maybe then he’ll leave you and your discussion posts in peace.

You smile up at him. 

“I guess we will.”

[rainsongmp3]

it’s a cold and it’s a broken

Dean screws up. Cas reacts. This is the aftermath. here on ao3

The call ends. Dean feels hollow. He sits in silence until the tear tracks dry on his face. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears and the crushing quiet of the house. He knew. He knew. He knew this would happen. He would fuck up and Cas would leave. But this is what does them in? Drugs and a lie? No. That’s not it. The drugs and the lies are symptoms, not the problem. Dean is the problem. God, he knew. He’s too broken and messy and fucked up for Cas and he knew. 

Dean can’t stay here. He can’t stay in his quiet and his misery. Suddenly, it’s all too much. Jo is upstairs. Yes, Jo is upstairs. That’s good. Jo is here. He can talk to Jo. He goes upstairs and opens the door to the bedroom they’re sharing. Jo is asleep. Of course, Jo is asleep. Dean realizes that he can’t wake her up. He can’t wake her up and talk about his bullshit feelings and his bullshit heartbreak. He can’t wake her up and be a burden. Dean goes back downstairs.

Dean looks at Ellen asleep on the couch. She must’ve fallen asleep watching TV. Bobby is upstairs in their bed. Dean is struck with the thought that she has someone waiting for her. So does Jo. Everyone has someone waiting for them. Except for Dean. It’s too much. It’s all too much. Cas is gone and it’s too much. It’s all too much like a gunshot to the heart. Dean’s fingers close around a bottle of tequila in the liquor cabinet before he notices that’s where he was going. This is good. Tequila is good for being drunk. Tequila is good for turning it off. It’s all too much and Dean needs to turn it off. 

Dean unscrews the cap, squeezes his eyes shut, brings the bottle to his lips, and drinks. And drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more. The tequila burns its way down his throat. Good. Good that it burns. Dean drinks again. 

All at once, the house is stifling; stiflingly quiet, stiflingly small, stifling. 

Strange how a house with its high ceilings and large windows can become a prison cell. A house that was once a comfort, filled with friends and family, good memories, and calming ocean air now feels akin to a metal box. Confining. Dark. Air-tight. 

Dean runs.

He runs out the door. The bottle of tequila securely in his fist. No shoes, no jacket, no thought. He just goes.

Outside in the night air, everything seems just a little less. It’s less heartbreaking, less gut-wrenching, less impossible out here. Dean breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Dean breathes maybe for the first time since Cas ended the call. 

The gravel driveway bites at Dean’s feet. The tequila bites at his throat. Cas bites at his heart. It’s okay. Dean deserves to be bitten. 

Waves crash, beating against the sea wall. They crash against the rock. White foam against unforgiving gray. Somehow, the foam wins. It smooths out the rocks’ sharp edges. How can something so soft cut down granite? 

It doesn’t stop. The heartbreak doesn’t stop in the night air. Dean walks down the road. He turns at the space in between houses where man meets the sea. His steps are shakier now. With alcohol burning through his bloodstream, every nerve is numbed. His body doesn’t respond the same to his brain. It’s quieter that way even if Dean’s steps are louder. He climbs the sea wall using the grooves and spaces in the stones like rungs on a ladder. It’s awkward. He’s drunk and clumsy and one of his hands is occupied. He misses steps. He slips a couple of inches down the flat surface. His foot falls out of its hold. He can’t quite get the angle to pull himself up with the alcohol in hand. It’s almost pathetic, but he makes it to the top. Fifteen feet above ground seems a lot higher to a dizzy Dean. Nearly losing his balance in the process, he sits down. 

The moon stares at him accusingly from above. Its choppy reflection in the ocean below blames him. I’m sorry, he almost wants to say. What good would it do to apologize to the moon? It’s Cas he needs to apologize to. Apologize until Cas will love him again. Scream I’m sorry until he’s blue in the face and falls to his knees at Cas’s feet. Weep there, on his knees, until Cas understands. Beg and sob and grovel until Cas takes him back. Because at the end of all of this, Dean is nothing without Cas. Dean is nothing. Cas is everything. Cas is everything good. Cas is everything light. Cas is everything happy. Cas is everything safe. Cas is everything that makes life worth living. Oh, how Dean loves him. Dean loves him so fiercely it hurts. He remembers those moments, those gentle moments, lying in bed together smiling softly and how in those moments his heart cracks open. It spills light into the lingering shadows of Cas’s room. It leeches love into the very atoms of the earth. Cas leeches him. Bloodletting in the most enticing way. How could Dean not bleed when Cas’s deep stare pulls at his soul and his smile soothes cracks? How can something so soft cut down granite? Dean sighs, pulling oxygen back into his bones, and lets it go again. He doesn’t deserve Cas. He never did. This is far from the first time he’s screwed up. He’s not built for this kind of thing— a loving, committed relationship. No wonder Cas gave up on him. Dean tries. He tries. It’s not enough. How could he ever be enough for Cas? He wasn’t enough for his dad. He wasn’t even enough for his own father. He’s never enough to make someone stay. His mom: dead. His dad: absent. His brother: preoccupied. Bobby: distracted. Ellen: disappointed. His old friends: left. All he really has is Jo now. Everybody leaves, huh?

Oh.

Everybody leaves.

Everybody leaves. He really thought Cas was going to disprove that. The exception. His stupid, dumbass exception. His exception with too-blue eyes. His exception with a gummy smile. His exception that knows too much about astrophysics to be a normal guy. (Not that he wants a normal guy. He wants Cas.) His exception who’s overly enthusiastic about bees. His exception that’s grumpy in the mornings. (Cas is garbage before 11 AM and without two cups of coffee.) His exception that indulges Dean’s stupid whims. His exception. His perfect, unfathomable exception. As it turns out, Dean was wrong. Cas is not his exception. Cas is Dean’s most grievous mistake. Not a mistake for having loved him. (No, never that. Never that.) His mistake for pushing him to this. The sight of Cas’s tear-stained face twisted in heartbreak and Sisyphean hope is an image Dean can never unburn from his memory. That would be his own rock to endlessly push up a hill. Cas’s was trying to love Dean. What did Cas do in a previous life to deserve that kind of endless torture?

Dean wishes he could sit Cas down in a coffee shop or maybe on a park bench and just explain. He’d tried, but mostly he just pleaded. Not with words. Or maybe not the right ones. Cas don’t do this isn’t the same as Cas please don’t go Cas please stay Cas please don’t leave me. Dean could explain. He could explain it all. He could tell Cas how he’s so beyond damaged. His dad might love him but it’s so buried underneath alcoholism and orders and grief that it never quite penetrates his skin. His father’s love isn’t even skin deep. It never made its way into Dean’s bloodstream. No matter how hard he tries, Dean can’t quite imagine his father telling him he’s proud of him. Not in the way fathers are supposed to. Everything always has to come second to Sam. ever since the fire, ever since take care of your brother, Dean, Sam has been his wampeter. His whole purpose. His God-given central theme. That’s so much weight to a four-year-old. A preschooler can’t do the job of Atlas. Dean can sometimes hardly stand the weight of it on his shoulders now. There is so much anger in him. It’s coiled tight: a viper ready to strike or a match a second from igniting. There is poison in Dean’s punch. It’s only a matter of time before Dean’s fist is aimed at Cas. Dean was raised with exchanging blows. What is love if not a deep, lingering bruise? It’s the kind that aches for days but you can’t help but prod at. The last thing Dean wants to do is hurt Cas. He never wants to lash out with his hands. It’s all he knows. What if he can’t keep the bubbling, boiling, lava-hot rage at bay? Dean’s lost so much, so many people. It used to keep him awake at night: the gnawing anxiety that he would lose Cas too. The fear of Cas burning sat so heavy in Dean’s bone marrow. The fear of aiming his own blaze at Cas turned every cell in his body to ice. Ice-nine. One touch and everything in him is killing blue-white frost. In those moments, Dean is scared to even lay a finger on Cas lest the blue-white frost gets him too. Dean is made of loss and violence and white-knuckling. The fear of exposing that side of him to Cas… that used to bring bile into his throat. So, Dean kept Cas at arm’s length. Even while they were chest to chest, Dean kept him at arm’s length. Keep Cas at a distance and save him from the snapping jaws waiting to tear at his flesh. Lie about the drinking. Lie about the drugs. Lie about the self-destructive timebomb. Lie about it to keep Cas safe. 

But now. Everything is different. Dean would pour out everything in him to Cas. Take his heart and tip; let his artery drip every nasty thought into a cup and give Cas the option to drink. He would do anything, give anything to just be able to hold Cas in his arms again. He would swim oceans and bottle clouds to kiss Cas again. He would scorch the Earth to just have Cas look at him with love again. 

Dean glances at the bottle still bound to his palm. More than halfway gone. Not a good way to get Cas back. Dean stares at the crashing waves. He watches them hit the stone and the sand. He watches the water caress the earth. 

Dean stands on wobbly legs. Drunk legs are sea legs. He lets his drunk legs take him to the sea. Getting down the wall is less awkward than getting up it. All he has to do is sit and let gravity do the work. He controls the semi-slide down. Sealegs meet the sand. It’s damp. Dean wiggles his toes into it. He makes his way into the water. It’s cold, but not an unforgiving cold. It’s the placating cold of a snow day. He sloshes through the surf. His foot slips on a hidden rock and the world tilts even more as he goes down. His arms go out in front of him to break his fall on instinct. The bottle of tequila hits another obscured rock. It shatters. Dean raised the broken bottle by the neck. The bottom half is gone. It’s almost comical. He holds it the same as he did before but he’s only got a piece now. The ocean took the remaining tequila. He chucks the rest of the bottle as hard as he can to the rocks far to his left. Maybe he’ll make some sea glass. 

Dean wades further into the water. The tide pulls at his hips. He lets it sway him. Everything feels cleaner in the ocean. Saltwater is good for open wounds. The ocean disinfects him. The waves pull the poison out of his blood. He is cleaner now.

Seven days later, Cas calls. 

[willsimpforazula]

Sokkla Month Day 1: First Encounter

Earth King's Palace

Upper Ring

Ba Sing Se

If Sokka had to talk with another of Kuei's ministers one more time, he would not hesitate to kneecap said minister, diplomatic niceties be damned. Despite his status as a naval attache from the Southern Water Tribe and the son of the chief, the willfully ignorant (at least to him) officials could not look past the fact that he was from the 'basement of the world' as they put it and asked inane questions such as How cold does it get?Do you still live in igloos? Do you drink seal milk? Do you get vegetables down there?.

At least there was a free flow of drinks, he thought to himself. Granted, the Earth Kingdom's naval forces had not been it's strong suit, with the bulk of the budget going to the army and the national guard. Still, there were enough rivers and large bodies of water surrounding the kingdom that there had been some budget allocated to the navy, as small as it was. Thus, he was brought on as an advisor on how to work with the 'meager' resources they had in patrolling the multiple riverine approaches as well as their coastline, the reasoning being that given the Southern Water Tribe's distance from just about everyone plus their extensive coastlines, they surely would have the know how and experience in operating under such hostile conditions.

In addition, the crumbling reach of the Earth King had forced him to bring in outsiders from the various nations as advisors to perform the thankless task of foreign internal defence, as regional upstarts and rogue actors meant bad news as trade and commerce were threatened by such actors. Thus, while the Southern Water Tribe focused on their naval components, their Northern brethren dealt in High and Sub-Arctic operations whilst the Sisyphean Task of whipping the garrison of Ba Sing Se and its immediate surroundings fell to the United Republics and the Fire Nation. Through his contacts, he heard whispers of the national guard and special forces advisor, who was strangely a woman with a military pedigree that would put even the most battle-hardened veteran to shame. That she was of the same age made her all the more intriguing to him, not to mention her status as a royal. In fact, her insistence on being out in the field with the very men whom she was advising and training made her even more of an oddball even among the advisor community, who would very much like their air-conditioning and being waited on hand and foot.

Though he yearned for a chance to see who this mystery woman might be, he didn't realise said woman was just standing beside him.

"You know, sometimes I wonder what the hell we're doing trying to shore up this buffoon's power when all he cares is throwing parties and feeding his pet bear."

Not realising who it was, he replied "You're damn right.", knocking back the glass of sake in his hands. Turning to face his partner, he found a petite woman in heels, a red and gold dress with high slits up her thighs and an open back that revealed twin dragons of red and blue on each shoulder blade. Of course, he was but a red-blooded male and thus, his gaze was drawn to the teasing neckline that revealed as much as it covered.

"Ahem." she coughed. "My face is up here, not here. Surely they taught you basic manners in the tribe, no?"

Embarrassed, he turned his gaze up to find a pair of lively golden eyes framed by twin bangs staring back at him in mild annoyance.

"Sorry." he muttered weakly.

"I blame the retards at the embassy who made me wear this. Do you know how many creeps at this Agni-blasted gathering tried to get frisky with me?"

"I suppose you feel more at home in fatigues and a pair of combat boots out on patrol."

"And I suppose you'd rather be hunting down privateers in your corvette than endure some middling small talk with some old geezer who only got the job because his great-granddaddy was some high ranking swinging dick."

"A kindred spirit I see. Pleased to meet you. I don't believe we've met before."

"You don't say. Judging from your accent, you're from the Southern Water Tribe. Which means you're the naval advisor. You are Sokka, son of High Chieftain Hakoda, amirite?"

"Seems you know everything about me, but I know nothing of you. That's hardly fair."

"Boo hoo, cry me a river."

"You know, they say the special forces and national guard advisor is a woman who can beat the shit out a platoon single handedly and has a military pedigree that'll give any general a run for their money."

"Really now?" the woman replied, feigning surprise. "Tell me, what else do you know?" she asked, before sipping on her champagne.

"Rumour has it she's also a princess and a beautiful one at that."

"So it seems."

"Indeed."

"What if I told you said princess was at this very ball right now?"

"Last I heard, she wasn't due to be back from the field for another month."

"Well then, your source is very much mistaken." she tutted.

"Wait a minute…..you're Princess Azula aren't you?"

"Perhaps…." she teased.

Bowing low, he took her hand and feathered a kiss on it, before responding "It is my pleasure to finally meet you, Princess."

"Seems you do have a brain up there. I wonder what other surprises you can conjure up."

"Is it an invitation to what I think it is?"

"Ever so quick to jump headfirst into the gutter. Truly, you are a sailor through and through."

"That's not a no I'm hearing. Besides, think of it as strengthening ties between nations."

"I shall consider this proposition of yours." Grabbing a nearby pen, she wrote down an address on a napkin and handed it to him. "Come find me tomorrow evening and we can discuss this 'proposition' of yours. Do be punctual, I do not entertain tardiness." she replied, before bidding him a good night, her long ponytail swishing seductively like a siren as the scent of her lingered in the air like a phantom, cherries and wildflowers. Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore her hips were swaying just a touch more as she disappeared into the crowd.

Carefully tucking the napkin in his breast pocket, Sokka knew deep down that this first encounter would definitely be the start of many more to come.

[moonflowerlesbians]

I took a quick break from prompts to write 5000 words of pure angst. I hope you’ll forgive me. 

“we let precious time go by”

Read on AO3.

Summary: “The day will come when she returns to an empty flat, or she’ll wake to a cold pillow beside her. If she’s lucky, she’ll be there when the beast pounces. She’ll get to say goodbye. 

A piece of her will die that day, she knows. 

Dani will die that day.”

Word Count: 5088

They live together thirteen years after Bly. Thirteen wonderful years in a little flat in a small town in Vermont that looks like the spirit of Christmas itself retched on every building in the wintertime. They sell poinsettias and wreaths of holly for the holidays and budding perennials in the warmer months. They find the cheapest grocer, the best plumber, the man who drives into town selling fresh eggs on Wednesdays.

They befriend an elderly woman with three toy poodles, who stops by The Leafling every Sunday morning before mass to purchase flowers for her late husband’s grave, and they try not to think of Hannah. The daycare center three doors down marches the children to the park twice a day, right past the shop, and they try not to think of Rebecca and the Wingraves. They learn the quickest route to their favorite take-away place by heart, and they try not to think of Owen.

It’s hard, though, when your world’s been shattered and everyone else is carrying on as if nothing’s happened. But, thirteen years go by, and they manage. They manage, even as Dani becomes a bit less like herself every day, and Jamie struggles to pretend everything is fine. She pretends not to notice when she finds a sock in the freezer or Dani’s toothbrush between the couch cushions. Pretends not to notice when the lines on Dani’s face grow deeper, etched into her fair skin like stone, and she pretends not to notice when Dani wakes in the dead of night to gaze out the window for hours on end, then returns to bed as if she never left.

She’d brought it up with Dani over dinner. She had grasped Dani’s hand ever so gently, running a soothing thumb over the knuckles. Dani looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Maybe she hadn’t. A tear tracked down her cheek and dropped onto her lap.

“Please, love, please let me help,” Jamie had begged, and she had never meant anything more in her life, save the night she had accepted Dani’s ring.

Dani had observed her sadly, centuries of knowledge weighing heavy behind her eyes. “You can’t.”

“Please, Dani.” She hadn’t meant to break down, she hadn’t. She had meant to be strong, a steadfast rock in a stormy sea.

“Jamie…” Dani’s voice had been soft, resigned. “It’s her.” She looked down at her clasped hands, as if unwilling to bear witness the damage sure to show on Jamie’s face.

This was meant to be dinner, a question about a frozen sock, an easy explanation. Just a little swamped with the shop’s finances. A natural remedy she had read about in a magazine. Not this. Anything but this.

Jamie had known the day might come, when the memories they’d repressed would reappear to haunt them like Peter fucking Quint. She had hoped with every fibre of herself that the ghastly woman from that terrible night at the lake would slumber for decades yet.

Christ, how long had the Lady been awake? How long had Dani kept this from her?

Dani had seemed to sense her question. She’d become too good at that as of late.

“Only a few months.”

A few months.

Jamie’s lips had tightened into a thin line, and she forced herself to swallow back a sob, eyes closed.  

“Dani, why-?”

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why now?

Why this?

Why them?

“You don’t deserve this,” Dani had said, and Jamie’s heart shattered. “It’s my burden, not yours--”

“No. No, no--”

“--I can’t ask you to take this on. I invited her in; I condemned myself, not you.”

“Stop, Dani, stop.”

“Jamie, please…” Dani had sounded so small, so broken. “You have to go.”

“No,” Jamie had refused outright. “Never.”

“Then me. I’ll leave.”

“No one is going bloody anywhere.” Jamie had been steely calm, even as her ribcage threatened to break with the effort. “You and I are staying right fucking here. You hear me, Dani? Right here.” She hadn’t been able to hide the crack on the final syllable. Her ring caught the warm glow of the kitchen light.

Jamie took a steadying breath. “When you came home with that wee plant, you know what I thought? I thought, ‘ah, shite, she’s gone and found another lost cause.’” Here, Jamie had given a small smile. “‘And I bloody love her for it.’”

Dani wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Haven’t got a clue how you always see the possibility in everything. No one’s too far gone to save with you around, Poppins. It’s exhausting, really,” Jamie had continued. “I took your ring, and I’ve never regretted it. Not once, yeah? Not once. I knew what I signed up for: lovin’ you, relentless optimism an’ all.” Her laugh had been watery. “So, we’re not goin’ anywhere. It’s us, yeah? Always has been, always will be.”

So Dani had stayed. And Jamie redoubled her efforts to support her.

She runs the errands on the evenings where the dark feels all too familiar and returns to Dani huddled beneath a fleece blanket. She wraps Dani in her arms and soothes the nightmares away with feather-light kisses. She’s there in every way she can be, never pressing, never rushing, and never letting Dani see just how utterly terrified she is.

To tell Dani would be to ruin the careful dynamic they’ve reached. Dani is scattered, rain moving with the wind; Jamie has to be grounded, a stake dug deep into the earth. But the slopes grow muddier the longer the rain pours, and dirt washes away, gone like a rushing stream. Jamie knows she can’t keep this up forever. She’s already lost so much, and her most important person is fading fast, swept up in the rising current.

She loves Dani to the stars and back. Which is why Jamie must bear this load alone. Dani is already carrying the sky on her shoulders, and Jamie cannot burden her with this.

Call her stupid, call her noble. She calls it mercy.

She knows she’s pulling the same shit Dani did not telling her that Her Royal Lakeness was stirring. She knows, and she resents herself for it. She also knows that Dani would look at her with such guilt for causing Jamie strife. Dani would try to mask her hurt to spare her wife, and Jamie’s gut wrenches at the thought. Her brow would crinkle, lips pursed, and Jamie would yearn to kiss the stress from her face.

Jamie is rewarded for her silence. Dani is getting better about vocalizing her nightmares, telling Jamie when the Lady makes an appearance as she slumbers. They embrace beneath the covers and speak between labored breaths, where Dani finally caves and Jamie does her best to hide the way she’s become afraid of the dark. She murmurs reassurances and tells herself they’re for Dani, pressing kisses into her forehead.

Dani sleeps tucked into Jamie’s side as though it’s enough to ward off the ghosts, a formidable wall against things that go bump in the night. She sleeps, and Jamie lies awake. Her defense is slipping. She can’t keep them both afloat.

She can try. She can hold out as long as Dani will have her. She will. She doesn’t know anything else. Jamie swears, she swears on her plants, she swears on her life, she swears to anyone who will listen that she will be there for Dani, even if she can’t be there for herself.

The weeks pass and more socks freeze, more toothbrushes go missing, and Dani drifts. Some days are better than others. Some days, Jamie’s Sisyphean task is easy, and Dani meets her at the top of the mountain with a flirty smile and sunshine on her greedy tongue, with hands that grab at Jamie’s belt and tug her shirt up and over her head. On those days, they feel like themselves.

But, on other days, days when the whole world is overcast and the tide is rising, they shutter the shop and lock the doors to their second-floor flat. They wear matching pajamas, while the television set plays classic cinema. Jamie makes tea; Dani still hasn’t mastered it in a decade, and Jamie doubts she ever will. Their legs tangle in a heap, ankles sliding along calves.

Jamie comes to rest her head on Dani’s sternum, allowing the beat of her heart to remind her that they’re here. Dani is here, breathing steadily and weaving their fingers together like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like they aren’t living borrowed years. Like Jamie’s mantra of one day at a time doesn’t feel like a splintered crutch beneath her arm, supporting the weight of an impossible situation.

Every day feels like the last, and Jamie hates it. She hates the feeling of inevitability that lurks just out of sight. The beast in the jungle, Dani had said. It prowls between streetlamps and seeks refuge in their walls, skittering away when Jamie shines a torch, only to return the instant she turns her back. The creature is waiting for something Jamie can never see, and it terrifies her. She cannot prevent what she cannot see. All she can do is wait, hopeless, at the mercy of a fucking ghost.

The day will come when she returns to an empty flat, or she’ll wake to a cold pillow beside her. If she’s lucky, she’ll be there when the beast pounces. She’ll get to say goodbye.

A piece of her will die that day, she knows.

Dani will die that day.

And, god, she feels so bloody selfish for thinking of her own fucking self-preservation when the woman she loves might one day disappear from the world, but, Christ, how can she be expected to go on like this? Just waiting for the days to pass until she’s alone again. Again.

She’s lost more people than she can count. Some to time, some to death, some to drink, some to the shelter of a warm embrace Jamie could not provide. Each loss is different, yet each brings about a sting that is painfully familiar. An old bedfellow she’s forced to accommodate. It settles in her bones, nestling into the hollow spaces between her ribs, cold and unwelcome. Once it latches on, it never truly leaves.

The ache is ever-present, a plate of steel, layering and building into a grim suit of armor that clashes and clanks and frightens people away with its noise, and, after a while, she forgets. Forgets what it’s like to be free of those reminders that she wasn’t good enough for people to stay. Wasn’t good enough for her parents, nor her foster parents. Wasn’t good enough for classmates and teachers who deemed her a waste of effort. Wasn’t good enough for women who hid themselves from the world or from their own judgment. Hell, she wasn’t even good enough for the prison system, released early on account of behavior.

She forgets how to breathe without each inhale taking the strength of someone who’s had a scarlet letter branded across her chest her whole life. Forgets how it feels to extend a hand in invitation without her own fear dragging her down, the fear that results from rejected companionship and harsh words. She forgets what it’s like to touch and be touched and to lay yourself bare before another, trusting that you are safe and wanted.

Dani had taken her proffered hand and held it to tender lips. She had glacially pried away nearly three decades of fine steel with the care of a dutiful lover, uncovering the origin of each piece as she went. She had never once flinched away, only nodded with sweet understanding and kissed Jamie a little more fervently that night.

Then, one day, Jamie had found herself the lightest she’d ever been, open and vulnerable beneath Dani’s affectionate gaze. She had breathed, and it had felt like a sigh. The old ache was not gone; it could never truly be banished. But the act of sharing her very soul, and receiving Dani’s in return, had turned bruises into mere memories and fear into excitement.

Her armor had sat, gathering dust in a corner of their life, no longer needed. She had been content to let Dani, or, rather, the security of their relationship, be her protection.

Now, though, with the ground they walk upon growing perilous, Jamie is defenseless. Her own beast hungers, prepared to strike with familiar claws, and Jamie loathes that she is reaching for her old guard. Loathes that she even considers distancing herself. That Dani cannot escape the cruelty of a fate brought on by selflessness, and Jamie is pondering how life will go on without her.

It feels so bloody selfish that it makes Jamie sick to her stomach. It’s only human to fret about the future, but this feels like an especially abominable twist of the knife. And Dani can never know. No, never. Jamie will be strong for her. She needs to be unwavering in her dedication to their love.

She manages, though it feels like standing in the middle of the road, watching a lorry drive toward her at a hundred kilometers an hour and choosing not to move out of the way. Rather, she plants her feet firmly on the asphalt and stares down what will surely splinter every bone in her body if it doesn’t kill her.

For Dani, she tells herself.

Dani, who startles at unseen reflections in their dishes and damn near scares the living daylights out of Jamie. There’s a haunted look in her eye, and, suddenly, Jamie can hear their countdown clock ticking away the seconds without Dani having to say a word. Her chest is heaving as Jamie steps in front of her, inspecting her for signs of physical harm, and blocking the faucet from her line of sight. Dani can’t meet her eye, craning her neck to see the sink.

Her voice is hoarse, ragged. “I saw her.”

No. No, no, no, no. Dreams are one thing. Dreams, Jamie can handle. Bad dreams can be banished with soothing caresses and warm tea, but this? They are both very much awake.

Breathe.

“What did you see?” Jamie seeks confirmation to calm her racing pulse.

Dani’s lip trembles, and she clutches frantically at the countertop. “Her.” It’s little more than a whisper, but the meaning is unmistakable. Dani continues, with painstaking deliberacy. “I keep seeing her.”

Christ. Keep seeing her? The sheer terror in Dani’s tone implies this isn’t the first time the ghost has appeared to her. But it is the first Jamie is hearing of it. No, not this again. Not Dani keeping from her the details of the most horrific secret of their lives.

She can’t stop to process this now. Dani is shaking, and Dani is frightened, and Dani needs her here, in this moment, not dwelling on what this means for the course of their lives.

Jamie turns the tap off and pulls the drain. “We’re gonna be okay. You can’t think the worst.” The words sound hollow, even to her own ears, but she tries, god, does she try to mean them with everything she has.

“Jamie…” Dani’s tone is warning.

Don’t lie to me.

I have to, love, Jamie thinks, I have to, or we’ll both give up, and I’m not ready.

“We could have so many more years together.”

Could.

It’s not technically a lie. ‘Could’ leaves room for uncertainty, the unpredictability of an entity so far beyond the scope of their control that they’d be institutionalized for suggesting such a thing exists. ‘Could’ allows them to pretend they aren’t trapped on a preordained path, walking side by side into inevitable grief. ‘Could’ is hope.

“It’s okay,” Jamie hears herself repeating. Distract. “I’ll do the washing up from now on, yeah? You’re shit at it, anyway.”

It earns her a weak chuckle from Dani, and it’s enough. Jamie holds her close, speaking soft comforts, though her stomach roils and knots. Dani trembles in her arms, and Jamie curls a soothing hand to the back of her head.

It’s going to be okay.

It isn’t.

It isn’t, and, deep down, Jamie knows it isn’t, but she holds onto the falsehood like it’s the only thing keeping her from drowning. She has to believe that there’s hope, that there is a chance for a future for them, because if she doesn’t, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. Her mind screams to prepare for the inevitable worst, but a part of her, that bright, sunshiney part, where she holds her fondest thoughts, tells her to pretend just a while longer.

She does. She does, because she loves Dani too much not to. They’ve been through far too much together for Jamie to withdraw now, when Dani needs her most.

She cannot control who lives and who dies. She said as much to Dani, years ago, in the forest behind the manor. Knowing that everything must come to an end dictates life’s joys. Temporality is the driving force of sanctity. The moments we hold most dear are the ones that have come to an end. They are forever preserved in amber memory, pressed between book pages, and flowing through veins. You are left warm, free to continue and free to leave more life behind in the hollows of lingering remorse.  

‘Live in the moment,’ say thousands of song lyrics. If only it were that simple. If only Jamie could simply ignore the consequences and allow herself to just exist with Dani in the life they’ve created. She can’t, though, and it is agonizing.

Instead, she dons the facade of a woman who believes that there is still good in the world, chances for miracles, despite countless experiences to the contrary. In private, she grieves a life she hasn’t yet lost.

Dani sees her shoulders shake only once, the day Jamie returns to a flooded flat and eerie silence and Dani with her face mere centimetres above the water in their overfilled bathtub. The tips of her hair are submerged, and her breath sends ripples across the surface. It’s unclear how long she’s been hunched over the side of the tub, but judging by the pool around her, quite a while. Jamie turns off the tap and draws Dani back onto her heels. Dani lets out a panicked gasp, and her eyes dart around the room before they finally flick to Jamie and back to the water.

“Do you see her?” Dani rasps, returning to her position bent over the rim.

Jamie peers into the tub, too, unsure of what she might find. She does not know whether to be elated or dismayed when only Dani’s heterochromatic reflection stares back at her.

“I only see you,” Jamie says, and it seems to pull Dani from wherever she’s been. The sleeves of her bathrobe are soaked, and she notices the puddle around her knees. She stammers an apology, but Jamie could not care less. Dani sags against Jamie’s firm grip on her upper arm.

Her voice comes subdued, as if each syllable takes monumental effort. “I’m so tired, Jamie.”

Jamie understands. She feels it, too, the toll this has taken on the both of them. The constant glances over her shoulder, always on alert for any sign of danger, living their lives like prey. She cannot hope to equate her exhaustion with Dani’s, but she understands all the same.

Dani continues, using such frightful terms as “fade away,” and it’s all Jamie can do to swallow the lump in her throat and the tightness in her chest. Dani sounds so timid, so lost, and she’s looking to Jamie for answers she hasn’t the faintest notion how to find and the soil is eroding and the current is quickening and it all becomes too much.

“You’re still here,” she says, like that will make everything alright. The wet tile seeps into her trousers, cold and clammy.

“It’s like I see you right in front of me,” Dani says softly, “and I feel you touching me. And, every day, we’re living our lives, and I’m aware of that, and it’s like I don’t feel it all the way.” She readjusts to study the water again. “I’m not even scared of her anymore. I just stare at her, and,” Dani takes a shuddering breath, “it’s getting harder and harder to see me.”

Jamie’s already strained resolve is rent in two. All of the air is sucked out of her lungs at once, and her heart constricts. She cannot help the well of tears that rises behind her eyes and threatens to spill over. She needs to be resilient, needs to set her emotions aside. For Dani.

But Dani is nodding. She’s nodding and crying and saying things like, “Maybe I should just accept that and go.” It’s excruciatingly similar to the conversation they’d had at the dinner table, all those many months ago.

And Jamie breaks. “No. No, no, no.” Her thumb rubs circles into Dani’s wrist. “Not yet.”

You can’t leave me. I’m not ready.

“Jamie…” Dani says in that same, horrid, broken tone, and suddenly, Jamie knows. Their hourglass contains mere grains. They are nearing the end, and it hurts, and the pain is so much worse than she could have ever anticipated.

Dani has all but given up, and Jamie is fucking furious.

Not with Dani. Never with Dani.

Rather, Jamie has a bone to pick with the universe and its sense of righteousness. There’s no such thing as fairness in the world, as has been proven to her time and time again. But this? This is shit, and it’s not fucking fair. Just this once, she’d like to strike a bargain. Allow her to be selfish, just this once. Allow her to remain at Dani’s side until they grow old and grey and their eyes fail and their joints creak. Allow her this one thing, and she will never ask for anything again.

The universe, in all its cruelty, remains silent, and Jamie resents it even more. She resents the set of circumstances that led them to this point, Dani tearful on the bathroom floor. She resents the world that made the woman she loves hurt in unfathomable ways. She resents that the most marvelous woman Jamie has ever met has been reduced to a shell of herself, harboring an invisible intruder.

She resents that all she has to offer is herself, when Dani deserves so much more. It’s all Jamie has, though, and maybe, this time, it will be enough.

“If you can’t feel anything,” she says, voice wavering, “then I’ll feel everything for the both of us.” Dani opens her mouth with quivering lips to speak and is cut off. “But no one is going anywhere. Okay? You’re still here.” A tear escapes, tracing a trail down her cheek.

“What if,” Dani whispers, more afraid than Jamie has ever seen her, “I’m here, sitting next to you. But I’m just really her?”

Jamie chokes down a sob. She exhales. “One day at a time.”

They clean up the water and blow out the candles and eat a quiet meal of pasta and sauce from a jar, holding hands all the while, as if any loss of contact would be to admit defeat. Dani is here, and Jamie is here, and they are together, and when they lay in the dark that night, they do not sleep.

Jamie hovers over Dani, pressing gentle kisses to every bit of skin she can reach. Dani’s eyelids, her knuckles, her wrists. The hollow on the underside of her knee, her clavicle, the sensitive patch just below her ear. Anything to reassure Dani that she can still feel, she is loved, and she is safe. The act is not erotic, nor is it meant to be.

She pours every ounce of passion into every caress, touching Dani as if it was the first time. She endeavors to convey her message, clear as crystal, that Dani is the single most important thing in her life. Their love is all that matters. For this one night, let them forget about ghosts and manors and lost friends and be wholly present in this moment of solemn intimacy.

Jamie commits every kiss to memory, savoring Dani’s smooth skin beneath her lips. The way she sighs and whimpers when Jamie finds a particularly tender spot, the way she relaxes into Jamie’s embrace when they finally settle, a leg thrown haphazardly between Jamie’s thighs, her face pressed just above Jamie’s breast, sending small puffs of air against Jamie’s sleepshirt.

Dani sleeps, and Jamie’s mind wanders to all the words she wishes she could say. She sighs them into the night air, a hand cupping the nape of Dani’s neck.

I love you, she thinks, and I’m going to lose you, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. She inhales the faintly floral scent of Dani’s shampoo. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair that you’re going to go, and I have to go on without you. Think of me, Dani. Think of me and stay because I can’t explain to your mother what’s happened to you. Stay, because I’m not ready for our life to end.

She’s crying, now, and her tears dampen the top of Dani’s head as she tries to remain still.

You’re in pain. I see it, love, and I never, never want you to hurt. You’ve been so damn brave. You’ve fought so hard. For yourself. For us. I will be forever grateful for the time you’ve given me. You are everything I never thought I could have, my love.

Dani stirs against her with a hushed, confused noise. “Jamie? Wha-?”

“Go back to sleep, baby,” Jamie murmurs, her eyes shut tight. Dani nuzzles into her chest, and only when her breathing evens out once more does Jamie release the tension from her limbs.

Rest, sweetheart, you’ve earned it.

Three days go by, and Jamie spends them at Dani’s side. They walk the streets of their little Vermont town, and they greet the old woman with her three toy poodles. They watch the line of children toddle by on their way to the park, shepherded by exasperated adults, and share a smile. They wrap themselves in blankets and bundle on the sofa, Jamie with a book and Dani with a crochet project that Jamie’s been teasing her about finishing. The tea is hot, and the company is good, and Jamie is happy. The rain comes down against their windows, but they are shielded from the deluge, though the soil outside turns to slick mud.

The sun rises on the fourth day, and Jamie blinks awake. The pillow is soft under her head, and she is loath to move. She reaches a tentative hand to Dani’s side of the bed to pull her closer, but she finds the sheets are cold. Jamie’s stomach leaps to her throat. She sits up, peering around their room, listening for any sign that Dani has simply risen early. The clock on the bedside table reads six-thirty-eight in the morning. Beside it, a single sheet of paper folded in half.

Perhaps Dani has run to the coffeehouse to bring back breakfast. Perhaps she has gone for a walk. Perhaps she has done anything except Jamie’s worst fear come to fruition, but what Jamie knows in her soul to be true. She takes a steadying breath as she examines the thing in her hands. With shaking fingers, she unfolds the note.

The script is slanted, a mixture of cursive and print, as if written in a hurry. The ink has smeared in places, where the page appears to have been wet. Dani’s normally neat lettering is scattered.

Jamie,

I can’t risk you.

Not for one more day.

I love you.

Dani

Her heart stops.

The silence is deafening. Her whole world narrows to the thin yellow paper in her hand. Her last piece of the woman she loves.

She knows what has happened. She knows where Dani would go, where Dani has gone, deep in her core. But she has to be certain.

It is her first plane ride without Dani. She spends the six-hour flight clutching the armrest, knuckles white, as she looks straight ahead. The flight attendant has the decency to only appear mildly perplexed by Jamie’s lack of luggage. When she lands, Jamie can only nod at the cabbie’s futile attempts at conversation.

She gazes up at the daunting manor house, its brick overgrown with English ivy. The grounds lay vacant. The path to the lake is unkept, yet she treads it anyway, past the church, past the cemetery, slowing as the water comes into sight.

How badly she wants to be wrong. How badly she wants to return home and find Dani worried out of her beautiful mind.

The water is unseasonably warm, but that does not stop the chill that permeates Jamie’s bones. She swims out as far as she can bear before holding her breath and plunging below the surface. It’s nigh torturous to keep her eyes open, but she needs to see. She needs to be sure.

Everything is blurry through the liquid lens, fuzzy around the edges. Something stands out from the landscape of green and blue. A spot of porcelain and red against a backdrop of emerald.

No.

Jamie shakes her head.

No, please, no.

But it is.

And she screams. She screams out thirteen years of rage and sadness and grief and frustration and love. The sound is muted, but she does not care. Dani is gone, and she is alone and it burns and stings like nothing Jamie has ever felt.

Everything Jamie could give, she gave. It wasn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough. Nothing will bring Dani back.

She rises to the surface with a cry, paddling to the muddy shoreline and crawling up the bank to collapse in the shallows. Her ring rests heavy on her left hand. A reminder of promises made. Eternity.

Together. They were supposed to stay together.

It’s us. Always has been, always will be. That’s what we said, Poppins.

She gasps, taking in great lungfuls of air that Dani will never breathe again. Her hair hangs limply, plastered to the sides of her face. She shivers, but she cannot move.

She sits in the shallows of the lake at Bly Manor, and she weeps.

Dani is dead.

And Jamie is alone.

[thatsadorbsyo]

Lucas - Part (14)

(cw: mentions of character death (PC and NPC) and graphic depictions of violence. emetophobia warning for depictions of nausea. depictions of dissociation. this post also references the events of Borne Upon Our Hands, one of the five finale quests for the #FFXIVHeartless campaign, and it contains spoilers for the quest log.)

*

The road to recovery has to start with small things, or else I’d never be able to swallow them. I take the Thanalan sun like a pill, and I only look behind me at the Voyage once, just the once, to make sure the docked airship that I’ve just departed is really there and hasn’t evaporated to nothingness in the heartbeats in between then and now. I’ve already said my goodbyes, and continuing to look behind me is only gonna make me start shuffling backward, blind and stupid. I take the Thanalan sun like a pill. The sun is large, but I am small.

I, too, am swallowed; by the throng of people near Hustings strip. Castor leads me by the hand through the crowd, and we pass by the little food stand where we had our first proper date -- Place-by-the-strip-where-I-can-see-the-ships, he’d called it, when I asked what the place was named -- and for the first time in suns, I feel the pang of hunger.

*

You smell the sour tang wafting up from the vats of sparking blue aether in the middle of what once used to be a crystal-powered furnace room in the belly of the White Celsius. You smell burning meat being rendered to component aether for airship fuel like fat is rendered in a pot to make soap. The cages all around the room are empty, but they bear the marks of the Spoken who have lived in them. A crumpled blanket. A jacket with one sleeve turned inside out. A deck of cards, halfway through a hand before being kicked and scattered.

‘The Celsius eats her enemies,’ Percy had warned you on his taped missive, confirming every fear that had lived in a lump in your throat for weeks, but you never thought you’d live to see it in action. Momori fell into her maw right in front of your fucking eyes while you were across the room, and all you can hope for is that she died before she realized what was happening to her. The Celsius turned Momori into meat, and then to fuel. The Celsius’s distended stomach is Momori’s only tomb.

*

Hunger curdles into nausea in the space of a heartbeat, but I don’t remember why. It’s been like that ever since the shuttle brought us back to Ishgard; I struggle to choke down food. It’s easier if it has no smell, no taste, nothing to make me think about the process of what I’m doing. It just feels disgusting. To rip and tear with my teeth, it feels inhuman. There must be a more civilized way to feed yourself than this. A mun-tuy shake, maybe, but even that makes my stomach churn, and I--

But before I can spiral about it, Castor’s hand is on my shoulder. Heavy, warm. I take it like a pill.

“There’s something I need to do -- not illegal -- I only need a moment.” The question isn’t in his words; it sits in his eyes, the way his brows hike up in the middle. It’s a silent question: Will you be okay? I want to be offended, but I can’t be much of anything.

“Sure,” I reply, and even this much is nearly a sisyphean task. “I’ll get some food.”

There’s a bench in the middle of the street down by Sapphire Avenue, backed up against a planter filled with creeping ivy, and when I sit down with some paper-wrapped kebab, I can smell the fresh earth in the pot, rich and mineral. I take it like a pill while I watch the people passing by. The distraction helps me eat, gives me something to focus on instead of the sensation of fatty, charred lamb shredding in my mouth.

I find a pocket of serenity here, where the sun is warm but not oppressive, and the smells of food and floral carts are mostly pleasant but not cloying. How much time passes before Castor comes back to me, with blood on his hands? I’ve eaten maybe half of my kebab. A quarter bell? Half a bell?

Castor comes back to me with blood on his hands and a gash slicing through the front of his tunic, and this is too big for me to swallow. This is too fucking big.

*

You send the shells of dead keys and buttons scattering across the floor with every step you take across the Celsius’s command room, searching in a restless gait for a new console to shatter. They sound to you like so many teeth, broken right out of the ship’s bloody maw by the swing of your wrench. There is a chilling mirror into which you are afraid to look; the only ripple in your deep, placid lake is a memory that mimics you perfectly, blow for blow.

As you lift the wrench over your head, feeling your aching muscles protest at the sudden, relentless exertion, you become the spitting image of Castor Arendt, gun reversed in your hand, clubbing the still-struggling form of Leviticus lux Tyrus over the head until his face is rendered to meat. Your target is not a Spoken man, but the violence that grips you is no less possessive. You are no less disgusted by yourself, but the nausea sits like a lump in your throat, obstructing any scream. You can’t swallow. You can’t swallow a thing, lest everything you try to take in comes clawing its way back up and out of you.

*

The rest of my food splatters on the cobblestones, falling from my hands and my lap as I stand up with numb fingers and numb lips. I want to run toward him, but my feet are numb, too. Useless as the bricks they stand on.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Castor hedges with a gasp, holding a hand over his chest. The wound underneath is freshly healed.

A scream curdles in my throat, blocked by some obstruction. Maybe it’s fear. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t swallow. I can’t move. Helplessness washes through me, a wave of impotence that doesn’t even have the courtesy to bring its good friend rage along for the ride. The sun is large and I am small, so very goddamn small. I want to touch him, to confirm that the gash on his chest is really, truly closed, but I can’t lift a hand. I can’t do a thing.

When does it fucking stop?

I breathe through my nose instead. One breath. Two. I take them like pills. Castor’s eyes are looking straight at mine, bright and alive, not cloudy with cataracts and lifeless. Castor’s eyes are a stormy green, with pupils made into pinpricks by the Thanalan sun. I take my lover’s blinking eyes like pills.

I left the Salemtaza’s Voyage with nothing but my feet to carry me and Castor’s hand in mine to show me the way. So how many fucking pills do I have to take before I'm finally allowed to depart the White Celsius?

[vexillumalbum]

dawn spent by your side | MLQC GavinXReader

Fandom: MLQC

Word Count: 2772

Genre: fluff

Warnings: not-so-good pacing of the story and also terrible writing (but who’s surprised? not me)

There is something beautiful but depressing in dusks. When the blue of yet-not-so-dark sky meets the vibrant orange following after the setting sun. The day dies to let the night live like a lover giving up his life for his beautiful lady’s sake. He leaves so that she can rule. And then she cries and cries and cries and millions of her shining with sorrow tears decorate the heavens. Sometimes they are overshadowed by the evening curtain of fog that the gods send so that people are not able to see such a sad view. 

It’s splendid, but tragic.

He knows tragedy better than anyone and still only this time of day brings him desired peace. Maybe because the unbearable light steps aside to let the darkness and cold dominate and these are the only things he is used to. What’s more - he likes them. They are permanent, certain, they will never fall. They are the epitomes of stability - something he’s craved since being a child.

Sitting at the table by the big window he is surrounded by couples enjoying their meals, families spending the evening together and business partners concluding contracts. Trying no to think about how out of place he feels, he focuses on the breathtaking painting made by the gods behind the glass and unknowingly his stressed grip on the edge of the table decreases. Usually, the vision of meeting you doesn't make him nervous, but today his heartbeat is slightly faster and his hands sweat a little more. 

„I’m so sorry, Gavin!” Your sweet melodious voice pulls him out of his messy thoughts. It doesn’t escape his attention how panicked and out-of-breath you sound probably because of rushing here and feeling guilty for being over thirty minutes late. „I tried to make it on time, but the shooting’s been prolonged and then we had a problem with cameras and— ugh, nevermind. I’m really sorry.”

Before he even has a chance to stand up and help you get rid of your coat or move the chair for you to sit comfortably, you shoot him an apologetic smile and fall into a seat opposite him.

„It’s okay.” Gavin’s lips quirk slightly upwards and he is sure that the tips of his ears are now red. What your very presence does to him… „You didn’t have to hurry. I don’t mind waiting.”

It’s not a lie, but nevertheless a part of him is glad that you appeared in the restaurant before the sun has completely set, because the way the orange rays sweep your face makes Gavin wonder if maybe you are an angel sent to save his soul. As your eyes shine under the attack of warm light you squint them slightly to relieve tired after all day of looking at the computer screen or camera pupils. At the same time, you are wrinkling your nose and a few small wrinkles appear on your forehead, and his hands itch from wanting to smooth them out. Fortunately, he controls himself in time and clenches his fists on his lap. 

The floral dress, which you spent the entire previous evening choosing, is slightly creased after a long day of work, but you hope that Gavin will not notice it. So you just casually take off your coat and hang it at the back of your chair - it may be too informal behavior for the restaurant you are in but you don’t care - and gently smooth out cleavage that got slightly out of place when you were running to get here. You don't know why, but a pleasant warmth is spread inside your chest when you see that the light blue Gavin’s blazer is exactly the same color as the flowers on your dress.

When the waiter brings you the dishes previously ordered by the officer at your request on the phone, you two are deeply engaged in a conversation about how Minor upset you and Anna that day and almost led to a catastrophe on the set. It is a kind of tradition that at every meeting you talk about your mutual friend - you most often complain about his behavior, and Gavin agrees at times adding some remarks about how long ago you should have dismissed Minor. None of you have bad intentions for the boy, of course, but you need to discuss some of his behavior with someone from time to time.

Vibrant mosaic of colors in the sky fades and gives way to beautiful stars scattered across the heavens as you two are eating desserts. All nervousness disappeared some time ago and a genuine smile and rosy cheeks appeared in its place. It's surprising how in your presence Gavin turns from a stern cold officer into a blushing tender man. 

The conversation does not stop and you get the impression that you could talk with him for hours. Whatever you say, he listens intently and expresses his opinions when you need them or just nods when all you want to do is ramble. You see a flash of interest in his eyes even when you tell him about something that is completely outside his comfort zone and you swear that if he looks at you like that for a while longer, you’re gonna melt on the spot. Even the ice cream you eat between telling the story of the store you went to last weekend and laughing at Gavin's reactions doesn't help you cool down.

„I want to take you somewhere,” he says, when he’s leading you to the car he borrowed from Eli yesterday. It’s a jeep, adapted for off-road use. Perfect for what he has planned. „if you don’t mind.”

„Of course I don’t.” You give him a big smile, the one he adores so much. „But shouldn't I be the one taking you somewhere? This dinner was your idea, so I should repay you…”

„Your presence is enough.” 

Suddenly you are grateful that there are few lanterns in the parking lot, so there is a possibility that he does not see how you turn into a tomato. Surely not only your cheeks are turning red, but  all your face is. Only Gavin can embarrass you with just one oh-so-casually spoken sentence. Somehow you love it.

The silence that prevails in the car is comfortable. After hours of talking, your unclosing mouth and his irreplaceable reactions, this tranquility disturbed only by quietly playing the rhythmic melody of the radio is calming and pleasant. 

You are too lost in admiring the ever-energetic city - neon lights creating beautiful combinations, interactive billboards enlivening gray streets, colorful shop windows - to see Gavin's furtive glances toward you. And somehow, every time you look at him, his eyes are focused on the road, and there is not a single trace after he studied your interested in the outside world face just a second ago. What you can't see is his one hand slightly stronger clamped on the steering wheel, the heart beating unexpectedly fast in his chest and the other hand sweating on his lap. He says to himself to get it together but it's Sisyphean work at this point.

„Stargazing?” Your question is quiet, rather spoken to yourself, but he catches it anyway and looks at you with a shy smile as if confirming. He’s turning the car into the forest, right after leaving the city’s borders, where the road gets much less solid. You recognize this route because you and Gavin have been here many times before.

After stopping the vehicle on the highest hill, as usual, Gavin grabs your hand - silently praying that you will not notice that it is slightly more sweaty than normal - and you moderately hug his firm body so that the wind can lift you two up. There is something so familiar about it that when an officer asks you if you are ready, you automatically answer „yes" without any hesitation or fear. 

The first thing you look for when the warm gust of wind swirls around your legs and lifts you in the air is the well-known Jupiter, but when you don't see the point glistening near the moon, you frown. Gavin chuckles and his warm breath hits the side of your head.

„It is a bit late to see Jupiter. It is best seen in May.”

„Oh.”

„But you can see Mercury here.” He turns you one hundred and eighty degrees and bends slightly so that you have a better view from above his shoulder. „Right above these high trees.”

„That bright spot between two stars?”

„Yes.”

It's amazing how many stars are reflected in your eyes as you look around the sky. There is something magical about it, because Gavin is not sure if maybe your eyes are always so shiny and during stargazing, when he holds you close, he is just able to see that better. You gently fidget in his arms and point to one of the visible constellations, and the man immediately tells you everything he knows about it. You smile softly, from the bottom of your soul, as you listen to him and that makes his chest swells. 

You don't notice that somewhere between explaining you the phases of the moon and showing the next constellation, Gavin moved away from you and your bodies are connected only by your clasped hands. He's testing something he has been thinking of for a long time, so a triumphant smile does not leave his lips when he manages to hold you in the wind without supporting you with his body. All he has to do is take his hand away to complete the experiment.

„Gavin!” You squint when suddenly the warmth of his body is absent and the only thing you feel is light breeze surrounding your frame. You reach for him instinctively, but he only moves farther away smiling.

Gavin would never do anything to hurt you even a little, so you are sure that he is one hundred precent in control and you have nothing to fear, but your legs still start shaking.

„Don’t be afraid.” His voice is carried to you by the wind and it seems to you that he is right next to you, not a few feet away. „I got you. You can move, you won’t fall. I promise.”

He promises. 

Of course he does.

At first you turn around not sure if the moves that are too rapid will make him unable to hold you, but when you notice his slightly raised eyebrows and waiting eyes as if challenging you, you start moving much more freely. 

You do everything that comes to your mind. Pirouettes, leeks, pseudo-ballet figures. All this time you giggle like a small child, because who would not do that with the literal possibility of flying? Oh, ok, you can think of one particular CEO who would have his famous poker face stuck to his face even in such a situation, but the exception only confirms the rule.

„Look,” You are interrupted by two hands sneakily encircling your waist and warm breath hitting the back of your neck. You lean your back on officer’s muscular chest and look in the direction Gavin's looking. „it’s starting.”

Something beautiful, like in a fairy tale, unravels before your eyes when the first streak of light marks the sky, followed by several others. Each one is slightly different but at the same time all from one family. Some have simple flight trajectories and appear and then disappear as if they were never there, but others fly diagonally and even in spirals and they are especially memorable.

That's why he took you here today. Meteor shower.

It's not even a moment, and instead of levitating you are sitting on the roof of a jeep, on an unfolded blanket - which you have no idea where it came from - with a hand holding Gavin's hand. 

„They are called Perseids.” He explains moving closer to you. „Tonight you can see up to several thousand meteors per hour.”

„That many?” You ask not tearing your eyes from the splendid view above the trees.

„There is a sudden increase in activity this year. It happens once every few years.”

„That’s beautiful.” A sigh escapes your lips as you lean closer resting your head on his shoulder. 

It seems so natural for Gavin: to hold you close while watching such an extraordinary phenomenon. He can experience something so astonishing with the most important person in his life and he is sure he wouldn’t have it any other way. No one else could arouse such emotions in him, with no one else he could feel so safe and calm.

„Thank you for showing me this.” This time you look at him with a small smile plastered to your lips and slightly rosy cheeks. He wants to tell you how lovely you look now, but he bites his tongue and instead just smiles back. 

„You’re welcome.” He answers, but you don't turn back to look at the meteor shower. Instead, your gaze is focused on his amber iris and how unusually they’re glistening in the light of the moon and falling rocks. He frowns. „Something’s wrong?” 

You don't know why and how, but suddenly there is adrenaline in your veins and you want - no, need - to kiss him. This sudden surge of courage may have something to do with the fact that you were flying a moment ago, and if you could levitate then you should be able to do it too.

Just a little light peck. If he doesn’t want it, he can push you away. 

Right?

His lips are surprisingly soft, so you want to kiss him even longer and harder, but you need to refrain when you do not find any reaction on his part. His hand is still squeezing yours and his eyes are watching your every move, but his mouth doesn't move. You clench your lips in a thin line thinking you destroyed the months of your friendship with this one impulsive decision. But the truth is you can no longer play with him in meetings that look like dates, although they are not at all, giving each other presents without a special occasion and explaining that friends do that and calling each other in the middle of the night, when one of you has a nightmare. 

You already want to open your mouth and begin to explain yourself - you are willing to say anything to save the situation - when he grabs your neck and with a power you have never felt from him kisses you passionately. 

You drink each other's smells and tastes like thirsty mad-mans you are after so much time playing in the stalks. It is not known which of you is more greedy for the other person, so a lot of time passes before you break away from each other breathing heavily.

„I—”

„I liked it.” He says before you even have the chance to take a deeper breath to calm your beating heart. „We should do it more often.” 

You slightly arch your brows at what he said but then seeing his innocent and gleeful expression you giggle. To be honest, Gavin is everything you want in a partner: he is good, patient, kind, just and loving - at least towards you - and sometimes you felt like you didn’t deserve him as friend let alone as a lover. But as you look at him being so happy because of just a kiss, you want to hug him and never let him go. 

„Yeah, I agree.” You give him another peck on the lips and he hugs you to his chest. Both your heartbeats harmonize and everything suddenly falls in its place.

You stay in this position until orange smudges appear on the horizon heralding the arrival of the next morning. The night gray disappears so that the vibrant colors of the day take their rightful place alongside the sun. Normally Gavin would complain, grunt under his breath about the unbearable light of the next day. His preferred cold goes into oblivion for the next several hours and he again has to face the hardships of everyday life. 

But now, somehow, instead of frowning at the rising sun, the smile does not leave his face. Maybe it's because of the warmth of your body, or maybe because he still feels your sweet taste on his tongue. 

Maybe it's your presence that makes the days not so bad.

Maybe, just maybe, dusk won't be his favorite time of day anymore, but dawn.

Dawn spent by your side.

____________________________________________________

thank you so much for reading!

if you want to read more of my works they are here

[and-they-were-crewmates]

8 and 9!

i honestly didn’t expect anyone to ask me anything i should have known i could count on you god bless 

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I fucking love writing dialogue, which I think anyone can tell because the entire New Terra-tory series is crazy dialogue-heavy, but my favorite exchanges are between Holden and The Investigator, because I’m kind of obsessed with my interpretation of Miller. It’s a little less-than-canonical, I think, but I wanted to play with Miller as a kind of conscious for Holden, a combination of his inner-most self and also a force bigger than himself. What that turned into is a very fun banter partner, who knows everything Holden is thinking and doesn’t spare his feelings. 

“So, what? Naomi is my humanity and Amos is my… animality?” he asked. Miller swiped the air in a dismissive gesture.

“No. Naomi is Naomi, and Amos is Amos. They’re not extensions of yourself, you egomaniacal little pissant.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Holden defended, frowning.

“Take it up with your own self-esteem. I’m you,” Miller said. Holden tilted his head and squinted.

“I thought you were the protomolecule. And Miller.”

“I’m the protomolecule, and Miller, and you.”

“Fine. So I think I’m an egomaniacal pissant? Isn’t that contradictory?”

“Kid,” he said, sitting on the mattress next to Holden, “your mind is a cesspool of incohesive sewage and I am burdened every day by the sisyphean task of wading through it.”

“Joe Miller, the rat king of my garbage mind. Comforting.”

“More like rat librarian. You’re the rat king, baby boy.” Holden grimaced.

I often have difficulty writing natural human dialogue, I tend to lean towards the overly-grammatical or overly-complicated or give people entire monologues in a way that is generally not the way people talk, and I have to go back and say things aloud and figure out how to rework it to sound like conversation, but Miller didn’t have to sound like a human. He can say things like “your mind is a cesspool of incohesive sewage and I am burdened every day by the sisyphean task of wading through it” and what’s funny about it is how bonkers of a sentence that is. This whole exchange was just exactly up my alley: weird-ass banter.  

9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?

I would say the first one, Sleepless in New Terra. I had written fanfiction a couple times before, but I had never taken it seriously, I had never written anything that long, and I had never written sex, which are all pretty big firsts to have at the same time. I had come up with the idea of “what if Holden can’t get rid of Miller and needs Amos to cuddle him because Naomi’s not there” and had been working on it, just in my brain and not on paper, for a little while, but it was basically all I had, so I was flying a little by the seat of my pants, but I like where I landed. 

Never Have I Ever was probably tied for hardest to write in a completely different way... it was intended to literally be 6 sex scenes, 5 in which Alex doesn’t blow Amos and the first time he does, and I just completely did not do that. There were scenes that were just sex, but a lot of it was them talking, dealing with the weird new situation they were in, and even as I tried to focus of the FWB of Alex/Amos, I kept pulling it back to the relationship of Jim/Amos. But I’m glad I tried, because it taught me that I don’t really want to write the just-sex. I want to write the just-sex-until-it’s-not-just-sex. 

Thank you for asking!!! This is fun! 

[awbrainno]

i.

It rankles. It itches, burns, rubs up against my PTSD and my contrary nature. It’s infuriating, sure; it pisses me off, just like almost everything does. But it’s more than just infuriating: it’s terrifying.

I am not self-sufficient. I am not an island. I am not self-reliant, and I never will be.

My entire existence relies on my ability to suck up to those who may deign to help me. Doctors, teachers, supervisors, coworkers – I am at their mercy. It’s more than just being nice or being respectful. My survival depends on being exactly the right kind of dancing monkey, entertaining and non-threatening and properly cowed, properly humbled in the presence of my betters.

Sometimes, a nurse once told me, we have to eat crow. I was trying to self-advocate, to explain, to ask why the doctor hadn’t done as she’d promised. Sometimes we have to eat crow, the nurse scolded me. Be more properly grateful, more acceptably humble. Your doctor doesn’t have to help you, you know. You should show her some respect.

People with access to resources and knowledge I desperately need dangle them just out of my reach. “Maybe,” they sneer, “you should ask nicely.” I do not correct the police as they misgender me because I want to leave here unharmed. I do not speak up when my coworkers and bosses refuse to learn my pronouns, my title, do not speak up when they glare and sneer and demean the junkie trash, the whores, the psychos. I am admonished, given a warning – my email greetings are not respectful enough. I must treat lightly if I want the powers that be at my job to continue to deign to assist me.

I am helpless. My shoulder dislocated, I smile placidly at the cop who cuffed me. My gender a dull, constant ache deep in my soul, I write out polite, charming personalized greetings to my superiors. My brain broken and constantly in recovery, I quietly turn away, pretending not to hear coworkers laughing at psychos.

There is no place I belong. There is no safe space. I bow and scrape and beg, desperate for any scrap of kindness, desperate for access into a wider world. I bring my service dog, but we are turned away.

My world is shrinking. I wish I were shrinking to match.

ii.

This is how we burn out. This is how burnout propagates, reproduces, becomes a raging wildfire of despair, of anger, of hurt. This is how we burn out.

We begin by wanting to help – its so simple, so unassuming, so naïve. We begin by wanting to help, to do a good job. We begin this way and are greeted warmly and told to reach out for help, reach out for support, to reach out because we are a team, and no one can do this alone. This is how we begin. We begin by reaching out, by asking questions, by requesting help. We have high hopes, at the beginning.

It begins the first time help is not forthcoming. There will be no explanation, though there may be an admonishment, a scolding; yes, they will say, reach out, but do so in exactly this way, exactly this tone; be humble and be respectful and be constantly aware that you are nothing. You are needy and you are no one, so show some g-ddamn respect.

It begins when the humble, needy begging, the carefully cultivated persona, kneeling at the feet of those in power, is not enough. No one responds, no one reciprocates, no one deems us worthy of their time. It begins when we realize we are nothing in their eyes, and no amount of placating them will ever render us worthy.

We begin to burn, tired of begging and scraping and kneeling. We give up hope, exchange optimism for harsh realities, for learned helplessness, for frustration, for rage. We burn, our efforts pointless and no end in sight. We burn out like this, like pile-on principle, like a lifetime of failures and pointless endeavors.

We burn out, ultimately, alone. We burn out resigned. We burn out in pieces, until nothing of us remains. We burn down to ashes. We burn, and we burn, and still we keep throwing our broken bodies into the fire. We burn because we have no choice, no options, no hope.

This is how we burn out.

iii.

Burnout is a strange concept for me. I’m… not sure what it means, really. We talk about it in classrooms

make sure you take care of yourself, you don’t want to burn out

but never really define it. Come to think of it, we don’t really define the other part, either: “take care of yourself.” What does that mean?

she’s going to have to get over herself if she wants to like, exist in the real world…

We talk, in my social work classrooms, about self-care and burnout. We talk about self-care as if it is a flame-retardant suit, or some kind of magical fireproof sunscreen: apply enough self-care every day to ensure you don’t burn to ash.

I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine, working in this field

But try to define self-care and you get the same responses, over and over, repeated verbatim from abled mouths and neurotypical minds: take a long walk. Get enough exercise. Use a fancy lotion. Relax, journal, sing, talk with friends, put your burden down and walk away from it. Care for yourself – simple. 

so… it’s a therapy dog? For your clients?

We talk about burnout in terms of The Work – always capital letters, always job-related but separate from the job. We are social workers, getting jobs and doing work so that we can do The Work. This phrase, this mantra, this all-important Sisyphean task set before us is, predictably, never defined. We are social workers; we do The Work.

don’t you have class this morning? Why are you still in bed?

I am not in school any longer. I am a social worker, employed, working, doing (I think) The Work. Still, I think about these things, these concepts that dominated my education. These big ideas, undefined, nebulous, all-important and impossible to understand. I wonder if it is only my broken brain, making things more difficult for me as usual. Self-care. Burnout. The Work. 

it’s important to have a good work-life balance so you don’t burn out

Some days, my self-care looks almost neurotypical. Some days I take a bath, or eat a chocolate, or pet my dog, and I feel… better, I think. It’s hard to tell. I’m not neurotypical, and I’m not able-bodied, and I’m never going to achieve that level of “healthy.” Self-care can’t get me there, but I can feel… better. Other days, my self-care is less like a suit of fire-proof armor and more like burn cream, trying to undo the damage already done by all the ways I’m already burning out in my day-to-day life, trying to patch me up so I can go to work and do The Work.

social work isn’t for everyone: we have to ask ourselves, really ask ourselves, if we’re suited for The Work

Some days I’m more burn than person, more ash than human, more smoke than breath. Some days I think I’ve failed, I’ve burned, I’m finished. Somehow, I keep going anyway. What choice do I have?

watch out for each other – the last thing we want is for anyone to burn out

What choice do I have?

[a-woman-apart]

Tolerance of Uncertainty

I have experienced a meteoric rise in anxiety over the past few months. It all started in April 2019, and it has had its valleys, but it has mostly remained at a steady high. The indicator of whether something is pathological or not, is whether it “impairs regular functioning.” I related to my mental health team that my anxiety remains at a 7 or 8 as a baseline. I have experienced relationship problems, difficulties with work and school, and physical health problems as a result of my anxiety. It feels like it has wormed its way into every area of my life.

Of course, there are times when I feel happier or more relaxed, and I can get that anxiety down to a 4 or a 5. There are other times, though, when that 7 or 8 escalates to a 12 or 14. I seem to have graduated from anxiety attacks to full-blown panic attacks. They are not happening excessively; I have maybe experienced 2 in the past 4 months. The issue I have is that panic attack symptoms are predicted to ease off after the acute panic episode, but for me, the shame, rage, and/or exhaustion persist long after the panic attack ends.

I know that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It may be undiagnosed, but I more than fit each and every criterion. I spent more than 7 years gaining mastery over my mood disorder, only to have my body hijacked by what can only be termed as existential terror of everything. On a good day, when I have plenty of rest, symptoms feel slightly more manageable. If I have had a poor night’s sleep or am under excessive stress, the slightest extra strain on me can result in me feeling completely overwhelmed.

One of the hardest parts of this is trying to explain it to people who do not suffer with anxiety. They can’t understand how small things, like a misunderstanding with a friend or a coworker or standing in a long line in a grocery store can be real triggers. Rescuing keys that I’ve locked in my car or having to give a simple presentation in front of my class can feel like a Sisyphean undertaking.

I was being treated with CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) even before I started showing signs of severe anxiety, but what I realized is that sometimes my anxiety is manifesting less as concrete thoughts and more just like a feeling of tension that permeates my entire body. There is a technique in therapy known as the “bottom-up approach”, in which alleviating the somatic symptoms of anxiety or trauma is the focus. The idea is that if we bring relief to the body, relief in the brain will follow.

This is effective because the powerful physical response that anxiety creates results in the disabling of the prefrontal cortex in the brain, which is associated with cognitive reasoning and thought. Your body goes into “flight-fight-or-freeze” and primal instinct takes over. You cannot “think yourself out” of panic.

However, it is possible to change the way you perceive “threats” in your life. It comes by realizing that you are probably pretty safe from moment to moment, and that “perceived danger” does not equal actual danger. It also means embracing something known as “tolerance of uncertainty.” This means accepting that unexpected things happen in life, and there is sometimes no real way to prepare for or stop them. This also involves accepting that excessive worry does not help you prepare for preventable misfortune, but rather serves to slow you down and decrease physical and mental wellness.

I will probably always be “a worrier.” There is a difference, though, between realistic worry, which is a natural response to a stressful event, and chronic anxiety. Realistic worry might look like being concerned about how you may perform on a test, but then feeling relieved once the test is over and being able to put it out of your mind. You might join your friends for lunch and laugh and chat as if nothing had ever been wrong.

Those of us with anxiety disorders might worry before, during, and after the test, to a degree that seems excessive to onlookers. The worry might be so severe that we are unable to enjoy lunch with our classmates, or we may even “stress eat” in secret once we go home. Hours pass and we may continue ruminating and second-guessing ourselves over the choices we made on the exam. We may be so on edge that we become snappy and irritated with our loved ones, thus injuring these important relationships and giving us an excuse to spiral further.

People with anxiety disorders lack resilience. This means that we find it difficult to bounce back from stressful circumstances or events. The good news is that it is possible to improve psychological resilience. Evidence supports that resilience is not simply an in-born trait. In other words, you can become more resilient by building relationships, practicing self-care, finding purpose, modifying your thinking, and seeking help when you need it.

Building psychological resilience is not easy, but it is crucial. For me, there are a lot of hard days, but I continuously convince myself not to give in and that I should keep fighting this battle because I am worth it.

[fuckyeahdisreputablekibeth]

Emily is having late night thoughts

So there is a post circulating my dash right now waxing poetic about patience with children and kinda how we never really feel young until we aren’t? It’s a sweet post and I’ll probably go hunt it down and reblog it because it is a nice post with valid information. But it’s late, I’m tired and generally that means I’m a little maudlin and thinking far too hard about things I’ve overcome and how the mountain in front of me seems to grow every hour.

I’m terrible with my emotions. Sometimes I feel like I go through waves of being too full of emotions, mine, my family’s, my friends with all the accompanying highs and lows of emotion followed by empty seasons of feeling lost in a place that used to be filled with so much. And, because I am a ridiculous human who barely has her life together, it’s hard for me to properly identify and label what I’m feeling. Now that the context is out of the way perhaps I can untangle myself to talk about why the aforementioned post about perceptions of age and youth and patience doesnt resonate well within me.

There was this phrase I loved in my teenage years, when I was wild and carefree and believing a lie of happiness I had wrapped around myself. “You can’t expect me to act my age because I’ve never been this age before!” I’d holler it at my mom when parents had approached her at church and school functions to tell her that I was exceptionally bright but would answer every question, with a fair few being out of turn. I’d speak it through giggles when someone told me I had a lovely laugh but it was far too loud and not befitting a girl like me. The saying was a way for me to try to shake of others expectations of me, a way for me to push people away and further drape myself in lies and pretend happiness and very deliberately not think about how horrifically I’d failed to meet others expectations at other times in my life.

The first time was when I was ten, maybe eleven and visiting my dads side of the family I hadn’t seen in years and years. But a few weeks before the visit, my mom took me on a long walk and gave me my first sex talk. What sex was, what it was for but also warnings. Things that people shouldn’t do. I was a precocious child. I listened to everything. I read the dictionary and thesaurus when I ran out of books. I had a very clinical, basic idea of what sexual abuse was. Then my mom explained that my favorite cousin, the only one I had memories of playing with had gotten in trouble that year in school for doing inappropriate things with a girl. That was the exact phrase she used. And then she said I needed to be on my guard around my cousin and that if he did anything I needed to tell her right away.

Well. The statistic is 1 in 4 girls right? And that most of the time it’s family that are perpetrators? I became a statistic. And I didn’t tell my mother. I was far more scared of her reaction than I was of my cousin. That fear stuck around for ten years. It took me being more afraid of killing myself to tell anyone. Frankly there are days now that I wish I hadn’t ever said anything. My mom isn’t the most supportive. My dad pretends it didn’t happen. I don’t talk about it with my siblings. But I am doing better each day. It’s not an event that sticks to me in tacky strings and drags me down. Just like my first kiss when I was fifteen with a boy whose name I don’t even know shoving his hands down my pants leaving me feeling deeply uncomfortable and confused isn’t allowed to lurk in the corners of my mind like the boogeyman.

I failed spectacularly to meet some oddly specific expectations when I was young and growing. The first was my mother’s. The second is a bit more convuluted worldly expectation. First kisses were supposed to be magic things. Romantic and sweet, filling the with happiness and light. Did I mention I read enough books to fill a small library when I was kid? Back to expectations. The first kiss left me uncomfortable, confused and just a bit frightened. Basically the exact opposite of what I’d been told to expect. With my mom I just completely failed. And because I failed to tell her what happened I drowned myself in negative thinking and lies until I lost a good chunk of myself to what I now understand to be depression.

So back to the post. It preaches trying to remember how to think like a child and to have patience with kids because they don’t know what they’re doing. But I think what rubs me wrong is that it doesn’t say anything about how to act when kids take a misstep. I didn’t really want patience as a kid. I desperately needed and wanted to understand that mistakes aren’t the end of the world. I could bear short term anger and raised voices and frustration if I knew that I would still be loved after. That they would be with me. I wanted forgiveness. I wanted someone to tell me that there was no way for me to be damaged or defective. That I wasn’t less because of what happened. I wanted to know that the amount of magic that I could see in the world was proportionate to the magic I wanted to see. That happiness took work. That therapy is a safe place to heal. That healing takes time, but it happens.

And that’s not to say that my mom is terrible and that fairytale moments are bogus. My mom is awesome. She taught me to read and to love stories. She provided me a boat and oars and navigational tools so I could embark on curiosity voyage after curiosity voyage. She comforted me after dance competitions when girls made comments about my weight (when I was thin?!) She let me drive two hours away for three hours of dance classes when the boy I considered my best friend told me I was barely his friend and at best he tolerated me because I helped prevent people from looking too closely at him and his girlfriend. My mom is a wonderful woman. I don’t think she realized the expectations she set before that disastrous trip and how I would react to falling short so badly.

Does the post imply all this? Probably. Like I said. I absolutely suck at identifying what the hades I feel. I just know the post didn’t sit quite right and I needed to try and explain why. I have no idea if I did. It’s late, I’m tired and sleepy and thinking too much about how much farther I have to go and how frustratingly Sisyphean the whole idea of happiness feels. I just felt heavy with words and needed to speak. In all honesty, I have no idea if this makes any sense at all. But my soul feels lighter now. I have the coolest group of friends. A safe place to talk to the coolest people on the planet. I have the understanding that a mistake doesn’t mean I deserve the consequences. That I am not damaged or defective. I’m not broken or ruined. I am as infinite and eternal as a star.

[blancheludis]

A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Self-Sacrifice

Fandom: Marvel, Iron Man Characters: Tony Stark, James Rhodes Tags: MIT Era, College, Friendship, Protective Rhodey, Tony Needs A Hug, Alcoholism Words: 3.773

Summary: “Sometimes I don’t want to be sober ever again,” Tony says quietly. “It’s easier like that.”

What a world they live in, Rhodey thinks, that he has to teach Tony Stark about love.

---

Tony is so vibrant, so used to hiding behind glittering masks, that it is impossible for the casual observer to notice when something is wrong with him. Rhodey is not that anymore. For a year now, they have been best friends. Still, the cracks in Tony’s composure show themselves only gradually.

The first thing Boston’s students learned about Tony Stark is that he is young and rich and smart enough to leave them all in the dust. The second is that he is the life of every party, unmatched in his ability to drink and please any crowd. Rhodey is disgusted by that right up until he is worried.

The trick, Rhodey eventually learns, is to keep Tony distracted, to turn the alcohol into nothing more than an afterthought – and to throw out the people who only want to use Tony. Which, admittedly, is a Sisyphean task at college.

Coincidentally, the first time Rhodey wonders whether Tony is not hiding more cracks than previously thought is during a party.

By the time Rhodey arrives, everybody is already drunk. He stands in the foyer, letting the pounding music wash over him, making his skin vibrate as if it has a life of its own, and wonders whether it would not be better to call it a night. Arriving late means to put in twice the effort to have fun.

He has no time to come to a decision, though, because that is when Tony finds him. His eyes are as wild as his hair, and his clothes are in disarray, buttoned up wrong and with lipstick stains adorning his collar.

“Platypus,” he calls, his lips fitting clumsily around the newest nickname in an embarrassingly long line of them. “I saved a bottle for you somewhere.”

A bottle could mean everything from bear to the most expensive whiskey the store around the corner has to offer. Sometimes, it does not seem that Tony discriminates between what he pours down his throat as long as he has a bottleneck to hold in his hand.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Rhodey shouts back over the music. “Maybe get a glass of water for you too.”

Suddenly, Tony is much too close, pressing himself against Rhodey’s chest in a clumsy attempt of an embrace. When he backs away, it is only far enough that he can look up better at Rhodey.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rhodey.” Eyes growing brighter, he adds, “Let’s just not be ourselves tonight.”

With that, he grips Rhodey’s hand and pulls him off deeper into the house.

“Wait,” Rhodey says, “what do you mean by that?”

It is such a strange phrasing that something cold unfurls behind Rhodey’s sternum. He is not yet drunk so he cannot make sense of a drunk’s words. Perhaps the surroundings alone have him not sober enough either to decipher Tony.

He is pretty sure either the music or Tony’s ability to ignore everything he does not want to hear drown out his words. Surprisingly, Tony turns briefly back to him.

“What I said,” Tony replies cheekily. The way his eyes glisten and how wide they are, Rhodey thinks it might be not just alcohol running through his friend’s system. “Come on. This is our night.”

The night for what? Senseless revelry with a side dish of abandoning their selves?

“What are you drinking?” Rhodey questions, planting himself firmly in the foyer so that Tony tugs uselessly at his hand. “Did you take anything from anyone?”

It would not have been the first time – to experiment or to relieve stress, come on, Rhodey, you’re not that boring when it comes to building robots.

In front of him, Tony rolls his eyes, which somehow makes him lose balance. Rhodey steadies him without having to think about it.

“I’m not on drugs,” Tony says slowly, enunciating each word as if that is a ridiculous notion, as if there is no reason to worry about him. Ever. “I’m just not Tony Stark tonight. You should try it, Platypus. Lift those lips. Dance with me.”

Confused, Rhodey lets himself be pulled into half a twirl before he regains control of his senses and stops. He wants to say something, wants to dissect Tony’s statement, but Tony, sighing dramatically, lets go of him.

Too late to hold him back, Rhodey has to watch Tony disappear into the moving mass of drunk students filling the house. When he attempts to follow, the bodies form a wall before him, seemingly impossible to part. For the moment, Rhodey does not remembers how to navigate places like this.

He needs to find Tony, needs to talk to him about this. It might have been just a throw-away comment, but added to the more-than-usual unhinged behaviour, Rhodey feels like he should worry.

A drink does sound right now, though. Just one to get his thoughts flowing again. Tony will likely only talk to him when he comes to him smiling, and he is sure he will not be able to do that sober.

Shaking his head, Rhodey makes his way to the kitchen. The next morning, he barely remembers that they talked about anything that night.

 ---

Tony in a suit always looks like a completely different person. The clothes are immaculate and tailored to Tony’s exact size. Considering that Rhodey is used to Tony wearing over-sized sweaters with his hair sticking up wildly, sitting barefoot on the ground, working on whatever new project his crazy mind has come up with, seeing this slick and controlled version of him is like stumbling over a stranger in their dorm.

Even worse is the reluctance Rhodey feels at the prospect of coming in. Tony is his best friend, but he is also inhabiting two very different worlds and Rhodey only fits into one of them.

When Tony notices him, he looks up with a smile so very different from his usual blinding grins. Looking like this, Tony never shows much emotion.

“What’s going on?” Rhodey asks as he finally steps into the room. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

“Obie called,” Tony answers, his tone precise, polished. “They need me for a press conference.”

Those happen sometimes but rarely. Usually, Howard and Stane are happy to let Tony be as long as he does not cause too much bad press. Rhodey does not remember any of that happening lately, and yet Tony’s expression is grimmer than usual when he gets called away for these things.

“Don’t you have people for that?”

Rhodey has met the frazzled woman in charge of PR for Stark Industries once when she was briefing Tony on what to say and how to say it. Rhodey would not want to change places with her, especially not since she has to coach Tony Stark on things he has known for longer than she has had the job.

“It helps if I go out there and play the genius kid every once in a while,” Tony says in a flat voice. He is checking his tie’s knot in the mirror, calloused hands running over the smooth cloth. It is already perfect, which means that Tony is stalling.

“When do you need to leave?” Rhodey asks, stepping closer to keep Tony from ruining the knot again.

Looking up at him, Tony’s small smile turns wry. “Ten minutes ago.”

That is all the confirmation Rhodey needs. “What’s wrong?” he asks and pulls Tony towards the bed, pushing him down to sit on the mattress.

As much as Tony likes designing things, he does not seem to like Stark Industries very much. Perhaps that is just about his father, though.

Tony raises his hand as if to run it through his hair but remembers at the last moment that he should not mess it up. Instead, he rubs the bridge of his nose. Then he glares at his hand as if it is responsible for the nervous gesture.

“I’m just not myself out there,” Tony says with a shrug, somehow making this sound nonchalant. “Sometimes it’s hard to get back to that.”

Rhodey thinks he knows what Tony means. If a camera is trained on him, all of Tony’s smiles become wider but more artificial, never reaching his eyes. He gestures less but more sharply, does not let himself be caught in talking about something he actually likes.

“I guess being yourself is not an option then?” Rhodey asks, despite knowing the answer. Despite them being best friends, Rhodey is still getting blocked by Tony’s masks and deflections every now and then. He is not going to let strangers get a peek at himself.

Tony snorts without much amusement. “I doubt Obie meant for me to make things worse.”

That sits wrong with Rhodey, it always does when Tony talks about himself with disdain. He has not yet found an effective cure for that, however.

“You’re not a bad person, Tones,” Rhodey says, wishing he could make Tony believe how much he means that.

“You only think that because I’ve conditioned you to like me by brining you the good coffee instead of the grovel from downstairs,” Tony replies dryly. A little bit more life returns into his features, making Rhodey inwardly congratulate himself.

He still remains serious. “You can’t buy my good opinion of you with coffee.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Tony gets up, face smoothing over again. “One day you’ll wake up and wonder what you’ve been thinking.”

Rendered speechless, Rhodey cannot do anything but stare for a long moment, trying to find the kind of argument that not even Tony Stark can brush away and turn against himself.

“That’s nonsense,” bursts over Rhodey’s lips with none of the eloquence he has been grasping for. Being faced with this Tony, Rhodey feels utterly helpless. “I’m not in for the money or the coffee or anything else. Just for you.”

For a second, it looks like Tony’s expression is going to crumble, like they can have a real conversation about this. Then a car honks twice, causing Tony to be replaced by Stark, unreadable and sharp-edged enough to cut anyone getting too close.

“And who’s that?” Tony asks, flippant and careless. Turning towards the door, he smooths down his suit. It is obvious he does not intent to give Rhodey the time to answer. “Gotta go. See you tonight. Probably.”

“Definitely,” Rhodey corrects with determination. He is worries by this sudden turn in their conversation and by how easily Tony hides himself away. “We’re going to have a talk about this.”

Tony flashes him a grin, as bright as it is false. “Definitely.”

Then, without another word, he strides out of the door, leaving Rhodey behind with his thoughts.

The next time they see each other, Tony is already drunk. He lost his jacket somewhere but is still wearing his good shirt, wrinkled now and with unidentifiable stains on it. He is dancing with abandon in a stranger’s dorm room, seemingly noticing nothing of his surroundings.

The whole dorm appears to be present, riled up by a surprise party nobody knew they needed tonight. It could all be a coincidence that the night Rhodey wanted to talk about something serious, everybody is up and drunk, filling the air with chaos. When his eyes meet Tony’s, there is no mistaking the flicker of guilt on his face, though. Nor can it be called anything other than avoidance, the way Tony seems to slip through Rhodey’s fingers every time they come even remotely close to each other.

They do not talk that night, nor any of the following ones because Tony keeps himself busy with project and extra credits. He probably thinks he is being subtle about it. He is not, but Rhodey gets the message anyway. Tony does not want to talk and Rhodey will not push him into it.

Neither will he forget about it.

 ---

Their apartment is dark when Rhodey comes home. That in itself is not really surprising and Rhodey would not think anything about it if he had not gone by the lab on the way here after Tony has missed all of their classes this day. The latter is not really uncommon, but he is usually found working those days, never noticing how much time passes by while concentrating on his projects. Sometimes, Rhodey envies Tony’s ability to focus so completely on one thing, never coming up for air until it is done. Mostly, though, is means more work for him.

“Tony?” he calls as he pulls the door close behind him.

There is no answer, but that does not have to mean anything. Turning on the light, Rhodey walks into their apartment. In the kitchen, he finds an assortment of bottles on their counter, some half-empty, some tipped over. All of them, without exception, are expensive and contain alcohol.

Tony was home then. As much as the Stark Mansion can be described as home. Rhodey has never been there, has only seen pictures and listened to Tony’s stories about it, but that is enough for him to dislike it intensely. Mostly, he does not like the person it turns Tony into.

Hastening his steps, Rhodey walks down the hallway to Tony’s room. He knocks but does not wait for an answer. Tony and alcohol is not a good mixture. He can drain bottle after bottle and never show any signs of being drunk – but only if he has to perform. Afterwards, when they are home, Tony usually crashes and only Rhodey is there to catch him.

The room is dark too, but the light from the hallway is enough to illuminate Tony’s figure, sitting on the ground, back to the bed, clinging to a bottle, never looking up at the intrusion.

“Go away,” Tony says. His voice is hoarse, quiet. If it is supposed to be a demand, Tony does not have the energy to actually turn it into one.

Rhodey ignores it anyway. “I think you’ve had enough.” He steps into the room but does not go directly towards Tony.

He has learned the hard way that, sometimes, Tony might speak and interact with him without actually registering his presence, causing him to flinch at sudden movements or at simply realizing that Rhodey has come too close. That is a hard thing to know about his best friend, but where it might have put him off once, it only makes Rhodey’s protectiveness worse.

“Go,” Tony repeats sharper. “I’m not myself tonight.” He blinks up at Rhodey and manages to hold his cold expression for barely a breath before he crumbles. Dropping his gaze, he pulls the bottle closer to himself. “Or wait, maybe I am. Maybe this is all I am.”

For a long moment, Rhodey is at a loss. True enough, Tony does not look like himself. There is nothing of the sharp edges of Tony Stark in him, full of confidence and smirks and brilliance, and nothing of the softness of Tones, vibrating with slightly manic energy, heart full of kindness. There is a shapeless tiredness to him now, misery given form.

Going closer, Rhodey crouches. He keeps all of his movements slow. “Tony,” he says as firmly as he manages, “look at me.”

Tony shakes his head, focusing on the bottle with all the intent he seems able to muster. Without warning, Rhodey reaches out and pulls the bottle from Tony’s grip. They struggle for a minute, both locked to the cool glass. Then Rhodey takes his free hand to gently pry Tony’s fingers loose, Tony gives in with a sigh.

When he puts the bottle behind him, out of Tony’s reach, Rhodey has to fight to urge to take a swig himself. It looks like there is a difficult conversation ahead of them, and as much as Rhodey might want some liquid courage for it, one of them should have a clear a head for it.

“You should go, Rhodey,” Tony says before Rhodey had a chance to think of how to begin. “I’m not good for you. Howard said that. I ruin everything I touch. Don’t let me ruin you.”

Familiar anger uncurls in Rhodey’s chest. Every mention of Howard Stark tends to irritate him, but the combination of the conviction in Tony’s voice and the general situation has Rhodey skipping right past that into feeling murderous.

“You won’t ruin me,” Rhodey says slowly, needing Tony to understand that before he can ask any questions. “You’ve made my life so much brighter. That’s what you do with everything.”

Something tears itself from Tony’s throat that is probably supposed to be laughter. It comes out warbled, making the hairs in Rhodey’s neck stand up like the sound of nails on a blackboard would.

“Don’t lie to me,” Tony spats, sounding upset.

“I don’t,” Rhodey counters immediately. He feels very much out of depth. “I promised you that, remember? First semester? I told you I’d never be one of those people who’d lie to get into your good graces. We’re friends.”

If possible, Tony’s expression gets even sourer at the mention of friendship. “You deserve so much better.”

“Funny, because I think that should be my decision,” Rhodey replies, perhaps harsher than necessary, but it gets Tony to listen. His eyes are wide and dark when he trains them on Rhodey, but he returns the gaze unflinchingly. “And I want to keep my best friend, even if he sometimes drinks himself through his father’s liquor cabinet and has serious self-worth issues.”

Tony’s hand spasms, gripping tight around thing air. He opens his mouth as if to ask for his bottle back but thinks better of it after one glance at Rhodey’s expression. Instead, his shoulders slump further.  

“It’s not an issue if it’s true,” Tony mutters under his breath, grimacing at the sound of his own voice.

Rhodey scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense.” Since there is no use to discussing that now – he has tried before, a dozen times – he gets to his feet, offering his hand to Tony. “Here, let me help you up, and then I’ll get you to bed.”

Likely trying to swat the hand away, Tony misses by several inches. “I don’t –”

“Shh, Tony, you’re drunk,” Rhodey cuts him off. Grabbing Tony’s hand himself, he pulls him up and deposits him on the mattress. “The alcohol makes you feel more miserable than you are. We’ll talk once you’ve sobered up.”

Rhodey crouches down again to pull Tony’s shoes off. When Tony expectedly tries to kick him, he dodges the weak attempt easily. Tony likes being cared for even less than being told he is wrong about something, especially himself.

“Sometimes I don’t want to be sober ever again,” Tony says quietly. “It’s easier like that.”

Judging on Tony’s tone and the way he stares up at the ceiling, Rhodey is almost certain he was not supposed to hear that. That does not stop him from coming up and sitting down next to Tony on the bed.

“It’s not,” he argues vehemently, wishing any of his words would actually register with Tony the way they are meant. “You’re Tony Stark. You don’t hide. If things are bad, you’ll make them better.”

That is what Rhodey has likes about Tony from the beginning, even when he was still just the rich, white kid treating MIT like his personal playground. No matter what problem is put before Tony, he finds a way to solve it, to make any broken thing work, and better than ever before.

Which is why Rhodey wants to find whoever messed up Tony’s self-confidence and ruin theirs. More than ever when Tony says, in an impossibly small voice, “I can’t.”

Toning down his temper, Rhodey argues, “Oh, you can. If you think you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me until you can.” Much gentler, he adds, “I’ll be there for you.”

Tony is silent for a long moment. His breathing is loud as if he has to consciously remind himself that his lungs need air. He stares down at his lap until he pulls up his feet, making himself small. With visible effort, he looks up.

“You’re my best friend, Rhodey.”

The seriousness of that remark breaks Rhodey’s heart a little because it is still lacking confidence, ends almost as a question.

“And you’re mine,” Rhodey replies firmly, leaving no doubt that he means it. “Don’t you forget that.”

“I don’t,” Tony answers quickly, then bites his lower lip. His eyes stray from Rhodey again, making him look embarrassed. “I mean, I’m myself with you. I never am anywhere else. So – thank you?”

This is not the first time Tony has said something like that. I’m not myself out there. Let’s not be ourselves for once. I’m not myself tonight. Rhodey has noticed it before, but never has it come with such an urgency, like time is running out.

“You don’t owe the world anything, Tones, and I happen to love who you are,” Rhodey says, looking at Tony until he looks back. Deciding that Tony does not look so spooked anymore that bodily contact will make things worse, Rhodey reaches out and outs his hand over Tony’s, which is gripping his knees. “We’ll work on that, promise?”

A small grin pulls at Tony’s lips. It is lopsided and does not quite reach his eyes, but Rhodey decides to count it as a good sign anyway.

“You shouldn’t let drunk people promise anything,” Tony says. He is obviously deflecting, but his lids are drooping and the tension is bleeding out of him, making him slump into Rhodey’s side.

“I’ll ask you again in the morning,” Rhodey offers, making it almost into a threat. “But let me warn you now, I won’t accept no as an answer.”

Giving up the fight to stay upright, Tony melts completely into Rhodey, letting his head fall against Rhodey’s shoulder.

“I love you, Rhodey,” he mutters, stumbling a bit over the words. Rhodey knows that is not because he does not mean them, but because he is unused to saying them.

“I know,” Rhodey says, smiling down at his best friend. “We just need to get you to love yourself a little too.”

What a world they live in, Rhodey thinks, that he has to teach Tony Stark about love. That is a task that could take his entire life, he is aware of that. There is no doubt in his mind, however, that it will be worth it. The things Tony creates when he is driven by guilt are magnificent. Rhodey can hardly imagine how much brighter the world will be once Tony starts shaping it with love.

[oldpeculier]

Bodies

I wrote this really little thing and I'm just glad I actually managed that. I've been ill for a bit. Set during the building of the Yogcave, tw for lots of death stuff. Not super gory or dark. And I dunno how to do readmores on mobile fggfgghhnj

-

Xephos looks down at his own body.

It's the middle of the night. Honeydew is sound asleep in bed, nestled away somewhere in the cave, blissfully unaware of everything that just transpired below him. Unable to sleep, Xephos decided to go for a bit of late night mining. No harm in more ore, he always reckons, as does his friend, which is why they have so bloody much of it. More than they can smelt.

Only he slipped. Like an idiot. Slight water slick down the steps and down he fell, landing with a crunch. It's the swooping feeling that he remembers amidst the blur, a low terror in his gut that's intimately familiar and abhorrent.

The Xephos on the ground lies sightless, motionless. Blood drips intermittent from the corner of his mouth. It's out of sync with the dripping of the cave, and that bit more viscous.

Xephos stares.

He doesn't want to wake Honeydew for - this. Which means there's at least a few hours of dragging the corpse up the steps and out, to some hidden spot, where he can build a pyre and burn the evidence to bones in ash. Even the thought exhausts him. At least it's not Honeydew. That's so much worse, and he usually cries a little out of stress. Really, this can't be good for them. It's made them careless. Most people don't get second chances, never mind a third or fourth. In another world, Honeydew would wake friendless.

Trying to jolt himself into action, Xephos ducks to his knees and touches the body. Still warm. The skin on the back of his hand is soft, but covered in little nicks that this new body lacks. After mopping the blood with the edge of the corpse's coat, he finds the strength to pull its arms over his shoulder, then heft it into something approaching balanced. It's as limp as the deer he carried home last week; his own head jostles against his torso.

In laborious steps Xephos starts to scale the steps, one hand against the frigid wall for balance.

Not for the first time or last he wonders how this ever happened. The answer terrifies him, partially because he suspects himself, as he does with anything. So many of Honeydew's questions have Xephos' fingerprints on them. He hopes he's wrong. It's just... familiar. He doesn't hate his life by any means but it has an air of penance to it. To die over and over, to see yourself that way, and have no clue how it happens or when it might stop...

It's a little Sisyphean. Which is a word that exists sans any real context and confuses his brain so much that it's quickly shoved out.

A shadow stands at the top of the steps when he finally reaches the top. Honeydew blinks, eyes laden with sleep and perhaps a touch of accusation, recognising Xephos' load with a controlled exhale.

"Slipped," Xephos manages, apologetic. "Like a moron."

"You want some help wi' that?"

"No no, I've got it. My own stupid fault. You can go back to sleep."

Honeydew turns back to the Yogcave without comment, only to pause, hovering between questions. "It didn' hurt too much?" Is what he settles on, spoken in a half-quaver.

"Painless really. Just had a moment of awareness."

"Hell, hard not to have one of those."

"Mm. Now please, sleep, friend."

It's a testament to how much Honeydew hates all this that he hurries back to bed, when at any other inconvenience he would throw himself into assisting. Xephos simply rebalances his body and hopes to any god that this isn't a penance. He can't imagine what he could have done that would deserve this - better that life be cruel than fair, for him.