#i might. fix this up a bit better later. have been procrastinating a long time on it though so trying to get it out.

[lepertamar]

The Birds That Fly At Dusk 2023 Revised vs 2020 edition differences

Only one post for this because there's far fewer changes here than in Stars, just 3 scenes and a few of the epigraphs, and the changes that are here are much more minor changes too, but some stuff that really gave me a big !!!!! to compare.

Once again, new revision changes in bold and deleted old version bits in red

First, in chapter 7, "Will this angel ever stop talking?":

Revised version:

“— Still can’t believe They of all people couldn’t imagine how to fix how flaming sad Lucifer was for so long!  A couple of times I even tried to tell Them like, hey girl, I mean not really girl because You have no idea what a gender is, but girl all the same—" Something else. Anything else. That river, flowing so gentle. The feel of clay in her fingers. Softness. Softness under her feet… “—girl, there are some flaws in how You’ve set things up.  And They were just kind of like, shrugging with Their mirrors and fire like what’s better? I guess I thought that was rhetorical, you know how it is with Them and words, though of course you know me, or you’re getting to know me, so I did try to answer anyway but I guess my thoughts just weren’t as impressive an answer for Them as what Lucifer did, you know how it is with Them and arguments.”

The previous version read like this:

“— Still can’t believe They didn't notice how flaming sad Lucifer was for so long!  A couple of times I even tried to tell Them like, hey God, my man, I mean not really man because You have no idea what a gender is, but man all the same—" Something else. Anything else. That river, flowing so gentle. The feel of clay in her fingers. Softness. Softness under her feet… “—man, there are some flaws in how You’ve set things up.  And They … well, the way They are, They basically only responded by just being fire, you know how it is.

INSANE how massive a difference just a few lines makes!!!! The insufferable dehumanization (de-personing?) and 6,000-year-long stagnant incuriosity about another thinking being that Jibril displays in the first version mostly vanishes, replaced by the poignant and knotty small tragedies of miscommunication in hindsight, and more interesting/evocative, stuff to chew on. foreshadowing Lives of course, but also just generally affording G-d the dignity of personality (desire for arguments pushing against them, unsentimentality, impressedness at dramatic and prideful actions rather than useless verbal platitudes) and internal experience, and plans that change and progress linearly when They learn something they didn't know before. And the change from 'man' to 'girl' -- just a little clever jarring of expectations that defamiliarizes from the pickle juice of dominant culture.

Second, in chapter 12, "One way to change":

The interaction between Yairen and g-d is subtly different:

“Their wheels are twisting oddly, Their wings pointing to another thousand mirrors, blinding in their fire-upon-fire reflections—though not blinding enough, Yairēn can still see her room just fine—there’s people, there have been so many, saying Them and touching Them and dancing Them. Dancing? She doesn’t see how anyone could dance a person but here God is showing her images of those who have, their legs catching fire or crisping or both, the burn of Them in each cell, the nerves lit and— And that’s what she’s supposed to do, then? That’s what They’re telling her? She stands—she doesn’t know when she fell—and… and laughs, hoarsely. Because this is one more thing she can’t do, isn’t it?  A different wing-twitch of irritation as if this burning, shining, searing person is hiding Their face from her. If that’s not what They meant, then what is? Tell me, she begs, show me how to let You make me better. Or haven’t They already? She should what, stamp her legs—no, that feels wrong, it’s all wrong somehow— And there's wing-pressure and fire-twitches and then there’s… words. Words from God, who almost never thinks in words. Make… you? Make? You? Make? You? Make you? [...] “Make…? Being, being, being, They are-are-are—are remembering the creation-of-expansion-of the universe and it’s—and it’s singing-so-loud-it’s-screaming like a thousand points of light all at once and she’s holding her head but her eyes work and her ears work so this isn’t her becoming Holy, this is an explanation, but of what—yes, They made that, that’s what she said—just like They made those Holies, right? Made like… being, wanting, bursting, exploding, being… yes, that’s— They shake Their head though of course They do not have a head—at least not one that contains anything other than wings and eyes, so many eyes—all shaking, eyes and flames twitching until those flame-twitches become words, words it feels like They can reach easily because they’ve been said so many times, words quoting Them: I the flame know not… But that’s why I’m telling You! But it’s like hitting a hard wall, Their wings crossing Their wings crossing Their wings into a thousand X’s meaning no— What is she not understanding? And another thought, an infinity of flame filled with chimes that feel like the meaning of two specific words, over and over again, I am, I am, I am—and how those chimes, that flame, that person, can be… brought? Called? Opened? They are, They are, and maybe They're trying to say that that’s… all it is? That somehow she was asking for more? A nothing-person and still presumptuous about what she deserves, she can’t help but laugh— A rush of wrongness and anger, wings beating out a long tumult of images that finally resolve into more words, clear as if They’ve also had to say these ones before: not-Me, not-Me.”

This is also really cool, in the emphasis on the difficulty of communication, and the subtlety of the way g-d understands holies and dislikes Yairen's inaccurate request, but most of all what hit me in a surprising hurt is the -- implied to have been repeated many times -- statement by g-d that They are being misunderstood and are having words and ideas put in Their mouth.

Third, in chapter 25, "Planning to stick around":

“You’re not completely wrong, but then, some of us never did play much to begin with, so they never got good. Speaking of Lucifer, though… I almost regret that xe fell before some of the really cool games got invented, xe was always a great opponent. It’s too bad, too, that seeing what xe once was still bothers xyr so much. Even just a chat is basically impossible, even if I made something like that manifestation I gave Celyet and gave it to xyr and talked from really, really far away—how could I be absolutely sure that a bit of God didn’t wander in, into anything I make? Then again it’s not like xe even answers letters from me, so.” Jibril sighs. “Maybe someday.”

HOW COULD I BE ABSOLUTELY SURE THAT A BIT OF GOD DIDN'T WANDER INTO ANYTHING I MAKE!!!!!!!!!???????????????????

Okay and now the epigraph changes:

Chapter 6, the epigraph about the messenger roles of angels has been deleted and changed to: “We must stop assuming the moral superiority of demons. They may be innocent victims, and they may have done countless good works, but they are still only human. —Ārpela Rel-sä, principal of Ākal-ne Northmost Secondary School, attended by some demons”

I FUCKING. LOVE DEFAMILIARIZATION. there's a similar casual one in the revision of Stalking that tickles me to an insane degree. Obviously 'demons' are those morally superior child-rescuers who run orphanages in the woods. duh!

Chapter 8: there is an entirely new epigraph that, because i guess the author likes to overachieve, a full ghazal about genesis chapter 1 from the pov of the navigationally-impaired spacefaring angel Mikha'il (previously written as michael, the english rather than arabic form of the name):

In the beginning who asked, I am?, just invited to be? You, expert here, told me there was me, You, excited to be. Even today we scream in wonder: where did You reach, with what, to call us all, so brightly not-You, here, incited to be? So distinct, I and You: such made distance clear. Time, You defined as the gap between I and am; so You, delighted to be. We were tongues to speak the concept of tongues, breath to make the air. To leave the sky caused the sky (and ground, once alighted) to be. I am became name became what’s yours? Mikha’il, I said, but You overflowed each name You chose, You, You recited: to be! —the angel Mikha’il, And It Was Good”

It's more pat than the more uh, ambiguous jewish and japanese buddhist/taoist inspired poetry in Stars but also an ideal islamic ghazal form, LMAO.

chapter 17: an epigraph from later in the book is moved to earlier, and expanded:

“A soul is easily shown to be infinite in at least complexity. But then there is the world, which each soul interacts with, and in the world, each other soul living at the same time. What is, then, the sum of infinite complexity interacting with infinite complexity—interacting with any of hundreds of millions of such other infinite complexities? And what, then, is the sum of each of these infinities changing each other as they interact? A mirror catches the light and reflects each other mirror which reflects each other mirror which reflects each—what becomes of the light? —Metinian the Old, Signposts”

this purely epistolary "Metinian the Old" figure has no autobiography, but the couple of times they've popped up in epigraphs seems to echo a buddhist type of worldview, emphasized by the fact this appears to be a clear reference to the brahma net metaphor (but additionally interesting due to the way it seems to clash on the face of it with the conception of souls laid out in Stars and Birds so far, and certainly with common in-universe cultural understanding).

chapter 19: the epigraph about Lilith's motives has been replaced by another, better epigraph about Lilith's movitves:

Interviewer: Why did you do it? Lilith: I wanted to. Interviewer: Because you wanted to help the children with no one to turn to, or because creating the first city wasn’t enough, or because becoming a more regular type of Holy wouldn't be enough, or…? Lilith: Yes. —Excerpt from the radio special Lilith Tells All!, with the demon Rihat Lilim interpreting for Lilith

(the 'i wanted to' echo of Tamar in in Stars is T_T)

[ink-on-the-brink]

Okay yes sorry for like putting in another but my goodness you’re great!! I hope it’s okay if I ask another but like, what would happen if the guys of your choice saw their partner hurt? Platonic or romantic up to you (:

No problem at all! Ideas are always welcome. Especially since I've had a bit of time on my hands! (aka I'm procrastinating on my other stories but shh)

Anyway! Here's Engie, Scout, and Soldier when their S/O is hurt because I put names onto a wheel and they popped up so yeah.

These are gonna be general headcannons that can be taken as either romatic or platonic.

Engie

If Hurt By Your Own Stupidity

Chances are you were messing around with a machine he told you not to touch.

If it's a small injury he'll scold you, telling you to listen to him next time. He won't help you. You have to learn your lesson somehow and if that means you have to drag your way to Medic, embarrassing yourself in the process, then so be it.

If it's a rather big injury he'll be rightfully angry. He's picking you up and carrying you to Medic with a string of mumbled curses at how stupid you had been and that you're lucky he was watching otherwise you might be dead. Even though he's angry you can still see the very clear concern on his face. Once you're all fixed up he's not letting you into his workshop for a while and becomes rather paranoid every time you have to.

He just doesn't want to see you hurt over a machine he built. He would probably never forgive himself if that's the way you ended up dying.

If Hurt By Something Else

Probably while helping him. Grabbing tools, maybe fixing up some wires if you're experienced enough.

Small injuries happen all the time. I mean you're messing around with electric wires and sharp objects here, it isn't exactly the safest thing. He always has an extra medkit in the room and won't hesitate to help you with a small cut or electric burn.

Larger injuries are an entirely different story. He goes blank, immediately carrying you to Medic. He won't leave until he knows you're 100% fine and afterward he'll be deathly quiet. You can see rather clearly that he blamed himself for you getting hurt and that he wasn't about to just forgive himself for it. Afterward he has a hard time letting you help again and finds excuses for you to do something else.

It might just be better if you stick to smaller ways of helping, not just for your own sake, but his.

If Hurt In Battle

If he sees it happen he knows it's better to ignore it. That's what happens in battle and at least during battle you guys have respawn. He'll most likely move his dispenser to where you are to help you out as best he can. He likely won't think twice about what happened...

That is unless whoever hurt you did so in a rather cruel way, enjoying seeing you in pain rather than working to complete an objective.

If that happens the person who harmed you becomes his main target. He won't compromise the battle with the urgency to kill them but it's pretty obvious that given the choice between them and killing anyone else, he'll choose them.

If he were to get close enough, and no one else is around, he'd hurt them and then just kinda sit there, letting them be in pain a moment while he maybe sets up one of his machines. If caught doing this he has about a hundred likely excuses. It was a Spy and he didn't want to deal with his dead ringer, he thought they were dead, another person came along that he had to deal with, pretty much never getting caught for doing it. Basically one of the only things that keeps him calm when he sees you hurt is the thought that he's going to make them suffer later.

Engie's a calm man but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to dish out revenge or hold grudges.

If Hurt By Someone On The Team

Ooooh boy, this isn't going to end well.

It was most likely not meant to be you who got hurt. Being Engies right hand(or left hand rather)meant you always helped him to de-escalate fights. Which meant you were probably only hurt in the crossfire.

That, however, does not stop the anger flowing through Engies veins.

A small thing is enough to get him angry. He rarely yells but in that case he will, silencing everyone immediately before going on an absolute tirade about how stupid they were all being. At this point people would be shocked enough to stop, meaning the goal was achieved but not without some sacrifice.

If you get really harmed though...

Engie's a calm man but he has limits. That just so happens to be one of them. He won't even stop the fight. He's immediately taking you to get fixed up. It's afterward that the consequences come.

He will talk to whoever was involved alone. No one's sure what happens but no matter who ends up seeing that side of Engie they always come out a bit shaken up and not willing to talk about it, though seemingly unharmed.

It's likely to never happen but if it does everyone will become just a little bit more cautious when around him or you.

Scout

If Hurt By Your Own Stupidity

You were trying to toss a baseball as high as you could into the air and catch it to try and impress him.

If it only managed to hit just a little bit of sense into you, aka your throw is weak, then he'll most definitely laugh, telling you to leave it up to the professionals.

If you managed to knock yourself out because your toss was godly but your catch was dogshit then he'd burst out laughing for a good five minutes. It's only after his laughing fit that he thought to help you. You'd have to give him a matching bump to keep his mouth shut about it.

If Hurt By Something Else

You two were probably setting up a prank and something went wrong along the way.

If only a little hurt he'd hold in a laugh and ask if you were alright, to which you'd glare at his hidden grin and say you were fine.

If you were actually hurt he'd go into a bit of a panic, quickly bringing you to Medic. The two of you most defiantly had to lie to get away with what you two had been doing. Unfortunately you were both really bad liars. Medic wasn't convinced but he also didn't care, thankfully.

You'd often bring up how scared he looked when you got hurt every time he tried to act like he didn't care about you that much. It never failed to get his tongue stumbling.

If Hurt In Battle

He's not one to care about a few bumps and scratches. He'll likely tell you to try to be as tough as him(he saids as he calls for medic over a splinter). He sees his job more as a game then a battle so it's rare he holds a grudge against anyone. He's maybe a bit more competitive from that point foward but not obsessively so.

Larger injuries and he's quick (litteraly) to dive into the heat of battle to help. More than often he ends up dead beside you but when he does manage to save you he's super macho about it. He'll say stuff about how much you needed him and how you'd never survive a day without him Even though most of the times you're the one pulling him out of those situations...

Just let him have his moment.

If Hurt By Someone On The Team

It was most definitely because you had annoyed someone, most likely Soldier or Heavy. This happens quite often.

If it looks like you're winning the fight he'll cheer you on. No need for him to get involved if you've got it handled.

If something really starts to go down though, he's on your side. There isn't a time where only one of you was beaten to shit, it always had to be the both of you.

Soldier

If Hurt By Your Own Stupidity

You were trying to rocket jump.

Literally just...Why did you think you could do that?

A small injury and Soldier won't even acknowledge it. Be that a bloody nose or a sprained ankle he's going to act as if you were perfectly fine, mostly because he seldom felt pain anymore and he had a hard time trying to recognize it in other people.

If severely hurt he's most likely going to explain to you everything you did wrong and you'll have to either scream for Medic or wait until he carries you there after his lecture.

You do dumb shit you deal with the consequences.

If Hurt By Something Else

Likely a sparring match that got out of hand or possibly a malfunction of a rather precariosly built weapon.

A small injury and he isn't going to care. If you make a big deal out of it he'll tell you to 'man up' and deal with it though it's more so in good fun rather than antagonism.

A large injury though and he's quick to help. He's calling for Medic and asking you to count how many fingers he's holding up. You'll say three, he'll begin to panic, saying that you must have broken your eyes.

He was, in fact, holding up three fingers...

Just don't question it

If Hurt In Battle

Small injuries are victories to him. If you're not at least a little banged up then are you really in a war?

If you for some reason can't walk though he's the first person at your side. Doesn't matter how many bullets he takes as long as you're brought to safety. He'll say something to the effect of 'don't die on me soldier! No, I am not talking to myself!'

After you're taken care of it's revenge time. He's gonna rack up a killing streak, your injury giving him the last bit of encouragement to win the round most of the time.

If Hurt By Someone On The Team

Defending honor! Whether it's yours or his, you are there to defend it and if that means getting a bit rough in the process then so be it.

If you're less injured than whoever you're fighting then, like Scout, He's cheering you on with probably a few insults to the other person as well.

If it looks more like you're losing he's still not going to intervene. He believes in you! You've got this!

If you end up knocked out though he's going to beat the shit out of whoever it was that defeated you. For your honor! (And because he just likes a reason to beat people up)

[kiingocreative]

The Structure of Story is now available! Check it out on Amazon, via the link in our bio, or at https://kiingo.co/book

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I recently discovered the work of couples therapist Esther Perel, and I’ve been fascinated by her work on erotic intelligence. In her book Mating in Captivity, she proposes that what kills desire and eroticism within a couple is proximity and familiarity. From there, she argues, it goes that instilling a dimension of distance and mystery in a relationship is the best way to reignite the flame of desire. By doing so, we learn to look at our partner in a different light, we discover new sides of them and all that unknown sparks attraction again.

This got me thinking…

I’ve been working on my second novel, The Dhawan Brothers, for a little over a year now, and it feels to me that my relationship to my manuscript has evolved over that time. From intrigue and mystique working on the initial drafts, to excitement and enthusiasm polishing and editing later versions to, slowly but surely, a sort of ‘been there, done that’ attitude that makes me prone to procrastination. I’m at a stage now where little in the story will change, or at least not dramatically. I know the characters and the plot, and I love them dearly,but they just don’t make me feel those same stomach flutters I had in the beginning.

And so I wonder…

Could our relationship with our writing be affected by proximity and familiarity the way desire is in our human relationships? Is it that, the moment we get too close, when we know everything there is to know about the other entity, it loses some of its appeal?

If that’s the case, is the key to making sure we remain excited about our writing diligentlycreating distance from it every once and a while?

To Take a Break or Not to Take a Break?

In a highly unofficial poll I ran in my Instagram storiesrecently, I asked the writing community about their experience. 94% of respondents said that, in general, they find it useful to take a break from their WIP. Whether it’s because ‘sometimes you just have to recharge’, because it’s ‘like refreshing your mind to be able to focus better’ when you get back to it, or because it ‘helps your brain work out problems behind the scenes’, writers seem to think a little distance goes a long way.

I was intrigued by the manyresponses that indicated taking some time off their WIP gives writers a chance to get back to it ‘with fresh eyes’. By stepping away from our work, we gain the perspective needed to look at it again from a different angle or through a different lens. That time and space away from our manuscript spark new ways of looking at our stories that we might have been too close to see before. We meet it again under different circumstances and in a different mindset, and it helps us rediscover it entirely. This, in turns peaksour interest and eagerness again.

Too Close for Comfort

But then… Isn’t that exactly what Perel’s theory is? That proximity and familiarity lessen desire in a relationship, whilst distance, mystery and fresh perspectives reignite it? When it comes to a writer’s relationship with their work, it feels to me like an interesting similarity.

In that same unofficial Instagram poll, when asked if there tends to be a stage at which they lose interest in their WIP or find themselves procrastinating, 75% of respondents said that’s indeed the case. The additional answers people gave as to when that happens were incredibly varied, for instance:

‘It depends if the passion for the project stays strong’

‘During the first draft’

‘In the middle’

‘In the editing process probably around the fifth or sixth draft’

‘This happens a lot because of self doubt. I struggle with it in all my life’

‘When things are not going the way I want them to’

‘There’s no particular stage, it just ebbs and flows. But I always come back to it’

‘It depends on the book’

There were as many distinctive responses as there were respondents. When I think of my own experience, I find my interest in my own work flaking right about the time the manuscript is polished. That moment where what’s mostly left to fix are stray typos and minor details, but the core of the story is there to stay. That’s the stage where there’s nothing in the writing process that’ll take me by surprise.

When I think of it, that’s exactly how I view and react to everything,in my relationships and in life in general. I like variety, and excitement, and adventure. The moment I get too familiar with anything, my attention starts to stray, until and unless I can find a way to make that situation or relationship appealing again.

Writing as a Relationship… With Ourselves?

I tend to believe that what we write says a lot about who we are as writers. I’m now also tempted to think that how we write says almost as much about us.

What if our relationship to our writing revealed what turns us on as people? And what tells us more about a person than their inner desires?

Yes, there seems to be a trend amongst the people I’ve heard from, in that most writers find distance from their work to be beneficial, and a large portion see their levels of interest in their WIP dwindle at some point or other. When and how and why, however, varies.

If there are as many ways for it to manifest as there are writers out there, I wonder if this becomes less about a relationship with our craft as it is about ourrelationship with our inner selves. A situation where observing how we treat our writing is like holding a mirror back at ourselves, reflecting our approach to any other of our relationships — and life — in general?

Know Thyself

In her book, Perel explains that exploring and understanding your own underlying desires sheds a great deal of light on how you’ll show up in your relationships, what will make you do the things you do, and what might cause you to stray. That sometimes your actions say less about the other person, or the situation, than they do about which of your buttons are getting pushed.

I think looking at how we deal with our writing follows the same logic.

So, if you’re like me, someone who craves new experiences and mystery and excitement, you may find yourself bored when things stabilise and all that’s left is maintenance and housekeeping. On the other hand, if you’re someone who thrives on stability and certainty, you may find the first draft excruciating, but the later stages more enjoyable.

And Then What?

What does that even matter, you might say? Just like any relationship, writing’s a journey and there are bound to be ups and downs we all need to navigate. Right?

Right. But I’d argue knowledge is power. Knowing how desire works, in any form of relationship — with others, with writing, with yourself — helps you understand that, not only there will be ups and downs, but also what specifically triggers your own ups and your own downs, and why. And that, in turn, can greatly help you smooth out those otherwise dizzying curves. If you know your buttons, you don’t have to let them control you. You can take charge.

The writing journey can be fraught with surprises and pitfalls, and every little helps. Understanding how your approach to your writing reflects your own inner tendencies can help you predict when an up or a down isabout to start. With some introspection, you can better prepare for these, capitalise on the highs and give yourself some kindness on — or even minimise — the lows.

If it can help make the journey that little bit easier, isn’t it worth a try?

[clouditae]

First Love | 12

Yoongi x reader | 18+ | college au | tattoo artist au | angst | fluff | alcohol | swearing

Word: 3.8k

You first saw him in the multi-purpose room. Later learn his name, and on your third year, as he becomes your neighbor, you discover his lifestyle. Knowing your crush on him was nothing but that, you wanted to find the courage to look for love. Asking your friend for help, you’re pointed in the direction of the expert. Your neighbor, Min Yoongi

Chapter Index

Ari opens the door, tossing her backpack to the floor. You weren’t expecting her to come back so early that when the door loudly creaks from the force of the door opening, you jump in surprise. She looks to you with a triumphant look on her face as she practically yells with the door still closing, “I got an A on my fucking paper!” The door slams shut as she does a weird and awkward dance.

“Good job. I knew you could do it,” you congratulate, saving your work on your computer.

Ari kicks her backpack with no care in the world as to what she has inside. “Let’s celebrate,” she extolls, pulling off her hoodie and tossing it on her bed.

You turn your body to the left where she stands, picking up her backpack and putting it on her bed. “Celebrate?”

“Yeah. It’s Friday, I got a well deserved grade after almost breaking my wrist, and I am in the mood for some good food and a drink or seven.”

“What about Hoseok?” Ever since Hoseok and Ari got together, they’ve been inseparable. You sometimes wonder if you’ll be like that when you get a boyfriend. All couples eventually spend time separately, right? You sometimes feel really disappointed in yourself for not knowing a lot when it comes to relationships.

“He’s staying after class with some of his classmates to study for a test that ends tonight,” she says, disbelief evident in her tone.

“Why hasn’t he taken the test yet?”

“I don’t know? He seemed really nervous about this test, so all he’s done is study like there’s no tomorrow. I hope he takes it soon because the longer he waits, the harder it will be to answer questions as time ticks by.” Ari shakes her head, walking to her closet and opening the door. “Are you going in sweats?” She looks at you through the mirror.

You blink at her. “We’re actually going?”

She scoffs, “Yeah. I wasn’t joking, Y/N.” She pulls out a red spaghetti strap and a black jacket. Removing her shirt, she slips on her top. “I want food and some drinks.”

You sigh, “Can’t we just order takeout and sneak some alcohol in?”

“And get in trouble?”

You stare at her, contemplating if sneaking alcohol is really worth it. Groaning, you get up from your seat. “How far are we going?” You walk to your closet, opening the door to grab your jeans and whatever black shirt you first grab. There is no patience when it comes to picking outfits. You just blindly pick and go and hope it looks nice on you.

“It’s only down the street,” she exclaims, taking a set at her desk to fix her makeup at her little mirror. Changing clothes, you realize you put on a turtleneck. You didn’t know you have this type of shirt in your closet. You’ve seen a lot of professional looks with turtlenecks, but you can’t remember buying this and found no reason to wear it. “That’s a cute look,” Ari suddenly says, her body turned towards you. You watch her get up from her seat, making her way towards you. She unbuttons your pants and pushes the lower half of your shirt in your pants. “You’ll look even cuter like this. Plus you have a nice ass, so show it off.” Your hands unconsciously go to your butt, suddenly feeling self conscious. Ari buttons your pants and tells you, “No one will look. You’ll be sitting the whole time.” She pulls your shirt out just a bit to give it a baggy look. “There. Now your cute ass will get attention, but you’ll just look like you’re not interested and they’ll be sad not to have the opportunity to speak to the gorgeous Y/N.”

Ari just seems to have a way with words.

After a few more minutes of double checking for everything, the two of you leave your dorm and head the usual route towards the front parking lot. As you pass Yoongi and Hoseok’s door Ari yells, “Let’s go get you drunk and a boyfriend, Y/N!”

You place your hand over her mouth. “Why are you yelling?” you whisper, checking behind you to see if anyone heard her.

Ari removes your hand from over her mouth. “I’m showing Yoongi you’re better off without him,” she replies, the two of you walking past the stairwell and into the hallway where the exit to the front is.

“What makes you think Yoongi is even in his room?” The two of you are halfway down the hall when the sound chatter can be heard as you pass a group of doors.

Ari shrugs. “The dude never goes anywhere besides class and his room right?” You don’t know yourself. A majority of the time you spent with him was either in his room or somewhere else that not many people from campus went to. “I want him to know you’re about to get dicked down and he’s missing out on a fine ass girl.”

“I’m about to what?” What does that even mean?

Ari laughs as the two of you exit the building and head down the stairwell. “Not today obviously, but it’s to make him jealous.”

“We don’t even know if he likes me,” you counter, following a group of students walking towards the front gate entrance.

“Opposites attract, Y/N.”

“I’m attracted to him, but that doesn’t mean he’s attracted to me.”

Ari loops her arm through yours. “You never know. He might have a crush on shy, innocent types.”

“Wishful thinking, Ari,” you say, shaking your head as the two of you reach the sidewalk and make your way up towards the bar that sits at the corner. There are a few other students a bit up ahead making their way towards the bar as well, their loud chatter can be heard from where you and Ari walk.

“So, how’s your project coming along? Don’t you have like two weeks left?” The two of you pass a hotel. The neon light hanging on the window to the reception flickers every few seconds. Everything is quiet in that building until you pass the seafood restaurant where you can see a few people laughing from the window. It looks more lively than the hotel.

“It’s going great surprisingly.” You rub your arm for a little more warmth. “I just have to finish my body and conclusion and then sum it a bit more for the poster.”

“Damn. So you’ll have it done earlier than anyone when it comes to projects,” Ari whistles.

“People finish their projects a week or more before the due date,” you say, the two of you are now closer to the bar where you know heat will be.

“People who are smart finish weeks before. The rest of us procrastinate,” she laughs, shaking her head. The bar is now within a few feet when Ari says through chattering teeth, “We’re running. I can’t do this anymore.” You don’t have much of an option as she begins to jog towards the building, dragging you with her. Pushing through the door the smell of nachos and burgers invade your senses, your stomach rumbling in hunger. Ari removes her arm from around yours, pushing you towards the seating area. “Go find us a table. I’ll grab the food and drinks.”

Walking further into the building, you look around for an empty table. The walls where the tables and booths occupy are yellow while the brick wall has the kitchen and cashier against it. You scan the room in search of someone leaving, but to your luck you don’t have to look long until you find an empty booth at the far end of the room. You make your way over as another group of people get up from their table, gathering their backpacks after what looks like studying. You take a seat just as Ari makes her way over holding two bottles.

As Ari takes a seat across from you, she hands you the clear bottle with a green substance inside and says, “Flavored alcohol tastes so much better. Plus you’ll want more.”

Thanking your roommate, you take the glass and take a swig of it. It tastes like apples. “Has Hoseok started his test yet?”

“Yeah. When I last texted him, he was getting ready to start the test. He’s nervous and I told him you said "good luck”. He gave me one of those crying faces.“

"I hope he passes,” you mutter as you bring the rim of the glass to your lips. After another drink you add, “Is he coming here after his test or will he just go back to his room?”

Ari thinks for a moment, opening her mouth to answer when the speaker above says, “Ari, please come to the front. Your order is ready.”

She gets up and makes her way to the counter at the front where your food is waiting. From afar you watch her grab the tray, say a few words to the worker and make her way back to your table. “He’s just going to go back to the dorms. He sounded tired over the phone when we last talked,” she answers, putting the tray down and taking her seat.

On the tray is a plate of a greasy cheeseburger and fries; the other plate has nachos with jalapenos. “You got a burger, too?”

“Yeah. I was just going to get nachos for the both of us because it’s a lot, but I was craving a burger, too.” She shrugs. “We’ll share both and have the night of our lives.” You chuckle, grabbing a chip with a jalapeno barely hanging on by the string of cheese that’s attempting to escape from your mouth.

You grab the plate that holds the burger and fries, pulling it towards you. Picking up the knife that’s placed between the fries and greasy stack, you cut the burger in half, careful to not give one side more than the other. “Midterms are starting in two weeks, do you know if all your classes will have them or just some?” you ask, pushing the plate back to the middle for Ari to reach.

She groans, “All of them are going to have a midterm. One of them is a fucking paper that has to be seven pages long.”

“Seven? Which class is that?” You also wonder when she was given the information about the paper, and how long she originally had to write it. Ari is a big procrastinator. If she can avoid doing work immediately, she will and give herself a few days to work on it with all the stress jumping at her.

She shoves a few fries in her mouth in an aggressive manner. “Modern Asia,” she answers, mouth full of chewed up food. “He gave us this big list of documents we need to pick from and watch. Then we have to write a paper on it and answer the questions he has for them. There are seven documents on six different countries.”

“Which one are you picking?” You grab a few nacho chips, flipping it so that the cheese wraps around and coats the chip more.

“Uzbekistan.” She grabs half of the burger, taking a bite out of the corner. “The People, History, and Culture of Uzbekistan to be more specific. It’s on YouTube so it won’t be a mission to find the video, but a big distraction because it’s on YouTube.” Ari takes another bite, bigger this time, of her burger. “This is really good.” She looks up to you. “Should I buy another one?”

“We haven’t made a dent in the nachos yet. Plus we still have the fries to finish,” you inform, clearly shocked that Ari’s ready for more.

“Take a bite of the damn burger and you’ll know what I mean,” she commands, gesturing to your half that sat on your plate in all its glory.

You roll your eyes, doing as told. You can’t deny that it smells amazing and your mouth waters at the endless possibilities as to what it’ll taste like. When you take that bite, it’s like taking a bite out of heaven. Sure you’re being over dramatic, but you totally understand Ari wanting to buy another one. “I’ll go get one,” you tell her, getting up from your seat and taking your bag with you while Ari laughs.

You get to the back of the small line, opening your bag and pulling out your wallet. “Next in line,” a voice calls from behind the counter. You take a step forward, now being two people behind before you’re called. You have to double check to make sure you brought your money with you. There were a few times when you just leave your money at home and have to go the day without eating when you’re stuck on campus all day. You get lucky sometimes when Ari would bring you your missing items. The worker calls for the next customer to come up.

“Y/N?” You look behind you to see a familiar face. A familiar face with a name you cannot remember. It’s your partner during beer pong. The handsome guy who any person would want to date. He’s easygoing and funny and friendly, and you cannot remember his name.

“Hey,” you say, trying your best not to sound lost because his name is not coming to mind. “How are you?”

“Good, good. A friend of mine and I were tired from studying, so we decided to come here for a few drinks and some food.” A voice calls for the next person; the two of you move up. “What about you?”

“My friend got an A on her paper. She wanted to go out and celebrate.”

“That’s awesome! I’d do the same if I were her,” he laughs, his smile actually making your heart race as he runs his fingers through his jet black locks.

“Hey, Hanbin,” a male voice calls, coming up to the line. Hanbin. That’s his name. “There’s no empty tables. You just wanna eat outside or bounce?”

“Really? Ah, man.” You watch as Hanbin looks around the building in hopes of someone leaving their table.

“You can eat with us,” you say before you can even stop yourself from letting the words escape your mouth.

Hanbin and his friend look at you. “Really?” the stranger asks.

You can’t say no. You already messed up, and saying no will only make you look like a jerk. “Yeah.” Good job Y/N.

“We don’t want to impose,” Hanbin tells you, looking a little nervous.

“It’s okay.” Where is all this false confidence coming from? “It’s up to you if you want,” you say, turning around and pointing in the direction you and Ari are sitting. “We’re over there if you want to join.”

“Next in line.”

You turn back around and make your way up to the cashier. You give your order for the second burger you and Ari are about to devour, paying and making your way towards your booth where Ari finishes her half of the burger. “I messed up,” you rush, grabbing your drink and placing it on her side of the table.

“Messed up? What’d you do?” Ari asks, suddenly being pushed further in the booth as you scoot in. “What are you doing?”

“Remember Hanbin? The boy I told you was my partner at the party?” You grab the plates and pull them closer to the two of you.

“Yeah?”

“Well he was standing in line behind me and we had small talk and the next thing I know, I invited him and his friend to sit with us,” you profess in a shaky voice.

“You just invited two guys over?” she asks in an ambivalent tone.

You can see her from the corner of your eye staring at you as you babble, “Yes.”

Her hand moves to her chest. “Has my little Y/N grown up?”

You turn to look at her in surprise. “You’re not mad?”

She laughs, “No. Why would I be?”

“Because you’re dating Hoseok and it’ll look bad if someone saw you chatting with a guy?” Isn’t that how it works? You’ve seen it in movies and it always leads to problems—eventually solved.

“Hoseok trusts me just like I trust him. I’d never cheat on him, and we’re not stopping each other from having opposite sex friends.” She shrugs, looking behind you. “Is that them?”

You turn to look in the direction her eyes are focused on. Hanbin and his friend stand by the soda fountain, getting their drinks. “Yeah. The boy with the green jacket is Hanbin and I don’t know the other guy’s name,” you confess, wondering if it’s rude to not introduce yourself. Then again, he didn’t either.

Ari’s voice is now closer to you as she speaks, “Don’t tell Hoseok but he’s really cute. Why not date him? Tall, fit and handsome? That’s a whole package.” She suddenly gasps, “His package must be—”

You cover her mouth with your hand. “Do not finish that sentence,” you sputter, glancing around to see if anyone heard you. To your luck no one’s paying attention to you and your perverted friend.

Aris swats your hands away. “He’s cute, Y/N. And if he comes over and sits with us, then he’s interested in you, too.”

“Or he’s looking for a seat because there is none,” you counteract, grabbing a nacho and shoving it in your mouth. “Also, I’m not interested in him.”

“Guess we’ll see.” A voice speaks over the speaker, calling your name. “Time to devour a delicious burger.” She slaps her hand on your shoulder, pushing you out of the booth.

Groaning, you get up and make your way to the pick-up counter, telling the person your name and getting your order. “Are you sure it’s okay?” Hanbin asks, suddenly appearing next to you to grab his own order.

You almost jump, gripping the plate tighter. He looks to you unsure if he’s allowed to follow. You can feel your heart racing. This is strange. Ari’s words are just getting to you. “Yeah,” you swallow, looking anywhere but at him. “It’s fine.” You are not growing feelings for him.

“Thank you so much, Y/N. I really wanted to eat some chicken strips,” he laughs, his voice sounding smoky.

Oh God you like him.

You, Hanbin and Matthew, he tells you, shaking your hand so enthusiastically, make your way towards your booth. Ari is busy stuffing her face with fries to even notice you three until you set the plate down and take a seat next to her. She looks up, eyes wide and fries sticking out of her mouth. Thankfully she waves rather than talk with her mouth full of food. Matthew gets in first followed by Hanbin.

“Uh.” You glance at Ari who quickly chews on her food. “This is my friend and roommate, Ari.” You point to Matthew. “Ari, this is Matthew and this is Hanbin,” you finish, pointing to the boy in front of you.

“Hello,” Ari starts, once she’s chewed and swallowed her fries, “I’m really hungry, and these fries are good.”

Matthew gasps, “They are.” He turns to Hanbin. “I told you this place has some fucking good food.”

Ari looks to Hanbin as if he offended her. “You’ve never been here before?” He looks at her with a lost expression. He clearly doesn’t know how to respond. To his luck, however, he doesn’t have to as Ari adds, “It’s a good thing you have a friend like Matthew to introduce you to nirvana.”

The brunette haired boy snaps his fingers, pointing to your friend. “Exactly.”

“What’s your major?” Ari asks, grabbing the second plate that has the burger to cut it in half.

“Biomedical sciences,” he answers, taking a bite out of his taco.

“Oh? That sounds interesting. What exactly do you study?” Ari rests her arms on the table, leaning forward. The burger no longer exists to her.

“Just kind of the understanding of biological and chemical systems of the human body. What about you?”

“Linguistics, and Y/N here is a photography major.”

Matthew’s eyes are now on you. “Oh another art type.”

“Art type?” you question, finally taking bites out of your half of the first burger.

“Yeah. Photography creates art; stand-still pieces. There’s art galleries for photography, right?” Matthew glances between you and Ari.

“Yeah, I believe so,” Ari replies, popping a fry into her mouth.

“Plus Hanbin here is also an art type,” he begins, nudging his friend with his elbow, “Film.”

“You’re a film major?” You look to him, completely invested in his stories you want him to tell.

He gives you a shy smile. “Yeah.”

And just like that the rest of the night is a blur. You four eat and definitely drink. Ari and Matthew are drunk while you and Hanbin are buzzed. You mainly have conversations with Hanbin half the time the four of you sit. The two of you talk about film and photography—things you do and try to make your work look better. Eventually Matthew’s girlfriend comes and picks him up. Ari gushes at how cute she is and you have to apologize for how… gushy she is. Matthew’s girlfriend doesn’t seem to mind much as she smiles and walks a drunk Matthew out of the building.

After a while you and Hanbin decide it’s time to head out. Hanbin offers to walk you back to your dorm, and rather than politely decline his offer you say, “Please.”

Now you and Hanbin are chuckling at Ari as she whines about how much she loves Hoseok. Reaching your room you unlock the door for Ari to stumble in and get ready for bed. You keep the door cracked open as you look back at Hanbin.

“Thank you for the walk back.”

He shakes his head. “No problem. With everyone being drunk, you never know who’s trying to start something.”

You smile. “Still, I appreciate it.”

His smile is even bigger as he points to the way you just come from. “So I can head back the way we came?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Guess I should head out. Be sure to give Ari some water and medicine for her headache if she gets one.” You nod. “We should do this again,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Definitely. Goodnight and have a safe drive home,” you say, voice quieter than before.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he mumbles, and it’s so sudden.

An instant that makes your heart race and realization hit as he presses his lips to your forehead, leaving before you can say anything. You touch the spot where his lips met your skin.

You have a crush on him.

[morimakesfanart]

Sindria's Prophet #16

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15]

[AO3]

~POV Sinbad~ Mori wasn't just a Prophet, she had immense knowledge of her own that was going to make Sindria untouchable. Sinbad was going to achieve his dream much sooner than he had ever imagined. Mori was special; intelligent, clever, capable, and she could read the waves of Fate. Was there any other woman as attractive? The unknown craving that had plagued him for the past week was placated. Delicious wine, beautiful women, delicious food -none of his normal pleasures had fulfilled whatever that feeling was, but for some reason this moment with the his Beautiful Prophet was. "And now you're *my* kind and generous King Sinbad, ... Right?" Mori's bashful confidence was always endearing, but hearing her call him 'my King' in person made something snap in him. They were in a corner and Mori is small; he could easily block view of her in case any of the magicians turned around. He wouldn't even have to lean that far to get a taste of her. "DO EITHER OF YOU Have an ounce of self awareness??” Ja'far popped the bubble that had formed around the two.

King Sinbad froze. Everyone in the room was watching them. Sinbad stood up straight. He shouldn't exactly continue his plans with an audience. He removed his hand from the window and crossed his arms. Yam was practically shaking the magician next to her. "I wasn't the only one to see it this time!” An older magician with a beard laughed and said something like 'to be young.' Another said something a long the lines of "So it's like that then." Ja'far was still grumbling about his King's behavior -he should know better by now, he promised he wouldn't, etc. but 1. Sinbad didn't do anything wrong, and 2. he said he knew what he was doing -he knew how to handle flirting with Mori; he never said anything about not flirting with her. "And you, Lady Prophet," Ja'far changed targets. 'Oh?' Sinbad didn't expect Mori to be reprimanded for his flirting -although, she did flirt back. Ja'far continued, "You said that you knew about Sin's habits so wouldn't fall for him or-" "AAAAAH" Yamuraiha yelled over the other General as she crossed the room as fast as she could, and clapped a hand over his mouth. She turned to the King and Prophet with wide eyes and a forced smile. "Your Majesty! Mori! Would you like to see the spell again with our new changes?!" She didn't let go of Ja'far. The group of magicians started supporting her suggestion with "Let us show you," "I'm sure we've got it this time," and reciting the changes to the formula. They were clearly trying to stop Ja'far from discouraging Mori. Sinbad had no idea why they suddenly decided to become his wingmen, but it was convenient for him since he planed to do more than flirt with her later. Mori walked up to the Generals, although she only addressed Yamuriaha. "Yes, please! Even if it's not perfect I'd like to see your progress!" She spoke with the same forced enthusiasm as Yam. Sinbad only got a glimpse before Mori's back was to him, but her face was definitely a brighter red than it had been a moment ago. She was getting better at flirting with him, but she couldn't hold her composure for long. The King laughed as the head magician practically body checked Ja'far out of her way and left him out of the group before they preformed the newly revised spell. This time it produced a mostly clear stone. It wasn't a high quality diamond, but they had done it. They would have to be careful with this though since it could lower the market value of whatever they make. As they figured out the specifics for every substance they needed, Sindria could become fully self sufficient -they would still deal in trade so as to not completely leave the rest of the world behind. It was amazing. His magicians were amazing for being able to figure this out in such a short time, and his Prophet was just as -if not even more- amazing for knowing all of this and being able to explain it to them. When the excitement around the magic spell died down they finally showed him the microscope. It was a prototype so they had to be gentle with it. Two pieces of glass with water squished between them were slid under and when Sinbad looked through the lenses he saw the strange small creatures that Mori had written about. Seeing them forced him to accept that what Mori wrote about 'germs' had to be true too -and those were even smaller than these things. Looking at those things squirming around and knowing they were everywhere made his skin crawl. The King stopped looking through the device. "They really are real." "Yup." Mori responded plainly. "And now that you all know and have proof. There's going to have to be a lot of changes. The way illnesses are handled is obvious, but there's going to have to be a lot more changes to how food and housing and things are handle to better maintain sanitary environments. I know a bunch of sanitation procedures so I can help there too." Ja'far was rubbing his temples. "This is going to be a logistical nightmare. Do you realize that we are going to have to fix all those things and get all Sindrians to understand without having it affect our production or

trade??" "It's not like we're doing this alone." Mori tried to comfort him. "We'll figure something out." The conversation moved to this new problem. His Beautiful Prophet really was something else. She had solutions to problems they didn't even know they had. Mori had a habit of using her hands whenever she talked -even more when she was excited. She was cute and deserved to know, but she was in the middle of helping his people so he would hold his tongue and just watch her. If Sinbad was honest, he had stopped listening to the conversation a while ago and was just looking for an opportunity to finally ask Mori -and Yam of course- if they would join him for dinner so he could get all of his Generals more aquatinted with her. Someone mentioned a specific scroll in one of the libraries. Before the whole group could drag Mori out of the room, King Sinbad raised a hand and got everyone's attention. "I know there's a lot to do, but I have some things to discuss with my Beautiful Prophet as well." Mori looked back at him. "What is it?” It seemed that nickname wasn't as affective as before -hopefully it was just the timing. "Is it something we can talk about here?” "I was thinking we could talk over dinner," Sinbad paused to see how she would respond to the implications. Mori's eyes widened and her shoulders tensed, and best of all that blush came back. "With all of my Generals, of course." Mori blushed harder realizing he was messing with her. Yam looked disappointed at first -his Generals cared way to much about him finding a wife- but then she looked content with being a part of the plan. "You might have met them, and know them from reading Fate but they still don't know you yet." He finished. Yam spoke first. "This is a great idea. Pisti was just telling me that she wanted to get to know Mori." Mori regained her composer. "I'd like to get to know everyone personally too, so I'm find with this." It was a roundabout way of saying 'yes.' Her blush was gone but she was still embarrassed. With that settled, Ja'far let Yam and Mori know when dinner would be ready. It was a little earlier than he normally ate but this would give them more time to mingle before they'd be completely out of sunlight. "Well then," the King turned to his Prophet, "since we have some time beforehand-" "OH no you don't!" Ja'far cut in. "You've already had a long enough break *and* you plan on ending early today? The least you can do is work your butt off until then." --- ~POV Mori~ The King was pushed out of the room by his right hand man. I had a mix of relief and longing watching him go. "You'll see his Majesty again soon." Yam had a sweet smile on her face, but I knew better than to trust it. All eyes were on me and they were no longer the eyes of academics; they were hungry for gossip. I was not ready to explain why shipping us was a bad idea. "So about that scroll you mentioned earlier..." I completely shifted conversation back to the eventual rebuilding effort and luckily one of them obliged me.

I was lead to one of the libraries and handed a few scrolls on the construction used in the country. I had read a little on ancient construction methods out of interest and some on modern methods since my uncle worked in the industry. I had a little bit of experience with construction when I worked at a community theater, but it wouldn't be anything the people here wouldn't know. That paired with these documents showing how magic was used in the process made what little I did know completely useless. 'Can't know everything I guess.' I turned my head up towards the ceiling. I wasn't sure how much time I had left and I decided to use it soaking up the ambience of the library. The smell of paper, the maze-esc layouts, the quiet feeling; it's like a gentle space separate from the rest of the world. The libraries of the Black Libra Tower also had huge windows to let in a ton of natural lighting. I was really going to enjoy working in this place. --- Yam and I ended up lost in conversation, so someone ended up being sent to bring us to the dinner. When we finally arrived and opened the doors to the dining hall my nose was filled with the smell of herbs and delicious food. This was my first meal that wasn't paired with bitter medicine. I might have been procrastinating subconsciously to avoid the medicine I was no longer taking. Everyone was already there chatting. The long table was covered with food, but I couldn't make out any of it from the door. King Sinbad was sitting at the head of the table at the other end of the room with a goblet in his hand. Yamuraiha started in ahead of me and called into the room. "I'm sorry we're so late! We were talking about magical proofs and," she rambled in her explanation. I heard a few comments of congrats for getting better and said "Thanks" reflexively more than consciously. As I got closer, I ignored the Generals at the table to look at the spread. There were a few different types of fish, meat of some kind, a bunch of vegetables, and bread. It brought tears to my eyes; It was so beautiful. The Imuchukk laughed at my obvious interest in the food. "What are you waiting for? There plenty for everyone." He was sitting closest to the door. I didn't look away from the food when I answered. "I'm small with a small stomach so I'm going to need to pace myself to be able to eat a little of everything. If I save the best for last like I normally do then I might not even get to eat it." That garnered laughs and comments. I ignored them; I was too busy weighing my options. As the guest of honor I was placed at the opposite end of the table from King Sinbad. Thank goodness, because I didn't think I could handle being super close to him all evening. Even with the direct line of sight, I had distance to protect me. Yam sat on the other side of Hina from me. Pisti was on my other side. Sharrkan was across from Yam. Spartos was between Yam and Ja'far. Drakon was across from Ja'far. And Masrur was between Drakon and Sharrkan.

I picked up my plate to get food. "Alright. I've decided to just grab my favorites. If I have room later then so be it!" I was used to being watched while I eat so their stares didn't bother me. I covered my plate in all of the types of fish and some vegetables. "I take it you like fish?" Sinbad asked while I was taking some of the fish that was on his end of the table. "It's my favorite!" I answered excitedly. I could tell as I placed the grilled fish on my plate that it was going to be heavenly. It was already flaking and letting the smell reach me faster. I couldn't wait to get back to my seat and took a bite of the fish. It melted in my mouth. I let out a squeak of approval as I grabbed another bite. After a moment Sinbad asked me another question. "What do you think of greasy foods?" It felt pointed. "I'll eat it if it's the only option, but I'm not a fan." The Generals made some comments that amounted to, "They have the same taste." I was too busy enjoying my food to think about what they were saying. Pisti asked me her own pointed question as I sat down. "Do you like alcohol?" They were comparing me to Sinbad. I suddenly remembered the Official Character Encyclopedia. According to it, Sinbad's favorite food was fish, his least favorite was greasy, and his favorite snacks were the types that paired well with alcohol. "I'm not a big drinker, but it's not like I dislike alcohol. I'm just allergic to sulfites." "Huh?" The group asked in unison. Time to explain one of my allergies again. "Sulfites are a very useful preservative so it was also added to a lot of foods back home including alcohol. All grape wines produce sulfites naturally. When I ingest about 2 shots of a drink that contains sulfites I will struggle to breathe for about an hour." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the goblet of wine I didn't realize was in front of me was grabbed by Hinahoho. They all looked panicked at each other like they had just dodged a bullet. In an attempt to relieve the tension, Sinbad asked Yam to catch everyone up on the meeting from earlier. Yam started ranting about the progress we had made with the alchemy magic. While they focused on reclaiming the mood, I focused on the delicious food. I tried a root vegetable on my plate. It was a little earthy with a subtle sweetness. The seasoning added to the sweet, but also had a little spice similar to cracked pepper. It had been streamed so it wasn't crunchy. I was asked to repeated what I told Sin and Ja'far earlier about the tech of home, Their questions had me explain more about my world and many of the things I had done: volunteer work to get scholarships, marketing for some networking organizations and some other companies, an assistant and teacher in out of school programs for 6 years while also working at a theater to pay for my own education. I only mentioned some of the places I had traveled to. I didn't even get to the things I did as hobbies or in working toward my dream of being a full time writer&artist. "I'm surprised by how much you say you've done." Drakon commented. I had heard similar before when talking about my past. "Is it really that shocking? Considering my age, I think it makes sense for me to have done a bit." It's more shocking that I was doing all that while getting so sick from my chronic illnesses that I would be fully bedridden and need a machine to breathe at least once a year until I turned 15. But I had also ate up inspiration porn as a child as a motivation to not let my body hold me back if I could. "Aren't we around the same age?" Yam asked me in response. I laughed. "Do I look 23 to you?" I've been mistaken for much younger than I actually was for as long as I could remember. It 1st became a problem when I turned 18 and got told I was clearly 12 with a fake ID when trying to buy an M rate game (Devil May Cry btw). "You're not?” ”Nope.” I rested my elbows on the table, interlocked my fingers, and I placed my chin on top with a smile, "But I'm curious how old you all think I am now." At 25 I was mistaken for a 14

year old. At least, a few months back someone thought I was legal (they guessed 19). Most realized I had to be older the more they talked to me, but their impressions never fully dissipated. As frustrating as it was, I found amusement in times like this by turning my age into a guessing game. Sharkkan had the face of someone fearing they had hit on someone too young. "You are at least 20, right?” They all suddenly looked worried. "I'm definitely older than 20." I answered. Pisti laughed. She was also short with a baby face; she knew my struggle. "Maybe she's older than Ja'far!” Of course she would make the closest guess. "There's no way she's older than me." Ja'far scoffed. "I am older than 25 though.” I could have teased him but I held my tongue since he already seemed annoyed with me. "How old are you then?” Hina asked. "I'm 29.” I smiled at everyone's surprise. I might only have surface levels similarities to Sinbad, but when you're a simp for a fictional character does that really matter? "I was born on April 7th so I should only be 5 days younger than King Sinbad since he was born on the 2nd. However, I don't know if there's a time dilation between my world and this one. The day we met was Oct 3rd for me back home. It wasn't the same date here, was it?" Sinbad is 29, Ja'far is 25, and Masrur is 20 during the Balbadd arc; their 2nd set of ages are 30, 26, and 21 respectfully. Ja'far's birthday is Aug 30th and Masrur's is Dec 27. Those 2nd ages listed can't be for right after the 6 month time skip because no matter how you calculate it the shortest distance between those 3 birthdays is 8 months. I was really interested in how the current arbiter of this world was going to figure this out. "It was Oct 3rd here too." "Oh. Well, that's convenient," was what I said while my thoughts were cursing the arbiter. 'That lazy son of a bitch synced the worlds so they wouldn't have to deal with a time dilation. I can feel it. Hold on... I arrived on Oct 3rd; the coup was 4 days later on the 7th. 6 months later would mean Sinbad arrives back in Sindria on my birthday. Did some 'real me' somewhere plan a b-day present for myself in some self-indulgent fanfiction??' ((Yes. Yes, I did UwU & I plan on making Mori panic then too.)) King Sinbad had that smile on his face that told me he was ready to flirt. "I didn't realize we were so close in age." No colors got in my way when he talked. That was good. I was desensitized again, and wouldn't have to deal with unnecessary distractions. I couldn't tease Ja'far, but I could tease his Majesty. "I know, right? It's amazing what the difference of 5 days can do for one's complexion." Sinbad froze and his expression went blank. Something that was probably wine sprayed across the table as Sharkkan had a spit take before erupting into laughter with Hinahoho and Pisti. "Oh my" Yam murmured with a hand over her mouth. Drakon , Spartos, and Ja'far stared at me in disbelief. Sinbad still wasn't responding... Maybe teasing him about his age was a bad idea. So far, unless it was something important I flirted with Sinbad since that was the best way to get on his good side; hearing something like this from me must have hurt a bit extra. I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts that I forgot just how sensitive he was about his age. I ended up flailing my hands from nerves, and to get his attention. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that when I know how self conscious you are." He flinched. "I don't know if this will make you feel any better, but you won't look any older than you do now 5 years from now..." "I uh.. Is that so?" Sinbad asked as he started to regain himself. "It is. You'll be just as-” "If you're willing to talk about the future, does that mean you are finally ready to explain about those calamities you mentioned in Balbadd?" Ja'far cut in with a fierce look. He had been waiting for any mention of the future to bring this up. The King spoke with a gentle but stern tone. "I don't know if this is the time for that conversation. This is Mori's first meal with

everyone after all." "I'm fine. I made a promise and I intend to keep it. As long as everyone else is willing to talk seriously for a few mins, I don't see the problem." I had been avoiding this conversation for long enough. There were things I still planned to keep secret, but I couldn't avoid having this conversation forever. And besides, I could feel in the waves that Ja'far wasn't going to let this night end unless I explained some of it. ((I have the next 3 chapters written but it's going to take me a bit to draw all of illustrations & comics. Also, good luck to all the students reading this. I know classes are starting up again. Be safe out there.))

[beyond-the-birthday-massacre]

Good Night (#little-butterfly-writes contest submission)

Heyy! I wrote the most fluffy self-insert entry I could muster for the #little-butterfly-writes contest hosted by @little-butterfly-writes! I haven’t written for self-inserts for a long time and I’ve forgotten how fun it is to be self-indulgent :)) 10/10 highly recommend you to write one too! I named my MC Athena so I’ll use that name :)  

Fandom: MLQC - Gavin & Athena 

Genre: Fluff 

Word Count: 1473 

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At last, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

The entire company had dealt with the high workload for weeks in order to meet the strict deadlines. The heavy pressure was finally off my shoulders after wrapping up the filming and editing for the big project. 

The office became more quiet as the crew members left for the day. Currently, I was one of the last people there, Minor being the other. For the past few weeks, we had always been the last ones. I underestimated him and his work ethic. He would say the same phrase around sunset: “Hey, Athena! It’s getting pretty late. Think we should call it a day?”

Every day, I would encourage him to head out first and every day, he’d insist we both leave together. 

Minor watched me lock the front doors, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So! Any plans for tonight?” he asked.

Rattling the handle, I murmured, “Not really…” Suddenly rewatching my favourite shows didn’t seem as appealing as it did when I had been busy. The temptation of procrastination vanished when I needed it the most.

Minor glanced at his phone screen. “That’s great! I’ll see ya later, boss!” With that, he walked away.

“Huh?” I stared at his shrinking figure until he turned the corner of the block. He really zoned out, but I didn’t blame him. His expression held nothing but pride and relief that the project was finally over.

***

When I got home, I turned on my laptop. Although Minor never failed to get me out of the office, he couldn’t stop me from working here. Everything was done but revising some materials wouldn’t hurt. Plus, I should look over the reports that I needed to submit next week. 

Frankly, I wasn’t sure how much time passed when I got up to take a long shower. After drying off, I grabbed the first comfortable thing in the closet and realized it was Gavin’s white T-shirt.

Gavin had left for a mission a few weeks ago. The mission was highly classified so I decided not to bother him for the duration of the time. My workload started piling up then and I distracted myself as best as I could. Now that work was out of the way, Gavin’s gentle eyes were back in my mind. When I imagined him smiling, I couldn’t help but do so myself. If I couldn’t see him soon, at least I could meet him in my dreams.

I turned off the light and pulled the covers to my chest, staring at the balcony window as I waited to drift off. There were traces of clouds across the glowing moon and I couldn’t bear to turn away from the serene view. It felt like I was staring at it for eternity until a shadow suddenly appeared. His amber eyes shone against the moonlight and the night wind rippled at his STF jacket, sweeping his hood down.

Before I knew it, I was already opening the balcony door, letting the chilly breeze spill in. “Gavin! You’re back!”

He nodded. Despite the time of day, Gavin didn’t look tired. In fact, with his steady composure and uniform, he looked like he was ready for another day at the Special Task Force. “Mm. The mission finished just now. I wanted to see you,” he said matter-of-factly. 

No matter how long I hadn’t heard his voice, it was distinct and recognizable. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I gave him a tight hug. It was then when I felt a sudden drop of temperature and I withdrew abruptly: “Geez, you’re freezing!”

Smiling, he tugged me close again, stroking my black hair. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. But you . . .” He furrowed his brow, noticing my loose-fitting ‘dress’. Even in the dim room, the familiar shade of red on his ears was evident. He shed his jacket and I tried to stop him, but he managed to wrap it around me.

“You need it more,” I insisted. “You’re gonna catch a cold.” 

“It’s alright. I have something better.”

His hand slipped into mine. I couldn’t help but hold it tighter in hopes of generating more warmth for him. I brought him to the bed and bundled the blanket around him.

“How long were you flying? You know it gets colder at night,” I scolded, embracing him as we laid over the pillows. He wasn’t shivering but I held him close, unwilling to let go.

He burrowed into my chest and I could feel his smile through the thin fabric. “I promise to be more careful next time.”

“You always say that! Especially about your injuries. Speaking of which, let me see them.” Before Gavin could react, I yanked the blanket away, inspecting his forearms and his torso. 

“Ahem, I’m-I’m okay, really,” he assured, his ears burning bright again when I pulled at his button up shirt. I only found old scars that had already been engraved into my memory. 

Gavin brought my restless hands to his face. His gaze towards me never wavered. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said earnestly and kissed the back of each hand. He wrapped the blanket around us, nuzzling into my chest again. 

Relief steadied my heartbeat until he looked up at me and spoke in a low tone: “Before I left for the mission, I swore I wouldn’t get injured.” He paused, pressing closer. “Do I get a reward for honouring this promise?” 

Whether he was intentionally giving me the subtle, big, ol’ puppy eyes or not, I couldn’t refuse. Brushing his soft, brown fringe back, I pecked his forehead. “There,” I said, a smile playing across my lips. “How’s that?”

He frowned and cleared his throat. “I also made sure not to skip any meals.”

I gave a peck on his cheek. 

“I kept my sleep schedule consistent too.”

“Eight hours?”

“Mm.” 

“Was it eight hours or not?”

He nuzzled deeper into the crook of my neck, hiding his expression. Gavin’s face seemed to have warmed up since his arrival. I started laughing when he playfully bit me.

“Okay, okay, I understand. Agent B-7 has a tight schedule and he works very hard. Here,” I leaned towards his mouth and he closed his eyes, waiting expectantly. His anticipation made my heart flutter, but I couldn’t resist messing with him. In the last second, I moved lower and pressed my lips to his own neck, nibbling it for good measure and for payback. 

His soft groan was barely audible before he pulled me back, pinning me down into the pillows. “I don’t think you’re being fair, Athena. Seems like you’ve forgotten about your own sleep schedule.”

I froze but I tried my best to keep my cool. “My sleep schedule is fine, thank you very much, Officer.”

Feigning doubt, he hummed. “I’m not sure. You’ve been working overtime ever since I left.” He narrowed his eyes, carefully examining mine for reaction. “If Minor hadn’t insisted any earlier, you’d be at the office until midnight every day.”

My eyes widened. “Minor?! Aw, why am I even surprised?” Now to think of it, Minor had started to work longer hours around the day of Gavin’s departure. All this time I was hoping it was because Minor had been engrossed with the Miracle Finder project, not because of a task assigned by Officer Gavin.

“It’s almost 1 am. I should’ve found you fast asleep by now. How do I know if this isn’t a bad habit of yours?” Gavin leaned in, his proximity repelled my fleeting thoughts. His blue and black uniform made him seem so much more intimidating. “So,” he murmured, “are you ready to confess?”

I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt, but his grin knocked down my wishful thinking. “Okay, okay. I lied. My schedule is terrible.”

“Mm.” Satisfied, he released his grip on my wrists. “Let me help you fix it. Is this okay?” He cradled me in his arms, snuggling close. “If not, I can count sheep with you again.”

I giggled, recalling that night with all the sheep. It felt like nothing yet everything had changed. Sighing contently, I leaned into his broad chest. His heartbeat was calm, lulling me to drowsiness. “I think it’s working,” I mumbled, “as always.”

Gavin chuckled as he tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. His steady gaze was genuine and pure. “I sleep better when I’m with you too.”

My eyelids grew heavy and with the last source of energy that I could gather, I lifted my head and kissed him. His lips were soft against mine and when his parted in shock, I deepened the kiss. I could hear his heartbeat racing as I slumped against him again. 

“There. For everything you’ve done for me.”

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Final notes: I hoped you like it! A lot of things have changed in the MLQC fandom, but I hope everyone is doing well! Reading/writing anything about comfort characters really helps me so I had fun writing this!

I also write for luciensgunsee in Instagram --- it’s mlqc x reader stuff so if you’re interested in that, do check it out! I might put the extended, uncut versions of those scenarios here in Tumblr?? If anyone is interested, please let me know :))

[decks-writing-blog]

Indirectly a Hero

This fic is inspired by my prior doubt about ever being able to even reach 5BC let alone get anywhere close to beating it. So basically thinking about what that would look like in universe brought along the question of what would happened if the Collector decided to just make the Panacea without Beheaded there because they're too weak ever get that far?

Just for the record I now know I can beat 5BC even if it is with a a little bit of help from one of the new aspects in the beta patch (I feel it's technically possible without that but is a very tall order). I reached the Collector for the first a little while ago only for him to glitch. T.T Once he's fixed though it's only a matter of time before I get that 1st 5BC win. Perhaps for the 2nd 5BC win for the true ending I'll insist on doing it without the help of an aspect, depends on how I feel though because this game is hella hard.

~

The door opened with little more than a creak of its hinges, signaling the state Beheaded was in even before they’d entered the room. Which they did rather slowly, hunched over as they clutching at wound in their side, blood leaking freely through their fingers. That wasn’t their only wound either. Various injuries marred their body and tattered their blood-soaked clothing. They left a dripping trail behind them as they walked further in.

Collector watched them make their slow, painful way over to him. “You’re going to fight the Hand of the King like that?” His tone was mocking but it was hard not to feel a little pity for them given how often he’d seen them in such a state by now. Especially in comparison to their usual swagger. Though at least this way they didn’t destroy the door as they entered.

Beheaded lifted a hand to flip him off. They were still as rude as ever though, that was good to see.

Despite that, as always, they handed over all the Dead Cells they’d collected since last Collector had last seen them. He’d long since run out of stuff to give them in return but they thankfully still handed them over without even needing to be asked to. Seems it was just habit for them at this point and Collector wasn’t going to question it lest they stop doing so.

They then moved on, heading off to fight the Hand of the King again. Given their state, they would almost without a doubt lose again too. They’d only managed to defeat him a grand total of three times now. The last time had been quite a while ago too. But given how many other times they struggled long and hard against various other obstacles and enemies, they’d probably eventually prevail again. Unless Collector found that cure for the Malaise first.

He turned to looked at the container behind him now brimming with fresh Cells. Thanks to Beheaded, he had no shortage of Cells to experiment with and thanks to Time Keeper, no shortage of time to do so either. As a result, he was starting to get close to… something. Whether that something would actually be an effective cure was impossible to say. At this point he doubted it, but it was the only thing he had left to try so he was going to. Just a little bit more and he’d have it.

~

Time was impossible to measure in a time loop and thus there was no way to even guess how long it had taken but Collector finally had the ability to create a panacea. A mythic cure from a children’s tale, it wasn’t likely to work. But if it failed, there was no hope left for the island anyway so it wouldn’t change anything. Now all that was left to do was to wait for Beheaded to show up and he’d reveal it to them.

Except… Beheaded never showed. Despite Time Keeper’s best efforts, the Malaise was still getting worse, increasing the amount of undead roaming the island, making them more aggressive as well. Beheaded, already having a hard time, was struggling even more now. Rare was the attempt they got anywhere even close to the castle, let alone to it and then all the way here.

So as much as he would’ve preferred one last dose of Cells from Beheaded as well as the opportunity to show them the panacea, he couldn’t wait forever. And really, he was only procrastinating because this was the island’s final hope so if it failed there was nothing more he could do. It was about time he just got this over with though

After one last look around the empty observatory, he turned to look at the Catalyst. He’d been planning to use fresh Cells from Beheaded for this but they clearly weren’t up to the task of reaching this point so he’d just have to use some of the spare Cells left over from all the experiments that had led to this. Most of them he’d used up in said experiments but there was still enough left to do this at least once or twice.

He left to get a Cell storage container from the other room. Upon returning it didn’t take long to hook it up and transfer the Cells over. He then positioned a flask underneath its spout and turned it on.

The Cells spun and danced within the machine, condensing down into a liquid form and pouring into the flask. It glowed blue, coming up to almost the halfway point. He hadn’t used quite enough Cells. Not that it mattered a whole lot anyway as it wasn’t likely to work.

So with no one to share this experiment with – and what a vast shame that was – he grasped the flask by its neck and unceremoniously lifted it to his mouth to take a small sip. The liquid had the consistency of honey and had a sharp bitter medicinal taste. Unpleasant but not too bad really. Now if only…

The surge of energy that shot through him surprised him enough to send him to his knees. Oh! That felt good! With a chuckle, he stood back up and… nothing. He did nothing because despite the sudden pressing urge to do something there was nothing to do. So instead he growled and strode over to pound a fist onto his desk, making the glass beakers on it rattle as if in threat of breaking. He growled at them, barely resisting the urge to swipe them off the desk to shatter onto the floor.

He needed more Cells! … Well it was a good thing he knew where to go to get more.

***

After bursting through the door, Beheaded paused because Collector was back. He was standing there just as if he’d never left, his equipment operational and glowing with Cells once more. The fellow who’d taken his place was still there too. The two of them looked to have been having a conversation that Beheaded’s arrival had interrupted as they both looked over at them.

“Hello,” Not Collector said, their voice even cheerier than usual. Yeah, they idolized Collector or something, didn’t they? Beheaded had never cared enough to pay attention nor would they start caring now.

So ignoring them, Beheaded strode up to the Collector. They pointed at him and then gestured around before lifting their arms in an exaggerated shrug to make it a question. They’d assumed he’d died but apparently not. So where had he disappeared off to and more importantly why?

“Greetings. I apologize for my absence. However, I trust out little arrangement is still in place.” His voice sounded almost a little… strained? There was certainly a different energy to it than before. Something had changed. What though?

Out of spite and sudden renewed distrust, Beheaded was tempted to refuse and keep the Cells for themself. With Collector being even more suspicious than usual, giving him what he wanted might not be a good idea. Though… they’d never trusted him much to begin with so not a whole lot had really changed, huh? And they had literally no use for the Cells and thus had no real reason to want to keep them on top of the fact that if they ever came across another blueprint, his services in making it for them would be welcome. They could’ve possibly given them to Not Collector but doing so would’ve most likely been just a roundabout way of giving them to Collector. So with one last warning finger shake, Beheaded handed their Cells over.

“Thank you.”

Even if Beheaded were capable of replying they wouldn’t have bothered as they moved on, resuming their quest. It was still early but they had a good feeling about this attempt. They were going to see what was on the other side of that door behind the Hand of the King for sure this time. … Hopefully anyway. Really just reaching the damn castle again would be an achievement at this point. But they were for sure going to get through the door eventually and whatever was on the other side better be worth all this pain and effort.

Many, many failed attempts later. Long enough for Beheaded to hand over enough Cells for Collector to make enough panacea to cure the Malaise entirely

The relief Beheaded felt at finally making it through High Peak Castle was dashed almost as soon as they were entering into the passage because now they’d have to fight the Hand of the King. They hadn’t even so much as seen him in so long and had never been great at handling him and they’d been royally sliced to bits in the castle. Leaving them with an empty potion flask and far more damage to their body than they were comfortable with. Unless a miracle occurred, they were going to fail against the Hand. A shame but… at least they’d made it this far, pushing the bar just that little bit more. Perhaps next time they’d fare well enough to stand a chance though. … Not likely. Eventually though they would… eventually.

As always they went to Collector, giving him all their Cells without a word from him. But as they turned away to head for their ‘death’, he spoke. “I must thank you for your assistance.”

They paused and turned to look back up at him.

“The Cells you’ve brought me have been invaluable in my experiments. To thank you let me assist you in your endeavors again.” He pulled out a vial filled with an orange liquid; a health potion.

It was very possible this was a trap or trick of some sort but if it somehow wasn’t, it was their only hope of beating the Hand of the King, even if it wasn’t a large hope, and at least seeing what was behind that door. In the worst-case scenario, they could always detach from their current body and slink off to find another, as they’d have been doomed to do very shortly anyway. So as he extended the vial towards them, they snatched it out of his hand and tipped it back.

As their form absorbed its contents magic rushed through all their tendrils throughout the body, repairing the damage that had been done to it in a flood of pleasant warmth. Dropping the vial, they looked up at Collector again to give him a thumbs up and a nod before heading off, reenergized and ready to take on the Hand of the King.

Except they took only two steps in that direction before darkness encroached on their vision. Their control of the body faltered, making them tip and fall to their hands and knees and then even that was too much as they flopped over onto their side. Of fucking course it had been too good to be true.

“Sorry friend.” Collector maybe even did sound a little apologetic. “But I need you out of the way for a while. You will come to no harm though, I promise.”

Beheaded wanted to lift a hand to flip him off but unconsciousness dragged at them, pulling them down towards nothingness despite their best efforts to fight it. When they woke up though, they were so going to…

~~~

They were lying on a bed, a soft one too with a blanket thrown over them. The ceiling above them was nothing special but as they stiffly rolled over to look at the room, they recognized it. The room in High Peak Castle with all the beds. They were on the one closest to the door.

Exhaustion had driven them to taking naps in all sorts of strange and dangerous locations but they’d never felt even tempted to take one in this room. It was too dangerous and too close to their end goal for them to feel even remotely capable of relaxing here. So how come they were waking up here? … Collector! He betrayed them with a drugged healing potion.

They threw off the blanket and rolled out of bed, moving with far less grace and precision then they should’ve. Whatever they’d been drugged with hadn’t completely worn off yet. It was affecting their control of the body which made them angrier. As soon as they found Collector, he was going to get a piece of their mind.

As they made their awkward way towards they door they reached for where their crossbow should’ve been hanging on their back. Of course it wasn’t there, else how would they have been lying so comfortably on the bed? A quick check revealed it wasn’t anywhere else on their person either. A look back confirmed it wasn’t lain out near the bed or anywhere else in sight. All their other gear was missing as well. Leaving in them in the middle of one of the most dangerous places on the island without a single way to defend themself.

What was Collector even trying to accomplish with this stunt? They’d just ‘die’ and head back to get a new body and come hunt him down. Maybe they shouldn’t even try to fight; just abandon this body here and head off for that new attempt now. … But no, if possible they wanted to know what was up here sooner rather than later. And who knows, they might get lucky and find a weapon or two nearby.

So shaking themself a little they continued onward out the door and into the castle hallway. They were in luck, it was empty. Perhaps all the monsters they’d cleared out on their way through earlier were still gone. The time loop hadn’t brought them back yet or no new ones had come or whatever else happened that normally brought them back hadn’t happened yet. It was long shot but they could hope.

As they made their way through the castle, they became more and more sure that was the case. The halls were empty. There were blood splatters here and there and chopped up monster remains but that’s it. Which was nice, given their lack of weapon and the fading lethargy from the sleeping drug but… strange. Something was different here. … Beheaded didn’t like whatever it was.

Having even just a rusty sword and a barely functional shield would’ve made them feel quite a bit better about this situation. If they could find even a single enemy maybe they could steal its weapon? A hard feat for sure but better than trying to fight with just their hands and feet. Though if push came to shove, they’d gladly just punch Collector in the face. Not that trying that was likely to work out in their favor. Anyone who could move around the island as much as he did, had to be quite good at one form of combat or another and thus not someone to be taken lightly. If they took him by surprise though perhaps they could get away with a solid hit or two before he stopped them. He deserved nothing less for tricking them and…

They paused as they came upon a large door they’d never seen before. Which honestly wasn’t too surprising, they’d explored the castle far less than the rest of the island – other than the distillery anyway because fuck that place, they’d rather not have to deal with barrels exploding in their face every time they turned a corner. Other than its slightly larger than normal size though there wasn’t much special about the door. So with nothing better to do, they kicked it open and were met with the loud satisfying crunch of wood cracking as it swung around and slammed into the wall.

Inside was… the Hand of the King! What was he doing inside the castle!? This was no fair! They didn’t even have a weapon. Oh, they were so fucked! But wait even though he’d snapped around to face them he was unarmed! His lance leaned against the wall nearby. Beheaded sprang for it. Defeating him with his own lance would be so sweet! What better vengeance for all the times he’d ruined their day?

Their hand was within inches of its hilt when the Hand caught them by their forearm. He yanked them rough back and around, twisting their arm to force them to face him as he pulled them up so they could barely stand on their tippytoes.

Welp, they’d tried, got to give them credit for that, right? They tensed, prepared for the pain of being sliced or speared through or perhaps he would just tighten his already painful grip and crush the bones in their arm and then go through break all their other bones too. So they should probably just detach from the body now and…

“Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance.” Collector stood at the Hand’s side, looking down at them. “Always kicking and rolling through doors. However, given your obvious goal just now, I must warn you if you insist on remaining violent, I have a glass jar in my lab that would be the perfect place to securely contain a specimen such as you. Understand?”

Would a glass jar be able to effectively contain them? … Depends on how tight the seal on it was. And on how tough the glass was. Both of which Collector could probably easily ensure were more than strong enough for the task. Also, he no doubt could find a way to prevent them from pushing it off the table or whatever too. So such a threat was actually threatening and given Beheaded’s less than ideal position of being weaponless and held firmly by the Hand, it probably wasn’t a good idea to risk it right now. So… they nodded, even lifting their free hand to give a halfhearted thumbs up.

“Very good,” Collector said with a nod.

The Hand didn’t let go of them yet though. Instead, he tightened his grip a little before speaking. “The Alchemist told me what you are and where you came from. Perhaps if I had known before, I wouldn’t have attacked you immediately.” There were certainly instances were that would’ve been nice and would’ve resulted in far less pain and failure. Overall though it would’ve been less fun. “It’s too late for that now though. You killed what was left of the real King. I’d snap you in half for that but the Alchemist has asked me not to so I shall refrain… for now.” With that, he let go of their arm at last.

They stumbled, barely keeping themself from falling. They shook it off, backstepping as they pulled their arm in. Putting them closer to the lance but… something had clearly changed.

Tearing their gaze from the Hand, they quickly scanned the rest of the room. It was a map room; a table with a model of presumably the whole island sat in the middle of the room, taking up most of the space. The blacksmith and his little backpacked buddies sat at the other end of it. Time Keeper was here too, standing on the other side of Collector. She was watching them intently but also seemed uninclined to attack them for some reason.

Even if they grabbed the lance or had any other weapon, they were at a huge disadvantage here if things went sour. Or more like if they went more sour since this was already quite an uncomfortable position to be in. Fleeing was an option but they needed to know what the fuck was happening.

“I’m sure you’re quite confused,” Collector said. “Long story short, using the Dead Cells you provided me, I managed to create a cure for the Malaise. So congrats, you are indirectly a hero. We are currently discussing what we should do next with so few people left alive.”

“And we’ve already decided,” Time Keeper added, glaring daggers at Beheaded, “that regardless of whether you are still technically the old King or not, you’re not getting the role back ever.”

Unable to return her mean look, Beheaded lifted a hand to flip her off instead - they should be able to be King again if they wanted to. But… it was halfhearted and quickly dropped because… was the Malaise really gone? Just out of nowhere like that? What did that mean for them? All they really knew was fighting the Malaise infected monsters. And… the time loop, that had to be over now too, right? So what was going to happen next?

And they’d never reached their goal! They’d been going to defeat the Hand of the King and then go through the five Boss Cell door and then probably fight whatever was on the other side. They’d been pushing for that for so long and now all that was just over? That was so unfair!

Their whole life was over, wasn’t it? Because the run through of the island, killing all the monsters was all they’d ever really done. With the time loop happening they’d blindly assumed it’s all they’d ever do. What were they suppose do now?

“… don’t even need a new King,” Time Keeper was saying as Beheaded tuned back into the conversation. It had apparently resumed while they’d been reeling.

They didn’t really care though. And it’s not like they could contribute to the conversation or anyone would welcome it if they tried so… they turned and left. No one tried to call them back.

The Malaise being cured and presumably eradicated from the island made the strange emptiness of the halls as they strode through them make much more sense. It made traversing them a lot less exciting and a non-accomplishment. But… getting sliced to bits, stabbed, exploded and all sorts of other things did hurt quite a bit so this development wasn’t all bad. That didn’t make it any less aggravating that it hadn’t happened on their terms as it should’ve. Nor did it make the idea of finding another way to entertain themself any easier.

They paused as they finally found the outdoor throne room. The fire that had been around the throne had finally been put out or had been allowed to peter out on its own. They continued on, going past it and beelining for the little room behind the fountain. Even if the glory and achievement of reaching it the way they’d intended had been stolen from them they were still going to see what was behind that door.

It was already open and hanging ajar as they approached. They kicked it the rest of the way open, making it slam loudly into the wall. Doing so provided nowhere near as much satisfaction as reaching it after defeating the Hand would’ve but it was still better than just pushing it open.

And on the other side was… a small room and an elevator. The elevator went up a long, its chains rattling loudly the whole. At top was another safe passage room. On the other side was… a lab. No monsters though, nor the sound of any nearby. There probably had been though, right? Before Collector cured the Malaise and fixed everything. It would’ve been nice to see some new enemies even if said new monsters probably would’ve quickly destroyed their body. But no, all that was over and now… What were they supposed to do next? … Even if they’d had any real interest in returning to their prior existence’s role as King, they wouldn’t be allowed to. Leaving them to do… what? …

Shaking off those thoughts once more, they continued on to explore more. Much of the equipment was now broken shards of glass and debris on the ground. Despite that, it didn’t take long to determined that the lab had clearly belonged to Collector before it had been taken over by monsters. Which no doubt was cause of the destruction.

Way up at the top of the tallest tower was a large room that seemed to be the only part still functioning as a lab. Amongst other smaller equipment stood a large cylindrical machine with a lot of weird parts coming off it and a spout on the front as if to dispense something. Its inside still had a glimmer of blue something coating them. Undoubtedly this was where Collector had concocted the cure, using all the Dead Cells Beheaded had gathered and given to him.

With an internal sigh, they walked over and turned around sit on the ground and lean back against the machine. What would have happened if they’d reached this place before Collector fixed everything? Probably something interesting, right? They would never know for sure though. It could’ve also been boring, just Collector finally telling them what he’d been working on all this time.

Which if they had known what he was using the Dead Cells for they probably would’ve continued giving them to him. Though if they had known they could’ve demanded their right to finish their self-assigned task before he did his thing, cutting off the supply entirely if need be.

Even as it was though, he surely could’ve waited just a few more attempts, right? However many it took for Beheaded to reach this point on their own. Which to be fair probably would’ve been a lot given how prone they were to getting their ass handed to them. But with the time loop happening, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He could’ve waited.

It was too late now though and probably no going back. They had no choice but to move on and figure out what they were going to do next. Maybe they could leave the island and head off in search of another adventure. Or maybe they should try to return to their former life and insist on being King. Perhaps they should do something else entirely. … Ugh, making important decisions sucked. They had to though… eventually. For now though they were going to just sit here be bitter about their victory being stolen from them.

[yourfriendslimey]

Clouds of Cream

Pt. 1

Summary- While taking a day to run weekly errands, you take the time to stop at your local cafe where a certain handsome barista happens to work...

Pairing: Mark Tuan x Reader

Genre: Fluff

author’s note: This part is mostly to establish base story, also later parts will contain sexual themes; however, i COULD also produce watered down versions for those of you who enjoy the story but don’t care for those kinds of things. lemme know. Anyways, enjoy <3

WC: 2342

Part. 1- I Never Got Your Name…

Your eyes pried themselves open as the morning sun snuck into your studio apartment. With a heavy arm, you reached over to the tiny bedside table and grabbed your phone. 8:00 a.m…. You groaned, tossed your phone onto the table and pulled the blanket over your face. It was Saturday, your day off work, so you could in theory sleep in. However, you knew if you didn’t get up now then the To-Do list tacked to the cork board above your desk would go unattended. Plus… You thought, sitting up haggardly…I could stop at the café while I’m out…

You had gone to Downtown Brews for the first time a few months ago with a close friend who swore up and down it had THE best coffee. He was right. Now you were all but addicted. The roasts were divine, and the pastries were nothing to scoff at. And often by chance, you were helped by the same barista who, if you dared to say so, was not too hard on the eyes. The barista…You felt guilty not knowing his name by now. Even though you saw him every time you walked through those doors, you never managed to read his nametag. You were always too…distracted.

You let your feet hang off the bed for a few moments while your mind began to wander. As you stood and made your way to your tiny bathroom, you wondered if he even really noticed you. Of course, he recognized your face. You were there all the time. At the counter, he would give a casual smile and in his cool tone say “Hey, y/n, nice to see you again? The usual?” They took names for orders, so yeah, he knew that too. He knew your regular order because it was well... your regular order. But that didn’t mean he really saw you. The café had a lot of regulars, he probably knew a few orders and names by heart. While brushing your teeth you became even more lost in thought… You leaned close the bathroom mirror, analyzing your face. It was still puffy, showing the aftermath of a late night’s sleep. You frowned a little. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe you just weren’t his type. You fed into your dismay while taking a longer than usual shower.

With fresh breath and a newly showered body, you walked to your closet and pulled out a pair of black skinny jeans, an oversized t-shirt with your college mascot on the front, and a grey dad-hat. You might as well be comfortable while running around all day. You grabbed your backpack and tossed in your phone charger, wallet, and keys. You quickly snatched the list from the board and hurried out the front door before the demon that was procrastination could set in.

You groaned as you walked to the end of the hall, anticipating the journey you had to make down the stairs. The elevator was down and had been for months now. The landlord kept telling you someone would be in to fix it next month, but it seemed like next month never came. Instead, you frustratedly stomped down the stairs, each time cursing past you for wanting to live on the third floor.

The building you lived in was nowhere near fancy. But it was home at least. Unlike the buildings uptown, the lobby wasn’t big and beautiful with potted plants and delicate light fixtures. It was more of an extra wide hallway. The walls presented a sickly grey-green on the upper half, the bottom being slowly warping wood paneling. A large portion of the space was dedicated to old metal mailboxes and contained ceiling lights hanging on their last legs; more than half of them flickering or entirely dead. You decided to check your mail later. You never really got anything anyway.

Outside, you were met with a clear sky and smiling summer sun. A warm breeze danced through the branches and the sweet smell of mature flowers blessed your nose. You felt more energized by the perfection of the day and with newfound eagerness, began your walk to the café. You breathed easily, taking in your surroundings. It was around 9:00 a.m. now and most of the city was already awake. Busy men and women walked as fast as their legs could carry them. Some to their respective jobs and others you presumed, to use the day the same as you; going off to clear a long list of errands. The start of summer vacation also meant children with time to kill. Kids ran up and down the sidewalk, getting what you deemed an early start to their day’s mischief. A couple walked hand in hand, giggling and smiling. You could overhear them mention something about grabbing lunch later and maybe seeing a movie. Seeming them happy together sent you into a vivid daydream.

You saw the barista’s warm smile and kind eyes. You confidently sauntered up to the counter, cool as ice. You flashed a cheeky smile that caught him off-guard. “Hey there, what’ll it be?” he said with a fully flushed face. You leaned in real close and looked him in the eyes. With a stolen velvet tongue, you said “A tall, dark, and handsome…”

The cheesiness of the line snapped you out of your trance with a quiet laugh. Before you knew it, you found yourself standing in front of Downtown Brews. It sat gingerly on the corner, beckoning you inside. The coffee cup logo printed on the glass door a sight for sore eyes Through the large window you noticed that almost every seat was full. No big deal since you just wanted to grab something to eat while you walked. You pulled open the door, a small bell jingling overhead. You placed yourself at the end of the line, grateful that it wasn’t too long. The early morning rush had pretty much passed already. You scanned the peaceful scene. Even though it was full, the loudest noises were the clinking of mugs and forks. It was always like this no matter the time of day.

Downtown Brews had that affect on people. The café created a sanctuary away from the loudness of the city. It had a minimalistic look. Plain golden-brown wooden floors, beautifully simple wooden tables and chairs, and small hanging lights that seemed to float in the room. On each table was a centerpiece containing small purple wildflowers in cute white vases that looked like fine china. The walls were mostly windows, save for the left wall that made contact with that of the bookstore next door and the gray brick wall behind the counter. It was decorated with shelves lined with mugs, glasses, and more white vases with various plants and flowers scattered about. You noticed that every week, there was at least one new one. The owner of the place must have had a real love for flora.

You stood for what felt like ages, listening to some poor young intern order complicated coffees and various treats for what seemed to be an entire office. You anxiously switched your weight from one foot to the other, wondering if maybe today you would order something new. And then you saw him. The man who made your face hot and your head cloudy. He was always here when you were, not that you were going to complain about it. He looked so suave in his uniform. The white shirt, black slacks, and black apron on his waist seemed custom made for his slender frame. How could such simple clothes look so good on someone? Your hands felt clammy and your chest went tight. You hated and adored this feeling all at the same time. Taking a few quiet deep breaths, you set your sights back on the menu, busying your mind with deciding about what to order for breakfast.

You studied him as he switched places with another staff member and prepared his customer’s order. The café had a lovely practice. Whoever took your order would also prepare it. This allowed for a more personal experience that resulted in fewer messed up orders. The baristas took turns instinctually; based off who was the least busy.

You gawked at him, transfixed on his form. You watched as he grabbed a few pastries from the glass case in front of him, slid them into a small toaster oven and began fixing the drinks. Every movement was smooth and graceful. He was like an angel. His face was lit up with a precious smile as he handed over the massive order and with a nod chirped “Here you are! You coworkers better say thank you for this. Hope you have a good day.” The intern gave a rushed “Yes, thank you, you too,” and fixed her gaze on the cardboard trays of drinks stacked onto boxes of patisserie. She shuffled away with a sense of urgency you’d never seen.

The barista’s skin was almost glowing. It looked soft and flawless, almost like it had been airbrushed. But it was all too real. You heart began to race as the last person between you and the counter wandered off. You shook your head lightly, trying to snap yourself back to the now.

“Can I help who’s next, please?” the honey voice flooded your ears.

You nearly stumbled up to the register, eyes barely leaving the chalkboard menu hanging above. Even though you weren’t really looking, you could still feel the warmth of his smile. You met his eyes. “Hey y/n. How’s it going? Medium iced coffee with vanilla creamer, three sugars, and cocoa powder on top, right?” You felt the heat rising in your face.

“Hey, uh yeah. I mean, no.” Your voice was almost imprisoned in your throat, impulse taking over.

“Oh, did I get I get it wrong?” he let out a small chuckle and ran a hand through his beautiful hazelnut curls, “Sorry about that, guess I must be a bit tired if I’m forgetting-“

You didn’t mean to, but you cut him off “Not at all. I just wanna switch it up a bit. Today I think I’ll have a medium iced cold brew with sweet cream and caramel this time. And could I also have a cranberry muffin, please?” you smiled shyly, embarrassed knowing that you were obviously flustered.

He smiled wide and clasped his hands together. “Well I see we’re mixingg things up now,” he giggled quietly while punching your order into the automated screen, “Gotta keep me on my toes somehow.” Damn that smile- you took off your backpack and quickly pulled out your wallet. “Is that for here or to go?” He peered up at you, eyes doe-like. “To go, please.” You choked a little and could have sworn you saw a bit of disappointment in his eyes but passed it off. He told you the total and you handed him the cash. “Alrighty, I’ll have everything ready in about ten minutes.” You nodded and gave a small hum as he gave you your change.

You stepped off to the side and let your eyes follow him as he skillfully crafted your drink. His smile was replaced with a stern look as he focused on his task. You wondered if your mouth was watering from the aroma of coffee and hot muffin awaiting you or something else. Suddenly, it hit you that once again you avoided looking at his name tag. You instinctively avoided looking at one part of him too long. As a child mom had taught you it was rude to stare, and that sentiment stuck with you even now. You chastised yourself. It felt as though after you missed it the first time, it felt impolite to check now. But it was ruder to just not know. You always wanted to ask, but avoided it, thinking he would think you were a moron since he clearly has a nametag on. You silently huffed in frustration and made attempts to get a better look. However, you couldn’t get a clear view. If it wasn’t a machine in your way, it was one of the other baristas, or he was simply moving too much or he was turned away from you. Though you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed looking at his back almost as much as his front.

“Y/n, your order’s ready.” His smile had returned as he stepped up to the pickup area.

He held out a small brown paper bag and your drink. “Here you go. Have a good day, and I’ll see you soon.” His face was warm, his smile genuine. You beamed at him and gently took your things Your heart fluttered. Without even thinking, the words flew from your lips. “I’m sorry, I know I come here all the time, but um…” he leaned forward, placing his hands on the counter, “well I don’ actually know your name and i keep forgetting to ask…And it feels rude to not know since you’re such a good server.” He chuckled, raised an eyebrow and smirked. He shook his head lightly and let it drop to the side. “Tsk tsk tsk. And I thought we were friends.” His smile melted your heart. He stood tall and folded is arms.

You apologized again, telling him you knew he had a nametag on but you always forgot to look and began to ramble about feeling nervous to ask and the whole thing. He gently cut you off. “Don’t worry about it. It’s Mark. And now that you know, you better not forget.” He pointed a playfully stern finger at you. The name rang in your head. This man who occupied so much headspace finally had a name. A beautiful one. At least to you. You grinned, “I won’t, I promise. I’ll see you later, Mark.” You turned to leave and as you did, you were certain his smile had grown bigger and his cheeks pinker.

Mark....

[yet-another-saberface]

Interim Fic: Chaldea Commons

I finally finished it! This is pretty short, around 2000 words, but it was still fun to write! And it sets up something that’s going to basically be a central location for future slice of life stuff, so... Yeah. I hope everyone enjoys this!

I’ll be doing Orleans next, so look forward to that!

“Please tell me there’s something for me to do today,” I sigh, leaning on the wall just outside the command room. It’s been almost a week since we finished up the summonings, and while getting to know all of the Servants has been interesting… I can only sit around chatting and reading and asking things and such for so long before I start to feel like I’m procrastinating. 

“Nope~!” Da Vinci responds. “We’ll let you know if anything pops up!” 

I sigh again, pushing away from the wall and starting to head back to my room. “Thanks.” 

With nothing to do, my mind races in circles, trying to identify anything worth doing. Gather more materials? I already spent most of the morning doing that. I checked the logs. I’ve got more than I’ll probably need until the next batch of Servants gets summoned. More practice fights? That’s a bit useless when I already know how to use all of my Servants. 

Something. There’s got to be something. 

I’ve already read through the books I borrowed. Should I get more? That’d be redundant. But what if in the next singularity I end up needing specific knowledge on a field of magecraft I didn’t refresh my memory on? Well I mean, it’s possible. Not likely, but possible. 

How many fields did not read up on? I can’t even remember at this point. Probably only 1 or 2. Let’s put that on the back burner for now, we can always ask for info over comms while we’re on the field, right? 

Okay, so, no point to fighting, no point to reading, what else is there? 

“Senpai?” I’m snapped out of it by Mash, who I hadn’t even noticed. “Is there… A reason you’re standing in the hallway staring up at the ceiling?” 

“...Not really,” I admit. “But I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment.” I glance around the hallway to find it just as empty as usual, before turning to Mash. “You got anything interesting going on?”

“Actually, I was looking for you, Senpai.”

“Oh? What for?” 

“There was a place you didn’t see on the tour I wanted to show you!”

“Sounds great, what direction?” I reply, immediately feeling less tired. 

“Uh… this way,” Mash says, and begins walking the way I assume she must have come from. 

We walk through the halls, none of which look any different from one another. Despite having been given a tour after Fuyuki, I still get lost at least once a day while looking for a specific room. I’ve got no idea how the rest of the staff seems to know where everything is… And from what I’ve heard, it seems like the Servants agree with me. 

It would be easy to deal with if people tended to get lost in a predictable fashion, but if someone gets lost, it seems like you’re more likely to get lost yourself than to find whoever was originally lost. “Uh… Where are we going Mash?”

“There,” she says, pointing to a large set of double doors at the end of the hallway. The walls right in front of them aren’t like the rest of Chaldea - instead of the pristine white walls, they’re hewn from rock, as though the passage was carved out of the mountain Chaldea sits on… It probably was. 

Mash pulls open the doors, revealing a huge cavern with stone walls, illuminated by balls of light floating near the ceiling. On the other side of the room, part of the cavern has been further sculpted to form a sort of stage. It’s mostly empty, with the exception of some folding chairs in the corner, a cart with a projector on it, and what appears to be a drag-down projection screen attached to the top of the stage area. There are several other doors around the edges of the circular room… They probably lead to all the empty housing quarters or the labs or something.

“This was Chaldea’s assembly room before… Before Fuyuki. There isn’t really much use for it anymore, so I was thinking we could turn it into some sort of common area, since Chaldea doesn’t have one at the moment.” 

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week…” I say quietly, gazing around at the lights, and the sheer size of the place. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, uh, well, I was thinking that maybe we could carry some couches in from some of the staff lounges that aren’t being used at the moment, and look through the storage closets for blankets and such, and see if we could find anything else after that.”

I start bouncing on the balls of my feet. This is just what I needed. 

“All right then, let’s get to it!” I say cheerily. “It’s make-a-big-cave-a-hangout-space-time!” 

As we’re walking over to the first lounge area, I start sorting through all of the ideas suddenly flooding my brain. 

“We don’t have like… A board game closet or something, do we?”

“...Board games?”

“Mash, don’t tell me you’ve never played a board game.” 

“I’m sorry to say I haven’t, Senpai,” she responds. 

“Okay then, we’re fixing that, one way or another. If I have to storm into Da Vinci’s workshop and demand Monopoly or Sorry or whatever, so be it.” 

“...What?” Mash asks, clearly a little lost. 

“Don’t worry about it for now, it’ll all make sense once I take care of it. And it’ll be fun! Probably. It could also be frustrating. But it’s both! I should see if there’s a way to get video games… Does the internet even still work?” 

“In here, Senpai,” Mash calls, opening a door into a small lounge area. For the most part, it’s just as bare as the other rooms in Chaldea, but along one room is a single couch, big enough for maybe 4 people at most, with teal cushions. “We’re going to have to carry it, is that okay?” 

“Actually… That might be a bit of a problem,” I reply. 

“Why?” “I… How do I explain this? I’m weak, physically. And not just, like, compared to a Servant. By human standards, I am not the person you call when you need help with hard labor. I can try, I guess, but I doubt I could lift something half as heavy as this…” 

“All we can do is try,” Mash says with a smile. “My strength as a demi-servant can hopefully allow you to carry one end.”

“Hopefully,” I reply. “Should I walk backwards when we’re carrying it? I’d feel more confident with you navigating.” 

“Sure thing, Senpai!” 

Picking up the couch isn’t easy, that’s for sure. In the beginning, Mash is able to pick her end up off the ground quite a bit, while I can barely lift mine more than an inch. After lots of scrambling and trying to use my legs and back to lift it more, I eventually get it such that I’m more holding the couch than lifting it, which is still difficult, but at least it’s off the ground now. 

I walk backwards out of the room, letting Mash direct me instead of constantly glancing over my shoulder. After just 2 corners, we have to stop to put the couch down. My arms feel like they’re on fire, and my legs are already starting to get sore. My back isn’t exactly happy with having to stay arched while carrying it either… This would be so much easier if we had a third person or something.

“How many of these were you planning on moving?”

“Well, I was thinking we could start with 5, and move more if things start getting crowded?”

“I don’t think I can move that many…” 

“Do I even want to know why there’s a couch in the middle of the hallway?”

I look up to find that, somehow, despite the sheer size of Chaldea, Caster has stumbled into the same hallway as us. 

“I’m saved!” I yell, jumping up off the couch. “Well, maybe,” I add, sitting back down as calmly as I can. “I can’t carry this anymore, please bail me out, Caster.” 

“Where are you even taking this?”

“There’s uh, this cave, at the back of Chaldea. We were gonna move couches and stuff there so it could be… A common room or something? I dunno,” I explain through a yawn. 

“Eh, I can get behind that,” he responds. 

“Senpai, do you think you can navigate for us, then?” Mash asks.

“Uh… sure. Yup. Definitely.” How the hell am I supposed to find it when everywhere in Chaldea looks the same?

Surprisingly, after getting us severely off track and running into the windows, I manage to get us back to the assembly room, where we set the couch down roughly in the middle of everything. 

“Great, now we just need 4 more of those,” I say. “Roughly. And then it’s time to figure out what else we’re stuffing in here. But… There’s gotta be a faster way to do this…” 

“We have all day, Senpai,” Mash reminds me. 

“Not if we’re playing Uno later, we don’t. I know what we need to do.” 

And that was how I found myself storming into the command room and demanding the right to use the intercom. 

“Eva, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Roman reminds me. 

“I know, I know, I’ll only be a second.” I grab the microphone and start fidgeting with the controls, trying to figure out how it works. 

“Just let her,” Da Vinci says. I can practically hear her grinning. 

“Why should I? The last time we let her back in here, she didn’t leave for 6 hours and no one else was working because she was doing the work of practically the entire command room.”

“I know that glint in her eyes. She’s got an idea~”

At that moment precisely, I can hear the air fill with a slight static. The intercom is on. I let out a cheer, and the entire room jumps from how it echoes throughout the building. Perfect.

“So uh, I didn’t really have a planned message for this, but I figure that everyone should know… There’s this big assembly room in the back of the building that we don’t really have use for anymore, so we’re turning it into a common room for people to hang out in. But it’s gonna take forever if almost no one is working on it. So, now everyone knows… And uh… Yeah. Just find me or the room or something and we can let you know what we need help with, and if we’re lucky we can finish before tonight and play Uno! Thanks everyone!” I flip the switch I’d hit a few seconds before, turning the intercom off again. 

“That was all I needed!” I say, running out of the command room, just as promised. “And Da Vinci! I left a list of games on your desk that I don’t think Chaldea has lying around! I hope you don’t mind making them if you have time!” 

 “No problem~!” She yells back. 

I get lost at least 4 times over on the way back to the new common room - if only I’d run into the windows at the edge of the building again, it would have been so much easier. Why can’t there be landmarks to make navigation easier? Maybe that’s the next big project. Put decorations in the hallways to make them distinguished from one another. 

I stash that idea in the back of my mind to write down and bring up later. 

But by the time I do find the room again, surprisingly, the other couches have already been moved in, along with a few armchairs. Mash is stashing blankets in some storage containers along the wall, Caster and Saber are carrying huge stacks of pillows to set down on the newly placed furniture, and Rider is directing Emiya and a staff member in carrying an empty bookcase across the room. 

“...What did I miss?” I ask. “How long was I lost?” 

“Only around 20 minutes, Senpai,” Mash says, walking over to me. “Things sped up a lot after you asked for help.” 

“Yeah, I guess they did… Did I mention, by the way, that this was a really good idea and I’m probably going to be forever grateful that we did this?”

“No, I don’t think you did, Senpai. But I’m glad you think that.” 

“It just kinda… Already feels more like home.” 

Oop- Tags.

@contractgreen​ @panyum​ @withanina​ @campanulabell​ @delfinaschiffer​ @princessaslan​ @armageddon25​ @patproductions​ @xviicprc​ @eldritch-flowers @rankeluck @areeta9 @bitter--edge @uncommoncritter @blackcherrybombbomb

[waejinyoung]

Can’t Swim - EP . 8

Can’t Swim 8

word count: 3.2k+

a/n: you might be questioning where I have been for the past couple of months. I have one word to say that should be a good enough answer. College. I’ve been studying none stop and found no time to write the next episode after university started. The posts will no longer be regular so just keep yourselves updated. Hopefully I will have another 2 episodes up between now and the end of the year at least but don’t quote me on that. I hope you enjoy! 

I’m deeply sorry for my absence again x

warnings: nothing

EP . 1 , EP . 2 , EP . 3 , EP . 4 , EP . 5 , EP . 6 , EP . 7 , EP . 8 , EP . 9

THIRD PERSON POV

The afternoon continued with Y/N and Jinyoung discussing life and getting to know one another whilst Y/N replied to her emails.

“It’s mind b-boggling how you and J-Jackson may have crossed paths back in 2012…” Y/N had just mentioned how she was training for the London 2012 Olympics to compete for swimming.

“Similar to Jackson, I switched career paths and decided to study architecture. Dad wasn’t the biggest fan until he saw the passion and success I had gained in the industry. He soon came to terms with everything.”

“Wow… do you r-regret it at all?” The clock marked 10:30 pm. You guys had been talking for the past 90 mins, getting to know each other.

“I think I regretted not swimming after deciding to study architecture. I didn’t choose to not compete in the Olympics because I no longer liked swimming so I do regret not continuing although I must say, studying architecture might be the most time consuming degree out there. That’s why later on I decided to apply to become a licensed swimming teacher to undergo lessons. I’d be teaching people how to swim whilst fulfilling my love for swimming.”

“Best of both w-worlds, r-right?”

“Exactly.” Y/N had now placed all her work to aside with her back against the wall, legs crossed enveloped into the conversation.

Some seconds went by and Y/N wanted to know about Jinyoung’s initial dreams.

“What about you? Did you always want to be a singer?”

“Always. I took up d-dance lessons when I was around 15. Then went to a-audition and got in to JYPE. That was when I met J-Jaebeom. We actually d-debuted together as a d-duo group called JJProject to later on d-debut with the r-rest of the g-guys as GOT7. Since t-then they’ve been my f-family rather than just my m-members. I think it’s g-getting to the p-point where I might have spent m-more years of my l-life with them then I did without. Time flies…”

“I could definitely sense the brotherly love you guys all have for each other. So how did becoming an actor happen?”

“I r-requested from the c-company to find roles I could take part in a couple years b-back. First it was small roles in small d-dramas and then being c-casted by more known d-directors to p-play bigger roles. All of that has l-led me to play s-second male lead for ‘When My Love Blooms’.”

“When do the episodes start airing?” Y/N had grown eager about Jinyoung’s talents.

“Hold your h-horses… we haven’t e-even started f-filming yet and won’t be until I r-recover… The original airing d-dates will probably be p-pushed f-further.” Jinyoung’s words drifted into a sudden realisation for his career.

“If only-“ Y/N was about to blame herself again.

“We’ve been through this m-multiple times Y/N. None of this is your f-fault so s-stop blaming yourself for t-things you have no c-control over.”

Y/N had her mouth open ready to retaliate but if she had to be honest… she couldn’t be bothered to fight back considering it was now coming up to 11:00 pm.

“Fine.” Y/N yawned and covered her mouth. Work had been extremely busy today especially with all the news floating around now.

“S-someone’s tired.” Jinyoung eyed Y/N’s tired state and decided to call it a night.

“I still have so much to do. I can’t fall asleep now.”

“C-could you n-not spare an e-early n-night just for t-today?” Y/N recollected her thoughts weighing up if she could possibly sleep early tonight and get all the work done tomorrow.

“I could…”

“Problem s-solved then. Clear up your b-bed and get your pjs on. I d-don’t want to f-face a t-tired Y/N tomorrow m-morning.” Y/N eyed your mean comment and huffed to your orders.

“Yes, sir.”

2 WEEKS LATER

Y/N’s POV

“Miss, Jinyoung has been recovering quicker than expected. He should be perfectly fine to attend the event. If anything unsettling happens you can give me a direct phone call.”

“Thank you so much Doc.” You gave the doctor a large smile and she reciprocated a reassuring smile.

You entered Jinyoung’s room with your outfit for the architecture awards festival along with you.

“Am I allowed to come?” Jinyoung asked as soon as you entered the room. You gave him a nod.

Jinyoung’s voice was more or less back to 100% and his eye had completed healed by the end of last week. There wasn’t much left until being fully recovered. Possibly parting from the hospital quicker than the original 2 months the doctor had estimated.

“I knew I’d get the green light. I even prepared my outfit because I was so sure I’d be able to come.” You hadn’t seen someone so ecstatic for an awards festival.

“As expected… I’m not even surprised. Will you be able to get dressed? Need any of my help?” Jinyoung was still a little instable since he’s been lying in bed for the past 2 weeks. His legs tend to give out for the first 30 mins.

“I think I can manage. I’ll get dressed quickly and then the bathroom is all yours.” You chuckled at his assumption that you’ll take really long in the bathroom for the event.

Jinyoung heads towards the bathroom and you are left there practising a speech you’ve written for all the awards you and your company have been nominated. This isn’t because you knew you were going to win any of them but… the unprofessional scenes if you guys were to win an award and to not have a speech ready daunted you. There was nothing wrong with being prepared.

15 MINUTES LATER

You must say… I don’t think you had ever laid eyes on someone so handsome in your life before. You could swear that this man was carved by God himself.

“How much deeper are you going to fall into my looks?” You hadn’t realised but you had been staring Jinyoung up and down for the past 30 seconds of him leaving the bathroom. Hair all styled. The suit was literally made for him. His cute bow tie was a little wonky leading you to let out a chuckle.

“What?” Jinyoung’s face turned serious thinking something was wrong with how he looked.

“Your bowtie is wonky.” You stood up from your seat and reached out to fix his bowtie. Your eyes were fixated in straightening the bowtie and all Jinyoung could do was analyse your face and how focussed you were.

“There you go. Looks better now.” You lightly let go off the tie and looked up at Jinyoung who was already staring right back at you. Those bambi eyes were going to be the death of you.

“Thank you. Now go and get yourself ready.” He pinched your nose and then you entered the bathroom with your dress, makeup bag and accessories.

20 MINUTES LATER

“Jinyoung~~” You called out for Jinyoung. You were done with everything but couldn’t reach the zipper on the back of your dress. You had been procrastinating on what to do and just gave up. There’s no way you could zip the dress up alone.

“Yes, Y/N. Is everything alright?” You could hear his footsteps come closer to the bathroom door.

“In a bit of sticky situation… could I ask you to do a favour?”

“Sure, what is it?” You went ahead and unlocked the door for him. He took a step back and couldn’t contain the sight in front of him. You were in a red bandeau strapless dress which had a structured skirt that was shorter at the front and longer at the back with. A very slight trail. Unsurprisingly your makeup was the bare minimum and you had left your natural hair out. His mouth was agape as you stepped out of the bathroom.

“How much longer are you going to stare for Mr Park?” He had been in the same awe you was when he had stepped out of the bathroom earlier on.

“Yes…right… the favour?” His soul re-entered his body trying to compose himself. You could only smile on the effect you had on the prince himself.

“I can’t reach my zipper, could you zip up the back of my dress for me?” You saw his cheeks blush a light pink below the thin layer of bb cream he had on. Without the zip done neither of you were going anywhere so he had to do it.

He wasn’t able to give a verbal response and just nodded. You turned around to have your back facing Jinyoung. He moved your hair to aside exposing half of your back to him. He was blushing so hard right now and was happy to have you facing away from him even though in a matter of seconds you’d be facing him seeing the shades of red planted on his cheeks. Jinyoung gently placed one hand on the zipper and the other hand on your back holding the fabric of your dress still. His fingers grazed your skin and they were a little cold leading you to jolt a little by the surprising cool touch. He notices.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was a little worried. The slightest worrying reaction you make, and he’s so concerned. He’s too sweet.

“Nope, your hands are just a little cold that’s all.” You say whilst you chuckle.

He apologises with his soothing voice and zips up the dress, letting out a quiet done when finished.

You turn back round and thank him for his kind gesture. You also noticed the flush of his cheeks. He’s so cute, you thought. You quickly put your heels on and left Jinyoung’s patient room and entered the hall of the hospital. Expectedly, you guys received some stares and some whistles by the old women sitting outside their patient rooms. The event manager had organised a limousine to pick up each nominee for the awards hence why there was a lovely jet black limousine parked at the entrance of the hospital. The driver spotted you two and guided you the way and kept the door open for you two to enter the fancy vehicle. He ran back to the wheel and started driving towards the venue.

“Anything I need to know beforehand? Who should I present myself as?” Jinyoung had started with the questions during the car drive.

“Who’d you like to present yourself as Jinyoung?” You wanted to fish out his intentions from him.

“Preferably your boyfriend in order to stop those punks from hitting on you but I’d never want to force you into a relationship with me…” He side eyed you as he kept looking out the window. You so wanted him to be your boyfriend.

“Logical. Agreed. If anyone asks, you’re my boyfriend.”

“What an honour.” You slap his thigh due to his sarcastic tone.

“Whatttt? I’m serious. I’m going to be the boyfriend of an amazingly talented architect who’s bound to receive an award tonight. It’s a genuine privilege.” You could only look at him in awe as he described the so called ‘privilege’ he was taking part of.

“If you say so…”

The humming noise from the motor of the limousine was really calming but Jinyoung broke the silence once again.

“Are you nervous?” His tone was much deeper and serious compared to how he was a second ago.

“A little. These awards happen once a year and we’ve progressed so much as a company but so has everyone else in the industry. It’s hard to tell if we’ll be receiving the major validation from the institute. With or without the award tonight I’m so pleased with my company, but it would be nice to get a recognisable achievement for all our hard work.” Jinyoung listened to you as you let out your insecurities for the upcoming night.

“In the little amount of time I’ve met you, I think you’re the only person who deserves all the awards you’ve been nominated for this year. No one can change my thoughts and it’s going to be a pleasure to witness your achievement first hand. I can’t wait.” He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles trying to calm your nerves down. It was going to be a long night.

30 MINUTES LATER

Your limousine had rocked up to the red carpet laid out on the floor outside of the venue of the awards. You took a deep breath as the driver ran around to Jinyoung’s side of the limousine to let him out. Jinyoung agreed to open your door for you so he exited the vehicle first. Like he had planned, he went around to your side and opened the door for you to step out. The cameras started capturing every single moment as you wrapped your arm around Jinyoungs, and he gave you a reassuring nod. You gave him a smile and the two of you walked towards the entrance of the building slowly as you waved to the cameras and press greeting the two of you. The cameras were close to blinding, but you pulled through until reaching the entrance where the bodyguard escorted the two of you to your spaces in the main hall.

The building was full of white and gold decorations. You could definitely tell that the theme was highly influenced by Greek culture. The budget of the awards keep growing as the number of sponsors increase. The bodyguard escorted you to the table that Beck was already sat at with his fiancé. Beck realised your presence as well as Jinyoung. He stood up to give you a hug and shook Jinyoung’s hand. Beck’s fiancé shook both of your hands too and took your seats.

“The famous Mr Park. It’s nice to meet you in person. I’m Beck, the other shareholder.” Beck gave Jinyoung a warm smile.

“It’s nice to meet you to Beck. It seems like you already know of my name, but I’ll reiterate for the norm. My name is Park Jinyoung, you can call me just Jinyoung.” You let out a scoff because of how formal Jinyoung was being with Beck.

“He’s younger than you so you can ignore the formalities.” You said to Jinyoung and then Beck and him opened the conversation about age and their Chinese zodiac signs.

The evening began at 7:30 pm with the award winners due to be announced at 9:00 pm. Until then there was butterflies in your stomach ready to be set free any minute now.

Jinyoung came closer to your ear and whispered, “Loosen up a little. There’s no need to be this tense. Here hold my hand.”

Jinyoung offered his hand and you took it immediately as he gestured his open palm. Your hands were tiny compared to his manly hands. They encompassed all your digits giving you’re a sigh of relief because of the security they exerted. You let out a large sigh and continued with the discussions on your table with the new clients that were interested in your company. Having Jinyoung at the event really helped scare away the useless men who would only be interested in your physique and nothing more. His presence filtered out all the nonsense that would usually be taking place at the table.

The clock finally struck 9:00 pm and everyone went back to their designated seats in order for the awards to be presented. The event holder went through all the minor rookie awards to then move onto the company categories.

“Here are the nominees for Best Project of the Year.” The event holder signalled to the larger screen behind him as the nominees including your company are mentioned in no specific order.

“I was personally really fond of this project myself too. The meaning behind the design and the immense detail put into the façade really makes me excited for the future of this company. I’ll stop blabbing on and open the envelope.” You looked at Beck and then back at Jinyoung who was really eager to know the result.

“The award for Best Project of the Year goes to…” The event holder lifts the flap of the envelope and takes out the white sheet of paper inside. You hold your breath waiting for the result to be spoken.

“The Chamberlain project, designed and constructed by Chevrel Architects.” The whole community around your table started roaring and cheering for you and Beck to claim the award. That was one award written down in the books for Chevrel Architects, a company you and Beck had started years back. You and Beck had decided that if this award was given to you guys then he’d give the speech for it. Beck was the reason for the Chamberlain project happening and hands down you could state it was because of him the project turned out well. You, Jinyoung and everyone else in the hall stood up clapping as Beck walked up to the stage and shook hands with the event holder along with receiving the award. He then walked up to the mic and started his speech.

“I’d like to first start off with a large thank you to everyone at Chevrel Architects. The amount of hard work that was put into the Chamberlain project is indescribable, without everyone’s help it wouldn’t have been possible to achieve such a great outcome. I’d like to also thank Y/N for coming on this journey with me and trusting in me when I said that this company will create its own legacy. This is only the beginning…” Beck continued to thank more or less everyone he knew and came to an end with another roaring applause by everyone.

He jogged back to your table and you admired the award he placed on the table. You felt Jinyoung squeeze your hand in encouragement for you to realise how much you guys are capable of although he still knew you were a little iffy because the individual architect awards hadn’t been announced yet. You couldn’t help but smile at the gleaming object right before your eyes. Having received this award you doubted that another award would be given to someone of the same company.

Minutes went by and the event holder had reached the most awaited award of the night. Architect of the Year. You were surprised that you hadn’t left to use the restroom to throw up all this anxiety already. You were so ready to go home and relax. You wanted your normal heart rate back. You looked at Jinyoung and he gave you a look that melted your heart in seconds. He started massaging your knuckles with his thumb again and you could feel your body ease into his touch. The event holder for the last time of the night directs our attention to the screen for the listing of the nominees. Beck unfortunately wasn’t nominated so he was rooting for you to win the award.

“I know for many of you this is probably the most important part of the night. I’d like to first mention that to be able to be nominated for this award is ana achievement in itself so, you architects should all be proud of yourselves. It was a very hard decision that the committee made but we were able to make a decision. The award for Architect of the Year goes to…”

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I think it was mean of me to have ended this episode here, but it is 2:30 am right now as I write this episode. I hope you guys liked this episode. I shall be back somewhat soon so make sure to come back to check if an episode has been uploaded. Like always let me know your opinions on the story line and check out the other episodes if you haven’t. It would be nice to get some feedback :)

See you next time

writer-nim x

[eremiss]

Lost Magic

Takes place sometime post-5.1, pre-5.3

It’s a bright, sunny morning in the Crystarium, though the lumpy clouds far out to the east hint at a storm later.

Gwen stares out at the clear sky, twirling, tapping and flipping her pen in one hand, with her chin cradled in the other. She’d gotten an early start writing, and had only just finished.

Thancred and Ryne are hard at work in the kitchenette, having taken it upon themselves to prepare breakfast since they had a rare day to themselves. She’d been preoccupied with writing when they’d gotten started, but neither of them minded one bit and told her to keep at it while they cooked.

They’d bickered a little over what to make, but Gwen hadn’t been listening enough to know what they’d settled on. Rather than admit to her continued inattention by asking them, she resigned herself to wait in mild suspense.

Gwen drops her gaze to the open pages. Now that she’s finally finished writing out everything she and Beq-Lugg had spoken about the previous evening, which took far less time than the actual discussion, she’s come to the hard part: how she might go about figuring out where exactly Thancred stands with his ‘limitation’, as he puts it, and how receptive he is --or isn’t-- to well-intentioned meddling in his affairs. 

Given his reticence on the topic, it’s hard to know for sure. It’s always been a touchy subject, and his time on the First, where he’s well and truly the only one without magic, hasn’t made it any less so. 

But that’s exactly what got Gwen thinking in the first place.

Thancred’s magic-less condition persisted on the First, where he and the others were only souls, or only their ‘incorporeal aether,’ so it stands to reason the cause runs soul-deep. And Beq Lugg, according to G’raha and their own admission, is more knowledgeable than just about anyone else on matters of the soul.

So Gwen couldn’t help wondering… and then pondering… and then theorizing… and eventually getting to the point of discussing the whole thing with Beq Lugg, and, well…

...Suffice it to say, maybe she should have brought all this up with Thancred by now. Well before now, actually. First, even.

He’s loath to admit it, but Thancred is insecure about many things, particularly his own perceived usefulness and sense of self worth. Losing his ability to manipulate aether had been detrimental to both. “So long as I have the means to protect those dear to me, and to see my duties through, that's all that matters,”  he’d said while they’d been searching for leonine in the Hills of Amber, with a certain bitterness on his tongue and no minor amount of frustration tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s been able to find ways to compensate for his condition, but she knows he chafes at the necessity to be so thoroughly and overly prepared. She knows he feels less useful and less effective than he wants-- than he truly is.

All of that serves to make it even trickier to discuss. Or maybe it’s only tricky because she’s just not the best at laying out her thoughts on the first go, and sensitive topics don’t normally have much room for backtracking and rephrasing. She doesn’t intend to keep it a secret (anymore) but figuring out how to talk about it without sounding… 

Well, without sounding like she wants to fix him, for one, is proving difficult. She knows he’s frustrated by his condition, and all she wants is to figure out if there’s a way to give him the option of alleviating it. If there is, she could at least give him the choice. And if he decided to forego it, to live without magic, that would be fine too. She’s not trying to force him, or make him feel ass though he needs to change. Absolutely not. She merely… wants to give him the opportunity to not be so frustrated all the time; to stop glowering at aetherytes, and putting on that strained, uncomfortable smile whenever he tries to crack a joke about the inconvenience of it all.

How to bring up that she not only has been pondering his condition, an aspect of himself he doesn’t care to bring attention to, but also discussed it with someone else, is tricky too. She knows firsthand what it’s like to be left out of the loop and be the last to know things despite being the very subject of the aforementioned discussions. She knows what it’s like to question what people really think, and wonder why they felt like they couldn’t tell her; why they felt like she didn’t deserve to know. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. That she’s kept it a secret for this long already has guilt crawling uncomfortably up and down her back.

Figuring out how to go about all that pragmatically and realistically, without getting his hopes up or sounding like it might as well be a waste of time, is the most difficult. It’s just theories. Guesses. It’s worth looking into, but it might well go nowhere. There’s no reason to get Thancred’s hopes up for anything less than a sure thing.

But rather than pondering how to approach such a touchy subject, Gwen is finding it much easier to wonder when the rain will come or guess what Thancred and Ryne are cooking. Likely because those are pleasant and harmless.

Gwen looks over her shoulder and finds Ryne perched on a step stool, reading ingredients off a piece of paper while stirring something in a mixing bowl. Thancred is swapping between minding something on the stove and retrieving the requested items.

They have all morning, after all, so why not make a real breakfast?

Watching them together is just so… It’s carefree and peaceful. Domestic, even. It’s nice. And far from the norm, even though Gwen wishes that weren’t the case.

Judging by the small, contented smile on his face, Thancred feels much the same. It’s rare to see him so genuinely at ease as he is now, bustling around looking for measuring cups and flour and muttering about needing to fix the kitchen scale. Sometimes he’s even humming.

It’s all so very sweet she can’t help smiling. Warm, fluffy fondness and lighthearted, happy things tickle in her chest and make her thoughts a little rosy. If they could just stay like this...

She shakes her head and calls, “Do you, ah, need any help?”

“No,” Ryne replies brightly, double-checking measurements on the recipe.

 Thancred is digging through the chillchest, “We can always come up with something if you’re truly desperate.”

Gwen glances down at her journal, at the little smudges of ink on her fingers, then back towards them. She isn’t quite desperate, much as she might prefer a distraction.  Besides, watching them work together is adorable, and she doesn’t want to intrude on their father-daughter bonding time.

“I’m here if you need me,” Gwen says.

He shoots her a wry grin. “We’ll be sure to shout.”

She pouts and Ryne giggles.

Gwen turns back to her journal. No procrastinating. Focus. So…

Nothing comes to fill in the empty space.

Gwen huffs, unsurprised but still disappointed. For want of a better idea she starts thumbing through the pages, hoping she might stumble upon a flash of inspiration somewhere.

Instead she finds the little reminder she wrote about contacting Y’shtola to discuss details about the Lifestream and the Flow spell. Information on both could surely be useful, and the erstwhile conjurer has a far more comprehensive understanding of each, and everything in between, than Gwen could hope to attain in a small amount of time.

But Y’shtola will also likely have some things to say about Gwen imposing herself on Thancred’s affairs without his knowledge, good intentions or not, and invading his privacy --and isn’t that ironic?-- and probably something about her habit of distracting herself, too.

Much as all that makes her frown, she can’t say it would be unwarranted.

Similar to the way her mind would rather veer off and focus on the weather or the wonderful aroma starting to fill the apartment instead of figuring out how to best approach a touchy subject, perhaps she’d prefer to focus on something she can try to do something about. 

Something besides the dissolving link between her friends’ souls and their bodies that is utterly beyond her to stop, or even help with. Or the discomfort and uncertainty, and the guilt over both, that that conflict and twist in her chest when she wonders if Thancred might decide to stay on the First instead of return to the Source. Or the gnawing apprehension of knowing that one day, if all goes well, the others depart the First with no way of returning, and Ryne will lose her family. Or the bleak musings about what will happen when the differences in time start to grow and the two worlds fall out of sync, months and years passing in one while days and weeks pass in the other, and what sort of havoc that will wreak on her visits to the First. Perhaps enough to put a stop to them.

Gwen combs her fingers through her hair, frowning petulantly at the bright, cheery sunshine outside. She almost wishes she hadn’t started looking into all of this in the first place.

In the kitchenette, Ryne and Thancred are both at the stove. He’s talking about something to do with properly timing dishes so everything finishes cooking at the same time.

Ryne looks like she’s waiting for him to go back to focusing on whatever he’s in charge of cooking.

Gwen turns back to her journal before either of them catch her watching them behaving like a sweet little family.

Still in search of some way to begin a conversation she doesn’t fully want to have, she flips back and forth between a few more pages. She eventually settles on her regretfully incomplete account of Thancred’s condition and what few theories she’s come up with that have held up thus far.

It had been a difficult task to try and catch Beq Lugg up to speed on everything while both not being entirely up to speed herself and attempting to be as discreet as possible. She’d even been careful not to say Thancred’s name, and had instead spent the whole discussion referring to him as her ‘friend’, or her ‘fellow Scion.’

Unfortunately, it had been impossible to entirely avoid the subject of Lahabrea. Thancred’s physical and aetheric condition prior to losing his magic was far from unimportant and, by extension, so was how it came to be.

Frankly, it was foolish that she’d even hoped to be able to omit that unfortunate bit of history. 

She’d kept her description of that time as discreet and clinical as possible, restricted to a mere summary. “Prolonged exposure to an overabundance of Dark-aspected aether that was purged with Light, after which he was left particularly susceptible to magic and tempering.”

While she was yet undecided on whether or not ‘an Ascian’ and ‘overabundance of Dark-aspect aether’ were actually as equivalent and interchangeable as her explanation made it seem, or what difference such details might make, she knew the whole truth wasn’t hers to give. She had avoided implications and insinuations as best she was able and had left Beq Lugg to come to their own conclusions.

Thancred surely wouldn’t be too pleased to know she’d shared that particular ignominy, as he called it, no matter how vague and discreet she’d been about it. 

Beq Lugg thankfully hadn’t pried at the uncomfortable topic. And they’d been kind enough to promise not to mention so much as a word of what Gwen had shared. 

With all of the context, awkward bits and all, and what little other information could offer out of the way, they had then turned to theories. Gwen’s, specifically, as she’d had far more time to ponder.

So she’d started...rambling, honestly. But Beq Lugg had seemed appreciative of her thoroughness and consideration, flimsy and thin as all of her suggestions were, given that she’s hardly an expert on souls or Thancred’s condition.

Gwen touched only briefly on the subject of the tonic Beq Lugg gave the unfortunate souls at the Inn at Journey’s Head, the one meant to, “temporarily stimulate the aether in one's body.” Despite her curiosity about what sort of effect it might have on Thancred she wasn’t yet overeager to try it, at least not before they better understood his condition. To do otherwise would only be gambling with his physical well-being, at best--and connection to his body on the Source at worse.

That Beq Lugg hadn’t made much effort to linger on or explore that avenue of thought, nor seemed overly intrigued by the suggestion, said they were of a similarly cautious mind about it. Or perhaps they knew it wasn’t an idea worth pursuing. They had a far better understanding of how the potion worked after all, and even Gwen’s paltry account of Thancred’s condition might well have been enough for them to know it wouldn’t help.

Eventually Gwen had gotten around to explaining her theory that Thancred’s previous sensitivity to magic was due to being exposed to Lahabrea’s Dark aether, and that very sensitivity might have played some part in him losing his magic. In the same way his condition persisted when he was only a soul, perhaps that sensitivity had followed him into incorporeality in the Lifestream. Though, following that line of thinking, she hasn’t yet figured out whether it was the prolonged exposure to the Lifestream or his ungentle expulsion from it that was more likely to have stolen his magic. 

Unfortunately that theory ended as all of hers had: unresolved, and with more questions than answers. 

Y’shtola’s emerging --seemingly-- unscathed and unaffected from her second trip in the Lifestream didn’t do much to clear anything up, either. The circumstances were different in every regard, from her being more experienced with Flow and generally more magically powerful, the drastically shorter time spent adrift, the fact that it was only her soul and not her body, and that an Ascian had been the one to singlehandedly save her.

Besides all that, Gwen might not even be right about his sensitivity being caused by Dark-aspected aether in the first place. And even if she is, his current inability to use magic sounds much more like stagnation and passivity as opposed to growth--like an excess of Light, rather than Dark. And she has no way to explain that either. 

Is her premise even remotely accurate? And if it is, then what happened? Could he have… swapped somehow, from an excess of Dark to an excess of Light? How? And why?

Perhaps it could have had something to do with how she’d purged Lahabrea? A consequence of being exposed to so much Light after being steeped in Darkness, similar to how overapplication of heat to frostbitten limbs will only damage them further? Or perhaps more like a sunburn...

Like with every other question and theory, she can’t say for sure. 

Similarly, she has no idea about the specifics of Thancred’s aetheric state when he was flung into the Lifestream. When Beq Lugg had inquired about it, Gwen had only been able to shrug. Much as she’s aware of how important that particular bit of information might prove to be, she doubts anyone, even Thancred, can tell them a great deal about it.

The best Gwen can do in that regard is, once again, ask Y’shtola. She had been in charge of Thancred’s care and recovery once he’d been released from the Phrontistery, and had kept an eye on him even after he’d recovered. Plus, her ability to see aether would allow her to give Beq Lugg a more precise and detailed account of his current condition. 

...Which brings Gwen right back to her current issue: How to bring up and discuss all this with Thancred without ruffling feathers or inflicting undue harm.

She sighs heavily, feeling the faint pulse of a headache behind her eyes. 

Whatever Thancred and Ryne are making, the apartment smells wonderful. And… a bit like burning?

Gwen turns to find both of them moving around somewhat frantically. Ryne is jerking something out of the oven and Thancred is hurriedly scraping things out of a pan and onto a plate.

Gwen makes a hesitant, questioning sound. 

“It’s fine!” Ryne says hurriedly.

Thancred mutters under his breath, moving to dump the pan in the sink.

“It smells wonderful,” Gwen offers reassuringly. She’s been so caught up thinking over everything she hasn’t had the chance to notice just how hungry she is and the smell, even with the hint of char, almost makes her stomach growl.

Ryne’s face brightens with relief and Thancred’s shoulders loosen slightly.

Gwen closes her journal with a satisfying, almost defiant snap and pushes herself up. If they did the cooking, she can handle setting the table and doing the dishes.

Besides, maybe a break will clear her head.

 After a few unnecessary explanations for the minor imperfections the three sit down for a hearty, almost-overcooked farmer’s breakfast and slightly-too-dark biscuits. The looks that shoot back and forth between the pair say Thancred might be to blame for some of it, but he resolutely admits to nothing. 

Gwen isn’t the least bit bothered by the food, and is only amused by the looks they keep trading. She has no difficulty pushing aside all the things buzzing so demandingly around her head and devoting her attention to the food and easy conversation about things that are far less dire, like Ryne’s lessons, the changes in the Empty, when they plan to return to Mord Souq.

Ryne’s lessons are simultaneously interesting yet boring, as lessons often seem to be. The Empty hasn’t changed in any appreciable way since they last restored an element, which is par for the course; the dark-haired girl is yet unconscious, though stable and seemingly doing well. Thancred and Ryne mean to stay in the Crystarium for another week or so before reconvening with Urianger at their quasi-headquarters-slash-‘home away from home’ in Mord Souq. From there they’ll set about making preparations for their next foray into the Empty.

If Gwen had known that the coin G’raha had given her to ‘crack her purse’ with had been valuable enough to afford them a house --an old, rather neglected one, admittedly-- she would have been far less willing to accept it. 

With the conversation growing uncomfortably close to the sort of ‘work talk’ they preferred to avoid when at all possible, they quickly bring that particular discussion to a close.

Ryne and Gwen get to talking about botany, and they while away the rest of breakfast chatting about the Hortorium, the Cabinet’s selection of books about plants, and the flora and fauna in Lakeland and Amh Araeng.

Thancred doesn’t participate much, perfectly happy to simply listen to them chatter on. It’s not long before he’s wearing that easy, contented look again.

Ryne proposes they take a trip into Lakeland for some hands-on botany experience. She’s far more excited about it than Gwen thought she would ever be, truth be told. And, despite her endearing excitement, Gwen has to turn her down. She doesn’t know when the storm will blow in, but they likely won’t make it past Fort Jobb before having to turn tail and flee back to the Crystarium.

“But you don’t have lessons tomorrow, right?” Gwen asks before Ryne’s face can droop with disappointment. “We’ll go then. And we can stop by the Crystalline Mean on the way out of town and see if there are any botany leves.”

Ryne enthusiastically agrees, then turns to Thancred. “Will you come too?”

“You’ll hardly need me,” he drawls, his slight smile betraying his disinterested tone. 

Ryne pouts at him, staring expectantly.

Thancred throws up his hands after only a few seconds, “Alright, alright, no need to twist my arm.” He shoots Gwen a look that distinctly seems to say, She got that from you. “For now--”

“Cleaning,” Gwen says. “I’ll handle it.”

 After breakfast Ryne returns to her adjoined room, intent to spend some time studying up on Lakeland’s plants. As Gwen collects all of the dishes her journal, closed and forgotten off to one side of the table, reminds her of everything she’d been stewing on before breakfast.

She frowns, worries her lip, then starts hauling dishes to the sink.

Flour, bits of discarded vegetables, eggshells, and a frankly inordinate amount of dirtied bowls and measuring utensils are scattered all over the kitchenette, not unlike the remnants of an explosion. Thancred helps her round everything up, offering no explanations and rigorously avoiding the look of perplexed scrutiny on her face.

Without the droning background noise of an empty stomach or the beginning strains of a headache, her head doesn’t feel quite as loud or overfull as it had before. That doesn’t do much for helping her reach a solution, but it does afford her room to think more clearly

As Gwen fills the sink with water she considers that, if Thancred weren’t joining their little expedition tomorrow, she could just leave her journal behind. Poring over it like she had before breakfast seems to be the sort of thing that cues him to steal a look.

Hells she still has time to contrive some reason to go out today and be gone for a few bells before the storm hits, if she really wants.

No. That’s just cowardly.

Surely she’s thinking far too much about this, anyway? Surely she doesn’t need to be so worried? Yes it’s a sensitive topic, but he trusts her. They’re… close. Clarifying anything beyond that is yet a bit murky and complicated, but at the very least they are near and dear to one another. Being careful about how she approaches the topic would be prudent, but giving herself a headache over it? That’s going too far. 

Gwen piles in the dishes and starts scrubbing bits of egg off the skillet. 

So now… Well, she still has to figure out how to bring it up. And when. But somehow it doesn’t sound quite so imposing of a challenge anymore.

Sometime when it’s just the two of them, preferably. Even though Ryne is well aware of Thancred’s condition and how it irks him, he’s the one who should decide whether or not to fill her in about this, and how much. And the same goes for the other Scions--excepting Y’shtola, perhaps.

As to how to go about starting a conversation, the best answer, probably, is to just start it and go from there. It’s hardly a plan, but clearly planning hasn’t been getting her anywhere.

Gwen feels a presence behind her a second before a hand glides across the small of her back. The gentle weight and warmth of it inspires a pleasant little shiver up her spine that puts a smile on her face. “Need a hand?”

“No,” she says. She shifts to one side and shoots him a smile, “But if you’re truly desperate.”

Thancred takes the space she left, standing a little closer than necessary, like always, and sets to drying.

After the skillet and the drinking glasses have changed hands the buzzing under her skin finally becomes too much for merely scrubbing dishes to dispel. 

“So, I’ve been thinking...” And then the words peter out and she has nothing. Gwen closes her mouth and frowns at the soapy water. 

Thancred hums at her, “As per usual,” prompting her to continue.

She shakes her head, “Sorry, I’m trying to figure out where to start.”

“Take your time,” he replies nonchalantly. After the silence stretches for a few seconds he asks, “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with what had you buried in your journal all morning?”

Gwen nods, weighing the different options in her mind. “I was sorting everything out.”

“And ‘everything’ is…?”

That’s as good a place to start as any. She takes a slow, steadying breath. “I’ve… been thinking about your, ah, condition.”

Thancred’s hands still just for a second. Then they resume moving. His tone is a little dry, like she’d expected, “Oh?”

“I’ve wondered about it quite a bit, actually, after you first told me you still couldn’t manipulate aether here,” she says, focusing on washing and getting the words out before they have the chance to fall apart or get tangled up. “It’s… a bit curious, don’t you think?”

“Not as curious as getting one’s soul dragged to another world, and everything else that’s cropped up since,” he replies with a sardonic smile. “But I take your meaning. Truth be told, I was a bit surprised myself to find that particular limitation had followed me here.”

The dryness of his tone is unsurprising, but at the same time he hasn’t yet lost that conversational air he had when he’d started helping with the dishes. 

“And then,” Gwen trails off, considering where to go next. She doesn’t want to immediately jump to her conversation with Beq Lugg, but she doesn’t know how much preamble she can, or needs, to jumble together. “And then G’raha suggested seeking out Beq Lugg when I told him about your souls’ connections to the Source growing weaker. Apparently no one in all of Norvrandt is more knowledgeable about souls than them.”

“Not that there’s a great deal of competition,” Thancred comments, finally setting aside the glass he’d been drying for much too long.

Gwen rolls her eyes and passes him another.

He takes it and gets to drying.

“I think,” she says, choosing her words but trying to sound like she isn’t, “if you still have your condition here, when you’re only a soul--”

“Then who better to solicit for advice than a posited master of souls,” he finishes, thoughtfulness seeping into his tone.

Gwen nods. Breathes. “So I did.” The admission makes her heart pound and shoulders tense.

Thancred stops again, for longer this time. When he resumes drying his movements are noticeably slower. His exhale might be a bit sharp.

She resolutely focuses on scrubbing dishes and talking, trying to only study Thancred’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. “I know it wasn’t my place, whatever my intentions and… I’m sorry. That I went to Beq Lugg without you, and that I’ve gone so long without saying anything at all. I…” She pauses, debating with what to say and how to say it. She sighs. “To be honest I wasn’t sure how you’d react when I told you I’d been doing all that thinking, so I... put it off.”

He makes a thoughtful sound and she feels his gaze settle on her. 

“You’ve never,” Gwen gestures vaguely with one hand, searching for the best way to explain, “been terribly open to discussing it. Not that I blame you, of course. So I was… nervous to bring it up at all. Probably too nervous, I know, but, ah. Old habits die hard. I’m sorry.”

She’s surprised he doesn’t have something to say yet, not even some sort of disparaging grunt or inane change of topic to try and end the conversation.

When she chances a proper look she finds his expression is a great deal more thoughtful, almost pensive, than she expected.

Perhaps he didn’t realize he’d been so very unapproachable and closed on the subject, even to her.

Gwen decides to fill the silence instead of letting it linger, lest she lose her momentum. Her eyes wander even as she stays mostly turned towards him, “And everything I’ve been thinking, what I went to Beq Lugg about, is… It’s just theories and conjecture. I’m-- well, we, I suppose, are just guessing. For all I know,” she shrugs dismally, “we’re just wasting our time. I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I had some kind of definite answer. I still don’t, but, ah. Well,” she offers a small, rueful smile, “I know a thing or two about being the last to know things. It’s… not a good feeling.”

Thancred’s expression eases, drooping a little at the edges. 

Gwen turns her attention to the plate she’s scrubbing, taking another steadying breath. “That’s… not all.”

“No?” he sounds more curious than surprised. 

She shakes her head, scratching at a bit of stuck-on food and wincing at the sound of her nails against the porcelain. “I was… I didn’t want to give the impression that I thought you needed to be… fixed.”

He doesn’t speak, once again. From the corner of her eye she can see his expression is nerve-wrackingly stoic and unreadable.

“Because I don’t,” she adds quickly. “And you don’t. You’re more than capable as you are, and you’re not--not broken or, or less, or anything so disparaging, and I didn’t want you to think I thought otherwise. I merely... “ She shifts her weight, tilts her head, thinks to tug on her hair but doesn’t, as her hands are soapy and wet, “I know how much it irks you. How much of an inconvenience it is. Well, I don’t know but--”

“Dove.” Thancred’s tone is mild, a reminder to keep her course rather than a reprimand for rambling.

Gwen huffs, chiding herself. “Right. Sorry.” She stares hard at the plate as she scrubs it, “But… You know what I mean.”

Thancred mumbles under his breath, hands shifting slightly and stopping over and over like he’s about to start tugging or twisting the drying cloth but keeps catching himself.

More silence, but she expected it this time, and it’s not so awkward as she feared despite the weighty admission. When she glances at him she finds he’s still looking at her, expression not quite flat.

His eyes skim over her face and then dart to the sink. “Keep scrubbing that plate and you’ll put a hole in it.”

The plate is thoroughly spotless, yet Gwen is still attacking it with a sponge like it’s filthy. “Ah.” She passes it to him and he starts drying it, just like normal.

A strange mix of relief and suspense has tension leaking out of some places and gathering in others. She’s finally let go of both the weighty secrets and the gnawing worry of how to do so, she’s taken steps forward, but she’s not done yet. She’s still in the middle of the journey and the way forward is… a little bit murky.

Where the conversation goes from here, whatever path it takes and wherever it ends, depends on Thancred and what he’s thinking. She doesn’t get a say in that, nor does she get to try and rush him on it.

So she waits.

Eventually Thancred says, faintly sounding like he’s just come to a realization, “You’re expecting me to be angry.”

Yes and No, crash together into a jumble of maybes and indecision that make one corner of her mouth pull tight. She abandons all of that, instead making a thoughtful sound as she re-examines all those restless knots and nagging ‘what ifs’ she’d been trying to sort through before breakfast. 

“About how much I was thinking about it?” she says slowly. “No. More,” she tilts her head to one side, letting everything tumble and mix and rearrange itself before sifting through it again, “unamused. Maybe a bit annoyed, or defensive. Exasperated.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but isn’t entirely sure how to go about it. He settles for frowning mildly at the dishrag. 

“About Beq Lugg…” She trails off, turning all of that over a second time. “Yes. Well, more like probably. Angry, and hurt and... And you have every right to be.”

He nods slowly, expression setting back into that quasi-pensive look he’d had earlier. 

Gwen keeps scrubbing and passing, and Thancred keeps taking and drying.

She’s already decided he should be the one that gets to control the conversation, seeing how it’s about him and he’s got a lot to consider, but the silence is making her feel a bit like she’s shirking her responsibility. She’s the one that got the ball rolling, after all, and she’s the one with more explaining to do.

Or maybe that’s just her own apprehension talking, prodding at her in the form of nervous impatience.

“Is that where you were last night? Talking with Beq Lugg?” Thancred asks. His tone is neutral, and not in a purposefully careful or controlled sort of way. She detects a hint of… something else to it, too, but she can’t quite tell what it is.

Gwen finds an inordinate amount of relief in the opportunity to keep moving forward instead of stalling out. “Yes. It took a bit of time to explain the situation, and then more for me to ramble about all the theories and questions I’ve already been considering.”

His tone dries out again, “I wager they had a bit of trouble getting their head around the whole ‘someone who can’t manipulate aether’ concept.”

One corner of her mouth curls into a rueful smile. “They did.” 

“Suppose that’s the price I pay for being unique.” His tone levels out, though doesn’t quite go flat. “Shall I assume your explanation involved a history lesson?”

And Gwen wonders how she had managed to overlook the most precarious aspect of her admission. Much as she wants to take the time to shuffle around words and carefully construct her response, silence is a fairly damning thing. 

“A very discreet one.” 

His brows tug together and dip at a disapproving angle. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find that terribly comforting. She wouldn’t either.

A smidge of a flat, clinical tone she’d used in conversation with Beq Lugg edges into her voice, the sort of tone that brooks no room for questions or requests for elaboration. “Being exposed to an overabundance of dark aether for a prolonged period of time sounds potentially relevant. And so does subsequently being more sensitive to magic and tempering after the fact. The specifics of how and why, don’t. And neither does what, exactly, that source of dark aether was. And if I’m wrong about that, well,” she straightens up a little and determinedly scrubs the measuring cups, “it’s not my place to clarify.”

Thancred doesn’t reply right away, focusing instead on the task of drying. 

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it’s certainly more awkward than the others have been.

Gwen wonders if she should just keep talking.

He scoffs so abruptly it makes her twitch in surprise. He’s smirking, looking almost ready to shake his head in that fondly exasperated way he sometimes does when he thinks she’s being particularly overwrought. “You sound like Y’shtola. And Krile. And Papalymo.”

“I…” she blinks dumbly, “...do?”

Thancred smirks, satisfied to catch her off guard, then turns back to drying. His tone is expectant when he asks, “So?”

Gwen peers at him, feeling like she should be the one asking that. “So…?”

“Come up with anything?” he asks, casually interested. “Clearly you’ve been thinking on it for a while.”

Gwen can’t help being a bit surprised at how he’s taking the news. He’s been taking steps to get better about listening and not getting defensive at the first signs of an uncomfortable topic, but even so she thought he’d still be more bothered, particularly about her meeting with Beq Lugg. Apparently she hasn’t been giving him enough credit.

She should probably just keep on with the conversation, but instead she asks, “You don’t mind?”

Thancred considers the dishes, mouth bending in a few thoughtful angles. At length he says, “That you’ve been spending so much time thinking of me,” he flashes her a brief smile and she returns it, “and trying to come up with a solution to a particularly inconvenient thorn in my side? Not at all. I do wish you’d clued me in earlier but,” he shrugs one shoulder, “given how much effort I put into being rather… unapproachable about the subject, I understand your hesitance.”

Gwen releases a muted breath and her shoulders start to loosen and relax. He clearly has more to say, but she feels far and away less uncertain than she had before.

He focuses on the dishes again, pressing his lips together and flattening the line of his mouth. “That you consulted another about my condition without my knowledge or consent? I...” 

His mouth bends into a mild frown and a beat later pulls slightly to one side. He half-shakes his head and makes another one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not terribly enthused about it, no.”

She nods slowly, listening as she shifts her weight and watches her hands.

“But,” he breathes through his nose, something like reluctant acceptance tugging at his expression, “I understand. It would be foolish not to make use of the tools at your disposal when trying to solve a problem, and that includes consulting an expert. And I’m quite familiar with the desire to ensure one’s efforts will amount to more than a great deal of disappointment and wasted time before being willing to risk giving others hope. There’s merit to that saying about not counting chocobos before they hatch.”

He pauses, looking as though he’s considering if he’d actually managed to say what he intended. “Your methods leave something to be desired, but you had only good intentions. I’ve certainly been guilty of the same, as have many of our friends. I would have much preferred you’d informed and involved me sooner, but… I understand why you didn’t.”

They’re standing close enough that Gwen barely has to shift her weight to press her arm against his. Guilt isn’t pulling so hard on her anymore, though it’s not gone, either. Understanding isn’t forgiveness or approval, but it’s reassuring and comforting all the same. 

The look on Thancred’s face resolves into one of vague satisfaction and he shifts towards her, pressing them a little more firmly together. There’s something mildly teasing in his tone when he says, “While I do appreciate being the center of your attention, t’would be remiss of me not to remind you there are bigger concerns that need addressing than my lack of magic.”

Her lips pinch together as she considers a reply, feeling the minute shifts in his bicep and shoulder as his hands manipulate the damp dishrag. “Not many that I can do much about.”

He huffs a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “And you do so hate being idle.”

She passes utensils and he dries them. 

“I know a thing or two about secrets, and that carrying them is a punishment all it’s own,” Thancred muses, not quite to himself. “I’m sure your distaste for the practice only served to make it that much less enjoyable.”

He’s right. Her hypocrisy had added a bitter coarseness to the already-uncomfortable weight of secrecy, and served to make her all the more anxious about coming clean.

Gwen tilts her head one way, thoughts shifting and tumbling. She tilts it the other and bumps her temple against his shoulder. “It certainly left a bad taste in my mouth,” she mumbles, frowning at the dishwater and her pruny hands. “We agreed to try and be more open and honest with each other.”

Thancred sets aside the last of the utensils and regards her with a curious look, arching one pale brow. “That all sounded fairly open and honest to me.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, “I should’ve spoken to you sooner.”

“Or you could’ve waited till the very last possible moment, when circumstances finally forced your hand,” he drawls wryly. “Truth be told, that’s the sort of admission I’m more accustomed to these days.”

A short laugh bubbles up her throat and she leans more heavily against him, “Well, when you look at it that way…”

He leans over to bump his chin against her temple and nose at her hair. “So: where has all that pondering and sneaking around behind my back gotten you?”

Gwen pulls from his arm and tugs up the plug in the sink, pouting, “You don’t have to say it like that.”

Thancred grins unapologetically, watching while she retrieves a clean dishrag to wipe down the counters. 

Seeing he was utterly unrepentant, and knowing the comment was a little deserved, she heaves a dramatic sigh and starts laying out her theories.

---------------------

:D :D

Ever since we found Beq Lugg and they started talking about souls I’ve been thinking “Thancred’s magic? Maybe?? Right?? He still doesn’t have it on the First! So soul-related? Hey, can you maybe take a look? Hello?” but no one has mentioned it at all

SO I WENT AND DID IT MYSELF

[rebelrecovery]

Book Notes:

This one is one of the better quit lit books I’ve read - Belle writes with blunt honesty, and I love the way she envisions the alcoholic voice in her head as a big bad wolf rather than a wine witch.  

Below are the parts that were most helpful for me... 

I thought, I can’t start drinking now, there isn’t enough. Not enough for what? To fade out. To be numb. Because despite what I may have said, I never wanted one glass of wine with dinner. I wanted three glasses. What’s the point in one glass? And despite what I may have said, I never drank because I liked the taste. [...] I drank to get fuzzy. I wanted to be slightly numb, to take the edge off. I spent a lot of time taking the edge off and then trying to maintain the edge taken off, but I usually ran into problems of sobering up too quickly, or drinking too much. There was no magic formula for edge-off-ness. I tried to find it. I tried having beer before wine, I tried eating first, I tried drinking on an empty stomach. There may have been a four-minute window of edge-off-ness and then I spent the rest of the night trying to find the four-minute window again.

I never want to do this again. I never want to wake up in the middle of the night both wishing I was dead and hoping I’m not dying. Let me not vomit, please, and I promise I will cut back on the drinking. I never want to feel this bad, feel so hopeless, alone, scared, dark. I am definitely drinking too much. I should face that. I should stop drinking for a week, take a break. I’ll start tomorrow. After the work party. After vacation. Next week. After the birthday. The first of the month. On a Monday. I promise. 

I had tried to stop drinking plenty of times on my own, but never managed to quit for more than a couple of days. Usually I’d declare my sobriety in the morning and then open a bottle of wine by 6 p.m. that same night. Then I’d quit again the next morning. No wine for one day. For two days. Then the voice would start. Is it time yet? You can drink now. Celebrate sobriety with a glass or two. You’ve done well. You are going to break this non-drinking stretch anyway, so you might as well drink now. Drink tonight and quit later. What about now. Is it time to drink yet? Fuck it, I’m going to drink, this is ridiculous. I’ve already quit for a week. Let’s celebrate sobriety with some alcohol.

If alcohol was in the house, it spoke to me, then I drank it. Even if I didn’t really enjoy it. I was drinking because it was the thing I did. No enjoyment. No taste. No feeling except for exhaustion. Like a hammer banging on my head. Did you ever try buying a case of wine, thinking that if it was around all the time you’d feel less compulsive about it, and drink less? Ha. Really. Who was I kidding? With a case of wine in the house, I drank more. Of course I did. We never had a wine collection or a wine rack or a wine cellar or a liquor cabinet either. Alcohol didn’t last long enough to be collected or displayed or shared.]

I had lots of drinking rules and guidelines for myself, and over time, bit by bit, I broke all of my rules. I’m only going to drink on special occasions or when socializing. Only on weekends.” But of course, you and I both know that only drinking on weekends is tricky. Because what about Sunday night? Is Sunday part of the weekend? What about Thursday? Maybe the weekend is four days long. Maybe it is, in fact, most of the week. Controlled drinking is not very successful—you know this already because you’ve tried it. If we have to control our drinking, it means that our natural, default tendency is to have one, and then another, and then another. Any plan we make is very difficult, if not impossible, to adhere to. You tried moderation. You did. You maybe didn’t call it moderation. You tried making rules for yourself. When you realized that you were drinking more than you wanted to, before you ever saw this book, you did things like alternating every second glass with water, or switching from hard stuff to beer, or trying to skip days. You tried to drink only on weekends, or only have one, or only . . . or only . . . or only.

Normal drinkers measure their alcohol consumption like I measure my corn on the cob consumption—which is to say, not at all. Just like I have days without corn, normal drinkers have plenty of days without alcohol but they’re not keeping track. I don’t pay attention to whether you are getting more corn than me, and a normal drinker fills up glasses around her without worrying about who’s getting how much. And yes, it’s true that corn on the cob is my favourite of all summer things to eat, but I have never planned days around when I can eat it. I have never gone out at 11 p.m. to get more corn. I’ve never worried about running out of corn.

A ‘bottom’ in the sober world describes the point where you quit drinking. If you have a ‘high bottom’ then you quit when your problems were smaller. Poor concentration, missed deadlines, an inability to take advantage of new opportunities, procrastination, crappy sleep, many days of feeling ill. A ‘low bottom’ is where the micro problems have grown into larger holes, and might include health, relationship, money, or legal issues. My high bottom looks like this: drink with dinner, and after, plan to drink less, continue to drink the same amount, try to quit for a month and manage nine days, start again, not keep my promises to myself. Wonder what the hell is wrong with me. Suffer with crappy sleep, extra pounds, wasted money.

If alcohol is an elevator that only goes down, the goal is to step off, not to ride down any more. Stop drinking now. Start feeling better now. I stepped off early. But I’m not naive. I know where that elevator was going. If I stopped ‘before there was a problem’ then I was fucking lucky, plain and simple. Because even stopping where I did, it was hard to do. Really hard.

The “Drink Now” voice, which I call Wolfie, will say anything to get us to drink. Nothing is off-limits. Wolfie hits below the belt. Wolfie talks smack. Wolfie with a megaphone said to me: You’ve had a long, crazy day. Have a drink. You’ll just have one. It will take the edge off. You have blown this whole thing out of proportion. You need to cut back, not quit. A hundred fucking days? You’ll never make it anyway. 

I knew I had a very loud Wolfie “Drink Now” voice in my head that insisted that a glass of wine with dinner was normal. I also knew that there was another very quiet, very tiny mouse-like voice, that said: You have to stop. You know what this internal conflict is like. 

I felt moderately stable until something happened, like if I got frustrated, or mad, or sad, or bored, or if something good happened and I had to celebrate. I had completely maladaptive coping strategies. I didn’t have the skills to try anything else to feel better because—duh—I’d been using wine as my only coping mechanism. I’d overused wine as a feel-better tool for so long that I literally couldn’t remember one single thing I could do instead to ease my mood.

Booze isn’t a solution to a problem. It’s a very temporary pause button (manhole cover) with horrendous consequences. It’d be like turning to heroin. It isn’t the right solution for the problem. It gets between me and my life, between me and you, between me and serving, between me and fun. It affects my weight, my sleep, my enthusiasm. It blunts, fills, numbs, fills time, expands into the space allowed. Adds nothing, feels bad, sad, argumentative, irritated. Isn’t the real me. My life has so much MORE good stuff in it when the wine is gone. There’s nothing to escape from, it isn’t bad here, there’s joy and beauty and ease here. Don’t need to ‘go’ anywhere else. 

The voice that is YOU, when you’re 50 days sober, says “I know sometimes I feel like drinking but I’m not going to because I don’t want to have a new Day 1. I’ve done enough drinking in my past. I know that Day 1 is rotten.” The voice that is YOU says: “I want something different and better and I don’t know what that is yet, but I know I want to try this sober thing.” We end up in a place where even if bad shit happens, we do NOT think about drinking.

Picture booze like a Big Wolf With Black Eyes, he represents the voice in your head. Now you have to very calmly starve the wolf. Or better yet, you have to dehydrate him by not giving him anything to drink. At first he’ll be mad at you. “Where’s my drink?” You’ll say: I have all this free time now. I can’t talk to you, Wolfie. I’m running, baking, singing, reading, cleaning, spending time with my kids. I’m paying my taxes, cleaning off my desk, enjoying the weather. The wolf will taunt you. “Everyone else is drinking, why can’t you?” You’ll say: Sorry, Wolfie, can’t hear you. I’m too busy cranking up the volume on my new iPad that I bought with all the money I’ve saved.” The wolf will nearly be dehydrated. He’ll try a few more last-chance, desperate attempts. “You’re broken,” he’ll snarl. “You bitch, you can’t be fixed, you’ll always be a fuck-up, you suck at this, you might as well quit now.” And you’ll say: You want to fight? I’ll win. I’ve got so much more energy now that I’m sleeping through the night. I can outrun you Wolfie. I’m light on my feet now. I’ve got so much more spunk, clearer thinking. I’m planning to take over the world, Wolfie, me and my clear-headed genius. What is that? Sorry I can’t quite hear you. Your voice is so quiet, Wolfie. Are you nearly dehydrated? You’re going to dry up and turn to dust. Puts palm of hand up to lips and blows across the surface. Dust disperses, Wolfie is specks of grey in the air. And then gone.

Being sober is a relief. Quitting drinking is like putting down a backpack of rocks that you’ve been carrying around for a long time. It’s like a deep breath that fills your lungs. Being sober is feeling proud of yourself. Being sober is easier than drinking. Too much of our brain space is used trying to manage alcohol consumption. The “Drink Now” voice is exhausting. All of that time we spend planning to drink—thinking about drinking, wondering how much alcohol there is, trying to figure out how we’re going to get out of that work obligation because we’re hungover—all of that can stop. You have been drowning out who you really are. Literally. Banging yourself on the head with a bottle or two of wine. That’s not you. The real you is in there. Drinking is a way of hiding from who you really are. I can honestly say that being a non-drinker is unicorns and parades compared to drinking.

There is a point in each day when you will most feel like drinking. I call this the witching hours. Typically it’s around dinner time; for me it was 6:00 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. If you were to plot the duration of the witching hours on a graph, the period of time gets predictably shorter and less intense each day. Having a replacement drink is a good idea. Your brain is used to having something to drink at this time of day, so you can plan a lovely replacement drink. I have found that bitter drinks deal with cravings better than sweet drinks.

We are so used to using alcohol as our only treat, that we need to learn new treats. You can have bubble bath, trashy magazines, flowers, oven mitts, bad TV from Netflix, time alone, cheap earrings, or savoury pancakes. Perhaps you’ll plan to have steak every Friday for the first six weeks. And if you don’t eat steak, then substitute salmon or sushi or marinated tofu in that category. You spent money drinking, so you can invest some of those Wolfie dollars to support your sobriety. Here are some examples of things I’ve treated myself to: fuzzy blankets, silver jewelry, deluxe candles, essential oils, chocolate croissants, lovely beads, thrift shopping, craft supplies, gourmet ground coffee, a gorgeous teacup, a bouquet of flowers, a potted basil plant. The largest was a countertop dishwasher. The trick is to either find something that you want but don’t need, or to splurge on a more deluxe version of something you were going to buy anyway. Like shampoo or lipstick. I have always struggled with confidence and my inner critic is a real bitch. The concept of self-care is relatively new to me and these gifts remind me to treat myself kindly.

One of the reasons we drink is in search of an ‘off’ switch: to quiet our brains, to escape responsibilities, to have ‘me’ time. If there are coping strategies that are adaptive (make things better) versus maladaptive (make things worse), then drinking is maladaptive. While it may be an off-switch, it creates many other problems at the same time. 

We are not taught, explicitly, how to deal with uncomfortable feelings, or how to self-soothe. So we reach for available tools, however malformed. Did your parents ever sit you down and have a conversation with you about what you can do if you feel overwhelmed, exhausted, irritated, freaked out, lonely, or depressed? Did they give you strategies and tools to help you with Changing the Channel in Your Head? No. Mine neither. Did they model for you how they dealt with disappointment, their feelings of not fitting in, or how they coped with the occasional overwhelming sense of dread? If they did model for you, was it with something other than cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, or a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken? Did your parents have ‘self-care’ time where they made it clear that they needed to recharge batteries, to unwind. Did they lock themselves in the tub with big mounds of lavender bubble bath and candles? Did your father go for a run when he was feeling stressed, or to delineate the mark between ‘work’ and ‘home’ and did he tell you he was doing this, explicitly, so that you could learn to do the same? No? 

in your first months sober, you will get a crash course in adaptive self-care strategies, whether you want it or not. One of the most important things you will do is learn to strategically avoid ‘overwhelm’—I use this word as a noun, it’s a thing on the horizon, like fog. Your life is like a video game. You can see potential bombs, things advancing, that could blow up and throw you off course. Your job is to navigate them. You don’t walk right into a bomb and hope for the best. You don’t test yourself by repeatedly doing difficult or stressful things. Instead, you ask someone to carpool, you decline social activities, and you simplify meals. Your job is to reduce overwhelm. All around you, there are lists of things to do and when you first quit drinking you are going to take it easy. When you first quit drinking, you are going to remember that being overwhelmed is our number one trigger. You will instead do less. Learn to be slothful. Embrace the art of underachieving.

Here are my top three tools for overwhelm: exercise, tub, and bed. I probably use exercise four times a week, specifically to help with my mood. I’m in the tub anytime I’m feeling antsy, or as my reward at the end of a day of catering. And as far as sleep is concerned, I have been known to go to bed at 7:30 p.m. in early sobriety, because I had no other way of dealing with life. I knew I didn’t want to drink, and I had no idea what else to do except ‘hide’.

When we are drinking, we use alcohol to fix everything—or so we think—and we don’t develop any other self-soothing, comforting, or change-the-channel tools. Turns out—who knew—there are at least 578 other ways to shift how you feel. There are things you’ve done before, perhaps by accident, things that once you remember them, and try them, you think “OK, good, I feel better.” Like when you change the sheets on the bed you feel better. And when you have a nap you feel better. And when you snuggle on the couch with a fluffy blanket and braid your cats’ tails together you feel better. Especially if you add hot chocolate. A change of location works. If you’re at home, go out. If you’re out, go home :) If you’re alone, get with some people. If you’re overwhelmed in a group, hide in the bathroom and read sober blogs on your phone. Yes, really.

I made a list of the ways to change my state. It had 30+ things on it. They included: listen to loud music, play guitar, sing, talk on the phone, write a letter longhand, take a bath with candles, light candles anywhere in the house, clean my desk, clean anything, go for a run, make tea, plan meals, test a recipe, read a magazine, brainstorm with clients, design a new logo, read light fiction, read self-help, make a puzzle, go for a walk, take pictures, go swimming, watch a good movie, go to a concert, go to see a movie at the theatre with popcorn, listen to podcasts, do volunteer work, find an audience and do some kind of public speaking, write in my journal, play cards, explore a new part of the city, go to the art gallery, the museum, write a restaurant review.

If you’re an introvert, or if you’re a non-joiner like I am, then asking for any kind of support or encouragement seems hard. But here’s the truth. The simple act of reaching out might make you feel weak, but it’s actually a sign of strength.

When Wolfie says that being sober sucks and that it’s too much to give up, you can remind him that you are also giving up the following: •  feeling like death in the morning •  waking at 3 a.m. with guilt and dread and horror •  vomiting •  spending dumb money (like money spent in bars, expensive bottles of wine in restaurants, buying rounds for people, impulse shopping online) •  emailing and texting random people •  hooking up with random people •  falling down •  hiding bottles •  arguing with your partner •  alternating stores so they don’t get to know you •  cringing when it’s time to take out the recycling. 

And here are a few of the things that you can focus on instead, the things you GET by being sober: •  you sleep through the night •  your skin looks great •  your health improves •  your marriage improves •  your kids talk to you again •  your family will now take your calls after 6 p.m. •  you can drive the car in the evening •  you have the beginnings of a hobby •  you can read a book and remember it •  you can watch a movie and stay awake for it •  you can actually cook the food in your fridge instead of eating popcorn for dinner •  you lift your head, look around, and feel like things are ‘possible’ •  you feel proud of yourself. 

Keep a short journal of your own, particularly for the first 60 days. By keeping a daily record you can see the grass grow. And you can more clearly identify that some periods of time are shitty but that they don’t last, and they’re followed swiftly by easier days. You can start your journal with this entry. Start with a list of 10 things: 1. The way I drink has affected my ___ 2. And my ___ 3. And my ___ 4. It’s caused problems with ___ 5. And ___ 6. It’s made me feel ___ especially when ___ 7. I nearly had a disaster when ___ 8. And this was just about a disaster too: ___ 9. I’m tired of waking up feeling like ___ 10. People who will be relieved that I am sober:  ___

It’s entirely possible to have sober fun, of course it is :) Those of us who are longer-term sober have plenty of fun. There’s nothing better than waking up without a hangover, without regret, without shame. There’s nothing better than being on a beach and being sober and watching a sunset. There’s nothing better than coming home at the end of a long night, or dancing until 4 a.m., knowing that you had a fabulous time, that you rocked it all without a drink. To think that you need alcohol to have fun is Wolfie talking. You were fun when you were 12 years old. You’ve had hilarious pee-your-pants laughing with your best friend and it didn’t involve alcohol. Wolfie tells you that kind of shit to encourage you to drink, but it’s not true. Can you dance sober? Turns out you can. Who knew.

If you are in prelapse, then you will want to do things right away that might make you feel better. Even if you have to try things mechanically, one after the other. You’ll say “I got enough sleep that didn’t work, had a nap that didn’t work, went for a run that didn’t work.” Then you go on to the next thing. You have a treat, that didn’t work. You watch bad TV, that didn’t work. You read blogs, write in your journal, comment on blogs, listen to audios, email somebody, reach out, go to a meeting, listen to something inspirational—you go through the toolkit. And here’s something that will seem obvious when I say it: If the first tool doesn’t work, it does not mean that the whole thing is hopeless. It means that you go on to the next tool. 

You are more likely to be successful if you: •  Reach out for support. It’s hard. Do it anyway. •  Sign up to have a sober penpal. Email your penpal every day. •  Share real stuff, don’t exaggerate, and don’t leave things out. Be truly honest with at least one person in your life about your booze stuff. •  Reach out instead of drink, cry instead of drink, walk instead, email me frustrated instead (the people who don’t email are more likely to get alone in their head with Wolfie who will always say that drinking is a good idea). •  Remember that successful treaters do MUCH better. It’s shocking how much better they do. Once you figure out the self-care treat thing, you’ll find this whole sober experience to be much easier. If you resist treats, don’t understand them, don’t think they apply to you, then I worry about you (see below). •  Get enough support, load on a lot to begin and then ease off as time goes by and you feel stable. Be cautious. Don’t fuck with sober momentum. •  Tell on Wolfie—share when you’re having weird thoughts, externalize the voice, tell on your inner addict. •  Read stuff that supports you and turn away from what doesn’t. You don’t read about moderation, you don’t read blogs that get under your skin, you turn away from people who repeatedly relapse if that makes you feel wobbly. •  Protect your sobriety, avoid situations and people that may trigger you. Your sobriety is a like a little chick that can easily get squished in traffic.

Write in a journal every day for your first 30 days sober, no matter what (can be private, or anonymous on a blog, doesn’t matter).

Read sober blogs at least one hour a day, every day.

Rethink your evening routine

Have a bath/shower every evening, early, so that it sets the mood for the rest of the night.

Plan and purchase replacement drinks that you can have during the witching hours. Bitter is better.

Schedule something to coincide with Wolfie time

Get yourself daily treats for the first two weeks, and then something every two days thereafter.

Get as much sleep as humanly possible. Take naps. You will need a lot more sleep than you anticipate.

Go to bed every time you feel crappy, when you feel you’re about to drink, or when you are agitated and need a time-out. Bed is a good, safe place to hide.

Sober first. If you push yourself too hard, and load on too many goals at once, Wolfie comes in with “this is all too hard.”

Pretend, for a while, that you’re sick, that you have the flu, that you need to take good care of you—very, very good care.

Try to do some kind of physical exercise every day, even if it’s only for 10 minutes

Rent/stream new TV shows and movies as your sober treats, that you can watch only if sober.

Give up any ideas of a clean and tidy house for now.

Please know that crying is totally normal, required, and necessary.

Take pictures of things that you’re grateful for now that you’re sober. It can be simple things like a good cup of coffee, the view from the window, your girls playing dress-up. You can do a sober photo project.

Avoid overwhelm as much as possible. In fact, strive for “underwhelm” and engage in some truly slothful behaviours. It’s OK to be in your jammies watching a show on your iPad. You’re sober. Sometimes bed-snuggle time is required.

Pet your cat, dog, or horse. You know already that this makes you feel better.

Listen to sober audio and podcasts. Find specific topics or episodes that resonate with you. Listen to them on repeat.

Accept that sober motivation is like deodorant: it needs to be reapplied every day. Stop feeling like you should be able to do this if you ‘try harder’. You will need to ‘try different’.

Ask for help.

Accept help.

Ask for and listen to advice from other successfully sober people.

See irritating people as people with struggles. We were irritating too. We were dealing with stuff that other people couldn’t see. Drop your shoulders and see that woman as lonely, or hurt, or needy. She’s not trying intentionally to make you crazy.

Share the nonsensical things that Wolfie tells you—share with another sober person who will truly ‘get it’. Be shocked and then amused that we all hear virtually the same thing.

Find some small activities to do in the evenings to help occupy the empty time. It doesn’t take long for regular life to flow back into the spaces that alcohol consumed, but to begin it’s helpful to have some projects. Decluttering is helpful. It’s cleaning up, from the outside in.

Have something you can wear, some special piece of jewelry, that reminds you that you’re sober and that you’re special. Rub the jewelry. Bestow it with super powers.

Find ONE person that you can be 100% honest with about your drinking, about your thinking, your worries, your struggles, your excitement, and your joy. That might be a counsellor, sober mentor, a coach, sponsor, or a sober friend. You should have at least ONE person who truly gets what it’s like to be you.

Accept that the first time you do everything, it’s going to be a little weird.

When you are facing a shitty hard thing, or a weirdly tempting event (like a staff party), then plan a sober treat you’ll have AFTER you’re home again, safe and sober. Don’t skip this step. Wolfie likes to come in with “where’s my reward” after we do something hard. So you want to remember to have these treats pre-planned.

Be pretty darn proud of yourself.

You have to celebrate your successes. No one is coming in to do this for you. It’s you. It’s up to you.

Walk out of your office, cross the street, have a cry, get a take-out coffee and a pastry, call it a sober treat, email me that you’re doing OK, and then go back to work. Even if you remove yourself ‘briefly’ from whatever situation is making you feel crazy, you can give yourself some time to settle and feel better.

Find tools that work and keep using them. Don’t drift from your sober supports. You know how people stop taking their blood pressure medication as soon as they feel better? Whatever you’re doing is working, so keep doing it. 

Know that Wolfie wants to get us alone in our head, where he can say: “Drinking seems like a good idea. You can probably have one.” Resist this kind of wolfie-solo-nonsense-manipulation by reaching out, telling on your inner addict. Wolfie is a bully and hates it when we share.

What you’re doing is for YOU. Your partner is on their own road. You can do what’s best for you.

[calumcest]

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter three

[ao3]

yes its me back AGAIN with another chapter imagine i took 5 years off writing fic altogether and now im churning out like 7k a day procrastination truly is the biggest motivator on the planet now i can cheat myself into feeling productive when really my dissertation is still...how u say...unwritten 

The boiler is fixed a week later, and Luke returns home. 

Despite the fact he’s always lived in this apartment alone, it feels oddly quiet without Calum shouting at him from the kitchen every five minutes and a dog pawing at his ankles for food every two hours. Luke, in all his twenty-six-year-old wisdom, decides that the obvious solution to this temporary loneliness, rather than waiting it out, is to get a dog himself. 

“Look,” Calum coos, because Luke (in all his twenty-six-year-old wisdom), has decided to ask the biggest dog-lover on the planet to accompany him to the shelter to pick out one (one) dog. “This one’s so cute.”

“You’ve said that about the last seven,” Luke says. The shelter employee accompanying them laughs.

“That’s because they’re all cute,” Calum says, smiling big and soft at the little puppy sniffing at his finger excitedly. “You should get them all.” Luke rolls his eyes. 

“That’s a great idea,” he deadpans, knowing Calum’s barely listening to him anyway. “My four-room apartment is ideal for seven dogs.” 

“Exactly,” Calum says absent-mindedly, moving on to the next dog and grinning widely at it. “Hey, little man. This one’s adorable, Luke.” 

“Do you think any dogs aren’t adorable?” Luke asks, partially exasperated, partially genuinely curious. 

“There’s no such thing as a non-cute dog,” Calum says, and he crouches down to get as close to a corgi’s eye level as a six-two grown man can get. Luke’s got to admit, this one is pretty cute, wagging its little tail and gazing up at them with what almost looks like a smile. Its tail starts wagging harder when Luke crouches down next to Calum, and, unlike the previous seven dogs, it elects to walk over to Luke rather than Calum. 

“I think you’ve found your guy,” Calum says, straightening back up again. “What is he, a corgi mix?” 

“A pomeranian-corgi mix,” the employee confirms. “He’s called Clifford.” Luke looks at Calum in horror, and Calum bursts out laughing.

“I can change his name, right?” Luke says, because he doesn’t know the intricacies of dog ownership. He’s not sure whether he, like, needs to appeal to court to change his dog’s name, or something. 

“Well, technically, yes,” the employee says, “but Clifford’s pretty resistant to change. We tried changing it to Chester and he refused to respond.” Luke looks back at Clifford, who’s still wagging his tail, tongue out, looking decidedly pleased with himself. Luke’s heart kind of melts. 

“Right,” he says. “I mean. I guess I can just live with the embarrassment of having a dog named after Michael, right?” He directs the last bit at Calum, who shrugs, still grinning. 

“Your call, dude,” he says gleefully, because he’s a terrible friend. Luke sighs, casting another glance at Clifford. 

“You’re going to be the death of me, little man,” he says, and Clifford paws at the cage. 

  -------

  “He’s called what?” Michael says, half in disbelief, half in delight. 

“Fuck you,” Luke says, as Clifford sniffs at Michael’s ankles curiously. Michael bends down, scratching behind Clifford’s ears. 

“Hey, buddy,” he says. “You’re my son, d’you know that?” Clifford’s eyes close and he pushes into Michael’s touch. 

“Get your own dog,” Luke says, tugging on Clifford’s lead gently. Clifford refuses to budge. 

“I might,” Michael says. “Clifford needs a sibling.” 

“He’s not your fucking son,” Luke says, tugging again, and finally Clifford trots back to heel and settles down, resting his head on Luke’s foot. 

“Don’t swear in front of my kid,” Michael says, smiling fondly at Clifford. 

“I hate you,” Luke says, because he does. 

  -------

  Having a dog is a lot like what Luke imagines living with Michael is like, so maybe Clifford is aptly named. 

Clifford follows Luke from room to room, paws at the sofa until Luke lets him on, glares at Luke when he’s playing Xbox until he makes room in his lap for Clifford to sit, and starts making whining noises when he thinks it’s been too long since he last ate (which is, like, every half an hour). 

“I’m trying to work, little man,” Luke says one Saturday morning in late November, when Clifford sets himself down on Luke’s feet and glowers at him for having a laptop in his lap. Clifford makes a noise of disdain. “You can sit next to me, but I need to keep this roof over our heads.” He pats the sofa next to him, and Clifford gives him one final reproachful look before trotting over to the sofa and pawing at it. Luke leans over the laptop to pick him up, because he knows better than to take the laptop off his lap and give Clifford a chance to worm his way in, and Clifford curls up next to Luke, staring across the room at the door to the hallway. 

Luke manages to work for another hour and a half, ignoring Clifford’s dramatic sighs (seriously, who fucking knew dogs could be drama queens?), before he can’t concentrate on anything other than his growling stomach anymore and sets his laptop aside. Clifford, who’s been dozing for at least twenty minutes, immediately jolts upright and pads into Luke’s lap, curling up and resting his head on Luke’s thigh. 

“Not now, little man,” Luke says, picking Clifford up gently and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I need to make us lunch.” He sets Clifford down on the floor and stands up, stretching as he walks into the kitchen, Clifford hot on his heels. 

Calum had told him to make sure he makes his own food first before feeding Clifford, because apparently the alpha eats first, or something, so Luke flips the kettle on, chucks a few handfuls of pasta into a pot and puts the ready-made bolognese sauce he’d bought into a separate pot to heat up. Clifford knows the routine by now, so he just settles down near his food bowl, closing his eyes. 

Luke’s a pretty quick eater, so Clifford gets his food about twenty minutes later while Luke’s washing up his pots. When Clifford’s finished, lapping at the water in his bowl noisily, Luke heads back into the living room and picks his laptop back up again. Clifford follows a few moments later, and this time doesn’t complain about Luke working when Luke picks him up and sets him down at his side, petting him absent-mindedly as he reads a report. 

By four, Luke’s concentration has gone again, so he closes his laptop and stretches. Clifford stretches next to him and then jumps off the sofa, wagging his tail expectantly. 

“Alright,” Luke says. “Get your lead.” Clifford spins excitedly in a circle for a moment before running off to the hallway, tearing back in the door a moment later with his lead trailing along the floor behind him. Luke bends down, and Clifford sits still as he waits for Luke to clip the lead to his collar. He lets Luke tug on his shoes and then starts pulling on the lead a little impatiently while Luke searches for his keys. 

“You’ll be the one complaining if we get locked out, Cliff,” Luke says, a tad irritably, when Clifford pulls a little harder after two minutes of Luke trying to find his keys. He eventually finds them in his jacket pocket, and sets off, locking the door behind him. 

It’s nice outside, and Luke tilts his face into the sun as they make their way to the park. It’s only a short distance away, and Clifford patiently waits at the kerbs of the two roads they have to cross which makes the journey a lot easier for Luke. Once they’re in the park, Clifford beelines for the dog park, making Luke quicken his pace a little to keep up. He hops excitedly in front of the gate as Luke fumbles with the latch on it, and as soon as there’s a sliver of a gap he forces his way through, causing the lead to get caught on the railings as he twists his way through. 

“Cliff, you fucking idiot,” Luke says, unhooking the lead where it’s got caught and slipping into the dog park himself, shutting the gate behind him. “Sit, I’ll let you off.” Clifford sits, vibrating with excitement, and the minute the lead is unclipped from his collar he’s tearing off to join the other dogs running around the middle of the park. 

Luke ambles over to one of the wooden benches, away from other people - making small talk with dog owners gets a little painful after a while, he’s found - and settles down, keeping an eye on Clifford and making sure he’s not getting involved in anything too rough with any of the bigger dogs. He’s so caught up in watching Clifford that he doesn’t notice someone sitting down next to him until they clear their throat, making Luke throw them a glance. 

And his stomach drops, because fucking hell. It’s Ashton.

“Hi,” Ashton says, offering Luke a small, almost nervous smile. 

“What are you doing here?” Luke asks stupidly, because in his mind, Ashton’s not supposed to be anywhere Luke is.

“Walking my dog,” Ashton says. “What are you doing here?” 

“Walking mine.” Ashton frowns, looking out at the pack of dogs running around, like he’s trying to pick Luke’s out from the group. Luke looks over too, because Ashton being here means Spot’s here somewhere, and he always liked Spot. 

“You have a dog?” Ashton says, and he sounds kind of uneasy about it. Luke kind of relishes it; it’s solid proof that Ashton doesn’t know Luke anymore, and it doesn’t sit well with him. 

“Obviously.” Ashton says nothing to that for a while, and they sit in incredibly tense, awkward silence. 

“How have you been?” Ashton says eventually, and Luke snorts. 

“We’re not doing small talk, Ashton,” he says. The name rolls off Luke’s tongue a little easier than it had the first time, a month ago, and something about that sets his teeth on edge. 

“Jesus, alright,” Ashton mutters. “I’m just trying to be polite.” 

“Well, don’t.” Out of the corner of his eye, Luke sees Ashton roll his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

After another five painfully slow minutes have passed, Luke’s had enough. He gets up, fumbling with the lead in his hand, and shouts: “Clifford!” 

“You named your dog after Michael?” Ashton asks from behind him. Luke scowls as Clifford comes bounding over, but his stomach flips uncomfortably. It’s yet another reminder that Ashton knows more about him than he’d like, that he still knows little things like his best friend’s surname. 

“No,” he says, bending down and clipping Clifford’s lead onto his collar. “He was called Clifford when I got him.” 

“Oh,” Ashton says. “Like the big red dog? Kind of a shitty name for a tiny corgi.” Luke’s scowl deepens. 

“He’s a pomeranian-corgi mix,” he says, a little venomously, “and yours is called fucking Spot .” He gives in to Clifford’s puppy eyes, petting him briefly before straightening up. 

“She’s got spots,” Ashton says defensively. 

“She’s a dalmatian.” 

“Exactly.” Luke rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not taking any fucking criticism from someone who names a dalmatian Spot,” he says. 

“It’s a good fucking name for a dalmatian,” Ashton says, getting up from the bench too. “Spot!” 

Spot comes zooming out of the group of dogs, a blur of black and white, but doesn’t head for Ashton. Instead, she beelines for Luke with her tail wagging harder than he thinks he’s ever seen it go. She jumps up at him before she even reaches him, trying to lick every inch of his body, and Luke can’t help but laugh as he tells her down, Spot, down and tries to pet her. 

“She’s missed you,” Ashton remarks. Luke doesn’t take the bait, just pats Spot on the head one last time before turning to Clifford, who’s trotted up to Spot, intrigued. 

“C’mon, little man,” he says, but Spot’s just noticed Clifford at her feet and is also taking a great interest in him. The two of them sniff each other for a moment, and then their tails start wagging, and Clifford’s face breaks into what Luke always swears is a grin, and Michael always tells him is probably a doggy cry for help. “C’mon, Cliff.” 

“Heel, Spot,” Ashton says, like he’s trying to prove Spot’s better-trained than Clifford, or something. Spot, though, doesn’t budge.

“Heel,” Luke tells Clifford sternly, because fuck Ashton, and Clifford trots to Luke’s feet, albeit a little reluctantly. Luke can’t help but feel a little smug as Ashton gives up, leaning over to clip Spot’s lead to her as she gazes up at Luke, panting happily. Luke gives her one absolutely final pat on the head, because he has kind of missed her too. 

“Alright,” Luke says, a little uncomfortable, because he has no idea how to say goodbye to someone he never wanted to see again. 

“See you,” Ashton says, and it’s written all over his face that he knows what Luke’s thinking. Luke snorts. 

“Hopefully not,” he says, but it’s not mean. It’s just honest. 

Ashton smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, see you not, then,” he says. 

“See you not,” Luke agrees, and sets off out of the park. 

It only occurs to him when he’s waiting to cross the road that he’s just had a semi-civil conversation with Ashton, and it sends a bewildering flash of confusion, anger and embarrassment coursing through his veins. 

Whatever, he thinks, as Clifford trots off when the light turns green. It's not like he's going to see Ashton again, so it doesn't matter. 

  -------

  “What are your plans on Thursday?” Calum asks him on Tuesday afternoon. Luke shrugs, trying to adjust the settings on his fan. It’s too fucking hot in here. 

“Dinner, TV, wanking,” Luke says, fiddling with the controls. “Why?” 

“Come to dinner,” Calum says, and there’s an edge of something a little nervous to his tone. Luke looks up at him with a frown. 

“Why?” he asks, suspicious. Calum hesitates for a moment, like he’s not sure whether he should tell Luke, but then he sighs. 

“Mike and I want to talk to you,” he says. Luke looks away again, staring steadfastly at the fan. 

He’s known this talk was going to come for a long time. Every time he makes a comment about their soulmate status and then clams up when they try and broach the topic, he sees them exchange a Look, a Soulmate Look (or maybe just a Michael And Calum Look). They’re careful to avoid talking about it when Luke’s around, to keep the touches and looks to a minimum, but the minimum is still enough for it to be painfully obvious what they are and that Luke’s not a part of it. 

“Fine,” Luke says eventually, reluctant, because it’s been nearly three months since they found out and they still haven’t spoken about it, and even Luke has to admit that at some point, it’s going to start impacting their friendship unless they all lay their cards on the table. Calum makes a noise of relief, like he hadn’t expected Luke to be so easy to convince. 

“Seven?” he says. Luke nods tightly, twisting the bottom of the fan in annoyance at both it and Calum, and it finally starts fucking whirring. 

“I saw Ashton at the weekend,” he says after a moment, because he feels a little guilty and anything is a better topic of conversation than the uncomfortable silence they’ve lapsed into. 

“You what ?” Calum sounds aghast. 

“By accident,” Luke says hurriedly. “I was walking Cliff, and he was in the dog park.” 

“Right,” Calum says, concern still colouring his tone. “Did you talk to him?”

“He talked to me,” Luke says. 

“What did he say?” Luke shrugs. 

“Tried to make small talk,” he says. “Insulted Cliff’s name.” Calum looks torn, because he usually never misses an opportunity to insult Clifford’s name, but clearly thinks now is not the right moment. 

“How did you leave it?” he settles on eventually. Luke can see the self-restraint it’s taking him to not say Clifford is a shitty dog name, to be fair . Maybe this is a good tactic to get Calum to stop making fun of Luke; next time Calum jokes about how long Luke takes to get ready in the mornings, Luke’s going to tell him Ashton said the same thing. 

“He said see you, and I said hopefully not,” Luke says. Calum nods, satisfied. 

“Good,” he says. “Have you seen him there since?” Luke shakes his head, and hesitates, before telling Calum he’s not actually been to the dog park since Saturday. Calum frowns. 

“Why not?” he asks. Luke shrugs, a little uncomfortable, fiddling with the settings on the fan again. His face is heating up, and he’s pretty sure it’s just because it’s too fucking hot in here. 

“Don’t want to bump into him,” he says. Calum gives him a long look, and Luke tries not to lose his composure under his steely gaze. 

“You shouldn’t let him change your routine, Luke,” Calum says seriously. 

“I know,” Luke says, picking at a stray thread in his sleeve. “It’s just- it’s easier.” Calum says nothing for a moment, and then sighs. 

“He’s going to think he has an effect on you,” he says, and it’s a little patronising.  

“He does,” Luke mutters. “He pisses me the fuck off.” 

“You know what I mean.” And Luke does, and that pisses him off too. 

“Whatever,” he says, turning back to his computer and clicking on the email in his inbox that looks easiest to deal with. “My problem, not yours.” It’s mean, it’s uncalled for, and Calum doesn’t deserve it, and Luke feels a pang of guilt as soon as he says it, but he can’t swallow his pride to apologise. 

Calum doesn’t say anything, which Luke kind of thinks is worse than if he’d just taken the bait and risen to the argument Luke’s sort of spoiling for, and they sit in silence for the rest of the afternoon. 

  -------

  Thursday comes too soon. 

Luke brings Clifford, partially because he doesn’t want to leave him alone for two hours and partially as a shield or an excuse to leave, but as soon as he lets himself into Calum’s flat with the key he’d been given when Calum moved in Clifford tears off, lead trailing behind him, to find Duke. 

“Hey, son,” he hears Michael say to Clifford, and scowls. 

“Come back, little man,” Luke shouts, kicking his shoes off. Reluctantly, Clifford comes back around the corner, and Luke bends down to give him a quick scratch and unclips his lead. Clifford doesn’t hesitate, running back into the living room to find Duke, who’s probably sleeping and doesn’t want to be disturbed by an over-excited three-year-old dog. Luke hangs the lead up on top of his jacket and trails after Clifford, finding Michael on his own in the living room playing MarioKart. 

“Hi,” he says, setting himself down on the sofa heavily. There’s an uncomfortable atmosphere that he’s not used to having with Michael and Calum, not since Year Nine when they both hated his guts. 

“Hey,” Michael says nonchalantly, not looking away from the screen, but it’s too casual. Luke’s stomach flips, and he swallows. 

“Cal in the kitchen?” Michael nods. Great. Now he’s making awkward small talk with his own best friends. 

Luke watches Michael play for a few minutes, one eye on Clifford to make sure he’s not annoying Duke too much, and then Calum comes out of the kitchen and declares that dinner’s ready and they all shuffle to the table, dogs in tow with hopeful looks on their faces. 

They make idle, awkward chat while serving themselves, Calum and Luke filling Michael in on this stupid fucking client they had to deal with last week, and everybody’s uncomfortable because it’s stringing out the inevitable but none of them want to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room. 

Eventually, though, Michael sighs, and puts his fork down. 

“This is stupid,” he says, and Luke privately agrees. “Can we just talk?” Calum shoots Luke a worried glance, and Jesus, Luke wishes they would stop acting like he’s going to fucking break if they talk about it. 

“Yeah,” Luke says. “Let’s just get this over with.” It’s a little barbed, and he feels bad when Calum’s shoulders slump a little, because he is happy for them, he is, he’s just also selfishly unhappy that the three of them are now officially Michael-and-Calum and Luke rather than just unofficially. 

“Okay,” Michael says. “So. Calum and I are soulmates.” Luke nods, putting a forkful of beans into his mouth so he won’t have to say anything. 

“We want you to know it’s not going to change anything between us,” Calum says, and Luke chokes, half on a mirthless laugh, half on his beans. With a little difficulty, he swallows, takes a sip of water, and then speaks. 

“That’s not true,” he says. “It has to change things between us. It’s already changed things between us.” 

“You know what we mean,” Michael says. Luke doesn’t like the we , the us and you implication. That’s exactly what he’s talking about. “We’ll still be best friends.” 

“We want this to be an honest conversation,” Calum says. “All cards on the table.” 

“ All cards on the table?” Luke says, flicking a glance at Michael, who knows firsthand how spiteful Luke can be. Calum’s never had an argument with Luke like The Great Bedroom Bust-Up of 2019. Michael holds his gaze, and nods. 

“Okay,” Luke says. “You first.” Calum and Michael exchange another glance, some kind of unspoken soulmate conversation that Luke can never be a part of. A pang of something a bitter and painful hits him when he realises that not only can he never be a part of it, he can never have it himself, because his soulmate is fucking Ashton . He’s never going to have this, and, not for the first time, he lets himself admit that it’s the majority of what makes it hurt so much.

“Okay,” Calum says carefully. “I’ll just speak for myself. You know I’ve been in love with Michael since- well, uh, as long as I can remember. That’s nothing new. What’s new is that I know Michael’s in love with me too. And, uh, that we’re sort of together now? That’s new.” And yeah, it is new, because Luke hadn’t even known about that. Sure, he’d guessed, with all the hushed conversations and Calum calling Michael love like it was the easiest thing in the world, but it’s somehow different hearing confirmation of it. It stings more than he’d hoped it would. “Other than that, nothing’s changed. I still love you. You’re still my best friend, Michael’s still my best friend.” Calum pauses, clearly waiting for Luke to say something, but Luke just shrugs. He hasn’t got anything to say to that. 

“We’re not going to be all couple-y around you,” Michael says. “We know this isn’t the most ideal situation. But we’re not going to keep tiptoeing around you like we have been, so you’ve got to stop being an arsehole and actually support us. This is it now. This is how it is forever.” 

Luke has to swallow back the bile rising in his throat at that, at how easy it is for Michael and Calum to throw around words like forever. He only just manages to bite back a spiteful well, how do you know that? Ashton and I didn’t work out, and we’re soulmates , but Michael can see it on his face. 

“All cards on the table,” he reminds Luke. 

“This isn’t going to work if we don’t get it all out,” Calum adds. “We’ll just build up resentment otherwise.” And yeah, Luke can kind of see his point, because his resentment’s been building for the past six months already. 

“Fine,” Luke says, and it’s a little snappy. “How do you know this is forever? I’m living proof that that’s not always the case.” The words twist in the air between them, Michael and Calum on one side of the table, Luke on the other, and Luke kind of hates himself and kind of hates them. 

“It just is,” Michael says simply, like Luke hasn’t just taken a nasty swipe at his relationship. 

“I’m not taking sides if it doesn’t work out,” Luke says, partially to drive the point home, partially because it’s something he’s worried about since they first became friends. Some of the most stressful times of his life have been when Michael and Calum have argued and both come running to him, each expecting him to take their side. 

“We wouldn’t expect you to,” Michael says smoothly. “But you have to support us in this. I don’t want to have to take sides either.” The I’d choose Calum goes unspoken, but Luke hears it. 

“Say it,” he says, because apparently he’s some kind of masochist, and all cards on the table, right? Michael folds his arms. Calum looks like he’s about to cry. 

“I’d choose Calum,” Michael says, calm and even. The words cut straight through Luke’s heart, even though he’d known, he’s always known, that he’s second-best to both of them. If it had ever come to it, even before all this tattoo bullshit, neither of them would have chosen Luke. 

(He supposes that’s part of the soulmate business, but it doesn’t make it any less shitty.) 

“And you?” Luke says, rounding on Calum. He needs to hear it, somehow, needs to hear the brutal honesty, needs to hear their old friendship crumble all the way down before he can rebuild it with a new dynamic.

“Don’t,” Calum says, pleading. 

“Say it.” Luke’s tone is hard, but his voice wavers. “I need you to say it, Calum.” Calum swallows, hard, and Luke watches his mouth open and close a few times. 

“I’d choose Michael,” he mumbles eventually, and swipes at the corner of his eye. Luke immediately feels like shit. He doesn’t want Calum to cry. 

“I’m sorry, Cal,” he says quietly, and he means I’m sorry for all of this, and I’m sorry for making you cry . Calum nods, sniffing a little. 

“So you know where we stand,” Michael says, and he’s still calm, collected, put-together. Luke’s a little surprised - he’d expected Michael to be the one to fall to pieces, Calum to be the one to keep the conversation together. 

“Yeah,” Luke says, handing his unused napkin over to Calum for him to wipe his eyes. Calum gives him a watery smile. “Guess I know where I stand, too.” Michael looks at him, hard. 

“We’ve tiptoed around you for six months, Luke,” he says bluntly. “We’ve put all of this aside for you.” Luke swallows down the guilt that rises at that, because it’s true. They’ve put Luke first the whole time, ever since he found out it was Ashton, until the dinner a few weeks ago. They’ve been careful, they’ve been considerate, and Luke’s been a selfish dickhead, not letting them be who - and what - they are around him. 

“I know,” Luke says. “I- I really appreciate that.” 

“And?” Michael prompts. Luke sighs. 

“It fucking sucks,” he says. “I’ve always been second best to you two. It’s always been you two, and then me. And now that’s just- that’s never going to change. I see the way you look at each other, the way you touch each other, and.” He shrugs. “I’m always going to be an afterthought.” He’s almost willing Michael and Calum to contradict him, but they don’t. It doesn’t sting, though, this time, just a dull throb of hurt that Luke thinks might just actually be disguising his crippling sadness. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for his next words. 

“And I- I think my biggest problem is that it hurts. It hurts because I’m never going to have this. I know that’s my problem, not yours, but.” He shrugs again. “You guys really drive it home.” And because all cards on the fucking table , he adds: “It hurts more to be around you guys sometimes than it does to be around Ashton.” 

The words ring in the silence of the room. Luke thinks he’s never said anything more hurtful in his life, and also thinks he’s never said anything more honest. 

“Okay,” Michael says, and he sounds like he’s upset but trying his best to hide it. “Is that all?” Luke nods. He actually feels a bit better already, underneath all the hurt and confusion and aching sadness, because now they know how he feels and he knows how they feel and they can start to rebuild, start to move forward. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he is. “But you said all cards on the table.” 

“I did,” Michael says. 

“I’m glad you can be that honest with us, Luke,” Calum says, still sounding a little thick, and Luke presses his lips together. 

“I’m glad you can be honest with me too,” he admits. “I think- I think it shows. That we’re best friends.” It sounds stupid when he says it, like a ten-year-old on the playground, but both Calum and Michael nod sincerely, like that’s exactly what they were thinking. Luke has to blink back the tears that well up in his eyes at that, because fuck, he doesn’t deserve them. 

“I love you,” he says, and it comes out helpless. Both Michael and Calum smile at him, and Michael’s eyes suddenly look misty too. “I do. And I really am happy for you two, underneath all of this, I swear. It was the first thought I had when I realised you two were soulmates. I know I’m a selfish cunt. I just- I kind of needed to hear you say our friendship was going to change to accept it, to move on. I’m glad you didn’t lie to me.” 

“It’s okay,” Calum says. “Imagine how badly Michael would have coped with it if he’d been third-wheeling you and your soulmate.” All three of them laugh, but it’s choked and teary. 

“Fuck you,” Michael says, wiping his eyes. 

“You don’t have to tiptoe around me,” Luke says, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I mean, I think it’ll still take me some getting used to, but that’s my problem. I’m happy for you, and I love you. And I don’t want to be an obstacle anymore.” He’s given up trying to control the tears now, because it’s Michael and Calum, and they’ve seen him in far worse states than this. 

(They saw him after Ashton.) 

“You were never an obstacle,” Michael says reassuringly, a little choked. 

“We made the choice to put you first, Luke,” Calum says, reaching over the table for Luke’s hand. “We might be soulmates, but we’re still nothing without you.” Tears are streaming freely down all of their faces now, and Luke squeezes Calum’s hand like it’s the only thing tying him to the planet. He reaches for Michael with his other hand, laces their fingers together, and sits there for a moment, crying silently with his two best friends. 

“I love you,” Calum says. “Both of you.”

“I love you too,” Michael says. “Mostly Luke, but yeah, you’re alright too, Cal.” Luke and Calum huff out shaky laughs at that. 

“We look like we’re doing a séance,” Luke says after a moment, when he sees Calum and Michael’s hands intertwined under the table, and Calum and Michael giggle weakly. He puts on a husky voice, and says: “Oh, spirits of third-wheeling, are you out there?” Calum and Michael laugh again, stronger this time, and Luke’s heart warms. They’re okay. They’re going to be okay. Everything is changing, but nothing has changed. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Michael says, grinning.

“We should probably feed the dogs,” Calum says, because Clifford and Duke have been huffing every few minutes for about twenty minutes now. Luke nods, and lets go of both Michael and Calum a little reluctantly, despite the fact that Michael had been about two seconds away from crushing his hand. 

They all get up, Calum and Luke to feed their respective dogs, Michael to start clearing the table. They’re in sync, they’re working in tandem, and they’re okay.

They’re okay. 

  -------

  Luke hasn’t been back to the dog park since that Saturday. 

He’s walked near it, walked past it, almost walked to it, but chickened out at the last minute. Calum’s words echo in his mind every time - you shouldn’t let him change your routine - and he knows, he knows Calum’s right, but Luke’s a bit of a coward and a big fan of taking the easy way out. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t sit uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, though, every time he turns left instead of right into the park, but Clifford doesn’t seem to mind. 

Clifford, Luke has discovered, fucking loves the beach. 

It’s not too far from the park to the beach, so Luke’s taken to walking Clifford along the water instead, letting him splash around to his heart’s content in the waves lapping at the shore. Clifford doesn’t even tug in the direction of the park when they set off anymore, just bounces happily along the road to the sand. 

Luke tells Calum, one day, who off-hand remarks that he’s never actually taken Duke to the beach, and Luke, once he’s got over his initial shock, says they absolutely have to go. Calum rolls his eyes, and Luke calls Michael to convince him to go and pressure Calum into going - which, in hindsight, not the best idea, because as Michael sensibly points out, he’ll probably get sunstroke before they even make it to the beach. Nevertheless, Michael agrees, and so Calum agrees, and that’s how, a week later, they’re all ambling down the warm pavement to the beach. 

“Jesus, I’m fucking boiling,” Michael grumbles, plucking at his shirt. 

“It’s December, Mike, what d’you expect?” Luke says, jogging a little to keep up with Clifford. “You’ve lived through twenty-seven of them.” 

“Fuck, don’t say that,” Michael groans. “I’m so fucking old.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, with a grin. Duke’s padding along calmly, stopping to sniff at flowers every few minutes, much to Clifford’s chagrin. “I’m your toyboy, now.” Michael scowls. 

“Fuck you,” he says, fanning himself wildly. “Fuck. I’m getting in the water as soon as we get there.” Luke rolls his eyes. 

“You’re so fucking melodramatic,” he says. “It’s six p.m. It’s not even hot.” 

“Alright, just because you got all the Australian genes,” Michael snipes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke says. 

“Blonde, blue-eyed, ability to surf,” Michael says, waving his hand dismissively, like it’s some kind of an explanation. 

“What? I can’t surf,” Luke says. 

“Well, you can stand up on a board, can’t you? Same thing.” 

“That’s not surfing,” Calum says, shaking his head. 

“I’m not taking criticism from you ,” Michael says, because Calum can barely stand up straight on solid ground, as they round the corner and arrive at the beach. The sun is slowly setting, glittering on the water and making them all squint. 

“I’m getting in,” Michael declares, tugging his shirt off and flinging it at Calum. 

“Me too,” Luke says, before Calum has the chance to say anything. Clifford’s whining, begging to get to the water, and Luke hands Michael his lead for a moment while he wrestles his shirt off his sticky back. He turns his back to Calum, reaching out for Clifford’s lead, but is interrupted by Calum saying:

“You didn’t tell me it’s grown.” 

“Huh?” Luke says, turning back to Calum. Calum points at his back. 

“The tattoo.” Luke frowns. 

“What?”

“It’s grown.” Luke twists, trying to see. Fucking tattoo. Of course he got his on his shoulderblade. 

“I can’t- I’m sure it hasn’t,” Luke says. “You’ve only seen it once. You probably just don’t remember.” Michael’s walked over next to Calum, and he’s frowning now, too. 

“It’s got a dog on it now,” he says, and Luke scowls. 

“Come on, guys,” he says. “This isn’t funny.” 

“I’m not joking,” Calum says, and he sounds a little confused and a little worried. 

“Do they do that?” Michael says, addressing Calum, like Luke’s not even there. “Do they grow?” 

“Mine hasn’t,” Calum says, tilting his head up so the sunlight catches the black ink on his neck. 

“Nor mine,” Michael says, turning back to Luke, who’s still trying to see his own shoulderblade in vain. “Here, wait, I’ll take a photo.” Luke stills, slightly grumpy, ready for a ha, ha, guys, I didn’t even believe you, what kind of a joke is that when Michael and Calum inevitably burst out laughing, but it never comes. 

Instead, Michael shoves his phone in front of Luke, and Luke grabs it and pulls it closer, because he hasn’t brought his glasses. He cups a hand over the screen, squinting to see, and he can make out the tattoo, dark and swirling on his skin. Waning moon, bird with drumstick - and, shit. Dalmatian, gazing up at the bird. 

“Shit,” he says, and he’s panicking, pawing at his back like it’s going to come off. All he can feel under his fingertips is warm skin. “Shit. Fuck. What the fuck? They don’t- they don’t just fucking grow, do they? Is this- is this, like, cancer, or something?” 

“What?” Michael says. 

“Look it up,” Calum tells Michael, who wrenches his phone back out of Luke’s hands and starts typing furiously. 

“Fuck,” Luke says, raking a hand through his hair. “Cal, what the fuck.” 

“Hey,” Calum says, soothing, reassuring. Even Clifford seems to have noticed something’s wrong, because he’s whining at Luke’s feet, no longer vibrating at the other end of the lead in Michael’s hand. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s- Cal, it’s not- it’s grown ,” Luke says, almost frantic. “It’s not supposed to do that. Yours hasn’t done that.” 

“I know,” Calum says, like he wishes he could offer Luke an explanation. Luke stares at him wildly for a moment, and then pulls his own phone out of his pocket. 

“What are you doing?” Calum asks. 

“Calling Ashton,” Luke says, because deep in his gut, it feels like the only thing to do right now. 

“What- Luke, I don’t think that’s a good-” but it’s too late, Luke’s taking a few strides away from Michael and Calum, biting his lip as the dial tone rings. 

It cuts out after four rings, to a scrambling and a surprised: “Hello?” 

“Hi,” Luke says, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. 

“Luke? Are you okay?” 

“Has yours grown?” There’s a pause. 

“What?”

“Your tattoo. Has it grown?” 

“ Grown ?” 

“Just answer the fucking question. Is there any more to it?” There’s a rustling sound, then a thud, like Ashton’s getting out of bed. 

“Uh, I don’t know, it’s- I can’t really see it unless I look in a mirror, hang on.” There’s the sound of padding footsteps, and Luke stares out at the horizon, watching the sun slowly lower itself into the water, counting the seconds as they pass. “Shit. Shit .” Luke’s stomach sinks. 

“It’s grown?” 

“Yeah. It’s- what the fuck? Are they meant to do this?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I- what the fuck?”

“I don’t fucking know , Ashton.” 

“Jesus, alright, don’t bite my fucking head off.” Luke clenches his teeth. 

“Fuck you,” he says. 

“Fuck me ? Luke, you’re-” But Luke doesn’t stick around to hear what he is, hanging up and traipsing back to Michael and Calum, who are muttering quietly to each other, staring at Michael’s phone screen. 

“It’s grown,” he confirms, even though he thinks they all knew that. He didn’t have to call Ashton to confirm it, but somehow, he needed to.

“There’s something, but you’re not going to like it,” Michael says. 

“Tell me.” 

“There’s been a study,” Calum begins, and Jesus, Luke doesn’t have the time for this. He snatches Michael’s phone out of his hand and reads - study, London, tattoo growth, separate, choice. The words scramble in his mind and he reads the sentences over and over again until they make sense - a study conducted in London, into soulmates who experienced tattoo growth, discovered it occurred when the mates made the active choice to remain separate . 

Luke’s stomach lurches, and he feels the blood drain from his face so fast that he goes dizzy, catching Calum’s bicep to steady himself. 

“It’s a small study,” Calum says. “Six sets of soulmates. It’s not conclusive.” 

“Jesus,” Luke whispers, not even listening, mind racing. “Am I- Am I just going to end up covered in fucking- in tattoos about Ashton ?” Calum bites his lip unhappily. Neither he nor Michael can answer that. 

Luke falls into the sand, hard, and Clifford immediately climbs into his lap, sniffing at him, quiet and concerned. Michael and Calum settle down next to him, and Calum wordlessly hands him back his shirt, like he knows Luke wants to pretend it’s not happening. Luke pulls it back on silently, and puts his head in his hands. 

“Can I just catch a fucking break?” he mumbles, voice cracking on the last word. Two sets of arms slip around him. 

They don’t swim, and Clifford doesn’t get to play in the water, but they get to watch the sun set together, and in between his spiralling thoughts Luke finds the time to think that that’s something.

taglist: @glitterlukey @hey-its-grey 

chapter four

[allywolf45]

Remembering The Roadhouse Part 2

Hi there! Part 2 is finally ready to be read! That and I have other exciting news! I have posted that I have recently made a new block for all things Beetlejuice and School of Rock, but it kind of helps to find it if you have a name. The name of the new blog is beetles-and-rock. I will repost Part 1 as well as post Part 2 there.

------------------------------------

The aching Dewey woke to in his neck and back, from sleeping on the couch, made him long for the bed down the hall. the only problem was Rosalie was still asleep, and if he woke her now, she'd go right back to working herself to exhaustion. He wanted her to rest as much as he could get her to, because he was pretty sure it was the only rest she was getting.

Still the pain caused him to think of the bed, and the mornings he'd woken up there, with Rosalie at his side. Many of those times had been the mornings after nights similar to last night, when he would spend the evening with Rosalie, and play his guitar while she worked. Eventually they'd get tired and go to bed.

To his shame, there were a few mornings he'd woken up hungover at her side, and he knew it meant she had to drag him there from whatever bar he'd gotten very drunk at. Those mornings were often full of embarrassment, regret, and a ton of apologies, but even then she'd cuddle him through the hangover. And everytime it left him why she still loved and dealt with him, as well as caused him to consider himself lucky she did.

A slight movement of Rosalie's head against his chest brought his attention back to her. Her hair was down and messy, and she didn't have her glasses on. Dewey always thought this made her look younger, and often wondered if he was catching a glimpse the younger more reckless Rosalie Mullins she told him about that night at the Roadhouse. Once again he wondered if he should do something special with her, but now he worried that with all the stress she was under, they wouldn't be able to.

As he continued to throw ideas back and forth in his mind, Rosalie woke up. No longer able to hide the pain, Dewey let out a moan as she lifted her head and then sat up.

“Dewey, are you alright?“

"Yeah...“ He sat up and a sharp pain shot through his neck and shoulder. “Nope!" He practically yelped falling back down.

Rosalie stood up, and held out a hand for him. "Come on. Let's go to bed."

Fairly surprised and relieved that she was going to continue resting, Dewey took her hand and got up from the couch with a few popping and cracking noises in his back, and followed her to the bedroom. Once in the bed Dewey wasn't able to give much more thought to much of anything. He wasn't aware of how tired he still was, and fell back asleep just after Rosalie did.

Several hours later, Dewey woke holding Rosalie. She looked up from where she lay with her arms wrapped around his middle. Her messy hair fell to the side as she smiled up at him. The pleasant feelings that usually came with waking up next to her finally ensued.

He smiled back at her, and brushed her hair back out of her face with his hand.

"Good morning, beautiful." He said.

Rosalie laughed. “I'm pretty sure it's past noon, Dewey."

He leaned up to look, at the clock. "Ow! ow! ow!"

"Aww, Dewey..." Rosalie gently pressed her hand against his chest to get him to lay back down. “I'm sorry, we should've gone to bed sooner. You wouldn't be aching so much now if we had slept in the bed."

Dewey turned onto his side putting an arm around her. “It's okay. We both didn't realize how tired we were, and you got decent sleep.“ He paused a little embarrassed. "well, at least I hope you did. I know my stomach kept making noises."

“I didn't notice a thing. I was so tired."

"I know. You've been working so hard, Rosalie. I wish you could relax, just for a night."

"Dewey..."

"I know you've got a lot of work to do, but parent's night is next week. I'm not saying you should procrastinate-“

She rolled her eyes,and gave him a smirk. "Dewey, you're always procrastinating."

"Ouch..." Dewey exaggerated a look of hurt.

"Would a kiss make it feel better?"

Dewey smiled. "It might."

Rosalie pressed her lips against his, and Dewey immediately wished he could freeze time. Though kissing between the two was far from a rare occurrence, he enjoyed the warmth or the rush he felt inside, whichever it was that came. Still she pulled back away, and just like that, it was over.

"What were we talking about?" Dewey asked.

Rosalie's smile was sweet. "Procrastination." She answered.

"Oh... yeah..." Dewey hugged her closer to him. “Let's do a little more of that.“

"We can't anymore, Dewey. I need you to drive me back to my vehicle at the school."

"I don't wanna...."

"Dewdrop..."

There it was. The petname she would utter that would make him do anything. It wasn't very cool nickname, but the way she said it made him melt. He hated his vulnerability to it.

"Fine...“ He sighed. “I'll take you to the school. When I get home, maybe Ned will send ya what's left of me, after Patti has my head."

Rosalie giggled holding his face. "Patti's not going to hurt you. You'll be just fine, but if she upsets you too badly, you can always call me.“

With one final whiney noise Dewey forced himself out of the bed. He went to the bathroom to "fix" his hair, while Rosalie got dressed. When it came time for Rosalie to use the bathroom, Dewey came out with his hair more or less the same as when he entered, and waited on the couch. He wouldn't be there long though, Rosalie was pretty quick about getting ready, even on weekends.

For Dewey, the drive was too short. The whole way to the school they were blasting some of there favorite songs on the radio, but now he was parked right beside her car in the school parking lot. In a few minutes he'd be going home to Patti yelling at him about something he‘d forgotten to do, and the thought of leaving this pleasant situation for that one made him feel as though some kind of weight was sitting in the center of his stomach.

"Thank you for driving me back to my car, Dewey." Rosalie leaned over and kissed him one more time.

"No problem.“ Dewey sighed when she pulled back away.

"See you Monday!“ She smiled.

"See you Monday...“

Rosalie got out of the van and walked around it to get to her car. Seeing her in his rearview mirror sparked an impulse in him. He opened his door and stepped out of the van.

"Rosalie... uh... Miss Mullins... sorry..."

She seemed taken aback by this sudden action, but smiled anyway.

"Yes, Mr. Finn?"

"You know...uh...Thursday night is um... Well a year ago I... um..."

"You?"

"I asked you to meet me at the Roadhouse... the night before the Battle of the Bands and um...parent's night."

Rosalie blushed a little, though it was hard to tell if she thought fondly of the memory, which made him even more nervous. Still he found the courage to continue.

"Thursday night will be exactly a year since then, and I was hoping maybe you and I could uh... maybe do something special since it was kinda the first time we went out."

She smiled again. “I'd love to, Dewey." She kissed his cheek. Excitement welled up inside of him.

"So it a date then?" He asked.

"Yeah, it's a date!" Rosalie replied.

Unable to contain his excitement Dewey hugged her. As he felt her arms comes around his middle and tighten a bit, he became set on making that night special somehow.

[chronictonsillitis]

If I Could Do It All Again (I Shouldn’t Still Want This) Chapter 9/? - Bellarke (exes, college AU)

“No.” Clarke turned to face her. Her voice was steady. “Bellamy should come. I don’t care.”

“Alright, then,” Raven said doubtfully. Her eyes searched Clarke’s face and Clarke made sure there was nothing for her to find. “Good.”

“Good,” Clarke replied.

Good, she thought. You dirty liar.

***** Clarke and gang get ready for formal.

ao3 or start from the beginning or

It was probably foolish for Clarke to work a shift the day of formal, but if she was honest she was kind of hoping it ran long so she’d have an excuse to skip it. As the end of the shift grew closer and closer with no calls, she started to get a bit desperate.

“Really, Jackson, when was the last time you and Miller got to spend a Saturday night together?”

“Last weekend.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “I mean a night out. I could cover Miller tonight, no problem. And you guys could have a date night.”

Jackson looked at her doubtfully. “You know McCreary is working tonight, right?”

Clarke shrugged with a studied air of nonchalance, cringing internally. “That’s fine. He’s really not that bad.”

“Not that bad?!” Jackson choked. “Since when?”

Clarke shrugged again. “I don’t know, the last couple times we’ve worked together.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes and called out, “Hey, Nate!”

Fuck. Clarke had been trying to avoid getting Miller involved, as he was much more likely to see through her.

Miller poked his head around the corner. “If Clarke is trying to convince you to let her stay late, say no. She’s trying to get out of going to formal.”

Clarke groaned, slumping down and throwing an arm, over her face. “Who told you?!”

Miller sat down next to her, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “Who didn’t tell me? It’s cute that you don’t think you’re predictable.”

She looked up at him with big eyes. “Please don’t make me go.”

“I can’t make you go.” Miller patted her lightly on the cheek. “But I can make you leave.”

He pushed her up off the couch, placing her bag into her hands. “Time to go. Vamoose.”

Clarke pouted. “It’s not even 6 yet!”

Miller pushed her further towards the door. “And yet I’m here, so you don’t have to be. Now, get. Begone.”

Clarke groaned and gave in. She shot them one last betrayed glance as she headed out the door.

“Have a nice night!” Jackson called after her. She flipped him the bird.

****

Clarke grabbed dinner on her way back to campus, sitting at her desk to eat. After, she flopped down on her bed, procrastinating. Slowly, she resigned herself to the idea of formal. The dress bag sat accusingly in her closet, reminding her she’d already agreed.

Begrudgingly, Clarke stripped off her work clothes and went to take a shower. She got back to her room to find a dark mop of hair hanging backwards of her bed.

“Madi,” she acknowledged.

The head popped up. “What kind of underwear are you wearing?”

Clarke gaped at her, looking down at her towel clad body.  “I’m sorry?”

Madi rolled her eyes. “Not right now, obviously. Tonight, I mean. To formal.”

“What?”

Madi continued, “I was thinking maybe black ones, and they have to match. Do you have any lacy ones?”

“Why?” Clarke’s eyes narrowed as Madi shrugged. “Did Raven put you up to this?”

“Now why would Raven do that?” a voice drawled from her doorway, and Clarke spun. Raven smirked, high-fiving Madi as she walked out.

“See you later,” Madi called.

Raven kicked the door shut. “But seriously, which underwear are you wearing?”

Clarke shrugged, glaring. “I don’t know. Who cares?”

Raven let out a long sigh and moved over to Clarke’s drawers, digging through them. She pulled out a pair of lacy panties and shot them at Clarke’s head like a slingshot. “You feel better in cute underwear. It’s a scientific fact.”

Clarke grumbled but slid them on, catching the matching bra as Raven launched it at her. “I don’t think that’s proven.”

“Better check Pubmed, Griffin. Besides, if you’re gonna get L-A-I-D, you might as well look hot in all layers.”

“I’m a college student, not a preschooler! I know how to spell laid, Raven,” Madi called through the door. Raven threw a shoe at the door, and it hit with a loud thump. Clarke listened as footsteps skittered away.

“What a little brat,” Raven said affectionately. “Just like her mother.”

Clarke scoffed as she pulled her dress over her head and zipped it. “I am—She is not—“ Raven quirked an eyebrow at her as she struggled to reach the clasp. Clarke huffed and turned her back towards Raven’s outstretched hands. Raven clipped the dress shut. “My child. She is not my child. And who says I'm getting laid? It's just a party.”

Raven laughed. “Sure thing.”

Clarke sat down at her desk to start doing her makeup. Raven grabbed a heel off the floor, turning it over and over in her hands. “So…”

Clarke looked back at her through the mirror. Her eyes narrowed at Raven’s suspicious look. “So?”

Raven shrugged, trying to come off as casual and failing. “Everyone’s invited to this pregame, right?”

“Right,” Clarke replied.

“So it’s fine if I invited Shaw?”

Clarke shrugged. “Of course.”

Raven clicked her tongue, flipping the shoe over. “Or Roan?”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Yes, Raven.”

“And all of our friends, right?” Clarke could not see where Raven was going with this.

She nodded back. “Of course.”

“So…” Slowly, Raven continued,“Even Bellamy?”

Clarke froze for a second, meeting Raven’s eyes in the mirror. The other girl looked apologetic. Clarke struggled to act natural. She shrugged. “Why not?”

“Clarke…” Raven’s voice was soft. “Do you still—“

“Of course not.” Clarke cut her off, her cheeks flaring pink. She broke eye contact, blending highlighter over her cheekbones almost angrily. “It’s fine if he comes. We’re friends. It’s only a little awkward now, anyways.”

“Are you sure?” Raven asked gently, and Clarke felt her heart squeeze. Not at all.

“Definitely,” Clarke replied. “Why shouldn’t he come?”

She wondered if her voice sounded convincing to Raven, because it didn’t sound convincing to her.

“I can tell him it’s a hall-only thing if you want,” Raven offered. “Well, hall plus me and Murphy and Shaw I guess.”

“No.” Clarke turned to face her. Her voice was steady. “Bellamy should come. I don’t care.”

“Alright, then,” Raven said doubtfully. Her eyes searched Clarke’s face and Clarke made sure there was nothing for her to find. “Good.”

“Good,” Clarke replied.

Good, she thought. You dirty liar.

****

Her hair was curled, her makeup was flawless, and Clarke was trying desperately not to spill anything on her dress. She let the general shenanigans of the pregame wash over her. Madi waited as she poured herself a drink.

Murphy slid over, fingers tapping against the table top. “Let’s play a game, little Griff.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “That’s not her last name, Murphy.”

Murphy nudged Madi with his shoulder. “Your mom’s being a bit of a killjoy, you know that?”

Madi nodded sagely. “She usually is.”

“Excuse me?” Clarke choked.

Madi met Clarke’s look of betrayal with a shrug, turning back to Murphy. “So, a game?”

“Ah yes,” Murphy drawled dramatically. “My favorite game of all.”

Madi looked at him quizzically. “What’s it called?”

“It’s called…” Murphy trailed off, before finishing with a dramatic flourish, “Finish Your Drink.”

Madi’s brow wrinkled. “And what are the rules?”

“The rules, baby Griff, are that you finish your drink. Ready? Go.”

Clarke stopped her as she went to tip her glass down her throat. “Murphy, no. Not with the frosh.”

“Whatever, mom.” Setting his drink down, Murphy rolled his eyes then fixed her with an intense gaze. “Hey, Clarke.”

“No, Murphy.”

He continued, “Let’s play a game.”

“I swear to god if you say—“

“It’s called Finish Your Drink.”

Clarke glared at him. “Really?”

He shrugged, his face not apologetic in the slightest. “Really. Ready? Go.”

Despite her mocking, Clarke played along, tilting her head back as she poured her full drink straight down her throat. She swallowed, and coughed, pointing an accusing finger at Murphy.

“No more of that tonight.”

He winked. “No promises.”

She glared at him and poured herself a new drink. “But seriously though, don’t convince my freshman to drink too much. I’m not trying to spend my night playing nursemaid again.”

Murphy shrugged and gazed back with a serious expression. “Of course not. You’re supposed to have fun tonight. In fact—“ he paused, a grin spreading across his face as he snatched Raven around the waist, “Raven and I will take care of your drunk kiddies should the need arise.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “You will?”

Raven huffed and slapped his hands off of her, stepping away. “We will?” Clarke watched as she and Murphy exchanged a series of loaded glances. Nodding, she slipped back against Murphy’s side. “Oh, right. Of course we will.”

Clarke looked suspiciously between their twin shit-eating grins. “Whatever. As long as you mean it.”

“Scouts honor,” Murphy said, lifting three fingers in a salute. His gaze focused on something behind her and he stiffened, rushing away. “Hey, baby Griff, slap cup cups only need a tiny bit of beer, really! It’s more fun that way!”

They turned to watch him. Raven patted Clarke on the shoulder. “He’s gonna be great, I promise.”

Raven glanced behind them and Clarke felt her demeanor change. She looked at her questioningly. Raven gave her a one handed salute. “That’s my cue, see ya!”

Clarke watched, confused, as she rushed off to join Murphy. “Weirdo.”

She heard a deep intake of breath behind her and spun.

“Oh,” she breathed. There he was. Bellamy was dressed for formal, in a button down and slacks. His arms bulged beneath the shirt, and Clarke fought to tear her eyes to his face. It was a mistake. He was looking at her like… she didn’t know. His curls hung slightly in his face and his gaze was so soft, so open, she just— she couldn’t.

“Clarke.” His voice rasped over her name, and Clarke felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

****

Freshman year, they had lain together in her bed. His eyes had been hot on her skin, and she’d flinched self-consciously.

What are you looking at? She’d asked.

His eyes had roved over hers. You’re beautiful. She’d breathed in sharply and his brows had drawn together. What? Don’t tell me you don’t know it.

She’d sighed and he ran his finger along her side. I do know it, sometimes.

Sometimes? he’d prompted.

I look in the mirror and think, I’m beautiful, then someone will come in, the boy in the room next to me for instance— he smirked —and then I’ll think maybe not.

He’d frowned at her, fingers stilling on her hip bone. Why not?

I look at myself and I think, wow, I’m pretty, but then I’d think of him— of you— facetiming his girlfriend. In my head she asks if I’m pretty. In my head he says no. She’d shrugged. I know it’s not real.

His hand clamped hard around her hip. Let’s say he did say that. He’d pressed his lips to her shoulder and she shuddered. He’d be lying.

****

She fidgeted nervously. “Bellamy.”

He grinned at her, so wide and infectious she couldn’t help but grin back. She caught herself and turned quickly towards the drinks table.

“Want anything?” she asked.

She glanced at him and caught his eye as he looked her over curiously. The silence stretched on for a little too long. “What?”

“You—“ he breathed, and trailed off. Bellamy’s eyes were intense on her and she stiffened instinctively. He shrugged apologetically and smiled, leaning up against the table next to her. “Nothing. Sure, I’ll take a drink.”

Clarke hummed in acknowledgement and grabbed a cup, pouring him one. She refilled her own cup, and passed his over. She felt her heartbeat high in her throat. “Hey Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

He looked at her expectantly. Clarke gulped, looking down. “Let’s play a game.”

Bellamy narrowed his eyes at her.  “Okay?”

She looked up and grinned, holding up her cup. “It’s called Finish Your Drink. Ready, go.”

[knittedkneil]

Production Paralysis and WIPs

Something that’s been on my mind quite a bit is something I like to call “Production Paralysis” (PP), my own acronym. Now, this is similar to procrastination, but in fact the reason I’m making this specification is because I find it to be the regularly occurring procrastination of specific tasks when otherwise completely available.

What does this look like?

For me, it’s like this. I get up in the morning on a saturday, world is calm, and I’m feeling alright. I’ve planned several tasks, and these are all projects I’d like to do. the first task, is something I’ve been planning to do for a little while- but whenever it’s time to do it. I freeze. I don’t get out of bed because I’m thinking about it, I’m psyching myself up for it- but for some reason it doesn’t happen.

Another example, I have a bag of knitting projects. I get through and finish some objects, a shawl, a hat- but something like a pair of socks. I see it. I pivot. I can’t put myself in the mindset to. Just. Do it. Comparatively it’s an easy task, but it’s like there’s a block.

This frustrates me, because I like to get things done. I feel go doing these tasks, but for some reason it’s not coming. Can it be related to other things? A manifestation of stress? Perhaps- but there are other tasks that are similar that I can accomplish.

There’s aren’t any particular deadlines, which do activate me but stress me the hell out.

So, I think about it. Even though it’s still something I struggle with, here are some things I meditate on:

This is about my emotions

Like procrastination, I need to draw the focus away from the idea that this is all a productivity problem. It’s not about being lazy. It’s not about an unwillingness to get things done.

It’s an emotional response.

Things that hit me in those moments are feelings, like being overwhelmed, or not feeling good enough, or that the process is going to be uncomfortable.

So I’m going break that down.

I feel overwhelmed when I think about this task. (In this case my poor orphaned projects)

Above are a couple longstanding projects. You’ll noticed that the pattern motifs are similar but I’ll get into that later. More importantly. I look at them, and I imagine all of the sheer work that needs to get done and I’m not sure if I can do it. So I avoid them. I keep them in my project bag- and when I’ve finished everything else it’s just one glance, then NEXT!

I’m overwhelmed because I feel Ike this stakes are so high. The duffle bag, I want it to be the center point of a book I’m trying to write. I want this to be proof that what I’m thinking about *works* well. That’s a lot for one little project to hold. The dark scarf, it’s a really big lace motif, it’s gotten easier to do as I’ve become comfortable but it’s harder to feel the progress on this, because I’m always in the thick of it and never really finishing the repeat (it’s 40 row repeat XD)

So how do I approach this? I’m going try and break it down.

For the lace motif, rather than thinking in large 40 row, I noticed the smallest scallops are only about 11 rows long. SO. I try my best to work in that unit. It’s less than 4 varying repeats of one his repeat. I give myself those little goal posts. Then, when you are working at it, there’s this really cool technique called the Pomodoro Method. That means you just break the task up into 25 minute increments with small increasing breaks in between. You get whatever you can get done in 25 minutes then you let it go no matter where you are in the process. Then you do it again for another 25 minutes until the task is done. Because the idea of 40 rows are still daunting to me, I do that for a couple of my little goal posts and my plan is to do that regularly each day until I finish!

Now the duffle, stakes are high. How do I get around that? This is harder for me because it’s a question of my worth, the value of my ideas, and a reflection of my skill. Which brings us to the next point.

I don’t (or the project doesn’t) feel good enough.

This is two pronged. My duffle bag requires of me much more skill than I currently have. I had to learn how to attach a zipper to a project for first time. I need to learn how to attach hardware, need to figure out a good pattern for straps- and on top of that I don’t even know if that duffle bag, the centerpiece of my book, is going to look good enough. Even as, I write this, I can feel those thoughts tighten my chest.

I’m catastrophising: What that means is that I’m letting my mind run with every bad outcome that can possibly be. It’s not going look great. It won’t be functional. No one will like it. I won’t like it. I’ll have wasted all of my time for nothing. What I need to do is stop. And question it. Do I really know those things to be true? Will those things actually happen? Am I allowing space for the best outcomes as well? What I have to remind myself is that the best outcome is just as likely as the worst. It really can turn out amazing. I need to give myself that space.

I’m being resistant to growth: There is so much to figure out. That’s just it. Can I do it? Will I be good enough to do it? So, I have to tell myself to be kind. To tell myself that every step is a journey, much like my post on sweaters. At the same time this is a different project in a lot of ways. It’s stretching me. That’s okay.

I’m not being compassionate to myself: This is one I catch myself doing a lot. A lot of my personal culture growing up. The idea that I could do better, translates in an unkind way in my head by default so I always find myself needing to change the conversation I have with myself in my head. Something that’s helped me is to ask myself. Would I say that to my sister? She and I are really close, and we come to each other when we are struggling- if it’s something I wouldn’t tell her because it was unkind. Then I shouldn’t be telling myself that either. So finishing projects might take longer than I expected. It may not turn out exactly the way I want. That’s okay. My efforts aren’t wasted. I am good enough, and it is good enough. Everything is beautiful in it’s own way.

What if the project really isn’t good enough? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t frog it because you aren’t happy. (Above is a beanie I had ALMOST finished but. I just ended up not liking how the ribbing didn’t quite gel with the rest of the hat) IT’S. A LOT OF PROGRESS. You say. Yeah. You can still start over. Which segways into the next point.

The process is going to be uncomfortable.

When I’m in the thick of things, I play this game where I pretend that if I just keep my head down and keep going down this same path it will magically get fixed without any effort.

Yeah. That doesn’t always happen.

You can try and fix it. I feel like real skill is not just learning the complicated stitches and patterns. It’s how to recover after you make a mistake. I learned a lot about brioche when I forgot to do a whole two decreases in the west knits shawl pattern. So, I frogged in that section and learned how to rebuild that section without having to frog all the rows in their entirety. The stitches were tight/looser than they should be but... still gorgeous

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s yours. Something my aunt always tells me when she makes an error on her silk paintings or her water colors. “Now it’s artisan, because you can tell it was handmade” The mistake didn’t break the piece. It elevated it. This is your piece and if you wanted something that looked like every other thing you could have just bought it. You can riff it. If you didn’t do enough increases/decreases you can find ways to change it further to match the stitch counts you need. There’s always a way.

But, If you need to frog it. Do it. Yes, you’ll have to start all over again, yes you’ll need to do more work. But that effort was not wasted. You learned something important about this, and that’s exactly what it was there for.

I completely frogged the yoke on the top red sweater- which later became my Red Herring Sweater. The duffle bag and dark scarf— are still waiting for some love. The viney hat crown I finished (the only one out of this whole table) The blue faire isle scarf? Not wide enough. The cast on wasn’t thick enough. Frogged. That GORGEOUS Baby sweater? Took too long. The baby long outgrew my sizing- Frogged. But that’s all okay. I grew with each piece and I’ve been getting better and better.

What I’m trying to say is that growth doesn’t happen smoothly. It’ll get hard. I try to imagine the finished piece when it’s particularly in a hard spot, and I feel really discouraged. I remember why I started it in the first place. Maybe that could get me through. Find a way to get yourself in an emotional place that can work for you, may think about it differently OR don’t, maybe it’s not the thought but the process that counts. Remember in knitting everything is built one stitch at a time. You’re making fancy knots on string. Everything is just based on a knit, you know that, build from there.

Nothing is too hard. It just takes patience, time, and commitment.

Thanks for sitting with me, as I break this down. This post is a lot for me, as I find a way to pick up those needles and finish those resting projects. If you like my long form posts, there may be couple more on my blog— and a couple more on the way. Things kind of float in my head that need this kind of gestation to completely get it. I also have instagram! Same username! For all my links you can go to knittedkneil.com/links

This was the last project I finished :) I’m really REALLY proud of it, and I’ll try to remember this feeling for when things get hard.