#i feel the only way would be if gale could become fixated on the idea of making astarion mortal instead. because then he'd care less

[tomurakii]

Listen. The draw of my bloodweave fic to me is characterisation accuracy. And in the spirit of accuracy I simply cannot envision a universe that doesn't end with God Gale. Like even if you go evil mode and "corrupt" Gale to an extent he'll always disapprove of ascending Astarion, which if they were dating would be enough to convince Astarion not to do it, but Astarion wouldn't disapprove of Gale taking the crown. And Gale would be even MORE motivated to achieve godhood when he's a mortal with an immortal partner who is known to abandon his love interest if they become illithid (which is, to be clear, the correct choice as they are soulless BUT is not the choice Gale makes), giving this full-commitment idealist a bit of a fear of ageing out of his forever-pretty bf's sphere of interest. Like I would love to be convinced that they'd get the good ending but idk

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 1

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Angst

Words: 2,004

Long A/N: This story was inspired by a few things: the beautiful character of Arthur Fleck; Todd Phillips asking (on a podcast) how Arthur's life might have changed if someone had put a hand on his shoulder; and reviews in which people asked some variation of the following question: "What would a put together woman like Sophie be doing with Arthur?" (That one really gets me - everyone deserves normalcy and happiness.)

"Watch What Happens" follows the timeline of the movie, with twists on some major events, and added ones.

It's been over 10 years since I've written prose that wasn't something technical or a screenplay, so I'm rusty. I popped out the 120 page draft of this story in four weeks, and am working through the second and third drafts. I'm both terrified and excited to share this with all of you!

Arthur took a long drag off his cigarette as he absorbed his counselor’s last question. The ticking clock on the wall, the fluorescent lights beating down on him, the uncomfortable closeness of the room - none were helping him come up with an answer. What did she want to hear? He seemed to get the same response no matter what he said. “Work is okay. I had a sign-spinning job this week.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Counselor Kane asked.

The memory of the beating he endured made him anxious. Stress built in his torso. His abdominal muscles twitched as he tensed. He already dreaded the fit he knew was coming. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to hold back. Laughter tore its way through his throat, piercing his own ears. Reaching across his chest, he attempted to stifle the guffaws. He’d been told before that changing positions was supposed to help. It didn’t seem to this time.

Eventually, each gale became quieter, transforming into coughing, then a few quiet chokes as he regained a semblance of control. Had he enjoyed being beaten up by a bunch of teenagers and yelled at by passersby? Not really. “It was fine.”

He watched as she made notes, studying the stacks of papers and files on her desk. He knew he wasn’t giving her a lot to work with this week. But he was exhausted. Starting counseling eight months earlier hadn’t been his idea. After being released from Arkham, he’d been mandated to go to therapy once a week. It was hard to be enthusiastic about it.  Most of the time he didn’t think it helped. He was still as isolated, as anonymous as before. The negative thoughts continued.

But he kept trying. 

After a few moments of silence, he asked a question of his own. “Is it just me, or is it getting crazier out there?” He met her look for the first time this session.

A grim expression came across her face as she gave a nod. “It is certainly tense. People are upset. They’re struggling, looking for work. These are tough times.” She continued writing. “How about you? Have you been keeping up with your journal?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered meekly.

“Great. Did you bring it with you?”

He stiffened, lips puffing at his cigarette. A smile came across his face but didn’t reach his eyes. If he’d thought she wanted to read his journal, he would have left it at home. He’d assumed it would be private.

She didn’t seem impressed. “Arthur, last time I asked you to bring your journal with you for these appointments. Can I see it?”

He squeezed his hands together and ran them over his thighs, trying to convince them to stop bouncing. He was certain she wasn’t going to let this go. Might as well get this over with. A slight chuckle escaped him as he turned to reach into his jacket pocket.

“I’ve been using it as a - as a journal. But also a joke diary?” Reluctantly, he handed the folded, spiral notebook over. “Funny thoughts or observations.” He looked down, then, knowing what she’d find in there. “I think I told you I’m pursuing a career in stand-up comedy.”

She flipped through the tattered pages. “No you didn’t,” she said.

He paused. She didn’t remember that? “I think I did.” He noticed she hadn’t flinched once. Maybe the pornography he had pasted in there wasn’t so bad.  

Kane stopped and glanced at him before reading aloud. “’I just hope my death makes more sense than my life.’”

An eyebrow raised as he huffed, a corner of his mouth lifting. She’d wanted him to write how he felt, right? That about summed it up.

She seemed concerned, but merely closed the journal and gave it back to him. “How does it feel to have to come here? Does it help to have someone to talk to?”

Arthur furrowed his brow as he exhaled another cloud of smoke. “I think I felt better when I was locked up in the hospital,” he said.

“And have you thought more about why you were locked up?”

He did his best to recall, though his memory of that time was fragmented. White walls, a straitjacket, no shoelaces. He remembered a window in the door of the observation room and ramming his head into it. “Who knows…” he sighed. He watched as Kane started packing up his file. “I was wondering if you could ask the doctor to increase my medication.”

She took out a list and read it over. “Arthur, you’re on seven different medications.” She raised her shoulders slightly. “Surely they must be doing something.

His eyes softened, letting down his guard for a moment. “I just don’t want to feel so bad anymore.”

~~~~~

Arthur stood in line at the pharmacy, hand playing with the keys in his pocket. He browsed the nearby stand with office supplies. More pens would be good - he tended to go through ink quickly with all the scribbles in his journal - but he doubted he had enough change for both them and his co-pays. They’d have to be picked up later.

Once he was up, he stepped to the laminate counter. “Hi, my name’s Arthur Fleck. I have three prescriptions to pick-up?” He handed his Gothamcare card to the pharmacist, who gave it a glance. The medications were $2.50 each. After paying, he said a quick “Thank you.” The pharmacist turned his attention to the next person.

Arthur exited the pharmacy, starting the fifteen minute trek home. As he walked, he thought about what he would do that evening. His back was still sore from the kicks it’d received after being jumped. A hot shower would help soothe the aches, but he wasn’t sure when he could fit it in.

He was already arriving home later than usual because of work. The oven would have to be preheated, as he could prepare his mother’s nightly TV dinner. Watching “Live with Murray Franklin” was a must. And he wanted to work on his comedy routine. He knew he was getting close to having a really good set. The shower could wait until morning.

He trudged up the concrete stairs near his building. Every step became heavier as he ascended. Why should you be wary of stairs? They’re always up to something! When a new joke came to him like that, he always felt a little better. He’d have to repeat it to himself until he had a chance to write it down.

After entering his apartment complex, he shuffled to the mail room and checked the box labeled “P. Fleck.” It was as empty as the run-down lobby he stood in. He went into the rickety elevator and repeatedly pressed the button for the eighth floor.

As soon as he entered the one-bedroom apartment, his mother called to him. “Happy, did you check the mail before you came up?”

Wincing, he took off his jacket and hung it on the hook. “Yeah, mom. Nothing.” He entered the dimly illuminated galley kitchen and went to the freezer. The meal he grabbed was the first one he saw, and he started the oven. While it pre-heated, he examined his new prescription bottles. He popped one open and took a tablet. Then he finally got a chance to write down the joke he’d come up with.

When the meal was done he took it into his mother’s, Penny’s, softly lit bedroom. He’d made it nice and neat for her, on a tray with cutlery and a napkin. She was sitting up in the double-bed against the headboard, waiting. He set the tray down over her legs and carefully cut the meatloaf for her.

She watched his movements. “He must not be getting my letters,” she said.

This again. She’d been going on and on about the Waynes for years. Annoyingly, her fixation had become more intense over the past few months. “It’s Thomas Wayne, mom. He’s a busy man.”

Penny shook her head dismissively. “Please. I worked for that family for years. The least he could do is write back.”

Arthur pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss this tonight. “Here. Don’t get all worked up. Eat.” Before sitting on the chair next to the vanity, he handed her the fork and patted her cheek. “You need to eat,” he said.

He could see his mother pointing at him with her fork out of the corner of his eye. “You need to eat. Look at how skinny you are,” she said. He ignored her concern, smoothing his brown, mid-length hair back and releasing a breath.

When he turned to her, she appeared content. “He’ll make a great mayor,” she said confidently. “Everybody says so.”

He studied her before answering. “Oh yeah?” he said, his voice adopting a playful tone. “Everybody who? Who do you talk to?”

She motioned towards the TV. “Well, everybody on the news.” Her voice became adamant. “He’s the only one who can save this city. He owes it to us.”

Arthur looked at the floor, raising his eyebrows.

At the sound of a certain familiar theme emanating from the television, Penny patted the side of the bed. “Come sit. It’s starting.”

He smiled. “Yay, Murray.” Reaching behind him, he turned off the table lamp. He hurried to his usual spot, the left side of the bed, and took off his shoes. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, quickly becoming lost in the show. He’d been watching “Live! With Murray Franklin” for as long as he could remember. The colors of the curtain, every note the band played, the beats between Murray’s jokes - he knew it all.

The excited energy of the audience surrounded him. His lungs were filled with the studio air conditioning. It took all his strength not to jump with excitement as his idol entered the stage. He tried to settle for a standing ovation - it didn’t work. He couldn’t stop himself from shouting, “I love you, Murray!”

The house lights went up and Murray squinted into the crowd. Arthur looked around before realizing Murray was talking directly to him. He’d picked him out of the crowd. The spotlight was on him in a flash. Arthur introduced himself, stammering when he said he lived with his mother. When the audience laughed at him, Murray came to his defense. Of course he had - he knew what it was like to struggle.

At first, when Murray called him down to join him on stage, Arthur resisted. But as the audience demand grew stronger, he had no choice but to relent. A wide smile crossed his face as he descended the stairs to stand shoulder to shoulder with Murray. Murray’s hand was warm when he took Arthur’s and lifted his arm in a cheer.

“That was great, Arthur! I loved hearing what you had to say. You made my day.” Murray told him.

Arthur’s voice was quiet when he answered in disbelief. “Thanks, Murray.”

Murray gestured with his arm towards the studio. “You see all this? The lights, the show, the audience, all that stuff.” He held Arthur square in his gaze, hand on his shoulder. “I’d give it all up in a heartbeat to have a kid like you.”

A lump formed in Arthur’s throat. He couldn’t speak. Murray understood in an instant and pulled him in for a hug. Relief washed over Arthur as he relaxed into the embrace.

The warmth Arthur felt went away, and he found himself back in his shabby apartment. He looked over his shoulder to his mother, who was spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth. As much as he loved Penny, as much as he enjoyed watching Murray with her, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was all his life was going to be. When he thought of the likely answer, he closed his eyes, feeling emptier than ever.

 Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck​

[jennagill]

Take a Shot at Love

Part 1 of the Skeet!Everlark drabble can be found here and here’s the second part. Look out for a third part next week! It’s a day late, but Happy Birthday @lifeisshiny, hope you like it! And many thanks go to @papofglencoe for encouragement and superb editing in a jiffy!

“You’re incredible,” he praises as I hit my twelfth consecutive shot.

“Thanks, I hunted back home,” I say.

“Strictly bow?” Peeta asks. There’s a taunt in his tone. He’s peeking out from his orange safety hat at me while I get into position at the next station.

“Yeah, why?” I return.

“No reason, just wondering if you ever handled a shotgun. I know it’s not as elegant as your recurve, but I’m kinda curious to see if you’re as good of a shot with other means,” he dares.

“Pull,” I say. One clay comes flying out of the high house, and I nail it dead center of the field. The second clay is released from the low house as soon as I’ve shot my first arrow. Rapport is harder than singles, but I like the challenge. I’ve been coming back to the range with an unsettling frequency. Mostly without Gale and when I know Peeta will be working at the skeet range. I haven’t made that many friends since moving to town, so it’s easy to fall into this routine with him.

“If anything, the ammo would be cheaper, how much do those special arrows cost?” he asks, a hopeful smirk planted on his face.

“Why—do you want to teach me, Peeta?”

“Well, I was actually hoping for a trade.”

He’s met with my raised eyebrow as I call for two more clays.

“I could teach you how to shoot a shotgun and you could teach me about archery,” he proposes.

I furrow my brows at him to call for two more, finishing my round. I hit the clays from both the low and high houses with ease. Maybe he’ll finally notice that I don’t actually need his tutoring and that I keep coming back for a reason that I can’t quite name.

“My shift ends soon, if you wanna stick around.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” I finish the circuit and force myself to vocalize the shooting tips that usually run through my head when I'm nocking the arrow, aiming, and releasing for my shot. I figure it will help him to hear and watch at the same time, before I put the bow in his hands.

“What do you want to do first? We should probably start at the standing range before graduating to skeet,” I say as we finish packing up at the skeet course.

“Baby steps?” he asks as he shucks his safety orange vest.

“An inanimate target is a hell of a lot easier to hit than a moving one.”

“Okay, well by that rationale…we should start you on the regular range too, with the shotgun,” he reasons.

I crinkle my nose, eager to beat him at his own game, but he has a point. I'm just ready for some action. “Better to begin on a level playing field, then,” I shrug.

He teaches me how to handle the long gun after a few demonstration rounds. He’s adorable in the way he fumbles for permission in getting the stock situated in the pocket of my shoulder. We’ve only ever shook hands before, so his touch is warming and a little more than distracting. The recoil takes a while to get used to, and the noise is deafening. I'm thankful Peeta has extra hearing protection. He motions more than speaks, since talking over the blasts is futile. I'm entranced by how much he can say without speaking a word.

I hand him back his Remington 870 after more than a few rounds and decent shooting. “Well I don't think I'm quite there yet for an official tournament, but I've got the hang of it. Are you ready for archery?”

We walk down to the other target range, and I grab a quiver of standard arrows from my car.

“Are you right- or left-handed?” I ask as we get set up at a station.

“Right.”

“Okay good, so am I—so this will be less awkward for you to learn. Do you know if you're right- or left-eye dominant?”

“With shooting skeet, you have to keep both eyes open—so I don't really know,” he says.

I test him for dominance by shielding one eye after the other and identify his best focal range. I find myself becoming a little fixated by his eyelashes in the process. I get his stance and form correct, and we begin.

“Here, hold the bow. Does that feel comfortable?” I ask, situating the bow in his arms.

“Yeah. Oddly enough, it does.”

“Pluck the bow string with your three middle fingers.”

He does as instructed—such a willing pupil. He handles the arrow and bow string with finesse. He pulls back on the string, and I realize it a second too late. My warning cry is just reaching my lips when Peeta releases the string.

Thwack. The string pops his left forearm, and a goose egg begins to form.

“Oof,” he says as he rubs on the inky bruise blossoming against his pale skin.

“I'm sorry! I know that stings. I usually wear a guard but I didn't think it would fit you,” I blush and continue my rambling. “Your arms are much thicker than mine.”

“S’ok, I'll be more careful,” he says and resumes his shooting stance.

“No, straighter, pull it tighter. And rotate your left arm out of range of the bow string,” I say, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

His first few arrows fly way off course. We work together for a while, correcting his aim and bringing it closer to the center bullseye.

“Think after a few more lessons I'd be as good as you?” he asks after consistently hitting the lower right corner of the board.

I stifle a laugh, “Um, well…”

“I'm just joking, Katniss...I know I have a ways to go.”

Before I can object, my stomach emits a long growl. “Ah, I guess we've been at it a while, haven't we?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Would you like to grab a snack at the Club café?”

I nod and follow him into the building after stowing our weapons in our vehicles.

“So how did you come about this job here at Capitol Hunting Club?” I ask once we've settled at a table with our food.

“Well, I grew up working indoors, for my parents in their bakery. So once I graduated, I wanted to work outdoors. It's been a pretty solid job though,” he says and sips his drink.

“I can understand that—working outdoors. Gale helped me get a job with the state as an ecologist once I moved here,” I say and take a bite of my sandwich.

He nods and clears his throat, “Katniss, the club is doing a thing for next weekend, like with games and special themed targets. I was wondering—” he flounders for a moment and seems to gather his courage to continue. “Wondering if you would like to come to it, with me?”

I had seen the flyers posted inside the store when I purchased my pass for the skeet course earlier today. Ammo and Amore Mio. The gun range will feature special Valentine’s themed targets, and the archery range will have a Valentine’s themed balloon shoot. They're even offering a special lunch and dessert for the couples.

Couples. Are we a couple? I school my features from what I'm sure is a deer-in-the-headlights look into one of feigned indifference.

Peeta and I had wished each other happy holidays the other month, and I've been steadily coming to the range at least twice a month since moving here. Valentine's Day had snuck up on me, but I wasn't opposed to the idea of having something more with him. In the five months since I first met him, I've noticed things about him, but no… not a couple.

Not yet.

[lelibug]

It feels like it has been a long time since I knew what it meant to be “me”.

What am I now? Not much, it seems.

Curiosity is lost. I have no desire to read or learn – because I just can no retain any information anymore. I feel exhausted just picking up my Kindle, magazines, or iPad for anything other than fooling around with it. I shouldn’t – and quite frankly, I’m not even sure why.

I am immobile and housebound. Under a required house-arrest because the off-the-rack wheelchair makes me so ill it’s insanity itself to even attempt to sit in it anymore.

My strange neuropathic paraesthesia / (numbed?) Fibromyalgia /  Hemiplegic Migraine thing going on, that no one can actually explain, keeps me prisoner in its claws – I can’t walk, sometimes barely crawl, my fingers don’t work very often, and I can feel so terrible (paraesthesia, spasms, feeling like I’ve been filled with cement, brain-fogged, unable to eat or move) that I simply can do nothing but stare at the TV. Not really watch it, just stare at it.

I am badly overweight and struggling to even move, let alone try to be any kind of active. I do try – a lot. But the windows of opportunities are so sporadic, they don’t really count. So I don’t get to do the things I love(d)much anymore – Pilates, Yoga, dancing. I do them as much as I can when I can, and it’s literally quite the relief to be able to do at least something, no matter what it is. Another part of my past that I can touch occasionally, and feel something that brings great comfort and familiarity. There aren’t many of those left now.

I have so little control over limbs and key muscles. There’s no diaphragm, no pelvic floor, very little use of my right leg at the best of times, and on occasion my right arm too. I can barely feel my tummy except in one space in the very centre. I can’t sing, have to use Gown-up Huggies (or lady-pants, as Tena likes to call them), and I am a slave to the weather and air pressure (check your isobars if you feel really rubbish – I just stop working once it dips below 1020mb, and I fall apart and can black out in 1015mb or less).

Dignity is gone. I quite often have to crawl, or worse, be reduced to attempting to “commando crawl” because my arms and legs dont work properly. I need help to clean myself, shower, brush my hair, change, go to the bathroom on bad days. And the Grown-Up Huggies don’t help, either.

I lost the ability to drive. I can no longer cook. I have a robot I was so excited to make sitting around in parts. I have courses I wanted to learn that have sat around gathering dust, after only managing a small handful of them before falling too ill to carry on. I can no longer go horse riding. The list of books and magazines that keep going unread hurt me deeply. I feel like I live in loss and missed opportunity, and it’s quite frankly heartbreaking.

My memory has gone, particularly STM (Short-Term Memory). The long term memory went a long time ago, and has never really returned. There are people, places, things, occurrences that I have no idea about. Today I forgot how a General Election worked when you went to vote. I’ve been voting since I was 18… I hate to count how many polling stations I’ve been to in the subsequent near two decades hence. I should have known it, but I did not. People tell me things and have conversations with me, and I have no idea ten seconds later that it even occurred, let alone what was said. I’ve given up being disturbed by that – it happens too often now… it’s another unfortunate “new norm”.

The small things can really get you. I feel really put out I can’t now go to the cinema, because I can’t use my chair – I’ve spent ages looking forward to seeing the new Wonder Woman movie for months, and now I can no longer go. I feel awful I cannot cook my own food. I can’t even make my own tea, and the hot water dispenser is actually in my room (because once upon I time I actually could).

My ability to play games is sporadic, and I don’t enjoy it half as much as I should, could or would without this rediculous situation that I find myself in. The same goes with conversing with my friends, almost entirely losing my ability to actually speak to anyone – because it’s contra-indicating my ASD something rotten. I can’t fixate on anything but fear anxiety now – so there is no room for my usual crazy obsession about Mass Effect and Dragon Age. This might break my heart more than anything else.

I keep asking myself “What can I do?”… But there doesn’t seem much on an answer. I can sit… sort of. That causes problems in and of itself. I can stare at the TV… which I hate. Sometimes I can hold a conversation. On rarer occasions it might even be intelligent. I sit here thinking… and I struggle to think of anything more. That does not make me feel very good at all…

    I’m waiting – constantly waiting – for it to “get better”. It doesn’t get better. It never get better.

For some reason, so far it’s only become worse. I really wish it would stop doing that.

Right now, it’s just existing in limbo, waiting to see if a new, proper, chair might allow me to have some semblance of an existence, in being that I get some respite from my incarceration here, get some perspective in going some places where I can take myself along. There’s always hope, and I really do hope to god this time I get some respite from all this by being able to “walk” myself about, to go for a “walk”, to make it to places that I can’t go now. Certainly couldn’t go in that other chair.

I’m trying to do good in waiting for it. Trying to get stronger arms and core. It’s not going too well, because despite it being June, no one told the weather, and the isobars and temperatures are through the floor – and we’re being bombarded by gales, rain, and storms. Fun. So far, for the last two weeks, the isobars haven’t risen above maybe 1010 or 1015mb. Next Tuesday (it’s very early Friday morning right now) it threatens to get to at least 1021mb. Hopefully, this time, it’s telling the truth. The last time, it most certainly was not!

If this weather doesn’t improve neither will I. I will still do as much as I can, but it won’t be the same, because the extent it makes me feel utterly terrible to the point of passing out can render it impossible to do anything. It seems so rediculous to be enslaved by something so rediculous, but there it is.

I hope I shall get some sleep sometime tonight – it’s 4:06am and I feel too wired to be able to sleep. I don’t even know why – if I did, that at least would be a start! I guess as an Aspie, that kind of thing is probably always going to elude me, but I do try my best to work it out. I could be anxious – it’s general election night. Or it could come from the fact that mornings can be harrowing after disturbing dreams/nightmares and being awoken badly in the morning – frankly the last two days have been extremely traumatising (no, I’m not kidding nor over-playing it… more like the opposite), and I do not have it in me to even begin to deal with a third day of such things.

Of course, I might not be anxious. It might be from a lack of being able to expel energy, thus never feeling tired. It’s hard to expel energy when you can’t move. It might be from the “pain” – and by that I mean feeling the intense sensations of Paraesthesia, which may as well be pain. It hurts, I suppose, but in a very different way to before, or what I’ve ever been used to before. So I just call it “pain” because it’s a shorthand that other people can easily understand, more metaphorical than literal.

I think the problem is I honestly don’t know if it’s all of them, any of them, or none of them. I wish I did, so I could do something about it. As it stands, I have no idea how to help myself, which is really annoying.

    What Am I…? It feels like it has been a long time since I knew what it meant to be "me".