#that took me a bit to find the carrots (^^) on the keyboard without looking

[garyfiddlesticksdammit]

doodles of the shion

[multi-fandom-inserts]

Show Me Going

Rosa Diaz x Female Reader (If this offends you, don’t read, simple as.)

This is set during the active shooter episode, I’ve changed a few details but just a warning if this subject is a trigger. ENJOY.

Masterlist.

XXX

“Come on Y/N, just a few more bits to fill in.” you mutter encouragingly to yourself, leaning back on your chair stretching out your back and fingers before rubbing your temples furiously in a desperate attempt to refocus on the computer screen in front of you but it was no luck, the new system the IT department had put in place took twice as long for warrants to be processed and approved as well as evidence to be categorised and assigned to cases which meant they take longer than average to fill out.

The atmosphere in the precinct was tense, the usually loud room with buzzing energy and laughter  had fallen silent with nothing but the echoing noises of fingers tapping on keyboards, coffee being drunk and the constant noise of the printer working in overdrive to keep up with the demands drowned out the frustrated groans made by your co-workers.

Everyone had fallen into their own miniature slums, Amy had reverted back to “secret” smoking and chewing the ends of her pens violently – which has caused more than one ink explosion – Terry was working in overdrive to keep everyone in upbeats spirits, running himself into the ground in the process, whilst Charles focused all his energy into waiting hand-and-foot on Jake who had managed to hurt himself more times in the last few weeks than his entire career in the police force and had been ordered to desk duty sorting through old case files as well as the odd open case that crept up, the boredom of which had now caused him to become even more childish and irritating – something the Nine-Nine didn't know was possible – and was currently entertaining himself by creating paper-areoplanes and throwing them around the bullpen.

“Here you go, Y/N.” spoke a voice that snapped you out of your day dream and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention.

Turning your head to the left, you see Rose Diaz, holding two brown take-out cups. She hands one over to you with a smile, you notice your name was written neatly on the side as you take the cup from her with a thank you; the detective watched you as you take a curious slip, she hadn't asked if you wanted a drink but as you let the delicious warm liquid of caramel Mocca fill your mouth, you hum intently.

It seemed like everyone was suffering except Rosa, and you could feel Jakes curious eyes settle on the pair of you as he listened and watched intently as the pair of you interacted. “When you've got a spare minute, could you help me search for some evidence on our case?” Rosa then asks, rather abruptly, also noticing Jakes eyes on the two of you, but from the side she manages to give you a half smile that wouldn't be seen by the prying detective.

You smiled back at her sweetly, “Yeah of course, let me just finish up the warrant requests and I'll be right with you.”

Rosa gave you a short nod and turned back to walk to her desk situated behind Charles who was sat in front of you typing away madly on his computer, from beside you, you could still feel Jakes hawk-like-eyes on you, one eyebrow raised and a stupid childish smile on his face.

“Is there something you wanted Peralta?” you ask in a short tone.

He snapped out of his trance and shook his head quickly, “Nope, Y/L/N. Nothing.” he stuttered, turning back to his computer; chuckling quietly to yourself, you turn back to your computer.

XXX

Twenty minutes later, you huff in annoyance and push yourself away from the desk, abandoning the warrant that won't process in a efficient amount of time and head for the Evidence Room, Rosa had disappeared from her desk ten minutes ago with a blue case file so you assumed she was in there but as you open the door; all the lights are turned off in the enclosed room; stepping in cautiously whilst attempting to feel for the light switch, the door shuts behind you, engulfing you in pitch black.

“Ah shit.” you hiss to yourself, turning swiftly to feel for the door handle but there was no luck, “I knew I should of listened to my mum when she said eat more carrots.”

Suddenly, a hand clamps down over your mouth from behind, muffling your squeak in surprise, instinctively you grab the wrist of your attacker, twisting your body and the arm around putting them into an arm-lock, pushing them against the chain link fence of the airlock.

“I taught you so well,” the familiar feminine voice whispers, immediately you let go of the figure in front of you allowing them to easily turn the main light on, sure enough, you were face-to-face with the beautiful chocolate brown eye of Rosa, who wore a huge shit-eating smirk on her face with pride. You roll your eyes and shove her playfully.

“You scared the shit out of me!” you whisper in fake annoyance, unable to stop the goofy smile creeping onto your face.

Rosa chuckles, taking your hand and pulling you closer, placing a gentle her lips on yours and lingering for a moment before separating, “We agreed we wouldn't do this at work,” you grumble, pulling her in for another kiss, this one more passionately as your tongue glides across her lower lip, asking for access as you deepen the kiss.

Rosa moans into the kiss before pulling your lips apart and hugging you tightly, “I know, but I couldn't sit there and watch you all stressed out and anxious anymore.”

Smiling, you rest your head on the front of her shoulder, inhaling deeply taking in the familiar smell of her perfume, motorbike oil and the leather jacket she wears religiously, “You know they'll figure out we are dating eventually, Jake seems to be on the trail.” you say to her.

You can feel her nod, “Yeah honey I know – but don't worry about that for now, we'll tell them when we are ready.” she assures you, squeezing you tightly before releasing you, “Why don't you get out of here for  bit? Go get some food and fresh air.”

“But we are busy with this case?” you ask her.

The detective smiles, rolling her eyes gently as she cups your chin in her hand, “Go, get out of here... before I get my taser and chase you ouy.” she playfully threatens, kissing you one last time.

XXX

You would never tell her to her face – but Rosa was right, getting away from work and some fresh air is exactly what you needed.

A short drive from work was a small café hidden amongst the busseling city, taking a seat outside you sip on your tea in-between eating your chocolate croissant. Breathing a sign of relief as you watch the city move around you, strangers going about their daily lives, going to work, seeing family, spending the day with loved ones. It causes a sinking feeling in your stomach, Rosa and yourself weren't out in the open with your relationship, you both have witnessed Captain Holt receive abuse because of his sexuality and neither yourself or Rosa were ready to face that in the work place let alone in your personal life.

And sadly, the sinking feeling doesn't stop there, as your radio crackles to life with a message no one in law enforcement wants to hear.

XXX

After you left, Rosa stayed in the Evidence Locker for a while as she really did have some evidence to find relating to the case the two of you were working on, but thanks to the new filing system and the lack of Evidence Attendant workers, it took twice as long to fins what she needed and when Rosa entered back into the bull-pen, evidence in hand, she is greeted with the sight of everyone crowded around Gina's desk with their backs to her.

“What's going on?” Rosa asks but is responded to with sharp, loud hushes.

She's taken aback but then she hears the buzzing static noise of a radio, quickly Rosa joins the half circle around the radio and listens carefully, “There's an active shooter in a hotel in Brooklyn Heights.” Holt tells Rosa, her heart sinks and the rest of the team takes a sharp inhale at the confirmation from their Captain.

“Requesting additional units.” a female voice speaks over the radio.

“Multiple causalities, ESU is en-route and nearby officers are responding to the scene right now.” Holt tells the squad keeping them updated.

Rosa's hands ball into fists, whitening the knuckles as her hands begin to sweat. Jake bits his lip as Amy chews her pen.

“Multiple shots fires, please be aware civilians running from scene and are on the streets.” Dispatch informs.

Charles takes a deep breath and holds it until it hurts before breathing out slowly as Terry flares his nostrils.

“Johnson, 2938, show me going” a male voice speaks over the radio.

“2938, I have you going.” Dispatch confirms.

“Gilbert, 9825, show me going.” another male speaks.

“9823, I have you going.” Dispatch confirms.

“What are they saying?” Gina asks – who had begun to pick at her nail polish – looking up at Captain Holt from her desk.

“Show me going and their badge number, they are telling Dispatch that they are close by and responding.” Holt explains calmly.

“Y/L/N, 2103, show me going.”

Everyone around Gina's desk freezes, the one line was spoken so quickly no one wanted to believe they heard it, until Dispatch confirms.

“2103, I have you going.”

“Y/L/N! As in our Y/N!” Charles shrieks worriedly.

“That's her badge number.” Jake then confirms, looking up at Rosa who looked over to him, the colour in her face had drained, her jaw hung loose in disbelief as her balled up hands began to shake. The squads eyes dart from one person to the next, everyone slowly coming to terms with what they had just heard.

“She's there.” Amy said quietly to herself, but in the silence atmosphere it echoed loudly.

Rosa swallows thickly, her heart beating a million miles an hour, echoing in her head making it pound, palms sweating with an uneasy lump forming in her throat choking her. Without a word, the detective turned sharply on her heels and took off in a fast, brisk walk towards the bathroom down the corridor, bile climbed her throat as her vision starts to blur at the edges.

Locking the main door to the bathroom, Rosa breaks into a sprint for the toilet, barely making it in time before her lunch made a reappearance. For twenty minutes, she stares into the toilet bowl eventually gaining the strength to push herself back up, flushing the toilet and heading over to the sink, gripping the edge of the sink with all her strength, running the water to mask the thick and fast tears that fell from her eyes.

A million thoughts rushed through the detectives head, was Y/N safe? Where was she in the hotel? Is she hurt?

Just as Rosa begins to panic, a loud knock echoes on the bathroom door, followed by Jakes voice.

“Rosa? Are you okay?”

Taking a deep breath, the detective tries to calm herself enough to respond, “Yeah, I'm fine.” she manages before a wave of new tears form.

Jake doesn't believe her, through their training at the academy and multiple cases together, Jake has learnt to read the seemingly emotionally unavailable woman pretty well; and he knows better than to push her as he hears the unevenness of her voice and attempted hidden sniffles.

“Captain is holding an emergency meeting in the Briefing Room in five minutes,” Jake then speaks, not wanting to push her.

Rosa nods as if he can see her, looking at her blood shot eyes, blotchy skin and pale complexion, “Okay, I’ll be out in a minute.” she responds.

Jake doesn't respond, instead he waits. Rosa washes her face with cold water, tries her tears and swallows her emotions as best as she can, unlocking the door she steps out and Jake engulfs her in a bear hug – something they never do often – but as Jake waits for Rosa to shove him away, instead she wraps her arms around him and returns the hug gratefully.

“Thank you buddy.” she mumbles, letting go.

Jake smiles softly at her before turning to walk towards the Briefing Room.

Holt and Terry stand at the front of the room, Jake by Charles, Amy and Rosa on their own tables and Gina stood in the corner. The tension is the room was thick, worry and anxiousness radiated off everyone, even Captain Holt had a nervousness about himself.

“A Captain at the 9-7 has given us a brief update, there's two possible three shooters in Brooklyn Heights – ” Holt started but Jake swiftly interrupted.

“Any casualties?”

“Three head, many wounded – all civilians.”  Holt speaks. “ESU is on scene and the area is being locked down, it's a zoo out there, we have been ordered to stay here on alert but not to respond.”

“That's crazy!” Amy yells.

The room is taken aback by her outburst but Holt doesn't seem fazed, “I know you're all worried about Y/N, but she is not alone, she is part of a massive NYPD response.  I promise I will keep you updated as the situation develops, in the meantime, you all have jobs to do. Dismissed.”

The room clears out, Rosa lingers as Jake and Amy talk.

“She'll be okay, Ams.” Jake comforts her.

Amy smiles through gritted teeth, touching her boyfriends shoulder, “I know. I love you.” she says.

“I love you too.” Jake smiles happily.

That's when it hit Rosa like a bus.

A realisation she never thought she'd have.

A feeling she never thought she'd feel.

She loves you.

XXX

Three Hours Later...

The echoing sound of gunshots rung in your ears, sending glass sparing over you and the officer you are paired with. The heavy bulletproof vest you wear constricts your chest more than the heavy sinking feeling of anxiety that sits in the pit of your stomach, when suddenly an officer in the squad next to yours yells in pain, turning swiftly you see a brief sight of red blood.

“Move! Move! Move!” you yell to your team as more bullets fly through the air.

“Squad Beta-Nine to Dispatch, we are pinned down.” a male next to you speaks over the radio, “Multiple shooters on west side, seventh window up. Do you have a clear shot?”

Your heart beat echoes in your head, white noise takes over blurring out everything else, holding your gun close  you check the bullets, secure your vest and helmet. As the bullets hit the wall you're all barricaded behind, you close your eyes and all you see is her – Rosa, with that stupid smirk she wears, her leather jacket she lets you wear when you get cold, the helmet she hands you when she forces you on the back of her bike.

Oh my god, you suddenly think, your eyes bursting open, “I love her.” you whisper to yourself.

XXX

“GUYS!” Charles screams – despite everyone in the squad being in a two metre radius of him.

“What is it?” Rosa asks, her voice strained.

Everyone gathers round Charles as he twitches from foot-to-foot, unable to stand still, “They just took three shooters into custody. Officers got injured in the action, they don't say how many or who they are.” he tells everyone, a small weight is lifted from everyone but tension still runs through them.

“Call Y/N.” Jake turns to Rosa, pointing at the phone in her pocket.

Amy raises her eyebrow, curious as to why Rosa would call Y/N when she was her best friend, but before the Sergeant had a chance to ask, Rosa already had her phone to her ear, the ring tone rhythmically humming away. “Her phone is off.” Rosa mutters.

“Fuck.” Holt lets slip.

Jakes eyes widen but now is not the time to react to the Captains potty mouth, no matter how incredible of  a moment it was.

Forty-Five Minutes Later...

The bull-pen was silent. No one spoke. No one worked. Everyone sat at their desks, anxious, scared and on edge.

“Listen up,” Holt's voice shatters the void, “I don't have the names of the injured officers, but is Y/N is unharmed, she should be contacting us shortly. Or, if her phone is dead, she might be walking out of the elevator at any moment.”

And almost as if by magic, the elevator ping’s and the door slides open... revealing... Scully holding a meatball sub.

“AH COME ON!” Rosa screams so loud it causes Scully to jump out of his skin, throwing the meatball sub all over the floor spilling the sauce, meat and bread all over the floor.

From the corner, you let out a laugh, “Damn it Rosa, that looked like a good sandwich.” you speak.

The entire room jumped to attention, all smiling, calling your name but before you got a chance to respond to everyone who moved to hug you, Rosa barged through the crowd, sending Jake and Charles flying into the nearby desks as she grabbed your face tightly and kissed you.

The entire room erupted in gasps as you returned the kiss, wrapping your arms around her neck, and when you both pulled apart, everyone in the bull-pen was staring at you, you took Rosa's hand in yours as you faced your boss, co-workers and friends, Jake and Holt had a huge grin on their faces – as did Gina, who insisted on slow clapping – Amy and Terry looked shocked as Charles looked like he was about to faint.

“So I guess the cats out of the bag.” You said with a laugh.

“We are all very happy for you.” Holt said, a soft smile settled on his usually emotionless expression.

The entire squad nodded in confirmation. “I knew you'd been happier for a reason.” Terry winked, punching Rosa's shoulder playfully.

Everyone laughed, it felt incredible not to hide it, the weight from your chest disappeared and you felt out of this world. Rosa squeezed your hand gently. “Y/N why don't you head home and get some rest, it's been a long and stressful day for you.” Holt says, you nod with a small smile, and head over to your desk to collect your things, “Oh, Detective, Take Diaz with you. The two of you deserve a afternoon off.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Rosa says, grabbing your hand again as the pair of you say your goodbyes and leave the precinct.

As the two of you step out into the fresh air, Rosa pulls you into a tight hug, her shoulder quiver slightly, “Hey, babe, I'm okay, I'm back with you.” you assure her, rubbing her back gently.

Rosa pulls away, her arms still wrapped around your waist, resting her forehead on yours, “I love you.” she whispers.

A large grin breaks onto your face, “I love you too.”

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapter 7

Hi friends! Sorry for the delay here. I’ve been on vacation, so my priorities have been boozin’ and cruisin’. Thanks for your continued support of this story—I love hearing your feedback. This one’s a whopper of a chapter!

______

We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down.

“I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”

This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.

You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other.

And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.

THE SPIRIT IN THE HORSE, 2000

Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)

Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.

He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at its very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.

At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.

The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight. Corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.

And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafted from the windows, and the electrical wires were chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.

Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.

How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?

Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.

Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.

Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.

After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse and his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.

“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.

“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.

______

CARROLL’S THEORY OF TRUTH, 2003

Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)

When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.

For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines—Macintosh, Dell, Gateway—all brand names accompanied by her husband’s greedy and jabbing elbows.

But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued. A kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether it was a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.

“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. Just to spite him, she’d finally surrendered and gave him one for Christmas.

Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.

But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:

Claire Randall, the British spy.

Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.

One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite page 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.

Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:

whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?

And five of the grey-faced few had responded.

duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).

wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?

mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!

parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.

l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>

By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.

She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of..." She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, then shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work.

She had almost whispered, but did not.

It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.

It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.

Again: the sonorous ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opens—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again.

In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.

And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.

______

THREE TIMES THE WORLD ENDED , 2004

Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)

JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart.

He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing, but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the call notice pasted to his door, he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking the peace of his druggy fug.

Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.

With the news, the had drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart two years later. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.

Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.

The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.

Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove, and utensils would gleam in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food that she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.

But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.

And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose.

My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.

The love of you was my soul.

and

Yours, Jamie

Forever, Jamie

Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie

On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.

4,380. One letter for every day he had missed her.

______

THE KILLING GIRL, 2006

Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)

CLAIRE RANDALL* , resident at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.

Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, and a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.

Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story, but more accurate—one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.

There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— which followed her parents and pushed them off the edge. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.

Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping her guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year old anger then; how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in.

“Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.

Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:

It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.

It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.

It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick pleas—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.

And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:

“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”

“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”

“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How novel.”

“Truly, I am.”

“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”

“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”

“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”

“I am.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”

“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve."

“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”

“Wanker.”

“Now Claire…”

“Just go.”

“Claire, please—”

“Go.”

And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.

And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.

All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire is forever held at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.

But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything shared.

But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall, Divorce.

All her fault: Claire Randall. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.

*[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]

______

POINT OF CONVERGENCE, 2007

Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons

JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.

One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: A waiter dashed towards snapping fingers, the hostess offered towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them, of their readiness—how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.

Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.”

But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came.

Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. She was thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.

So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.

At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, shaken the mirror on the wall.

At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.

At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited the other's surrender.

At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.

At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand; lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips.

At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.

At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…

At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.

At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.

At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”

At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”

At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song.

12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.”

12:53:27: “It’s me.”

And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.

Phew! This chapter is one of the longest, but it’s also one of my favorites. The structure is lifted straight from Fates and Furies—there’s a chapter that is just a series of the protagonist’s plays—and I was looking to try something new (it also weirdly fits in with the tone of the chapter introductions). In my opinion, the best thing about writing fanfiction is that you have so much room to experiment.

This structure also allowed me to do what I’d been wanting to do from the beginning: move away from the One Day conceit and explore Jamie and Claire’s pasts. It was very easy to just run with any image or idea that came to mind—we know so little about their childhoods; there are so many possibilities!

And speaking of why fanfiction is so awesome—and I mentioned this in another post—but it’s a blast figuring out how to incorporate canon into an AU setting. Using canon dialogue can boost the emotional punch of a line in a way that is just *chef’s kiss*. “I was born for you.” “I am not as brave as I was before.” Ugh, kill me.

I have to whistle past some of the melodrama and Frank’s computer craze (wouldn’t he also be a typewriter sort of person???). And modern!Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Brazil comment still tickles me. This is not meant as an offense to Brazilians—y’all are just always on *clap* it *clap*, and I love your enthusiasm.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed :)

[pinkstarbeam]

Plance Transfer student AU

The Holt’s had hosted a transfer student before back during Matt’s senior year, that’s how the family came to know Takashi Shirogane, or Shiro as he liked to be called

Come Pidge’s junior year her parents told her the news that or his senior school year they would be housing a Cuban transfer student named Lance

Pidge didn’t really think anything of this, as long as he didn’t touch her stuff they would probably get along just fine

Come pick up day Pidge stood next to her best friend Hunk who had asked to tag along since Lance would be in his class

“What do you think he’s like? Do you think he is fluent in english? What if he’s rude!? What if-”

“Hunk relax, i’m sure he’s just as nervous as you are.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“Kinda? it’ll just be nice to have someone my age in the house again since Matt left for college.”

As they continued to talk Pidge heard her Dad call out the transfer students name and watched as a admittedly beautiful guy hurried over to them

How were his teeth so white and straight? What was he a colgate model? and he had to be wearing contacts nobody’s were that blue!

“Pidge!” Hunk elbowed her

Pidge came back to earth blinking as she quickly realized she had been staring 

Didn’t help Lance or whatever his name was had a sly smirk on his face

“Lance this is my daughter Katie and her friend Hunk.” Her dad introduced them “Katie likes to go by Pidge though.”

Lance extended his hand to Pidge “It’s nice to meet you, I look forward to the school year.” he spoke clear english, but had a clear accent 

Pidge shook it and Hunk did afterwards

Soon the Holt’s and Lance arrived at their house and while her parents showed Lance the guest room Pidge went to her room and flopped on her bed next to bae bae

“This is gonna be a long school year,”

The next day was the first day of school and since Pidge was in charge of showing him around and helping him out at school she had to endure all the stares and flirting

If Lance told one more girl her eyes were his favorite color she was gonna puke

They finally arrived back at the start

“Okay, now you have my number so if you can’t fine someone to help you just text me.”

“Pidge come on, i’m nearly 18, I got this.”

He didn’t, He texted Pidge five minute after they separated because he couldn’t find his homeroom

Come lunch Pidge softly smushed her face into Keith’s shoulder, her other best friend

“Long day Holt?”

“You don’t know that half of it Kogane.”

“So I take it the new kid is who is living under your roof this year?”

Pidge nodded as she moved back so she could steal a carrot off his tray

“He’s...Something.”

“You can say that again.”

Next thing the two knew Hunk appeared with Lance beside him, Lance looking rather displeased at Keith’s existence 

“Mind if we sit?” Hunk asked

Both nodded and the other two joined them though Lance wouldn’t even spare Keith a glance

“What is this?” Lance as looking down at his plastic wrapped sub

“Oof you grabbed the tuna salad...” Hunk said and both Keith and Pidge mentally pressed F to pay respect

“Is it bad?” he asked

“Let’s just say the last kid that ate it was out sick for a week.”

Yeah Pidge had never seen a kid throw food away in his life 

“Here.” she handed him her bag of chips which he gladly took

Over the next few week Pidge and Lance began to actually get along and even hung our regularly with Hunk and Keith

The evening of Halloween Lance even dressed up as Frankenstein’s monster so he and pidge matched

Come Christmas Lance (with her mother’s help) made a traditional Cuban Christmas dinner

Matt and Lance were like a horrible meme nightmare together and Pidge was thankful his girlfriend was cool to hang out with

Present wise Pidge got Lance a figher pilot jacket which quickly came apart of his everyday look and Lance got Pidge a video game they coudl play together since they had bonded over them the most

On new years eve Pidge stood outside watching fireworks explode whilst a slightly tipsy Lance leaned against her

“Lance get off, if you’re tired go lay on Keith’s couch.”

“Quiero estar contigo..”

“Lance we both know I don’t know Spanish.”

He just grumbled and moved so he was hugged her from behind and rested his chin on her head

sighing pidge let him stay there as they counted down the minute to  new years when something unexpected happened

as pidge yelled 0 to herself she suddenly felt lips connect with her own

She wanted to chew Lance out but he has passes out after the kiss, how convenient for him

Pidge didn’t tell Lance or anyone for that matter what happened that night, not like it would matter, Lance had a crush on Allura, a girl in his grade who honestly was a walking goddess 

As time went on Lance noticed Pidge was distancing herself, however here recently he had got on Allura’s good side was hanging out with her

“Is Pidge mad at me?” Lance asked Hunk

“She hasn’t mentioned anything? Why?”

“She barely talks to be anymore and at home she hides in her room.”

“Well spring break is coming up so maybe try to ask her to hang out then?”

And so he did

But Pidge seemed one step ahead with an excuse

However his chance came the last day of break because it was also Pidge’s 17 birthday meaning she couldn’t hide

The morning came early as Pidge’s parents followed by Lance came in carrying a plate of peanut butter pancakes and singing happy birthday 

Pidge, though half asleep, took the breakfast thanking them

“After you eat get dressed and we’ll head into town okay?”

she just nodded too tired to argue as she rubbed her eyes

Lance stayed in the room after her parents left “Any idea what you want to do today?”

“Why do you care?” Pidge asked as she ate her pancakes

Lance felt his irritation from the last few weeks rising “Because i’m your friend or I thought I was.”

Pidge just rolled her eyes “Oh please. the minute Allura texts you i’ll be invisible to you again, now please go away so I can eat in peace.”

grumbling Lance left the room, but he sat and thought about what she said

Was Pidge...Jealous of Allura? But, why? She didn’t like him that way...right?

The ride into town was awkward as Lance fought every urge to even just look at Pidge

arriving at the mall Pidge’s parents gave her $100 to spend on what she wanted and told the two o them to meet them back the front by noon

After they separated Lance pulled Pidge to the side “Are you jealous of Allura?”

“Excuse me?”

“Earlier you mentioned Allura, why?”

“Am I not allowed to talk about your crush?”

Lance’s cheeks burned as he looked away “Just answer my question.”

“No i’m not jealous of Allura.” she lied

“Then why bring her up?”

“i’m leaving.” Pidge walked off “Don’t follow me.”

Lance sighed as he slumped against the wall

A familiar voice caught his ear

Allura had just walked in the mall and Lance immediately realized what Pidge meant by invisible to him because when Allura asked why e was there it took him a minute to remember he was there for Pidge

He was the worst friend ever

“Lance it’s okay, i’ll help you find her okay?” Allura offered

Lance nodded still feeling guilty

As they walked Lance noticed Pidge’s backpack at a table in the arcade and quickly hurried in calling for her

He seen a crowd of people and headed over to see they were around a DDR machine where low and behold Pidge was dancing along die Keith of all people

except something hit him hard

Pidge was laughing as she hung out with Keith

And that

that made him jealous

he was the jealous one it seemed

When the dance ended Keith was the clear winner as Pidge laughed slumping against the bar

“That’s the last time you pick the song Kogane.”

“Gotta have you exercise somehow.”

“Hey I exercise!”

“Your fingers on your keyboard as you code don’t count Katie.”

Katie...He called her by her real name

Lance cleared his throat and Pidge looked over groaning before spotting Allura and her eyes darkening a bit

“Want a turn?” Keith asked

“Actually I was looking for Pidge, come on Pidge.”

“You’re not my babysitter Lance..”

Allura stepped forward “If I may..Pidge Lance has been looking for you for the last ten minutes.”

“And I told him not to.”

Keith sighed feeling annoyed and took Pidge’s hand pulling her along “Let’s talk about this without so many eyes and ears, you guys are making a scene.”

Soon they were in the arcade’s backroom seeing as Keith worked there

“Now what’s going on?” Keith asked

“Lance thinks i’m jealous of Allura.”

Allura looked confused “of me? Why?”

Lance explained the mention of her earlier this morning

“Pidge do you think Lance favors me over you?”

“I mean he does have a crush on you.”

Lance’s face paled as Pidge realized she had outted him

“Oh..So you have a crush on him?”

Pidge’s face went bright red “I didn’t say that!”

“But if he likes me and you’re upset he puts me over you then-”

“I’m leaving!” Pidge quickly tried to leave but Keith blocked her way

“Pidge just answer the question. Do you like Lance?”

Pidge looked to Lance and then to Allura before looking to the ground and sighing “Even if I do it doesn’t matter, like I said he likes Allura. Now can I go now, this is turning into the worst birthday ever.”

“You like me?” Lance asked

“I..” she sighed “You were tipsy and kissed me on new years eve.” she instinctively held keith back “when you didn’t remember I knew it was an accident, but after that I started to feel weird, especially when you brought up Allura or other girls..”

“Oh God..Pidge i’m-”

“Save it...Keith.”

Keith moved and let Pidge out but blocked Lance from chasing her

“Keith move!” Lance growled

“She needs space right now Lance, if you keep pushing her like this she is gonna hate you.”

And so come noon Pidge  sat at the front with some stuff she bought as she waited on everyone

she kept telling herself she had a little over a month left and Lance would leave and she could sever ties even though it hurt to think about not talking to him ever again

“Hey.” Lance walked up

she didn’t reply as she sipped her coffee

“So..Allura doesn’t like me that way.”

no response still

“But I think I have a new crush..”

“Don’t pity me McClain..”

“Pidge i’m not pitying you..give me a week to prove to you that i’m serious..”

she sighed “Only because if I don’t agree you’ll drag Hunk into this.”

After dinner that night Pidge and Lance went on a walk, Lance giving Pidge his jacket when she shivered

“You do realize you’re going back to Cuba next month right..’?”

“I do, I just..I like being with you..being near you.”

“..You told me the same thing on new years eve in Spanish, at least I think, I googled what I thought you said.”

“Well drunk Lance had that part right, though I shouldn’t have forced a kiss on you, that was wrong.”

she nodded as she pulled the jacket closer to her “...I didn’t hate it..”

“What?”

“The kiss, I didn’t hate it..”

“..Could I kiss you for real?”

She gave a small nod and the two shared their first kiss under a streetlamp that was turning on above them

The next month was full of cute sappy date things that they squeezed in between studying or final and Lance sending in college applications

However come summer it was time for Lance to return home to Cuba where his family was eagerly awaiting his return

Pidge stood quietly aside Matt and her Mom as she watched her Dad help Lance load his luggage into the family car

Lance looked to Pidge and immediately noticed she was ready to cry the moment nobody was watching

He walked over and pulled her into a tight hug “This isn’t goodbye Katie, I promise.”

tears ran down her face as she hugged him tightly “You better come back you jerk..”

he wiped her eyes before kissing her head “Of course, can’t let Keith beat my DDR score.”

She glared about to say something when Lance knelt and whispered in her ear

“Te amo.”

[taelaxies]

r e a d e r

“I can’t read your smut - would you show it to me?”

Summary: As a smut writer, you loved reading the reviews for your work. But  you did not expect that one of your readers was your roommate: Taehyung.   Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader Genre: SMUT || Warnings: This is a smut about SMUT, guys. going to hell A/N: Hey! I’ve been thinking about writing a Taehyung smut for a while since he is my bias, my king and my- God never let Taehyung read my masterlist please. Jk. I hope you like it. ♥ Words: +2.6

He pushed the underwear to a side and his hot breath caressed your sensitive skin before giving a long and slow lick to your slit.

“Oh my god” you whispered, throwing your head back against the mattress.

 He smirked and placed his hands on your hips, preventing them to move when his tongu–

Your fingers stopped moving against the keyboard and you read the paragraph again. Was that too much? Was it not enough? You licked your lips and closed your eyes, trying to feel the way your character would and imagine what would happen next. Would he just fuck you right away? Or just tease you a little more?

Your fingertips caressed the keys and you were about to find your answer when you felt a pair of lips brushing against your ear, “What are you doing, Y/N?”

Your body jumped from your seat and panic spread on your face when you found your roommate’s boxy grin behind you. ���Holy shit Taehyung, you almost kill me.”

He didn’t answer, his eyes squinted and tried to read what you were writing on the screen. You stood in front of him, covering his view and closing your laptop in a quick move.

His eyes focused on you then, heavy breathing and silently asking him to leave your bedroom.

“Don’t worry, I couldn’t read a thing from your secret project. I need my glasses for that.” He stepped away from you and buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, “I’m going to buy some cereal, do you need anything?”

You sighed, “No Tae, I don’t.”

“Okay.” He simply nodded, exiting your bedroom and soon leaving the apartment you two shared.

Let’s get one thing straight: you were not embarrassed of your writing. You loved your stories and enjoyed working on them. You were embarrassed of Taehyung finding out about them. You knew him like the palm of your hand after all that time living together, and you knew he would mock you and tease you for the rest of your life.

What you did not know, is that he already knew about them.

It happened one day that you were showering and your laptop was alone and open on your desk. He was always curious about what your “secret project” was, but he had assumed it had something to do with college. You would never imagine his surprise when he read the real file in which you were working on.

He had to make a decision then; telling you about it and probably tease you forever - or pretend it didn’t happen.

He chose the second option, eager to read more of your fantasies.

Taehyung created an user for himself: ‘aliendude’, and followed your writings with it, getting notifications on his phone every time you posted something.

His phone rang that night, announcing you had posted a new story. Probably the one you were writing when he interrupted. He put his glasses on and yanked himself on his bed, covering his body with the blankets and spreading his brown hair on the pillow.

He imagined you, doing the same thing in the room next to his, and waiting for the feedback from your readers.

He opened the link, holding his breath before starting reading.

It was amazing for him, how your fantasies or desires made his own body heat up and his dick twitch inside of his pajama pants. Would you touch yourself thinking about that? Right at the other side of that wall, separating him from you? Had anyone touched you in the way your character did?

After reading the last sentence, his mouth was dry and his hand involuntarily travelled to the bulge getting harder on his crotch. A grunt escaped his lips when he opened your profile and wrote.

Aliendude: Loved your story, it’s so hot. Will you write another part?

He waited for your answer, his eyes closing every time his hand added a little more pressure on his erection.

Smuttygirl: Thank you! I don’t know, should I?

“Fuck, Y/N” his voice sounded throaty and he bit his lower lip before typing.

Aliendude: Definitely. Have you experienced any of the things you write in real life? Sounds so real.

Smuttygirl: Most of them I haven’t. But hey, a girl can always dream.

Didn’t the things you wrote turn you on too? Taehyung rolled and buried his face on his pillow, muffling his whimpers as his fingers circled around his length.

Next morning, there you were - in the kitchen eating the cereal your roommate had bought last night and reading the comments you had on your profile.

Taehyung entered, rubbing his eyes with his hands and walking slowly towards the fridge. He grabbed a bottle from it and closed its door.

You watched his sleepy face and his pouted lips, as he tried to reach for a cup.

“Good morning, Tae.”

“Morning.”

“You know that’s not milk, right?” you pointed at the bottle of juice he was holding. “You should go get your glasses.”

He frowned and lifted it up, trying to read the label on it with difficulty. He gave up and tilted his head back, defeated. “I’m tired and my glasses broke.” He explained.

“What!? What happened to them?”

 Taehyung turned his head in your direction and his dark eyes stared at you, trying to figure out a good explanation. ‘They fell from my bed while I was jerking off thinking about you.’ Not a good idea. Instead he said, “I fell asleep wearing them, and found them broken when I woke up.”

You got up from your seat and stood in front of him, examining his eyes like you were some kind of doctor. “You can see me right?”

He chuckled. It would be easier if he couldn’t. “Of course I can see you, I’m not blind. I just can’t focus on a text and read.”

“It’s Saturday, you’ll have to wait until Monday to fix them.”

“Don’t tell me about it.”

You sighed, placing your hand on his shoulder, “Just tell me if you need help until then. Some college texts or something.”

He eyed you from your head to toe and swallowed. “Sure.”

Things went normal from then. Well, your type of normal. Taehyung went out with his friends that night, and you just stayed writing and listening to loud music you usually couldn’t when he was around.

You missed him when it was a weekend night and he was gone. Other nights, he would stay and watch movies together, laughing at the bizarre plots and bad actors.

He came back the next morning, sober but tired. You didn’t see him until dinner, when he woke up starving and asked you for food. Luckily for him, you were cooking dinner for the both of you - you guessed he would be hungry after sleeping all day.

He was sitting at the table with his chin propped on his hands, enjoying the sight of you in your extra large t-shirt cutting some carrots against the counter. “How was your night?” You asked.

“Could have been better.” he wanted to add ‘with you’ but he just shrugged, “What about yours?”

“Productive.” You glanced at him and you both smiled, not even knowing exactly why. You returned your attention to the food, until you finished and finally ate dinner with him. He told you the news from his friends, since you knew them from college too.

But the peaceful weekend found its end that same night.

That night when you were in your bedroom and Taehyung finished his shower with the familiar notification sound from his phone. He quickly dried himself and did as usual: he got into bed and opened the link.

Or what he thought it was the link.

His glasses. He couldn’t read a thing without them. What he guessed it was the second part of your story, appeared like a blur on his screen - he could barely read random words from each paragraph.

He closed his eyes, frustrated and remembering the other night.

Would you be waiting for his comment this time too?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He muttered to himself, running his fingers through his wet hair. His eyes met the ceiling, like it could actually tell him what to do.

Well, maybe it did - a minute later Kim Taehyung was leaving his bedroom and walking towards yours.

He didn’t knock, but he never did so it didn’t surprise you. He found you covered in your blankets, with your back against your pillows and your laptop open. “Taehyung?”

He looked at you, expressionless and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing?”. His voice sounded deeper than usual and you couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose.

 You slowly closed your laptop and placed it on your night table. “Nothing, I was about to go to sleep.”

He smirked, “were you?” He took tiny steps in your direction and burried one knee on the mattress of your bed, “Of course - a girl can always dream, right?”

Realization hit your features as you opened your mouth but found yourself incapable of saying a thing.  It couldn’t be, it had to be a coincidence. You took one of the pillows you were lying against and threw it at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you do, Y/N” he climbed into your bed, moving closer to your shocked body “You’ll see, I asked you to write another part but without my glasses I can’t read it. I really want to know what happened.”

So it was him. How could that be? You shook your head, feeling yourself being swallowed by your sheets as your roommate hovered above you. The stare you had always secretly admired was scanning your body below him and expectantly waiting for your response. “You’ve been reading my stories all this time?”

“I wouldn’t call it just reading.” He purred in your ear, “So help me, I can’t read your smut - would you show it to me?”

You felt the fire burning from his skin to yours, in contrast with the coldness of his wet hair brushing your forehead. The words wouldn’t leave your mouth but the last thing you wanted was telling him to stop.

“C’mon tell me, Y/N” Taehyung insisted, “does your story start here,” he placed a soft peck on your lips. His hand moved in between your bodies, finding your underwear under your large shirt. He traced a circle around your clit and you gasped, losing yourself under his intense gaze, - “or here?”

“On my neck,Tae” you whispered, “On my neck.”

“Good.” his retreated his hand from your heat, while his tongue slowly traced a wet line on your neck and then planted countless kisses on it.

You were breathing heavily and he hadn’t even started - but every time you felt him press his hips against yours, the air felt heavier.

Taehyung tugged your earlobe with his teeth and gently sucked it, your scent filling his nostrils as a groan escaped his throat.

“Taehyung, kiss me.”

He obeyed, admiring your expression of losing control before slamming his lips against yours. It was a desperate open-mouthed-kiss in which your tongue massaged his in slow motion.  “Fuck me, fuck.” He mumbled.

He grabbed your hand and lead it to his cock - rock hard under your palm. His hips grinded against it, trying to cause some friction just like he did alone many times before.

He stopped kissing you, and looked at you with your lips barely touching and breathing against each other. He closed his eyes, his forehead falling on yours when your hand stroked his length and started moving up and down.

“Look what you do to me, Y/N. I want to be inside you so bad.” he whimpered.

“Do it. Fuck do it.” You moved your hand faster and his features twisted in pleasure.

“Take off your clothes.” he said, stopping you.

 You both kneeled on the mattress, you took your shirt off revealing your bare breasts - and watched him take off his pajamas, showing off his beautiful tan skin and toned chest. His cock sprung free from his boxers but he didn’t give you enough time to admire it.

“Take this shit off too.” He grunted almost to himself, rolling down your underwear with his fingers. Taehyung circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer and attaching his mouth to your nipple. He flicked it repeatedly with his tongue and hummed when your fingers buried in his hair.

His digits found your clit again, and moved even lower to your entrance. A loud moan escaped from you, and he darted a satisfied look at you.

“God, look how wet you are. Do you get this wet when you write?”

“I write about you,” you confessed - pausing since you could barely speak, “yes.”

“Fuck, Y/N. Come here.”

He laid on his back this time and digged his fingers in your hips, pulling you towards him - towards his face.

You had just sit on it when you felt his tongue spreading your juices all over your slit, mixing them with his own saliva. Your legs tensed on the sides of his face, and you reached for his dick again but this time with your mouth.   You wrapped your lips around his head and swirled your tongue around it slowly. Sliding all the way down, you reached its base and sucked - earning a moan from him that vibrated against your folds. 

You almost bit him when he sucked hard on your clit and you had to stop for a second to recover. “I can’t suck you if you keep doing that.”

He grinned, “The real thing is harder than you thought huh?” He buried his tongue inside you, and your hips instinctively tried to push it deeper, desperate to feel more. His face moved side to side, his tongue massaging your walls until he touched a certain spot that made you pull away from him, feeling electricity rush over your legs.

“Please, please Taehyung,” you cried, “Stop teasing and make me come with your cock, please, please, please.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. He pumped his length with his hand a few times and rolled above you, pinning you under him as he brushed his tip to your wet entrance. 

You felt as desperate as the characters in your stories were and Taehyung took in the glorious sight of you biting your lower lip, waiting for him to fuck you with a plead written on your eyes.

He finally pushed himself in, burying his cock inside of you - then taking a moment to let you adjust to his size. His jaw clenched as he heard your moans that couldn’t be contained anymore, and slowly moved in and out.

“Feels better than your dreams?” You could have just orgasmed because of the way his husky voice filled your ears.

You nodded, circling your arms around his neck and pulling him into a messy kiss. Fastening his pace, his tongue licked your lower lips as your mouth opened in an attempt to catch your breath.

“Please don’t stop” you begged, intoxicated by the smell of his cologne mixed with sweat as his thrusts kept going faster.

He didn’t stop pounding into you until he felt your walls clenching around him, your legs and hips convulsing and your breathy voice repeating his name like a mantra. He pulled out then, taking him just a few strokes to cover your folds with his cum. You watched him close his eyes, and breathe deeply, trying to recover.

Sensing your gaze, he met your eyes and stare at each other until your chests returned to normal and stopped going up and down.

He rolled to your side and circled you with his arms, cuddling with you. You felt his lips pressing on your neck softly.

“Aliendude, seriously?” You glued your body even closer to his.

He laughed and you felt his stomach moving against your back, “Smuttygirl?”

You rolled your eyes. “Right.”

He continued to plant kisses on your back. “So…. Was this how the story ended?”

You chuckled. “No, Taehyung.”

You felt his smirk before he playfully bit your skin, “That’s a shame, we’ll have to do it again.”

[dibidibidismol]

For the Anon who wanted me to answer all the questions: I hope you're happy.

— 1. Who was the last person you held hands with?

A Baby named orlo 

2. Are you outgoing or shy?

Depends on the situation 

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing?

My bestest friend and I have a shopping date soon!

4. Are you easy to get along with?

Probably not. I dunno.

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you?

Yeah, probably.

6. What kind of people are you attracted to?

People who use she/her pronouns.

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now?

Probably not.

8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind?

Byun Baekhyun.

9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable?

No.

10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with?

A group of close friends.

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say?

  “Great!”

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now?

Expect by Girls Day

Eternity by VIXX

Tried to Walk by B1A4

Sorry by The Rose

Closer by Oh My Girl

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair?

So long as they don't tangle it.

14. Do you believe in luck and miracles?

I believe in chance.

15. What good thing happened this summer?

I got a scholarship to a programme I applied for! Met some new friends!

16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

Hell yeah. A sweet baby gave me a smooch. Baby kisses are the best.

17. Do you think there is life on other planets?

I think it's a possibility.

18. Do you still talk to your first crush?

They moved far far away.

19. Do you like bubble baths?

Not really.

20. Do you like your neighbors?

Yeah, I babysit for them sometimes.

21. What are your bad habits?

I'm a sucker for my dog. I give him too many treats.

22. Where would you like to travel?

I'm not much of a traveler but I hear Portland Oregon is nice this time of year.

23. Do you have trust issues?

Probably?

24. Favorite part of your daily routine?

Afternoon Tumblr, Spotify and Tea time.

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with?

My nose.

26. What do you do when you wake up?

Do my daily language learning sessions and wash my face.

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker?

Lighter

28. Who are you most comfortable around?

My dog and/or friends.

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up?

Hahahahahahaha No.

30. Do you ever want to get married?

Yes.

31. If your hair long enough for a pony tail?

Yep.

32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with?

I'm Demi, and don't know any celebrities.

33. Spell your name with your chin.

Done.

34. Do you play sports? What sports?

I've done a lot of basketball and a bit of track and field.

35. Would you rather live without TV or music?

I don't watch much T.V anyways.

36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them?

Story of my life.

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

When in doubt talk about the weather.

38. Describe your dream girl/guy?

She/her pronouns, actually reciprocates my affections, ace/demi friendly, not allergic to dogs, fluent in English, mildly intelligent, has a compatible sense of humor, not abusive.

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in?

Target, H-mart, Costco,

40. What do you want to do after high school?

College and Law school 

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

Not everyone, but most people.

42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean?

I’m tired, thinking, or listening to music.

43. Do you smile at strangers?

Unless they're giving off bad vibes.

44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean?

Outer space. I have a fear of the deep ocean.

45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning?

Devotion to my dog.

46. What are you paranoid about?

Germs, skin cancer, the deep ocean, my friends not loving themselves enough, everyone I know secretly disliking me, etc.

47. Have you ever been high?

On caffeine.

48. Have you ever been drunk?

On life.

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about?

Yes. But I'm telling y'all anyways. (My dog was giving me sad eyes so I gave him a treat. And then another. And another. And another. So he ended up having like half the bag.)

50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore?

Black

51. Ever wished you were someone else?

Oh yeah. I've been jealous of many of my friends. They're all so attractive and funny and smart and I'm just kinda there.

52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself?

I wish I was more intelligent.

53. Favourite makeup brand?

I don't wear enough makeup to be able to differentiate between the brands.

54. Favourite store?

I like Eastern Asian grocery stores and Target.

55. Favourite blog?

My absolute favorite recently deleted, but my current favourites are @homosexo-l @ot-nine and @queerfictionwriter

56. Favourite colour?

Black, Crimson, and shades of purple.

57. Favourite food? 

Right now I'm a big fan of carrots.

58. Last thing you ate?

An egg and roasted mushroom on a hamburger bun.

59. First thing you ate this morning?

Fruit and protein smoothie with whole grain toast.

60. Ever won a competition? For what?

I’ve won a couple basketball related things, a handful of academic awards, speech tournaments, and a few other things I'm forgetting.

61. Been suspended/expelled? For what?

When I was really young (7 or 8) I was suspended for taking the cookie sprinkles from the class cabinet and distributing them amongst our classmates.

62. Been arrested? For what?

Nope.

63. Ever been in love? 

Yeah. It sucks.

64. Tell us the story of your first kiss?

We both leaned in. *smooch*

65. Are you hungry right now?

I'm hungry for Love and Affection.

66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends?

Nah. I love my real friends a lot.

67. Facebook or Twitter?

I don't have either.

68. Twitter or Tumblr.

Tumblr.

69. Are you watching tv right now?

I don't really watch TV.

70. Name of your bestfriend? 

Mira

71. Craving something? What?

Craving love and affection. Also garlic eggplant.

72. What colour are your towels?

White.

72. How many pillows do you sleep with?

Four big ones plus eightish throw pillows plus five pillow pets.

73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

They have their own corner of my room.

74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have?

60? I have a ton of tiny ones.

75. Favourite animal?

My dog.

76. What colour is your underwear?

Black and Pink.

77. Chocolate or Vanilla?

Chocolate.

78. Favourite ice cream flavour?

Banana.

79. What colour shirt are you wearing?

Black.

80. What colour pants?

Black.

81. Favourite tv show?

I don't really watch TV but I like Ask us Anything/Knowing Bros and I liked Weekly Idol pre-current MC line up. I also like the Great British Baking show.

82. Favourite movie?

Tangled 

83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2?

Mean girls? I haven't seen pt2.

84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street?

Mean girls? I haven't seen 21 jump street.

85. Favourite character from Mean Girls?

I don't really remember the characters, but I think I liked the teacher.

86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo?

Dory!

87. First person you talked to today?

My dog.

88. Last person you talked to today?

See above. :)

89. Name a person you hate?

Donald J. Trump

90. Name a person you love?

Amber Liu!

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now?

Donald J. Trump

92. In a fight with someone?

My mother.

93. How many sweatpants do you have?

4?

94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have?

6?

95. Last movie you watched?

The Lorax 

96. Favourite actress?

I dunno. I don't watch a lot of TV.

97. Favourite actor?

See above.

98. Do you tan a lot?

I would if I didn't stay inside so much or if I were to lay off the sunscreen. 

99. Have any pets?

I have a dog. He’s the bestest. I could go on about him for hours...

100. How are you feeling?

I'm a little tired but my dog is here next to me  so I'm good.

101. Do you type fast?

I'm alright on an actual keyboard, but touch screens slow me down a lot.

102. Do you regret anything from your past?

I regret having picked the wrong Duolingo chest and only getting one Lingot instead of five.

103. Can you spell well?

My initial guess tends to be correct, but I tend to doubt my spelling capabilities and confuse myself over wether or not I was correct.

104. Do you miss anyone from your past?

I miss the group of people who I went to school with for seven plus years. We were used to each other and it's hard to replicate that camaraderie. 

105. Ever been to a bonfire party?

Nah.

106. Ever broken someone’s heart?

Hahahahahahaha No.

107. Have you ever been on a horse?

I took riding lessons when i was younger.

108. What should you be doing?

Baking a pie. I want pie.

109. Is something irritating you right now?

America’s President.

110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt?

Yes.

111. Do you have trust issues?

See #23

112. Who was the last person you cried in front of?

My friend/ theripast @squish-io

113. What was your childhood nickname?

Dictionary.

114. Have you ever been out of your province/state?

Yes.

115. Do you play the Wii?

No.

116. Are you listening to music right now?

Yes.

117. Do you like chicken noodle soup?

I'm Vegetarian.

118. Do you like Chinese food?

Half of my family is Chinese so I only like the good stuff.

119. Favourite book?

The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff 

120. Are you afraid of the dark?

No.

121. Are you mean?

Maybe?

122. Is cheating ever okay?

Once I cheated at Pandemic. The rules of the game were too complicated and I was playing against an expert.

123. Can you keep white shoes clean?

Probably, I don't have any though.

124. Do you believe in love at first sight?

I believe in attraction at first sight but not love.

125. Do you believe in true love?

No.

126. Are you currently bored?

Nah, I'm answering these, it's pretty fun.

127. What makes you happy?

My dog! Kpop crack! Tumblr(sometimes)!

128. Would you change your name?

Maybe.

129. What your zodiac sign?

It starts with a “P”

130. Do you like subway?

Not particularly.

131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

First of all, that would never happen. Either way as my best friend they would know that I'm gay and so if their pronouns are not she/her it wouldn't be an issue. If their pronouns were she/her then... I dunno. Depends on what would make them happy.

132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

See #10

133. Favourite lyrics right now?

Shawty imma party till the sundown (so I can make it back in time for curfew) 134. Can you count to one million?

Yes. For efficiency I'd count by 500,000s.

135. Dumbest lie you ever told?

 “I'm straight”

136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed?

I can't sleep with the doors open.

137. How tall are you?

Smol.

138. Curly or Straight hair?

Wavy.

139. Brunette or Blonde?

The former. 

140. Summer or Winter?

Winter.

141. Night or Day?

Night.

142. Favourite month?

November.

143. Are you a vegetarian?

Yes.

144. Dark, milk or white chocolate?

Dark.

145. Tea or Coffee?

Tea.

146. Was today a good day?

Sure.

147. Mars or Snickers?

I don't eat either.

148. What’s your favourite quote?

 “Love is like a fart. If you have to force it it's probably shit.”

149. Do you believe in ghosts?

No. 150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page?

“Well,” Miss Morgan said, her voice losing conviction, “what do you mean, talking about people dressed like me? Blue hats, and so on?”

[peculiarist]

a letter found by my protagonist as he walks along the riverside

This whole thing is fucking bullshit, even starting this fucking page took almost an hour, just to write that it’s all fucking bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit. People say that you just have to write, it will come to you, but it fucking doesn’t. “Inspiration comes when you’re working, it has to find you working” fucking bullshit. There’s no inspiration. Nothing is coming, it’s hard as fuck. There is no way I can get into the mindset of writing, I can’t even think of myself as a writer anymore. Nothing fucking happens. No ideas. No dialogue. No fucking thing. It’s all fucking bullshit. I don’t know why I cann’t get into it, but I can’t. I sit down and nothing happens. No words. So I write shit. And the whole idea that if you write enough shit it will all get out and then you can start writing good stuff, do you know what that is? That’s right, it’s FUCKING BULLSHIT. Shit breeds shit. They get together and have little shit romances and little shit weddings and little shit sex and little shit kids, until all there is is shitty shits shitting everything up.

Shit. One hundred and ninety four words on shit came far easier than anything else I’ve written for years. I fucking hate it. Depression takes everything out of you, all your motivation goes down the toilet like the SHIT IT IS, so you deal with your depression and you go through hell and you come out the other side and you sit down at your keyboard and NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENS. “Just write.” What a fucking joke. How many hundreds of thousands of words of absolute nonsense do I have to reverse vomit onto the page before it stops being bits of corn and carrot in huge brown logs? How can I read my stories and find any way to improve them instead of wondering if you can burn your computer monitor, or whether you have to print the pages out first? Why is the only thing … fuck.

Don’t give me any crappy metaphors about fertiliser, either. “Bullshit grows the best roses.” Only with a fucking seed. If it’s just bullshit, just nothing but piles and piles of fetid cow faeces, nothing grows it just fucking stinks out the neighbourhood. If you have to hold your breath every time you open Scrivener for your NaNoWriMo novel that’s a fucking sign that nothing is being fertilised, it’s just festering.  

Just out of curiosity I counted the number of times I used the word fuck in the writing above - seventeen. If I was to edit them out I’d have five percent fewer words. Story of my fucking life.

You’d think drinking would help at a time like this, wouldn’t you? Alcohol relaxes you, eases depression, gets you thinking along strange paths, and BANG - story. It doesn’t help any more. Everything wears off, I suppose. Even absinthe just tastes like bad liquorice on ice. Maybe fermented bullshit would do something for me, but the local supermarket doesn’t sell that.

It makes me long for my youth, when delivering pizzas was enough to get me through the week. What the fuck kind of job will I get now? Fuck. I can’t even imagine that. I can’t even imagine getting a basic fucking job, or support from anyone, or any fucking thing.

Maybe I didn’t get over my depression.

That’s the thing though - I’ve been depressed often in my life, and I’ve always done stuff. It didn’t stop me getting through high school. I got a degree in biotechnology with depression. I get promoted irrespective of whether I’m depressed or not. I got a journalist job at the absolute worst time to try and get one (at least, the worst time before about 2010), when there was a hiring freeze on journalists. My editor literally was not allowed to hire me, and he did anyway, claiming I was an editorial assistant, not a journalist. And I got recognition in the industry. And I got head-hunted by the national newspaper. All while I was depressed. But now, nothing. There’s nothing I can do. I have no motivation, but I don’t seem to have any ability either… is that the word? Nothing I do works, or at least, nothing I do seems to work for me. My writing from years ago was good - not great, but good, with the potential for greatness. Now it’s just bullshit - this is probably the most interesting thing I’ve written for years. And that early writing just looks like shit to me now. So, was I deluded then, or is it now that I’m not seeing clearly?

BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER FUCKING TELL. Fucking writers. They always say “don’t reject yourself, let the editor do that. Submit that story, and let them reject it”. And they always say “make sure your story is the best it can be before you submit it. Don’t submit half finished work, revise it, polish it, send it out when it’s ready”. HOW DO YOU FUCKING KNOW? Unless you’ve managed to get stories published, unless you have an editor read your story and offer advice, how do you know if it’s ready to be sent out and rejected?

NaNoWriMo isn’t for that, of course. The point of NaNoWriMo is not to publish a novel, it’s not to write some great story. The point is quite simple - show people that they CAN write a novel, even if it’s crappy. And of course it’s crappy. The point is to show people they can write fifty thousand words in a month. That they can write a book, a novel, a whatever, that editing and revision and so on and all that bullshit aside, they actually can write that much.

I’ve won like five times, but this year I have no fucking chance. I can’t write anything. It just fucking dribbles out of some clenched cows anus to drip on the ground like the minimal amount of bullshit it is.

So this is a rant, because halfway through a conversation in a riverside seafood restaurant my fingers just refused to hit keys. Because this far into the story I still don’t know what it’s about, or even what the protagonists name is. Because no inspiration is coming. No nothing is coming. So I’m ranting, and you know DAMN WELL I’ll include this in my word count. Is that cheating? Do you think that’s cheating? What if I have my character - whatever the fuck his name is - find a sheet of paper on the street, and this is what is written on the sheet of paper, so he reads it, and then it goes in the story. Still cheating? Should I add at the top of the page “a letter found by my protagonist as he walks along the riverside”? I’ll do it. I’ll fucking do it. I did it. I even bolded it so it looks like an official title. You happy now?

‘Cause I’m not. I’d rather I had some fucking point with this. I’d rather I had something to say. Anything to say. Even something without a message, or point, just fun words that make people smile and take another drink of their beer while they think of a comeback.

Something.

Anything.

But there isn’t enough absinthe in the world…

And this. All this bullshit - and it is bullshit, everything I’ve written here - all this bullshit is only one thousand two hundred and sixty words, including that number. It’s not even enough for the standard day, and I’m so far behind I need to write twice as much as that mythical person who has faithfully typed their one thousand six hundred and sixty seven words every day. (Pro tip: Never write numerals in NaNoWriMo, writing out the number in words always gives you a higher word count.)

NOT THE END (because the end is still so, so far away…)

[fearofaherobrine]

Roleplay Server Log #268

“Arden’s Dirty Hentai, The Master-smith’s Challenge, Aurum”

[Zeke] Is lingering outside his mom's room

[Arden] Is sitting at the big table reading on his computer- What do you think she's doing in there anyway?

[Zeke] Sighs - She says she's crafting, but it seems more like someone tending a stew.

[Lie] Is coming down into the lab to look for some spare potions-

[Zeke] Paces over and accidently steps on the plate that throws a statue out of a hole in the floor- AUGH!

[Arden] Are you okay?!

[Lie] Comes around the corner of the stairs- Yeah, that still catches me off guard too every once in awhile.  You two doing okay?

[Zeke] I just... I forgot it was there. Yeah... I'm okay.

[Arden] Sits back down. - Just reading ghost threads.

[Lie] - Oh!  I just remembered, I have something for you Arden

[Arden] Hmm?

[Lie] Pulls the comics out and plunks them down on the table next to him- From Ever

[Zeke] Only sees the colors from across the table- Oh! Comic books! Haven't seen any of those in ages-

[Arden] From... Ever...? - Looks up at her and down again quickly - How do you know Ever and WHAT IN THE-?

[Lie] Can't help but laugh a little- Well, you're thoughts were kinda loud that one day

[Arden] Is beet red -

[Zeke] Curiously comes over and suddenly his cheeks are flushed with purple as well.

[Lie] - You should probably at least thank Ever Arden

[Sylveon] Comes up out of Silver's room-

[Arden] I'd ask why he sent me porn but I know how he is... I- I will... - He opens a small window in the corner of his computer screen and dashes off a note before anyone else can read over his shoulder.

[Lie] Is wondering if she can bring it up again-

[Zeke] Sneaks a comic from the center of the stack and slides sideways to look at it.

[Lie] - It's not so bad Arden, even I read smut every once in awhile...  Usually CP enjoys that because it puts me in a mood

[Sylveon] Jumps up onto the table- Syl?

[Arden] Sputters a little-

[Zeke] Bites his lip and theres the faintest smell of spice coming from him-

[Arden] Glad for the distraction- Hi there!

[Sylveon] Steps closer, stepping on the keyboard as they go-

[Arden] Hey! Don't stand on that! - gentle shooing motions-

[Sylveon] Sits-

[Zeke] Looks uncomfortable. -

[Arden] Tries to push them off - Bad! Bad... Sylveon.

[Sylveon] Begrudgingly moves-

[Lie] Plops a comic in front of Arden- Come on Arden, it's not good to read on a screen for too long.  Read a book instead

[Arden] I think- I think I'd like to read this kind of thing alone, thank you!

[Lie] - Do you really think anyone here would judge you?

[Arden] It's not a matter of judgement!

[Sylveon] Is sniffing all around the computer-

[Lie] - Geez, and after everything I went through to get them for you

[Arden] Very uncomfortable-  I- I need to pee anyway! - He takes the comic in his hand almost without meaning too and charges up the stairs -

-There's a peeping from the computer as the door slams behind him upstairs-

[Zeke] Sets the comic back down with a slightly shaking hand-

[Lie] - Enjoying yourself Zeke?- Reaches over to hit a button on the computer

[Zeke] Whispers- If he likes these... I might have a chance...

[Lie] - That's the point Zeke

-A little window comes up with the message -

[CollaredEverestCat] Surely you aren't annoyed with me so much you're just going to tease me with keyboard smash?

[Zeke] Looks hopeful

[Lie] Quickly types back- It's Lie, and Arden did just run off with one of the comics...

[Ever] YES. I thought so. He just needs a little push.

[Lie] - Everything okay on your end?

[Sylveon] Goes over to Zeke-

[Ever] The fossil plant your friend made took over a section of the bookshelf.

[Lie] - Sorry...  He has a habit of watering everything...

[Zeke] Absentmindedly pets Sylveon, not noticing as his arm is suddenly patterned with hearts and stylized gym badges-

[Ever] It's okay. It's kinda neat. He did a good job on the really important one anyway. It's been way more robust since. Lots of fruit.

[Lie] - Good to hear, he actually launched me over your wall by watering my vines as I was climbing

[Sylveon] Wraps it's ribbons gently around Zeke's arm and makes a happy noise-

[Ever] I thought the foliage was looking more lush near the gate. I had to cut it down a bit so the... birds don't escape...

[Zeke] Hmm?

[Lie] - Sorry...

[Sylveon] Butts it's head against Zeke-

[Zeke] Pets them softly-

[Ever] I've got a weed whacker. Taking care of stuff like that is my job. You should see my riding mower, it's the size of a small car.

[Lie] - See, if we have grass higher then the blocks here, we just set the sheep on it, natural lawn mowers

[Ever] Oh yeah! You have sheep. I read up on your game a bit. How's the color update?

[Lie] - Very bright.  But we also have a lot of things here that aren't from the game

[Ever] You have no idea what a tempting thought that is.... To be able to have anything from any game? That's a dream come true.

[Zeke] Sits down thoughtfully. Still petting Sylveon

[Lie] - Well if you ever want anything, we might be able to arrange it

[Sylveon] Jumps into his lap-

[Ever] Typing very quickly- Anything?

[Lie] - Most likely, we have a neat trick in this game which allows us to copy things

[Ever] Do mechanical things work the same irl as in-game?

[Lie] - Most likely, we've had redstone work out there before...

[Ever] I'll get back to you...

[Arden] Comes back downstairs looking a bit flushed - Hey! Why are you on my computer?

[Lie] - Just updating Ever since you ran off

[Arden] Sputters in annoyance. He snatches the laptop off the desk and storms off back up the steps with the rest of the comics, almost as an afterthought.

[Lie] - Well that's a good sign, he took the rest of the comics at least

[Zeke] Nods wordlessly and looks down at the patterns on his skin- How odd-

[Lie] - You always make the most fascinating of patterns Zeke

[Zeke] What are they though? Looks like company logos or something?

[Lie] - I think they might be badges from the games

[Zeke] Ah... You're such a sweet little critter -

[Dolly] Comes out of her room and streches a little. She looks tired but elated, and theres a lingering masculine cast to her features. She looks healthier, and even a bit taller.

[Zeke] Mom!

[Lie] - Oh, hey Dolly!

[Dolly] Hello Lie. Did I miss lunch again? - chuckles-

[Lie] - No, I was just giving something to Arden

[Dolly] He's such a good child. Most would have fallen to troublemaking in this idleness.

[Lie] - So how have you been?

[Sylveon] Rolls over in Zeke's lap-

[Dolly] Just keeping busy- She opens a trunk under the steps and pulls out a few carrots to munch on-

[Zeke] mom...

[Dolly] Yes?

[Zeke] Are you... okay?

[Dolly] Oh yes! I feel like this place has cleared the fuzz that was filling my head.

[Lie] Frowns a little- You know, it's a beautiful day outside, maybe you two should go for a walk?

[Dolly] Her eyes flick for only a second back towards the room - I-

[Zeke] Please mom?

[Dolly] Ah... I just can't refuse my son... Just a short walk then... - She looks unnerved at the prospect of leaving the room for long-

[Lie] - If you have anything that needs watching I could watch it for you?

[Dolly] No. No... it's fine... things seem to mostly... tend to themselves here... I won't be gone long...

[Zeke] Helps Sylveon down and stands near her-

[Sylveon] Goes to rub against Lie-

[Dolly] Glances nervously back at Lie as she and Zeke leave the room-

[Lie] Waits for them to leave before going against her better judgment and looking inside of Dolly's room, the Sylveon follows her-

-The bedroom looks normal, but there just the slightest smoky smell coming from the vertical laddered shaft that leads down to the bathroom below-

[Lie] Moves closer and looks down-

-There's a bathroom below-

[Lie] Frowns- Smoke shouldn't be coming out of a bathroom- Carefully she climbs down the ladder

[Sylveon] Watches from the top of the ladder-

-At the back of the bathroom someone has cut a passageway into the stone, leading a bit downward-

[Lie] Follows the passage, becoming more and more unnerved-

-Down a few steps there's a wave of heat and the sounds of bubbling. Someone, presumably Dolly, has filled the small room with furnaces, trunks and brewing stands. The focus seems to be on a tangle of glass tubes with a large sealed flask in the center, the furnaces are obviously keeping it at a boil in the sweltering room.

[Lie] - What is she doing down here?

-The swirls of the fluid in the flask are almost hypnotic and the stuff inside seems to be a sea of molten metal being perpetully rained upon from the top of the alembic as it boils from below.

[Lie] - It's kinda pretty, I'll give her that...

-There are a few pieces of paper framed on the walls as well. The artwork on them was drawn by someone with more vision then talent-

[Lie] - Hmmm, I should probably head back up, before I get caught...- She turns and heads back up

[CP] Is lurking around Doc's place trying to find either Doc or TLOT-

[TLOT] Is sitting on the edge of the roof above the front doorway. He's alone for a change because he's nibbling on a bit of bread and a piece of the Golden Steelton cheese.

[CP] Sniffs the air and smells the cheese, he starts heading for it-

[TLOT] Leans back with a happy sigh, swishing a bottle of coffee before taking a slow sip. His exhale is slightly foggy from the cheese.

[CP] Teleports out- Here you fucking are

[TLOT] Hey Cp. Were you looking for me?

[CP] - Yeah, I think somethings going on with Lie.  She's being more irritable and griefer like lately

[TLOT] That's odd. Maybe she's just a bit stressed out. Cheese?

[CP] Grumpily takes it- Yeah, but it's really unlike her...

[TLOT] Everyone has their days. How are you doing?

[CP] - Would be much better if I could get fucking laid-

[TLOT] Small cough and thumps his chest a bit- Gah!

[CP] Scowls- Now what's your problem?

[TLOT] I just remembered what happened last time we had this discussion...

[CP] Backs off several blocks- No

[TLOT] Waves the suggestion away - Relax. I'm not proposing anything, Steve already banished me and my cheese from the kitchen. Heh.

[CP] - I've been banished to the couch for over a week now

[TLOT] A week?! That's quite a while. Is this still because of the thing with Markus's old coworkers? Or did you do something else?

[CP] - Yeeeeeeeeess, I have to fucking apologize to them if I want back in the bed...

[TLOT] That's harsh.... I don't know the actual details, just that you scared them. You didn't kill one of them or something did you?

[CP] - Left them in a sleep

[TLOT] Low whistle - No wonder she's mad... You have to know at this point that doing that upsets pretty much everybody...

[CP] - Shut up

[TLOT] Holds his hands in a placating manner - I still think it's a bit harsh. But that ability is pretty terrifying.

[CP] - Whatever, have you found anything on your fucking blacksmith?

[TLOT] Very little. His family tends to choose rather different names then the other Testificates on my seed and that might be signifigant... I don't know. He had an ancestor named Yttrium. I have no idea what it means.

[CP] Makes a serious face- One minute- He teleports off and returns a minute later with an old book.  He flips through it till he reaches about midway- Is this how it's spelled?- Points to the final name on a page

[TLOT] Squints and takes another small mouthful of bread and cheese. - Yeah... it is. What is this?

[CP] - The testificate that I've told you about?  This is his last descendent on that seed.  It is possible occasionally for a testificate to possess the ability to hop seeds...

[TLOT] You think he just showed up on mine and...? I guess it makes as much sense as anything else, its a really unusual name. But as I've told you before, Testificates that can go off the table a bit happen. It's normal.

[CP] - I mean...  There's probably one way to absolutely confirm that your smith is his descendent...

[TLOT] How? Are you propsing to read his codes or something?

[CP] - Nah, something simplier- He then teleports off

[TLOT] CP! - He takes off after the bigger brine-

[CP] Is grinning darkly as he appears outside of the new forge- Oh Tungsten~

[Drillby] Hears him and bolts nervously inside.

[Tungsten] Keeps his mate under his arm and a bit behind him- Y-yes?

[CP] - We're going somewhere

[TLOT] Right on Cp's heels - Stop scaring them. Aren't you already in hot water? You're not taking them anywhere without me either.

[CP] - Pretty sure I can

[TLOT] I guess I'll just go tell Lie you're scaring my Testificates again then -

[CP] - You wouldn't dare

[TLOT] Shark grin- Oh wouldn't I?

[CP] Growls at TLOT-

[TLOT] Sweeps past Cp and pats Tungsten's shoulder- It's okay. I'm going with you.

[CP] Flicks open an opening-

[TLOT] Kind of herds the Testificates.

-They enter an older seed at the edges of a long abandoned village.  On the far side there's a large stone building and the ruins of another next to it.  Other than those two villages, it looks like any normal village-

[CP] - It's been a long time since I was last here...

[Tungsten] Is holding hands with his mate- Where are we?

[TLOT] My thoughts exactly...

[CP] - This is where the smith who made my armor lived, that building back there?  That's his forge

[Drillby] Should we know what's going on?

[TLOT] Cp thinks Tungsten may be from some kind of a famous family.

[Tungsten] Scowls - I was all but exiled. Who cares who they were?

[CP] - Because there are things left unfinished- He starts making his way towards the building

[Tungsten] Gives a small snort. His thoughts are plain. He can't see why he should care at all.

[TLOT] Just follows Cp curiously and the Testificates trail him out of respect.

-The reach the building, one door has decayed away, but there is heat emminating from the inside.  As CP pushes open the other door they are greeted with an obsidian floor and nether brick troughs full of lava which falls from the ceiling.  There are long tables meant to be worked at and the walls are lined with pieces of metal work which would have been very difficult to make.  A large circle opening is in the ceiling where a glass dome once arched high overhead.-

[CP] Doesn't show much interest in what they can see-

[Drillby] Looking around interestedly-

[TLOT] Inspects the partial pieces.

[CP] Pushes open a couple of old metal door and looks a bit sadly at what's inside-

[Tungsten] Can't help but peek over his shoulder-

-Inside are unfinished obsidian pieces in the smiths private office, including incomplete pieces of a second set of obsidian armor-

[Tungsten] What happened to him... or her?

[CP] - He died of old age

[TLOT] Looks at the pieces as well. - A pity. That's beautiful work.

[CP] - Whenever I brought it up he always said it would be for my mate...

[TLOT] Seems like the kind of thing you would have hated someone for bringing up over and over...

[CP] - No shit

-There's a chest at the back of the room with a couple of papers sticking out-

[Drillby] peeks at the papers-

-They are plans for weapons and daily items made with various materials-

[CP] - He never got to many of those, he was constantly thinking and planning

[TLOT] His thought is not even a whisper, but Cp hears it anyway - Reminds me of Doc...

[CP] Gives TLOT a small barely noticeable glare-

[CP] Glances up and notices something high on a shelf- Ah, there they are- He reaches up and pulls down a pair of worn old gloves, which shimmer slightly

[TLOT] enchanted gauntlets Cp?  

[Tungsten] Tries to conceal his interest

[CP] - No, but one of the last things he made. They have blaze rods and magma cream woven and infused into the gloves. It makes them completely heat and fire proof

[Tungsten] Sounds useful...

[TLOT] For nabbing fiery Herobrines...

[CP] - And meant to be passed onto the next master smith in the family line. On this seed abilities like his are genetic, so he knew he would have a descendent capable of finishing and continuing his work

[Drillby] Too bad he died.

[CP] - But if my thinking is correct, then Tungsten could very well be the said descendent

[TLOT] Shrugs- even if he's not, he can do the work. Not much point in letting useful things languish in a trunk somewhere.

[CP] - Look, it's one of the things the old geezer made me promise alright? And until that one testificate vanished, I was keeping a close eye to see who would be next

[TLOT] So how do you intend on identifying if Tungsten is the descendant or not?

[CP] - The obsidian bow. It's how they all were traditionally tested to see if they were the next master, even the previous one went through the test

[Tungsten] You want me to string a bow? Or just shoot it?

[CP] - No, making it. Obsidian is a material that shouldn't bend, but a bow can be made from it

[Tungsten] That's it? You don't care about the specifics as long as it's functional?

[CP] - It might be more difficult than you think

[Drillby] Just to clarify, we can add any materials?

[CP] - Well it should be mostly obsidian

[TLOT] is already getting a shape from the small Testificates mind - how did you find out about those? [Drillby] Doc

[Tungsten] looks around for some usable materials - I need spider string...

[CP] - Third chest on the left out there

[TLOT] is conferring quietly with Drillby and gives him a coil of thick wire.

[CP] Is looking at everything in the office and a tiny chuckle escapes him-

[Tungsten] uses some magma cream to make a flat bow shape thoughtfully.

[TLOT] Gives Cp a questioning look.

[CP] - I know he was joking at the time, but these pieces of armor? Have a floral design to them

[Drillby] is fashioning some tiny wheels.

[TLOT] Awww. That's both sweet and fortuitous

[Tungsten] Is gouging out spaces at the long ends while his mate lays in the little wheels .

[Drillby] Turns the wires into some rather tiny springs-

[TLOT] Is just radiating pride in his Testificates-

[CP] Is looking at some of the old plans, including some which involve glass-

[Tunsten] Gives Drillby a small kiss and the two of them start sealing up the bow and adding the scrolling patterns.

[Drillby] watches his mate bend the bow slightly so it can be strung, and there's an audible creak as the springs inside draw it back open again against    two hinges on the top and bottom of the handle.

[CP] Heard the noise and looks up- That was fast...

[Tungsten] Doesn't say anything but the thought is plain. Two minds working together are better then just one.

[CP] Steps forward and looks the bow over. He's silent for a few nervous minutes- I think he'd be proud that his descendent is already so accomplished...

[Tungsten] With all due respect sir: bah. Drillby helped, and his parents were fishermen.

[Drillby] Looks down a bit shyly.

[CP] - So were you're like fourth great grandparents or something like that

[Tungsten] Shrugs- either way, I don't deserve all the credit.

[CP] - No but I'm fairly positive that you carry his blood, which means not only do these gloves now belong to you, but so does this forge and everything in it

[Tungsten] Looks around- it's very nice, but I'd rather work from my house, like I have been.

[Drillby] Same here.

[CP] - Still, if there's anything you want to take with you, you're free to do so

[TLOT] I think we should just take the lot. No sense in leaving it here. I'm sure you two could find a few weekend projects in all this stuff.

[Tungsten] Perhaps...

[CP] - It'll be weird seeing this place empty...

[Drillby] Well if no ones using it...

[TLOT] Takes out a bit of paper and sketches a rough design for the small building. - Do you come here a lot Cp?

[CP] - Used to, last time I was here there were still inhabitants in the village...

[TLOT] Do you think zombies got them or something?

[Tungsten] Bustling about packing things-

[CP] - No, villages tend to congregate where there are craft masters, they simply moved

[Drillby] Then at least we're not depriving them of anything.

[TLOT] True

[CP] Glances outside at the ruins next door- This village was unique in that it had two masters at once, next door was a master of glass

[TLOT] Mind if I have a look? If there's no one here. There might be something we can use.

[CP] - Go ahead, but I'm pretty sure everything's been broken over there

[TLOT] Wanders outside and into the small building. He's not used to broken pieces not despawning and picks around curiously

[TLOT] finds a lot of pretty colored shards and stores them in his inventory before coming back

[CP] While the others are distracted teleports a small way outside of town into a graveyard-

[Tungsten] What is it my lord?

[TLOT] Just pieces... It's a bit sad to see all these broken things just lying about...

[CP] Before him is a large tombstone with a single word inscribed on it. Aurum, the name of the only testificate CP has really had any respect for-

[Drillby] Sometimes it's best to just let the seed reclaim the past...

[CP] Stands there silently for a moment before returning to the group- There's one last thing I need to check on...

[TLOT] And what would that be?

[Tungsten] Has finished packing everything, he's carrying most of it in a trunk and Drillby has the box with the paper notes and diagrams.  

[CP] Grabs the new obsidian bow and heads into the office with it. He fiddles under the desk until he presses a button which opens a hidden door in the wall. Behind the door are three other obsidian bows-

[TLOT] Are you going to bury them with your friend?

[CP] - No, he said it was important to keep them where the current master could reach them... Never told me why...

[Tungsten] Shrugs- Okay. I'm sure I can find a nice place to store them.

[Drillby] They'd look nice in item frames, they're quite beautiful

[CP] Tosses one of them at Tungsten, it's smooth and you can barely tell that it's jointed-

[Tungsten] Runs his hands over it- an. Elegant solution to a strange challenge...

[CP] - That is the one Aurum made.  If you pull the string tight enough you should be able to see how he did it on the inside

[Tungsten] Pulls the bow and holds it so Drillby can see as well - Nicely done...

-Inside are spider strings coated in slime to make them a bit more like elastic so the bow would spring back silently-

[TLOT] Peeks as well. - Unlike you guys he'd never heard of springs...

[CP] - He also managed to make this when he was ten, his prowess as a smith was evident very early on

[Tungsten] Just thinking quietly-

[CP] - Although it probably has less durability then the one you just made...

[Tungsten] I'll take that as a compliment.

[Drillby] Big winning smile-

-As the string is let slack again it reverbs a little, the noise surprisingly filling the space-

[Drillby] Takes the new bow gleefully and steps into the doorway. There were a few plain arrows in the trunk of random stuff and he fits one to the bow and draws it smartly-

[TLOT] Looks over with interest.

[Tungsten] Saunters over to check the pull and Drillby lets it fly in a gentle arc.

[???] - Could use a bit of work, but the obsidian bow is more symbolic than anything else...

-The little arrow hits the gravestone and spangs off it with a loud plinking noise-

[Drillby] whoops! Sorry...

[CP] Is quick to turn towards the new voice-

[TLOT] Who's there?

-Leaning against the door frame to the office is a phantom of the past-

[CP] - Aurum...

[Aurum] - About damn time you brought my descendent here!  I was getting bored in that bow...

[TLOT] A haunted bow?

[Aurum] - I suppose so, the other two have their creators as well...  But they can only be activated by blood relations...

[TLOT] Would they like to be released? We know two different witches....

[Aurum] - Oh no, we're quite happy in the bows, we're here to help teach the next master techniques for...  Unusual things

[Tungsten] Do you really think we're related?

[Aurum] Laughs a bit- Boy, the only way I could be allowed out is if a descendent of mine pulled the string on my bow and if they were a master smith

[TLOT] Well at least we can take you somewhere more lively to hang around. As long as you're not... too old-fashioned.

[Aurum] - Old fashioned how?

[Tungsten] Very pointedly tips his head back and Drillby does the same so that their wedding torques are visible.

[Aurum] - Ah, I see.  Had five of those myself!

[TLOT] Laughs- I think you'll enjoy this quite a bit. Shall we head back?

[Aurum] - Where to?  Another city?

[TLOT] There's a bit of extra light in his eyes at the mention- Another server actually.

[Aurum] - I think I remember mister grumps a lot over here mentioning those before

[TLOT] It's lower resolution then this, but certainly more lively-

[Aurum] - I see...  Well, so long as I can do my job of teaching, I'll be happy...  Well that and continuing to annoy that one- Thumbs at CP

[CP] Rolls his eyes- Yes Aurum, you're lucky I can't stab you now...

[Aurum] - Ah that was always an empty threat when it came to me and you know it

[TLOT] Grins-  Wait until you meet his wife...

[Aurum] - Wait what?  Ha!  Good thing I started on that second set of obsidian armor then, mister I will murder you for even mentioning that!

[Tungsten] She's a lovely lady.

[Drillby] Titters - As long as you don't fall afoul of her lust blossoms.

[Aurum] - I think I'd like very much to meet her

[TLOT] Flaps out his cape in a gracious way - Shall we hence then Cp?

[CP] - Yeah yeah, what ever- He creates an opening and Aurum moves towards his bow

[Aurum] - When you need me just have...  Oh I'm an idiot, I never got your name!

[Tungsten] I'm Tungsten and this is my hubby, Drillby.

[Drillby] Charmed.

[Aurum] - So if ever you need me or just want to chat, just have Tungsten pluck the string on my bow, same goes for the other two.  Glad to see the naming tradition is still going on to!

[TLOT] Chuckles - Most of my village the people are named after foods. These two are unusual.

[Tungsten] Walks through the opening with his hubby and TLOT following

[Aurum] - Because our family is known for master smiths, we tend to be named after metals

[TLOT] I've never been able to figure out where they were getting them... some of them are things Doc says only exist in the real world that they should never have heard of.

-The group remmerges into the forge and the air is full of the little sounds of Testificates going about their business and children merrily playing-

[CP] Closes the opening behind them-

[Aurum] - Our seed had many more metals then normal according to the tall sourpuss there

[TLOT] We don't have much different that's found here naturally, but we do have a ton of stuff that's been brought in. We've got several rather outgoing Herobrine's around here.

[Aurum] - So multiples of him?- Motions towards CP- I figured as much judging by your eyes

[TLOT] Well we're all glitches but we vary depending on how we spawned and where we came from. This server is at the resolution I spawned at and I'm the native. Herobrine the Lord of Tears. TLOT for short. Your buddy here is our creepypasta Herobrine, so Cp.

[Drillby] Opens the door and the background noise goes up a tad as he lets some outside light into the room-

[Aurum] - I see, this does seem like a lively place though...

[CP] - I'm heading home

[TLOT] Perhaps I'll do the same - He breathes on his hand- I think I've talked out any possible cheese-breath.

[Tungsten] I'll show you around Aurum, they'll be plenty of time to talk to everyone.

[Drillby] I think I'll put the other stuff away. I'll have dinner ready when you get back.

[Tungsten] Small kiss to his mate-

[Aurum] - No need to make anything for me

[Tungsten] Small chuckle- It shall be a feast for the eyes then- Heads outside-

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Read Chapters One through Six here.

Our Story

We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down: “I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”

This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.

You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops—the sound booth unmanned—until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other. 

And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.

The Spirit in the Horse, 2000

Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)

Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.

He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at their very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.

At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.

The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight: corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.

And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafting from the windows, electrical wires chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.

Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.

How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?

Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.

Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.

Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.

After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse, his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.

“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.

“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.

Carroll’s Theory of Truth, 2003

Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)

When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.

For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines: Macintosh, Dell, Gateway. All brand names accompanied by her husband’s reverent whisper, longing glances at window displays, or jabbing elbows. ��We should get one, Claire.”

But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued, a kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.

“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. And so to spite him, she’d finally surrendered, gave him one for Christmas.

Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.

But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:

Claire Randall, the British spy.

Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.

One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite pages 32, 208, 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.

Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:

whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?

 And five of the grey-faced few had responded.

duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).

wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?

mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!

parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.

l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>

By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.

She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of +44 3456 2222.” She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work; she almost whispered, but did not.

It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.

It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.

Again: the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opening—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again. In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.

And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.

Three Times the World Ended, 2004

Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)

JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart. 

He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the note pasted to his door—Your sister called. Said it was urgent—he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking his druggy fug. 

Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.

With the news, the drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.

Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.

The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.

Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove behind her and the gleam of utensils from the table, forks and knives arranged in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food which she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.

But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.

And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose. Laoghaire’s side of the bed like a cold breeze.

My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.

The love of you was my soul.

and

Yours, Jamie

Forever, Jamie

Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie

On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.

All 4,380 of them. One letter for every day he had missed her.

The Killing Girl, 2006

Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)

CLAIRE RANDALL* , Chief of Staff at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.

Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.

Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story but more accurate, one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.

There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— following her parents, pushing them off the edge, feeding them into the river’s stone jaws. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.

Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year anger then, how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in. “Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours, either.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.

Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:

It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.

It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.

It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick notes—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.

And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:

“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”

“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”

“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How novel.”

“Truly, I am.”

“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”

“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”

“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”

“I am.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”

“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve. You—you…I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”

“Wanker.”

“Now Claire…”

“Just go.”

“Claire, please—”

“Go.”

And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.

And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.

All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire, forever spinning and spinning at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.

But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” 

They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything, everything shared. A cot, a child, bodies, sins, blame.

But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall. Divorce.

All her fault: Claire Randall, Chief of Staff. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.

[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]

Point of Convergence, 2007

Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons 

JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.

One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: a waiter dashing towards snapping fingers, the hostess offering towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them—of their readiness, how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.

Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.” 

But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came. 

Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. Thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.

So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.

At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, knocked the mirror off the wall.

At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.

At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited surrender.

At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.

At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand, lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips. 

At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.

At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…

At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.

At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.

At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”

At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”

At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song. 

12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.” 

12:53:27: “It’s me.”

And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.