#me: writes was certainly qualifies as angst for once

[caelos-legacy]

Going from hugging the boys to threats makes my heart hurt

sorry!! if it makes it any better, hugging the boys goes quite some time after the threats, so things will get better

[sapphirelass]

What family is all about - Weasley FamilyxWeasley!Sister

Hiiiiiii!!! It’s... been a while. Again. Let’s face it, I’ll never be able to post as often as I’d like. I just don’t like rushing stuff, or posting anything I’m not happy with, so...

Anyhow, I LOVED writing for the Weasley family, and I’ll most likely do it again soon. Bill and Charlie are both underrated characters in my opinion and I had a ton of fun letting them ‘shine’ (despite this being a sort of sad story, but that always seems to be where I end up... XD)

Also, I might have to edit this once more, but it’s late, I have not posted in about two weeks and I just want to go to sleep XD That being said, take it for what it is, and I’ll try to correct any grammatical errors later. Good night! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note:

1: I don’t own any of the gifs used, nor any already established characters, so credit to the authors and original creators - You have done a phenomenal job :)

2: English is not my native language, as I was born and raised in Sweden. I have, however, studied English for almost a decade, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem, I just thought I’d let you know ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Word count: ≈ 2800 (they just keep getting longer, don’t they? XD)

Warnings: Light swearing, blood, angst

Enjoy! :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That’s what family is all about 

“How big did his tongue get?”

“It was four feet long before his parents would let me shrink it!”

The sound of laughter was heard from the kitchen as Elwira Weasley entered her childhood home. She worked as an arithmancer, and had been stationed at a research-facility in the northern parts of Sweden for the past few years. Her work took up most of her time, but she had just travelled home to go see the quidditch final with her dad, older brother Bill, twin brother Charlie and all their younger siblings.

“It isn’t funny”, her dad shouted. “That sort of behaviour seriously undermines wizard-muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of muggles, and my own sons-”

“Are just a wee bit too daft to understand that!”

She walked through the door and found her entire family, plus two other people she didn’t know, all sitting or standing around the kitchen table.

“Ellie?!”

Her older brother and twin, with whom she had always been extremely close, both made their way across the room and pulled her into a hug so tight she could barely breathe.

“Blimey! ‘ello Bill, hey Charlie! Long time no see, huh?”

“Certainly!”, their mother exclaimed while pushing the two oldest sons to the side as she tried to get a good look at her grown-up daughter. “Not a single visit since Christmas, Elwira Weasley, we’ve had to do with owls for six months?!”

“Sorry, mum, there’s been a lot of work to do… I thought I’d stay for the rest of the summer though, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course, dear! Have you eaten yet?”

“No, I’m famished!”

Mrs Weasley went off to get another plate, and Ellie, after greeting everyone and being introduced to Harry and Hermione, took a seat between her dad and youngest brother.

“So Ronald? Had a good term?”

“Err.. Sure? Nothing interesting except for the stuff I wrote to you about, though.”

“Well you’re going into your fourth year now - almost halfway through!” She paused for a moment and turned to her father. “You good dad? You seem a bit… tense?”

Arthur looked up from his plate and sent his daughter a kind smile.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. Hosting the world cup comes with a great deal of problems all with the need to be solved. Admittedly, it’s not really part of my job, but the entire ministry becomes quite chaotic when something like that is days away. I’m a bit stressed, that’s all. How are things up in Scandinavia?”

“They’re… somewhat slow to be honest. There’s so much work to do between like October and February, but in the summer it’s mostly filing and other boring bits of paperwork.”

“Elwira?”, Hermione asked. “Sorry, I’m just curious, what is it that you do? Ron’s never told us…”

“That’s probably cause Ron doesn’t understand what I’m doing”, she smirked, “but of course, I work with, and study, arithmancy which, as you might know, is part of what’s called ‘natural magic’.”

“Great!”, mumbled Ron quietly, making sure only his friends and older sister heard. “Hermione, there are four rules in this house, okay? One: Don’t ask Charlie about dragons, Two: Don’t ask Percy about anything, Three: Don’t ask dad about muggles, and Four: Don’t ask Ellie about her job. Break either and you’ll be stuck listening to a five hour lecture.”

 Hermione didn’t seem to be bored though, so Ellie ignored her brother’s comment and continued. 

“It’s the type of magic that has been studied and worshiped since ancient times and has a very strong connection with nature. The natural phenomena with the strongest affiliation with magic is, while they in themselves have what the muggles would call a ‘scientific explanation’, the northern lights. Meaning it’s only when they’re visible that we can make any significant progress.”

Ellie paused and glanced at the younger girl, trying to see whether she had caught on or not, and was happy when realizing that she had.

“And... “, questioned Hermione, “the northern lights are only visible north of the polar circle and b-”

“Between September and March, exactly… Meaning there’s sadly not that much advanced research that can be done during the rest of the year…”

“It’s still a fascinating subject though. I only started last year, but I love it.”

“I’m glad! At least some people appreciate the wonderful art that is arithmancy, Ronald!”

Ron looked up at the mention of his name and met his sister’s gaze. 

“I just don’t find it interesting”, he said.  

“Right, because you ha-”

Ellie didn’t get to finish her sentence before being interrupted by her twin brother.

“Hey, Ellie? Must have been fun watching the Nordic versus Germany, huh?”

“Oh shut up, Charlie!”, she groaned while putting her head in her hands. “Holy Merlin…” The Nordic National Quidditch team, of which she had become a huge supporter in the last few years, had suffered a HORRENDOUS loss against Germany, and it had certainly not been a fun night. 

Her brother, however, did not shut up, but instead burst out laughing.  

“Charlie, it’s not funny!! You should have been there though… You’d have done a much better job than the stand-in seeker we had.”

“What were the results again? 700-20?”

“... 520 actually”

“520 to??”, Bill said mockingly

“You’re idiots both of you… 520-0, happy now?”

Ellie hadn’t realized that everyone else around the table had been listening in on their conversation, but was made aware when Fred, George, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Arthur began laughing loudly.

“Why is this so funny to everyone? England lost badly too, and neither Romania nor Egypt even qualified to compete?!”

“Yeah...”, began Fred.

“But none of them lost with 520 points.”, finished George, earning himself a furious look from his older sister who stood up and shook her head.

“I’ll go see if mum needs any help…”

~~~~~~

Ellie loved her family, and therefore all her slightly annoying brothers, beyond everything, but being away from them for months and then meeting them all at the same time was TIRING! Having no desire to sleep through the world cup, she decided to go to bed early the night before, and she had barely closed her eyes before she fell asleep...

~~~~~~

“3, 2 ‘shhhh, quiet!”

Ellie took notice of the obnoxiously loud whispers, but it wasn’t enough to fully wake her up.

“We’ve got one more chance, 3, 2, 1, ELLIE!!!!”

She woke up instantly and sent a blast of blue sparks towards her older brother, barely missing him by an inch.

“What ‘ru doing, El? You can’t just go attacking people?!”

He tried to sound angry, but failed miserably, a heartwarming laugh escaping his mouth.

“You bloody idiots?! Why’d you scare me like that? You’re 21 and 23, not five?”

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it? Do you remember-”

“Yes, I do!”. She rubbed her eyes slowly, “‘85, look can you two please let me sleep?”

“Sorry, sis”, said Bill. “We’re leaving in half an hour. The kids and dad left ages ago.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to be late do you? Not when you can cheer for a team that might not loo-”

“Charlie, I swear!”

~~~~~~

The match was fantastic! Ellie would never admit it to her brothers, but it was nice to watch an even one for once. Watching and cheering with her family brought back fond memories of childhood games at the Burrow or Hogwarts, and she realized just how much she had missed actually playing. They stayed up late discussing players and tactics, but eventually their father ushered them all off to bed. 

~~~~~~

“Ellie?”

“Ellie??”

She stirred slightly and pulled the sleeping bag tighter around her.

“Ellie! Damn it, wake up!”

She opened her eyes slowly and saw her twin brother bent above her. The sight made her sigh.

“Charlie”, she mumbled. “We see each other once- or twice a year nowadays, do you really feel obligated to wake me up every time you get the chance?”

“Elwira, I’m serious! Get up!”

This caught her attention. Sure, the twins often used their full names when messing with each other, but it didn’t sound like Charlie was joking at all. She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned loudly.

“What’s going on? Wha- Charlie? It’s still dark out? Why’d yo-”

“Ellie, c’mon. We have to help dad. Someone’s attacking the muggles.”

He threw his sister a jacket and pulled her out of the tent. Arthur, Bill and Percy were all waiting outside.

“Dad?”, she asked. “What’s happening? Charlie sai-”

“We’ve got to help the ministry!”, he said while frantically trying to count everyone and make sure they were there. “Fred, George, you make sure the others are safe. Go wait in the woods and I’ll come for you when the situation’s under control. Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ellie, let’s see if there’s something we can do.”

Nobody questioned Mr Weasley’s instructions, and immediately left in different directions. There were people everywhere though, and the two directions quickly became three, four, six. Spells and curses were fired left, right and centre and Ellie found herself disarming and stunning at least a few death eaters. There weren’t that many of them, roughly thirty or so, but the insane amount of witches and wizards fleeing the campsite made it difficult to fight back. She couldn’t risk hitting any random bloke.

While duelling a tall man in a black mask, Ellie suddenly stumbled forward, a particularly nasty curse having hit her straight in the back. Falling to the ground felt way more painful than it should have, and her wand landed well beyond her reach. She groaned as a burning pain spread through her lower back, but made an effort to get back up anyways. She did, however, not make it very far before the sharp end of a wand dug into her throat.

The death eater behind her sniggered and pulled her up by the collar of her shirt.

“Well, well, well… Why’re you trying to ruin our fun?”

He stood way too close for comfort and Ellie felt his breath on her neck. She tried to answer, but the curse that was shot at her must have hit its intended target, as all that came out when she opened her mouth was a strained cough and warm blood.

The bloke holding her let out a dark chuckle and threw her to the ground. She could barely keep her eyes open, and a thick, red liquid oozed from the wound in her back.

“Not so high-and-mighty now, are we?”

Ellie lacked the strength to fight back, and to the death eaters that seemed to take all the fun out of the situation. They set off back towards the campsite, leaving Ellie on the ground next to a few pines. She tried her very best to sit up, but ended up passing out…

~~~~~~

“Charlie?!”

Bill ran up to his younger brother and pulled him in for a quick, one-armed hug.

“Charlie, you okay? We’ve got to get back to the tent. Where’s El?”

“Wha-, I-I thought she was with you?!?”

“What? Last I saw her you were together?”

The brothers shared a lock of utter terror.

“Bill, we have to find her!”

“I know… Dad went to get the kids and Percy’s back in the tent waiting.”

“There’s no time to waste then. Let’s go”

~~~~~~

They had been running around the camping grounds for half an hour, and there was still not a trace of a living soul - let alone the special one they were searching for. At first, they had been shouting her name at the top of their lungs, but were now walking silently. That was, at least, until a shout made both of them turn around.

“Bill! Charlie! What are you doing? I told you to stay in the tent?”

Arthur Weasley came running towards them, with Harry, Ron and Hermione following close behind.

“Dad!”, Charlie shouted. “Have you seen El? We can’t find her?”

“What?”, asked Arthur. “But she was with you, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, at first, but we must have gotten separated… Dad, is that? You know?”

He threw a dark glance at the skull and snake decorating the night sky and said, “Yes. Yes it is. Look, I’ll take Ron, Hermione and Harry back to the tent, and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes, okay? Don’t go too far. Come on kids!”

~~~~~~

Just as the brothers were about to give up, go back to the clearing, wait for their dad and hopefully find both their sisters safe and sound, Bill noticed something. A glimpse of red in the moonlight…

“Charlie? Get over here fast!”

The younger brother followed Bill’s gaze and immediately set off through the forest when his eyes found a mess of ginger hair sticking out from behind a rather large pine. Bill followed closely behind.

“ELLIE!!!?!!”

Charlie stumbled to his knees and turned his sister around, trying to get a better look at her. He pressed his hand to her wrist and breathed a sigh of relief when he found a pulse.

“She’s alive”, he mumbled. “Bill, she’s alive!”

“Good. I- Good.” Bill was lost for words too and mumbled a quick “Let me see”.

He pushed some hair out of her eyes and searched for any clues to what had hit her. He was a curse-breaker after all, but that usually meant working with curses placed on things or places, not people. 

“Charlie, I-I don’t know what that is… it’s not a curse I’m familiar with and I’m no healer… You want to carry her?”

“Of course”

Charlie brought his twin into his arms and picked her up, her bruised, limp body threatening to fall unless he held on tight enough. The brothers walked back to the clearing where they’d promised to meet their dad, but kept a close watch on their sister. They would apparate, though at the moment none of them felt like they had much time for ‘Deliberation’. It wasn’t very far anyways.

~~~~~~

“DAD!”, Bill shouted as soon as they noticed Arthur in the clearing where they were supposed to wait.

“Boys! Didn’t I tell you t-”

“We’ll take that later, Dad, you’ve got to help her!?”

Arthur Weasley was speechless, which had most likely never happened before, and Charlie felt so helpless. This was worse than his worst nightmares, and there was nothing he could do. Had it been a wounded dragon, sure, he knew loads about them, but this?

“Dad?”, asked Bill. “What can we do?”

“Right. Er… I suppose there’s no use trying to get you to wait here?”, he said while looking at Charlie who frantically shook his head. “Right, Bill could you go back to Percy and the kids? Fill them in on what happened? Then Charlie and I’ll take Ellie to St Mungos, okay?”

Bill didn’t look too happy with the idea, but nodded nonetheless.

---

“Charlie sit down!”

“Fred, he can’t”, said George. “Hey, I think you missed a spot over there, Charles”

“Shut it both of you! Honestly, why am I the only one that’s worried?”

Arthur stood up and put an arm around his son.

“Listen, we’re all worried, but walking back and forth isn’t helping anyone. Just sit for a moment, huh?”

“No, dad, you don’t understand! It’s my fault. We were supposed to stick together! I let her out of my sight...I-”

“Charlie, we all-”

“No, Bill, you don’t get it either, I should-”

“-let your sister sleep for once? That’d be greatly appreciated, thank you.”

The entire family turned at once, and found the oldest daughter struggling to sit up.

“EL!!”

Charlie stumbled over and put a hand on his sister’s back, trying to help her up, but unfortunately placing it right where the curse had hit her.

“Auch!”

She moved away from his touch and he pulled his hand back immediately.

“Blimey, Ellie I’m so s-”

“Charlie, it’s good. Don’t worry about it.”

Ellie pulled her brother into a hug, though he was now extremely careful, and she looked over his shoulder at the rest of her family. Her eyes met Bill’s and he sent her a kind smile. She gestured for him to come join them, and eventually the whole family found themselves in a loving group hug. Molly did her very best to wrap her arms around all her children, desperately trying to convince herself that they were all there - safe and sound and loved. 

Because if there was one thing the Weasleys had a lot of, it was love and that is, after all, precisely what family is all about.

~ L

Masterlist

[veryvincible]

fic writer meme :)

i was tagged by @dirigibleplumbing <3

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

17 right now! I'm pretty sure my highest ever was in the 90s, pre-Cass purge.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 

63,334.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Work of Art, No Embellishments, Last (Another) Day, Love (Actually), and First Impression. Quite the genre mix. ^^

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to, and I definitely do within the first few days of posting something, but sometimes comments can be difficult to respond to without regurgitating the same "Thank you!" over and over again, even though it's definitely heartfelt. There's usually an amount of time after posting that I mostly stop responding to comments unless one touches me deeply.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Maaybe Disjointed, which starts in misery and ends in misery and definitely has more build-up and less hope than most other angst I've written. That being said, On the Steps of the Curia Pompeia is straight up just a brutal gay murder where Tony is in agony the whole time.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I have some fluffy-ish oneshots that I think could qualify, but they're too short to really have solid "endings" or parts with separate and distinct moods, so... probably First Impression. It's a silly little get-together.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? 

Nope! I'm not opposed to it, though.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep!

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

Yep! It's mostly the "pretty men are in agony because life and fuck instead of talking" kind.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen? 

Not a fanfic, but definitely writing.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don't think so, but I also don't have a great memory with these kinds of things.

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

Yep! Many moons ago.

13. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Anyone who knows me knows that "favorite" is a word I have conflict with often, but my big two are Stony and Ty/Tony.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Whatever it is, I probably don't even remember it. One of the many Ty scribblings, I think.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I like my tone-setting and my diction; it's not necessarily a "writing" thing exclusively so much as it is an internal monologue + speaking thing that bleeds into my writing. I did pretty intentionally curate my vocabulary and manner of speaking so that it would sound pleasing to me personally, with little regard for how it came across. One of the funnier things that I picked up was using outdated language like "[something] of yore" and "egads" and "over yonder" and whatnot, and the reason it was funny was because I was a child when I chose to do this (all of my teachers loved me, you can imagine). I'm no longer a child, but I still talk like this, and it's not nearly as funny. I'm really dealing with the consequences of my actions here as a once-wannabe-court-jester.

... But, y'know, it's me, and I still like it. And, hey, at least baby me grew out of "mehercule!"

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm terribly melodramatic (in case you couldn't tell) and undisciplined, and I don't like killing my darlings because I don't want them to fall into the abyss of forgotten memories.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

There are plenty of ways of doing it and they certainly all have their pros and cons, I think. I really love the comic book-y style of "<insert dialogue here>" (*translated from [Language]!), but this can get a bit clunky when a fic is written like a book without other comic book-like elements.

My preference in most writing, just because it's what I'm used to, is introducing the foreign words and then having translations at the end in an author's note. I'm currently writing a Filipino Tony fic and that's what I'll probably end up using.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

No clue. It was a while back and my memory's shit. The earliest fic I can confidently remember (even though I know for a fact this is still, like, maybe 5 years after I started writing fanfic) was for Durarara!! I still hold DRRR!! very dear in my heart.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to? 

I'm planning on writing a Critical Role Campaign 3 fic for a friend of mine.

Aaand I'd like to write Ty Stone/Carol Danvers at some point, because my lovely girlfriend and I stumbled across the concept of them as a dynamic and it tickled me.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Once again, terrible at favorites. I still am proud of Disjointed, just because it was the first horror piece I'd ever finished all the way through and I think it's far more functional than I expected it to be. I'm also proud of On the Steps, just because of how gloriously self-indulgent it was.

If this includes unpublished fics, though, I'm reworking Sympathy for the Devil (the big Ty fic) right now and I really do love it. It's kind of a canon rewrite that really sets the tone for a Tiberius storyline that would be the most meaningful to me (kind of, ish). I'm planning many different Ty fics with many different characterizations (from "actually not the worst dude" to "has never felt love or empathy or kindness in his life"), but SFTD is what I hope I can point to as my Favorite Ty.

-

i'm pretty sure everyone i love has been tagged on this post before so if this is a double tag then whoops! @welcomingdisaster @kiyaar @oluka @starvels @laexploradoraaa

[runesfactory]

run cried the crawling | chapter 01

summary: Tasokare Hotel is a place that exists between the real world and the afterlife. A residing place for spirits whose fate has yet been decided. To die or to live on. Aesop has yet to discover the truth behind his own near demise. It was until a stranger walked through the doors of the hotel with an owl head that the horrific truth began to unravel.

pairing: aesop carl x eli clark

genre: mystery, supernatural, horror & romance

warnings:  mature themes. descriptive writing of violence and blood. body horror. strong angst. equally strong romance. heavy pining. mild profanity. death. tasokare hotel spoilers.

word count: 3261

chapters: 01 | 02 | ...

To Aesop, thoughts about your fate after death aren't unusual. The afterlife and qhat not. However, spending his time at a vintage hotel certainly never crossed his mind. A hotel in the middle of a barren world, might he add.

Yet here Aesop stands, behind the receptionist desk beside Vera Nair, the manager’s assistant. The Hotel Manager told Aesop that he’d be away for a minute or two. He knows very well that the Manager has just left his responsibilities by going around, aimlessly, or taking a nap somewhere in this hotel. “That damn useless manager!” Vera curses under her breath, slamming her fist on the desk. He doesn't feel like he’s qualified for a task like this, welcoming guests and all. Surely not because his previous occupation focuses mainly on interacting with the dead rather than the living. But they're technically not alive, are they? 

The Hotel Manager of this hotel is quite the character. He’s not human, first of all. He remembered feeling freaked out by the flame-headed man when they first met. However, he’s not the only non-human in this hotel. Vera Nair and Lucchino are the two other non-humans, though Vera seems human. He once tried asking her and she only gave her a knowing smile, saying ‘wouldn’t you like to know’.

This is quite the world. It feels as if time never passes. The sky remains the same, so it’s difficult to tell whether minutes or hours have passed.

At this point, who knows how long he’s been waiting until his time to move on as a spirit comes. When will that time be? He doesn’t know. For all he knows, it could be forever that he stays there. To be honest, he doesn’t mind it all that much. The unknown unease him and the questions around his own fate are filled with it. If he were to spend the rest of his life in this state of limbo, he wouldn't really mind. Maybe.

The window of the lobby glares the shade of yellow and orange from the sky outside. Time doesn’t move in this place. As its name suggests, time remains between the twilight and sunset. Most of the rooms have windows showing exactly that, but Aesop’s room has a piece of the night sky. He realized it has changed not long after his arrival. The dark blue sky littered with tiny freckles of stars decorating the blank surface. He quite likes it.

Perhaps the change of sky has something to do with his memory? That the change is significant? He wonders what it could possibly mean. Perhaps he died at night time. To have died at night... It makes him wonder whether he had a peaceful death of some sort. The very reason why he’s still glued to this enigma of a place that is the hotel.

His death. How did he die? And why?

Those are the questions that kept lingering in his mind. The key to his departure from this hotel yet the clues given to him left him were bits and pieces of memories and information of what his life might've been like. Nothing detrimental to his death. It leaves him with more questions than answers really.

His name is Aesop Carl. He's 21. He works, well, worked to be more precise as an embalmer. He was quite fond of his work, proud of his craft, perhaps still is. And he was (or maybe still is) in a relationship with a man. However, the portrait of him and said person had been burned off. The corner of the portrait had the initials ‘A&EC’ written on the back of it. He wondered if the initials belonged to them. It’s strange that he couldn’t recall the face of the man, but he believes the person was important to him. Perhaps still is.

It’s frustrating to not remember anything.

Those were the only things he knew about himself so far. Then other things came along such as he's not so terrible at cooking, quite adept in the art of ballet, and doesn't enjoy the company of strangers.

Nothing gave him a hint as to what might've happened to him. Not a single clue. The closest thing he knows to his death is the night sky of his room and the burned portrait. Perhaps, he was burned alive. A gruesome thought really, but he doesn't dismiss the possibility.

It's not enough to merely guess how you've died. You have to be certain. At least that’s what he concluded from observing other guests who’ve successfully passed on from here. Slowly, he's given up on the hopes of returning to the real world. Death is inevitable. That's what he says to himself every day as an Embalmer. 

"So much to learn yet not a single clue…" He mumbles to himself, leaning his back against the drawers behind him, and crosses both of his arms across his chest. His eyes remain fixated on the windows tinted with orange. He’s left by himself, Vera had told him that she needs to take care of the matters in the bar even though he knows they don’t have any guests. Well, he brushes it off. It doesn’t really matter.

"Mr. Aesop! Good morning!" A voice greets him and when he turns to looks. It’s Emma, the hotel’s gardener, and cleaning service. Her face is always covered with hints of dirt. The same goes for her whole attire whenever he sees her. She always greets everyone with a lot of enthusiasm, so warm and cheerful. Even to him although he’s more than aware he comes off as quite off-putting to most if not all people.

Aesop finds it difficult to get close to anyone, always thinking either they might not really like him or they’re out to get him. He finds it hard to tell if anyone is being genuine at all. However, Emma is one of the few exceptions. Her company aside, her peculiar interest in plants piqued his interest and reminded him of his own interests although his are much grimmer by comparison. Although, he's quite fond of certain plants himself and Emma's always more than happy to provide.

“Ms. Woods,” Aesop responds softly, nodding slightly. “Working hard in the garden as usual?”

“Yes! The mini garden I’ve created in my room has grown splendidly! I’d love to show you some of the berries that have sprouted.” Emma giggles, clenching her hands together while her eyes glimmer. “If you feel comfortable, please do visit my room when you have some time to spare!”

To the offer, he can only smile though eyes avoiding hers, “I’ll consider it.”

The entrance door creaks, opening itself. Both of their eyes shifted to the figure walking through the door. A stranger walks in with the head of an owl.

Upon their first arrival, each individual who hasn't figured out who they are will have their faces hidden. Not every person who enters the hotel has it, as he quickly found out. Their heads are often covered by some form of a mask. It seems that the same thing has happened to this individual.

"Welcome to Tasokare Hotel," He bows slightly, putting his best facade, "How may I be of service to you, sir?"

"A hotel?" The stranger tilts their head to the side. "Sorry, I just have no idea where to go and it seems that wherever I go I always encounter this building. A hotel, you say…"

"Yes, sir."

"How strange. I've never seen a hotel such as this before. Let alone in the middle of nowhere." The stranger tilts his head up, gazing around the building, taking in the atmosphere of the hotel.

"This hotel lies between the two realms of the real world and the afterlife." Aesop continues to explain while taking out the guest book, displaying it across the table to the stranger. "A spirit such as yourself encounters this place simply because you are lying between those two realms."

"A spirit?" The stranger continues to questions. "Ah, would that mean I'm dead?" He asks rather calmly.

Emma shakes her head, continuing off Aesop, "Not quite! You have yet to die and that's why you're here."

"I see." The stranger mumbles. Aesop wasn't as calm as this when he first discovered the place. He was quite frantic, panicking and adamant that it was all a dream. Possibly freaked the Hotel Manager off.

"Okay, sir. If you could just sign here please then I'll ask a staff member to help you."

"O-oh, I don't think I can afford to pay to stay here."

"There is no need," Aesop replies shortly, handing the stranger the pen. It might've caught the stranger off guard, yet he signed on the book anyway. 

"Well," He pauses, before calmly saying, "It seems like I don't remember my name."

"That's quite normal here, no need to worry." Emma smiles widely at the stranger. "It's part of our job to help you remember your memories!"

"My memories?"

"Yes! Your room will tell us bits and pieces about you and what happened to you. Of course, we can only help with certain things such as finding items that may look important to you. Items that might trigger them."

"Is that so? Will remembering help me move on from this place?"

"Bingo!" She gives him a finger gun gesture. "Either that or you may return back to the real world. The reason why most of us are still here is that our body's still somewhat intact in the real world."

"Most of us?" He seems surprised. "Ah, are you-"

"Most of us are spirits as well, yes." She puts it simply.

"Ah, I see. I apologize if I come off as insensitive." The stranger bows slightly. It's difficult to tell what expression he was making with the owl head though, from the soft tone he uses, Aesop can tell it was genuine.

"There is no need to apologize. This is hardly a normal circumstance to be in. Understandably it's hard for anybody to internalize." The second the stranger completes signing up the book, Aesop shuts it close and puts it back on the shelf. He turns his back towards the stranger, reaching out to a key in one of the drawers behind him.

He stands still for a moment. Perhaps that may be a little too harsh, Aesop thinks to himself. However, it's true. Arriving at this strange hotel, being told that you're hanging by a thread between life and death. Can anyone afford to be careful with what they say around the subject?

"You're certainly right, Mr…"

"Carl. Aesop Carl."

"Mr. Carl,” The stranger speaks his name gently. “Thank you for easing some of my concerns! And thank you too, Miss…”

“Miss Woods. You may call me Emma, I don’t really mind.” Emma waves her hand at him. “Mr. Aesop, you should take the kind gentleman to his room! Ah, ah, ah,” She lifts her finger at Aesop. An immediate response before Aesop could protest. “I’ll take over the desk for a while. Besides, we don’t get that many guests these days. It’ll be fine. Let me quickly change my clothes!”

For a moment, he hesitates. By the looks on Emma’s face, it wouldn’t go anywhere if he were to argue with her. He doesn’t like confrontation, so he lets out a sigh, Emma squeals at this then continues to rush to her room as fast as she could. Aesop turns to the stranger, “Alright, sir. I’ll be guiding and assisting you if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all! Please lead the way.”

The red carpet and vintage wallpaper across the halls of the hotel give off the old-style aesthetic. The whole building is filled to the brim with vintage furniture, even more so in the bar area where you can hear jazz music echo through the room. It is a miracle that the Hotel Manager was able to maintain the cleanliness of this space, though he’s very much convinced it’s all thanks to the staff that was here prior to his arrival.

Aesop and the stranger walk down the halls of the second floor. He lives on the same floor as well. It’s a very quiet floor. He likes the atmosphere. Each floor has similar grand decor, much different from the lobby. The red-carpeted floor with complicated patterns embroidered across it. Accompanied with a light, creamy wallpaper and the yellow tinted chandelier-like lights that go all the way through the hallway. It’s quite fancy.

Each step they take causes tiny thumps against the carpeted floor. It’s quiet. He appreciates that. He dreaded small talks, not quite because he dislikes the people themselves, but he just doesn’t know what to say. He much prefers this silence over having his thoughts rambling, him desperately grasping for any answers that would deem suitable to whoever he speaks to. Aesop thinks about the smallest details, the most trivial details. Simply put, small talks aren’t his forte.

He lets out a deep breath, stopping in front of the door of the room, “This is it.” He unlocks the door with the key in his hand then turns the knob, revealing the room.

Each individual room is like a piece of the person’s life summarized in a room. From the furniture to the color of the wallpaper and the flooring. The stranger’s room is quite simple. Aesop often encounters extravagant paintings, gold linen sheets, and such. But. There is nothing too extravagant about it aside from the peculiar birdcage standing near the bookshelf, not far from the door. The walls are colored in plain, navy blue shade with wooden flooring.

"This is quite the room." The stranger remarks, looking around the room perhaps with an awed look Aesop would imagine. “Does it fit your liking?" He asks quietly.

"Yes, yes, it does. I'm quite surprised actually. Impeccable service for a hotel in a stranded place” He jokes.

“No, any of the rooms can be like this. Depending on the guest.” Aesop puts it blatantly with a blank look on his face. The stranger laughs at the deadpan response. “I see. Even so, this feels… familiar. Almost homely.”

It always does. It did for Aesop. It didn’t take so long for him to get used to the comfort of his own chambers. The more he thought about it, it’s quite scary how easy he felt at home there. The familiar atmosphere and all. Almost as if to bring you a false sense of comfort. Every Time he steps outside of those comforting walls, he’s reminded again of the odd reality he currently lives in.

“So, I guess I’ll have to look around the room for clues, I assume?” The stranger walks toward the bed, grazing their hand over the metal frame of the bed.

“Yes. I’ll be assisting you in doing so.”

“That’d be immensely helpful. Thank you very much, Mr. Carl. You’ve been very helpful to ease my confusion. It’s quite comforting.” The stranger bows slightly before him, one hand behind him. The gesture caught Aesop off guard, though not to let it slip he simply huffs lightly. Again, he feels like behind that owl head he could sense a smile.

So the two began searching through the room.

There were only two rooms in this room. It’s quite small by comparison to the other ones he’s ever been in. However, spacious enough that it grants a jointed living room next to the bedroom. Aesop begins his search there while the stranger’s in the bedroom. Important documents and identification are his main priority. Those are the few things that could at least give the guests an identity to hang onto. A face to their masked selves. A person.

It wasn’t a long search. The room is quite small and there were only a handful of places they were able to look into. Aesop continues to fumble through knick-knacks around the room. There aren’t a lot of them around, barely any really. Rather, he finds plenty of journals and books regarding the stars, plenty related to birds as well. He concludes that the stranger is probably fond of owls the most, knowing his face is shaped as an owl. Aesop laughs softly at the excited scribbles of footnotes that they put in each of those journals.

However, he remains fixated on a couple of things. At the corner of every book he encounters, there’s an initial written on them.

E.C. Scribbled, carved, and written. His thumb grazed over the initial.

An initial that belongs to the stranger. It must be unless it’s a pseudonym. He wouldn’t really pass that possibility. Writers often do that. The more Aesop flicks through the pages, he couldn’t help but feel as if he’s seen such writing before. He brushes his fingers over the writing, deep in his own thoughts. Just who is this stranger? He can’t help but notice the way something is tugging itself in him.

He remains wary and curious all the same, but it wouldn’t help to bombard someone who has no clue of who they are with questions. He keeps the feeling to himself. After completing his search through the shelves, he heads back to the bedroom where the stranger is. The stranger was on the floor, surrounded by piles of documents and papers.

Aesop sees a man. No, the stranger, standing still, head looking down with his body facing towards the window. No longer did he have the head of an owl. The moonlight from outside casting over a halo-like outline of the strangers’ oddly still figure. It shines over the back of the head of the faceless stranger. He stands so incredibly still, almost statue-like. Aesop slowly approaches the figure, then-

“Eli,” The stranger speaks.

“I-I’m sorry?” Aesop stutters.

When the man turns around to face Aesop’s own grey eyes, he sees the lovely shade of navy blue. A glint of the moonlight reflected in their eyes and their dark brown hair. Now, maskless, he can clearly see the smile on the man’s face. “I remember it. My name. My name is Eli Clark.”

There’s a pounding in his head.

When Aesop takes a few steps closer to him, his eyes widen now feeling his body has frozen still. This is the only other room that shows the night sky. Moreso, they have the same view. It feels like looking out to his own window but from a different angle. He senses a thousand questions overwhelming his thoughts.

Eli… Eli Clark…

His mind echoes the name repeatedly like voices speaking simultaneously.

The other man turns to face him. The back of his head abruptly surged with an ache. As if he was--

-- hit on the back of his head. It was hard. Aesop's head greets the cold ground almost instantly. The impact left a ringing in his ear. His sight blurs. He hears an echo of the siren, slightly faint in his head. He desperately crawls his body across the ground, unsure of where to go but he remembers his lip moves.

The iron taste of his own blood lingers. A name on the tip of his tongue. Eli’s name. He needs to let Eli know. He feels his hand extend towards something. It reaches out towards a phone. Fingers grasping and scratching against the ground as he struggles to drag his body across the floor. He fails to notice the shadow that looms over his figure.

“Don’t you dare try to run away!” The figure cries out.

When the second hit strikes, his entire body remains still. He could feel the numbing pain across his head, the gushing liquid on the side of his head that leaks out slowly within his view. Before his eyes begin to give up, he senses another presence. The numbness reaches his head and before he knew it.

“E… Eli…” He whispers before passing out.

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: mentions of character death, cursing, haunting, spooky stuff, angst

Word count: 7.1k

Summary: Steve Rogers is a man out of time. He knows more ghosts than people. One of his ghosts has come home. 

A/N: This is waaaay longer than I normally write, but I just wanted to do it justice. This is my submission for @barnesrogersvstheworld​ AYAOTD writing challenge! Sort of an Endgame AU, also features an appearance from a rather obscure Marvel comics character. The prompt I had was “Don’t look behind you.” - it’s highlighted in bold. This is also really sad. I’m sorry for that...but please let me know what you think! 

His tastes have changed.

Most people wouldn’t have known that - wouldn’t have seen anything abnormal about a 100+ year old man reaching for minute oatmeal and Folgers at the grocery store. There had been a few articles, before, in health or men’s interest magazines, about the ‘Super Soldier Diet’. They were much more colorful than this - full of sugary cereals and peanut butter and seasonal frappuccinos. The articles always ended with reminders that a normal human should reach for more nutritious foods.

Steve pulls his oats - plain, made with water, no sweetener - from the microwave, and stirs just a little. Not thick enough; he replaces the bowl and adds another 30 seconds to the microwave timer. On the counter, the Mr. Coffee drips away, slowly filling the pot.

He eats quietly, perched on a stool at the island; he never uses the table anymore. A few news highlights appear in the notifications on his phone, and he scrolls through them, eyes scanning as he spoons his tasteless breakfast into his mouth.

New York Nears Completion of Relocation Program he reads, letting his thumb swipe down to read more of the article.

“Almost three years after the globally devastating event in which Earth’s population was reduced by half, the people of New York City are finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel in their relocation efforts for residents whose homes were damaged or destroyed in the aftermath of the Decimation. The project, one of the last proposals by Tony Stark before his retirement from the Department of Damage Control, is expected to end-”

He closes his phone.

**********

There are three support group meetings that he attends each week - two as a leader, one as a participant.

“You should come, Nat.” He’s a broken record, but he just keeps spinning. Like the planet, like the solar system. If he falls out of orbit- “Just once. You might be surprised…”

“Some of us still have jobs, Steve.” She raises a still perfect eyebrow, now back to its natural red. He finds a little comfort in that.

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Maybe not. But don’t wait up for me.”

The Tuesday meeting is the hardest, though it was the first one he ever lead. It caters to a specific group, a group that looks to him because...well, because he lost what they lost. He wonders if they know, if they realize, that it’s all his fault.

“Jackie was...she was my rock, you know?” The new woman, Elsie, sniffs as she continues. “We went through a lot together, and I remember thinking all that time ‘God, what would I do without her?’ And now I know the answer - spiral and-and become an alcoholic.”

“You can’t blame yourself for all of that.” Steve shakes his head. “There was so much more going on - the world was practically in flames, and you were trying to cope. What matters is that you’re here now, trying to get better.”

Elsie is nodding, accepting a tissue from the man sitting next to her. She gives a shaky little smile and settles back in her chair, done sharing for now. Steve glances around the circle, waiting for someone else to speak up.

It was such an odd reversal for him, especially at first. When he first wandered into one of Sam’s support group meetings, he had felt out of place and alone - and that feeling was exactly why he belonged in a place like that. Sam could see it. It was one of his gifts; he was better at reading people than anyone Steve knew, except maybe Natasha. Even when Bucky came along, and Sam played the tough act, he could see all of that fear and pain, and knew exactly what to do with it. Over the years they were in hiding, Sam would secretly reach out to Bucky - during their visits in Wakanda, Steve found the two of them sitting at the lake behind Bucky’s hut and talking, low and intense.

“You know, sometimes-” It’s a man on the opposite side of the circle, dark-skinned with a greying beard. “I don’t know about all of you, but sometimes...I wonder if they can see us. If they know what we’re doing. Does that make any sense?”

He gets a few nods and murmurs from the group, so he goes on.

“I mean, after my old man died, my mom used to say he was watching over me.” He swallows thickly. “She was on her own, tucking a 9-year-old boy in at night, and telling me that Daddy could see me from heaven, that he was looking out for me. And I just think....well, I wanna know - where are they? Are they in heaven? Is that even possible?”

He turns to Steve, several of the people in the circle do. It’s always like this - whenever the sessions turn to specific questions or musings about what happened, they look to him. Because shouldn’t he know? He had lead them, he failed them, he was there when their lives went up in dust.

“Well, I don’t think I’m qualified to offer religious advice,” he starts with a rueful smile. “And, from everything I’ve seen, I don’t think we even know what’s possible. All I know is, we can’t live in the past...even if they see us, wherever they are, we have to accept that they’re really...gone.” He crossed his arms. “They’re not here with us anymore.”

The group has gone quiet, reflective. Most are staring at their hands rather than him, each lost in their own haze of memory and ashes. He wishes he could offer them more, but he knows grief like this, and Steve Rogers is honest to a fault - he won’t lie, even for the sake of comfort.

“We’re on our own now.”

**********

He goes for runs alone now.

No Bucky to keep up with him, pushing the pace and trying to trip him. No Sam to complain about his hamstrings and insist on coffee afterwards. Not even music on those weird tiny headphones she had gotten him. Just his sneakers and pavement and the sound of his own breath. Sometimes he hated that - how he never got winded anymore, never sounded hurt and tired, the way he would wheeze through his asthma attacks with Bucky holding him up and reminding him how to pull in air. The machine of his body was too efficient for that.

In his apartment, he takes short showers, cold and fast, like in the Army. The soap is blue, with a generic smell that is clean and reminds him of nothing. He turns and tilts his head back under the spray, allowing a few more seconds to rinse and-

He nearly jumps when a burst of heat runs down his back.

The water has suddenly turned hot, a steamy, balmy, sultry hot that turns his soft Irish skin pink. He had never had this problem with his showers before - never run out of cold water certainly. Maybe something was wrong with the…

When he turned around, he saw the hot water knob turning slowly clockwise, centimeter by centimeter, untouched.

He shut off the water and got out.

**********

“I’m gonna have to call a plumber sometime.”

“Oh yeah? I thought all you old guys were handymen.”

“Ha ha.” He watches Nat scoop some spaghetti into bowls for the two of them. “I was the artist type. Not really handy around the house.”

“Guess that means Barnes was wearing the pants?” She’s smirking, and he feels like he’s seeing the real Nat again, so he goes along with the joke.

“How could he not? Who’s gonna let a 90-pound asthmatic wear the pants?”

“So what’s wrong with your plumbing?” Nat peeks over the fridge door as she grabs some parmesan and a bottle of wine. Steve, under strict orders not to help, is watching from the kitchen table.

“It’s my shower, something happened the other day. The water turned hot while I was in the middle of showering, even though I had it turned cold.”

“Hm. Weird.”

Steve comes out here at least once a month, or as often as he can. He sees the way that Natasha would rather slip into her work, lose herself in the business of holding the pieces of the world together, let go of her own life. The pantry, open and visible from where he’s sitting, is stocked with the bare minimum dry goods and canned foods; the fridge isn’t much better. He’s seen her on missions, seen her at home in her mismatched socks; he knows that she’d barely feed herself, surviving on a sandwich a day, if the thought or the hunger struck her. So he comes and threatens to cook and she saves the compound from being burned down by making a meal for the two of them.

It’s a far cry from normal. From pizza nights with Sam and Wanda at the compound, the two of them taking turns introducing Steve to movies he missed - all the “classics” he hadn’t heard of. They were missing their monthly family dinners, too; Tony always made room in his schedule to attend, dragging Pepper along from the office, and Steve sat at the head of their long dining table watching this strange, funny little family he had share and eat and laugh with each other.

Now he sits across from Natasha at a table otherwise occupied by her scattered files and reports, a pair of pointe shoes laying in the chair next to her. He didn’t come often enough to expect her to clean for him. She had enough on her plate.

“You know, I was talking to Carol last week,” Nat says, twirling her pasta around her fork. “And she said she might make it to visit us next month. It’ll depend on that trafficking case she was working in the Pegasus galaxy.” She shrugs a little.

“That’s good.” Steve chews, sips his wine. “It would be nice to see her.”

They don’t talk much throughout their meal; there isn’t much new to share. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall of the compound, Steve watches the early sunset fall over the grounds, shadows reaching and reaching, as quiet as it was empty.

**********

Sometimes, sometimes, when he’s feeling more stupid than usual, he opens the drawer.

That drawer. The lower one in his bedside table. With her box inside.

The box isn’t really anything special - just plain black, with her name written on the top. He got it at the suggestion of the team’s - his - therapist, Dr. Rajan. She recommended that putting some things away, rather than leaving them around his room, might help him move on, realize that his life had changed. He thought about putting the compass in the box, too, but it felt wrong. She wouldn’t want that in there. Somehow it mostly ends up in his pocket, and he stares at it from time to time, at the picture inside, thinking about words like should have and what if.

He’s staring at the drawer now, remembering the night before, when he thought about getting the box after he shuffled in from support group. When he was halfway through his flask of that Asgardian shit he kept under the bed. Steve had shuffled out of his clothes and fallen asleep in his underwear instead, flask still clutched in his hand, just sober enough to turn down the bad idea.

So why was the drawer open?

**********

“Have you thought about getting back out there? Dating again?”

His laugh is humorless.

“Doc, come on. I think we both know I’m not the type.”

“All we know is that you’re a serial monogamist.” She smiles. “And a very eligible one.”

“Sure, but…” Steve pauses, rubbing his palms against his jeans. He looks around the office, trying to find something to focus on. “I feel lucky...really lucky, to have had the kind of love I got. I mean, I never really expected to have it, not after I woke up in this century. And then, with her, it just sort of happened so naturally...well, lightning never strikes twice, as the saying goes.”

“It seems like, for you at least, it did,” Dr. Rajan raises her brows. “Two great loves in one lifetime? More rare than lightning.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still long on the top.

“I-I guess so. But it won’t strike a third time.”

“Because you’re not going to give it a chance?”

“You know me too well, doc.” His smile is apologetic, kind.

**********

At night, he sweats through dreams of her. His legs tangle in sheets where they used to twist and curl around her. The pillows smell only of him, his blue generic soap, but in his mind, locked somewhere far and sweet, her scent fills the air. Fills him up until he tastes it.

He tastes her, too, in dreams; under him, around him, pressed close in that intimate haze only lovers can know. Her lips chase his and smile into his mouth, following the curve of his jaw as he tucks his own face into her neck. It’s in his veins now, her smell and taste, ripe and alive on his tongue and oh, he’s swimming in it. She sighs, blissful, and sinks her teeth into that spot at the base of his throat-

Bedsheets fly off him as he bolts upright in bed, chest heaving, the sweat rolling in little beads down his temple. The smell is fading, drifting away from the room even as he tries to hold on to it; she was here, right here, and it had all felt so real, having her in his arms again. But now he’s wading back to consciousness, unwillingly, the tide of his dream pulling away from the shore and tugging at his ankles, carrying her with it. He wants to drift out to sea on it, drown in it, never resurface in this half-empty world.

Always so dramatic, Rogers.

Something nags at the corner of his eye, and he turns to the bedside table. In the pre-dawn light of the window, he can see the second drawer open. Her box is pulled forward to the front of the drawer with its lid propped up, asking, begging to be seen. He feels himself almost chasing the tide, diving back in as he leans over the side of his bed…

He slams the drawer shut.

Steve blows a harsh breath past his lips and swings his legs out of bed, tugging the sheet from between his thighs. His bare feet brush the cold wood and he arches up on his toes, tight muscles protesting the stretch. Palms scrub at his heavy eyes, brushing away what he can of his sleep. He has no plans to go back to bed, not now. He’ll just get an early start on his run. Maybe put in a few extra miles. He runs a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching absently at his scalp.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he turns the cold water tap in the sink and splashes his face a few times, feeling the two-day stubble on his cheeks. The shave can wait until after his run, he thinks. He stands straighter and reaches for the towel next to the sink, patting his face dry - he leaves his eyes closed, buried in the cotton for a moment before meeting his own gaze in the mirror. Immediately his eyes are drawn down to - what the hell is that?

At the base of his neck, just where it meets his shoulder, is a small red mark. A love bite. He presses it with a finger and hisses at the tenderness of the skin. Unbidden, the wave of his dream crashes over him, rolling him under, and he can almost feel her lips again…

The hair on the back of his neck and arms is standing straight up, his body gone cold all over. He thinks, maybe, he should go back to bed after all. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he hears his own name. What if...what if she’s waiting for me? He almost turns around, almost looks at the rumpled bed, almost expects her to be in it, rolling over in that tangled mess and smiling past the curve of her shoulder…

He yanks on a hoodie and running pants, toeing into his sneakers without socks, and leaves the apartment unlocked. Hardly knowing it, he clocks 50 miles, the sun high overhead before he can force his legs to stop, even his enhanced muscles starting to twitch. His sweat is still cold.

**********

There’s a memorial. Lots of them, actually.

All the major cities have at least one, and New York has built theirs, unsurprisingly, in Memorial Park. It’s huge, a sprawling garden of sculpture installations covered overhead by a soft white canopy. A retaining wall, approximately 3 feet high, lines the garden beds and holds in the dark rubber mulch, its outer white brick etched with the names of the lost. Even Steve could admit that it was beautiful, and so different from the solemn obelisks and walls of names he had expected when the memorial was announced.

The city had commissioned a team of artists, led by the famous Chihuly, to create blown glass sculptures using...well, as much of the collected ashes of decimated people as they could. “Cremation glass” it was called. The concept was morbid; though symbolically beautiful, most hadn’t imagined a stunning art gallery, more suited to the Met than this mass grave of the unknown.

Steve was there when it was dedicated, as was Tony. He was asked to say a few words, and he did; he has no idea, now, what he read from those cards handed to him by the administrative team. A black suit stretched around his shoulders, no shield in sight, his tie more like a noose as he watched the somber faces of the attendees. Loved ones and friends of people he had failed. A living memorial. Tony stood next to him, year-old wedding band still shining as he crossed his hands in front of him and declined to speak.

There are a few locations he has memorized around the park, the Lost Garden, as it has been named. A blooming blue hydrangea bush, sculpted white flowers and leaves pressed between the green, with the name “James B. Barnes” carved a few inches below. Across from it, red and yellow globes hang from a white tree, the round shadows falling over “Samuel Wilson”. Two rows over, an exploding tower of tangled green and blue spirals, surrounded by bushes, guards the name “Wanda Maximoff”.

Hers is carved neatly - block letters, plain font - into the white brick near the entrance of the memorial. Above it, a cherry blossom tree blooms sweetly, the pink flowers joined by purple and pink glass stems sprouting up from the ground around the trunk of the tree. Soft green bushes hem in the sculpture, as though keeping the glass from growing too far. It’s whimsical, charming. Elegant.

He fucking hates it.

He hates how this is meant to honor her - the vibrancy of her memory, the slyness of her smile, the passion of her love, the ferocity of her anger. She was more solid and real and hard than the delicate stems of glass that stood for her now. It wasn’t even her ashes in there anyway - he knows that for certain. He knows because he felt her drift through his hands under a hot Wakandan sun. He had watched the dust float and settle and knew that all the parts of her he kissed and held were under his feet and in his mouth and Jesus God it made him want to scream.

He doesn’t know whose ashes are here, in the glass above her name. But he wants to smash it. Put a fist through it. Hear that tinkling glass shatter on the ground the way she did. It would only be right.

As he stands there, staring at the falling cherry blossoms scattered around the sculpture, he feels the air go cold around him. His whole body breaks out in goosebumps and the little hairs on the back of his neck start prickling. He shudders, looking around, but no one else is nearby. It’s a late spring day, warm and getting warmer, with the sun beaming through scattered clouds. He shouldn’t be shivering.

The wind picks up, light breeze growing stronger, and the long stalks of glass begin to vibrate. A low hum builds as the wind carves its way between the sculptures, a plaintive, lonely noise that he feels low in his belly.

Steve…

He whips his head around, looking up and down the row, but he’s alone - no one else is here. That whisper, his name, it was so close…

Steeeeve

He’s turning a full circle, looking for a microphone or a drone or something tiny like Scott’s suit.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Stevie …

A cloud of cherry blossoms billows into his face, making him jump back. The chill sinks through his skin, slips down his spine bone by bone with each breath. His heart is hammering hard and fast. That name, that voice - it’s been three years. They’re gone. It’s not possible. He closes his eyes as he feels a presence close beside him, right at his shoulder, and he knows, he knows if he turns his head she’ll be-

“Captain Rogers? You alright?”

He jumps again, startled, and looks over to see a policeman watching him, eyes wary and concerned. The officer was young, like all of them now - mass recruiting in public services has been going on for a couple of years, with things nearly falling into chaos after...everything. The military, the police, trying to swell their numbers enough with what was left of the population to keep the world in check. Not like the Avengers were doing a very good job.

“Captain?” The young officer asks again, inching a half-step towards Steve. His hand, unconsciously, twitches towards his radio.

“I’m fine - really,” Steve shakes his head and offers a smile. “Everything’s fine. Just...remembering someone.”

The kid nods; Steve wonders if he himself ever looked so young in a uniform.

“I understand.” He’s tugging at his uniform jacket. “My, uh, parents - they’re over there.” He points at a patch of lilies, not far from Wanda. “And my brother.”

“I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he ever says these days. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Everyone pretends that it’s enough.

He walks the kid - the officer - back to his patrol car, shakes his hand; the boy has to crane his head back to look up at him, and he stares up at Steve like there’s still hope in this world. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

**********

The chill follows him into the summer. Even with the sun high and New York sweltering with heat, Steve shivers in his apartment, cold biting at him until he aches with it. He cranks the heat on his thermostat, yet still finds a harsh breeze blowing through his apartment somehow. He allows the shower faucet to continue turning hot - blistering hot, the way she liked it - now that this chill won’t let him go.

Despite that, he finds himself staying in more than ever. He was never exactly a social butterfly - Bucky could testify to that. It tumbles him into memory: Bucky, slicked-back hair and spit-shined shoes, a rose tucked into the lapel of his jacket; Bucky, chin thrown back and ready to laugh at the world, an arm around Steve’s shoulders as he drags them on yet another double date. “Ya gotta get out more, Rogers,” he’d say, cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I’m a piss-poor excuse for real company.”

The only people he sees now are Dr. Rajan and the members of his support groups. Occasionally Nat, but she’s been traveling more lately, following the crumbs of Clint’s trail. Their emails are few and far between, containing only the bare bones.

It’s a Friday night - or maybe it’s Saturday, Sunday. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning the little thing over in his hands. The compass stays in his pocket most days. He flips it open, stares at the portrait inside, the one he’s had memorized since ‘43. He could draw it with his eyes closed, probably.

Suddenly, the compass snaps shut, unbidden, in his hand. It shakes, the mechanisms inside rattling violently, and grows hot to the touch. He yelps and it falls from his palm, dropping to the floor between his feet. The skin of his hands is red, scalded, and he flexes his fingers, watching the trinket warily. It lies on the floor, perfectly still.

Behind him, he hears the second drawer of his dresser roll open.

**********

More dreams come to him, sweet ones, and he sinks into them without protest. He falls into his bed at night happily, searching for the smell of her somewhere behind his eyes. She’s always there, always smiling for him, reaching and pulling him further down into their own special hiding place. She’s there in her uniform, in her sweatpants, in his t-shirt, in nothing at all.

“C’mere, Stevie baby,” she nuzzles his nose, and he’s close to tears but he doesn’t know why. Then she’s tugging at his own clothes and he’s not thinking about it at all.

The ache in his throat returns when he wakes empty-handed and alone. Beneath his jaw, a line of hickeys leads down his neck and across his shoulder. His breath puffs in small clouds as he pants and tries not to cry.

**********

“You don’t look so good, Steve.” Nat’s tone is worried, her voice tight. She watches him stare at the wall with a cup of coffee in his massive hands. “Have you been sleeping?”

He nearly chuckles at that.

“A little too much, I think.” He goes quiet then, mouth turning back down, carved sadness in that larger-than-life face.

“I think...God, Nat,” Steve slumps forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Join the club.” She sits down next to him, sliding a soft hand across his back. Her voice is just above a whisper. “We’re all still struggling. You know that. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it feels...it feels like...you’re just holding on by a thread.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes.

“Have you - do you dream about them? Ever?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean…” Steve rubs his eyes. “I mean...do the dreams feel...when you wake up, does it feel like it really happened.”

Nat frowns.

“I’m not following you, Steve.”

He sighs, heavy and resigned.

“No, I know. I’m not making any sense.” He leans into her embrace a little. He likes the contact of it. Hasn’t had that in a long time.

“Listen, Nat. I know S.H.I.E.L.D. used to keep a lot of records of...enhanced individuals…”

“Sure. Everyone that pinged on their radar,” she nods. “So, pretty much anyone with abilities.”

“I need to have a look at them.”

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Yes. But if I told you, you’d have me committed.”

“Yeah, that really makes me want to help you.” She leans her head against his shoulder, fingers squeezing his bicep. Her voice still soft and low. “Tell me what you need.”

**********

They meet in a public place. It’s not hard now, with the world half-dead, to go about their business as though they are two men with nothing to hide. A bright, hot July sun beats on their heads, and Steve adjusts his sunglasses as a bead of sweat slides down his neck. On the street, traffic grumbles along, bikers and street vendors and tourists darting between. The hard metal chair of the café presses into the soft underside of his knees, leaving little dents in his skin.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Captain,” the man across from him smiles. The white symbol on his forehead stands out starkly against his dark skin. “I understand we move in different circles.”

They’re sitting outside a small restaurant in Port-au-Prince, only coffee on the table in front of them. The heat is sweltering, oppressive, different from the New York heat that Steve knows. Part of him wishes they were near the beach, with the wind coming off the ocean. She would have begged him to go to the beach.

“That we do,” Steve raises his eyebrows. “Even with everything that’s happened, aliens, Thanos...things like magic are still...hard to believe.”

“Hm.” Jericho Drumm leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “I think you are here because...it’s not so hard anymore, yes?”

He grits his teeth. There are fingernail scratches on his back and they chafe against the sweaty cotton of his shirt.

“You’re a smart man, Jericho,” he sighs. “And I think you might be the only person who can help me.”

Jericho Drumm nods.

“Yes, I think so, too.”

According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files Steve spent all his free time digging through, there were only a few enhanced individuals with supernatural abilities. And now half of them were gone. Some, like the sorcerer Tony told him about, had managed to stay under the radar for thousands of years. With precious little to go on besides an alias, Steve commandeered a quinjet and packed a bag for Haiti.

“What you are asking me...communication with the spirits…” Jericho shakes his head. “It’s not what you think. Or what it looks like in the movies.”

“Then tell me,” Steve presses, leaning his elbows on the table. His coffee is half full. He can see his reflection in the oily surface of it.

“I’ve served as a houngan for many years; I’ve served as Sorcerer Supreme. In fact, with Stephen Strange gone, they may ask me to serve again. But inviting spirits into this world is a dangerous practice - not white magic.”

“But it can be done?”

Jericho narrows his eyes. The white streak in his hair is bright in the noonday sun.

“When Thanos tore a rift in this world, in this universe,” he speaks slowly, choosing his words with careful consideration. “He tore through the other side as well. The things he’s done affect us all, the living and the dead. It is possible, the things you describe, are caused by this. A ripple effect, if you will. A door not closed.”

“A ripple.”

“Yes. However,” Drumm raises a finger, leaning forward to speak in a low voice. “I will say something else. I may have years of experience with the supernatural, but I studied psychology as well. My time in America was mostly in a university, studying the human mind, how it works…” He pauses for a moment, giving Steve a look that is on the suspicious side of apologetic. “Our minds are powerful. When a person wishes for things, even terrible things, the mind can give them what they seek.”

Steve closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“Believe me, I know how I sound,” he sighs. “I know. My therapist says the same thing. But if anyone’s going to believe me, it’s you. This is not in my mind.” His fingers are shaking and he curls them into fists. “This is real. She’s...it’s real. It’s her.” Haunting me.

Dr. Drumm nods, sympathetic and quiet. He watches this captain, this legend, the age showing in his young man’s body. With the sunglasses propped up on his head, the dark circles beneath Steve’s puffy eyes are on full display. His shoulders curl in, posture defensive, small. His knee bounces under the table, and his jaw ticks every so often, teeth clicking in his mouth. There is a bruise visible at the base of his neck where the collar of his shirt has shifted to one side.

“Very well, Captain. I will do my best to help you.”

**********

He sits cross-legged on the tile floor of the bathroom, surveying the items in front of him. According to Dr. Drumm, he would need only a few candles, items that belonged to her, a circle of salt to protect himself. Incense, too, burning in the corner, the smell of sage and smoke floating around him. The lights are off, only the flickering candles illuminating the room.

He feels a little silly, setting all of this up. When he was a boy, vampires and werewolves and ghosts were all just stories - hiding under the covers with Bucky and scaring themselves silly. No real monsters hid under his bed. All of that came later.

Under his shirt, the amulet rests against his chest, growing warm with his own body heat.

“If you must do this alone as you insist,” Jericho had said, shaking his head. “Then wear this. Bene gris-gris. It is the best I can do to protect you from dark magic.” His steel grip closed around Steve’s arm. “And this may be a dark thing, Captain. Her coming back to you. It doesn’t feel like white magic.”

Steve had only nodded, his hand closing around the amulet. He was beyond light and dark now, beyond counting costs. He had chased ghosts for so long after he woke up. It’s only right for him to chase her, too.

Here, in the bathroom, toes pressed to cold tile, he digs two more items out of his pockets. Dr. Drumm said to bring something that would ground him to himself, something special. He turns the compass over in his hand, flicks it open, and sets it on the edge of the circle. From the other pocket, he fishes a black velvet box. His fingers twitch, feeling the soft fabric; he doesn’t want to open it. He hasn’t opened it, since he took the ring off their nightstand in Wakanda and put it back in the box. She hadn’t worn it - didn’t like wearing it on missions or in fights. Afraid of scratching it. She had wiggled it off her finger, smiling at him, leaving a kiss on his bearded jaw-

He leaves the box closed for now, and places it in the center next to the other tokens - a photo of her, a necklace with a small silver pendant she used to wear whenever they went on dinner dates, a little jar of seashells from a beach vacation she took in college. All the little things he had packed away in that nightstand drawer. Memories he had put into storage.

Safe inside his little circle, he reaches in his shirt and grabs the amulet tight in his fist. He closes his eyes. Breathes deep the incense and soft curling smoke from his candles.

He says her name softly in the dark.

In his mind, he shifts his awareness down the plane of his body, piece by piece. He learned meditation techniques during his therapy sessions; now he has another use for them. He says her name again.

“I want to speak to you.” He says, voice low, a lover’s intimacy. “I call on your spirit.”

Her name. Her name. Her name.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, curled on the floor, but the chant of her name lulls him into a trance. His eyes are half-open, the candles wavering in front of him, casting long shadows on the walls. He licks his lips, calls her name again.

One by one, the candles snuff out.

He goes quiet. Smoke curls up to his nose, but he can’t see - the only light is coming from underneath the bathroom door. That familiar chill trickles down the back of his neck, raising the hairs. His flesh is covered in goosebumps; his muscles tense up, coiled tight, ready to spring. His tongue lies dry and thick against his teeth.

“Hello?”

Steve?

He sighs her name. “Sweetheart, is that you?”

A cold breeze passes over his face, rumpling his shirt.

“Are you there?”

The compass flies up and smashes against the wall.

Steve…

Her voice is harsher. Sadder.

“Baby, please,” he’s begging now. He can feel how close she is, she’s in the room, he knows it like he knows his own body. Like he knew hers.

For the first 25 years of his life, he lived with asthma - any little trigger could set him aching for air, his lungs betraying their purpose and seizing up on him, his whole body trembling in relief when he managed to pull in oxygen. He feels that ache for her now - acute and sharp as it was the day he first lost her, a physical pain and its cure so close, so close, if she would only let him - let him breathe-

Oh, Steve.

“Honey, I’m here, I’m right here.” He stands in his little circle, spinning around, though he still sees nothing in the darkened bathroom. He feels the tip of his nose go numb in the frigid air, his body shivering slightly.

I’m here, too, Stevie.

“Where, baby? Where are you?” He’s desperate, so desperate. He’s going to cry if she doesn’t-

I’m here. Look.

He feels, thinks he feels, cold fingers brush down his cheek, and he turns. The mirror above the sink is frosted over, he can see it now that his eyes are adjusting to the pale dark, and he stumbles towards it. Pulls a sleeve down over his hand and wipes at the fog, the remains of his body heat melting it away in streaks.

“Oh...oh god.” He grips the edges of the sink.

Hi, baby.

There she is. There she is. Standing right behind him, over his shoulder. His eyes sweep over her face in the mirror, scanning the details he never forgot, not for a moment. Her lips quirk a sad little smile, tilting her head.

You don’t look so good, Rogers.

His laugh comes out as a sob, and he nods. Fingers curl tighter over the edge of the sink because it’s all that’s holding him up right now. In the reflection, he sees her take a step closer to him - feels her presence, her smell is right behind him and if he can just turn and take her in his arms then everything will be alright again…

NO DON’T!

The force of it is loud in his mind, sends him reeling forward against the sink. Her lips are trembling in a soft frown.

Don’t look behind you.

It sounds so soft. So sad. And he knows, knows in the marrow of his bones, that this is it, this is all they can have. This halfway, this inbetween, this ships in the night barely seen as they pass - it’s all he gets. All he has left.

He presses his hand to the cold glass of the mirror, tips of his fingers stroking the image of her face. His chin feels weak, jaw slack, his hip leaning against the sink. She’s crying, too, tears shining against her soft cheeks.

“Where are you? Do you know what’s happening?” He manages to ask. It’s the question, the question everyone would ask of their ghosts. She shakes her head a little.

I...I don’t really know. But I know I’m not with you.

He nods, tries to swallow around the thick lump in his throat.

Wherever I am, I’m not with you. And I miss you, Steve.

“I miss you - God, honey, I miss you so bad-” his breath hitches, and he wonders in the back of his mind if he’s going to have another asthma attack, his first in 70 years. “I-I need you, sweetheart. Jesus Christ, I miss you. I don’t know what I’m doing without you and-and-”

He’s hyperventilating, breaths stuttering in his chest. The hand that’s pressed to the mirror has gone numb with cold but he won’t move it, not if it’s the closest he comes to touching her face. He watches her come closer to him, behind him - her smell fills the room, no smoke, no incense, only her. His teeth are clattering in his mouth even as he tries to grit them together, lungs stuttering and he’s so so cold but he only half feels it; the muscles in his back jump and twitch as he feels her, really feels her, right behind him. And then-

I know, baby. I know.

Her forehead presses between his shaking shoulder blades. Icy hands creep up beneath his shirt, pressing right over his heart. Her arms lock around his ribs and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze - as if she could brand herself there. In the glass, Steve’s lips are blue and his sobbing breaths come out as little frozen clouds. The mirror is starting to frost over again; the goosebumps on his body won’t lie down. His eyes slip closed, tears chilling in their tracks on his cheeks, and he presses his hand over hers at his heart.

I’m right here.

The ache in his chest sharpens, then dulls, slow and familiar. Something he always carries. His breaths are slowing now, the trembling in his muscles calms a little. She traces a frozen circle over his heart.

I’m right here.

He sighs her name before he blacks out.

**********

Natasha watches Steve in his kitchen, her green eyes sharp and narrow. She hasn’t been to his apartment in a long time, but three days of no answered phone calls, texts, or emails and the Black Widow will investigate. He seems...fine. As fine as Steve has been since it all happened, when he went clean-shaven and cropped his hair, like girls do after a break-up. He smiles over his shoulder while stirring the pot in front of him.

“It’s the one thing my ma made sure I knew how to make for myself,” he says. “She knew I’d need this soup every time I got sick.”

“That’s sweet,” she says. And it is, though she’s never heard him mention it before.

They eat on barstools at the island, sharing little bits of conversation, small talk, mission updates. Sound bites of friendship. Still no explanation for his radio silence.

“Can I use your bathroom?” She sighs as he scoots back his stool, scooping up their bowls to take to the sink.

“Of course - you don’t have to ask, Nat.”

She slips down the hall. Doesn’t go to the bathroom - turns right instead.

On the floor of his bedroom, she sees the candles. The circle. The pictures. A little jar of seashells on his nightstand. While they were eating, she had seen something new - a little chain around his neck, the shape of something underneath, suspiciously like a ring.

Natasha leaves without saying a word, maybe hugs him a little tighter at the door.

She won’t begrudge him this.

[rukia-kuchiki-divided]

Can you write about the adoption scene from Rukia's perspective? Pls??

~Sure why not? Angst hours it is then! Under readmore for length because... I have no self control~

The unused study room at the end of the hall sat completely empty when Rukia arrived. Sighing softly as the door shut behind her, grateful that it was enough to effectively muffle the remarks about her origins in the Rukongai. Wasn’t it bad enough that she was surrounded by stuck up nobles who lived life without a care in the world? Meanwhile, she was back to rationing out her meal supply until she could manage to sneak out to the outer edges of the Seireitei and replenish her stash. 

Renji was supposed to meet her here so they could take their lunch break together. It had been a few days since Rukia really had a chance to talk to him. They’d both been training late into the night, normally too exhausted to exchange much more than pleasantries in the evening before giving in to sleep in their respective dormitories. Males and females were generally kept apart though Rukia felt safer sleeping up in the branches of the nearby trees then in her small closet of a room. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful to have a place to keep dry in the rain. But compared to living in the Rukongai with it’s wide open spaces, she found it a touch claustrophobic for her tastes.  

Wondering just how long his exam was going to take, Rukia let out another long sigh. This was his second major exam that would allow Renji to excel into the next level. If he passed, he’d be more than just an advance class above her. She should feel happy for him. She was happy for him. But that dark shadow of doubt weighed heavily in her chest which rendered reading her open textbook impossible. 

“The gap between us just continues to grow.” Rukia muttered to no one in particular. “Eventually, that bond will snap. Am I holding Renji back?  I  wish I was able to forget the Rukongai as easily as he seems to have done.” 

Groaning, Rukia tapped her forehead against the text book. What is wrong with me? Renji’s excelling and here I am feeling sorry for myself. Snap out of it, damn it!

So when the door suddenly opened, Rukia had already resigned herself to put on a happy face and congratulate the red head despite the pang of jealousy in her heart. 

“About time, baka. I thought you were gonna stand me up for-” 

Rukia’s eyes widened as she realized she did not feel Renji’s usual warm familiar reiatsu. Quickly jumping to her feet, she recognized the signs of nobility  from the kenseikan to the servants accompanying them, even to the way they watched her low bow with a critical gaze. 

“Forgive me, I thought you were someone else.” 

Rukia apologized, keeping her head low as she was taught. The last thing she needed was to piss off a noblemen who might have a say in how their classes were graded. There appeared to be two noblemen while the others were their attendants. Wait  - not just attendants but soul reapers! 

The younger one with the kenseikan had a zanpakuto in addition to an intimidating amount of spiritual pressure. It felt cold and hard like a steel blade on a cold winter morning. They match his hard grey eyes that look over Rukia’s face critically, as if searching for something. She watched as a flicker of immeasurable sadness crosses his gaze for an instant before it is locked behind a wall of steel. Was that pity?

“Forgive us, as it is we who interrupted your studying.” The older man spoke with a deep baritone, motioning for Rukia to stand up straight once more. “You are Rukia, is that right? From Inuzuri in the Rukongai?” 

“Yes, that’s me.” But how and why would nobles like them care about her or where she was from? Her brow furrowed slightly as she ran through a list of possibilities.

The older noblemen glanced at the younger one, his facial expression asking an unspoken question. Rukia watched as the younger one inclined his head slightly, an almost imperceptible nod of approval.

“I see.” The older man looked Rukia over once more  with stern eyes behind those delicate glass lenses and she felt significantly more uncomfortable. The way his eyes lingered on her worn red uniform and the smudges of dirt on her shoes made her feel as though she was being assessed for a price.

 “Then let us get on with the purpose of our meeting. Rukia, my name is Nobutsune Seike. I am the cleric elder of the noble Kuchiki Clan. This is Byakuya Kuchiki, the head of our noble house.” The pride in his voice as he spoke was overwhelming. Even Rukia had heard of the Kuchiki clan, though only in rumor as if they were a fairy tale to be sought after. 

“We would like to make you an offer to join our family.” 

The world seemed to suddenly turn on it’s side. Rukia blinked once and then twice to regain her composure. Surely she had misheard the elder?! Perhaps he was confused and misspoke?! Her violet eyes glanced up at who she now knew was Byakuya Kuchiki himself, looking at him for any sign of disagreement. But his face was stoic and still, as if he was made of steel himself. 

“My apologies,” Rukia managed to stammer out. “But I must have misunderstood. What would a noble clan want me to joint their family for?”  

For a split second, Rukia could have sworn she saw a look of disgust cross the elder’s face though he disguised it well. “Ah a very blunt question. But we can get to the details of things after we present our offer. Rukia, we would like to extend to you an offer of adoption. Not only would you be part of the noble Kuchiki Clan, but Byakuya Kuchiki himself will adopt you as his younger sister!” 

His younger sister? But... why? It didn’t make any sense to her. Before Rukia could interrupt, Nobutsune held up his hand. 

“Please, allow me to lay out the terms of our offer. You would become Rukia Kuchiki, no longer a nameless soul of the Rukongai. Your home would be the main Kuchiki house with all its amenities. Of course, you would be subject to the laws of our clan as any other member of Kuchiki house along with the additional requirements the main family house entails.” 

He paused again, looking Rukia up and down for the third time while pushing up his glasses. “We understand that there is a ... gap in education due to your upbringing. We are prepared to tutor you in our home as well as propel your soul reaper career. As a member of our noble house, you will not need to bother completing the Academy’s training course as we will arrange for private training. You will be allowed to join an available squad of your choosing and test for a seated position if you should qualify.” 

This was unreal. She had to be dreaming. There was just no way that the Kuchiki clan, of all the noble houses in the Seireitei, had found her and asked for her to join their family. Something was wrong. In Rukia’s experience, if an offer seemed too good to be true, it most likely was. There was always a catch. 

But - family. The idea of having a family with all the bonds that went with it was certainly appealing. Renji. His face instantly surfaced in her mind as he was the only one she had any semblance of a bond with at this time. What would he think of this? What would this do to their already fraying friendship? Nobility came with chains. Rukia was well aware of that. 

“What exactly would my extra duties require of me?” Her violet eyes carefully flickered between the elder and Byakuya, trying to gain any insight they might offer. 

“As part of the main family, you are expected to attend certain functions, maintain a strict code of conduct especially outside of the walls of our home. Your comings and goings will be restricted as well as your social circle and those you interact with on a casual basis. You will be allowed to continue your soul reaper career, as mentioned before, so that will be the exception to this. When the elders of our clan deem it appropriate, you will be wed to a suitor of our choice who meets the Kuchiki clan standards. In exchange, all of your needs will be provided for and your career elevated.” 

His thick white eyebrows raised above his glasses in a way of finality. “Well, do we have your interest, Rukia of Inuzuri?” 

Rukia was processing everything he had said, not missing the subtle way her freedoms would be restricted. Her gaze fell to the ground, heart torn. Could she do this? Could she really sell her soul for this? 

Again, Renji’s face swam into her mind’s eye. Of course not! Renji was her family. If she were to join the Kuchiki’s, then she would not be permitted to speak to Renji. That alone was enough to make her doubt this offer. But was she holding Renji back in his own life? Doubt crept in, a cold chill running up her spine.

“I..I’m not-” 

As if on cue, the door burst wide open and almost caused Rukia to jump. Renji’s excitement was rolling off of him as he blurted out his news. 

“Rukia! Guess what? I passed the second exam! Can ya belie-” 

The way his face shifted from exuberance to confusion was almost comical. Rukia saw the look of recognition as Renji took in Byakuya’s kenseikan and the spiritual pressure in the room. “Uh..” 

“It seems our negotiations have been interrupted.” Nobutsune eyed Renji with only thinly veiled disgust. “This place is no longer suitable for us to continue our discussions”

 He and Byakuya already began making their way back through the entrance as Renji moved aside for them to pass. “We look forward to hearing a favorable answer, Rukia.” 

Rukia’s mind was conflicted, thoughts rolling into each other as she tried to untangle them. But Renji was here now. He was the strategist, the one who kept his feet grounded between the two of them. He was her best friend, after all. If anyone could see the flaws in this plan and understand her view on nobility, it was him. 

“Renji..” 

He seemed startled out of deep thought, not having moved from his position beside the entrance way. “Oh Rukia! What - what was that all about, eh?” 

She averted her gaze, not trusting herself to look Renji in the eyes at the moment. “They were from the Kuchiki clan. They.. want to adopt me into their family.” Rukia was already shaking her head, holding one arm with the other across her abdomen to steady herself. “I don’t know what to do. Renji-” 

The last thing Rukia expected was to hear Renji exhaling in what seemed like relief. His hand moved to her shoulder, grasping her as he started to chuckle. 

“What do ya mean ya don’t know what to do? This is great! The Kuchiki clan is a powerful family! Oh man, yer gonna be living the life of luxury just like we always dreamed about!” He shifted his hand slightly on her shoulder as Rukia watched his face intently. “I wonder what you’ll be eatin’! Ah! I’m so jealous!”  

Fake. That was the first thought that crossed Rukia’s mind as she watched him. He was lying to her about how he felt. But why would he do that? Unless... she had been a burden holding him back this whole time? And now he had a way to severe their bond without feeling guilt. That was the only explanation that made sense to her, the only reason she could think of that Renji would lie to her - to spare her feelings. 

It was an almost audible snap in her heart as she felt the bond between herself and Renji break, finally frayed to it’s last thread. She understood now that there was nothing left for her here. He was giving her away, without even an after thought. She was a reminder of where he came from, a life Renji was desperate to forget as he fit in with the others in his class. That’s all she would always be to him - a painful reminder of why he would always be different. 

I see now.. Rukia felt the pinpricks of tears threatening to spill out of the corner of her eyes. This was kindness on Renji’s part. He was letting her go in the gentlest way possible. She reached up to grasp his hand with both of hers, gently pulling it off her shoulder. He looked down at her, meeting her gaze before she tore her eyes away. 

“Thank you.” 

Before Rukia allowed herself to say anything else lest she give away how broken hearted she felt, she did the only thing she knew how to do. It saved her life time after time and would be her saving grace again.

Run. Don’t look back. Just run. 

She ran straight down the hall, not stopping until she had caught up with the Kuchiki elder and Byakuya. 

She bowed, wiping away any semblance of tears that remained on her face before meeting their gaze.

“I accept.”

The elder bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, glasses gleaming in the sunlight. 

“Welcome to the family, Rukia Kuchiki.” 

[izzy-b-hands]

Too Much Blues

Gotta be honest, no idea what this is. I wanted to write, I put on some music and did some jumping around Spotify, and now here this is. I’ve been writing for like three hours and it somehow got dark around me, idk when that happened. 

Not sure if this really qualifies as angst? It isn’t happy, but it isn’t like overwhelmingly sad for Eugene or Snafu either. Y’all will have to let me know I guess. 

Title is from the song by James Booker which I have linked there on his name because I recently discovered him, and he is absolutely wonderful, and deserves more people listening to his music. After you read this, give him a listen. He’s Freddie levels of amazing piano playing, and sings so strongly it transports you. I can’t believe I didn’t know of him until now, and I wish I had sooner. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

The taste of blood on his tongue wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was unwelcome. 

The alley he was laying in wasn’t cold, thanks to the August heat, but it was wet. Rain poured, sluicing off of the rooftops as fast as it could fall from the clouds. 

He wouldn’t admit that this had been a bad idea though. Not yet. It would have to get a lot worse for that. 

Eugene had thought it was a bad idea from the start. 

“You can’t win the money we need by gambling. The math doesn’t pan out-” 

“I’m lucky,” Snafu had told him, accompanying it with a kiss. “I can win us a thousand dollars, easy. Give me the weekend in New Orleans, let me hit up the old haunts, and I’ll have it. I promise.” 

“At least let me go with you,” Eugene had begged as he had watched him pack. “For safety’s sake.” 

“I used to live there, Gene. The city isn’t any more unsafe than anywhere else anyway. Besides what else are we gonna do?” 

Eugene hadn’t had an answer for that, and neither did Snafu for that matter. It was purely bad luck and bad timing, that two of the cats had needed the vet, that Eugene had busted his arm trying to help repair part of the roof after a particularly bad hailstorm fucked it all the way up, that another storm had hit after that and done such damage that they had to hire someone to come fix it up instead of trying to do it themselves, that the break in Eugene’s arm wasn’t healing well and required more visits to the doctor than previously expected. 

The first thousand they’d raised by selling off things from the house, one by one, first to the pawn shop in town, then by driving out of town to the pawn shops of neighboring towns until they had enough. Their house was slightly more bare (and missing some furniture) but it was worth it. Neither of them wanted to beg help from Eugene’s parents, or Sid and Mary. Not their debts, not their problem, was the agreed upon mantra. 

But the pawn shops didn’t want any more of their things, and to pay off the thousand now would drain their accounts. 

And Snafu had always enjoyed gambling. 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t anticipated this. You could get jumped in any city in the country, for any reason, he figured. 

This time, however, he wasn’t sure what the reason was. He’d lost more than he’d won, and the few hundred he had on him was still all present and accounted for. They’d beaten him to a pulp, and run, and that was that.

“Just bad luck,” he mumbled as he stood and staggered out of the alley. 

People traipsed past him without a care, some drunk, others just deep in conversation with those they walked beside, or taking in the scenery. The city had never chewed them up and spat them back out like it had him. Maybe other cities had, and this was their safe place. 

It had been his, once. And he wanted to believe it still was. 

But it was difficult, bloody and bruised, the rain seemingly never-ending as he finally dropped to the curb and sat. And he was tired. It had been hours finding any game he could, in any place he could, trying to win as much as possible. No booze like he might have had normally, this was too important not to stay sharp. 

But even that hadn’t done it. It was nearly Sunday morning, and Eugene would be expecting him back by Sunday night. It didn’t seem enough time, not nearly enough time. 

“You need a rest,” the man who had stopped in front of him said it not as a question, but as a fact. He wore a sharp suit, and looked just as tired as Snafu. 

“Don’t we all?” 

The man nodded. “I know a restful place.” 

He let the man help him up, and tried not to slow him as they made their way down the road to the nearest bar. 

“Needs some cleaning up,” the man said to the bartender, who nodded and came out from behind the bar with a rag and a small first aid kit. 

“I can pay you,” Snafu said, even though it hurt to say. Any money gone was less to bring home to Eugene, and he already could barely bear how little he would be bringing. 

“Nah,” the man replied. “How about a story instead?” 

“What about?” 

“Anything,” the man replied, watching as the bartender cleaned the cuts on Snafu’s face. “Lotta rings on them, hm?” 

Snafu winced at the antiseptic, and nodded. “What little I got to see of them before...well.” 

“Got everything you had before they took you down?” 

“Yeah,” Snafu replied. “Thankfully.” 

“How long you been away?” 

Snafu sighed. “Too long, maybe. I live in Alabama now, with my hu-” 

It came so naturally to say back at home, where he knew he was mostly safe, but he bit his tongue now, and held his breath as he watched the man’s reaction. 

“Your husband,” the man finished. “Okay. And you came back to town because...” 

“We need money,” Snafu admitted. “I was gonna win it for us. Some cards, whatever else I could find, you know.” 

“Just see what’s going on for the night, what you start winning at,” the man agreed. “You win all you need?” 

Snafu scoffed, and nodded his thanks to the bartender as he finished up. “I wish. Six hundred and some I got, but I need a thousand. I’ve got the rest of tonight, and most of tomorrow to get the last four hundred.” 

“Son,” the man said. “It’s already four in the morning on Sunday. How much luck you think you’re gonna find before you have to head home?” 

“Not enough,” Snafu muttered. “I can’t go back to him with just this.” 

The man nodded. “How well can you play?” 

“Play what?”

“Piano. I can tell by your hands, those fingers.” 

Snafu shrugged. He had been given lessons as a child, but hadn’t made much effort to keep up with them the older he got. And war didn’t exactly lend itself well to piano practice, what with no drops of pianos on the islands in the Pacific. 

“I’ve got to run and play at church myself,” the man said. “But my grandmother is at home, too sick in bed to go. She wants nothing more than to hear some of the music I’d be playing. If you can do even a song or two, it would mean the world. And I’ll give you that last four hundred.” 

He smirked. “Four hundred dollars to play piano for someone I don’t know? Pull the other one.” 

“Not at all,” the man said. “I give you my word, and my name.” 

“Your name?” 

“Names are power,” the man replied. “Call me Jim. You?” 

“Snafu.” 

Jim grinned. “That ain’t your real name, but Jim ain’t my real name either, so fair enough. Come on then, and I’ll take you to her. Play for the next few hours, and the money is yours.” 

Jim led out of the bar with only a wave to the bartender, who seemed nonplussed by all of it, and called them a cab. It drove them from the Quarter to Metairie quickly, to a small white house with blue trim. 

Jim didn’t introduce him to the elderly woman who was tucked into the small twin bed in the living room, only said a few words to her, and gestured Snafu to the piano near it, then left. 

He settled onto the bench, and let his fingers rest uncertainly on the keys. 

“Can you play me something about losing?” the woman’s voice was soft, but scratched with the effort of being brought forth. 

“I know about losing,” Snafu murmured, and patted the wad of bills in his pocket before starting in on St. Jame’s Infirmary Blues. It was one of the few songs he could remember well, though it certainly didn’t fit the bill of a ‘church song.’ “Though you wanted something from your church though? That’s what Jim told me.” 

“Jim? Is that what he’s having you call him? Well, he is a sweetheart, but he doesn’t need to know what I have you play,” the woman replied. “I like this one.” 

It wasn’t a particularly long song, but he let his fingers play on the keys, adding into it, until she hummed discontentedly. 

“What else do you know?” 

“More blues?” Snafu winced. “Mostly remember what folks around here play, what I heard before I left, what I heard now walkin’ the streets. Think I could replicate some of it-” 

“Don’t talk it over till it falls apart,” the woman interrupted gently. “Just play. I trust you.” 

He searched his mind for the chords, the melodies, letting them fall into place, then playing about with them. He didn’t worry about perfectly matching what he could recall in his head; she hummed happily each time he did his own variations. 

There was a clock on the wall, but he paid it no mind, until Jim came back inside. 

He motioned for Snafu to continue playing, then stepped up to the bed, kneeling down to the woman. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. “She’s smiling. How she always wanted to go.” 

Snafu stopped short, and nearly tripped running out from behind the piano. “Is she-” 

“She kept telling us it would be today, and she’s not often wrong about anything,” Jim chuckled. “Thank you for your kindness, and your help. If I couldn’t be here, I’m glad you could be.” 

“You don’t know me,” Snafu couldn’t help but murmur. 

“You’re a son of the city, and I bet you had a grandmother sweet as mine that you once played for.” 

“Something like that,” Snafu said, and pushed the memories back down. 

“That’s enough. Don’t need to know everything about someone to be kind to them, to do the most basic human act of creating something to make them happy, to ease them in a time of suffering. And I knew you could and would do that for her.” 

Jim handed him a bundle of bills. “Count it if you like; I don’t blame you if you do. But it’s all there. Four hundred, plus an extra hundred in case you run into trouble on the way home.” 

Snafu took the bundle with shaking hands. “Thank you. Is there...” 

“You’ve done everything we needed you to,” Jim interrupted, a soft and sad smile on his face. “You get home to your husband, and take care of your debts. Be well. Maybe we’ll find each other again, should you come back. Bring your husband this time, and we’ll all share a drink.” 

“You sound so certain that I’ll be back,” Snafu said. 

“Because you will be,” Jim said matter-of-factly. “A visit to one home, from another. Because the city is always home to you, even if you forget that once you go. But places never forget the children that grew up in their streets. Their pain and their happiness and their sadness. She’ll remember this particular sadness, and the pain you met here this time. And be ready to comfort you to make up for it, the next time you come home.” 

He left the house, and found a cab waiting for him outside. The ride to the train station was a bit longer than the ride to the house had been, and he considered using it to count the bills Jim had given him. 

But he didn’t. Somehow, in his gut, he knew there was no need. 

He didn’t on the train ride back either. Instead, he slept, the most he had slept since getting to New Orleans. 

At the station, he called Eugene. 

“I’ve got enough. More than enough.” 

He hung up before Eugene could ask any questions, and settled onto a bench outside the station to wait for him. 

The taste of blood on his tongue, as he chewed at his lower lip anxiously, was not unfamiliar, or unwelcome. 

The iron tasted like life, whatever remained of his, of Eugene’s. 

He wondered if there would be music at the end, for them. 

[hawkbucks]

Hi, yes, listen - i am such a sucker for identity porn fics. And i need MORE of your stony identity porn au! With dumbass tony going on dates with his armor because he has to keep up the charade, and a pining steve and an exhausted JARVIS and and and... I just need more, pretty please?? With cherry on top? Please and thank you~ ♡

I don’t think Steve would try to ask Iron Man out on a date while under the impression that he’s dating Mr. Stark, so IM/TS must break up! Which means... *drumroll* light angst! Or something! It’s very light! 

Saying that Tony has been having a bad day is an understatement. He’s been having a terrible day. Atrocious. Magnificent only in its ability to irritate him. His bruised ribs are flaring up again (thanks, Mole Man), he forgot to buy more of his favorite coffee brand so he had to drink--gasp!--Folgers, and everything is too bright and too loud and Jesus Christ, now that he’s thinking about it, he may or may not actually have a concussion. Add in the stress of trying to run Stark Industries, being a good benefactor-slash-mechanics for the Avengers, and his general sense of self-doubt, it’s a damn wonder as to how he hasn’t tipped over the edge yet. 

He sits on the common room couch, tablet in hand, and one leg crossed over the other. His tie is thrown somewhere over the back, blazer discarded. If any qualified doctor were to see him right now, he’s pretty sure they’d be having a conniption trying to get him to rest. The steady march towards the future never rests, though, so why should he? 

The answer to that comes in the form of Steve Rogers a.k.a Captain America a.k.a the object of Tony’s affections for the past 2 years a.k.a the one Tony has been deceiving into thinking that he’s dating himself walking into the room and smiling his golden smile while his eyes twinkle in the way that Tony knows Iron Man is going to be coming up in the conversation sooner or later. Surprisingly, Steve has been rather supportive about the entire thing, despite his own crush on Iron Man. It makes Tony feel a little bit worse about the entire thing. Okay, a lot worse. 

“Hello, Tony,” Steve greets, voice light. Then, he takes in the way Tony’s shoulders are set in a stiff line, a deep frown on his face. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Dandy,” Tony replies. He smiles up at Steve, well aware that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you?” 

Steve, of course, doesn’t believe him. You don’t need super soldier senses to know that Tony is not fine and he is not dandy. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he chides. “You can talk to me.”

“I know,” Tony says. “I’m just... tired.”

“Sleep, then. Your work can wait.” 

“I can’t,” Tony murmurs. “I try, but I can’t. There’s so much on my plate, Steve, I couldn’t sleep even if I were dead. In between the company and the Avengers and I--” his breath hitches, the pain in his ribs making itself known again-- “Iron Man, it’s too much.” He clenches his fist. Fucking--Iron Man.

“Did something happen?” Steve asks, alarmed. 

That’s how he knows his thought didn’t stay a thought. It’s always the worst of them that end up coming out of his mouth. Never anything about him having a dream about riding a rainbow with a poodle the other day. Never anything about him making a delicious chicken parmesan. Always the bad shit. “We broke up.” Like ripping off a bandaid. 

“Shit.” 

“It was a week ago.” Tony feels like he should be concerned with how easily the lie flows off his tongue. “Amicable, I think, but it just--it stayed with me. He’s always going to stay with me. I don’t know. You shouldn’t have to listen to me.” 

“You’re as much of my friend as Iron Man is. I’ll listen for as long as you need.” Steve sits next to him and takes the tablet out of his hand, setting it on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Thank you.” Tony’s voice cracks. 

OKAY so now that’s out of the way I hope you do not mind bullet points because my brain is pulling me in 3 directions at once and I’m pretty sure if I actually tried to write it out the universe would implode.

It takes around 8 months before Steve even thinks about the possibility of asking Iron Man out. He knows that, technically, the man has been on the market ever since Tony cried during their little heart-to-heart on the couch, but he has too much respect for the man to make a move on his ex when it’s barely been 24 hours. Plus, even if Tony says it was amicable, who’s to say that Iron Man wasn’t also sobbing his eyes out? The only reason Steve doesn’t know is because he never brought it up, and he’s sure that if he did, Iron Man would’ve put a stop to the conversation fairly quickly. 

But he does end up asking Iron Man out and Iron Man’s repulsors stop working for a good 0.3 seconds. “Are you serious?” Iron Man asks, the concern in his voice showing even through the modulator. “You haven’t even seen my face.”

“I don’t need to see your face to know you’re a good man.”

(Tony may or may not think about getting that tattoo’d on an inconspicuous part of his body.) 

Every single date, Iron Man is in the armor. The only thing he can do is drink a milkshake or a soda through the straw. It honestly makes Steve feel a little selfish if he’s being honest. He’s over here, shoveling pancakes into his mouth, while Iron Man is sipping on a strawberry-banana smoothie. Iron Man insists that he doesn’t mind, but it still makes him feel bad. 

Meanwhile Tony is stressing even more because he has to be extra careful because Steve’s taken to hanging around more and more on Iron Man’s floor lately and if he times it wrong, Steve could very well walk in on him changing into/out of the Iron Man armor. 

“Might I suggest telling him, sir?” Jarvis suggests.

“No,” Tony curtly replies, “you may not.” 

And on the other hand, Steve lies awake at night dreaming about how Iron Man looks like under the mask and oh god oh god he just wants to kiss Iron Man so badly he aches (and he feels like the lead character in a Victorian romance novel). 

At some point later in the relationship: 

“Jarvis? Could you tell Iron Man I love him?” Steve asks. 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“HE LOVES ME,” Tony wails. “HE HASN’T EVEN SEEN MY FACE.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

And at another some point, Steve brings up the fact that he still hasn’t seen Iron Man without his mask. He’s not? Super Pushy about it, though? It’s like, “Would you ever unmask yourself in front of me some time? Don’t get me wrong, it’s been nice, but I would like to see your actual face.” 

And Tony is sweating bullets like, “I’m a bit self-conscious about my looks.”

“Nonsense. You’d be plenty handsome to me no matter how you look like.”

And Tony thinks he might die on the spot, oh my god. He needs to tell Steve at some point, but he’s so fucking afraid of how he would react. Bar the fact that he doesn’t think he could measure up to Captain freakin’ America, there’s also the fact that Steve has been a stickler for truth and justice and blah blah since day one, and if he were to find out that Tony’s been hiding his identity for as long as he has... yeah. 

[panda-noosh]

reanimated stars {Sokka x Reader}

Words: 6.8k

Summary: Sokka struggles to impress you. 

Genre: fluff, sprinkle of angst

Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions :) - sokka ma boi 

----

     “Hey! Do you wanna fight?”

   Those were the first words Sokka ever said to you.

   Your head snapped up, glasses slipping down your nose with the sudden movement. Around you, the storage room came back into motion. You could hear the grunts and hisses of the other people fighting in the background, the slam of bodies against mats, could smell the sweat and the warm air.

   You immediately hated him for dragging you back to this hell hole.

   You'd seen Sokka around, of course. The arrival of him and his group had been all anyone spoke about these past few weeks, but you never indulged. Quite frankly, you didn't really care. Having the Avatar under the same roof as you was cool when you thought about it, but you weren't about to destroy your entire routine just to impress them.

   So you stayed out of their way.

   Aang, Toph and Katara seemed fine with these arrangements; you were fairly certain they didn't even know your name. However, Sokka was a different story. The social butterfly of the group, clearly he didn't like the idea of leaving anyone out of his social graces.

   He stood over you now, a grin on his face.

   “No thank you.”

  The grin faded.

    You looked back at your book, tucking your head into the crook of your elbow so you could read the words more comfortably, perhaps block out the violent sounds emitting from the room around you. You were waiting for a training mat to become available so you could get your daily sparring in, had decided to read a little bit whilst you waited.

   Sokka continued to stand there, now awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. He played with his fingers; your rejection was not what he'd expected.

   You flicked a glance up at him, raising a brow. “You alright?”

   “Me?” he started. “Yeah, I'm fine. Really good. Fine. I was just – I was told this was the sparring room.”

  You paused. “That it is.”

   “So I came in here to spar,” he continued, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “But I don't have a partner.”

    “You should probably find one.”

  He pursed his lips. “Right.”

  You waited a moment longer, continuing to stare at him. This was the moment you expected him to move, the moment any normal person would have taken the hint and left you to your own devices.

  But Sokka wasn't like that.

  He scratched the back of his neck once more before finally settling down on the chair in front of you. Perhaps it was instinct – a complete stranger getting comfortable with you, it was something you weren't entirely used to. You jerked back, pulling your book into your chest as you regarded the new-comer with narrowed eyes.

  He looked down at the rough, wooden table, scraping his nail along the edge to rid it of splinters. “I'm Sokka.”

   “I know.”

  “You are?”

  “Y/N.” Why were you telling him your name?

  He smiled softly. “That's a nice name. I expected something like. . . like Velociraptor or something.”

  You raised a brow. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “The people around here just look like they should have tough names. 'Cause they fight all the time, don't they?”

   You paused, trying to deduce whether he was kidding or not. He was a new-comer at the end of the day – you couldn't exactly blame him for thinking you and your people were all hostile. Your base, settled in the underground, didn't exactly give off a very welcoming vibe. The smoke that billowed the area from the amount of smokers in the group was almost suffocating. You couldn't speak to anyone who didn't have bruised knuckles, because there was no one like that. The place you called home was a place meant to protect, a place meant to train and gear people up for battle against the Fire Nation.

  But you weren't all bad.

  You, for instance, would much rather curl up with a book and read than fight the people you'd grown to call family; sparring was just a part of keeping yourself safe, but it hadn't morphed your personality. It was just a thing you felt like you had to do to stay alive.

  Sokka flicked his eyes up when you didn't respond to his assumptions. He didn't look apologetic, simply confused that you hadn't answered. “Do you prefer hand-to-hand combat or weaponry?”

   He was changing subjects so fast. He really was making an effort to keep the conversation flowing – you didn't even know him.

  “Hand-to-hand,” you replied cautiously.

  Sokka's eyes flicked down to your knuckles, where bruises from yesterday were still healing. “Are you good at it?”

  “I've been doing it for a few years, so I know a thing or two.”

   “Could you show me a thing or two?”

   You laughed. Sokka did not join you.

   You froze, staring at him with slightly widened eyes – again, it was another moment where you weren't entirely sure if he was being serious or not. He was part of the Avatar's crew. He was friends with the boy who was destined to save the world, and he was asking you for help?

  “I'm serious,” said Sokka, as if reading your confused thoughts. “Toph is still healing. I have nothing better to do.”

  “I'm probably not the best person to be teaching you anything,” you replied, already getting ready to stand up and leave, just as you should have done the very moment Sokka sat down.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” He followed after you, trying to reach for your wrist but the moment he decided against it was written clear on his face; he caught the snarl beginning to take shape and wisely flinched his hand back. “Okay, well, just explain to me-”

  “I'm not qualified.” You nodded towards Adrianna, dressed in just a sports bra and sweatpants, a tiny dab of blood dribbling from her lip as she sparred with a boy from the next bunk over – you weren't sure of his name. Weren't sure of a lot of people. “You're better off asking Adrianna. She knows what she's doing.”

  Sokka followed your gaze, frowning once he caught sight of her. Before he could turn back, however, you've already ducked out of his vision and started towards the exit door.

  Privileged little land-dweller. Though you didn't know as much about Sokka as you did everyone else on his crew, you knew enough to understand where he came from; the southern water tribe. He probably had a family, friends, a life back home that he left for the thrill of adventure. He'd taken one look at the attention Aang was getting and thought he could hop on for the ride, not even once thinking about what it was he was leaving behind.

  The thing so many of your people would have killed to have, he was leaving behind like it was nothing.

  You weren't sure why these thoughts clogged your brain. Maybe you'd spent too much with these people. Maybe the smoke-filled air had gotten to you, made you grumpy, made you pessimistic.

  Maybe you've just seen too much.

  Sokka didn't try coming after you, for which you're grateful. You could forget sparring for the day – just for one day. Tomorrow, you'll work extra hard to make up for it, but whilst the water bender is still there, still insistent on getting your assistance, you'll steer clear.

  ---

  Sokka groaned into his palms.

  Well, that was his chance destroyed.

  Over and gone in less than ten minutes – you hadn't even given him ten minutes! Usually, Sokka was a professional at winning people over. Give him a single line, a hobby, a conversation topic and he could make anyone putty in his hands.

  You'd barely given him the time of day.

  Katara sat by his side, knitting away like she always does in the evenings. The tent the soldiers set up for them is relatively big, but not big enough for Sokka's frustration to be hidden from the three people sitting around him. Toph lays in her sleeping bag, awake but barely picking up on anything, whilst Aang was meditating in the corner.

  The only one making noise was Sokka, and they were purely noises of frustration.

  Katara sighed, always being the first one to break when it came to Sokka's moods. “What's wrong, bud?”

  “Why can't people just appreciate my award winning personality?”

   Katara froze. Though Sokka had his head buried in his hands, he could tell she was giving Aang the look – raised brows, a slight pout on her face, completely her mother's daughter.

  “Uh. . .,” Aang drawled. “Maybe if you elaborated, we could give you an answer.”

  “Do you know Y/N?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sokka perked up, that certainly not being the answer he'd expected. Katara flinched with the speed of which he moved, how he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. “You know Y/N?”

  “Well yeah.” Katara shoved him back. “I watched them train a few times. They seem nice.”

  “A real book lover,” Aang chimed in. “I don't know how they can stay still for so long.”

  “They use up their energy during sparring; you should see them go. I wouldn't want to fight with them for too long.”

   Sokka blinked. This was absurd. Utterly and completely absurd; you would talk and bond with his friends but not him? What had he ever done to you? Had he crossed some invisible boundary when he sat down? Did you have something against his hair? Because if that was the case-

  “What did Y/N do to you?” Toph asked, her words slurred by the medication still pumping through her.

  “Nothing. That's what's bothering me.”

  Katara groaned. “Oh my God, Sokka, are you kidding me? You're upset because someone wasn't giving you attention?”

  “It wasn't just that!” Sokka defended. “I sat down, and they just completely turned the cold shoulder on me! They got up and walked away!”

   “Maybe you just made them uncomfortable,” said Aang, as if this answer would somehow settle Sokka's racing thoughts.

  Sokka glared at the meditating boy. Aang peeked an eye open and shrugged.

  “I'm just saying. Sometimes you can come on a little bit strong.”

  Katara sighed, waving a dismissive hand in Aang's direction as she regarded Sokka. “What exactly did you say?”

  Sokka shrugged. “Nothing unusual. I asked them if they would teach me how to spar.”

  Katara blinked. “You asked them to teach you?”

  “Was that a bad idea?”

  “You do realise everyone here only spars because they need to keep themselves alive, don't you?” said Toph. Even in her half-dazed state, she still managed to sound gut wrenchingly judgemental.

  Sokka paused. “So. . . It was a bad idea?”

   “You probably made it sound like you just wanted a quick fight for the fun of it,” Toph clarified, rolling onto her back. “They don't do that shit around here, Boomerang Boy. They're training for their lives. None of this is a joke to them.”

  Sokka's stomach turned – oops. He hadn't really thought of that. At the time, what he'd said didn't seem insensitive, though maybe that was just because he was being ignorant. He thought you looked cute, and that was all the prompting he needed to try and win you over.

  “Ah,” was all he could manage.

  Aang snickered, having fully given up on his meditation in favour of listening in on Sokka's embarrassment. He lay sprawled across his own sleeping bag, his head resting on his curled knuckles, one leg in the air because Aang was just weird like that.

  “You look genuinely upset, buddy,” he said. “Is this one special?”

  Sokka flushed. “Isn't it past your bed time?”

  Aang burst out laughing. Even Toph joined in, and glancing to the side, Sokka could see his own sister trying to hide her amusement behind the half-finished quilt she was trying to knit.

  Sokka grumbled, flopping down onto his sleeping bag and burying his head in the pillows – this day could not have gone any worse, and it was entirely his fault. If he'd just stopped to think about what he was doing, he would have been able to figure out – or even learn – just who it was he was speaking to.

  But now he'd ruined every chance he once thought he'd had.

  ---

  The next day, Sokka was nowhere to be found, and for that, you were grateful.

  You strode into the sparring room earlier than usual, shoulders drawn back. Hardly anyone was present, meaning you had the perfect chance to stretch your muscles out before Adrianna arrived.

  You picked the mat at the far end of the room and started stretching. You remembered Sokka's words from the day previous, remembered his face, his shoulders, the confidence that bore off him even though he had absolutely no reason to be – yes, he had a pretty face and a dazzling smile, but how confident can a man really be when he doesn't even know the place he's strolling through?

  You hated that you remembered him so much, that he played on your mind more than anything else. He was basically famous at this point – mostly for being a wanted criminal in many places, but that was beside the point. You blamed his almost-celebrity status for the reason behind your straying mind. It wasn't fair – he'd come up and spoken to you, and yet you were the one forced to deal with the questions his presence left in it's wake.

  It wasn't an hour later that the door to the sparring room creaked open and Adrianna stepped in, again wearing her sports bra and sweatpants. Her short hair was pinned back, her lip plastered up from yesterday, her eyes shining with the familiar fury you always saw in her. She was in a constant state of ready, and you admired her for that.

  “Where were you yesterday?” was the first thing she asked.

  You stood up straight, cracking your neck. “Didn't feel like coming in.”

  “I saw you at your table, though. You just decided to bail?”

   You shrugged. “It's complicated. I'm here now, though – and I've got a lot of energy to burn.”

   Adrianna grinned, and the fight started.

  She always tried to make it start out slow, but there was never such thing as slow when it came to her – she was a monster, a whirlwind on feet. Her 'light punches' could knock someone out for a solid hour and a half – you'd seen her do it, heard her complain to the leader that she was going easy on him, that she didn't deserve her punishment because she hadn't even started.

  But you'd been sparring with Adrianna long enough to track her movements. Though you would never be able to take her down with force alone, you could dodge her better than anyone else in this shit hole. Using brain power was sometimes just as helpful as using brute force.

  You dodged her hits, ducked beneath her swings, shifted out the way of her lunges. You only got a few hits in every now and then, but the exertion was getting to her; she was still grinning from ear to ear, forever amused by just how lithe you were. She often called you Wriggler, because you never failed to wriggle out of whatever grip, swing or pull she tried to lock you in.

  That was why you two worked so well together; anyone else wasn't a challenge to Adrianna, so her muscles were never exercised. It was the same hitting, the same moves, the same damn thing every single day.

  Until you stepped onto the mat.

  Then she had a challenge, and if there was one thing Adrianna liked, it was a challenge.

   The sparring went on for a lot longer than you'd originally anticipated. Your legs were beginning to feel weak, head beginning to throb, sweat dripping down the column of your throat until it disappeared beneath the collar of your workout shirt. Adrianna's dark brown eyes twinkled, because she thought she had you. You were beginning to slow, and she could see it in the stumble of your steps, the way you panted at any point in which you weren't moving.

  But then she stumbled, and you saw your opening.

  You shot down to the mat and grabbed her ankle. Adrianna roared as she fell, her back clashing with the spongy blue material. You immediately dived on her, grabbing her arm and pulling it behind her back, holding her there, letting her know there was no way she could wriggle free.

  You leaned down. “Tap out, Addie. Just do it. Nobody's here to see it.”

  She grunted, continued to squirm beneath you. You tugged harder on her arm, waiting to hear the moment her shoulder popped. You tugged, tugged, tugged-

  Her other hand slammed down on the mat three times, and you released her.

  She groaned, rolling over onto her stomach. You joined her, flattening yourself against the mat with the worlds biggest grin taking over your face.

  “That was a good one,” you said. “Is your shoulder-”

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  “What the fuck?” Adrianna shot up, her eyes widening at whoever stood before her. You peaked your head up, shielding your eyes from the bright lights cast from the ceiling-

  And there stood Sokka, his eyes wide and his jaw open.

  You sat bolt upright. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I came to apologise!” he said, sounding almost excited about the task of apologising. “But then I saw you two fighting and I didn't want to interrupt, and wow! You're incredible!”

   Adrianna was struck dumb, staring at Sokka with a mix of awe and absolute confusion. She was just like the rest of the crew – she thought Aang and his friends were the best thing since sliced bread.

  You resisted rolling your eyes. “Well you can go now,” you said. “I've acknowledged your apology.”

  Adrianna whirled on you. “Y/N.”

 You were already standing up, snatching your water from the floor. “I'll send Chuck in next – I think she wanted to spar with you after yesterday.”

   You started towards the door, but your escape wouldn't be so easy this time. Sokka scrambled after you, placing his hand on the door before you could slam it in his face. You gritted your teeth and made your way down the empty halls, your feet echoing off the walls – but they were not alone, as Sokka trotted close behind you.

  “You don't have to apologise, you know,” you said. “I would much rather you just let dead things lie.”

   “That's not how the Sokka-man works,” he replied, before pausing. “Sorry.”

  “Mm.”

   “Look, I really am sorry,” he continued, picking up his pace so he was walking directly beside you. “I didn't mean to be insensitive. My friends and I were talking-”

  “You and the godly-crew?” The words were out before you could stop them. You winced at just how harsh they were, how uncalled for they were. He was trying to apologise, and yet you couldn't stop this unnecessary streak of bitterness from rising to the surface.

  Sokka swallowed, Adams apple bobbing. “We were talking,” he continued slowly, “and they told me about why you guys do this. Me asking for some quick tips wasn't exactly sympathetic to what you've been forced to do.”

   For just a moment, you wanted to strike back with something cruel. You wanted to hurt his feelings, tell him you didn't need his pity, didn't need anyone's pity.

  But then his words settled, and you calmed down.

  You'd been built to think like this, to just lash out at anyone who wanted to help you. Your parents both murdered in a raid by the Fire Nation, you left to rot entirely on your own until Adrianna's parents found you and brought you into their tight-knit circle; even with a new group of friends and a roof over your head, you knew there was no time for slacking off. Not when you were an orphan coming from nowhere, with no one to help you, with no one to protect you but yourself.

  It was a side you wanted to banish. You kind of wanted to be a little bit like Sokka – forgiving. Kind. Realising your mistakes and being able to apologise for them.

  You hollowed our your cheeks, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “It's alright. You didn't mean any harm by it.”

  “Exactly!” Sokka exclaimed. “Now, can I take you for a drink in the mess hall?”

  You paused, glancing at him. “You weren't apologising just to win me over, were you? Because I don't appreciate-”

  “It's a drink,” he groaned, already grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the mess hall. “You really need to loosen up a little bit.”    ---

  Sokka sat down in front of you, and continued to stare.

  You messed with the straw plunged into the whipped cream. Beneath it, hot chocolate steamed. Sokka had chosen a coffee, a beverage that you thought quite well suited his personality.

  He tilted his head to the side, examining you like a hawk. You wanted to shift under his gaze, but giving away the fact that you were uncomfortable wasn't a good idea – he was still a stranger, still a potential threat no matter how much kindness he was willing to show you.

  Finally, he sighed. It was almost dream like, only exaggerated when he slumped forward and folded his arms along the table. “I meant it when I said you can fight really well.”

   You looked up. “Thanks.”

  “Adrianna's really good, too,” he continued, stirring another spoonful of sugar into his drink. “Did you two train together?”

  “She's been my sparring partner since I was twelve.”

  Sokka raised a brow. “Did she grow a little faster than you?”

  “She's just built like that,” you replied. “I'm not.”

   “You're small,” said Sokka, as if this was a brand new revelation. “That's how you get under her arms and stuff, isn't it?”

  You shrugged. “I like to think that's more skill than advantage of height.”   “I'm sure you're very skilled, too,” Sokka assured. “She has the muscle, and you have the flexibility – you're a perfect team.”

  This was the first time you'd ever heard anyone compliment the duo that was you and Adrianna. Usually, people went straight for the “How has she not killed you yet?” and then continued to question just what strategy you had been using to stay alive against her bulk. Sokka, however, seemed genuinely interested in the dynamic the two of you shared.

  “We balance each other out,” you explained. “We spar with each other, but when we actually have to fight someone, we work just as well as a team.”

  “You trust each other.”

  You paused. “I guess so. Trust is a bit of an iffy word with me.”

   You hadn't meant to open flood gates, but the way Sokka perked up had you realising that was exactly what you'd done.

  “Really? Why is that?”

  You shrugged, sitting back in your chair. Around you, the people you'd grown up with chattered and flickered their gazes over to your tiny little table, quietly enquiring why Sokka was talking to you, of all people.

  “It's difficult to trust people when you're constantly in competition with them,” you replied. “We'll all protect each other, but at the end of the day, there's an obvious hierarchy in this place. People want to get to the top, and they'll take you down to get there.”

  Sokak frowned. “Did you not have any friends before you came here? People you could trust?”

  “I've been here since I was a baby. I was raised here.”

  Sokka paused, his lips parting just slightly. It was confusion and sadness and guilt all rolled into one, and you didn't want any of it – you wanted him to look away and stop questioning everything. You wanted him to stop being so perfectly curious about the things nobody else seemed to give a shit about. You wanted to go back to bundling yourself up and pretending the environment you were in was perfectly okay, not at all toxic.

  It was all you'd ever known, so it had to be enough. It had to be okay. You had no other options.

  “Do you have – Do you have parents?” His question was timid. He knew he was treading on thin ice.

  “No,” you replied. “They were killed by the Fire Nation.”

  His breath hitched. “My mum was killed by the Fire Nation, too.”

  Your eyes snapped up, lips parting in the same way his had done only seconds before – that was the last thing you'd expected to hear. Sokka was the happy-go-lucky, annoying little shit you avoided when you needed to. He was the guy who had everything. He was the wanted criminal with a smile on his face.

  He wasn't meant to have a tragic past. That didn't make sense. It didn't add up to the sum that was his personality.

  “Oh, Sokka...,” you whispered, unable to think of anything else. “I'm sorry.” That's what everyone always said to you, and you hated it. You winced at the way it sounded coming out of you now, the way Sokka smiled that awkward little smile you always had to force on your face when the words were repeated to you for the millionth time, meaning nothing each time.

  “It's okay,” he mumbled. “I still have, like, my dad, and my grandma and my sister. I'm not alone.” He flicked his eyes up. “You're not alone either, though. You have all these people who love you.”

  He said it like it was a fact, as if he knew the ins-and-outs of this place after spending only a few days within it's confines. He had such confidence in other people. It crushed you.

  You smiled softly. “You're right,” you replied. “We're not alone. Neither of us.”

  “And you have me!” he added, perking up. He noticed your raised brow and quickly wilted. “Only if you want, of course...”

  And despite every instinct telling you to stop this right now, to back away from him before things got even more tangled, you smiled.

  ---

  “I think I might be in love.”

  “Again?” Toph grumbled, head submerged in a pile of quilts that Aang was trying – and failing – to pry off of her.

  “Toph, please! You need to see sunlight if you want to get better.”

  “If getting up is what I have to do to get better, then you're better off letting me die.”

  Katara sighed, turning her gaze on Sokka. “Where have you been and what do you mean you're in love?”

  Sokka plonked down on the floor next to his little sister, still grinning like an idiot. He couldn't get the thought of your smiling face out of his mind, the way you'd thrown your head back and laughed when he'd burned his tongue, the way you'd shyly wiped his chin when the coffee dribbled down his front.

  He'd made such a fool of himself, and it went perfectly.

  “I might be in love,” he repeated, staring up at the ceiling as Aang and Toph fought for the covers. “I got a drink with Y/N, and they're so much better than I thought.”

  Aang looked up, feet planted on Toph's back as she wriggled beneath him. “Y/N agreed to have a drink with you?”

  Katara clapped her hands together. “Oh Sokka, that's great! Did they forgive you for yesterday?”

  “I think so. It seemed like it.”

  “Great!” Toph grunted. “Now you just have to break things off, because you know damn well we can't stick around here forever. We've got Mr Meditation to concentrate on.”

  Aang dug his knee into her spine.

  Sokka frowned. “Why have you always gotta ruin my vibe, Toph?”

  “I'm telling the – agh! - truth.” She slammed her fist into the floor. The earth rose, knocking Aang in the back. He went tumbling forward, landing on his knees against the wall of the tent.

  “Would you two give it a rest?” Katara exclaimed, before turning back to Sokka. “I think you should ask them out.”

  Sokka's eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Well, yeah.” She picked up her knitting again. “If you really like them, I don't see why not. There's no point in wasting time.”

  “And what if they don't like me back?”

  “Did they make it seem like they liked you back?” Aang asked.

  Sokka pondered; you really were a strange little thing. You'd forgiven him, which put a mark in the GOOD box in Sokka's mind, but in the same breath, it was clear you were quite a restricted person. Though you'd laughed and joked, how far did that really get him?

  “Maybe you should just ask them out and see where it goes,” said Katara. “If it's a no, then it's no big deal; you live and you learn-”

  “And you wallow in the rejection,” Toph added helpfully.

  “That, too,” said Katara. Her eyes popped open, as if just realising what she'd agreed upon. “Uh, but you know, that won't happen. I'm sure Y/N likes you just as much as you like them – you're a catch, big bro!” She chuckled awkwardly, blushed and looked back at her knitting.

  Sokka sighed, casting his arm over his eyes. He wanted to clear his head. He wanted to sleep, even though it was only midday and he'd barely done anything – with Toph sick, the group were taking what seemed to be a little bit of a holiday. The Fire Nation were still after them, but Sokka felt safe in the depths of the underground. He felt safe surrounded by a bunch of soldiers, most of whom had been raised to fight the very threat he was running from.

  But still, sleep would not come to him even if he tried, and he knew that. His day had been too good. His hopes had been exceeded to the point where his bones were buzzing with the need to do something – say something. He just wanted to get up and find you again, but you were busier than he was. You'd left the little coffee date due to a man called Barney looking for you – he seemed authoritative, and Sokka didn't want to get in the way of whatever business he needed you to take care of.

  So, instead, Sokka did what he does best, and he stared up into the darkness, hoping an answer would rise out of nowhere eventually.

  ----

  Darkness was never something you set out to be a part of.

  You just kind of found yourself wound up within it a lot of the time. Like you were drawn to it. Like the fates had somehow pinpointed you as the sad little orphan who needed to wallow every night; they provided you with nothing but moonlight and stars, and you just found yourself in it.

  You sat upon the rooftop, legs dangling. You knew if Barney were to see you now, he would scold you for being so reckless; anyone could see you from up there. You could easily give away their hiding spot, but you were past the point of caring by now. After nearly eighteen years of hiding in the underground, a little bit of adventure could go a long way.

  You sighed, slowly leaning back on the tin roof. The wind whistled past your ears. The stars blinked down at you, and you wanted to reach up and touch them. Adrianna once told you that your parents had taken the form of stars and were watching over you every night – you knew it wasn't true. The pessimistic part of you said it was ridiculous, almost wanted to scoff at her attempts to comfort you. But the other part of you – the part that was present on this roof beneath the stars – wanted to reach out and see if it was true.

  Maybe, if you reached far enough, you would be able to hear your dads laugh again. Maybe you'd be able to hear your mum call you “Pumpkin.”

  The door to your left opened. You closed your eyes.

  “Occupied,” you said.

  “Hey.”

  Sokka. Of course it was Sokka.

  You peaked open an eye and glanced at him. He stood sheepishly by the trap door, dressed in his day clothes though his hair was dishevelled, giving the illusion that perhaps he'd taken a nap before crawling up to see you; part of you wanted to be angry. He got the chance to nap, to rest whenever he wanted.

  However, you were more enamoured by how adorable he looked with his hair ruffled in the way it was.

  You shifted over, not needing to use words to let him know he was welcome. He grinned, closed the door and came to lay beside you. His body stretched out so much more than your own, but neither of you minded, even as his feet hung over the edge of the gutters.

  “What are you doing up here?” he asked quietly.

  “Thinking.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Everything.”

  Sokka hummed. “That's a lot to think about. You sure you want to do it on your own?”

  He was being cute. Maybe it was purposeful. Maybe that was just what Sokka was like – you kind of hated how much you wanted to find out.

  You smiled softly, turning back to the stars. “I was thinking about making my parents into stars.”

  Sokka stiffened. “Okay.”

  You pointed towards the sky, squinting as if that would somehow help Sokka get a better view of the particular, tiny little star you really wanted him to zone in on. He tilted his head, his temple nearly bumping against your own, and followed the direction of your pointed finger.

  “That's my dad.”

   “How can you tell?”

  “I think I can see a little beer belly.”

   Sokka hummed, sitting up a bit. “Yeah. Definitely a little beer belly.”

  He slumped back down and inspected the sky. His own eyes were narrowed, searching for the perfect star, and you knew exactly who he was searching for. You watched him do it, watched his brain work at a million miles per hour.

  Suddenly, his hand shot out. “That one.”

  You had no idea what he meant by that one – the stars were just clusters to you – but you humoured him just as he had humoured you. You leaned your head against his own, squinted and said, “Is that her?”

  He nodded, grinning. “That's her. My mum.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “'Cause she's twinkling. The brightest little star in the sky.”

  Your heart thundered. Sokka chuckled, letting his hand drop back to his chest, and neither of you moved away. You continued to stare up at the sky, continued to stare up at your parents, and his mother, and you wondered if they would be proud to see you like this. You didn't know your parents well enough to know – what did they want of their only child? When they found out you were going to be a part of their lives, what had they wanted you to do?

  You wondered what Sokka's mother would want from him – maybe he was doing it. Maybe he was working towards it. Maybe he didn't know, either.

  That was okay.

  “I think she'd be really proud of me.”

  Your eyes flicked to his. He truly was a mind reader.

  “I'm sure she would be.”

  “She always wanted me to be strong,” he continued. “I think – I think I've done that. Or at least, I'm breaking the surface.”

  “You're strong,” you blurted out. He looked at you, an eyebrow raised. “Look, I'm just trying to tell you she's proud of you. It would be impossible for her to not be proud of you.”

  “Oh?”

  You turned back to the stars. “All parents really want for their child is for them to grow up and be decent. Nice. Caring. Compassionate. All that bullshit. You fit those descriptions perfectly, Sokka.”

    You could count your heartbeats. You were certain Sokka could, too, because never before had you spoken so openly to someone. It was weird, the words tasting like acid, your mind immediately digging into the fight or flight response as you conjured up the worst case scenarios for an honesty like this.

  But Sokka chuckled. “Then your parents would be very proud of you, too.”    You frowned. “I don't think so.”

  Sokka's chuckle quickly subsided, replaced by a grunt of what you could only take as confusion. “You don't think so?”

  “I really don't think so,” you responded. “Growing up in a place like this. . . It's impossible to be a good person.”

  “It's never impossible to be a good person.”

  He shifted, rolling onto his side. He rested his head against his knuckles, stared down at you. You met his gaze in the darkness, wanted to hold it forever.

  “You don't have to be optimistic to be a good person, you know.”

  “I'm more than just a pessimist, Sokka. I'm – I don't know. I'm sour.”

  “No you're not.”

  “You're just saying that.”

  And then his hand was pressed against your cheek, the touch so soft and comforting that you very nearly gasped at the feel of it. It was so different to the punches and kicks you were so used to receiving from strangers – it was different, but a nice kind of different. The kind of different you felt when you got a new mattress, or new quilts.

  You swallowed thickly. “Sokka...”

  “I really don't like you thinking that way.” He frowned. “Why don't I like you thinking that way? Why do I care?”

   “I don't – I don't really-”

  “God, I swear I'm not usually so bad at this.” He screwed his eyes shut, thumb unconsciously stroking beneath your cheek. If it were anyone else, you would have pushed them away by now, but his touch was so welcoming and warm and perfect that you couldn't even bring yourself to move. “I'd really love to know where my thoughts go when I'm around you.”

   “I don't. . . Uh. . . . I don't really know what to say.”

  He opened his eyes. “Tell me to stop if you want me to stop.”

   You froze. For the first time, you realised your own fingers had curled around his wrist. You were unconsciously keeping him in place, even tugging him that little bit closer without realising it. He looked down at where your fingers met his skin, and his eyes flared with something you'd never seen before. It was primal, filled with need, a hint of anxiety showing through the cracks.

  “Tell me to stop if you want me to stop,” he repeated in a whisper.

  You pulled him down and kissed him.

  His arms gave out until the only thing keeping him from crushing you was his forearms, which pressed into the tin by your head. His legs tangled with your own, his chest coming to cover yours, and you were certain you could memorise each thump of his heartbeat if you tried hard enough, kept him here long enough. Maybe if the two of you stayed on this roof for a little bit longer, you would just become part of it and nobody else would ever bother you because who else was crazy enough to come up here when they knew the consequences?

  You. You were, and apparently you were crazy enough to kiss Sokka back with just as much passion as he was kissing you.

  This man who lived a life so separate from your own, and yet nothing felt more natural than coming together in this moment. His experiences didn't matter. Your experiences didn't matter. It was just the two of you – that was all that mattered.

  He broke the kiss first. Your head fell back against the tin roof, eyes blown wide, hair fanning out around you. Sokka traced his fingers along the stray hairs falling against your forehead, his touch like butterflies crawling across your skin.

  “You didn't tell me to stop,” he whispered.

  You laughed a breathy laugh. “I didn't want you to stop.”

[twopoppies]

Hi Gina. Thank you for all your hard work with your fic recs, I’ve discovered some amazing ones through you. I was wondering if you had any recs for sad fics? Proper heartbreaking ones for, you know, those times when you just need a really good cry! Thank you!

Hi darling. I’ve done a couple of angst fic recs recently here and here and I really haven’t read anything new to add. The only things I can think of are some deleted fics that I love. I have a copy of the one that doesn’t have a link if you want to message me with your email.

The Road Less Traveled By by freetheankles / @anymerrylilthought (E, 98K)

Louis was a lumberjack happy to be living his life alone in what could qualify as Middle Of Nowhere, Canada.

Every morning, he went out into the woods, cut his logs, then came home at dusk to a scalding hot shower and a good book by the fireplace. Rinse and Repeat. He had a good life, quiet and peaceful; simple. Not a secluded one as Niall annoyingly claimed.

Louis certainly didn't need some chatty trespasser dropping into his life, his forest, his home. Invading his space, his circle of friends, touching his stuff, asking questions about his husband. His late husband.

A trespasser who wasn’t supposed to crawl under his skin, occupy his thoughts, and steal his heart from where Louis had locked it safely away, only to put it right back on Louis’ sleeve — where it once laid.

No, Louis definitely didn’t need Harry.

Where Your Heart Is by tvshows_addict, rhuubarb (E, 154K)

Louis is ready for his brand new adventure. So what if he suffers from a genetic condition that prevents him from being touched? College is going to be awesome. It has to. Karma kind of owes him right now. Forget about his overprotective mother, or Liam-- his entirely too chipper step brother-- or his mess of a roommate. Forget about the gloves he has to wear at all times. He’s here to expand his knowledge, write and drown himself in books -- No matter how distracting ‘Hallway Boy’ may be-- The obnoxious, flirty frat wannabe determined to become the bane of Louis’ existence.

Or, a college AU set in San Francisco where two lost boys who seemingly have nothing in common find inspiration, each other, and themselves in the process.

Fire For A Heart by tvshows_addict, rhuubarb (E, 84K) NOTE: This fic contains MCD

The Grey’s anatomy/Chicago Fire AU no one asked for where Louis is the captain of the firefighting Squad 78, Harry is a surgeon, Zayn is Louis’ second in command and Liam is the rookie. Niall and Sam are Harry’s fellow residents and have their own affair going on.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

Memories

Characters: Steve Rogers

Summary: Steve thought he could outsmart the soul stone to get Natasha and Gamora back. He should have known better.

Content Warning: Heavy angst and Steve pulling a repeat of the stunt he pulled with the Valkyrie. I still feel like an asshole for writing this. 

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies. Please don’t hate me for this one. I’m still bitter AF over how Endgame played out for Steve and an evil little part of my mind conjured this up as an alternative. Which honestly, is kinda worse than what the Russo’s did. Sooo... whoops? If you’re here for some Steve angst, saddle up. If you need fluff in your life, maybe check out one of my other Steve fics, mmkay? I’ll be here for virtual hugs when it’s over, lovelies! XOXO - Ash

Memories

The twilight rays from Vormir’s dying sun cast a haunting glow over the barren wasteland. Steve looked off into the distance, his mind quiet for once. He’d made his decision before he left to return the stones, he couldn’t go to Vormir without at least trying to get Natasha and Gamora back. Steve had done a little poking around, some seemingly innocuous hypotheticals, trying to figure out a way to return the stone and bring one of his best friends back from the dead. Natasha shouldn’t have had to sacrifice her future for theirs. They didn’t trade lives. Except, Steve thought, when it was his own.

Steve had found a grim satisfaction that his old nemesis was trapped for eternity in such a desolate place. It was close enough to what Steve thought Hell might be that it seemed like a fitting end for a monster like Johann Schmidt. He had only seen the man briefly as he hurried into the shadows but Steve knew exactly who he was. 

Looking down at the glowing orange stone in his palm, Steve sighed. It was his last stone to put back and he figured it would all be worthwhile if it worked. Natasha and Gamora would get to return home to their friends and loved ones, and he would finally be at peace. He’d almost stayed back in 1948 with Peggy, it had been a close thing, but in the end he knew she went on to have an amazing life that he wasn’t destined to be a part of. He would always love her, and he would cherish his memories of her for the rest of his days, but it just wasn’t meant to be. So Steve got his long overdue dance and wished Peggy all the best in life before hopping forward through the decades to his last stop, 2014 - Vormir. 

It was because of Peggy and all that he’d been through that Steve was uniquely qualified for his last mission. Leaving Peggy to the life she was meant to have, left Steve with nothing else to lose. He was a man out of time, destined to forever feel like a stranger in his own modern life. He couldn’t think of a single thing that he could sacrifice to the cliffs of Vormir, and that was why he would be the perfect person to carry out the exchange. He set his wristband and the remaining Pym particles on top of a white envelope on a nearby rock, the envelope containing a letter saying goodbye and explaining how to get back to 2023 should Natasha not remember. He’d planned it all out for so long, he ran through his checklist like a mantra.

Steve pulled out his compass, wanting to see Peggy’s face one last time before it was all over. If only the world had been different, maybe things between them could have been different too. His mental checklist complete, Steve knew it was time. With no unnecessary flair or delay, Steve took four long strides to the edge of the cliff, and then over. His last thought was that falling off the cliff felt almost exactly like going down in the Valkyrie. There was a peaceful sort of deja vu to it and Steve found a smile tugging at his lips as he collided with hard stone. The world went black.

xxXxx

The sky was glowing red and pink, casting purple shadows over the shallow lake Steve woke up in. He sighed, defeated, realizing he’d failed. Natasha and Gamora were nowhere to be found and the damnable glowing orange stone sat in his hand like a beacon. Steve whipped out his compass to help locate where he was in relation to the cliff, squinting in the dim light to see the dials. Figuring out where he was, he snapped it shut, tucking the old compass back into his pocket and heading north.

“I am surprised to see you again, Captain Rogers.” Schmidt hissed from behind a pillar of rock. He had been slithering around, wraith-like, since Steve arrived atop the cliff for the second time. 

“You and me both.” Steve grit out, frustrated by his complete failure. Schmidt laughed, a high pitched, crazed sound, and Steve snapped, “What?” he demanded, “Enjoying my failure?”

“What failure? You completed your sacrifice, the stone is now yours to wield.” 

“What sacrifice? There’s nothing I love to sacrifice. That was the whole point.” Steve huffed.

Schmidt chuckled again, “You always were deluded, Captain.” 

Steve swore under his breath, storming off. He couldn’t deal with Schmit’s nonsense on top of everything else. He gathered up his wristband, tucked the letter in his pocket, and activated the particles to get him home.

xxXxx

“It’s good to see you back in one piece, pal.” Bucky said, clapping Steve on the shoulder. 

“Thanks, Buck. It’s good to be back.” Steve leaned in to hug his best friend.

Bruce joined them, still uneasy about the whole thing. “Did everything go as planned?” he asked nervously. 

“Yep,” Steve nodded, “Not a hitch.” He certainly wasn’t going to admit his failure to his friends, not when that would have included having to explain his second failed attempt to sacrifice his life for the greater good.

“Glad to hear it.” Bruce told him, finally breathing a sigh of relief. He collected the wristband from Steve and then hustled back to start shutting down the time travel launch pad. 

“How was it going back to our time? Did you finally get that dance like you’d hoped?” Bucky asked him as they walked back to the car. 

“It was nice being back in the Brooklyn I’m used to. No dance though, I never did have any luck with the dames. Not enough time while I was there anyway.” Steve shook his head with a chuckle.

“Really?” Bucky stared in disbelief, “I thought the first thing you would have done after returning the stone would be to track down Peggy.”

“Peggy who? Was that Dot’s sister? The redhead you were always setting me up with?” 

“Peggy, Steve.” Bucky drew her name out slowly for emphasis. 

Steve shook his head, “Not ringing a bell, Buck. Now, what are we doing for dinner? I’m starving. Didn’t have any free time to grab a bite while I was running around time and space, and it feels like it’s been days since I’ve eaten.” 

“Steve,” Bucky changed tactics cautiously, “Can I see your compass for a sec?” 

“Sure thing.” Steve pulled out the black metal disc and tossed it to Bucky. “I think we’ll find our way to Burger King faster with GPS though.” 

Bucky stopped mid-step, staring at the old black compass. It was familiar but also, not. On one side of the interior were the dials and white face he knew like the back of his hand, but on the other side was glossy black metal where the face of one Margaret “Peggy” Carter used to be. 

“Steve, what happened while you were putting back the stones?” Bucky asked, his voice low and commanding. His tone had Steve pausing and turning back to face him. Steve knew that tone, it was the same one Bucky had used when they caught Jimmy Tammlin pocketing candy at Mr. O’Malley’s shop. They’d known what he’d done, but needed to hear him admit it. 

Steve sighed, rubbing a large palm across the back of his neck. “I put the stones back and came home.” 

“Bullshit,” Bucky grabbed Steve’s wrist, lightning quick, and started dragging him across the yard away from the car. “Bull-fucking-shit, Steve. You changed something, you stubborn asshole. I don’t know what you did, and clearly you don’t remember it, but we’re gonna have to figure out what it was and what other damage you may have caused.” 

Bruce heard Bucky calling his name as they got closer to Pepper and Morgan’s house. The look on Bucky’s face was all Bruce needed to know that the mission hadn’t gone off without a hitch after all.

xxXxx

It took three days of tests and repetitive questions, of Bruce and Bucky taking turns grilling Steve about every single moment of his time travels. Steve did finally admit to walking off the cliff in Vormir, knowing it was inevitable. Bucky had stormed out at that point to god only knows where. When he came back halfway through the following day he looked ragged but significantly calmer. Sam accompanied him upon his return, looking equally ragged but supportive. He was never more than a few steps from Bucky’s side, occasionally leaning into whisper something to the brunette that would have him nodding and taking a steadying breath. Steve felt awful he had caused everyone so much distress but as he kept telling them, if it had brought Natasha and Gamora back it would have been for the best. 

By the end of the third day Bruce seemed to have figured something out, though it still didn’t make any sense to Steve. They told him it was fine, no further damage had been caused, and let him go back to his hotel room on his own. Steve sensed something was up but if they weren’t concerned enough to tell him, it wasn’t worth worrying himself over. The battle was over, at least for what he hoped would be a while, and Steve needed to get back to New York and start putting the pieces of his new life back together. Again. It was far from the first time, but Steve hoped that maybe it would be the last.

“No one tells him, ever.” Bucky demanded after Steve left the lab and was far enough away not to overhear them.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with…” Bruce whined lightly. 

Sam shook his head, unable to believe he was about to agree. “Bucky’s right. We’ll tell the others, make sure no one says anything. Though mentioning her to him doesn’t seem to stick, so it’s not like if someone says something that it’ll matter.”

Bucky nodded, gesturing at Sam as proof. “See! All we’d be doing is hurting him. And that man has had enough hurting for five lifetimes. No. One. Tells. Him. Agreed?” 

Bruce hung his head in defeat. “Okay, he never finds out.” 

Sam nodded solemnly, knowing it wasn’t the best option but the only one they had. 

Bucky stormed out, his heart aching for his best friend. He couldn’t really be surprised, Steve always had always been a self sacrificing little shit. He should have known better than to try to outsmart the stones. And now, because of that, they had taken the very last bit of love Steve had in his life: his memories. 

[takaraphoenix]

Question- I got the feeling from one of your asks you dislike Frozen. Can I ask why? I know I dislike it now because it got beat to utter death in terms of popularity and such. It was cute the first time for me... less so the hundreds of times after.

Oh, dislike is too weak a word. I absolutely hate everything (aside from Sven) about this gods damn movie and its gods damn badly built world. ^^°°°

Now, I already wrote a rather elaborate journal entry about that back in 2015. But I feel like that’s a thing I should also have on here and that rant is also 4 years old, so I’ll copy/paste and edit and add some.

Don’t read if you think Fr0zen is peak perfection. For everyone else, in this 3.5k word essay I will elaborate why Fr0zen is definitely not the peak of Disney animation and story-telling.

So, this is a long overdue rant about why Fr0zen is the worst animated movie I've ever seen in my entire life and why Elsa and Anna are horrible characters.

There are many factors that play into why I hate this movie, so let’s structure this a little bit and start off with the characters.

Elsa and the glorification of that character. Back in the day, I found awfully unfitting comparisons between Elsa and Elphaba from the Wicked series and it pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter, because somehow, Elsa is a celebrated strong female character, while... that’s more than undeserved.I mean, Elsa is a supposed queen. She's different from others and decides to hide it. And then she runs and hides in a castle in the mountains because she's too afraid that others may perhaps judge her for being different. A queen. Abandoning her kingdom without as much as a second thought, just to go and pout and brood alone. What I love about Disney princesses is that they usually put others first before themselves. Not her though, no, when madam needs to angst alone, she’ll just freeze over the entire country and build herself a castle.Elphaba has been different all her life and LIVED with the ACTUAL judgement of others for as long. She NEVER hid who she was. She always stood strong. Yes, she too hid in a castle in the mountains - after she co-led a revolutionary army against what can only be called the Nazis of Oz to prevent a genocide and lost the love of her life and father of her unborn child in the process.Putting Elsa as Elphaba's equal insults Elphaba so much that it makes me, as a fangirl, so ragingly mad, especially since it just doesn’t hold true. Elphaba spent most of her life trying to make the country better, trying to help those who are helpless, while all Elsa did all of her life was hide away in her bedroom and then run away to her castle...Another reason for my deeply seated hatred are the fans. Well, like the ones who think Elsa is in any way, form or shape qualified to be Elphaba's equal. There were so many posts pretending like Fr0zen is somehow revolutionary because it‘s about sisterly love instead of romance (like Lilo & Stitch doesn‘t exist) and other such claims that just completely ignored some of Disney’s biggest hits - not even the deep digs, they entirely disregarded very popular and widely known movies and instead pretended like this here was the very first time such amazing things happend! No. It’s just a repetition of tropes and writing that Disney’s been doing for decades.It's like Fr0zen drew in people who have legitimately never seen a Disney movie before in their entire lives.Then there's the whole feminist-thing where they act like Anna or Elsa are good role-models to little girls. The fuck they are. I mean, I've mentioned it before, but I'll gladly get back to it. It's good to vent and let the bad feelings go, eh?Granted, blaming Elsa and Anna entirely is probably a bad move. We need to start with their dumbass parents. Worst movie parents ever.The magical troll TELLS them explicitly that Elsa's biggest weakness is fear. The logical course of action when one of my children has a supernatural and possibly dangerous power is to explain it to her - since they seemed pretty chill about it, like it's a regular thing in their family to be born with some kind of weird powers. To teach her, maybe make her go and visit the trolls once a week for training. SOMETHING. Anything but locking her up in her room where she learns to hate and FEAR her powers, which, obviously grow with age. So by the time she's really powerful, she won't have the faintest clue how to handle them. Worst. Parents. Ever.Then there is Elsa, who has magical powers that she loves. But hey, Anna got a little hurt so let's be afraid of them forever. It's like riding a bike. When you fall and get hurt, you NEVER EVER get on a bike again. Wait, what do you mean that's not the case?

She proceeds to become the queen and seems to be aware that it's a lot of responsibility and that she's now, duh, the queen. So packing it all up and running away at the faintest sign of trouble for her is a totally legitimate queen-move. Instead of handling the situation like a grown up and facing it, she runs away and hides in a castle of ice. Because why should she care about the kingdom that SHE caused the biggestest crisis in probably its whole history? Naw, letting it go and hiding up there is way better. How does that move and that song teach children and little girls to be good? It basically teaches them to run from their problems when something happens that you're uncomfortable with, because you are the only person who should matter to you, especially when you're a queen. Not your family, friends (not that she had those) or the kingdom you rule. As long as YOU are comfortable and happy, it's totally fine. There's not an ounce of bravery, honor or even common sense that Elsa portraits. It’s completely selfishly motivated and while sure, being selfish to a degree, can be a good thing and there are people who need to learn it... to just straight-up abandon everyone who relies on you just because you have been inconvenienced is... not a good lesson?

That super big song is an awful lesson. “No right, no wrong, no rules for me”... yeah, great, love when that’s the lesson my kids learn from a Disney movie. It’s so unnecessarily dramatic and so intensely selfish. Usually the main song of a Disney princess is empowering and encouraging. Not telling you to basically fuck the rules and do whatever you want.

Then there's the whole lazy-ass character design of the white-haired, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, blue-dressed ice-controller. As seen in Rise of the Guardians with Jack Frost one year prior, as seen in Tinkerbell with Periwinkle (getting to that later) also one year prior and literally as seen by Bertier in Sailor Moon, who even has the same braid thrown over her shoulder, for heaven's sake. And granted, yes, you can‘t just fault Disney for that. Everybody who has an ice-controler loves to fall back to those cliche character design elements, but... this is Disney. They are big and they usually care about their character design, but here they were simply the laziest they could be. Not to mention that dress. Oh sure, Disney has always liked to over-sexualize certain characters, but here they did it in an era-breaking way - her dress does not even remotely fit into the overall setting of the movie, which only makes it look even more like some character-designer really just wanted to get off to Elsa...

Not to mention the even lazier design of her powers. She controls snow and ice. So... her magical ice can corrupt a heart and freeze them for good. Oooh and it can create sentinent life as seen by Olaf and that giant-ass monster. And she makes fancy ice-clothes that are not see-through but come it different shades of blue and move like proper clothes would! ...Where exactly are her powers? What CAN she do? Because it's obviously not just ice. It's convenient "She does what we need her to do". Driven even more home by that ridiculous short where she suddenly also has spring-powers. Because sure, why the fuck not.

Usually, princesses have clearly defined abilities. Moana controls the water because she has a bond with the ocean and she gets them from being chosen by the ocean. Rapunzel has healing powers because her mother digested a healing plant while pregnant.

There's no explanation whatsoever to Elsa’s powers. The king and queen are acting all casual about Elsa being born with those powers, but there's not even the hint of an explanation as to WHY she was born with those very random powers. Her parents and sister sure don’t have any powers. And even though they know about them and seem to not be concerned that she has those powers, they are very much at a loss as to how to deal with them. So you’re not actually familiar with them, then why are you not surprised by them...?

They have magical stone-trolls. Why do they have magical stone-trolls? Again, king and queen are totally casual about the magical stone-trolls like they're something completely obvious that is in every kingdom. But where do they come from and how are they linked to the princess’ random magic? Who knows? Certainly not the viewer of this movie, because jackshit about the world-building is actually explained in it.

They're not even attempting to tie in the magic or make it logical in this world. It's there. It's strange and weird. The rulers know about it, but... does the common folk? I guess not, because even Anna was shocked about them. So how did the king and queen know?

Unlike the usual, they’re not even attempting a coherent world-building. Something as simple as “it’s in the royal blood, every firstborn has those powers, king’s older sister had them too”, or whatever, literally any throwaway half-way thought-through explanation would have sufficed instead of “LOL they’re there we dunno how or why and they just do what they we need them to do!”...

Anyway, enough about Elsa. Let’s move on to little Miss Dumbass. The girl without common sense. I'm aware that Disney was trying to be self-ironic with the whole love song under the moon and "I wanna marry him!" thing, but Anna went farther than that. When her sister decides to let it go and run away, she becomes the default leader of the country. As that I totally run after my sister during the biggest crisis of the kingdom. And yes, maybe because she's just a naive kid and loves her sister who hasn't talked to her in like ten years so-so-so much, that sister had priority. Okay, I'll buy it, I guess. That still doesn't change that Anna leaves the kingdom in the hands of the dude she's known for like an hour instead of the generals and advisers who must have ruled while Elsa was busy playing emo in her bedroom for the last ten years. Someone qualified who knows the kingdom and knows how to handle it. Nope, let’s throw caution and common sense out of the window because I REALLY LOVE HIM!!!... And I am also genuinely tired of Disney making fun of themselves and belittling their old movies, to be quite honest. It was a fun joke when they did it the first time in Enchanted, but at this point it’s quite frankly just insulting the movies that came before and... how about not??Now for one of the most important reasons why I hate this movie; they fucked Hans Christian Andersen. The only thing this has to do with his Snow Queen is that there's a queen who controls ice.

I know Disney has been painfully lazy this century.

They've always twisted the fairy tales to make them more friendly for kids, but the core of the real fairy tale remained - Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, well I'm assuming you've heard of them and know where I'm getting with this. They make it less brutal and more child-friendly, but the heart of the story remains the same. Then this century hit and it must have hit them upside the head because they forgot how to adapt a source material.

I liked Princess and the Frog. It was funny, she was a strong character with development, the animal sidekicks were cute. And it's dismissal of the fairy tale is even semi-explained in canon where she points to the actual fairy tale and says it's "like" the tale. Not it is the tale. They weren't even trying to adapt the fairy tale with this one, so it gets a pass, even though I am still peeved that they didn’t actually do an adaptation of either the Frog King or the Frog Princess, because both are great fairy tales that would have deserved to become Disney movies too.

Then there was Tangled, which... was trying to adapt Rapunzel and kept some of the key-elements while striking out other important things - like where she got her name, for example, I mean, really? Though I did like that wink to the real fairy tale at the end when her magical tears healed him. That was a piece of illogical magic in the fairy tale and the whole flower-thing in Tangled, well, it at least tried to make it logical.

But Fr0zen? There is nothing that this has to do with the actual fairy tale and when it was first announced, I was looking forward to another fairy tale adaptation, instead I got a pile of bullshit they placed on HCA's grave.Now, my last point on this agenda - because I could nitpick every single second of that movie, but even I'm not patient enough and it would mean I'd have to rewatch it to actually make it every single second accurately and that is never going to happen. Ever - is that it's a cheap rip-off.

Disney doesn't really do the whole original routine. Their movies are based on fairy tales and books and plays. And they occasionally get lazy and re-use things from their old stuff. But Fr0zen is such a copy of even one of their own movies.The movie I'm talking about here is Tinkerbell: Secret of the Wings. Yes, it's not even one of their big hits or a fairy tale movie. It's like the third sequel to the spin-off of a book-adaptation.

Let's see...

We got two sisters. Check. Anna and Elsa. Tinkerbell and Periwinkle.

One of them is naive, yet optimistic and good-natured and easy-going. Check. Anna and Tinkerbell.

The other is pale, blue-eyed, white-haired and has ice-controlling powers. Check. Elsa and Periwinkle.

But our main protagonist isn't the powerful one, it's the naive goody-two-shoes one. Also check.

The two sisters were separated for a long time. Check. By locking herself into a room versus by being in another realm.

Reunited at a late teenage-age and realizing wow, we got some stuff in common. Check.

There's the matter of the ice harming the naive one. Check. Anna gets hurt as a little girl and Tinkerbell catches a cold when she's first in the winter wonderland.

This harming is cause for a separation, because finding a way around the pain is too easy and we need drama. Check.

Winter takes over the kingdom. Double-check on that one.

The sisters need to find a way to work together to save their kingdom from eternal winter, but that's hard because the ice once again harmed the naive one. Check, with Anna's frozen heart and Tinkerbell's broken wing.

Dramatic moment, because the naive one seems in a dire situation without any way out, but there is a weird sister-love-magic going on that totally solves that problem! Check. Elsa kissing Anna and making it better, while Periwinkle's wings can heal Tinkerbell's wings via twin-wing-magic.

And the kingdom is saved and they lived happily ever after, finding a way to see each other and be best sisters forever! Also check. The end.

It's just embarrassing to rip yourself off like that. Seriously, borrowing some elements of a movie you have done before is one thing (like Maleficent shamelessly “borrowing” from Fr0zen). But the extend to which the plots of those two movies align is ridiculous.

Not to mention the internet going nuts over Elsa like she's the best thing since sliced bread. All the J€lsa everywhere still makes my stomach turn. How does the internet see two characters who dress the same, look the same, have the same powers AND the same fears and think "My, those two characters who are basically twins, I'd like to see them make out!".

Which also plays heavily into why I don’t just dislike the movie is that it is mercilessly shoved down your throat at every turn. You go to a regular groceries store? Here are the Fr0zen plates and band-aids and toothbrushes and what not! No other Disney movie has ever been commercialized to that degree, it really doesn’t matter what type of store you enter, there will be merch for this blasted movie. You literally couldn’t escape it. And if you don’t like a thing but at every turn, it is shoved into your face, then your dislike tends to grow.

Another huge point in that regard is that stupid ““short movie”“ they aired before Coco.Those two movies were in such different settings that the disconnect actually threw you off, seriously I had a hard time getting into Coco for the first 20 minutes or so because I had just been in an entirely different place, story-wise, setting-wise, heck even climate wise. To go from white wonderland Christmas special to Day of the Dead celebration in Mexico?? That’s literally as far apart as you could get...

And it was just too long. If you put a short movie before a movie, make it actually short. The five minute ones, as was the usual. That is fun, that is nice. This one was twenty minutes long.

Again, a part where the fans piss me off because they bitch that people shouldn’t complain about it, they “didn’t have to see it”. Bitch, no. For one, I do not know how long this movie is when I sit in cinema and am suddenly hit outta left field by there even being a short-movie. So why would I leave? Is it 5 minutes? 10 minutes? If I stay outside the cinema too long, I will actually miss the beginning of the movie I came and paid for.

And I’m a grown adult. The situation with kids is far different. Every single kid in the theater with me was absolutely confused and asked every two minutes “Why is that on? Are we in the wrong theater? When will the movie start?”, multiple ones leaving... and not returning at all, because they thought they indeed were in the wrong movie. And even then... there is a reason a children’s movie is roughly an hour to an hour and a half. Because of a child’s attention span. Now if you pack a nearly half hour long ““short film”“ in front of a one and a half hour long actual film and after another half hour of trailers and ads, you have forced those four to ten year olds through a total of two and a half hours. Heck, me as an adult I got a hard time with that length. But among the kids who actually stayed and didn’t leave because of the short, most - especially the younger ones - got really cranky toward the end of Coco, obviously, logically.

So, aside from being a horrible movie (seriously, it’s just one song after the other and the other and the other and focusing on the solely worst part of this franchise, Olaf), it was also forced upon people. Not like other random spin-off shorts to their movies that just air on TV and you can watch them if you like them. Nope. You wanna see this beautiful masterpiece about the Day of the Dead? You gotta watch this Fr0zen short before!

There’s more things (like the just mentioned fact that I think the obnoxious, unfunny and unexplained magic snowman was the worst thing), like I mentioned above I genuinely could nitpick every second of it if I would want to, but this is already long enough with the big bullet points.

TL;DR: It’s just too much, it is forced upon people, it has lazy world-building and character design, it has a horrible message, it is constantly treated like it’s in any way or shape revolutionary when it brought literally not a single new thing to the table, it has nothing to do with the fairy tale it was first announced to be an adaptation of and a huge chunk of its fans are really freaking obnoxious.

[emospritelet]

Back in Business - Chapter 1

My RCIJ fic for @winterswanderlust, which I split into three because it got out of hand XD.  Prompt: sunflowers, out of business, AU.  The total fic has UST, a little angst, some smut and a side of Ruby Slippers

Rating: whole fic E, this chapter T

Word count: whole fic 20,067, this chapter 5,985

Also on AO3

As a child, Belle French had once read a Ted Hughes poem called November, which began with the line “the month of the drowned dog”. The poem had filled her with an unfamiliar and unwelcome sense of foreboding, and now that she was in the northern hemisphere, in the dark and cold of winter, she was reminded of it. She missed Melbourne, with its hot sun and long stretches of sand and the way the evening air was filled with the shouts of children playing on the beach and the scent of flowers. Her father’s decision to pack up and leave, moving halfway around the world to a town in Maine, of all places, had been hard to accept. She found November in Storybrooke to be dark and ominous, filled with leaden skies and heavy rain, the wind bitingly cold and on the cusp of snow. The two-bed home they had rented failed to keep out the wind entirely, and Belle had lain awake the first night, listening to it whistle and moan, an unquiet soul in the strange house that was already too quiet, too bleak. Her father had changed since her mother had died, grown bitter and withdrawn, and while she could understand wanting to run from everything that reminded him of his old life with the woman he loved, it didn’t fix the pain. It didn’t fix anything.

The town of Storybrooke was considered small, by American standards, but large enough that she was still finding her way around after almost a week of exploring. She thought that she was starting to make friends, though. Ruby, one of the waitresses at Granny’s Diner, was sweet, with a ready smile and kind nature, and Belle had only had to order takeout coffees twice before she was invited to the regular Friday girls’ night at the local bar.  Ruby had also offered her a job waiting tables, working shifts with her and another girl called Ashley, but Belle had politely declined. She had a job in the flower shop that her father had rented as a fallback, but had her sights set elsewhere.

Her career plans required a visit to the Town Hall to make some enquiries with whoever was responsible for municipal services, and Belle hurried along the street, clutching her too-thin coat around herself and glancing anxiously up at the iron-grey sky that was threatening rain. She ducked inside the Town Hall with relief, and, having explained what she was enquiring about, was asked to wait for the relevant clerk. Dorothy Gale was a pretty, no-nonsense young woman with an air of efficiency, dark brown hair braided into two side-plaits. She eyed Belle with growing approval as she explained what it was that she wanted.

“I’d have to run it past the Mayor,” said Ms Gale. “Perhaps before the next Council meeting. There are certainly funds in the budget to cover the post, and God knows it would be good to get that resource going for the kids in this town. We just haven’t had a suitable candidate raise the issue. The place has been closed for as long as I can remember.”

“Well, I can show you my qualifications,” said Belle anxiously. “I had a job working part-time in the Melbourne library since I graduated last year, and—”

Ms Gale raised a hand, cutting her off.

“I don’t doubt you’re qualified,” she said. “But save it for the Mayor. If she wants to raise it at the meeting, of course. I don’t want to make any promises; there have been a lot of calls on town funding this past year.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty,” said Belle. “But I’m sure you’ll agree that the children of this town deserve a dedicated library facility with all that would entail. Reading classes, story time, opportunities for after-school study sessions…”

Ms Gale was smiling.

“Like I said, save it for the Mayor,” she said. “You don’t have to convince me.”

“Okay.”

Belle sat back, feeling pleased. Ms Gale finished what she was writing, and looked up with a quirk of one eyebrow.

“You’ll need to convince Mr Gold, though,” she said.

Belle’s eyebrows drew down.

“Mr Gold?” she said, in puzzlement. “Isn’t that - I think that’s our landlord.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it,” said Ms Gale, straightening up and flicking her braids back over her shoulders. “He owns almost all the property in town. Including the library. The post would be funded by the town, but he would need to agree to the library being reopened. Which he’s so far failed to do.”

“What?” Belle blinked, surprised. “He doesn’t want the town to have a library?”

Ms Gale shrugged.

“I can think of six people off the top of my head who’ve asked him to rent the place to them,” she said. “Not for a library, admittedly, but someone wanted to turn it into a bookstore. Another person wanted to open up one of those books-and-coffee places. He turned them all down.”

“Oh.” Belle fidgeted, tugging at the hem of her skirt. “Do you know why?”

She shook her head, braids swinging.

“Maybe their business plans were bad, although you’d think any rent he could get for the place would be better than none.”

“So you think I’m wasting my time?” asked Belle, somewhat crestfallen, and Ms Gale shrugged again.

“Just saying don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “Even if he says yes, it could need some work doing before it would be suitable for use as a public building again. I imagine you’d need his agreement to cover that before the Mayor would even consider offering you the post.”

“Oh.” Belle chewed her lip. “Oh. Well, in that case, I’d better go try to convince him. Where can I find him?”

Ms Gale gestured with her pen.

“Back down to Main Street, go past Granny’s and the bakery. He owns the pawnshop on the corner. Can’t miss it.”

“Right.” Belle pushed back her chair. “Well, thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

“A moment.” Ms Gale set down her pen, folding her arms on the desk. “I should warn you. Gold’s not known for his generosity. Everything comes with a price with him. He likes to stick to the letter of any agreement he makes, and he and the Mayor are not on the best of terms.”

“Oh.” Belle felt a sliver of unease work its way beneath her skin. “Oh, well I - I guess I’ll have to do my best!”

“Good luck,” said Ms Gale. “If he agrees, come back and let me know.”

Belle walked back out onto the street, rain from the seemingly ever-present clouds just starting to spit. It grew heavier as she walked back towards Main Street, and she shivered a little, tugging her coat around herself and wishing that she had thought to buy an umbrella. She suspected that the few winter clothes she had purchased in advance of travelling to Maine would be both ineffective and insufficient, and she resolved to get a proper winter coat and some sturdier boots. Just as soon as she could be sure of earning her living as a librarian.

At just after four-thirty in the afternoon, it was already growing dark, the thick clouds adding to the sense of approaching night. Rain was drumming against the sidewalk by the time she scurried past Granny’s, and she shot the diner a furtive glance, its cheerful, warm light tempting her to duck inside and wait out the downpour. After a week in this town, however, she was well aware that the rain was probably only just getting started, and from the directions Ms Gale had given her, Mr Gold’s shop was not far. She pushed her chin down into her collar, hunching her shoulders, and quickened her pace, feeling a wave of relief go through her as she spotted the lit sign hanging outside her destination. Mr. Gold: Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer.

The shop was faced with sea-green clapboard, and she grasped at the rain-spattered door handle, pushing open the door. A bell above tinkled merrily as she ducked inside, and she quickly shut the door behind her to keep out the rain. She shook the water from her palm, instinctively wiping it against her coat as she looked around. The shop was quiet and seemingly empty, its floor laid with shining dark wood. It smelt of beeswax and very faintly of the musty scent of old books. A counter was in front of her, with an ancient cash register placed to one side of it. Paintings in a myriad of sizes were hung on the wall behind in ornate gold-painted frames: landscapes and bowls of fruit and people in clothes that were two centuries old or more. Clocks ticked in a low, comforting rhythm, and lamps with shades of coloured glass and painted silk sat in sconces on the walls, sending out a yellowish light that gave the place an air of something out of its time, pulled from the nineteenth century into modern day America, a tiny capsule of the past frozen in the present. The shelves of the shop held a myriad of objects: porcelain figurines and glittering glass vases, ancient toys in scuffed cardboard boxes, old books and silver plate. Glass counters stood in front of the shelves, shining warm light onto the treasures within, tea sets and trinkets, necklaces and netsuke, jade and jewellery.

“May I help you?”

Belle jumped, her head turning towards the back of the shop. A man had appeared, standing in front of a thick, patterned curtain, his hands folded over a gold-handled cane with a dark, gleaming shaft. He was short and slight, dressed in a slim-fitting dark suit that had to have been made for him. It was a three piece, the waistcoat over a silk shirt the colour of rich claret, the tie a lustrous black. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a long nose, framed by soft sweeps of brown hair just starting to turn silver at the temples. Dark eyes ran over her before snapping back up to meet hers, and she was suddenly very aware that her hair was plastered to her head and rainwater was dripping from her coat in a steady stream to pool on the floor around her.

“Are you Mr Gold?” she asked, and his mouth lifted at one corner.

“Well, it is my shop.”

His voice was low, a growling whisper, thickened with the burr of a Scottish accent, and Belle could feel herself blush, her heart starting to thump as his eyes gleamed at her.

“Of - of course,” she stammered. “Sorry, I just—”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he interrupted, and took a step forward, the cane tapping against the floor. “I suspect you’re Mr French’s daughter, yes?”

“I - yes.” Belle licked a droplet of rainwater from her lip. “How did you guess?”

“The accent is something of a giveaway,” he said, with a tiny grin. “How may I help you?”

“I, uh—”  Belle shook water from her hands, droplets spattering on the floor. “I understand I need to talk to you about reopening the library building.”

One of his eyebrows flicked, the merest indication of surprise.

“That place hasn’t been open in years,” he said, and his voice was suddenly, strangely flat. Emotionless.

“Yeah, so I heard,” said Belle. “Do you know why?”

“Because I chose not to open it,” he said simply.

“That’s - kind of a circular answer,” she said, and his mouth thinned, fingers opening and closing on the cane, irritation plain in the set of his jaw.

“My reasons are my own, Miss French.”

“Oh, of course!” she said hastily. “It’s your property, and - and I don’t mean to pry, it’s just - well, I just moved here, and I saw it, and I couldn’t help thinking that the town needed a library, and - and I’m looking for a job, so it just seemed a perfect fit, that’s all.”

Mr Gold eyed her in silence for a moment.

“Well, I do own the building,” he said eventually. “You’re a librarian?”

“I am.”

She drew herself up, feeling a swell of pride as she always did when she spoke of her profession. Mr Gold looked her over again, his gaze calculating, and she wondered what it was that he saw beyond her wet hair and unsuitable clothing.

“You’d need to get the Mayor to agree to pay the rent and to hire you,” he said then. “I have no say in how she chooses to allocate town funds.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said. “But - but I need you to agree to open it up for business first, right?”

Mr Gold continued to watch her, his fingers drumming slowly on the cane handle.

“I never intended to open the place again,” he said quietly, and she gave him her best smile.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to convince you.”

Mr Gold sucked in his cheeks a little, as though he was thinking it over. A rumble of thunder outside made her jump, and he smiled slightly.

“You seem to have run afoul of the oncoming storm, Miss French,” he said. “Would you like to come through to the back room to dry off? I could make us a drink, if you like.”

He turned on his heels, shining shoes swivelling, the light catching his hair as he pushed the curtain to one side and disappeared. For a moment Belle hesitated, left in the dimly-lit shop with its ticking clocks and the rhythmic drip of water from the sleeves of her coat. She raised her chin, stepping forward to follow him, the woven curtain a little rough against her fingertips as she pushed it aside.

The back room of Mr Gold’s shop was more haphazard than the shop itself. Shelves held a jumble of items, some still in thick cardboard boxes. Heavy ledgers sat in a row on one of the lower shelves, and there were benches with lamps and magnifying glasses and delicate tools that she presumed were for repairing things. Mr Gold was standing in front of a carved mahogany cupboard, and glanced over his shoulder.

“I could make you tea,” he said. “Or given the hour and the fact that you’re drenched, perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?”

“Something stronger sounds good,” she said fervently.

He nodded, reaching into the cupboard and retrieving a bottle of whisky before setting it on the bench and reaching for two cut crystal glasses. Belle watched as he hooked the cane on one arm and opened up the whisky, pouring a measure into each glass. He turned to her and held one out, that tiny smile still twisting his mouth.

“I hope this is satisfactory,” he said.

She nodded, taking it. Not her usual drink, but she’d deal. He took a sip of his own drink, cradling the glass in one hand and looking her over as he took the cane and got it under himself once more. She wondered how he had hurt himself, and whether it was permanent. With a cane as sleek and ornate as that, she suspected that he had been injured for many years. She raised her glass and inhaled the fumes, the sharp burn of whisky in her nostrils, an aftertaste of peat and warm honey. One sip, and fire coursed its way down her throat, smooth after the initial burn, its flames licking over her from within. She shivered, and Mr Gold set down his glass.

“Where are my manners?” he said, almost to himself. “You must be freezing. Let me take your coat.”

He walked over to her, and Belle put her glass on the bench, shrugging off her coat. The rain had soaked through the shoulders, and she cursed her own stupidity at not buying something thicker and more suitable for the Maine weather. Mr Gold’s hands were at her shoulders, drawing the coat down her arms.

“You’re soaked through,” he whispered. “You’ll catch your death. Here.”

Losing the coat made her realise how cold she was, her blouse sticking to her skin where the rain had gotten through, and Mr Gold hung her coat over the back of an old chair, striding swiftly to one of the shelves and retrieving a thick bundle of folded fabric. He shook it out, revealing a patterned woollen shawl in dark green and gold. Belle took it from him gratefully, wrapping it around herself and perching on one of the wooden stools beside the bench. Warmth immediately began to seep into her, and she picked up her glass again, sipping at her whisky.

“Thank you,” she said, and he nodded, taking a drink.

“Now,” he said quietly. “You wanted to talk to me about the library. Convince me to open it.” He gestured to her, fingers splaying outwards. “The floor is yours.”

Belle leaned forwards.

“Well, I’m fully qualified,” she said eagerly. “I was working at a library in Melbourne before we moved over here, although it was only part-time, and I have a ton of ideas that I’d like to try out with the local kids. Book clubs, after-school sessions, that kind of thing.”

“And you wish me to reopen a building that’s been closed for decades in order to facilitate this?”

“I - well, I - I hoped,” she said. “I saw that it was closed, and I - I wondered.”

“Another building wouldn’t suit your purpose, then?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I didn’t see any other places that were vacant, and given that it has a big sign outside saying ‘Library’, I figured I’d go with that one.”

Mr Gold took another drink, watching her over the rim of his glass, an intense, searching look, and she put her head to the side.

“Are you saying you have another suitable building I could use instead?”

“No,” he said abruptly. “Commercial real estate in Storybrooke is somewhat limited.”

“All the more reason to make use of what you have, then.”

His lips twitched, as though he were amused.

“So now we come down to my true interest in this matter,” he said, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

“What could be more rewarding than knowing you’re helping to provide a valuable public resource?” she said, with wide-eyed innocence, and he grinned.

“Please. Be serious.”

“Well, if you want to be mercenary about it,” she said dryly. “I guess you’d get some rent out of it, too.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Then you’re not losing anything by it, either.”

Mr Gold took another drink, watching her with the light of interest in his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking. He put down his glass.

“I daresay it’ll need a good clean,” he said.

“Oh, I can do that,” she said hastily. “I mean, as long as there are no major maintenance issues, of course.  If it’s just cleaning…”

“I also imagine that the selection of books in there is less than stellar,” he added. “It certainly hasn’t been added to since the library closed. You might want to ask the Mayor for extra funds.”

“Right.” Belle felt less sure that that request would be successful, but his response made her brighten. “Does that mean you’ll agree to open the building again?”

He gave her a twisted little smile, the fingers of one hand opening out in a fan. He had long fingers, she noticed, with smooth, neatly-trimmed nails.

“Well, it’s just sitting there gathering dust and costing me money,” he said dryly. “If you can make it work, all the better for me. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Right,” she said again, and took another drink, her mind working. He seemed to sense it, and tilted his head.

“Is there something else that you want to ask?”

“I was told that everything comes with a price with you,” she said.

Mr Gold sucked in a breath, tutting softly as he shook his head.

"It appears the townsfolk have been telling dark tales of my rapacity," he said, sounding amused. "What concerns you, Miss French?"

“Well - I guess I’m wondering what your price for this is.”

“That would be the rent that I’ll receive from the municipal funds, as you mentioned,” he said mildly, and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a different price that you’d prefer to pay?”

His eyes were glinting at her, gold flecks of reflected light shining on dark irises, and she licked her lips.

“N-no.”

Mr Gold showed his teeth, a gleam of gold on his lower jaw where one had been replaced.

“Excellent,” he said. “In that case, I suggest you make your case to the Mayor. You may tell her that the proposal has my full support.”

“Thank you.”

She took another drink, and there was a moment of silence. He was watching her, eyes dark and unblinking. The thunder rumbled again, and there was a flash of lightning outside the window. Mr Gold gestured towards the front of the shop.

“I’d offer to show you around the library,” he said. “But perhaps we ought to wait until the rain has died down a little.”

“Does that ever happen?” she asked wryly, and he grinned.

“North-eastern seaboard not to your taste, Miss French?”

“Back home it’d probably be in the seventies, and I’d be seeking out the air-con,” she said, and his grin widened.

“So what brings you to Maine, then?”

“Change of scene, I guess,” she sighed. “My mother died. Dad couldn’t bear to stay in our old place after that, and I - I didn’t feel that I could let him be by himself in a strange country while he was grieving, so…”

She shrugged, taking another drink, and he continued to watch her.

“Moving to the other side of the world is a little drastic,” he said, and she raised an eyebrow.

“You ever lose someone you loved?”

He didn’t answer that, but his eyes glittered, and eventually he glanced away.

“So, your father is a florist,” he said. “I hope his business venture is successful. This world could always use a little more beauty in it.”

“I’ll be helping him set up,” she said. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to take someone else on to help out, though. If the Mayor lets me run the library, that is.”

He took a sip of whisky, amber liquid shining in the glass, and she watched as the tip of his tongue swept a stray droplet from his lower lip. It gave her a familiar sensation in the depths of her abdomen, a tightening that she recognised as arousal. The thought made her cheeks heat, and she buried her nose in her glass to hide her blush. When she raised her eyes, though, Mr Gold was smiling a tiny secretive smile, as though he could read her thoughts, and was amused by them.

“I understand that it’s just you and your father living out at the house he rented from me,” he said. “Did no one else travel with you?”

“It’s just us,” she confirmed. “I’m sure if Dad were ever to decide to take in a lodger, he’d have to get you to okay it, right?”

“Is that likely?”

“Not as long as the shop prospers, no.”

“And how likely is that?”

Belle gave him a flat look.

“You ask a lot of questions,” she said, and he grinned again.

“Well, I’m a curious person. Goes with the territory.”

“Landlord?”

“Pawnbroker,” he clarified. “I lend money. Knowing people’s business is an unfortunate but necessary side-effect of that.”

Belle sighed, but nodded in acknowledgement.

“Dad knows the trade well,” she said. “His shop in Melbourne was always profitable. I guess it depends on how well that knowledge transfers to a town in Maine.”

Mr Gold sat back a little.

“And how are you finding our little town?” he asked. “Met anyone interesting?”

“Oh, yes,” she said dryly, and his smile widened as she failed to elaborate.

“Have you inherited your father’s passion for flowers?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Well, I like them, and I have a reasonable grasp of the business itself, but I don’t think I have his flair,” she said. “I’m fine with the simpler arrangements, but if it’s something like designing table centrepieces for weddings or something - he’s so much better! I won’t be taking on the family business, that’s for sure.”

“Do you have a favourite flower?”

“Sunflowers,” she said immediately. “They always cheer me up. My mother used to bring bunches back to the house with her, and there were always some in the old cream jug she kept on the table.”

She bit her lip, looking down at the whisky swirling in her glass. Memories flooded into her head, the scent of flowers and herbs in their kitchen, the chirp of insects outside and the hiss of the sprinkler watering the flowerbeds. The sound of her mother singing off-key as she sliced oranges for juicing. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she closed them firmly. She had had enough of crying.

“Miss French.”

Mr Gold’s words were soft, gentle, but she started, eyes flicking open. He was watching her with an unreadable expression.

“I’m sorry if my question caused you pain,” he said quietly, but she shook her head.

“No, it’s just - memories, that’s all. Happy memories, which - which now makes them sad memories, I guess.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, I can understand that.”

She took another drink, almost choking on the whisky, and dashed away a couple of tears. He sipped at his own drink, dark eyes watching her closely, and she turned her glass between her fingertips.

“Do - do you have family?” she asked hesitantly.

“No,” he said abruptly, and set down his own glass before glancing away. “It sounds as though the rain has eased a little. We could try to make a break for it, if you like.”

Curiosity was needling her at his taciturn response, but the thought of a library to explore was an immediate distraction. She drained her glass, licking her lips and beaming at him, and Mr Gold pushed to his feet, gesturing towards the curtain with his free hand. Belle walked through to the shop, noting that the rain was still falling, but seemed lighter.

“Perhaps it was just a shower,” she ventured.

“Perhaps.” He reached behind the counter and retrieved a black umbrella. “I think we’ll take this, though. And the car.”

Mr Gold’s car was an old Cadillac, its black paint and chrome grill shining in the rain, and he held the umbrella over Belle until she was inside before going around to the driver’s side and furling the umbrella. The interior smelled of leather, and she tugged the belt around herself as he got into the seat next to her. She watched the light from the streetlamps shining on the soft sweeps of his hair, and catching the odd silvery fleck of stubble on his cheek. He glanced across at her, eyes dark in the low light, and it made her shiver pleasantly.

“This won’t take long,” he said.

The library wasn’t far from the shop, but Belle was glad to be out of the rain, which, while lighter than it had been, was still falling rapidly. Mr Gold parked up outside the library, and Belle unbuckled her belt. He was staring up at the sky and frowning.

“I thought the storm might be passing us by,” he mused. “But it looks as though another wave will be on us soon. Perhaps we should do this another time.”

“We can make it quick,” said Belle, eager to see the library, now he had agreed to let her reopen it. Mr Gold sucked his teeth.

“I suppose it could be giving us some respite,” he allowed, and got out of the car, walking around to open the door for her.

They had barely made it to the library steps before the rain grew heavier, spraying the umbrella he was holding over their heads and bouncing on the road, silvery droplets jumping upwards with the force of it. Mr Gold unlocked and opened the door, and she ducked inside hurriedly, shoes clicking on the wooden floor. The library had blinds at the windows, and Belle jumped as rain lashed against the glass.

“A very brief respite, it seems,” said Mr Gold, stepping up beside her.

Belle tugged the shawl tighter around herself, the storm outside making her shiver, and looked around. The library was in darkness, racks of shelving looming in the shadows, and she took a step forward, trying to see in the gloom. Mr Gold walked to the left, flicking some switches, and the lights burst into life, sending out a comforting luminescence to make the shadows shrink back. Belle glanced around, noting the numbers of stacks and the old-fashioned circulation desk in polished wood, coated in dust. The floor was dusty too, but she noticed footprints in it, a trail of crisscrossing marks that led from the door to a point in the centre, and no further. She walked to the circulation desk and looked it over, pulling out the drawers to find old library cards, dog-eared and faded. There were ink pads and date stamps, and out of curiosity she picked one up. October 23, 1998.

“Has this place really been closed for twenty years?” she asked, holding up the stamp, and Mr Gold shrugged.

“As I said, I imagine you’ll need to restock.”

“Yeah,” she said absently. If the books were decades old, they may not even be holding together.

He had taken a few steps forward, into the centre of the room where the footprints petered out, and was gazing at the wall opposite, a plain expanse of painted white. Belle put down the stamp, skirting the side of the circulation desk and heading for the stacks of books. She ran a finger along the spines, eyes flicking over the titles as she moved further into the stacks. The books were properly ordered, but dusty, and she pulled one from the shelf, a thick, board-backed book of fairytales. Opening it up was a treat, beautiful illustrations in amongst the pages of text, and it looked to be in good shape. She would definitely need to update the collection, though. Modern classics, non-fiction texts, more children’s books, an LGBTQ section…

Lightning flared outside, and thunder crashed, making her jump. The lights went out with a pop, and Belle squeaked, almost dropping the book.

“Are you alright?”

Mr Gold sounded concerned, his voice seeming to echo strangely now that they were in darkness, and she slid the book back onto its shelf, groping her way out of the stacks. She slammed into a warm body, squeaking in alarm as she fell, and landed on top of Mr Gold, driving his breath from his lungs with a low grunt. They were both breathing heavily, and the scent of his cologne was drifting into her nose, spicy and woody. Her heart was thumping hard, her head spinning a little. Perhaps it was the whisky. For a moment she was frozen in place, feeling the heat from him seep into her and the hard length of his cane between her legs, but then the lightning flashed again and she gasped in shock as his features were revealed, the angular planes of his face and the deep shadows of his eyes, watching her.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!”

She scrambled to get up, palms on the wooden floor beside him, pushing herself upright and holding out her hands for him to take. He held onto her with one hand, using the other to push himself up with his cane.

“Are you hurt?” she asked anxiously. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were there.”

“No matter,” he said, sounding almost amused. “Unintended things can happen when the lights go out.”

Belle let go of his hand as soon as he was upright, shuffling back from him on the wooden floor, mortified that she had knocked him over.

“Well, that’s more excitement than I’m used to of an early evening,” he said dryly. “There’s an apartment above the library for the caretaker, but perhaps we ought to look it over when the power’s back on. There are stairs. And furniture. All manner of things for you to fall over.”

“Yes,” said Belle hurriedly. “Yes, we’ll leave that for now, if you don’t mind. Not that I’m thinking of moving in here tomorrow, but—”

“It’s good to keep your options open,” he finished, and she nodded.

“Something like that.”

He was still standing in the middle of the floor, a slender figure with his hands folded over his cane, illuminated by the lightning flashes, purple and blue in the darkness.

“Would you like me to drive you home?”

“Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said, and he gave her that tiny grin again.

“Beyond dripping water all over my floor, drinking my whisky and knocking me flat on my back? I think I can handle your sort of trouble, Miss French.”

“Right,” she said, still blushing at the memory of lying on top of him. “Right. Well, okay. Thank you.”

He drove her home in near silence, and Belle sat with her hands folded in her lap, the woollen shawl still around her. She realised that she had left her coat at his shop, but she didn’t feel that she could ask him to turn around and get it. Besides, the thing was soaked through. She could pick it up the next day. Mr Gold changed down the gears as the Cadillac slowed and turned into the road where her father had rented their three-bed house. Heavy rain was making the wipers work hard, and the view through the windshield was a fragmented jumble of shapes and shadows and streaks of light from the streetlamps and houses that flanked the road. Mr Gold slowed to a stop outside her father’s house, and turned his head to face her.

“A moment,” he said.

He reached behind for the umbrella, unfurling it as he got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side to open the door. Belle got out hurriedly, grateful for the shelter. The rain was soaking the shoulders of his suit, and she stepped a little closer so the umbrella covered both of them. He walked her up the path and onto the porch, the cane clicking on the wooden slats, and Belle sighed in relief to be in some relative shelter.

“Thank you,” she said, and made to lift the shawl from her shoulders. Mr Gold shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said. “You can return it tomorrow. Assuming the weather improves.”

“I left my coat in your shop,” she said, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Then we can make a fair exchange,” he said. “Until tomorrow, Miss French.”

“My name’s Belle,” she blurted.

He mouthed the name, so softly she could barely hear it, soft lips forming the word. Her heart was thumping again, her breath quickening. There was a strange tingling in the air, electricity between them. It felt almost like anticipation, as though this was the end of a date and she was expecting to be kissed. She licked her lips, and his dark eyes flicked briefly to her mouth before returning to meet her gaze.

“Until tomorrow,” he repeated.

He inclined his head before stepping off the porch back into the rain. Water cascaded over the umbrella, and Belle watched as he walked to the car and got in. He met her eyes as he opened the door, and she felt her breath catch before he ducked inside and out of sight.

Great. I have a crush on the landlord. Great. Absolutely fantastic.

[cuteandtwisted]

prompt (ps pls write it i love ur writing so much but don’t make it too sad and angst): “are you safe?” “i-i don’t know”

(tricky 💛  once again i cheated a bit with this prompt. didn’t want to make it angsty)

“Are you safe?”

Isak feels a bit dumb after uttering the words. Are you safe? Who says that? But then again, what do people usually say in such settings? They train him for many things in med school but not for this. Why don’t they train them for this?

Isak feels like he should make his way to the man, but he remains frozen in place by the door, too overwhelmed by how much weight his actions seem to bear right now.

“I, I don’t know,” the man replies—much to Isak’s surprise—without turning around.

His voice is deep but it’s still young. Isak can’t see the man’s face, but he’s entranced by how his blond hair and white hospital gown are flowing in the wind. There’s something almost poetic about it. And no, he’s not referring to his bare butt. He isn’t.

No. Isak isn’t having any sexual thoughts right now because he’s a future doctor and future doctors don’t get aroused at the sight of naked bodies, and also because the lovely man with the lovely butt is actually standing on the ledge of the hospital rooftop. The lovely man who, judging by his attire, looks like a patient, and judging by his words and the emptiness in his voice, sounds a bit desperate.

Isak is overwhelmed. What if he’s just chilling here like me though. What if he’s okay. He’s not gonna jump, is he? What if I go near him and he panics?

Isak thinks and thinks and thinks. How do you make a man step down from a ledge?

Isak takes a deep breath and rolls the joint he sneaked into the roof between his thumb and index finger. “Uh. Wanna smoke? I have some weed.”

.

The young man steps down of his own accord and Isak does his best to keep a straight face, to remain calm and composed. But it’s a bit difficult to feign indifference when the man before him is breathtaking and when the sadness in his blue eyes is almost haunting.

They smoke silently by the ledge, standing a few feet apart. The sky is grey and sad, and the stranger’s hands are shaking when they brush against Isak’s to grab the joint. Isak wants to ask if he’s cold, but he refrains when he looks up and sees that his eyes are filled with tears. His face, however, remains void and emotionless, and Isak wonders if he realizes he’s crying at all.

He wants to ask him if he’s okay, deeming that they’ve established some sort of trust and that the man won’t hop on the ledge again. But he doesn’t.

Isak steps back and removes his Nike jacket instead, then before he can think any further, he wraps it around the young man’s shoulders and goes back to staring at the buildings around them.

He’s not sure what he expects, but it certainly isn’t the most sincere ‘thank you’ he’s ever gotten in his life.

.

The young man’s name is Even and his room is three doors down from Isak’s mother’s. Isak doesn’t mention the rooftop incident to the nurses and Even promises to only go on the roof when Isak comes to get him—usually with weed.

They develop a friendship, a rather weird one, but a friendship nonetheless. Even doesn’t talk much, but they smoke every night on the roof, so there’s that. Isak feels like a hypocrite for his increased visits to his mother in the psychiatry wing of the hospital, but at least he sees her more now. At least, he doesn’t walk home feeling empty and broken now. And if it’s a bit sad that the only hot guy who’s ever wanted to spend time with him is a patient who’s even more broken than his own mother, then be it.

They don’t even talk that much, Isak and Even. Even doesn’t ask him why he’s in the hospital and Isak doesn’t ask him either. They just listen to old rap on the empty roof while Isak rolls them joints—he actually asked Jonas to teach him and most of his money is spent on this now. Ironic for a future doctor. He’s not even sure if Even is supposed to be smoking. But he figures it’s okay because he doesn’t look as helpless anymore. He doesn’t smile quite yet, but at least he doesn’t cry silently anymore.

.

The first time Even laughs, Isak can’t quite believe it. His eyes go wide and his heart pinches around the corners. He remains flustered until Even ruffles his hair, running his big hand through his curls.

“You’ve been pretending to know Nas this whole time, huh?”

“I, of course not. Of course I know him,” Isak says and he knows he’s blushing. He just knows it.

“You’re a terrible liar. Did you know that?” Even says, and he’s smiling so bright. Isak can’t quite believe his eyes. He can’t believe this is the same young man who cried silently for a whole hour while shivering on a rooftop on a cold Sunday afternoon.

“A terrible liar? Me? Excuse me? I am the master of lying!” Isak laughs too, because it’s nice to laugh with him, he decides.

“A terrible liar and a terrible joint roller,” Even adds, his eyes crinkling, his whole face lighting up. He then nudges Isak with his hip and stays there, a little too close but not nearly enough.

“Excuse me. I go to med school. I can’t be good at everything,” Isak scoffs then realizes he’s never shared this detail about his life with Even.

“Aren’t doctors supposed to be good with their fingers?”

“You’re right. I can’t roll a joint. I guess I can’t become a doctor now,” Isak laughs.

When he looks up, he finds Even staring at him with a soft smile curling at his lips and kind eyes. Isak flushes. Can’t quite help it.

“Kind and smart,” Even whispers like it’s a secret. “The whole package, aren’t you?”

oh.

“I think you need to also be hot to qualify as the whole package,” Isak jokes to dissipate the awkward tension that just settled around them.

“As I said,” Even pauses to take a long drag from their joint, still smiling. “The whole package.”

me? is he flirting with me?

Isak walks home with flushed cheeks and warmth in his chest. His visit only lasted five minutes this time around, but it was all it took for Even to go from a broken man he felt compelled to fix to: a man.

.

They drift apart when Even is discharged. And it’s in those days that Isak resents his approach the most. He never even thought of asking for his contact information, too confident he would find him on social media later—he asked a nurse for his full name and it only took a little bit of coaxing. Even is nowhere to be found. He is a ghost.

He runs into him at a party and almost hugs him, almost. But Even doesn’t look as happy to see him, and it hurts a bit. Just a bit.

What hurts a lot is seeing him with a girl he later learns is his girlfriend. She’s pretty, blonde, warm. She finds Isak in the kitchen and thanks him for ‘helping out’. She mentions that Even talked about him a lot, and Isak nods and hopes his disappointment isn’t showing on his face. It’s not me. It’s never me.

Even finds him later with a joint tucked behind his ear. “Follow me,” he says ever so casually.

They smoke outside and it’s nice. They don’t talk much and Isak doesn’t know why he’s so hurt, but he is. You called me hot. It’s not even true, but he’s high and drunk and hurt, and he should probably just go home. But he’s missed him so he stays.

‘How are you?’ He means to say, but the words that come out are “Are you safe?”

Even stares at him for a few seconds before breaking into a soft smile, then bringing a hand to Isak’s cheek. It’s so tender that Isak leans into it. Even doesn’t answer his question. He just takes Isak’s phone and types out his number on the keypad.

“I’ve been meaning to text you but then I realized I don’t have any of your contact info,” says Even. “I don’t even know your full name.”

“Isak Valtersen,” Isak blurts out and it makes Even smile.

“Even Bech Næsheim.”

“I know.”

They stay there until Sonja, Even’s girlfriend, comes to find them. She asks him if he has a girlfriend, and he smiles bitterly and shakes his head.

“No. No one ever picks me. It’s never me,” he explains then later on hates himself when the alcohol leaves his system.

.

Even texts him memes and ridiculous things and Isak replies when he forgets about the girlfriend.

They’ve just bumped into each other at another party months later when Even tells him that he broke up with Sonja.

“Oh.”

“She doesn’t see me for me anymore. She just sees a bipolar guy who needs fixing.”

Bipolar guy.

They smoke and talk about their summers. They even laugh and tease each other. Isak can’t recall the last time he’s felt this free, this happy. He’s missed him.

“I’m starting over next week,” says Even and for a moment Isak panics. Is he going away?

“Going back to real life,“ Even continues. “I took a long break after my breakdown and my stay at the hospital. But I’m going back to Art school.“

“Are you scared?” Isak asks because he has no self-control.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure it will be okay. You’ll be fine. I know it.”

“You’re amazing. You know?” Even smiles and Isak melts. Can you pick me? Just this once? 

.

Later that night, Even texts him.

‘i lied earlier.. i am scared you know. I feel like people are gonna say shit and I don’t know if I’m ready to hear that stuff.’

Isak clutches his pillow and replies with ‘don’t worry about that shit ❤️ just surround yourself with people who make you like yourself and ignore the rest’

He panics as soon as he hits ‘send’. And perhaps he was right to.

’❤️ i have someone like that. it’s probably early but i think I’m gonna ask this person out’

‘Nice! :D I think you should. let me know how it goes’

'Any advice? Pick-up lines?’

'You should try ‘are you safe?’ Works every time’

‘You’re right. It worked on me.’

‘Shut up’

Isak goes to bed wondering if the girl Even likes and wants to ask out is a blonde or a brunette. He recalls seeing him talk to a few girls at the party. Whatever. It’s never me. It’s okay. And if he’s hurt, then at least he has the heart emoji to keep him warm.

.

‘Are you safe?’ Isak texts Even on his first day back, and he smiles to himself because he knows it will make him laugh.

Even texts him back almost immediately and they’re both ridiculous. ‘Wow a sext. Your place or mine? ❤️’

‘Shut up’

.  

They’re cooking dinner in Isak’s apartment months later and Even is making him put on the apron he got him last week much to Magnus and Mahdi’s amusement.

“You have to remain safe in the kitchen. Are you safe, Isak?” Even jokes.

“It’s an apron! Not a laboratory suit!”

Isak’s hands are dirty so Even sneaks up behind him to tie the apron while the boys play Fifa in the living room.

It only lasts a moment really, but it’s enough for the heat from Even’s body to overwhelm him and for the skin on Isak’s back to prickle. Isak isn’t even sure how it happens or why, but when Even’s done tying his apron, he wraps his arms around his stomach instead of stepping away. They stay like that in the kitchen for a little while, Isak hyperventilating by the sink and Even hooking his chin over his shoulder as he hugs his stomach. Is it me? Does Even have feelings for me?

“Did you ever ask that person out?” Isak asks. He’s feeling brave, so he asks.

“Not yet,” Even replies, and for a moment, Isak is convinced he’s just pressed a kiss to his sweater.

“Why not?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“This person saw me at my weakest.”

Isak brings his hands to Even’s arms where they’re clutching his stomach. I saw you at your strongest, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. His heart is pounding and his face is properly flushed now. He feels a bit stupid and hopeful, and he doesn’t want to hope because hope is a dangerous thing that he cannot afford. He cannot let himself wish and hope for this. He can’t. It’s not him. It can’t be. They’ve been playing this game for months now, and Even always finds his way to other people. Not him. Not Isak. Never him. It’s not him. He’s just a friend. He’s just the guy who talked him down a ledger. He’s just Isak. It’s not him.

“Why does it scare you?” He asks instead.

“Because I want this person to feel safe with me. I want this person to know that I’m strong and reliable. I want this person to know that I can be strong for them like they’re strong for me.”

“You are,” Isak replies immediately. There’s no hesitation in his voice, none. And he loves being held by Even, but he feels the need to hold him back right now. So he turns around in his arms and grabs his face.

“You are strong and reliable, Even,” he repeats. “You know what I see when I look at you? Do you want to know?”

Even’s eyes are big and blue and full of hope and fear, and Isak loves him.

“I don’t see bipolar man who needs fixing, Even. I see smart man. I see kind man. I see talented and wonderful man. I see the whole package man. I simply see ‘man’. I just see you—”

Even kisses him—backs him up against the table and kisses him like they do in the movies. And Isak sighs into it like he’s been holding his breath since the day they met. He kisses him back. He does. It’s clumsy and frantic like he can’t believe it, but he does kiss him back. He does. He’s sweet with it, too. He’s confused, and part of his brain refuses to accept this as reality because it makes no sense that Even is kissing him right now. But that part is muffled by his need to make Even feel safe, feel accepted and cherished. So he gives him all the kisses he wants. All of them.

Isak lets his fingers trace the outline of Even’s face when their lips part, because for the first time in his life, it’s him, because Even is choosing him, because Even was nervous about telling him, scared of losing him. He can’t quite believe it.

“It’s me,” Isak mumbles. “You’re picking me.”

“It’s you. I’m picking you,” Even smiles before bringing one of Isak’s palms to his mouth and kissing it.  

“You see me,” Isak says because he finally gets why these words mean so much to Even.

“And you see me.”

[thesinglesjukebox]

OUGHT - DESIRE

[6.29]

Slightly more contentiously, here's some Canadian post-punk...

Tim de Reuse: Isn't it convenient to tell yourself, at the tail end of a failing relationship, that it was doomed from the outset? The first half of this song repeats the sentiment over and over: I could taste it, I could feel it, I knew it from the beginning in so many ways. 20/20 hindsight makes it so easy to get bitter and beat yourself up over unknowables, and that's certainly the direction this song would've gone if I'd tried to write it; I mean, it writes itself, doesn't it? I overthink so much I'd have trouble not writing it in my sleep! I'd never have thought to get a feathery choir to call out from the distance and release the pressure; I'd never have thought to make a breakup song that focuses not in grief or in celebration or in revenge but in placid self-reflection. Tim Darcy's trademark wail is full of nervous energy, but the impeccably clean production and the simplicity of the composition imbue it with a certain levelheadedness (after all, what could be more pleasantly neutral than an endless I - IV - I?). The message is matter-of-fact in the end, despite the singer's grandiosity: "Desire, desire / It was never gonna stay." Nothing bitter, no self-pity, nothing to grieve, no should'ves or could'ves, no plot twist -- just an acknowledgement, floating on clean air. Someday I hope that all my exits might be this graceful. [9]

Alfred Soto: Holy hell is that a mannered vocal -- Tim Darcy makes David Sylvian sound like Rosanne Cash. Okay angst-rock until the guitar fills form a cage, keeping Darcy from his excesses. [6]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: A song that develops in a slow but effective manner, with a single interesting thing being introduced at key moments to keep one interested. At first, it's Tim Darcy's idiosyncratic vocalizing. Then it's some winding guitar melodies, then a choir, then some horns, then a dreamy coda to tie it all up. None of these components are particularly invigorating on their own, but throughout the course of a relatively somnolent track, they make "Desire" feel cozy. [6]

Edward Okulicz: I'm having a violent indie-schmindie allergic reaction to nearly everything about this song, but really it's mostly the bug-eyed Byrne-esque vocals -- the bits where that's less pronounced actually reveal him to have a nice tone! And that ridiculous choir you can barely even hear, and certainly does nothing to add grandeur or drama to what sounds like the world's most boring epiphany. (Overwr)ought, more like. [3]

Rebecca A. Gowns: This hits the deep voice pleasure center in my brain; just like when I'm listening to Scott Walker or King Krule, I can feel the low baritone molasses seep out from my speakers and surround me like I'm being caramelized. [8]

Katherine St Asaph: Began promising dark arpeggiated menace with a Covenant voice; continued by delivering drunken-sounding college dude sneering through nondescript indie rock. [4]

Joshua Copperman: I love this song so much, but it suffers the same issues that the rest of the record did - for one thing, the bizarre mix and compressed master that make a 70-person choir sound smaller than Young Fathers' five-person choir. For another, Tim Darcy's David Byrne-homaging stylings now incorporate Bruce Springsteen and U2, which cancel out and make Darcy sound like he's yawning through his performance. What saves this song is how Ought incorporates their Talking Heads reference points, which requires more than just shouting like "Once In A Lifetime." Talking Heads remain beloved largely because they reach catharsis and joy through off-kilter, slightly detached methods, and Ought does the same here. The choir is distant, the lyrics seem to imply a breakup, but if you listen closely, all the elements for an emotional breakthrough are there, which those 'woahs' at the climax confirm. Ought always has a handful of stellar songs per album, and while the production keeps things from being truly transcendent (to be fair, "Habit" and "Beautiful Blue Sky" are some of the best post-punk songs this decade), "Desire" still qualifies as stellar. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[clockworkkatana]

why did rome fall (I already asked your girlfriend but wanted to compare notes - no cheating guys)??

constantinople

i mean, okaythere isnt one specific reason by any means - rome wasnt built in a day and neither did it fall in one - but rather a whole host of them, all incredibly complex and nuanced and im going to be here for fucking hours arent i but mostly its constantinople and the audacity of naming a city after yourself and instantly moving there and declaring it the new capital of your empire and when i say that i mean actually just splitting your empire in two because you wanted a change of locale

also full disclaimer i prefer classical antiquity to the constant teenage deathdrama of late antiquity if your teen angst bullshit included political intrigue, murder plots, assassination by stabbing, assassination by poisoning, assassination by strangling, assassination by decapitation, assassination by the praetorian guard, forced abdication, forced abdication and execution, forced abdication and mutilation, forced abdication and blinding, torture, exile, and im literally still just listing ways emperors were deposed do you potentially see a possible trend and/or theme that could possibly be indicative of a federal fucking issue with regards to the roman political theater: a circus, or rather, the panem et circenses of every history major who ever thought it was maybe a little telling that “murdered roman emperor” is its own fucking category on wikipedia with subcategories to spare

also second full disclaimer im qualifying ‘fall of the roman empire’ as ‘fall of the western roman empire’ because byzantine is its own thing and im not particularly interested either in that portion of it or typing up a whole new dialogue just on the eastern roman/byzantine/ottoman empires because its too far removed from the prelapsarian concept of rome and the aesthetic ideal of the roman empire to count in my opinion

anyway

we begin, as a great deal of roman history lessons begin, with a murder(there are diatribes i could go on about how really when you think of it all of roman history begins with a murder - romulus to remus - so is it any wonder her demise begins the same way but im not even started yet so thats a bad idea just on general principle)march 19, 235. mogontiacum, the citadel that would become the city of mainz in germany. a tent flap is thrown open, and forth strides a young man in a fury like one possessedhe is severus alexander, 26, emperor of rome, and hes fucking pissedwhy so upset? enter a man named maximinus thrax, a barbarian from thrace and a goliath of a manmostly illiterate, but then soldiers never cared for literature, and it was soldiers who rallied around maximinus, soldiers who murdered severus and his mother for choosing diplomacy over open war, soldiers who proclaimed a barbarian from the black sea the new emperor of rome, and soldiers who legitimized that claim in the senate

thus begins the crisis of the third century, a fifty-year period that sees no less than 26 claimants to the imperial throne (the empires youngest emperor reigns during this time, gordian iii, who took the throne at 13 and ruled for six years before his death and was, by my account anyway, a nice kid), the fracture of the empire into the competing factions of roman, gallic, and palmyrene, a great deal of plague, a slew of invasions from the north, and some good old-fashioned economic depressionso basically a tuesday

i wont get too into the brunt of everything because im gonna be here all night as it is but while, yes, the crisis was indeed averted and the empire restored by diocletian in the early 284, the crisis of the third century marked a huge shift in the history of the empire as a whole (from augustus to severus alexander was 26 names and 262 years, from maximinus to diocletian was 23 names and 49 years) and is actually the turning point from classical antiquity to late antiquity, which i mean is telling in and of itself but frankly its only due to diocletians reforms that rome managed to survive the next 150 years as it did but im getting ahead of myself

diocletian was, by all accounts, a good ruler: he came up from nothing, the son of a peasant farmer who rose up through the legion ranks before being declared emperor after the deaths of carus and numerian he only reigned a single year as the sole emperor - he appointed his friend and fellow soldier maximian as augustus of the west, and from there he delegated further, appointing junior co-emperors called caesars (romans had a thing for titles based on previous rulers - part of the imperial cult, in a sense) to create a tetrarchy, a rule of four which actually worked out for him? with maximian and constantius dealing with germanic tribes in a scorched earth campaign along the rhine and galerius fighting the sassanids to the south, diocletian was able to secure the border (didnt even have to build a wall, fancy that) and focus on much-needed imperial reform, though perhaps his greatest achievement is that he was the first in the history of the empire to abdicate and retire peacefully and voluntarily, living out the rest of his days in the small town of spalatum (now split in croatia)

without diocletian, things, as they tend to, go to shityet another roman civil war burns itself out for the next 8 years or so before we get constantine the great, who takes a bunch of diocletians work and either rolls with it or upends it based on whether or not it suited him at the time, and its with constantine where the empire really starts hemorrhaging

personally i think constantine gets too much credit there are like maybe three people in history who deserve the title of ‘the great’ and just because you got venerated by the dominant religion in all of western civilization doesnt mean youre great it just means youre not a fan of persecution and i mean thats cool but im not a fan of persecution and im certainly not so titled, no i just get dubbed ‘the pure’ because i dont hit on every maiden from here to camelot listen lance buddy gwen was better off with arthur and you just need to get the fuck over yourself alreadythis turned into a roast track for lancelot all of a suddenanyway constantinea lot of it is because of the whole religion thing which ill go over briefly but likeyes he pulled off a lot of reform that did a lot of economic and social good and he stopped the persecution of christians which i mean yes is a good thing and yadda yadda yawn listen he fucked up big time with constantinople alright you could narrow down a lot of this answer to just the word ‘constantinople’ and frankly youd be the better for not reading and having forced me to write what has to be like at least a thousand words by now but all in all constantinople in my mind marks the period where shit really starts tanking because up until then - with the crisis and the tetrarchy, etc - the empire had been divided but never so explicitly and finally separated. this is a major turning point for the empire as it actively splits the whole of rome pretty much down the middle - diocletians tetrarchy had done this before, yes, but not nearly as callously nor as resolutely: once every great while a strong emperor would reunite the west and east under one ruler but eventually hed die and it would be civil wars all over again until we came back to east and west

from constantine it was a slow march towards the grave for rome - the crossing of the rhine, a constant plague of invasions and failed wars that slowly chip away at her lands and resources and put considerable strain on her already absolute shite economy (turns out an economy dominated by slavelabor and conquest isnt feasible when you lose all your wars and your empire is splintering before your eyes)

the last “true” emperor of what i, anyway, consider rome - and even that is up for debate - is romulus augustulusonly 14, and his claim disputed everywhere beyond italy, but it seems fitting, to me: named for romes founder, called ‘little augustus’ after her first emperorhe is deposed - but not killed, exiled to a seaside castle where he disappears from historical record - by odoacer, who becomes the first king of italy, as there was no more empire to rule, and with the death of the office of emperor so dies the state of the empire

this is a vast oversimplification of a lot of things and you should also read radias answer which is probably better than this one - i summarize a lot in my theses and probably need to work on thatbut yeah pretty much there you have itblame constantinople