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willowworkswithwords · 3 years

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hello :) how about 12 for the dialogue prompts with snips & skyguy?

Anon, my sincerest of apologies for filling this so long after your request! I hit a bit of writer's block and lack of writing time, unfortunately. But I finally did it! I had a great time writing this, getting back into the groove.

Thank you for this request, Anon!!

I don't know which prompt list this one is from anymore, but my BTHB card is open!

--- or read on ao3 ---

Anakin’s heart dropped through his boots

“When? Are they critical? I’ll be there in three hours,” he said, flicking switches and yanking his ship into gear. Master Che sighed on her end of the holocall.

“Skywalker, when you get here, there’s something you need to know.”

Anakin hadn’t thought more dread could fill his body, but in that moment, he was drowning in it. He didn’t let himself look away from the controls, pushing he ship to its limit. Master Che seemed to understand that he was still listening.

“Young Ahsoka hasn’t left Obi-Wan’s side since they got here. She nearly bit the fingers off one of my padawan healers. I’m not sure how cognizant she is right now. She won’t eat and she won’t let us put in an IV. There’s nothing I can do when she’s withdrawn consent.”

Anakin closed his eyes, letting a rush of breath out through his nose, lips pressed in a thin line he knew resembled his master’s own fed-up grimace.

“You must not get angry with her, Anakin. Obi-Wan put himself in harm’s way to save her, but we lost him twice on the table and Ahsoka saw. She wouldn’t leave the room. All she believes right now is that her grandmaster is on the brink because he was saving her.”

Anakin opened his eyes and met Master Che’s.

“I’ll be there in two.”

He signed off and pushed his ship faster, praying to the Force equal parts in fear and thankfulness.

They’re alive, that’s all that matters.

---

He made it to the Temple in an hour and a half and parked the ship with the sound of sirens right behind him, but he ran into the Temple without looking back. For now the Temple Guard could deal with them.

Despite both himself and his master hating the Halls, Anakin knew how to get there from any point in the Temple, and he found himself in the entry faced with Master Che within minutes. When he was a child her towering stature was foreboding, but with age and height he’d learned she wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared.

Though she never did let him forget that she could and would stick him with hypos, any day any time. The same threat stood for Obi-Wan, and it seemed it might soon apply to Ahsoka too.

Now though, she had a grit in her eyes that Anakin knew meant trouble if the stubborn patient wasn’t dealt with soon.

“Follow me, Skywalker.”

The Halls were always busy nowadays. The war never slept and neither did healers; Master Che’s shoulders slumped, and her usual brisk pace was half a step slower than normal, which meant it had been a few shifts since she’d taken her own medical advice.

They came into the ICU, an open hall with privacy curtains half-drawn around all the beds. Anakin saw the orange of his padawan’s lek before he saw the state of his master. He felt the waves of grief and guilt from Ahsoka, confusion and pain from Obi-Wan. Anakin winced and Master Che sighed.

“We’ve given him all the painkillers we can for now,” Master Che said, slowing her walk to check around a couple curtains. “He’s been here for about thirty-six hours, and so has your padawan.”

“Thank you, Master Che,” Anakin bowed and sent her a tired smile. “I’ll so what I can for Ahsoka.”

She nodded his way, focus already resettled on another critical patient, this one with no visitors by their side. As Anakin walked away she pulled out a stool from beneath the bed and settled beside them.

Turning toward the curtained area with Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, Anakin walked himself through a breathing exercise Obi-Wan had taught him years ago. Now was not the time to get angry or let his own guilt eat away at him. He needed to focus on Ahsoka so they could focus on Obi-Wan. His old master would never let him hear the end of it if Ahsoka’s health was cast to the wayside for his sake.

Anakin stepped around the curtain but Ahsoka didn’t move an inch. She was sat on the edge of the visitor’s chair, hunched over the side of Obi-Wan’s bed with his right hand tucked between both of her own, her forehead resting on top. Her eyes were closed but Anakin could still see the exhaustion, the tension threaded through her. She wasn’t asleep, but Master Che’s word rang in his mind.

I don’t know how cognizant she is right now. She’s refusing medical care.

Damn their stubborn lineage.

Anakin stepped closer to the bed. He saw her lek twitch a mere second before she whipped around, fangs bared and shoving herself in front of Obi-Wan so Anakin couldn’t see his face.

There was no recognition in her predator’s eyes.

“Ahsoka, it’s Anakin.” Anakin kept his voice slow and calm. “You’re at the Temple now, you and Obi-Wan are safe. Can I come sit by you?”

“I—n-no. No! Stay away from him. He’s not okay, he’s hurt, he’s sick,” Ahsoka said, eyes still flashing, boring into Anakin’s, fever bright.

The bandages on her lek and atop her right montral were stained with old and fresh blood.

“Alright, that’s ok. I’ll sit right here, ok? I won’t come any closer.”

Anakin held up his hands and slowly sank into a meditation pose on the floor. He made a clear show of closing his eyes and entering a light meditation. He waited, nearly holding his breath, for Ahsoka to sit back down. Her anxiety still rolled in waves, vast and deep, over Anakin and through the ICU. Her signature rattled with the jitters one only got from staying awake for far too long; she was pressing against his shields, which he let down slowly, trying to gauge the threat he posed to Obi-Wan. He let her probe, giving her as much time as she needed. She was scared and she was hurt. He’d been in her place too many times to count. He knew what kind of reassurance she needed, and it wouldn’t come from being overbearing.

But that didn’t mean every second of the wait wasn’t excruciating.

About as quickly as she’d jumped at him, her eyes finally saw him, and she slipped from her seat.

Anakin was just as quick.

He scooped her up before her head could smack against the ground, cradling it delicately to his chest, shushing her as she whimpered in his arms.

“Ahsoka, it’s alright now. I’m going to take you to our quarters, how does that sound?”

She could only nod.

Anakin stole a glance at his former master, still out cold, bacta-smeared back rising and falling. It gave him the reassurance he needed, and he turned his back before he could change his mind. He stepped quickly over to the curtain he’d last seen Master Che behind. She was still there, reading quietly to the Jedi laid out on the bed unconscious.

“Master Che, I’ve got her. I’m taking her to our quarters, she’ll rest better there. She’ll only get upset if she stays here. What do I need to do about her injuries?”

---

Anakin laid Ahsoka down on her bed, gently lowering her head and pulling her lek out of the way. He rested his mech hand on her face, hoping the cold metal would do its job.

Her face scrunched, nose wrinkling in a way that made him smile sadly.

“Mmmmph, Master?”

“I’m here, Ahsoka. Don’t try to move too much, ok?”

He went about reapplying bacta and changing her bandages, talking idly of his own mission until he was done. She was nodding off the whole time, but her eyes never stayed shut for more than a few seconds, always jerking back open and jostling her lek against the pillows, making her and Anakin both wince.

“Have you not slept this entire time, Ahsoka?” Anakin pulled the thick blanket up around her shoulders, resting his flesh hand near hers as he settled in the chair he’d pulled in when they’d first arrived.

“Master Obi-Wan needed me, I couldn’t leave him there. He hates the Halls,” Ahsoka said, voice rasping.

Anakin made a small chastising noise in the back of his throat that sent a pang through his stomach. He’d definitely picked that one up from Obi-Wan.

“He already chose to sacrifice for you, there was no use in you forsaking yourself in the face of his sacrifice, now was there, my padawan?”

His gentle tone still pricked her raw emotions and the guilt came rolling back through their bond.

“He, he almost died, Master. He almost died to save me.”

Her words came out a whisper.

“Well, he loves you very much, Ahsoka, as do I. Neither of us want you to do this to yourself.”

“Oh, but he can nearly get himself killed?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka had the sense to looked ashamed. Anakin bent down and kissed her forehead, skin still fever hot.

“Ahsoka, Obi-Wan made his decision. Now you need to let that go, to heal yourself and let me help you, so that when we go see him he can see you’re alright.”

Ahsoka grumbled but nodded her head. Her eyes were drooping.

“That doesn’t go to say that he’s off the hook, though. I’m gonna give him hell as soon as he’s better enough to sit up.”

Ahsoka giggled and Anakin knew he’d won.

“Rest now, Ahsoka. I’ll stay here until you wake, alright?”

“You’ll wake me if anything happens?”

“I promise.”

“Ok,” Ahsoka said, shifting and grabbing Anakin’s hand. He gripped it back just as tightly.

“Goodnight, Ahsoka.”

#my fic #Willow talks #hurt Ahsoka #hurt/comfort #Anakin Skywalker #hurt obi-wan (mentioned)#anon prompt response #the writer's block has lifted!#maybe the hair dye i used last night was the key #breaking news: red hair is the secret to curing you of all your writerly blues

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ironmandeficiency · 4 years

Text

falcon, falcon, goose!

pairing: sam wilson / reader

word count: 3547

summary: there were reports of geese leading people to their soulmates spanning centuries, and it seemed like a cool concept, but why did it have to coincide with you coming out of your writing slump?

warnings: cursing, geese, dumbassery, implied happy au where the avengers get along, iw and endgame who?

a/n: this is an older piece i wrote a couple years ago, decided to brush it up and repost it. and the reader works for snl bc why the hell not? keep in mind that the original was written before everything went to shit w iw & endgame. posted from mobile yet again yall what is wrong w me

it was a sunny day outside, and deciding that you had been cooped up for far too long, you brought your laptop to the park a couple blocks from your studio apartment.

being a writer for saturday night live wasn't always so peachy, what with the lack of a social life outside of your co-workers and constantly explaining your job to confused relatives. you had been in a slump for the past couple weeks, the fact most of your sketch ideas not making the cut for the next episode continuing to throw you off your rhythm.

this week, you were going to change that. Your headphones were playing your concentration playlist full volume and you were hyped to the max. with your laptop on the picnic table in front of you and a warm cup of tea beside it, you were ready to blow the producers away with your next idea.

"honk! honk!"

you felt something nudge your leg, but you were too engrossed into what you were typing to care. after getting through a few more lines, it happened again.

"honk! honk! honk!"

you couldn't hear the sound but the feeling on your leg got a little bit rougher, more demanding. you moved your headphones to the side for a minute and took a moment to look around you. there was no kid running to get their ball back or any squirrels nearby that dropped a nut.

strange.

but you put your headphones back on, trying to keep your groove alive while hoping the interruptions are finished.

"HONK! HONK! HONK!" the goose honked louder, pecking at your leg harder than it had earlier.

you were getting frustrated and a little pissed. the creativity was flowing through your veins for the first time in what felt like ages and this — whatever it was — decided that today was the best day to annoy you.

you kicked your legs out with a strange flail and when you came into contact with something large and solid you nearly screamed.

"ow! motherf- oh my god!"

standing on the ground beside your table was a goose. it honked yet again with impatience (geese could do that?) and nipped lightly at your thigh closest to it. looking to the pond nearby, it was nearly an entire gaggle of the damned things.

so here was this goose honking at you and nipping at you like you were supposed to know what the hell it wanted from you.

"i don't have any bread, dumbass. go find someone else to bother." thinking it would leave if you ignored it, you turned away and continued your work.

"HONK! HONK!" it continued to honk and decided to peck you before flapping its wings, landing itself on the table next to your computer.

"get outta here, ya damn goose!" while you were trying to shop it away, it expertly evaded you. "go! shoo! leave me alone!"

it just stayed over on the bench, expertly dodging your attempts to get it to leave.

a few people nearby had heard your altercation with the infernal bird. one of them was an older gentleman that laughed as he sat across from you, the mirth in his eyes glinting as you give him a sarcastic side eye while trying to deal with the current issue.

"that bird won't leave you alone, you know." At his voice, the goose calmed down and waddled a few feet away from your arm's reach.

that was the first time the thing had been seemingly calm since he showed up at your little table.

"what do you mean he won't leave me alone?"

he pauses, part of him enjoying the irritation in your tone. he remembers someone talking to him like he was to you many years ago, and it made his heart smile at the idea of repaying the favor. "have you ever read about soulmate geese?"

"hey we're gonna go for a run, wanna join?" steve’s offer was given with a smirk. ever since reuniting with bucky, the two supersoldiers found so much humor in doing laps around sam every time they went out jogging.

it annoyed the shit out of him, the "on your left" comments from steve and the newer "on your right" jabs from bucky, but it also pushed Sam to work harder during his runs. ultimately he knew his non-enhanced body didn't stand much of a chance beating them, but he enjoyed when he was able to close the gap between their times just a little bit.

"sure, just gimme a few to eat breakfast and I'll join you guys." the blond nodded and turned back to the elevator, having woken up far earlier than sam and therefore already ate.

he hummed otis redding as he laid the bacon flat into the pan, shoulders moving along with his created rhythm while changing the grounds in the coffee filter. this was how he spent most of his mornings, barring the occasional hangovers and missions where he couldn't afford the distraction.

he ate, got dressed, and told FRIDAY to let bucky and steve know he was ready to go. h had his water bottle in hand, giving his body a pep talk in preparation for the run. they met in the common room and soon, the trio was off.

"on your left!"

"on your right!"

"oh, come on!"

he knew it was gonna happen, but for some reason it felt like it happened sooner than normal. either they were trying really hard to mess with him today, or he was off his game. but regardless, he pushed his body harder than he probably should have because when there was something obstructing his path, he didn't pause. no, he charged it straight on through and fell hard.

steve and bucky had seen this from a distance and immediately rushed to get to their friend.

sam rolled onto his back, exhausted and now in terrible pain from the fall. he closed his eyes and just let it all sink in. when he opened his eyes at the sudden foul smell flooding his nostrils, he could feel the palpitations, thinking he was about to have a heart attack.

"holy shit!" sam sat up like a rocket despite the way his body was throbbing from the fall.

the goose stared at him curiously and turned its head toward the pounding footsteps from the approaching brooklynites.

"sam! What happened?" steve was concerned, inspecting sam while bucky noticed the bird. The brunet bent down to meet the goose eye-level and was somewhat surprised that it didn't run away at the close proximity.

"did you trip the dumbass? was it your fault sam landed on his face? Huh, little guy?"

"honk! honk!"

"i thought so. good job, man." bucky pats the animal on the head gently before turning to help steve get sam off the ground.

"nothing’s broken but there's probably a sprain, can't really be sure until we get to cho." sam and bucky lift their friend from the pavement and they have no problem supporting his weight.

they began the walk back to the tower in silence. well, almost silence. there was a faint pitter-patter of tiny, webbed feet behind them that sam and bucky weren't paying attention to.

steve noticed the goose slowly waddling behind the trio and looked at sam with a smile. sam responded to steve’s happy face with a glare, not enjoying any of the situation he found himself in.

"look behind us, guys."

both men took turns looking behind them and see the goose waddling behind them patiently. sam wasn't particularly happy about the culprit from moments before trailing behind him, but bucky thought it was hilarious.

"do you know what this means?"

sam rolled his eyes because he thought the blond was about to make some sort of poetic comment about one thing for another.

bucky had paused to think about the implications of a random goose for a moment before gasping. "dude," bucky nudged sam softly, being conscious of his friend's injuries. "you’re gonna meet your soulmate, man!"

"a soulmate goose. man come on, are you out of your mind?"

"steve got his goose back during the war, i think we know enough about it."

sam had only heard vague reports of soulmate geese throughout his life, but now that he thought about it, it did make sense. the goose showed up randomly in the middle of his routine, completely throwing him off, and was now refusing to leave him alone.

"well if this is my soulmate goose, then somebody’s gotta tell tony about our newest avenger." they laughed at the implication, viciously eager to witness tony’s reaction to the newest resident of avengers hq.

it has been three days of dealing with your goose, and you were now teased at work as “bird brain”, walking into your office to see several loaves of bread covering the desk. your goose, that you had named piper once you got home, was excited at the prospect of more food, but you planned on donating most of the bread to local shelters, only keeping a couple loaves for the house.

the guest host that week was mick jagger, and he had emerged into the room “i dream of jeanie” style, startling both you and piper, who honked at him in irritation.

it was time for you to work on the song for your little sketch with him, and you had only two more days before performance night (it was thursday) to finish writing it. after settling down and getting into the right mindset, the writing process had begun.

"alright let's see," mick murmured. "let’s all go to the picnic, let's all have a drink. what rhymes with 'drink'?"

you thought for a moment and said quietly, "think?"

you weren't prepared for the absurd response you received from the man, his accent making him round mean as he barked out a loud "NO!" with an unnecessary hand gesture.

piper just about lost it. she was honking and flapping around your office in a tizzy (but staying away from mick because the man was seen as a stranger she wasn't comfortable with).

you racked your brain for another solution, something else to rhyme with 'drink' and you eventually found it: "sink?"

mick thought about it for a moment before replying with a much lighter "yes!" also paired with unwarranted pointing.

‘motherfucker, is this how you write songs?!'

thursday and friday came and went, and soon it was time for your piece to be performed by mick. du to an accidental ankle twist someone else suffered, you were forced to perform a skit live for the first time in your career. it would have been great, but there was one teensy problem: piper blatantly refused to leave your side when it was time to perform, and she would honk and bite anyone that tried to keep her from you onstage.

even poor bobby, who she had grown fond of, was taking the brunt of it. she was not allowing you to be more than a couple feet away from her, and it was almost endearing if you weren't being broadcast on national television.

apparently, piper would also be making her debut appearance on saturday night live tonight as well.

saturday had arrived, and it was sam’s day of rest. he spent the day doing the bare minimum, eating junk food and watching almost everything on netflix he could find.

he didn't stray too far from tradition, not really. it was just that now he had a goose accompanying him the entire time, honking at this and that and eating occasional pieces of popcorn that sam didn't want to share.

he didn't mind his feathered companion, he was actually quite fond of his goose at this point. whitewing (not to be confused with redwing) was the most calm goose any of them had seen, no biting or nipping and especially no honking at ungodly hours of the night.

steve was perplexed. "Are you sure whitewing hasn't done anything bad? no waking you up at night or bites when you don't feed him soon enough?"

sam would chuckle and shake his head, proud to have such a calm goose. "why are you so keen to see him misbehave? aren’t all soulmate geese like this?"

"for lack of a better word, most geese are assholes. i don't know how whitewing is so well behaved," steve balked at the very idea of all geese being so mellow and decided it was story time.

steve’s goose from the century before was the most rambunctious animal anyone had ever seen. he recounted the first and several occasions following where his soulmate goose, jimmy, fended off the blond man's alleyway attackers.

sam was extremely grateful that whitewing had less feral and goose-like tendencies. whitewing was extremely well behaved and had an almost human way about him, the way he honked in reply to sam or the rest of the team when they talked to him.

it was late in the evening when clint decided to plop down onto the couch and flick the channel to nbc, where tonight's host was mick jagger.

"why are we watching this?" sam was enjoying his sitcoms before the other bird man had showed up.

"i haven't watched it in ages, plus mick jagger is on tonight."

"alright, whatever you want."

the intro played like usual, and whitewing was perfectly complacent. they laughed in the right places with the occasional honking from the bird, and everything was great.

"hey man, look!" clint interrupted, keeping sam from being able to hear the punchline. "i think that's a goose!"

"why is there a goose? The skit has nothing to with-"

sam and clint seemed to come to the same realization at the same time as whitewing, the goose beginning to honk incessantly. he was going absolutely berserk, flapping his wings and hopping off of sam’s lap and onto the coffee table, occasionally pecking at the tv where he saw the other goose.

he was going absolutely bonkers.

"whitewing! whitewing, no! calm down!" sam scrambled to calm down his goose, but he was having none of it. the whole entire skit, whitewing was honking and flapping and being a general nuisance.

he found his soulmate.

whitewing kept at it until the screen went to a commercial, his soulmate off of the screen.

"y’know," clint spoke around a slice of pizza. when did he get pizza? "if you hurry, you could go to the studio and meet your soulmate. the show is about halfway over."

before sam could think over the proposition, tony’s voice was heard from the corridor. "somebody shut that damned bird up before I pay ramsay to cook it!"

"i’m taking care of it!"

with that, sam heads to the armory with whitewing on his tail to get his wings. once he's equipped, sam heads to the window and jumps, immediately setting his course for studio 8h and his soulmate.

you’re released to go back to your office once you finish the skit alongside mick and piper, the show almost over. you’re gathering your things lazily, knowing that you have no other responsibilities for the night.

just as you lock your office and piper is waddling beside you without a care in the world, you see kyle running towards you with a look of fear in his eyes. that fear seems to only triple when his eyes land on piper beside you.

"kyle! what’s-"

"there’s another goose on the set! no one is safe!"

wait, was he bleeding?!

you were going to try and help your friend but one look at piper sent him off the rails, the lanky man nearly falling on his ass in an attempt to skid the corner. you hoped that someone would help calm your panicked friend, seeing as you were literally the worst person for the job at the moment.

without further incident, you are able to say goodbye to cecily and mikey before you're stopped in your tracks by michael, who gives piper a funny look.

"wait, so the goose that attacked kyle wasn't piper?" You shake your head in confusion. "dude, your soulmate must have come to the set!"

piper must have either understood what your co-worker had said or she could sense a change in the studio, but she began to honk erratically and run away from you. the last thing new york needed was two feral geese running around attacking people, so you did what anyone would do and ran after her.

"piper! piper, come back!" michael laughed as you chased after your goose. while you were running, you nearly died when you heard a honk that you knew wasn't from your piper. hers were carved into your brain, and you were positive that you could pick hers out of an entire gaggle of geese, so there was indeed a second goose in the studio.

to your dismay, piper did not stop and wait, she just kept on honking and flapping and scaring people in pursuit of the other goose, poor old you having to chase her.

there was another voice you assumed was yelling at his goose since you didn't know of anyone naming their kid whitewing. your eyes were not looking straight ahead when you suddenly bumped into someone, immediately stumbling a bit before regaining your balance.

piper had stopped her honking and that scared you. did someone hurt her? was she-

her and another goose were making muted honks to each other. they sounded like affectionate honks, which is one of the weirdest sentences you ever constructed in your head. but it was true! they were cuddling close to each other and making really quiet honking noises at each other, and if that wasn’t affectionate then you didn’t know what would be.

so if piper found her soulmate, that means yours was-

"i hope comin' to your job was okay. whitewing wasn't gonna give up until I left, so here we are." your eyes were dragged from the touching scene of piper and her special goose to a pair of dark brown irises that radiated warmth and a promise of happy days.

you were absolutely dumbstruck. your mouth was unable to form coherent words, so you decided to take in the appearance of your soulmate. he was wearing a soft grey tee and sweatpants, and socks without shoes. did he realize how unsanitary the streets of new york were?

but upon further investigation, you realize that he probably didn't walk to the studio. on his back was what you would normally call a jetpack, but when you recognize the face your mind completes the puzzle: your soulmate is sam wilson, otherwise known as the falcon. holy shit.

"uh yeah of course, i guess you flew here? no sane person in new york would walk around barefoot in the street." did you really just say that?!

sam nodded and then remembered that he was in his pajamas in front of his soulmate without any shoes. "yeah, he wasn't gonna stop attacking the tv once he saw uh…"

you realized he was asking for your goose’s name, and so you hastily gave it to him.

"yeah, once he saw piper, he went wild. caused more chaos in five minutes than he did in five days!"

you laugh, the nervousness falling away as you recount the story of you first meeting with piper.

people are staring at the pajama-clad avenger and his soulmate, their geese finally satisfied. after all, it wasn't every day so many people were able to watch soulmate geese (and their people) meet for the first time.

sam gently took your hand, his thumb smoothing the skin on the back of it, just listening to you talk. you asked him a question about whitewing and he was in the middle of telling you when he cut himself off. "i just realized i don't even know your name!"

in most scenarios you’d be slightly put off by this, but you didn't have an issue because of the specific circumstances. if he weren't an avenger you wouldn't have known his either, and plus, no one really pays attention to the little rat writers. you give him your name and smile when he introduces himself, his voice even helping show off the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

with impeccable goose timing, piper and whitewing honk at you to hurry your introductions and leave the studio.

"do you want to fly back to your place , or can I drive you?" it was a risk to ask him such a question, but you were genuinely concerned. you hoped he wouldn't think you were trying to jump his bones only minutes after meeting him so you used (terrible) humor to show your intentions. "you shouldn't fly so late at night without headlights, no matter how high up you get."

sam’s laughter was infectious and soon you joined him, your geese about to get more irritated with their humans.

"yeah, I'd like that. lead the way, soulmate." piper and whitewing honk as the two of you head to the lobby hand in hand, the birds waddling behind you just as happy as soulmate geese could be.

#falcon #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson #mcu #marvel #falcon falcon goose!#sam wilson imagine #falcon imagine #bucky barnes #please don’t judge this mess

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 2 years

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14, 23, and 34 for the writer asks!

MORE ASKS! Thank you Robyn dear. 🥰

14. what’s your worst writing habit?

Oh geez. Okay, I taught creative writing to 8th graders last year, and we watched a video on "10 worst writing habits" and then they were supposed to use them in their stories so we already had "their worst story" done and out of the way. And I guess I was shocked that I do some of them, but the the worst is I guess you're not supposed to use alternate words for "said" and "asked" like most of the time...and that's literally me. 🤣 It's one of those advice things that I'm probably not going to change anytime soon because I don't feel like it distracts from my story (and if it does please tell me!!).

23. how do you deal with writers block?

Great question! A number of different ways, and I think we talk about them regularly: take a break, move onto a different story/section in the story...but honestly, for me personally. I HAVE TO FORCE MYSELF TO WRITE!

Sprints are great for this, but I usually set aside 30-40 minutes and say "don't do anything else. Silence your phone. And write." And usually it starts off as utter garbage, but I find a groove at some point and then when the juices are pumping again, go back to that first section and take another crack at it.

34. how do you name characters and places?

Lol okay so I'm going to break this up into fanfiction and original because I have two different approaches.

Fanfiction: For names, I use this generator. You can change it to hobbit or elf names at the bottom, but yeah. Not wasting my time worrying about OC names.

Original: Okay! When I'm naming original characters for original fiction, I'm super picky! So I actually find a meaning I want that person's name to embody: "warrior" "serenity" etc. And then I run a google search for names that mean that. Sometimes, I'll get one close and may change it up just a bit to fit the style of the story (fantasy, sci-fi, etc.)

For places: This is my trick. 😏 So let's say the place I'm making up culturally or geographically reminds me of...let's say Oklahoma. So I write it backwards: AMOHALKO. And now I'm going to add or drop letters until it sounds like aesthetically pleasing to me:

Amohka, Mahala, Ohallo, etc.

Sometimes, I'll do the same thing but with language translations. So like the place I'm writing about is a BIG ROCK. Google translate says that is "felsen" in German (I'm so sorry if that's not correct.)

Backwards: NESLEF

May adjust to: Neleft...or something to that effect. 😂

That was probably more info than you were looking for, Robyn. Feel free to send me some more writer asks today.

#sunny answers stuff #writer asks #the process

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juliafied · 3 years

Text

Fic writer meme

Thanks so much for the tags @noire-pandora, @boshtet-juggler, @johaeryslavellan!! I’m not sure who’s done these already, so I’ll go ahead and tag @blarrghe, @luzial, @asaara-writes, @thehawkewithgoldeneyes, if you’d like :)

How many works do you have on Ao3?

What's your total Ao3 wordcount?

182,724!

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

To Build a Home (Dragon Age) - 86

Rules - (Fallout 4) - 75

Unfinished Business (Dragon Age) - 67

Stretching Exercises (Dragon Age) - 64

Love All (Dragon Age) - 46

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Almost always! Barring some weird ones (and sometimes even those). Whether it’s button mashing or detailed engaging with what I’ve written, idc, I love yelling in the comments.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I don’t really do much angst in my fic, but Hearts Left Behind, my oneshot of Leliana and Morrigan drinking and mourning Alistair’s death in the Fade is uhh... pretty angsty. Got me back into writing last year after a very long stint of feeling uncreative - sometimes you gotta feel the feelings, y’know? Not quite the end, but the beginning of The Lone Wolf's Call is very angsty as well, Fenris dealing with Varric’s letter informing him Hawke is dead. As for the ending, perhaps we’ll find out when I get there (eventually).

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Oh, most of them. But happiest and sappiest is probably To Build a Home. It’s a big old happy family portrait for Fenris, after struggling with what family means to him. Ahh, now I wanna write aunt Bethany visiting for the first time...

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?

I don’t! But I think it would be very fun, if the inspiration struck me.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Nah, other than aforementioned odd comments, and they haven’t been hateful per se.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Although most of my stuff isn’t smutty, I love writing it. The mood has to be right, of course, but I mostly write the very feelings-y kind - especially when the characters are using sex as a way of expressing feelings that they don’t know/understand they have yet. Love me some “yeah I definitely don’t have feelings for this person, this is just sex...” followed by surprised Pikachu face when they do indeed turn out to have feelings for each other.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope! Not as far as I know.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but would be extremely honoured if someone asked. I could do French or Russian myself, but it’s a lot of work and I haven’t written in those languages in a very long time, lol.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No but I would LOVE to! I don’t know if I’m a good co-writer, but it sounds very fun to have another person to bounce ideas off of and with whom to dispel doubts who’s just as entrenched in the story as you are. Lol, mutuals, hmu if you’ve got ideas :’D

What's your all time favourite ship?

FenHawke. The dynamic of a purple Hawke and reluctantly happy Fenris just does it for me.

What's a WIP you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I mean, The Lone Wolf’s Call is all planned out, I just need to sit down and write it, but I’ve got about a million ideas kicking around my head right now (Solavellan arranged marriage AU, Regency AU for FenHawke, a few others) and I feel like I’m not in the headspace to be writing more canon-ish stuff rn. Hopefully I’ll get back to it, but you never know.

What are your writing strengths?

I think I’m pretty good at description of the vibe of a scene, as well as blocking - when I write, I tend to have a very solid mental image of what the scene looks like, a movie playing out in my head, if you will. This translates nicely to the page, so when I’m in a groove, the scene just materializes on the page, and I like to think it’s pretty vivid. I also like to think that I have a good grasp for giving my protagonists unique internal monologues and styles, although it’s something I’d like to work on more (in a multi-POV fic, perhaps).

What are your writing weaknesses?

I get bogged down in details really easily, and have trouble pinpointing what it is that’s just not working in a scene. As well, I think my pacing needs work, particularly in single chapters that take place over an extended time period. I find it challenging to write works that aren’t just a collection of short scenes. This is a narration issue, perhaps?

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

It depends on the context, but I think it’s unnecessary in most cases. Having random words in other languages is very fun, though (especially swearing, lol).

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Dragon Age! Little bb me writing some Zevran/Tabris smut in the tenth grade, oh lord...

What's your favourite fic you've written?

Rules is probably the one that I have re-read the most after posting. It’s my first long oneshot (essentially a short story), my first time using vignettes in prose, first time writing Hancock, and I’m proud of how it came out.

#thanks for the tags!!#fic writer meme #julia talks #julia writes #sorry for the weird formatting #dunno what's going on here

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thestupidhelmet · 4 years

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What do you think should have been Hyde and Jackie’s next step in season 7? It felt as though the writers didn’t know so gave them a few breakups.

The writers had no clue, but they also thought S7 would be the last season of the show until (at least) halfway through production, so they gave Jackie and Hyde manufactured conflict instead of organic conflict to set up their part in the original series finale, Hyde’s proposal to her.

I consider the will-Hyde-propose-to-Jackie-someday question answered in “Do You Think It’s Alright?” (6x18), so using that as conflict in season 7 was a waste. Instead, their individual conflicts should’ve led to tension between them.

In season 7, Hyde meets his biological father and sister and works on integrating them into his life. The show should’ve gone more deeply character-wise with the new elements this introduced rather than putting plot and punchline at the forefront, which gave us the barest of character conflicts.

W.B. is big on education. We learn this through Angie’s statement in Angie” (7x08): “My dad said that if I did well in college, someday the business would be mine, and I did my part (...)”. She also says working at Grooves corporate office is her first job out of college.

Jackie should’ve graduated college at the start of season 7, like the first episode. Point Place is a made-up town. No reason exists that the writers couldn’t have made up a college in Kenosha for her to commute to, which would’ve kept her on the show.

I believe W.B. would’ve wanted Hyde to go to college and would have encouraged him to do so. He, Angie, Red, Kitty, Jackie would encourage / push him to do it. Hyde would give the same arguments as in “The Crunge” (5x10), but now he has more hope for his future and, thus, more motivation. He’s in love with a girl whom he now trusts is in love with him, a father whose love for him isn’t conditional -- unfortunately, Hyde could never fully trust Red since Red made clear his biological children come first in “Reefer Madness” (3x01) and “Misty Mountain Hop” (5x12) over him.

Hyde agrees to try college for one year. He and Jackie go to the same fictional college in Kenosha, starting at the same time. They’d support each other while dealing with their individual fears about growing up.

Living with her mom again isn’t everything Jackie had hoped, and this would create her individual internal/external conflict. While Hyde is building a relationship with his newfound dad and sister, Jackie’s relationship with her mom is disintegrating.

She has to face the truth of her mom’s behavior. The show barely deals with it in season 6 before shoving Pam and Bob into a relationship and making Jackie’s focus that instead of focusing on Pam’s three month one year abandonment of her and all the internal and external stress and peril that put Jackie through.

Jackie keeps her pain to herself, deepening the reversal of her and Hyde’s characterizations and storylines earlier in the series. Hyde recognizes what Jackie’s doing, sees himself in her, and he has to pull her out. By doing so, he realizes Jackie’s love for him -- along with the Formans’ and now W.B. and Angie’s -- has healed him greatly from his trauma (though, of course, not completely).

This sounds like a lot, but so much of this would be in the subtext. The character choices, actions, and dialogue would reveal it. By the end of season 7 (regardless if the show got another season or not), Hyde decides college “ain’t so bad,” especially since it has a program that will let him get the knowledge he needs to pursue his dream job in the music business.

His dad being in the music business is a miracle and quirk of genetics. He is a chop off the ol’ block (adopted kids often find they have similar interests and talents to their biological parents -- if they’re able to get that info).

Jackie pursues her degree in communications and a career in TV. She might find she has a talent for journalism she never realized. All her years gathering intel about her high school friends (i.e. gossip) developed a skill and determination for learning the truth. This would connect her and Donna more, too.

Hyde, without prompting from Jackie, casually proposes by the end of the series / season 7. But his proposal has the caveat that they don’t get married until they’re both our of college and able to support themselves financially. He doesn’t want them repeating Donna and Forman’s mistake. Jackie agrees.

A lot of these elements are already part of season 7 of @those70scomics. They’ve already played out, are playing out, or might play out -- though not exactly as outlined here.

#That 70s Show #That '70s Show #Jackie x Hyde #Jackie Burkhart #Steven Hyde #Ask #Anon #My Meta #My Essay #Meta #Essay

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keyofshadows · 3 years

Text

Okay, so writer's block is being chipped at! This still isn't the chapter I'm stuck on, but it's something I've been thinking about for a while. Kai's kids and Heartless, fun times. Well, at least they're not the ones out dealing with it. Age-wise, I think we're looking at Nico - 17, Kaila and Jasen - 21 or 22. Need to figure out Liam, but probably not more than 23. The Thundaga joke is a reference to the time aunt Ray took out a Behemoth and knocked herself unconscious, lol.

I might toss this up with Snapshots on Ao3, but not tonight.

"Has anyone seen the idiot?"

Nico looked up from his book, curled up on the end of the couch next to the lamp. He frowned at his sister as he brushed blonde hair out of his eyes. "That's not very nice."

"It's accurate, though." This from Jasen, who was sitting on the opposite arm of the couch and entertaining himself by opening a small Corridor about the size of an orange and closing it every few seconds. Nico sighed as he glanced over, then dropped his gaze back to his book.

"Dad's not going to be happy if he finds out you're doing that."

"Who's going to tell him? I don't see any rats in this room."

"Um, hello? I asked a question." Kaila was glaring at both of them, hands on her hips. Jasen shrugged, then gestured with his free hand toward the window.

"Last I saw, he said he wanted to go for a walk. I pointed out that it was raining, and you know, we're currently having a Heartless problem, but he said he wasn't worried about it and left."

"And you just let him?" Kaila was aghast. Her twin rolled his eyes, abandoning his Corridor tricks to run a hand through silver hair.

"I briefly considered tackling him to the floor, remembered how much he annoys me, and decided to let him learn a lesson. You know dad'll find him out there, or Auryn will, or grandpa Riku...then he'll be in trouble."

"Those are the last people he needs to worry about." Kaila grumbled, going back to the window. "I can't see anything. Did you manage to get ahold of uncle Sora and aunt Kairi?"

"Yeah, and they'll be here as soon as they can. It's not a big deal, you know. Dad's got it under control, and aunt Ray...well. Thundaga's a hell of a drug."

Nico let out a stifled laugh that quickly turned into a cough. He scrambled up, closing his book and setting it on the end table while his sister glared daggers at him. "Um, I'm going to go see if mom wants any company. I'd ask if you could let me know when Liam gets back, but I'll probably hear the yelling." He gave her a little smile and hurried out of the room.

"I don't know why the two of you think any of this is funny. There are Heartless outside when we haven't seen any in ages, and my idiot boyfriend thinks he can just walk around out there without any consequences!" Kaila threw her hands up and began to pace.

Jasen heaved a sigh as he watched her. "Because it's not a big deal. People with experience are handling it, things are fine. And as much as he irritates me, the moron'll be okay. The Heartless can't even see him, remember? He's more likely to die of pneumonia than becoming Heartless chow."

"You're so comforting."

"I try." Jasen stood up and crossed to her, stopping her mid-pace with a hug. Kaila hugged him back, then pushed away.

"I still don't like it. How does he know it'll keep working? I know he said it's a family thing, it's been working for generations, but what keeps it working? What if the spell just fails, and they see him, and then he's- I'm going to kill him!"

"Yeah, it's my opinion the Heartless are probably the last thing he needs to worry about." Jasen said dryly. "I'm heading upstairs, I've got some stuff to work on. Try and sit for a while, or something. Read a book. You're going to wear a groove in the floor."

And with that bit of advice dispensed, Jasen headed for the stairs. Kaila stuck her tongue out at his back, then forced herself to go sit on the couch. Just for a couple minutes. She could stay still for a bit. Take a deep breath, Liam was okay. Everything was okay. Everything was-

She was on the couch for a grand total of thirty seconds before the front door opened and the subject of her ire came in. His blonde hair was damp, along with the rest of him. Apparently he hadn't bothered with an umbrella, but he'd been keeping somewhat dry somehow. It wasn't really the question at the top of her list.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" The outburst was accompanied by a book flying in Liam's direction, which he just barely managed to dodge. "Are you trying to get killed? Or just showing off?"

"Hey! Do you have to ruin a good book just because you're mad at me? Don't you have a vase to throw or something?" He eyed her warily and backed up a bit.

"If I could open a Corridor, I'd have one. You're lucky I didn't cast Blizzaga on your ass. Don't you think? What if the spell stops working?"

Liam held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I was careful. I kept an eye out and detoured around when I saw them. I'm okay, the spell's worked forever. No one in my family ever had a problem with it. It's fine."

Kaila looked around for another book to throw then gave up, going over to smack him in the arm before hugging him.

"You're the biggest idiot I know. Stop it."

Liam hugged her back, burying his face in her hair.

"I love you too."

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts au #Snapshots #world refugees #original character #kingdom hearts oc #my fics

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years

Text

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic!

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block.

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that!

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

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sinceileftyoublog · 4 years

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Dogleg Interview: Buckle Up, Motherfucker

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Earlier this year, Michigan punk four-piece Dogleg released one of the most blistering, endlessly playable debuts of the year in Melee, which, yes, is a Super Smash Bros. game. At this point, much has been written about the band, from their beyond wild live shows to their Pokemon-referencing and video game-playing prowess. Lost in the shuffle is that 2020 was poised to be their year to gain even more of a national following. Released on March 13th, right as the COVID-19 pandemic hit, Melee was supposed to be supported by three cancelled tours--SXSW, an opening slot for Microwave, and an opening slot for Joyce Manor--and an appearance at this year’s cancelled Pitchfork Music Festival. Listening to the songs on the record, you can only imagine how they translate: the jerky momentum of “Bueno”, build-up of “Prom Hell”, gang vocals of “Fox”, clear-vocal anthem of “Wrist”, and odd groove of “Ender”. The band agrees that playing live is what makes them Dogleg: “Our live shows is what made us the forefront of the DIY music scene for as long as we were with such little released music,” bassist Chase Macinski told me over the phone in April.

The band’s self-titled debut EP--at the time, the band was simply a solo project of lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist Alex Stoitsiadis--was released in 2015. Full-band follow-up Remember Alderaan? (Macinski, drummer Parker Grissom) came out in 2016. In the four years between EP2 and LP1, Dogleg took their time writing what would become Melee but wasted no time debuting unreleased songs as they were finished. It was not just their energy, but their steady stream of new material that garnered the band a growing fan base, local and beyond, and eventually a deal with venerable indie punk label Triple Crown Records. “Fox” and “Kawasaki Backflip” were released as singles last November and February, respectively, and the generated hype garnered them rave reviews from publications like Pitchfork that, 10-20 years ago, probably would have scoffed at them.

Dogleg’s bigger moment--they’ve certainly had plenty of already big ones--may be on hold. Macinski continues his day job as a janitor in Southfield, about 20 minutes northwest of Detroit, while Stoitsiadis has played around with live-streamed acoustic and solo electric sets. While the group approach to writing that allowed the band to flourish when making Remember Alderaan? and Melee may not be possible without a completely reopen Michigan, and while Dogleg won’t be able to feed off of crowds for a bit, I have no doubt they’ll come back when they can with an even greater drive.

Read my interview with Macinski below.

Since I Left You: To what extent can Melee be fully appreciated without the context of the Dogleg live show?

Chase Macinski: I think you get a feeling for it. You understand it. But you still haven’t experienced it. We have been playing these songs for a long time. “Headfirst” for example, we basically had that song written by the time Remember Alderaan? came out in 2016. But we didn’t want to include it on the EP because it was close but not finished. Two weeks later, I’m pretty sure we wrapped it up, and then we were like, “Cool. We have the first song for the new album.” At that point, we thought it was time to make an album. We were playing it ever since it’s been done. As we were writing songs for the album, we were incorporating them into our live shows. A year ago, when the album wasn’t even out, half our set was still this album. Locals who saw us on the most recent tour we got to go on did catch that experience but didn’t get the whole context of the album, you know?

SILY: "Headfirst”, especially, is the most maximal song on the record.

CM: Oh yeah.

SILY: At the same time, when I read reviews of your music that say things like, “Dogleg plays loud,” or “Dogleg has energy,” it seems to leave out the complexity of the arrangements. The stop-starts, the drum fills, the crescendos. There’s a lot going on in the music, beyond it obviously being loud and fast. Can you talk about achieving a balance between raw energy and composition?

CM: We want to build up a lot of tension when we play, and we keep that in mind when we’re writing songs. We definitely try to think of, “What’s really hype? What builds up a lot of energy? What gives us butterflies in our stomach and makes us really jazzed up to hear this or anxious?” For the live shows, since we focus so much on those details, the start-stops and crescendos, it fills itself in pretty easily since we’re all focused on that and on the same page in terms of execution, that it just happens, and on the other side of that, we’re trying to be as energetic and involved and engaging with the music as possible. What we do in theory helps us out in practice, if that makes sense.

SILY: How did you approach the sequencing on Melee?

CM: We took it very seriously. It took us a lot of time to figure out what order the songs should be in. I immediately said we should start the album with “Kawasaki Backflip”, and I got some backlash on that. The other two contenders for the first track were “Fox” and “Prom Hell”. “Prom Hell” had more of an argument than “Fox” did. My attitude was, “‘Kawasaki’ starts off like a roller coaster, and that intro guitar riff is just like, ‘Buckle up, motherfucker.’ Let’s go for a ride.’” I really thought it had that tension immediately out the gate and blasted you with what could be a middle ground for the entire album, where I thought “Prom Hell” didn’t really address or show you what you can fully expect on this. For the first track, you might think something differently. After that, it was a lot of, “Okay, how does one song end and another begin?” We thought a lot about what key songs were in, what note songs ended on, how they ended, what the band was doing, what they sounded like, and then we thought about the same thing for how songs begin. “How does this one start? Does it start full-band, just guitar, drum fill?” We wanted to make sure we weren’t being too repetitive and created a sense of flow that could make one song go into the other. We even incorporated those moments where we were very specific about the time change between “Kawasaki” and “Bueno”. We were very specific about when “Kawasaki” ended and how much time passed between that and for you to hear the drums of “Bueno”. We wanted it to be an exact timing just for enough tension to be built up.

SILY: Were there any considerations to the thematic sequencing of the songs?

CM: No, not really, other than when we wrote “Ender” and decided to call it “Ender”, we knew it would be the last song. Otherwise, there wasn’t thematic sequencing because the lyrical content and the themes through the lyrics throughout the album were Alex’s thing. We write a song, and when the whole band writes the song, it’s an instrumental. Then, Alex comes up with a melody, and we all pitch in with what the lyrics might sound like, and Alex writes all the words. I’ve contributed when he’s got writer’s block and have helped him out a bit there, but for the most part, all of the themes for the lyrics he puts in.

SILY: There’s a line on “Kawasaki Backflip” that does seem like an appropriate introductory mantra to the record: “We can destroy this together.”

CM: Yeah, I mean, I think that’s a pretty powerful statement as an introductory song on the album. “Kawasaki”’s that “buckle up” song, as well, so the instrumental aspects definitely lead into that idea of “get ready for what you’re about to experience.”

SILY: A song like “Cannonball” is a bit more swaying instead of clearly uptempo. When you go into write as a unit, do those differences occur naturally, or are they forced with any sort of intention?

CM: “Cannonball” I would say occurred naturally because we wrote the song as we were practicing one day. In between songs we were practicing and making noise, I played that main verse riff, that A to C progression. I was just bored, not thinking, and playing my bass, waiting for Alex and Parker to be like, “Okay, let’s play another song.” While I was doing that, Alex was like, “Yo, what’s that?” I was like, “I don’t know, I was just messing around.” We started building on that and took that swaying feeling for what it was, and the lyrics to add to that--I think “Cannonball” was maybe the 4th, maybe 5th song on the album, so we didn’t have any idea what would be on it at that point. We knew it was a Dogleg song.

SILY: On “Ender”, are those actual strings in the outro?

CM: Yes, those are our friends who go to music school in Chicago. We know them from the School of Rock music program we all did when we were in middle school and high school. They were home for summer vacation and had their instruments, and we asked, “Yo, can we record y’alls playing violin”...I forget the other instrument. [Editor’s note: It’s double bass.] Those are actual strings. Honestly, I thought they played the parts so well, I made a comment that, “I don’t think people will think this is real because it sounds so genuine and good.”

SILY: I actually assumed it was a synthesizer.

CM: It’s legit. They’re just really good at playing their instruments. The horns are real as well.

SILY: What’s the story behind the cover art?

CM: The cover art is Alex’s aunt’s artwork. She’s a really great artist, and we’ve used her designs in the past. If you’ve ever seen the dog pack t-shirt, where it’s the bunch of dogs in watercolor--it’s also the artwork of our first EP--she also did that. She just really likes drawing dogs. We’ve never really commissioned something from her--she’s always already made something that we’ve thought is really cool, and then Alex asks her whether we can use it for the band, and she says, “Yeah, sure go ahead.” One day we were playing a show in 2017, way before we had half the songs on the album written, before “Fox” was even an idea. [Alex] was scrolling through his aunt’s Instagram and came across that picture. I saw it out of the corner of my eye and was like, “What is that?” He just goes, “It’s just something my aunt made.” I was like, “That is a fucking phenomenal piece of art. We have to use that for our album artwork.” He was like, “Okay.” He asked, we got permission. We made no edits to it. I don’t know when it was drawn or made, but when I saw it, I immediately knew it was perfect.

SILY: Is she a fan of the band?

CM: Yeah, she likes the band. She thinks it’s really cool.

SILY: Have any of these songs evolved, from the song structure to the performance, as the fans get to know both the recorded and live versions?

CM: We play the songs faster live, that’s for sure. Before we did any recording for the album, we had to decide on a tempo we wanted to play them at for the album. But since the songs were written, it’s just whatever tempo we’re feeling. For Melee, none of the song structures have really changed. But for the Dogleg self-titled EP, a lot of those songs, we play very differently live. Alex did that all by himself, recording, drums, bass, vocals, guitar. When we got incorporated in the band, that’s when we had the ability to put our spin on it. We changed and added those stop-and-go’s, different solos. No major changes to structure, but they feel more like Dogleg songs you’d expect to hear today.

SILY: Have you written anything during quarantine?

CM: Alex has been making some riffs, but we haven’t written any music. Alex says it’s pretty difficult for him at the moment. The songwriting process for every song on Melee and every song on Remember Alderaan? has been a band experience: Someone comes to the table with a riff, melody, one piece of the puzzle, and then the entire band fleshes it out. It’s pretty difficult for us to write music at the moment when we can’t get together.

SILY: Is there anything else next for you? Are you releasing any more music videos?

CM: We have some ideas. Nothing fleshed out yet. The last thing we did was the “Wartortle” video. We also have the Eureka [Records] sessions, which were all filmed before Michigan was put under lock down. We have some guitar play-throughs that will get out eventually, where it’s Alex playing along with the songs.

SILY: Is there anything you’ve been listening to, watching, or reading during or before quarantine that’s inspired you, comforted you, or caught your attention?

CM: I’ve been listening to a lot of music that I’ve listened to in the past. Once I graduated college and was really active in the temporary jobs I had and on the road, I stopped using Spotify for a long time even though I still had my account. My senior year, my Spotify minutes were huge: You listen to music when you study, do homework, whatever. Once I graduated, I couldn’t listen to music while doing things. A year ago, I was working at a hospital on a research project, and you’re not allowed to listen to music during work. I had like 15% of the music usage I did the previous year. So I’ve been revisiting a lot of old music. I’ve been listening to a band called Colossal. I forget the name of the album--it’s the only one I have in my car. The first track is called “The Dusk of Us” so it’s the first thing that comes to my mind. [Editor’s note: It’s Welcome the Problems.] Phenomenal album, really nice. I’ve listened to that a lot. My roommate has an extra PC, so I’ve been playing a lot of PC games, which I haven’t done in a long time because I don’t have a PC that can keep up. I’ve been playing [Civilization VI] with friends over Discord, which is nice, because I haven’t talked to them in a while. I haven’t really been reading anything, and I’ve been trying to watch movies I’ve been expected to watch for a while. Yesterday I watched The Matrix for the first time.

Melee by Dogleg

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