#the worst thing you can do while writing: leave a sentence unfinished

[angeart]

You are in fact good at teasing xD you know I wanna ask but I know you were working on rambles before you got sick and I see those hmtb posts too -🎀

yeah i had to get into a fist fight with google doc over hmtb. it said this was enough angst and tried to stop me.

can't believe i have two unfinished hhau rambles going on and yet i'm teasing a third. but you can't blame me!! the au is too fun.

on the topic of teasing, this is currently sitting in the wip of mimic arc aftermath rambles:

Whenever his feelings slip and spiral a bit too much, he keeps begging Scar to stay. He pleads for him to not leave him again, in a choked, broken, terrified voice. 

He tells Scar he won't be able to take it the second time. He won't, he won’t.

[chucklesandwitch]

Philza and His Favorites

summary: it was always clear phil had favorites. it wasn’t like he kept it a secret, either.

word count: 2.9k

a/n: sorry if the format is weird. the timeline may be a little mixed up, and i know i skipped some plotlines, but i wrote this from memory so i did my best. also, this is my first piece of writing that im posting! :D you can read it on ao3 here!

     It was always clear Phil had favorites. It wasn’t like he kept it a secret, either. Even before Tommy, Phil always favored one twin over the other. And when he found his third son, shoveling dirt into his mouth by the handfuls in his back yard, well, it’s obvious he wouldn't exactly be on top of the list. 

     Growing up, it became more and more blatant to Wilbur and Tommy that they would never be above Techno. Phil always took his side during arguments, always thought that Techno could do no wrong. Wilbur was fed up. Years and years of being pushed to the side in favor of his twin almost had him at his breaking point. And when Phil broke the news that he and Techno were leaving to start their own Arctic empire, without his two other children, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Wilbur was screaming, begging, pleading for his dad to just pay a little bit of attention to him, and when he realized he would never get it from him, he packed his things, packed Tommy’s things, and together the two forgotten brothers ran as far away from their neglectful father as possible.

     They had been walking for days, taking refuge in small villages here and there, just waiting for their saving grace. Eventually, they found it. The Dream SMP. It was glorious. The ruler of the lands, Dream, had welcomed them with open arms and gave them a place to stay for as long as they wanted to. There, they met a plethora of people, including Fundy, Niki, Eret, George, and many other residents of the SMP. Not too long after they had gotten situated, Tommy met Tubbo. They had instantly clicked, and as an act of friendship, they found two discs that would always symbolize their friendship. 

     But the SMP wasn’t as perfect as it had once seemed. So, the two brothers alongside Tubbo, Fundy, Niki, and Eret had formed a new nation, L’Manburg. It was great! They ran a drug lab to keep the economy going, and even made some business partners. The boys had hardly forgotten about their dad, constantly wondering why they weren’t as important to him as Techno was. They pushed these thoughts to the back of their heads, gaining L’Manburg independence at the forefront of their minds. 

     In preparation for their first war of many to come, Tommy and Wilbur had become almost inseparable. They had built a nation with their own hands, together. And when Tommy offered up one of his lives in return for L’Manburg’s freedom, Wilbur’s heart almost broke on the spot.

     After winning L’Manburg its freedom, (If you could even call it winning), Wilbur felt as if it was unfair that he had just proclaimed himself president. In honor of true democracy, they decided to hold an election. Their party was the only one running, until one day someone from far away named Quackity, accompanied by George, wanted to put democracy to the test and created their own running party to rival Tommy and Wilbur’s, called SWAG2020. Suddenly, everyone seemed to have a burst of confidence after seeing Quackity challenge POG2020. All of the sudden, one running party had turned into four. POG2020, consisting of Tommy and Wilbur, SWAG2020, which included Quackity and George, COCONUT2020, comprised of Niki and Fundy, who had mainly run as a joke. And the last party, SCHLATT2020, a one-man party including someone that had been previously banned from the SMP. 

     So the election went on, and Wilbur never got too worried. He knew his people loved him, and he was confident that he would get their votes. Last minute, in an attempt to skew the votes, SWAG2020 and SCHLATT2020 elected to combine votes. And it worked. Leading SCHLATT2020 to victory with 46% of the vote. Immediately taking the stage, Schlatt was quick to revoke the citizenship of the brothers who had built the country he now ruled.

      The two of them were practically chased out of their L’Manburg, soon to be renamed Manburg. They found themselves in a ravine, both of them panicking and on the verge of tears. Tommy quickly sobered himself up, and declared that they would get their L’Manburg back, they just needed a little bit of help. So while the newly formed country was built in the bottom of a ravine, Tommy proposed the dreaded idea of calling his older brother. Wilbur was hesitant at first, but eventually was the one to give him the call as he knew it was for the best. When Technoblade showed up at the best possible time, they were elated! However, there was just a smidge of hope in the both of them that their father would accompany his favorite son. 

      Day after day, Wilbur was slowly going insane. Every day he wasn’t ruler of L’Manburg, he lost a bit of himself. He eventually had become so far gone, he believed that if he couldn’t have L’Manburg, then nobody could. He proposed his plan of blowing the place to smithereens to Tommy, who was immediately against it. Tommy just wanted his country back. He didn’t want it gone for good. Wilbur was persistent with this plan though, and recruited Dream to supply him with all the TNT he could ever ask for. He was just waiting for the opportunity to arise. And luckily for him, it came in the form of a festival. 

     The days leading up to the festival were some of Wilbur’s worst. He wasn’t himself, and everyone around him knew it. That didn’t stop them from helping him plant the TNT. The day of the festival, Tommy, Wilbur, and Tubbo had a hushed conversation on top of a building not far from the podium. Wilbur was having second thoughts about his plan, so he placed all of the weight on Tubbo. He told him to just say the word and he would detonate the explosives that would destroy the country he once ruled. And when Tubbo did say the line, Wilbur sprinted towards the button room, only to forget where it was. While Wilbur was away, Schlatt had put Tubbo in a cement box, accusing him of treason. With this, he called Technoblade up to the stage, ordering him to execute Tubbo. As he pulled the trigger on his rocket launcher, Techno looked back to his little brother, to see him on top of a building with a devastated look on his face. Techno didn’t seem to feel too guilty. He started slaughtering everyone around him. In the midst of Techno’s massacre, Tommy ran towards Wilbur, and before he could even get a word out, Wilbur was quick to tell him the TNT had been moved. 

     After the festival, a new war was declared. The Manburg v. Pogtopia war. They had finally won, they had gotten their L’Manburg back. As Wilbur stepped up to the mic, he suddenly turned on his heel and beckoned his younger brother and right-hand man to the stage. He handed L’Manburg to Tommy, and exited the stage. Tommy denied rulership of L’Manburg, stating he still had unfinished business to take care of and couldn’t rule L’manburg the way it should’ve been run, and so he handed the presidency to his best friend and partner in crime, Tubbo. While the presidency hot potato was going on, Wilbur was having an internal battle in the button room. He was reading the lyrics to My L’Manburg when he felt a presence behind him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over to see his father. His dad. He looked at him with tear-filled eyes, and detonated the TNT. He could feel the blast, feel the heat coming from behind him, washing over him in waves. 

     He looked over to see his dad’s shocked expression, and turned to face the chaos he had brought upon his L’Manburg. Seeing his younger brother’s expression is what finally did it. He took a step closer to Phil. He had seen the glimmering sword on his father’s back, and he knew what needed to happen.

      “Kill me, Dad. Please.”

      Phil couldn’t even look him in the eyes, he knew he had failed his son, and he knew that there was nothing ke could do about it now. So he unsheathed his sword, trying to ignore the feeling of taking away his son’s last life. Standing there, holding his son’s corpse, getting quickly covered in dirt and debris, he knew he had failed as a father. He dropped his son’s limp body to the ground and fled the scene, going back to the place he never should’ve escaped to in the first place. A little while later, his favorite son came home covered in blood, his clothes torn and crown slightly crooked on his head. Techno looked up at his father, only to see him also covered in blood. He quickly glanced over him and determined that it wasn’t his own blood. Before he could even utter the question, his dad shattered his world with one sentence. 

     “It’s Wil’s blood, Techno. He’s gone.”

      Techno swears he blacked out. His twin, his other half, was gone. The one person he should’ve been there for, he wasn’t. And now he was paying the price. Back at what was once L’Manburg, Tommy was lashing out. He didn’t know what to do without his older brother, didn’t know how to cope with the loss. So at first he went to Tubbo, only to realize Tubbo was too busy for him, he had presidential duties to attend to. With a heavy heart, Tommy leaves Tubbo’s office only to bump into someone new in town. Ranboo. Ranboo takes one glance at Tommy and knows he needs someone to talk to. However, Tommy doesn’t want to talk, he wants to wreak havoc on something, anything. He asks Ranboo for some help griefing George’s new vacation home, and Ranboo agrees almost instantly. Together they head to George’s newest property, wrecking the place, and starting a small fire that was completely accidental. It quickly gets out of hand, and before they know it George’s cottage has erupted into flames and suddenly they’re running. They arrive back to the partially rebuilt L’Manburg, and agree to ignore that it had ever happened, both of them happy to at least gained a new friend amidst all the chaos. 

       Meanwhile, Dream stumbles across George’s cottage in flames and immediately starts fuming. He knows exactly who did this, and he knows what he wants to happen to him. He storms into L’Manburg, and starts to silently place obsidian walls around the entire country. Tubbo and his cabinet rush out of the white house as soon as they notice what’s going on. Tubbo questions Dream, only to get a half coherent answer. All he managed to gather was that Tommy fucked up, and he needed to be put on trial for his actions. Once Tubbo finally got a cohesive answer from Dream, he was furious. He asked Tommy to do one thing for him, just one, and he couldn’t even do that. So he and Dream march to find Tommy, all while Fundy and Quackity try to talk Dream out of insisting exile. Tubbo is conflicted. He obviously doesn’t want to exile his best friend, but at the same time, what kind of leader would he be if he let criminals run free and let Dream build the walls?  During Tommy’s trial, Tubbo made the last minute decision to exile Tommy from the nation he once built. Dream forcefully escorted Tommy out of L’Manburg, but not before Tommy could spot the phantom of his favorite brother standing right in front of him. 

     Ghostbur insisted on coming on this “vacation” with Tommy, helping him establish Logsteadshire. Ghostbur didn’t stay long, and he only came to visit every so often. The only person to ever really visit Tommy, was Dream. The green man checked in on Tommy every day, making him put all of his belongings in a pit and blowing them up. The manipulation from Dream mixed with the lack of seeing his friends lead Tommy to the top of this pillar. While he peered down to what could be his doom, he had a sudden realization; Dream wasn’t his friend. He never was. Realizing this had put a pep back into his step, and he took off running, sprinting away from Logsted and never looking back. 

     He eventually came across what he could only assume was his oldest living brother’s home; the place he was abandoned by his father for: the Arctic empire. This was the last place he ever wanted to step foot into, but considering it was dark outside and he had been running for hours, he was just happy to get shelter, no matter where it was. He entered the home, and was immediately hit with the smell of his family. The nostalgia came crashing over him like a bunch of bricks. Taking another look around, he realized he was angry. What was so good about this place anyways? What did this place have that his childhood home didn’t? Was it him, was he what this place didn’t have? Shaking the thoughts from his head, he began rummaging through his brother’s chests. Finding lots of useful materials, and a few just for him, he began looking for a place to burrow for the time being. Settling on the underneath of the house, he got to work making his little hidey-hole. 

     He knew he couldn’t stay hidden forever. He just thought he would have more time than this. As Techno dragged him up the stairs by his ear, he profusely apologized. This was Techno’s first sign. Tommy never apologized. Forcefully sitting him down, he glared at his younger brother. 

     “Gapples. Now.” Techno demanded. 

      He expected a fight. He expected anything but this. As Tommy quickly emptied everything in his pockets all while still muttering apologies, Techno took a good hard look at his little brother. His clothes were torn, his eyebags were darker than Techno had ever seen them, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. Techno decided then and there that he would help Tommy, so long as Tommy helped him.

      And so the brother’s teamed up. They mutually agreed to help each other get what they wanted. Techno agreed to help Tommy get his discs back as long as Tommy helped him commit (minor) terrorism in his old home. They made a plan, and they had it all worked out. Until Tommy came to his senses, and realized just what he agreed to. He backed out of the plans, apologizing to his older brother, moving to stand next to Tubbo. Techno nodded solemnly, and formed an alliance with Dream, Tommy’s number one tormentor, right in front of him. Making a quick getaway, Techno and Dream run back to the empire, planning their reign of terror over L’Manburg while Tommy takes on the leadership role and motivates everyone to fight against them tomorrow.

     Doomsday roles around, and Techno’s here earlier than promised. Phil is here too, Tommy realizes. That hurt him more than he’d like to admit. (He likes to tell himself he isn’t too affected by Phil, but even he knows that’s a lie). He looks above him to see a large obsidian grid, for which he isn’t sure what its purpose is.  Surrounding him is his older brother, spawning wither after wither, laughing maniacally as his hound army relentlessly attacks anyone nearby. Next to Techno is his dad. His father, helping his favorite son destroy what he and Wilbur had worked so hard for. He felt like crying. He didn’t think seeing Phil here, helping Techno decimate L’Manburg could hurt any more than being abandoned did. He was wrong. So, very wrong. Knowing that his dad was here, and actively fighting against him gave him the answers he had always known. He was never Phil’s favorite, he never would be. 

     He’s only snapped out of his haze by the sound of agony-filled screams. He looks around this nation, just to see TNT raining from the obsidian grid. Oh. That’s what that's for. He seems surprisingly calm about this.  His main priority is making sure Tubbo is safe, and once he’s assured that he is, he started going after Techno. When he finally catches up to him, he can only seem to think of one thing. Techno isn’t his brother anymore. 

     “Technoblade, for once in your life just listen to me!” Tommy pleads, but it does no good. Techno just laughs in his face, going on and on about how his intentions were clear, how he was against government, and how he knew this was coming. Tommy realizes then that Techno was never in it to help Tommy, he was never on their side. He was only helping them for his own personal gain. 

     “You’re selfish.” Is the only sentence Tommy can form. He can’t even stand to look at the person he used to call family. He runs to find Tubbo, meeting him on top of the obsidian grid. They share a look that says more than words ever could. Tommy starts,

     “We’ve gotta end it, Tubbo. You and me. Just like it’s always been. We have to kill Dream.” He and Tubbo agree. It started with them, and it’s going to end with them.

     Standing there, peering down at the crater that was once his saving grace, Tommy sees Phil and Techno, bouncing around, seemingly guilt free. Locking eyes with his unremorseful father, Tommy decides then that Phil isn’t his dad. He never was. Techno wasn’t his brother, and Phil was never his dad. 

[bigskydreaming]

Seven Sentences Game

Challenge: post the last 7 sentences you wrote and tag 7 people

Tagged by @romanticism-is-maudlinism so here’s a bit I wrote for It’s The End of the World As We Know It (I Don’t Feel Fine), part of my Ric Grayson fix-it series Bury Your Dead. This part is Jason and Cass because I absolutely love pitting the two of them against each other as I view them as capable of getting under each other’s skin in a way nobody else can. Also, they’re not having a good day here, and they’re letting it out.....another part of their dynamic in my view is I see them as being unafraid to NOT pull their punches with each other, emotionally speaking.

Tagging @rose-blooms-red and whoever else still hasn’t done this, since I’m like, days behind lol. Also, its been way too many days since I opened up a WIP document so I used this to just start writing and I’m just posting what I wrote instead of just seven sentences. Also also, counting is hard.

******

“You used me.” Jason voiced the realization with what he thought was admirable aplomb, all things considered. He didn’t even reach for his gun or anything. Course, if that had less to do with the fact that this was his sister and more that this was his sister who would just take his gun away and smack him with it if he ever drew on her, well. No one would ever know. This was his internal monologue, dammit.

For her part, Cass said nothing. Not that he’d expected her to. Most people assumed her carefully constructed silences were all just a control freak issue born of her aphasia, but they were a conversational tactic in and of themselves. Leave no trait unweaponized, after all. 

That was their family credo, wasn’t it?

“That’s why you pulled me into this instead of doing it yourself. It was never about doing this together. It was because all your information gathering resources run through B or Oracle’s networks, and they would have wanted to know why you were looking into these particular names. But you know I have my own networks for when I want their noses butting out of my affairs, so you outsourced to me.”

Lacking little sister’s comfort with the quiet, Jason filled it with his continued musings, as he circled her like a creeper. Then he stopped the circling because her refusal to shift even to track his movements made it impossible to avoid being aware of the ‘like a creeper’ part while doing that. Ugh, she was just the worst.

“Were you looking for a denial?” She asked at last. Her bored tone made it obnoxiously anticlimactic.

“Nah, just pointing out that you’re as manipulative as the rest of us, oh much vaunted ‘best of us.’“

She smiled sharply. “I see that now Dick’s not here to project your insecurities onto, you’ve shifted them to me. Fun.”

Damn. He’d been mostly going for some kinda annoying sing-song rhyme thing there, but he might have to give her that point regardless. Fucking Freudian slips.

“And I know who I am,” she said. “The only one here afraid of a little introspection is you.”

“Challenge accepted!”

Cass rolled her eyes.

To be fair, the dramatically pointed finger might have been a bit over the top.

“See, you know what’s still curious to me? The why of it all. Why you’ve been going to such great lengths uncovering these little secrets of Dick’s, leaving no stone unturned when it comes to his potential unfinished business. Why you were so worried that Julienne might have been his. And you know what I think?”

She raised an eyebrow sarcastically. Jason didn’t know how else to describe it, but it was definitely what happened. That was a sarcastic eyebrow raise.

“I think its because you feel guilty.”

“Guilty,” she repeated, with a full speech’s worth of skepticism packed nice and tight into just the two syllables.

“Yup. Guilty. Because you don’t want there to be any reason he has to go back to being Dick Grayson,” he said with a flourish, relishing the way her gaze narrowed. "Anything making him feel an actual need to get his memories back. Because you don’t want him to be Dick Grayson. You want him to stay Ric. And you feel guilty about that, but its the truth all the same.”

“And why would I want that?”

“Because you want to keep believing I’m just an outlier.”

She stilled, which was a testament to him for being able to note the difference at all. Muscles vibrating with the faintest of microtensions. Here there be dragons.

Just meant he was right.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You’ve always been able to explain away the old man’s certain....aggressiveness towards me because of how much time I’ve spent physically at odds with the fam. Muddies the water. Makes it hard to see clearly where its just him reacting to a potential threat to his family and where he’s being the threat. But what if its not just me?”

Again, still, additionally, she remained quiet.

“And I think you know its not. I think you’ve suspected for awhile, even. But there’s a difference between knowing, and knowing.....and as long as Dick is still Ric, there’s no way to really know, right? But with all the dots he’s dropped without being able to connect them the way people with more of the whole picture can, like us.....once he gets his memories back, you couldn’t just not ask anymore. You’d have to know, once and for all. And you don’t want that. You’re afraid of that point of no return, because once past it, you might have to face that what you see when you look at B isn’t all there is to him. And if you can be that wrong about him? Well. You could be wrong about everything. And I think that scares the shit out of you, so yeah. You want Dick to stay Ric, and you feel guilty as fuck about it, but that doesn’t change the facts. And that’s what I think.”

She pursed her lips, the portrait of calm acceptance as she absorbed his tough love or total bullshit, depending on your point of view, and nodded once. Great. He was out here laying down harsh truths like he was.....someone who lays down a lot of stuff, whatever, look he was exhausted from all that unpacking, leave him alone, he needed to rest, but the point was.....all that and the best he got was a fucking nod? Screw it. Next time he was just gonna cut his losses and try for getting blood from a stone instead. Felt like that’d be more rewarding. Might see some actual dividends there.

Cass raised her hands and started making swift, fluid gestures that took him an embarrassing couple seconds to recognize as speech. Never as quick to transition from spoken word to signed as she was, he was left mentally running to catch up. Course, he suspected that was at least partially her intent.

“That’s what I love about you, little brother. Even when you have no clue what you’re talking about, you’re not afraid to commit and take it all the way.”

Punctuating with a middle finger, she pivoted sharply and stalked off into the darkness, vanishing within seconds. 

Ever the conversationalist, his sis.

[planetesastraea]

On the tip of his tongue

Read Part 1: On the Tip of his Fingers

Geraskier, Modern AU - Explicit - 10 179 words - Warnings: none

Character study, developing relationship, banter, feelings, Geralt vs words, bisexual!Geralt, bottom!Geralt, top!Jaskier, first time, handjobs, blowjobs, anal sex. Also contains pizza (mentioned)

Betaed by the wonderful @oxbridge-quality-fanfiction-co​​

Read on AO3

-

That morning Jaskier got woken up by a soft but firm hand on his shoulder and a husky voice saying his name.

“Hmmf?” was his very articulate reply, definitely worthy of the Creative Writing and Composition in Medieval Times professor he was. “Three words or less,” he would always say to motivate his students to answer questions during class and to start a conversation. Damn, they would have been proud.

“I gotta go,” the deep voice whispered and the previous evening suddenly came back to Jaskier. Geralt. Wow. Geralt . He sat up and blinked a few times before realising his eyes were open but the sun wasn’t up yet. Geralt was but a silhouette in the dark, his smell a mix of long-forgotten aftershave and well remembered sex.

“Mmokay,” Jaskier mumbled, rubbing one eye with his palm. “Thanks for telling me,” he said sleepily. There was a pause and he realised the sentence didn’t land well.

“Sorry. Didn’t want to sneak out,” Geralt replied tightly.

“Yeano, yeah- I meant it. Sorry. Me,” Jaskier said, pointing towards his own face in the dark, and thus proving the point to no one but himself, “not a morning person.”

Geralt snorted softly. Jaskier was overcome with a powerful wave of fondness and a guttural need to reach out and kiss him. Gods bless adorable bi himbos at law.

“I should get going,” Geralt said and Jaskier thought he heard some hesitation in his voice. The mattress dipped slightly as Geralt moved to stand up, and Jaskier reached out blindly. His hand found the inside of Geralt’s elbow and then slid down softly to the man’s wrist, finding his palm.

“Wait,” Jaskier said and Geralt waited. Then it dawned on him that he was supposed to say something . “Do you want to… see me again?” he offered, truly bringing his A-game as the (supposedly) most romantic man in the continent. (He was not boasting. It had simply been brought to his attention by many of his exes, and who was he to question the opinion of the people?) He tried not to sound too hopeful but it was too early in the morning and his acting skills needed a warm-up. After all, one couldn’t just naturally wake up that good.

The silence stretched in a way that made him uncomfortable, especially since Geralt was practically invisible in front of him. Geralt’s fingers brushed his and something in his chest relaxed, but only for a moment.

“I can’t,” Geralt started, making Jaskier’s heart drop, “make promises.”

And okay that wasn’t the worst he could have said but also - uh what ? “Okay? Well I- I’m not asking you to?”

“Hmm.”

“Geralt, I- I had a really nice time with you, you know? And I’d really like to have more… nice times with you. And not just sex, I mean, yes, sex was fantastic, it was , but also, well- what I mean is, I don’t expect you to like, abandon your life or whatever, I just-” he was running out of breath. “Gosh I’m talking too much again, fuck, please, say something? I’m getting zero feedback here and you have to know I’m gonna keep talking until you cut me off-”

“Sorry,” Geralt sighed, his fingers threading between Jaskier’s. “It’s just- This is… I haven’t been with someone in a while and,” he said with hesitation and left the sentence unfinished.

And never with a man , Jaskier thought, pretty sure of what was coming next. “Right,” he said, feeling his throat tighten. Not like he wasn’t used to falling for people who just didn’t have the same life plan- or day plan , even.

“But I think I would,” Geralt said, “like to see you again, I mean.”

“Wait, what?“ Jaskier’s brain derailed.

“I’d like to see you again?” Geralt repeated and it sounded even better the second time.

“Oh.”

"I… had a nice time, too.”

“Oh. Good,” Jaskier whispered, relief washing over him and unlocking the door to yearning. He moved forward, closer to Geralt, his hand sliding up to his shoulder, finding his cheek and feeling the beginning of a stubble under his fingers. “Good,” Jaskier murmured again. Feeling Geralt lean into him was the best reward. He moved his head closer and his nose rubbed softly against Geralt’s, the intimacy sweeter than some of the sex he’d had in the past.

Geralt inclined his head slightly and pressed a chaste, tender kiss against Jaskier’s lips.

Once they parted, phone numbers were exchanged and the soft wish of getting in touch soon was expressed - or, rather, as Jaskier put it as he walked Geralt to the door, “in touch and, well, in touch .” A freaking poet.

-

The morning after they “had a milkshake” - as Jaskier nicknamed their first close encounter - Geralt had gone home right before sunrise to find Eskel wide awake, sitting on the living room couch, a book on his lap. Eskel had looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and pressed his lips together to suppress a smile. “Coffee?” was all he had said and Geralt had been oh so grateful.

In the days that followed, he learned a bit more about Jaskier. He taught both poetry and musicology at university, gave private lessons, and performed with his band from time to time. Spring meant preparing finals, helping students to rehearse for auditions, and getting ready for the upcoming festivals The Bard would participate in. Between his schedule and Geralt’s, over a month had gone before they saw each other in the flesh again. But texting? Texting was definitely a Jaskier thing.

A couple of hours after Geralt had left, Jaskier had sent him a text saying “my bed misses you” . Geralt had promptly walked from one meeting to another, only realising at 6.30 pm during a phone call from Assengard, as he caught sight of the restaurant from across the street, that he had left Jaskier hanging. He tried to think of something clever on his way to pick Ciri up from her fencing class. To his surprise, his idea had worked very well on Jaskier.

Of course, as with most things concerning Jaskier, Geralt quickly discovered, it was prone to get out of hand. The man had decided that “the milkshake” would become “a thing”. The fact that Geralt’s favourite order at Denise’s included a vanilla milkshake with cream on top was apparently hilarious for reasons Geralt could not understand.

Since then, Geralt would receive texts from Jaskier every few days, ranging from “thinking of u” to “which one of these says ‘I am a 100%-responsible adult person who will turn your child into a virtuoso if you allow me to teach them?’” with a picture of two button-down shirts attached.

Geralt had left him on read , the bastard.

-

After the six most frustrating weeks of his life - yes, more frustrating than the whole summer he spent sharing a flat with a Spanish model who had very loud, very heterosexual sex on the other side of their paper-thin, shared bedroom wall - Jaskier finally got his hands back on his favourite lawyer’s ass.

They had agreed Geralt would meet him at his place that Friday after work. And so, Jaskier spent the afternoon trying to convince himself he could mark students’ essays, and was absolutely not in the hellish head-space where nervousness meets horniness. (He made it through five so he counted it as a win.)

He had changed outfits three times in two hours, and had promised Essi he absolutely was not falling for some seemingly perfect person who would then turn out to have a secret wife, three children and a dog (“Well since you’re asking, he has a very public ex-wife, one daughter, and a horse.” “A horse?” “Yup.” “What the hell?” “I have no fucking clue.”)

Jaskier was busy adjusting a sofa pillow to make it appear tidy-but-casual when the bell rang, making him jump out of his skin.

When he opened the door, Geralt looked like he was two seconds away from running back down the stairs and disappearing forever in some mysterious vineyard near Toussaint. Geralt, being the absolute asshole that he was, also looked like a fucking god amongst humans so Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him once again. He had almost forgotten how stunning the man was.

“Hi,” Geralt said.

Jaskier shook himself out of his dreamy smitten state and felt a tingle in his cheeks as he blushed. “Hey, come on in,” he said, waving the man inside.

Geralt had his hair tied in a casual bun and was wearing a black winter coat way above Jaskier’s pay grade. Gods, what a sight. Jaskier was fucked .

“Are you-”

“So how’s-”

They both started and stopped at the same time, which made Jaskier laugh and Geralt shake his head as he looked away, a side of his mouth rising into a smile. Boy, Jaskier thought, if Geralt was half as fond of him as he was of Geralt, they’d be married in three years, move to a farm in five, and adopt every stray dog in the area a year after that at the latest.

“Can I take your coat?” Jaskier offered.

As Geralt nodded, Jaskier got his hands on the lapels of Geralt’s coat, fingers absent-mindedly pressing against Geralt’s chest, feeling the soft wool, and the strong pecs underneath all the layers. A moment passed and he realised Geralt hadn’t moved an inch. He stopped staring at his own hand and, as he looked up, realised Geralt was looking at him. Or more like, looking at his mouth.

There was a beat and they both moved forward, catching each other’s lips.

“Fuck, is it ok to say I’ve missed you?” Jaskier breathed between two kisses.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, pushing Jaskier against the door and leaving his lips to kiss and suck the skin of his neck.

“Ah, okay, I’ll take that as a yes,” he half-moaned and got Geralt’s mouth back against his, kissing like he just couldn’t get enough- because he couldn’t. Geralt got rid of his coat, letting it fall onto the floor.

“M-maybe we should take a second to hang it. It looks expensive.”

“It’s a gift from my ex,” Geralt mumbled against Jaskier’s skin, biting tentatively at his Adam’s apple.

“Or we could stomp all over it,” Jaskier deadpanned. Geralt laughed against his throat and Jaskier felt it resonate through his chest.

“So you’re the possessive kind, then?”

“Uh,” Jaskier bit his lip, “only if that turns you on.”

Geralt kissed a line up to Jaskier’s ear and caressed him through his trousers as he nibbled at his earlobe. In the softest, most quiet whisper, he murmured: “It does.”

Jaskier groaned with pleasure and Geralt kissed him in earnest, his hand still fondling the man’s inseam. He pressed his pelvis against Jaskier’s and both moaned from the supplementary friction.

“Let me try something?” Geralt asked against Jaskier’s lips before promptly getting down onto his knees.

“Oh, wow, okay,” Jaskier gasped as Geralt went straight for his belt. “Ah- w-wait, you- you sure?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, undoing the man’s button and zipper until Jaskier’s hands came to rest softly over his.

“No, I’m serious, you don’t have to.”

"I know,” Geralt answered, looking up at him. “I want to.”

“Okay. Okay. Just stop if it’s not good with you, right?”

“Right.”

He pulled Jaskier’s trousers down, not wasting any time. The curved line of his hardening cock was obvious under his underwear and Geralt slowed down, caressing the back of Jaskier’s thigh with one hand, the other moving up to his crotch. He palmed Jaskier through his boxer briefs (his navy blue boxer briefs) and was delighted to see him try to control his breathing through the surging wave of desire.

“Take them off for me?” Geralt asked, his voice rough with arousal.

Jaskier breathed out shakingly and slid his thumbs under the waistband, pulling his underwear down under Geralt’s relentless attention. Unable to stop himself, Jaskier took his own cock in hand and stroked himself, humming with pleasure with the first movement of his wrist. Geralt was sitting on his ankles, mesmerised.

“You like watching?” Jaskier asked, and even though the answer was pretty obvious, Geralt didn’t say it out loud. He raised to his knees, kissing the inside of Jaskier’s thighs, every breath softly tickling Jaskier’s skin, the hand maintaining its rhythm.

Moving upwards, Geralt’s tongue darted out to lick Jaskier’s balls, surprising him so much the back of his head hit the door, generating a moan which turned into a wince and then back into a moan again. Geralt’s smile shaped the kiss he pressed on Jaskier’s thigh as his fingers brushed through the man’s pubic hair, and slid up to find Jaskier’s hand, slowing it down.

Jaskier felt Geralt’s hot breath coming closer to his cock and had to bite his lower lip when the other man’s lips brushed against his fingers, kissing them one by one, silently asking him to let go. Jaskier didn’t need much convincing until, of course, fuck his goddamn unstoppable brain, a thought occurred to him.

“Wait!” he exclaimed and, at least, was blessed with the sight of Geralt looking up at him with surprise, his lips apart, tongue visible, and… Fuck, he looked so innocent and yet devilishly hot like this.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Just- safety, right? You can, uh, get STIs. From, you know, sucking off someone unprotected. So you should be safe, you know.”

“Uh,” Geralt frowned. “Do you have STIs I should worry about?”

“No, I’m clean. I just mean, you know, in general.”

“I don’t need sex ed, Jaskier.”

“I know,“ he said, unconvincingly. "I’m just saying. Cause, like, it matters, and, you… well, you know.”

“I know,” he nodded even though he didn’t really. “Anything else?” he asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly.

“Well, you shouldn’t take my word for it.”

“What?” Well, he only had himself to blame, right? He did ask.

“That I’m clean. I mean you can’t take people’s word for it, sometimes people just-”

“ Jaskier. I’ve slept with strangers before,” Geralt said bluntly, missing the brief pained look on Jaskier’s face at being classified as a stranger . “You’re clean. I’m clean. If you’re fine with this, I’m fine with this.”

“Yes. Yeah, I am. I am. Sorry,” Jaskier shook his head. “Did I just ruin it? It’s just, it matters you know, so I figured-”

“Jask. I get it. It’s fine,” Geralt said, rubbing his thumbs on each of Jaskier’s hip bones. “Can I suck your cock, now?” he asked softly. Jaskier’s worries disappeared from his mind instantly, and he nodded enthusiastically about twelve times above the consent limit.

Geralt took him into his hand and stroked him, slowly but firmly, further limiting his brain’s already diminished access to oxygen. Geralt’s other hand had reached out to fondle his ass and his fingers began to lightly drum along the back of Jaskier’s thigh, brushing softly, ghosting against his skin, and sending a brand new kind of sparks of want to Jaskier’s cock.

After a few strokes, Geralt brought his lips to the base of Jaskier’s shaft, kissing the hairs in a way one could have described as chaste if it hadn’t been happening so close to another man’s dick. He then proceeded to drop fuller kisses on the soft skin of Jaskier’s cock, pressing his lips against the skin almost reverently as his hand kept working Jaskier. When he was satisfied with the soft noises and the sound of fast breathing above him, he guided his hand back to the base of Jaskier’s cock, pumping a few times before guiding the tip of Jaskier’s dick to his mouth as he licked .

“Fffuck-” Jaskier gasped, and Geralt smiled.

Wetting his lips, he opened his mouth and wrapped it around the very tip of Jaskier’s cock, kissing it wetly, his tongue running against the underside. He let go, only to kiss the side of the head with an open mouth and then took Jaskier’s cock again.

As soon as he had run into Geralt at the bar, Jaskier had been both mindlessly infatuated and completely unsure what to expect. Geralt’s enthusiasm for learning to give head was definitely one of the things he didn’t see coming.

Geralt’s hand fondled his butt cheek again. As he pressed the tip of his fingers lightly against his sacrum, Jaskier sighed and angled his pelvis forward the way Geralt’s hand invited him to. Geralt took a slow breath through his nose, obviously trying to relax as much as he could as he moved forward, taking in a little more of Jaskier in his mouth and sliding his lips over the ring of Jaskier’s cock.

“Oh,” escaped from Jaskier’s lips as Geralt drew back slightly and took more of him again. “Oh darling, oh, yes, that’s good,” he stammered, caressing Geralt’s cheek before drawing back and slapping his hand against the door to ground himself and to restrain from grabbing the back of Geralt’s neck.

Geralt groaned softly at the loss, reaching out for Jaskier’s hand, closing his eyes as soon as he felt Jaskier’s touch again. He moaned as he kept sucking him slowly, clearly enjoying the guiding hand on his cheek.

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier moaned. His thumb rubbed softly against Geralt’s stubbly cheekbone before his hand slid against his cheek and jaw encouragingly. “Oh, that’s good, yeah that’s- Keep going, love,” he whispered again.

Biting his lower lip, Jaskier kept caressing Geralt’s cheek, whispering sweet nothings and sliding his fingers through the other man’s hair, convinced Geralt would have purred around his cock if he could.

"That’s really good, sweetheart,” and as Geralt enthusiastically took him a tad deeper, he just couldn’t help himself. “Oh, that’s my good boy ,” he moaned and Geralt all but choked on his dick.

Pulling back and resting a hand against the floor, half-slipping on his discarded coat, Geralt coughed and tried to get his breath back from choking on his own spit.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry-” Jaskier kneeled by him hastily - and heavily . Having his jeans pooled around his knees wasn’t exactly helping him be graceful. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Geralt rasped, a bright shade of pink all over his face. He coughed again.

“Do you need a drink or something?”

Geralt laughed brokenly through a cough. “To help me forget I could have bitten your dick off?” he asked and Jaskier huffed.

“Don’t be silly,” he smiled, brushing away the hair across Geralt’s face as he leaned to kiss him. “This cock has seen worse.”

“That’s always comforting,” Geralt mumbled against his lips.

Jaskier laughed and caught his lips into another kiss, enjoying the way Geralt sighed comfortably, and held on to the back of his neck. His hand wandered to find the hem of Geralt’s shirt and slipped under his waistband before he arrived at a bright idea. “What if - and I know it’s going to be a very bold, and novel concept, but hear me out - what if we stopped using my front door and living room floor as acceptable fucking surfaces and straight out moved to the bed?”

“Hmm,” Geralt mused falsely. “Didn’t know there was anything straight about you,” he snarked and was met with a playful slap on the breast accompanied by Jaskier’s cackling laughter.

“Oh, look who’s talking now!”

They fumbled to get Jaskier back on his feet - “well I do love to spend time on my knees” - and got rid of the jeans which were annoyingly getting in their way, to then move on to the bedroom.

-

His bedroom, Jaskier decided, was absolutely ruined . Nothing would ever look better than Geralt sprawled on his bed, naked, his hard cock pressed against his lower belly. If Geralt ever decided to break things off with him - a thought which, despite people often calling him dramatic, he knew was perfectly realistic - Jaskier would have to change the room entirely. He would repaint the walls, get new furniture, burn the bed, maybe, or - to simplify - move places. No, there was no way a single soul could ever sleep on sheets which had touched Geralt’s skin without missing his presence like any respectable bard would miss their medieval lute.

At that moment, however, this bard was straddling Geralt’s lap, his arms around Geralt’s neck, while being held around his middle and kissed languorously. They were both naked, every inch of skin yearning to feel the other, and not a single thing was amiss.

“Would you like to touch yourself for me, darling?” Jaskier asked between two kisses, his voice low and syrupy.

A groan came from the bottom of Geralt’s throat and vibrated against Jaskier’s tongue.

“Fuck, I love the noises you make,” he whispered against Geralt’s lips, catching the man’s tongue in another open-mouth kiss.

Geralt started stroking his own cock and howled, and Jaskier broke the kiss unintentionally, unable to stop smiling at the sheer bestiality of the man.

Jaskier smacked his lips against Geralt’s a few more times as Geralt chased his mouth for more. Curving his hand around Geralt’s cheek, he kissed him one more time before slipping his thumb on his lips. He didn’t expect Geralt to kiss his finger, chastely, then lick its tip and lustfully take it in his mouth. Jaskier didn’t sigh as much as he whined .

“Would you prepare yourself for me?” Jaskier asked, making his intentions clearer, his voice a bit hesitant but hopeful.

Geralt let go of his thumb, letting Jaskier caress his lips lovingly. “Maybe it’s better if you do it,” he said, kissing the inside of Jaskier’s palm in an obvious attempt to hide his face.

“Is it?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt closed his eyes, something like regret written on his face.

“I’m not very good at it,” he grimaced.

“You’ve done it before?”

Geralt hummed, uncomfortable. “Since last time,” he clarified. “It didn’t really- I don’t know, maybe it’s not my thing,” he shrugged, still avoiding Jaskier’s eyes.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispered, his voice coated with kindness, unable to stop himself as he tipped Geralt’s chin up and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips. “You can’t become a virtuoso on the first try,” he said.

Geralt frowned but then hid his discomfort behind a playful look. “Are you saying my ass is a musical instrument-”

“Shush, you!” Jaskier giggled. “I’m trying to be serious, for once!” he chastised him.

Geralt snickered and hid his face back into Jaskier’s hand, softly kissing his wrist.

“Maybe you had one of the best orgasms of your life the first time you rubbed one out but we , regular human beings, had to work for it,” he paused for more dramatic flair. “L ong and hard and again and again …” he wiggled his eyebrows and Geralt snorted. “We learn what feels good and what doesn’t. Just because you’re ol-” Geralt gave him a pointed look “ -der doesn’t mean you don’t need to get to know yourself.”

“Nice save,” Geralt deadpanned.

“I know, right? Almost seamless,” Jaskier smiled back, clearly full of shit, and went in for a kiss.

“Hmm,” Geralt sighed. “I think I’d rather-” he hesitated, “get on with it, you know.”

“Get on with it?” It was Jaskier’s turn to raise an unconvinced eyebrow.

“Yeah, just get it done.”

“My, what a romantic you are,” Jaskier snickered and Geralt rolled his eyes, trying to make amends by rubbing Jaskier’s skin with his thumb where his hand rested on his hip.

“You just said it, first times suck. I just gotta- get through it and then, well. Hopefully, we get to the good stuff.”

“G- get through it ? You know this isn’t CrossFit, right?”

Geralt snorted. “You know what I mean,” Geralt said, then bit his lip as he frowned, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s. “You know I’m not-,” he waved his hand, “good at this.”

“Words?”

He puffed. “Yeah, words.”

“Yeah, I got that. I hear you.” Jaskier smoothly brushed a strand of hair back behind Geralt’s ear. “There’s something else I heard. ‘First times suck’ ? Well challenge accepted, my dear,” he said and Geralt laughed as he kissed him again.

Geralt let himself be slowly pushed down to the bed as they kissed, his hands moving up Jaskier’s back, feeling the muscles along the way. His hand reached the back of Jaskier’s neck, covering it for a moment before he buried his fingers into the man’s hair as they softly ground against each other.

Jaskier slid his hand between them, giving both of their cocks a pull before moving lower. “Raise your legs for me, darling?” he asked in low tones, sliding his hands under Geralt’s knees. He could feel Geralt slightly tensing up as he set his feet to the mattress. It didn’t feel like it had anything to do with the scar Jaskier had brushed with his fingertips.

“Shouldn’t I be on my hands and knees?” he asked in a breath while Jaskier’s hands found their way back to his chest.

“You could,” he kissed a spot on his jaw, caressing Geralt’s pectoral. “You don’t have to.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier?” his voice was fairly tight and Jaskier faintly wondered if it was any clue to the state of his ass- and then kept the thought very much to his stupid dick-jokes self.

“Nah, not necessarily,” he whispered, trying to make his hands into a calming, solid presence against Geralt’s skin, caressing his breasts, his ribs, his clavicles, lining his scars with the care they deserved. Whichever God carved this man’s body, Jaskier swore to worship them until the end of his days.

“It can be straining to hold that position. Also…” Jaskier raised himself to face Geralt, picking up the man’s hand as it slipped over his shoulder and kissed the root of each finger. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable with it,” he said. “We don’t have to do it today.” He weaved his fingers between Geralt’s and kissed their tips. “And we don’t have to do it ever.”

Geralt’s face became closed off as he took a slow breath in, bolting up the gates before Jaskier had a chance to read him. He raised to meet Jaskier, his hand finding the perfect place at the back of his neck, and kissed him earnestly.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said against his lips.

“Yeah?” Jaskier gasped. “Got you, loud and clear,” Jaskier whispered and leaned into another kiss.

He broke away from Geralt to reach his nightstand drawer, pulling out some lube and condoms. He grabbed a pillow, invited Geralt to raise his hips and slid it underneath.

“Now, where was I?” he said under his breath, settling between Geralt’s legs and rubbing their bodies against each other. Geralt moaned and wrapped a leg around Jaskier’s pelvis, grinding back eagerly.

Holding his thigh with one hand, Jaskier began kissing his neck, licking and biting the skin at his throat, intending to take care of every inch of Geralt’s body. He licked one of Geralt’s nipples, extracting a moan from Geralt when he sucked and scraped his teeth against the strong muscle of his tit. Feeling Geralt slowly relax under his hands, he headed lower, kissing the pale hairy line that led from his navel to his cock.

He squeezed Geralt’s cock gently, carefully caressing the tip with his thumb and watching the precome spread, shiny against the soft skin. He looked up at Geralt as he moved his hand steadily up and down, a spark of ecstasy jumping from his heart to his cock at the sight of Geralt, eyes closed, biting his lower lip. Every moment assured Jaskier that pleasuring this man was actually his entire life’s purpose.

Geralt hummed with pleasure as Jaskier wrapped his lips around his cock, already struggling not to buck his hips when Jaskier took more of him in his mouth.

Jaskier couldn’t help but hum around his dick as he took it in, playing with depth and rhythm like a true maestro, his fingers threading through the light grey curls of Geralt’s pubes. He then let go of Geralt’s cock with an obscene pop that made him laugh and licked up from the spot right above Geralt’s balls.

Geralt’s hips stirred in both pleasure and surprise.

Jaskier got his hands back on the lube as he kissed and licked the man’s balls, encouraged by the whines and groans that escaped Geralt’s throat. He warmed his lubed fingers against each other and caressed Geralt’s ass with what he wouldn’t deny was absolute adoration. “Can I touch you, darling?” he asked, his voice a bit rough.

Geralt breathed a “yeah” and sounded almost like he was begging but Jaskier gracefully didn’t comment on it. (He, however, definitely took note.) Instead, he slid a hand between Geralt’s cheeks and brushed a finger against his hole as his mouth drove back down Geralt’s beautifully thick cock.

Jaskier teased a little, trying out different pressures against the man’s hole before the song of Geralt’s moans left no room for doubt. He slid his forefinger in while his other hand caressed Geralt’s inner thigh and finally felt the heat of Geralt’s body wrapped around his finger. He pulled back slightly and pushed again, this time steadily driving his finger deeper, synching his hand with the movements of his neck.

Despite Geralt’s frequent struggles with words, his gasps and moans were graced with great clarity and proved sufficient to let Jaskier know he was right to keep going. As far as non-verbal cues go, he also quickly found delight in feeling the walls of Geralt’s ass tightening around him and the taste of more precome coating his tongue.

“ Ah , your mouth,” Geralt moaned, reaching out and grasping onto Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier closed his eyes and moaned, aching for better friction than the bit of sheet he could rub his cock against. Grabbing the lube with one hand, he couldn’t help but jerk himself a couple of times as Geralt’s hand kept pulling his hair with each bop of his head.

Pointedly slowing down and looking up, he waited for Geralt’s attention to focus on him. He made a point of keeping their eyes locked as he shamelessly pulled up and let go of his cock. “D’you want another finger, honey?” he asked, perfectly aware of how depraved he had to look with his hair astray and his lips as probably as crimson as the tip of Geralt’s cock.

Geralt pulled him closer and met him with a crushing kiss as he nodded and moaned against Jaskier’s brow. “Hm- wait,” he breathed, holding Jaskier back as he started to let go, “I haven’t touched you at all,” he complained, his hands cupping Jaskier’s ass in a kind but firm grasp.

“Ah- It’s alright, love,” Jaskier said. “We’ve got time for that,” he smiled against Geralt’s lips but before he could leave again, Geralt grabbed his hand.

“I want you to feel as good as I do,” he breathed.

“Oh, trust me, darling, I’m feeling fantastic,” Jaskier grinned. They kissed one more time before Geralt let go of him and Jaskier drove his attention back to his lover’s lower body.

Geralt sighed as he settled his head back against his pillow, muttering something about how Jaskier was going to kill him.

Jaskier brought one hand at the base of Geralt’s cock, put his mouth back to work and fingered him a little while longer before adding another slick finger. Geralt whined and Jaskier reached out for his hand, threading their fingers together, hoping Geralt would know it was his way of checking in before Geralt sighed “ Yeah, s’good ,” in a tone that sounded pretty far gone.

He fucked Geralt with his fingers a few tentative times and curled them softly on the way out. In case he had any doubt his fingers were brushing against the right spot, Geralt’s hips jerked, driving his cock further down Jaskier’s throat.

“Ah, fuck ,” Geralt moaned. “Fuck, sorry,” slipped from his lips as if he was holding back so many more words.

Jaskier squeezed his hand in reassurance and kept sucking on Geralt’s dick until he could feel him tremble. He rubbed against Geralt’s prostate, drinking in every noise leaving the man’s lips, every movement revealing his pleasure.

“Ah, Jask,” Geralt moaned again, clutching to Jaskier’s hand like nothing would ever be able to make him let go. “Jas- Jaskier, ah , Jask, wait, I’m gonna-”

His hips buckled and his back raised from the mattress as he came, mouth open, gasping. He moaned and groaned as Jaskier kept fucking him onto his fingers until he was done spilling.

Jaskier slid his fingers out of Geralt’s ass, unable not to pull on his own cock even as he wiped off his mouth and tried to catch his breath, resting his forehead against the soft flesh of Geralt’s hip.

“Fuck,” Geralt whispered as he stretched, the last tingles of pleasure leaving his body. He brought his hands to his face, covering his blush and groaned “ fuck ” in a wholly different tone.

“Hey,” Jaskier gasped, slowing down the movements of his wrist and bringing his other hand to touch Geralt’s arm. “Hey, you alright?”

“Hmm,” he groaned from under his hands.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he asked and Geralt huffed.

“I just came like a teenager, darling ,” Geralt mumbled, the edge of his sarcasm largely smoothed out by post-coital bliss.

Jaskier chuckled. “No, you didn’t. You held up really well,” he said, caressing Geralt’s forearm. “My charms were simply too mighty for you to keep it in any longer,” he whispered, and kissed his other wrist and hand, hoping Geralt would emerge from his hiding place.

Geralt groaned again, unconvinced, but let his hand slip away when Jaskier kissed his knuckles, allowing the other man to paint his cheek with the sweet brush of his lips.

“I wanted you,” Geralt whispered, in a weak, almost plaintive way.

“I’m still right here, love,” Jaskier whispered back. “You still have me,” he said at the corner of Geralt’s lips, pressing his mouth softly against his. He found Geralt pressing back with the same tenderness then savouring the taste his own come on Jaskier’s tongue.

They stayed like this for a moment, simply enjoying the warmth of each other’s arms, slowly kissing and holding each other.

“Do you need me?” Geralt asked after Jaskier buckled against his hips involuntarily.

“If your schedule allows it,” Jaskier joked, hiding his face in his neck and humming as he rubbed himself against Geralt.

“What do you want?” Geralt asked, caressing the length of Jaskier’s back, pressing his fingers along the muscles, waking up every fibre of Jaskier’s body.

“This,” Jaskier murmured, “This is perfect.”

He rubbed himself slowly against Geralt as the man covered him in caresses, the callousness of Geralt’s hands contrasting with the softness of his gestures. He ground against Geralt’s hip lazily, welcoming the pressure of Geralt’s hands on his ass, feeling the imprint of each finger into his flesh. His cock was still smeared with lube and the mess he’d spit onto Geralt’s pelvis made for a dirty, wonderful help.

“You look so good like this,” Geralt whispered, kissing a spot under his ear. “You feel so good against me,” he said softly, his tenderness almost making Jaskier come on the spot.

“ Ah , please, touch me,” he begged and Geralt reached for his cock like a servant knight, enthusiastically escorting him to rapture as Jaskier fucked into his hand again and again and again , his shout resonating through the bedroom as he came.

Geralt held him as Jaskier made his way back down, their bodies sweaty and well spent, comfortably intertwined.

After a while during which Jaskier’s mind drifted and fluttered between sleep and consciousness, he adjusted his body to kiss the side of Geralt’s jaw.

“Care to be introduced to my shower?” he asked sleepily.

“Hmm. Good call,” Geralt nodded, and pressed a kiss against his temple.

-

When Geralt walked out of the shower, freshly cleaned up and smelling like Jaskier’s lemon soap, his clothes were neatly arranged on the bed. He got dressed and followed the sound of Jaskier’s humming, finding him in the kitchen frowning at some delivery menus. He was biting his lip, seeming pretty conflicted and Geralt surprised himself thinking: shit, he’s cute.

He kept expecting to have a change of heart any minute now. It was, after all, bound to happen, the next logical step, the most probable outcome: one morning he would wake up and realise that surely this had all been fun but he wasn’t into it anymore. He just had gotten a bit confused and wasn’t actually feeling so much for this man- or any other man, or any other person for that matter.

After splitting up with Yen, he thought he’d never grow fond of someone enough to want anything (at least anything more than sex, but even sex was quite low on his list of priorities). With Jaskier, though- it was like every other day, Geralt would find another thing he’d like to share with the handsome man who had run into him and insisted on sticking around.

“Hey,” Jaskier said, noticing him in the doorway. “So I was thinking, either Casa Lauretta or Athumani’s Kitchen , what do you think? And before you say anything- I know , take out again, but I can’t both try to seduce you and subject you to my cooking.”

Geralt snorted. “You’ve had me in your bed already. Twice. ” he said, raising a playful eyebrow. “At what point will you consider me successfully seduced?”

“Uh, I don’t know, some time between the third dog and the second honeymoon, I guess?” Jaskier pretended to ponder.

Geralt blinked at him and his smile froze on his face. He often struggled with words to begin with but Jaskier mastered the art of leaving him speechless. Banter was his realm. Jaskier knew the terrain by heart and he revelled in it. He was light on his feet and quick on his toes. Every time Geralt tried to play his game and stepped towards Jaskier, the distance separating them seemed to grow.

He felt like a novice trying to catch up with a man who had hiked the trail his whole life, knew its twists and turns by heart. No matter how much he tried to relax and enjoy the sights by Jaskier’s side, he still felt the man would always be ahead of him. Like he would never be able to catch up and stay stuck in the land of the new and uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat. “What’s in these cupboards of yours?“ he asked, brushing past Jaskier to open a few of them. At first, the answer seemed to be both everything and not much at all . But after initial confusion, he realised Jaskier might actually have a system.

Items weren’t sorted by kind but rather by what goes well together: canned mushrooms next to rice, coconut milk next to curry powder, sliced bread between jam and mustard. He wasn’t sure why "365 Lesser-known Eastern Medieval Poems” was stacked with cereals, or why Jaskier’s watch was in a bowl, but he could find out with time.

Something tickled the back of his neck and he realised Jaskier was playing with his hair, a bit of a smitten look on his face. As Geralt looked at him, Jaskier froze and blushed.

“Sorry,” he said, retreating his hand. “I love your hair,” he said sheepishly.

“I lost my hairband somewhere,” Geralt said, looking around.

“It looks good like this too,” Jaskier said. “Pretty sure it looks good all the time,” he smiled and brushed an escapee strand of hair back behind Geralt’s ear.

And here it was: another immensely confusing thing about Jaskier. The man radiated self-confidence 99% of the time. He could bathe in the attention of a crowd, flirt shamelessly with a complete stranger and whisper the filthiest words, dirtiest things- he could fantasize out loud about getting married to a man he’d only known for a few weeks. Yet there was also a shyness about the smallest of things, a vulnerability . It made Geralt want to pick him up and take him to safety- and he was perfectly aware of how ridiculous that sounded. But it felt like maybe, Jaskier’s hidden, more reserved side was a path where they could meet halfway.

He leaned towards him and kissed the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said.

Jaskier smiled and his whole face illuminated. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Good,” Geralt nodded, taking his attention back to the cupboard. And so here he was again, taking a step back on what had started to feel like a comfortable route and stiffly navigating in between the metaphorical potholes on the road leading to Jaskier. As it turned out, talking about how his ass felt after getting fingered was not Geralt’s forte either. But Jaskier - in a moment of extreme humility - had described himself as a master of words and rhythm and that’s exactly what he was. He could use any word, touch upon any topic, express any emotion. Jaskier had a whole planisphere at his disposal, a means to take any road; Geralt had shitty directions and a compass that only told North once in a blue moon.

“No pain?”

“No,” he answered, closed the cupboard and exited Jaskier’s personal space to grab the menus. “Maybe delivery’s better, you’re right,” he said.

“Hmm,” Jaskier answered. “You do that a lot,” he pointed out.

Geralt gave him a look above his shoulder. “What?”

“Changing topics. Avoiding conversations,” Jaskier explained lightly. His tone was not judgemental. He was merely making an observation.

And so, “I’m not,” Geralt lied. He only realised he had lied the second he heard himself. Fuck . “I didn’t realise there was more to say.” Less of a lie. Not quite a half-truth.

Jaskier sighed softly and settled next to Geralt, pressing his forearms against the kitchen counter. "Margherita, then?” he asked. Geralt could see the tight shape of his lips and the square angle of his shoulders. Jaskier had obviously seen right through him but was dropping the subject for his sake.

“You’re disappointed,” he said and Jaskier’s head shot back up to look at him.

“With the pizza options?” Jaskier joked weakly.

“With,” he hesitated. “Me.”

“No-” Jaskier argued right away, raising his hand to cut him off. But Geralt knew how it was, what people expected, not unfairly, versus how little he could offer.

“It’s fine,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I-,” he paused to weigh his words carefully, eyes focused on the menus. "I’m not very good at-” he hesitated then snorted under Jaskier’s confused look. “ Opening up ?” he said, raising an eyebrow in Jaskier’s direction.

Jaskier laughed and reached out to rest his hand over Geralt’s. “Well, we’ve talked about this,” he said, with a shine in his eyes. “Practice makes better.” Geralt hummed, looking at Jaskier’s hand over his. To his surprise, Jaskier retracted his hand somewhat suddenly and he missed the weight of it right away. “And it’s not like we know each other that well, as you said,” he shrugged, at the edge of Geralt’s field of vision.

“I am ok,” he said, answering Jaskier’s previous question more honestly. “Bit weird but ok.” His brain then caught up with Jaskier’s words a moment too late; as you said ?

"Okay,” Jaskier said, offering a shy smile. “I- it’s okay if it doesn’t come naturally to you. I just- well, I’d just like you to be more comfortable with me. But we’ll get there, right?”

Geralt swallowed, closing and opening the hand that was resting on the counter to get rid of a slight tremor. Saying yes would have been another lie. He couldn’t make that promise. He had tried before, thought that maybe if he forced himself to be enough then things would work out eventually- but they hadn’t.

And so it would have been easy to say no , to back off entirely. He could tell Jaskier he wasn’t interested in building something, just wanted an easy fuck, to experiment a bit, and had simply gotten lucky enough to find a guy who wasn’t repelled by his shitty personality and off-putting scars. It would have been so easy- to tell Jaskier, “I don’t know what you thought you were getting out of this, but you won’t get me .” It was complete and absolute bullshit, a sad pack of lies, but it would be so much easier. He could get back to his life, his job, his kid and the handful of friends he still had, and never think about blue eyes or milkshakes again.

If only the thought didn’t make him nauseous.

Fuck, he wanted this.

“This isn’t casual for you, is it?” he asked, voice tight, and Jaskier startled, almost taking a step back. His face made an odd succession of expressions and he opened his mouth a couple of times before closing it again.

“I- I can be casual. I can be very casual. That’s not a problem, that’s not a- but I-,” he sighed and brushed his hand through his hair nervously. “Fuck, you really don’t fuck around, do you?” Geralt tried to come up with something to say but Jaskier shook his head, his voice way calmer now even if a bit wavering. “No. No, I don’t think I want to be casual with you. And- And you- you don’t w-”

“Me neither,” Geralt cut in before panic took over Jaskier.

The man’s eyes grew a little wider. “You neither?” he asked, and fuck if that wasn’t the most obvious display of naked hope Geralt had ever seen on anybody’s face.

Geralt shook his head and Jaskier seemingly had to fight a full-body shiver.

Jaskier walked the two steps separating them and kissed Geralt with his entire soul. When he pulled back, Geralt leaned into him again for another taste of his tongue. He brought a hand to Jaskier’s cheek and kissed him with feeling. When they parted, he kept his eyes closed, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s, the tip of his fingers grazing the short hair behind his ear.

“I’m not used to wanting…” Geralt said. “Sex is good. But usually I don’t- I don’t want more. With you, I- I don’t want to ru- to leave . And it’s…”

“Weird, isn’t it?” Jaskier offered, his voice tight but tone playful. The shy smile on his lips was a delicious cherry on top, making the teasing even softer. (Little did Jaskier know that a cherry was the only thing in Geralt’s opinion that could ever improve a creamy vanilla milkshake.)

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Geralt huffed. Jaskier kissed him, and after working through so many words, Geralt ran out of things to say. “So, yeah. Margherita’s good,” he whispered, and it was his turn to make Jaskier laugh. The man cleared his throat and sighed like a weight had been taken off his chest.

“I can’t believe you said all that before even knowing Lauretta delivers vanilla milkshakes,” he said and Geralt poked him in the ribs until they half-wrestled, laughing, Jaskier’s back hitting the fridge- and they were kissing again.

-

They talked over dinner for a while. Jaskier came up with questions for Geralt to answer, helping him ease into a casual conversation. They teased and flirted and laughed, and soon ended up in bed again, tasting each other’s skin and leaning into each other’s curves.

“Full disclosure?” Jaskier whispered against Geralt’s mouth as he was straddling him. “I really fucking love those tits of yours,” he said, cupping Geralt’s chest with his two hands. Geralt scoffed in between two kisses.

“They’re called pecs,” he said, enjoying the way Jaskier’s hands were basically venerating his chest.

“Nuh-uh,” Jaskier replied, “I, good sir, am an artist, not an anatomist, and these are definitely some of the most magnificent boobies I have ever had the chance to see, touch and lick,” he said, brushing a nipple with his thumb while kissing Geralt’s jaw.

Geralt snorted and kept caressing Jaskier’s incredibly precious ass.

Jaskier sighed with contentment. “So, tell me your secret,” he mumbled against Geralt’s skin, finding a tendon in Geralt’s neck and following it with his lips, tongue and teeth. “How does a corporate lawyer get as buff as you?”

Geralt’s laugh was more of a scoff as he felt the more-or-less accidental brush of Jaskier’s cock against his.

“You’re one to talk,” he groaned, getting his hand into Jaskier’s hair and pulling him into a kiss. “Have you seen yourself, Professor?”

Jaskier suddenly pulled back, eyes wide and cheeks pink. “I- well- I mean I’m nothing close to- Your body is,” he huffed, seemingly at loss for words which was a very odd thing coming from Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, bringing his hand to the small of the man’s back, and squinted. “You know you’re hot, right?” he asked seriously and witnessed Jaskier dissolve into a fit of giggles, ducking his head and blushing even harder.

“I’m- nah, I’m not-”

“ Jaskier ,” Geralt repeated with intent.

“I mean, I’m fine but I’m not- you’re like a, a- an underwear supermodel.”

Geralt snorted. “Right, they do love bodies covered with scar tissue in underwear magazines,” he said self-deprecatingly, making Jaskier frown.

“Don’t do that. You’re beautiful,” he chastised.

“If you say so-” Geralt shrugged.

“I do say so. Les Dessous de Beauclair can go fuck itself,” Jaskier replied and Geralt snorted again.

“Point still stands,” Geralt said. “You’re hot.”

Jaskier looked away again, biting his lower lip. “Wh-,” he started and then closed his mouth right away.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head.

“Jaskier? I’m the one who isn’t much of a talker. There can’t be two of us,” he said, and Jaskier laughed, then hid his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders.

“What do you like about me?” he asked, his voice so small Geralt barely heard him. He let a moment pass, wondering where to start and how. He slid a hand at the back of Jaskier’s neck, caressing the short strands of hair.

“This,” he said. “Your hair right here. It’s short but long enough that I can grab it,” he felt Jaskier smile against his neck.

” Kinky ,“ Jaskier whispered.

“And I like your eyes,” Geralt said, too focused on picking the right words to get sidetracked. “At the bar, I-” he hesitated, pacing himself. “I noticed your eyes first,” he said and swallowed.

Jaskier hugged him tighter. “I love your eyes too,” he mumbled into Geralt’s hair. "They’re incredible.”

Geralt managed to duck his head and press a soft kiss below Jaskier’s ear. “Your cheekbones,” he said, his mouth finding the sweet spot at the base of Jaskier’s neck. “Your shoulders,” he whispered, kissing Jaskier’s clavicle, loosening their embrace to keep going lower. “Your collarbones,” he nipped his teeth at the bone above Jaskier’s chest, “they’re really, really hot,” he said and Jaskier giggled, still hiding his face by pressing his forehead against Geralt’s temple.

Geralt brought his hands up Jaskier’s back and felt him shiver, Jaskier’s hips startling gently against his, bringing a soft moan from the both of them. “Your back,” he said, “I really love your back- and your ass, gods ,” he linked his hands behind Jaskier’s neck and rolled his hips, their moans echoing through the room. “ Ah , and those fucking arms of yours,” Geralt whispered. “Have you seen those arms?” he repeated, still softly rubbing their cocks together with slow movements of his hips and caressing Jaskier’s arm. “I’m sure you could lift me up with those arms,” he said and Jaskier groaned. “Would you like that?” he asked. “Would you- would you like to hold me up and fuck me?”

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier moaned, his face pressed against Geralt’s cheek. “Fuck, fuck, yes, yes please, yes,” he begged, and Geralt grabbed the hair at the back of his neck and pulled just enough for Jaskier to whine with pleasure as they both rushed in an almost bruising kiss.

Jaskier had a hard time pulling away from Geralt, but finally managed to turn towards the bedside table to retrieve lube and condoms.

Geralt flushed himself against his back, tearing a moan from Jaskier as his hand directly went for Jaskier’s cock and Geralt’s dick rubbed against his ass.

“Oh fuck, yeah- yeah , we gotta do this some time too, darling,” he panted and Geralt groaned, grinding against him.

“You would like that?” he breathed, his voice low and coated with desire.

“Gods, I’d fuck you anyway you want, darling-” he moaned, “-but fffuck , if you keep going, there isn’t going to be much left of me.”

Geralt chuckled against him. He pulled back, freeing Jaskier from his embrace and sitting back against the wall.

Jaskier kneeled in between his legs and tore the package open, sliding the condom on his cock, realising after raising his eyes that he was under Geralt’s scrutiny.

“You okay?” he asked at the exact moment Geralt breathed “Come here.”

Somehow they crashed into each other, and yet fit each other’s shapes perfectly.

Geralt raised on his knees, thighs parted, Jaskier’s hands moving from his cock to his balls, making his hips jerk and his teeth close on Jaskier’s lower lip as he moaned. Jaskier slid his fingers further, caressing the sweet spot of Geralt’s perineum, making Geralt break the kiss as he gasped.

“Fuck, please, Jask-”

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier murmured, kissing him again and coating his fingers with lube.

Geralt tried his hardest not to jerk himself off here and now, attempting to focus on rubbing Jaskier’s cock while his other arm rested around the man’s neck.

Jaskier teased the rim of his asshole and got a quick return on his investment as Geralt pulled a little harder on his dick, tearing a moan from his lips. He chuckled a bit breathlessly and slid a finger inside Geralt easily. It didn’t take long at all before a second finger joined the first.

“You okay, darling?” Jaskier breathed and Geralt nodded against his cheek.

For a while, they stayed like this, settled against each other, Jaskier slowly fingering him until Geralt couldn’t stop clenching around his fingers and asking for more.

When three fingers curved into him and caressed his prostate, Geralt thought he was going to come undone. “Fuck- fuck, fuck, fuck, Jaskier-,”

“Good?” Jaskier asked a bit worriedly.

“Fuck, yes , good,” Geralt bit in a tone that was halfway between “how the fuck could it be anything but good” and “don’t you fucking dare stop” , making Jaskier laugh again.

“Okay, darling- still love the enthusiasm,” Jaskier said while Geralt whined and begged until finally, fucking finally, Jaskier agreed he was ready. Jaskier slid between his thighs, his strong, well-built arms around Geralt’s middle and Geralt realised it was probably the first time he had been held like this in his entire life.

“Touch yourself for me?” Jaskier asked, his mouth against Geralt’s before Geralt shook his head.

“Can’t- gonna come if I do,” he breathed and Jaskier kissed him again.

“Please?” he asked. “I want to make sure it feels good,” he whispered, holding onto Geralt’s middle tighter.

Geralt complied and before long Jaskier’s hips were rising to meet his body. He felt the tip of Jaskier’s cock slide between his buttcheeks and touch the soft of his ass and he startled, pulling away and pressing back against Jaskier just as fast.

“Fuck,” he swore as Jaskier whined. “Please, Jask,” he moaned as the hand on his cock started shaking. He then felt the tip of Jaskier’s cock against him again, and the steady push of Jaskier’s hips as the head of Jaskier’s cock entered him. He whined as Jaskier pushed further and lowered himself as slow as he could with the lone strength of his thighs and Jaskier’s arms wrapped around his waist.

“Ok?” Jaskier asked breathlessly. A gasp was all Geralt managed. His thoughts were an endless thread of fuck fuck fuck he couldn’t sort out in any order. “Yea- ah,” he broke, “ fuck ,”

“Is it too much?” Jaskier asked, “I can- I can stop, do you need me to stop?”

“ Don’t ,” Geralt moaned, clenching every single muscle in his body to keep Jaskier against him and eliciting a cry from Jaskier. His arms were around Jaskier’s shoulders, his forehead against the man’s temple. Geralt was holding onto him with everything he got.

“I just-” he tried to take a slow long breath thinking about everything he had learned through meditation and managed one ragged breath. “You’re a lot,” he managed in a sigh, clenching around Jaskier despite how much he tried to relax.

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat half-way between pleasure and laughter. “I get that all the time,” he said cheekily.

“Don’t- don’t make me laugh,” he said, chuckling breathlessly, and Jaskier joined him, both trying to breathe through the involuntary clenching of Geralt’s inner muscles and the accidental movements of Jaskier’s hips.

They laughed into each other’s mouths as they kissed, mouth open, tongues licking each other’s lips, teeth biting softly, teasingly. When they were both ready, Jaskier pulled himself down as he helped Geralt raise on his knees and they met again, moaning and groaning.

“You ok?” Jaskier whispered again and by then, Geralt had no fucking idea. He had never felt so tense and relaxed at once, uncomfortable but so fucking fantastic. His nerves and his ass were on absolute fire but it was good, it was good, it was so, so-

“So good,” he growled, aware that every part of his body was probably shaking in Jaskier’s arms. “ Ah , don’t stop,” he moaned, and Jaskier, incredible, astonishing, wonderful Jaskier did not stop .

Their hips moved in sync, feeding Geralt with the kind of friction he had never imagined could feel so good.

He let himself relax entirely into Jaskier’s embrace, sliding against the whole length of Jaskier’s body, pressing torso against torso, his forehead against Jaskier’s sweaty fringe, their noises brushing, their mouths breathing the same air.

“Ye-ah?” Jaskier moaned. “You like it? You really- ah , fuck- you- ah , you feel so good, does it feel good, tell me-” he rambled, far, so far from actually needing the reassurance.

Geralt groaned. “ Yes ,” he whined, “I like it, I like it, I like you , please,” and Jaskier whined and then did something- Geralt didn’t know, something, somehow, maybe went harder or faster or different, but he pulled and pushed and Geralt lost his fucking mind. He did it again and again, kissing Geralt, licking his neck, biting on his earlobe, caressing his nipples, bruising his hips in his grasp, pulling on his cock, whispering into his ear and making him whine and moan and shout until Geralt begged to be undone.

“I’ve got you, love,” Jaskier said, “I’ve got you.” Jaskier pulled harder on his hips in a half-broken groan, making Geralt slip towards him a little more.

Geralt arched his back, moaning in delight from the new angle. His neck was left exposed for Jaskier to kiss and lick, and breathe against Geralt’s skin. Every cell in Geralt’s body was burning and electric, and boiling. Everything felt so good and so much and so Jaskier , so he begged, begged again, and again for Jaskier to hold him and kiss him and fill him as he came, and so he did. He came, held, and kissed, and filled, and perfect, and Jaskier came, too, gasping into his mouth as they fell into each other.

For a moment, there was no other sound apart from the unsteady breathing and an occasional moan from the two of them as they slowly, comfortably, came back down to earth. Jaskier moved first, turning his head to kiss Geralt’s cheek, pushing his long white hair away from his face, and Geralt turned his head lazily towards him, leaning into a kiss.

“You ok?” Jaskier whispered, probably for the hundredth time and Geralt, for the thousandth time, hummed and nodded. Soon they would detach from each other, groaning from the discomfort of their sensible muscles, their come-dirtied bellies and lube-stained sheets anything but glamorous.

But for the time being, they laid their heads against each other’s shoulders, eyes closed, content with the feeling of holding and being held.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt hummed questioningly.

“Stay for breakfast?” Jaskier asked. He missed the soft smile that drew on Geralt’s lips.

“Hmm.”

[marmolady]

Homecoming: Part Two

Continued from PART ONE

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC, Graleister, Variego

Summary: Endless Ending. Back on La Huerta for the first time since the world's resurrection, there are some heart-to-hearts with old friends in order.

Word Count: 4680

Chronology: After 'The New Taylor' and 'A Ride to Remember', sort of midway through 'Inheritance'.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove @mauvecatfic​

Thanks for reading!

“Howdy there, pilot. Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Taylor asked as she stepped into the cockpit, squinting as she adjusted to the bright light that shone through the large windows as they soared over the Caribbean.

“You comin’ in here to annoy me is just part and parcel of my La Huerta jobs now, ain’t it?”

“Oh, Top Gun, so sentimental,” she teased-- but really, like she could talk.

Jake rested his hands behind his head and looked out over a familiar green spot in the blue expanse, now fast approaching. “Well, she’s no ‘Delilah’, that’s for sure. If something comes to me, it comes to me. But like I say, it ain’t the same. It’s not as if you people are about to let me hide from the world with this baby as my only friend.”

“Damn straight.”

“Thought as much. Well, everything’s reading as normal; think we might make it, sans freaky storms this time.” Jake turned to his visitor with a smirk. “I’m still gonna want you to get your ass in a seat. A landing’s a landing.”

Safely in her seat-- Estela by her side, and little Fenix in a pet carrier tucked against the seat in the next aisle-- Taylor felt her stomach doing violent flip-flops as the green spot in the ocean came closer, beginning to take on detail. Rivers she’d bathed in snaking out to the sea, Atropo looming, and the now-abandoned Celestial-- still standing by all appearances unchanged-- in its shadow.

Estela was calm and quiet, contemplative as the small plane descended. So much about this journey was familiar, and yet, everything had changed. This time, marching towards her destiny wasn’t a lonely trail to a foregone violent conclusion; this time, the future was all a big unknown other than the fact that it would be anything but lonely. She wove her fingers with Taylor’s, feeling nerves flowing through, and gently squeezed.

“Almost there, querida.”

With a gentle bump, the plane was on the ground, and Taylor gave a small sigh of relief. She didn’t want to be rude about Jake’s flying ability, but until that point, she’d finished every ride with him in either a crash, a near crash… or plummeting into the sea. That she was something of a nervous flyer was, she thought, pretty damn reasonable.

In no time at all, the cabin door had been swung open, and the warm Caribbean air welcomed the small group home.

“And here I was worried I’d need to replace another plane. It seems the pilot can fly one of these things after all; that’s a fiver I owe you, Grace.”

“He of little faith,” Grace laughed, though it was quite clear she was at least somewhat giddy with relief. “Jake knows what he’s doing.”

No sooner had Taylor set her feet on La Huerta soil than a familiar figure was running towards her, streaking out of the cover of the foliage at the side of the runway.

“Diego! Ohmygod!”

Diego flung his arms around his friend and held her tight. Last he’d seen her, she’d only just clawed herself back from death’s door; Taylor was going to get hugged, and she was going to get hugged hard.

Estela set out into the humid air, immediately aware of the sounds of the jungle; insects and birds, rustling of leaves. Even the smell of the soil was distinctly La Huerta. She hadn’t expected to feel like this, but… she was home.

_____________________________

An almost comically deep miaow made Estela jump. Engrossed in what she’d been writing-- and the frustrated doodles she’d been swirling on a separate piece of paper-- she hadn’t noticed Taylor’s cat, Madam, joining her on the wooden bench outside their home.

“I must be making myself crazy, hey Mierdita? I guess you’re here to make sure my senses stay sharp… or you’ve come to complain to me about Nixie.”

“Mow.”

Estela giggled and scooped the little cat, presently bright orange in colour, though that was subject to change, and hugged her to her chest. It was nice to have the company. Taylor was down on the beach, catching up with Diego for the first time in far too long. And what Estela was doing… for the most part, she needed to be left in her own space to do it. The little cat might have been a distraction, but from the number of doodles Estela had scribbled, it looked as though her productivity had already peaked for the time being.

“You’ll just have to learn to forgive Taylor. You know she likes to surround herself with lots of friends.”

Madam nimbly climbed her way up onto Estela’s shoulder, and enthusiastically rubbed against her face.

“I’m glad I can make you feel better. I guess I wasn’t getting anywhere with writing this anyway….”

With a little sigh, she tucked the unfinished letter in her hoodie. She’d written so many letters to her mother-- one for every week she’d been working here on the island-- but to find the words to say goodbye, to get some kind of closure, did not come easy. Maybe with a little more time to think….

“Hello?”

Estela looked up to see Varyyn outside the front of the house. “Haalta, Varyyn. I’m round the side.”

With a low growl, Madam ducked down into Estela’s hood and pressed herself against her neck. She eyed their visitor with great suspicion from her perch.

“It looks like your little friend is happy to have you back,” Varyyn said as he approached, “--and less pleased to see me.”

“Don’t worry; she has a lot to say, but it’s all talk. She won’t bite.”

Varyyn, rather daringly in Estela’s view-- though he did regularly hang around with a hulking smilodon, so maybe he was just good with cats-- reached and tickled Madam under her chin.

“I have been wanting to find you,” he said. “Diego had told me you were preparing a memorial for your mother.”

‘’S a long time coming,” Estela grunted. “And maybe it’ll be a long time still; I don’t want to do anything extravagant, but it’s got to be right.”

“That is fair. I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“No, no. I don’t mind,” she said, gentler. “So long as it’s in progress. Finally. I couldn’t exactly get any kind of closure until I’d dealt with Rourke, and then… I needed to go home. I dunno… maybe it was easier to feel it as anger, because the sadness was too much to bear if I let it take its place. When I let myself really feel it….” A tear rolled down her face, and she brushed it away. “I don’t know if I can say I’m at peace with it all… I don’t think I ever really can be. But I’m better. I brought over the letters Mom sent me when she was here on the island, to bury. And I then thought of writing again… to say goodbye. All I’ve gotta do now is find the words. Anyway,” she finished hurriedly, “you wanted me for something?”

Varyyn nodded sagely. It wasn’t lost on him the intimacy of what was being shared. Perhaps the violent death of his own mother had given Estela a sense of tragic kinship with him?

“Seraxa and I talked at great length. It had… troubled me that there had been no acknowledgement of your mother’s sacrifice. She must have felt very alone standing against the Hydra, but we will not see that bravery forgotten now.”

He reached into his satchel, and brought out a neatly folded set of clothes.

“To wear the traditional uniform of our warriors is the greatest of honours. We wish to pay tribute to your mother as a hero to the Vaanti, if you will accept this gift.”

Estela’s eyes grew wide, and her bottom lip wobbled. “I--- um, thank you.” That’s the best you can manage? “I… don’t know what to say. Thank you.” In Varyyn’s nod of understanding, the look in his eyes, it was plain to see he felt the depth of her gratitude.

A gentle smile came to Varyyn’s face, as though he was relieved. “It is your choice whether you would like to wear this in her honour, or simply keep it as part of your memorial.”

Her cheeks flushed, Estela hugged the folded uniform to her chest. There were just… no words to adequately say what the gesture meant. For Estela’s own protection, any trace of Olivia Montoya’s connection to Everett Rourke had been wiped from record; and with it, all evidence of the courageous last stand taken. But here she was remembered.

“I don’t think I’ve told you…,” Estela choked out after a little while. “I mean, it’s not as if I’m the best conversationalist… I don’t know what to say to people half the time.” She shook her head. “But, anyway, I always found you impressive. When your mother died… it was sudden, and brutal, and somehow you had the strength to honour her by taking up her mantle. Immediately. And you always seemed so together, however much you were crumbling on the inside. You had to be.”

“I had good friends to lean on. And I had Diego.” Varyyn chucked darkly. “It is terrible, but when you all came back through the gate, as much I was very sad for you all, and for Diego, that everything you knew and loved was gone… there was a very selfish part of me….” He stalled.

“Fair enough,” Estela said, not about to force him to finish a clearly uncomfortable sentence. “It had only been a couple of days. How’s anyone supposed to bear that much loss? While carrying the expectations and fears of your people? Diego gave you comfort when you needed it most. And… then you gave him the same.”

“Yes.”

Having that shoulder; it made all the difference. It made living through the worst of horrors bearable, and then, somehow… it made the act of living on, in hope, possible. Varyyn had Diego. She, Estela, had her Taylor. And they all had one another.

“We’re lucky we found the right people.”

___________________________

As she slogged through the soft white sand, Taylor wasn’t sure what was going to give out first, her legs or her lungs. Using her best friend’s hand as an anchor, she kept on putting one foot in front of the other.

“Hey, Taylor, you know, it might be easier to have a real conversation if we sat down for a bit.”

Diego was polite and tactful, but what he meant was clearly; ‘You are an absolute wreck; sit down before you put yourself in an early grave’.

Taking the hint, Taylor flopped down heavily, squinting against the bright sun as she tried to get herself comfortable. While she struggled to get her breath back, Diego sat himself down close by, patiently letting her recover.

“I swear the beaches in San Trobida aren’t so much of a work-out,” Taylor said apologetically. “Not as soft. I have actually gotten a lot fitter, if you can believe it.”

Diego put a hand on her shoulder. “I can actually. You did a pretty good job of covering up how much you were struggling those last few days you were here, but I really don’t think you were fooling anyone. You do look better. Last time I saw you, it was hard not to get the impression that one stiff wind could have you over.”

Taylor snorted with laughter. “Damn, and I thought I put up a good front.”

“Not remotely. You are incredible, my friend, but a talented actor you are not.”

This was wonderful. The warmth of the sun of her body, and the easiest of company. Taylor reclined back, her arms propping her up in the sand from behind.

“Well, now that I’m not having to focus on not falling over… how’ve you really been?”

Diego stared wistfully out to sea, all the while playing with a little lock of his hair that Varyyn had braided for him. “’How have I really been’ as in not the brush-off, ‘oh, I’m good’ answer?”

“Yep. And I promise I’ll keep my own bullshit in check as fair trade.”

“Okay. If that’s how we’re doing this.” Diego fiddled with his hair for a little while longer as he contemplated his answer… and where to start. “I’m good.” As Taylor rolled her eyes, he added quickly; “ I am good.”

“Yeah?”

“Going back home was the best thing I could have done; it made me realise just how much I actually belong here. I’ve found my people. And Varyyn. I don’t have to tell you how cut up I was to be away from him; you could see it. Heck, even Grandma Bhandarkar saw it-- I have never been force-fed so much in my life, and I grew up with my abuela!”

Taylor chuckled. She was eternally grateful that the extended Catalyst family had been there for Diego when she couldn’t be, through one of the most pivotal periods in his life. “Did you… did you manage to talk to your parents at all?” she ventured gently.

With a sad smile, Diego shook his head. “I called from Raj’s place. I did speak to my dad, and honestly it was better than I expected. But he said Mom’s not ready.”

“Oh, Diego….”

“No, I knew she wouldn’t be ready.” He gave a little sigh. “That big, scary conversation’s done now, though, and I feel kind of… lighter. Like… I can start to accept how things are. If Mom and Dad were ever going to accept who I am, you’d think the year and a half I’d disappeared off the face of the earth would have done the trick.”

Taylor put an arm around Diego as he sniffed. “You know it’s all them, yeah? None of this is on you.”

“Yeah… I know. I came back here and… Varyyn just looked at me like I was the most beautiful person in the world. I could not have felt more loved. So, yeah-- I’m good.”

“So,” Taylor said gently, “what happens next? Do you still want to come back to Hartfeld with us in September?”

Diego huffed out a long exhale. Now, that was a question.

“The only really honest answer I can give you is… I don’t know. Could not be more conflicted.”

“That’s… that’s fair.”

“I keep thinking about that vision we saw when I took my action figures from Vaanu.  I didn’t think it was possible for me to be that comfortable in my own skin, but it wasn’t like I was just seeing it-- I could feel it.”

“Yeah. It was kind of, just… radiating off you. You were just one-hundred percent genuine Diego, no holes barred… and everyone just loved you for it.”

“Look, I know that whole thing was just Vaanu trying to manipulate you into sacrificing youself--”

“Diego--”

“No, it’s okay. Because even if that’s all it was, it doesn’t matter. The more time I’m here with Varyyn… and people are respecting me as me-- you should see the queues of kids that form when I re-tell the original Star Wars trilogy….”

Taylor chuckled fondly.

“...The more I realise that, actually, that could be me. If I wanted it.”

“That really could be you. Without a shadow of a doubt. It would just mean…”

“Leaving Varyyn? Shattering both our hearts into a million pieces? Yeah, that’s the sticking point.”

Putting her head on Diego’s shoulder, Taylor offered what support she could. “What… what does he think?”

“He really loves me, so he’s unhelpfully understanding about the whole thing. It would be so much easier to know what I should do if he’d just say he’d rather I stay here!”

“So inconsiderate.”

“But, well, he said how much I light up when I talk about what I saw in that vision. And he lights up when he talks about that,” Diego said with a resigned laugh. “He says if I stay here, I shouldn’t be giving up every part of me.”

“He’s right,” Taylor said. “It’s you he fell in love with, and it’s you the hordes of Vaanti children seek out whenever they need smiles put on their faces. One way or another, I think you should always feed the real you. ‘Cause that guy’s pretty great.”

Diego glanced away, bashful, but unable to hide his smile. Again, he started playing with his hair.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough, Taylor. How about it’s your turn. Do you have a plan? I guess Vaanu didn’t bother showing you what a future on Earth could look like, hey?”

Taylor gave a soft humph. “No, they certainly did not. That’s something I’m just going to have to figure out myself.” She frowned. “They just showed me enough to put the pressure of ensuring the happiness of everyone I love on my shoulders,” she said bitterly.

Catching her tone, Diego raised an eyebrow. “That’s really getting to you.”

“Yeah,” she heaved. For a moment, she considered what she wanted to share. “Look, I haven’t exactly talked about this before…. All those visions I saw, just about all of them showed you guys rocking your dream careers. Except for, well….” She trailed off, sadly.

“Except for Estela and Aleister, right? Now you mention it, that does kinda say a lot about the impact Rourke had.”

“Exactly. It makes me so… so angry,” she said, than added with a dry laugh, “I don’t have the energy to be angry. Seeing you all die in my dreams doesn’t help either; all I can think is that he did all that. ”

“So, you’ve put it out there now. Maybe that’ll help you move past it?”

“I sure hope so. Letting that fester isn’t going to be healthy for me, and it sure as hell won’t do Estela any favours. She’s been amazing. There’s been so much she’s had to move through. I think I’ve been so focused on her that it only just recently sank in how much I’m simmering in hate for that bastard. And I don’t want to let it out and feed into her own feelings. Does… that make sense?”

“That sounds pretty natural,” Diego assured. “Being protective of your family is pretty much wired into you; kinda makes sense that it would get you all fired up-- and that you want to shield Estela from even more hurt and anger. I’m here, you know. If ever you need a best friend to off-load on; I’m your man.”

“Thanks,” Taylor said softly, and boy, did she mean it. A little smile came to her face at the sound of Furball yipping as he chased a euphoric Fenix up and down the shoreline. Bad feelings passed quickly, for there was just too much beauty in the world she had fought for and won.  “All things considered, I’m doing really well. Since I ramped up the self-care, I’m getting less nightmares-- I know they’re not proper nightmares, it’s just my brain replaying memories that aren’t even all mine. But they’ve gotten better.”

Diego shook his head, incredulous. “Honestly, I don’t know how you managed to sleep with that going on at all.”

“With great difficulty is how,” Taylor laughed. “Poor Estela is now pretty used to me waking her up, screaming and crying.” She smiled softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without her; she has this magic way of just… chasing away all the horrors. I guess it’s because I feel safe when she’s holding me.”

“N’aww!” Diego’s eye twinkled. “I really am the best wingman around. I’ll happily accept tips for match-making services given.”

Taylor snorted. “I feel like we can take some of the credit, but fine, thanks for the help. I’ve seen hundreds of different versions of me and Estela falling in love… and it’s surprising how many times it was you who gave me the push.”

“So, you really do owe me one.”

“I really do.”

Fenix ran over, panting heavily, and flopped down into Taylor’s lap. A little way behind, Furball trotted after.

“Hey, Diego?”

“You’re missing your buff wife?”

“That, and I’m absolutely starving. You wanna head back to Catalyst Village?”

Diego looked out at the darkening sky. This day had flown. No doubt, the days to come would fly too, and in no time at all he’d be faced with leaving Varyyn… again. Then his stomach growled loudly.

“Apparently, you’re not the only one. Come on-- d’you need a piggy-back?”

Indignant, Taylor plopped Fenix down in the sand and got to her feet. “I certainly do not.”

“Okay… reframing that. Would you like a piggy-back?”

Ooh, that smirk. “Oh, all right,” she relented. “In the time it would’ve taken me to walk back, I’d have already died of hunger.”

So, they made their way back up the beach; Diego giving a more-weary-than-she’d-care-to-let-on Taylor… and their two furry companions leading the charge, drawn home by the scent on the wind of food being cooked over an open fire.

___________________________

“A toast!” Aleister pronounced loudly, holding aloft a glass of Breath of the Moon. As his friends and family around the fire raised their matching cocktails, he thrust his own glass ever-higher with slightly-tipsy gusto. “To new beginnings! To reuniting with comrades! To bringing about justice!”

Estela leaned over and whispered in Taylor’s ear. “You see why I thought you should only take a little sip of this stuff?”

Taylor sniggered. “I’d make a toast to the fact that we have a whole house to ourselves again.It’s gonna be a lot easier to get our sex on when your brother and sister-in-law aren’t in the next room.”

Giving her wife an exaggerated wink, Estela huddled closer, delighting in the giggle she stirred. Somehow, everything felt easier here. It was is if just to be in this place brought her back to the best of herself, to the sense of peace within herself that had once felt like an impossibility. Now, with Taylor, in their home and surrounded by people they loved, it was an inevitability. This time would refresh her-- it would them both-- and ready them for the greater steps that lay ahead.

It seemed the feeling was catching,for everyone was relaxed and laughing as they cooked skewers over the crackling fire and sipped their cocktails. In the firelight, Varyyn’s face seemed to glow with affection for his beloved husband beside him-- who himself was bubbling over with the simple pleasure of being surrounded by friends. Estela wondered about the two of them… what the future might hold. A year could go by so quickly-- she learned that the had way when she’d been counting down to Taylor’s self-sacrifice-- but away from the one you loved, time would stretch agonisingly. She did not envy the choice Diego was faced with; that they were now with him to offer support though that… that mattered.

Opposite them, Jake was back to ribbing Aleister, something even more fun now that the target was a little sozzled. No amount of back-and-forth teasing could hide the genuine --rather unlikely-- friendship that had formed; Aleister, blessed with both wealth and contacts in high places, had made himself a pivotal force in the fight to clear Jake’s name. The more Estela had gotten to know her unexpected sibling, the more it became obvious to her that at his heart, Aleister was driven by the same protectiveness of those dear to him that powered her. It was something, she’d come to realise, that Rourke had cemented into them both-- not through any passing of genes, but by fierce resistance to the poison he’d inflicted. It had taken time… and it had been painful, but in their budding kinship, Estela had found undeniable comfort.

Taylor took Estela’s hand, and laid a weary head on her shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you,” Estela laughed softly. She could feel the smile on Taylor’s face; so open and radiant, full of tenderness for the people surrounding her, and it spoke wonders.

With her free hand, Taylor gently chinked her glass to Estela’s.

“Cheers. To being home.”

“To being home.”

[dirt-cup-draco]

George x Reader- Because I Want You

hey! if you are still taking requests (i love your writing btw) i would like to request a george weasley x reader. where she’s friends with the twins and she’s on a date with a boy and the twins ruin their date and he confesses his feelings, ending in fluff. thanks! hope you are well! 💓

“Why are you-” Fred started, motioning to your neat outfit.

“Dressed up like that?” George finished, eyes wide and adoring. 

You rolled your eyes, your friends were nosy and you knew if you told them the truth they would pester you to no end. “None of your business,” You argued as Fred laughed, George frowning. 

“She’s going on a date,” Ginny smirked.

“Ginny!” You scolded, swatting her. “I didn’t want them knowing!” 

“And why is that?” Fred prodded, George still silent as his frown grew more severe. 

“Because!” You reasoned. “You two always have some stupid plan and it always messes up my life,” 

Fred pretended to be hurt but George’s heart ached a bit at your words. You thought they were just there to screw up your life? It hurt almost as much as the fact that you were going on a date and hadn’t wanted to tell him. He understand that he and his brother could go too far but he had hoped that you were still able to confide in him. He thought you two were close. 

“Right then,” George coughed, “We better get to lunch then, leave Y/N to her date,” With that, the chaotic twins excused themselves, George gripping Fred’s arm and dragging him away as you narrowed your eyes. George was acting weird. And Fred was following along? Something must be wrong. 

“Oi, what’s got into you then?” Fred asked, “If you’re so upset about her going on a date, just tell her how you feel,” He guessed as his twin scowled at the fireplace in their common room later that night. 

“Keep your voice down!” George scolded, eyes darting around at the empty place. Everyone was using their weekend to the fullest and we was sulking while his brother gave him a pep talk. 

“What have you got to lose?” Fred asked as his brother looked uncharacteristically sad. 

“Her,” He admitted, biting his fingernail as he thought of all the possible ways he could be rejected by you.

“What if she feels the same?”

“You don’t know that,” George shot back, daring his brother to argue. 

“No, I dont,” Fred cursed himself for not knowing where you stood. “But we could find out,” He began, an idea forming in his head. “If she has the worst date in history she’ll never want to go on a second one with this bozo and then you’ll sweep and boom! instant hero,” 

“No...” George said softly as his eyes widened. “Fred that’s awful...that’s- that’s brilliant!” He hopped up, grabbing his twin’s hand and pulling him up from the couch. “Let’s go!” He exclaimed, grabbing his coat and dashing towards hogsmeade. 

--

It had started with your date, Dean Thomas, accidentally spilling his glass of butterbeer on you. He apologized quickly, trying to wipe it up before you interrupted, using a simple charm to clean up. 

“Sorry Y/N, don’t know how that happened,” He chuckled awkwardly as you both tried to pick up where your conversation had ended abruptly. After another near mishap with butterbeer, the two of you had decided to take a walk around Hogsmeade and maybe visit Zonkos. 

Then Dean had tripped miraculously on nothing, nearly sending a display toppling on you. He had been red faced and apologetic, making sure you were alright. After that you decided to go to Honeydukes. 

As fate would have it you were both talking easily again, Dean even grabbing your hand at one point. Things were starting to mend themselves when the poor boy slipped, tugging you down with him. “Merlin, I swear I’m not usually such a klutz, Seamus must have given me his bad luck for the night,” 

“No worries,” You said airily but you had to admit the date hadn’t been going well. Was it a sign? You’d been hesitant to say yes in the first place but Ginny had reassured you Dean was a great guy, just not the one for her. She held no bad feelings for the boy and if you wanted to say yes you could. 

You had exited the shop, deciding to walk to the shrieking shack. Maybe keeping things simple would cure the date from it’s bad reputation. Dean was embarrassed but kept his cool and you admired it, keeping hold of his hand so he didn’t feel too bad for the way things had gone. 

You had managed to salvage things, the rest of the night going swimmingly as you sat a fair distance from the legendary haunted house. You had talked under the moonlight, shoulder pressed to his as you spoke about your classes, likes and dislikes. Dean had turned towards you, a hopeful look in his eye as he fell quiet. 

He was going to kiss you. You were nervous, you hadn’t kissed someone for a while, not really looking to date. What if you were a bad kisser? Before he could kiss you however he was pulling back with a sudden jerk, yelping.

“Alright?” You questioned. 

“Y-yeah, sorry it just felt like something hit my head...” He trailed off, looking around him in confusion. He didn’t find anything satisfactory and turned back to you, “Now where were we?” He tried to bring back the mood. 

It failed however as there was the distinct sound of something bouncing off the back of his head, a pebble falling to the ground as Dean cried out again. “What in the world?” 

After shaking off the mystery pebble, he tried kissing you once more before he was being pelted with several pebbles, some even missing their target and hitting you. You both jumped up, trying to avoid the rocks. 

“It must be that damned house!” Dean hollered, “This date is cursed! Sorry, Y/N!” He shouted over his shoulder as pebbles continued to follow him as he raced towards Hogwarts. The second he was gone from your sight it seemed the chaos ended. You were speechless. 

“This date is cursed!?” You repeated to yourself, kicking the ground in frustration. “What rubbish!” 

You fell back onto the ground, feeling.. confused to say the least. You had thought it had been going well. Sure things had been a bit odd but not enough for Dean to leave you here alone... 

Suddenly a familiar voice was calling, “You alright?” 

You looked up to find George, a curious look on his face as you nodded. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Dean left... The whole night was chaos!” You started to rant, not even stopping to think. “It was going fine until his butterbeer practically flew off the table onto my lap! And then he barely tapped a shelf at Zonkos and the entire thing nearly fell on us! We went to Hogsmeade and he fell and took me with him. It was craziness Georgie! And then we were just sitting here and it was so good and out of nowhere-”  You froze. 

George was being awfully silent. You narrowed your eyes as you looked at him again and he was just standing patiently in a new jumper his mom had made for him, hair neater than normal. What was he doing here in the first place? 

“Please tell me you didn’t,” You started, knowing he would understand. A nervous smile broke out on his face and your heart sank. “George Weasley I cannot believe you! Fred, where are you, you coward? Come out now! I want to properly scold the both of you!” You were livid. 

“Fred left, chased Dean off,” George admitted, that smile wiped from his face as he looked at you sheepishly. 

“Why?” you asked, “Why George? I expected this from Fred but not you... I thought you knew when to draw the line and not go too far... But this, this was too far,” You shook your head, not knowing what else to say. You shoved past George, more upset than you’d been in a while. 

“Wait, Y/N, let me explain,” He pleaded and you spun on your heel, jabbing your finger in his chest as your eyes threatened to release the tears you were desperately holding back. 

“What could you possibly have to say?!” You asked. “What makes this better George? What justifies you ruining my date?” 

“I wanted it to be me,” George gulped, suddenly feeling like this might have been a  not so brilliant plan as you looked at him with anger and worse, disappointment. 

“Excuse me?” You asked, not knowing quite what he meant. 

“I wanted to be the one on this date, I was jealous of Dean. You looked really pretty, you still do, and hearing that you didn’t want us knowing because you thought we might muck it up hurt. I wanted you to trust me and be able to tell me you were going on a date. I let it get the better of me and I did just what you said I would... I’m sorry Y/N,” George said truthfully, knowing he couldn’t possibly pull himself out of this hole. 

“George... I do trust you. I just don’t exactly like talking about my dating life with you...” You paused.

“Because?” George could see you trying to work through your unfinished sentence. You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose as you began to pace. He couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or not. 

“I don’t like dating around, never have. It feels useless,” You explained. “It feels useless because I don’t ever like the guy, my heart is set on someone else but tonight, with Dean, I thought I could move on,” Your voice cracked and George felt infinitely worse. 

“Can I ask who it is?” George asked carefully, knowing he was definitely one of the last people you wanted to talk to right now. It was a miracle you hadn’t hexed him yet. You laughed but it was brittle and sharp, going straight through George’s heart. 

“You idiot, don’t you know?” you bit your lip as you finally looked him in the eye, holding his gaze as he pulled meaning from your words. 

“S-since when? Why didn’t you tell me?” He gasped.

“Same reason you didn’t tell me, I s’pose.” You gave a watery chuckle and George grinned. 

“You mean it?” He asked. 

“Yes, I mean it. My heart is yours you fool,” 

George gathered you in his arms, kissing you like he’d been wanting to do all day and all night long. You grinned against his lips but then surprisingly, bit him. 

“What was that for?” He asked, puzzled. 

Your smile was saccharine and sinful. “Just a warning, never do anything like that ever again, I don’t care if you want to get my attention, just ask for it next time,” 

“Yes ma’am,” George gulped as you kissed him again, soothing his now slightly sore lip. 

“Now lets go back to Hogwarts, I’ve had enough chaos for the day, you can take me on a proper date next week,” You sighed but intertwined your fingers with George’s.

It had been a foolish idea, but you were secretly pleased now that you had George, the only positive of a miserable night. 

“Should Fred worry?” George asked as you two walked back, hand in hand. 

“Oh yes, he should worry a lot,” You smiled and George couldn’t help but smile back, laughter bubbling up. You were something else but he adored you and he couldn’t be happier.  

[julemmaes]

Pas des crêpes // part one

James Herondale and Cordelia Carstairs modern au

Boooy I’m so excited to write this short story, I can't wait to write Matthew and Lucie’s part, it'll probably be the longest part. Anyway, enojy this corner of paradise cause I have yet to decide if they’re all gonna be fluffy or if I’m gonna put some angst in the thomastair one (cause I can’t help myself).

Word count: 4,766

The epic music was coming out of the speakers at such a high volume that Cordelia wondered how they were still on good terms with their neighbors. As the credits ran down the screen, she heard someone stand up on the other side of the couch and then the lights went on.

Thomas, sitting at the foot of the armchair Alastair sat on, grunted and Cordelia found herself blinking, trying to get used to the light. One hand landed on her knee and she turned to James, covering her mouth with one hand while yawning. Her boyfriend smiled at her with slightly red eyes because of the last three hours spent watching TV and was going to ask her if she wanted him to kick everyone one so she could sleep peacefully, she knew it, he asked her every week when it was movie night, but he was beaten to the punch by someone else.

“Guys?” Matthew asked, who was lying on James’ other side. He had not moved since the beginning of the film and Cordelia seriously thought he was dead, and after he had spoken she was still not so sure of his physical state because it seemed that he had just swallowed a lemon from how hoarse his voice sounded. Lucie, who looked just as puzzled as her and was sitting on the carpet in front of them, turned to look at him and, seeming amused, she giggled, “Oh, my God, were you crying?” she asked stunned, but with a playful tone.

All the heads snapped in his direction and Christopher was about to comment, the grin on his lips the only sign that it wouldn’t be nice for the boy, when James put his arm around Matthew, completely forgetting Cordelia, who nearly fell to the side to the sudden lack next to her. “ Don’t you dare insult him. Math has every right to cry over this movie. It’s tragic.” He said in a threatening tone, daring anyone to open their mouth.

Matthew shook him off and with a pout that would have made envy to a five-year-old child he murmured, “I wasn’t crying.”

Lucie completely ignored him, leaning his chin on his brother’s leg, stretching an arm and pricking him with a finger on his chest. “ You don’t want us to make fun of him, because you were crying, too.”

Cordelia restrained a laugh, looking at the expression of pure bafflement on the boy’s face. It was true, James cried for almost everything they watched, whether it was a cartoon, a tv series or a documentary about how basketball balls are made. “ How dare you?” he brought a hand to his chest, pretending to be shocked, “Me? Crying for a movie? Never.” he said shaking his head as an evil grin appeared on his face, very similar to the one Christopher wore a few seconds earlier, “The only softie here is Matthew.”

“Softie?” Thomas asked laughing, “What, you cry for movies and you’re eighty now?”

Lucie burst into laughter and sat on her knees, crawling towards Tom, leaning against Alastair’s other leg, who watched them all very quietly but had a big smile on his face. Cordelia exchanged an amused look with his brother, who rolled his eyes, knowing full well how it would end.

“For real, Jamie, who still uses softie?” asked her sister, ready to shoot the next arrow, “I would have used things like wimp.”

“Or pussy.” retorted Thomas, always laughing.

“Whiner would have been fine too.” Christopher stepped in and stood up to turn off the television.

“Wussy?” Alastair asked, trying to get involved. Thomas turned to look at him and Alastair’s smile grew even more, until he turned into an even more childish pout than Matthew’s when his boyfriend answered him, “No, too simple.”

“And pussy that is literally the word from which it comes is not?” asked Alastair in a huff, receiving as a response a simple hit on the knee from Lucie.

Cordelia stood up, having an epiphany, “Mollycoddle!?”

“Mollycoddle!” they all screamed together and then burst out laughing. James and Matthew were sitting on the couch, arms crossed on their chests and heads hidden between the shoulders. Both had an expression of deep sorrow.

Cordelia laughed louder, when James looked directly at her and tried to look even more upset by arching his eyebrows and almost completely hiding his eyes.

When everyone sighed and wiped their tears, they were all looking at each other, hoping someone would propose what to do. When the silence in the room became too long, Lucie and Cordelia looked at each other again and it didn’t take long before they burst into a fit of laughters again, bend in two.

“When you two are done being bitches,” said Matthew, putting his hands on his knees, a general uuh rose from the room. “Then maybe we could go get something to eat, because I’ve been starving since the beginning of the second part.”

“You mean before or after you started crying?” Christopher asked him with a strange twinkle in his eyes. Cordelia carried one hand to her mouth, blocking it with the other, to prevent herself from laughing again, fearing she would choke. A warm hand landed on her back and turned just in time to smash her lips against James’s. She broke off almost immediately, not wanting to embarrass anyone, but at least the smile was back on his face. She was used to the touches and the small displays of affection from him when they were with their friends, but kissing was more rare, especially when Lucie and Alastair were present and they never failed to make them notice.

She lost herself for a few seconds in that amber look, before returning to  the conversation– more like the quarrel– between Lucie and Matthew.

“If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d spill all the noodles on your head.” he was telling her.

“Ah yes? Can you even cook them?” she answered him sticking her tongue out. Matthew shook his head, wrinkling his eyebrows, “Yes, you dumbass, everyone knows how to make noodles.”

“Too bad though, that we ate the last portion last night and that there is nothing in the fridge.” said James scratching the back of his neck. Matthew let himself fall back on the couch, making an exasperated sound, “Jeez, this is the worst day of my life.”

“We could always go to the grocery store at the end of the road and come back here for a noodle party.” proposed Chrisopher, always with that strange glimmer in his eyes. Cordelia raised an eyebrow, curious to know what was making her friend so cheerful. Not that he wasn’t happy normally, but that pompous behavior was different than usual. He seemed more relaxed. She shrugged, she would have thought about asking him what was going on in his life tomorrow.

“Or, you could go back to the holes you crawled out of and let me and my beautiful lady here take our-” he stopped himself eyeing the clock on the wall, grumbling before continuing with whiny voice, “Four hours of beauty sleep before we have to wake up for work.” He looked at her hopefully, and she nodded smiling sweetly at him.

He heard Lucie snort and Matthew snapped up, “I can’t believe you’ve become such a softie.” said the boy while a grimace of disgust appeared on his lips. “Bros before hoes, Jamie. Bros before hoes. It’s that simple.”

Cordelia saw Alastair shaking his head amused and Thomas getting up, giving a hand to his boyfriend and the other to Lucie to help them stand up. They both accepted and nearly all three of them fell back when Thomas put too much effort into raising them. They were all too tired lately, maybe they should have taken a break from everything and go on a short holiday.

In the meantime, James was smacking Matthew over the head, telling him to stop being such an idiot.

“Come on, Math, I’ll buy you all the noodles you want.” Christopher said, offering him an arm. Matthew sighed resigned, interwining his arm with that of his friend and leaning his head on his shoulder, “Now that you and Grace have become serious, you will leave me too.”

Cordelia’s head snapped to Lucie’s direction, and when she saw that her friend was also shocked, she realized she wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what they were talking about. She turned to Christopher, clearing her throat, “Kit?” she called drawing everyone’s attention to her. She opened her arms, putting on a lost face, “What the hell are you talking about? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell us?” she said gesturing with one finger between her and the only other girl in the room, who with just as much disappointment said, “Yeah, when were you going to tell us?”

A sound very similar to the cry of a dog whose tail had just been stepped on left Christopher’s mouth, which turning red scratched his chin, looking thoughtful. Finally met the look of the two girls, “Tomorrow?” He hesitated, implying that he had never thought to speak to either of them the next day.

“I can’t believe it, you’re telling me everything.” Lucie said covering the distance between her and the young Lightwood in a few seconds and taking him arm in arm on the free side. She looked over her shoulder at Cordelia, who was now amazed, even more shocked that she wouldn’t be part of that gossip session so juicy that the idea of sending her nap with James to hell was starting to form in her head. She was going to tell her friends that they couldn’t talk about it without her, when someone hugged her from behind and her boyfriend’s familiar smell filled her nostrils. She calmed down visibly, but was still shocked by the news. Grace. With Christopher.

“Don’t think you dodged a bullet, Kit. I’ll stop by your office tomorrow for lunch and you’ll tell me all about it.” Cordelia said. A tone that left no room for reruns. “Actually, I’m supposed to be with Grace at lunch tomorrow, so…” he left the sentence unfinished, apologizing with his eyes. They all turned to the door when they heard someone sighing dramatically and Matthew appeared from behind the wall, wearing his jacket and passing Lucie’s coat to her. She gave him a grateful smile, but looked away quickly, as if she were embarrassed.

Interesting. Cordelia should have talked to Lucie as well.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Math said in a more dramatic tone than was necessary, “You are teaming up against me and finding love under rocks, as if it’s nothing, while I,” he brought a hand to his heart, holding the fabric of the jacket between his fingers, as to suggest how much this thing hurt him, “I’m alone. And I will never find my soul mate. Or eternal love.” He concluded by gasping, closing his eyes to amplify the whole. Cordelia heard James giggling with his nose buried in her hair, but she barely noticed.

She noticed, however, the color that lit up Lucie’s cheeks. Yes, definitely, she should have talked to her as soon as possible.

“Cut it and get out of this house.” Thomas said, passing by hi, to reach the coat rack and start dressing up.

The others imitated him and after several hugs and kisses and promises to talk about secret loves, James and Cordelia found themselves alone in their apartment and drew a breath of relief. The house was so quiet without their friends, but she did not mind, that calm peace…

“As much as I love them, I don’t mind this silence."Jamie whispered in her ear. She smiled, turning in his arms and holding both hands up to cup his face, "I was thinking exactly the same thing.” He smiled kindly at her and the weariness in his eyes made her melt. He was so cute when he was tired. She pulled hersel up, pushing her body against his, and then they were kissing. It was a slow kiss and not at all rough. He was stroking her hair and her hands slipped around his neck. He moaned in the kiss and when she parted her lips to let him in, their tongues clashed.

That was them. James and Cordelia. Two bodies in tune with each other. It was James who broke the kiss, but only because Cordelia’s stomach growled so loudly that he was forced to pull away in order not to laugh in her mouth. He looked at her amused, “Do you want me to call the others and ask them to bring us noodles? I’m sure Matthew would threaten to commit suicide, but I don’t think they’d let you starve.” Cordelia giggled thinking of a desperate Matthew staggering around saying he had become the slave of the group. She shook her head, pressing her forehead on his chest, “No thanks, I’d rather eat something else.” she whispered. “Plus, I want to spend some alone time with you, it’s been a long time since we spent a night together. Just the two of us.” she concluded glaring up at him.

“All right.” he laid a quick kiss on her lips, before breaking away from the hug. “What do you want to eat?” He asked her on his way to the kitchen.

Cordelia brought a finger to her lips, thinking, “I don’t know.” “How about cookies?” James asked, stopping without any notice, making her slam against his back.

“I don’t think Mr and Mrs Shaw can handle any more noise tonight,” she said, passing him, tapping on the phone to look at the time. 2:56 a.m. She opened her eyes wide, man, it’s late. She looked at James, thinking of suggesting him to go straight to bed. She would eat at breakfast tomorrow morning. But as soon as her eyes landed on the boy’s body in front of her, her mouth dried up. James was reaching for the flour on the top shelf, and the visible part of skin under his shirt blocked the words in her throat. He turned and noticing her look slowly moving from his behind to his face, he put on a smug little smile, “Seeing something you like?”

She shook her head just as smugly, “I’d say so.” James’ eyes shone with a new light. The grin never leaving his face.

That joke exchange took place at least once a day in the Herondale-Carstairs house. Normally in the morning, when they were getting ready together to go to work and ended up wasting time in more interesting activities. The presumptuous air on both faces fell as fast as it had appeared.

“How about making your famous crêpes? I haven’t eaten them in a while and I’m josening.” He proposed taking the other ingredients from the fridge. Another yawn took over and Cordelia imagined herself already wrapped in the blankets, warm… “Or maybe not. Do you want to sleep, Daisy?” He asked her by laying the eggs on the table and approaching her, worry imprinted on his face, moving a rebel strand from her face and pinnin it behind her ear.

She melted in his hand, closing her eyes and savoring his touch “Mh-mh. Pas des crêpes pour toi.” she said to him in French, smiling. No crêpes for you.

She heard James laugh, and then his hand was no longer on her cheek, and he was moving around the kitchen again, putting back everything he had needlessly took out.

“Go put your pajamas on, and I’ll be right behind you,” he said with his back towards her and opening a shelf at the bottom. She nodded, dragging her feet on the ground and heading for their bedroom. She didn’t even realize she was going to go into the bathroom to take his make up off.

It had been a really long day and she just wanted to sleep, but she also wanted to talk to James, to know what happened today, to ask him about Christopher and Grace… and maybe mention Lucie and Matthew, see if he knew anything.

Suddenly she felt less tired, like when you go to a sleepover as a child and the only thing that keeps you awake is the desire to know everything, everything, everything.

She slipped under the covers, on James’ side, so that when he came to bed his side would already be warm, and closed her eyes for a second trying to rest in the time she was waiting for him to join her.

She felt a hand touch her cheek, “Daisy?” opening only one eye, she was embarrassed to see that she had fallen asleep. She got up on an elbow, about to apologize, when she saw that James was holding a tray with two steaming cups of hot chocolate on it and a yogurt muffin (rigorously prepackaged). She looked at her boyfriend and the emotion squeezed her throat, he was looking at her with so much love in his eyes. And the smile he was giving her never failed to swell her heart every time.

“Thank you.” she managed to get out despite everything. She wasn’t as emotional as she normally was, but on that day, she was completely exhausted and he must have noticed, because it wasn’t something he did so often. He had done it two or three times when they had just started dating, but then he had stopped and Cordelia had believed that he had finally woken up and realized that she was not worth all that effort. Clearly, she was wrong.

He waved her to move and when she was in her half of the bed, he laid the tray next to her and sat cross-legged, holding his cup up. He blew into it, looking at her from above the rim of the cup and took two long sips. She was still staring at him incredulous.

“I know you’re tired, and you just want to pass out so you don’t ever wake up again, but you didn’t have lunch today, and before the others showed up, you barely pinched a sandwich.” He told her by putting down the cup and passing her the muffin. She accepted it reluctantly. So Ihe had heard her when she came home and ran into the bathroom to take a shower while she screamed that she was starving.

She twisted the muffin in her hands. She gave it a little bite and then a bigger one and then another, until she finished it and her stomach thanked her and took the chocolate, tasting every sip. When they had finished everything, James took the tray and brought it to the kitchen, coming back shortly after with a dazzling smile on his face.

He threw himself on the bed next to her, bouncing and laughing, getting as close as he could and taking her in her arms, kissing her hair and waiting for Cordelia to settle down with an arm around his chest and her head on his shoulder, “So, what did you do today?”

“I don’t want to talk about my job, I want to know about Kit.” she said, leaning her chin on his shoulder and looking him in the eye. He looked at her in turn with an unreadable expression on his face, then sighed, “Okay.”

“A while back, we found her at the gym. She came over to say hi to me, but then I had to go away and she stayed to chat with Kit and one thing must have pulled the other ‘cause four days ago he came to the tavern and told us that they had gone on a date. Three times, if iI gotta be honest.” He said everything out of breath, turned around to see her reaction, thinking he’d find her at least a little annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t told her he’d met Grace, but Cordelia was looking at him like a child watching their favorite cartoon. He raised an eyebrow as a sign of question.

“And then?” she asked him curious.

“And then, what?”

“What did they do, where did they go. Whether he asked her out or she. I want the details James.” she said, giving him a little bump on the chest, then squinting at him and lowering the tone of her voice, “If it bothers you that they’re dating.”

“No, it doesn’t bother me. Grace and I have our history, it’s true, but Kit is really happy and she seems to be too, from what little he told us.” he said without changing his voice, “And anyway, I have you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “However, I don’t have the details.” he said, stroking her arms. It was amazing how he couldn’t get his hands off her, it was like there was a greater force pushing him and he couldn’t fight it. “You’ll have to wait for Christopher for those. O Lucie. She seemed very inclined to extort every little thing from him.” Cordelia pulled herself up slightly.

Given that the subject was introduced by him, “About Lucie,” she said.

James put his head on the headboard, “What about my sister?”

“Didn’t you see how she and Matthew look at each other?” she asked getting to the point. For a moment, a shadow seemed to pass over James, but it left so quickly that Cordelia thought she had imagined it.

“How do they look at each other?” he asked her without even looking her way. “I don’t know, it seems to me that there might be something between those two. They’re not telling us everything.” she moved away from the hug, staring at the ceiling. James did not answer her immediately. In fact, he didn’t answer her at all and she thought that maybe he was tired too and must have fallen asleep, but when he turned around to check on her boyfriend, he was standing there looking at the wall. A deep frown in his face.

She touched his forearm with her fingertips, and he jumped, as if awakened by a trance, “Everything’s alright?” she asked him worried, “I didn’t mean to imply anything, if it bothers you to talk about your sister and Math we can change the subject, or not talk at all.” Cordelia thought she had gone too far. Maybe she had touched a sore point, something he didn’t want to think about.

James must have sensed that change in her tone, because he turned to her, shaking his head, “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I’m worried. For Matthew.” he sighed. Cordelia waited for him to continue, not wanting to force him to share anything that he didn’t want.

“Sometimes I think he’s really joking when he says all that stuff about love, that he’s gonna be alone forever, but then I find him watching your brother and Tom or Anna and Ari. Or us. And he is… he seems so miserably sad. And maybe Lucie is not the best person he can have beside him.” he turned to look at her and Cordelia was taken aback when he saw his eyes shining with tears. She pulled herself closer to him and now their legs were touching, intertwining. “Not that my sister isn’t a good person, I just don’t think she’s right for him.”

“I don’t think Matthew is serious when he says those things. Not as often as you seem to think at least.” She said, brushing his cheek to calm him down. “And maybe Lucie is exactly what he needs right now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because lately, Lucie’s been telling me how this whole growing-couple thing in the group is starting to weigh on her. And with Anna finally together with Ariadne…” she left the sentence unfinished. James looked at her, surprised to hear such a thing. “Maybe if they really like each other, they might try to go out sometime, see where this thing takes them.” She proposed, trying to understand how the idea made him feel.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” he replied, carelessly passing a hand through her hair, untying her long locks.

“Of course, I’m always right.” she said proudly, stretching her neck to kiss him. James closed his eyes, breathing in that touch, thinking of all the times when, while he had been with Grace, he had looked at Cordelia from afar, wondering what her hair smelled like or whether he would ever be able to hold her hand in a situation other than those in which she was forced because they had to ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ with Alexander.

“What are you thinking of?” she bit on his lips.

“Back when I was with Grace.” he said. Cordelia immediately detached from that kiss, with an expression between confused, amused and ‘you’re joking right?’. She sat up and crossed her arms.

“Wow.” she said laughing, “And here I thought you were thinking about how much you love me and how beautiful I am.”

“No, Daisy, not like that.” James reached out and grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him, “I was thinking about when I struggled to be with you, but I couldn’t do anything because I had to stay with Grace.” he said, moving her so that she lay on his body, interlacing their legs together once more. Now they were chest to chest, and Cordelia felt every point where her body touched his.

“You didn’t have to do anything, James.” she said with muffled voice, looking at him from under her eyelashes with her chin resting against his chest. His hands began to move slowly on her back, drawing circles under her shirt. “That relationship was born only because of the circumstances Grace was in before. It wasn’t true love, as you always say. She didn’t really love you either, it was just childish affection growing with the fact that you were her only friend. That’s it.”

James opened his mouth to reply, but Cordelia’s fingers landed on his lips, “Stop it. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Oh no Daisy but I’ve been so bad, I left her when she needed me the most, I’m a horrible person, boohoo’, no Jamie. You knew it wasn’t right to keep lying to her, and she knew it too.” she concluded, moving her finger to caress the frown formed between his eyebrows. “Among other things, now we are all much happier.”

It was true. They had been together for two years. Two years when he and Grace had been in love, or so hey had believed at least. Grace had stayed isolated from the whole world until she was eighteen years old and had managed to ran away from that house in ruins, but her only friend had remained James and what everyone else would recognize as simple affection for a friend, to her it seemed love. James had agreed to start a relationship out of sheer compassion, as he had only once told his sister, and after a while he had convinced himself that he loved her, too.

But something had changed when the Carstairs had returned to London, he knew it because every time Cordelia was in the room, Grace ceased to exist.

For a while he had managed to ignore all the alarms, but after a few months of falling asleep in bed with his girlfriend, hoping that there was someone else in his arms, he couldn’t make it anymore and had cried in front of Grace, apologizing for the way he had behaved, for lying to her all that time. Grace had hugged him, comforting him, telling him that he had the right to fall in love with whoever he wanted, that it was not something he could avoid, accepting that whatever was between them, it was not love.

The smile on his lips warmed Cordelia’s heart, “You’re right.”

“I told you I was always right.” she smiled at him. James laughed and the movement of his chest made Cordelia slip sideways. He kissed her forehead, keeping his lips to her head, while with one hand he stretched out behind him to turn off the lamp on the bedside table.

When the room was dark, Cordelia drew a heavy sigh of relief and letting herself be lulled by her boyfriend’s arms, she closed her eyes.

And just before Morpheus could kidnap her for the night, she heard James whispering in her neck, “Goodnight Daisy.”

current taglist, if you want to be removed just tell me in the comments below

@tyherondaletrash @clara-sm @cordelia-carstairs-owns-me @tessaherongraystairs @idontgetit-whydoihavetosaymyname @jamescordelias @grxceblqckthxrn @thecerridwen @stitch-kiss @alastairlightwxod @ahiretsinging @allofmywonders

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #29)

(cw: drunkenness, heated verbal fighting, blood) ----------

01/15/88  1:12 PM

Hey.

Writing all this down hasn’t been easy, you know.

When I started, it was hard to even get anything from my brain to paper. It seemed even more pointless than it does now, for one thing, but for another, it forced me to remember things I’d rather just forget. All these memories are still raw. I haven’t been able to bury them yet, as much as I’ve tried, and writing about them, thinking about them, just feels like ripping open dirty scabs. There are memories so awful that they keep me awake, they infect my dreams, they make me physically ill. Those are just the bad ones.

The good ones hurt about ten times more.

That’s why, sitting down to write this entry now, it feels like I’ve taken nearly half an hour just to get this far. I remember everything, down to each minute detail, so it’s all here in my head, already written. Believe me, I read it all the time. I can hardly put it down, despite my best efforts. I can’t say whether it’s good or bad for my well-being, when it comes down to it. I will say that every word I read feels like its own tiny dagger in my heart.

I’m not sure whether writing them down will feel like pulling the daggers out or twisting them. Best I can figure is, I’m gonna bleed either way, right?

So, let’s take a look at what is, without a doubt, the worst good memory of my life.

Before walking through your door, I paused. I don’t know what I was waiting for. I just wavered a bit and listened to the distant and dissonant riffs of your game’s theme that was nearly drowned out by my heartbeat in my ears. I’d been in your trailer not moments before, and left with the intention of really leaving, of going back to my game and presumably drinking more, breaking stuff, or most likely, both. But I didn’t get a few paces away before I stopped short and turned around. Something tugged at me and urged me to go back in. Like I had unfinished business, or I’d forgotten something. Apparently, it was important enough to call me back into a situation that I had clearly wanted to leave not moments before. 

It took something pretty bad for us to part ways while still drunk. Whatever ugly situation I’d just left, I was about to make it uglier. On purpose.

I’ve got a talent for that.

Biting the bullet, I pushed through the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.

It was dark. You’d cranked the blackout shutters just a bit shy of closed, so it was still bright compared to a dark room in Niceland, but shady enough that the glow of your eyes really stood out when you turned to look at me. You were braced against the kitchen sink, and you were holding a bottle that you’d just pulled away from your mouth. I got the impression that you’d just drained most of it in one go by the way you smacked your tongue, and, honestly, you looked way too rough to be sipping anything. Your hair was a disaster (an unintentional disaster), and the distinct pride in your posture was just drowning. You looked slower and heavier than I ever thought I’d see you. I didn’t like it.

You didn’t like what you saw, either, if the blunt glare in your eyes was any indicator. You took another hefty swig, sighed wetly, and growled, “You said you were leavin’.”

I held my ground at first, but I could feel something awful pushing up from my chest. “I did,” I growled right back, “and I’m back now.”

“You forget somethin’?”

“Yeah. I forgot to tell you--” I paused, as my sentence had tumbled completely out of my drunken head, “I decided I can’t leave, ‘cause someone has to tell you how ridiculous you’re being, and ain’t nobody else here to do it.”

Your glare sharpened, and you stood a bit straighter. “‘The cuss you just say?”

I stepped forward. “You heard me. You’re being stupid. You’re making such a huge deal over nothing.”

“I--” you pointed to yourself, “haven’t been doing anything! You’re the one who’s been acting weird all night! What is with you?! Did your sense of fun just fly outta your pocket, or what?! Go on n’ just scram ‘til you find it again!”

I took major offense to that. “I’M not being fun?! I’m always fun, dickbag! You’ve been a mopey, grouchy, pissy, boring, complete and total drag all night, and I know why!”

“Oh, do freakin’ tell.”

I swiftly struck a nerve.

“You’re all hung up on this-- this Roadblasters garbage! It’s got you all--”

“Are you KIDDIN’ me?!” you snapped, stomping over just short of me, “That’s what you’re on about!? You think I’m some kinda pathetic, jealous loser?!”

“I’unno, you sure are acting like one! Over nothing! This is not a big deal!”

“I am not a loser, and I’ll never be a loser, because guess what? You’re right,” you dismissively backed off, strolling back to the sink to lounge against it, still reeking of barely-reined-in rage. “It’s not a big deal. You think I’m worried? No one’s ever even come close to stealing the crown from me. The gamers love a shiny new toy now n’ then, but they love me more. They’ll get bored and come back to me before the week is out.”

“You said that last week.”

Your eyes took on a threatening glint. “Yeah, so?”

I scoffed, “So, you gonna say it next week, too? I hate to be the one to spell it out for ya, buddy, but, those gamers? Odds are? They ain’t comin’ back.”

You paused, and there was something in your eyes that I hated. Well, not that I hated you for looking that way. I hated that I put that look there. There was a hint of this wretched sort of disbelief in them. They were angry, they were indignant, but they couldn’t believe I would say something like that. They couldn’t believe I would think something like that.

I hated that look. But I still felt I was in the right to say it. At the time.

You were too thrown to counter right away, so I continued. “The sooner you get that through your head, the better. You keep waitin’ for something that just ain’t gonna happen, you’ll only get more n’ more miserable.”

The shock in your eyes burned away into something far more hostile. You fired back sharply, with so much venom in your voice, “Right. Uh-huh. And is that what happened to you?”

It was my turn to be caught off-guard. I was expecting you to push back, of course. But when I caught a glimpse of where the argument was headed, my insides just twisted and boiled. I was angry. I wanted to finish you off before you could get into my head. I just… wasn’t ready to go down that road with you, down to things that could only be used to cause me pain, even if you weren’t wasted and pissed off. I needed to defend myself. That’s just the way it felt.

I know you were doing the exact same thing.

I stood, frozen solid, glaring daggers at you, just waiting for anything useful to come into my head. “No,” I began sloppily spinning lies, “but it could’ve. I got wise to it real quick once I realized that it doesn’t freakin’ matter.”

You wheezed a short, spiteful laugh, downed the rest of your drink, and tossed the bottle unceremoniously onto the counter. “‘Got wise,’” you spat, “what a joke. I bet the punchline is that you think you know what this feels like.”

It took me a second, but I decided to bite. “Yeah, T. No freakin’ crit, I do.”

“No,” you growled, slapped your palm back against the counter, and pushed yourself towards me. You imposed into my space, leaning in close, but I refused to budge. “You don’t. An Easter Egg couldn’t possibly get this. I’m the Good Guy.”

You knew how often I heard stuff like that. The steaming rainbows of crap I’ve gone through for who I am. And still, you went there. I know you were just angry, and I know, like me, you tend to say things you don’t mean when that happens. But damn if I didn’t feel betrayed. And damn if it was not about to get worse.

I prompted you quietly, “What’s that got to do with it?”

“So,” you hissed, “you don’t know what it’s like to have the gamers love you since the moment you were plugged in.”

Yeah. With that one sentence, you hurt me in ways I’d always feared you would. 

My gut reaction, my first reflex, was to hurt you back. I can say and do some really terrible things when I’m hurt. I realize that more and more as I look back on all I’ve done in this story. But I think right around here is the worst of it. You struck deep enough to break out the ugliest part of me. So I struck back with the intent to cut even deeper.

“No!” I shouted, actually startling you a bit. “No, I don’t! And neither do you! The gamers DON’T LOVE YOU! They never HAVE!”

I’ll never forget the look on your face when I said that.

I continued, “They don’t love ANYBODY! They only like you ‘til they get BORED, and then they DITCH you! You wanna tell me that’s LOVE?! You wanna tell me that’s anything I should WANT?! Why do YOU want it?! Why do you let them HURT YOU like this?! A gamer’s love is worth nothing! It’s not real! Why can’t you GET that?!” 

You couldn’t retort. Not right away. You were just reeling for a second. Your drunken self staggered back a step and wavered a bit while you stared at me with a look I wish I could wipe from my memory.

Then that look was gone.

“Oh,” you nodded, straightening up and stepping back on your heels. “Oh, okay. I get it. I hear ya loud n’ clear, baby. You think just ‘cause the gamers never loved YOU, that means they can’t love anyone, right?”

You sort of already said that. Hearing you say it plainly hurt way more. Then, just when I thought you couldn’t cut any deeper, you sliced me down to the bone.

“You know not everyone’s coded equal, don’t you?” you began. “Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry to say you’re the only walkin’, talkin’ Easter Egg in this joint, but that’s the thing. You’re one of a kind. You can't act like the way the gamers see you is how they see anyone else. You keep sayin’ it doesn’t matter if the gamers love you or not, and you’re right! It doesn’t! It matters if they love the Good Guys! That love’s everything! Our very games depend on it! Litwak’s not gonna unplug a game just ‘cause the gamers aren’t in love with the cute little surprise that probably won’t be seen anyway, so what’s the point? Don’t tell me that gamers can’t love anyone just ‘cause they’re not wasting their love on you!”

...Yeah. 

You sure did say that.

That shook me. Literally. I tensed up and felt myself quaking all over. I didn’t know what I was feeling -- it was some sick, haphazard attempt at anger, but it hurt so bad. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break everything. I just wanted to turn over the entire trailer, throw you out on the grass, spit in your face, and leave you to rot with the misery that I knew you couldn’t handle alone. 

But that would be a surrender, wouldn’t it?

So, I limited myself to screaming.

I stuttered, lagged, gripped onto my hair and actually tore out a sizable clump of it. “You-- YOU--” I shouted, moving in close to you, “You IGNORANT, STUBBORN, CONCEITED, steaming heap of GARBAGE! Will you just LISTEN TO ME, for ONCE IN YOUR LIFE?!”

“I AM LISTENING,” you snarled right back, “All I hear is some RAVING LUNATIC making a complete ASS of herself, talkin’ about crap she doesn’t understand!”

“I’m not an ASS! You’re just TOO STUPID to realize I’m TRYING TO HELP YOU! Help you stop WALLOWING in your own DENIAL and realize THEY’RE-- NOT-- COMING-- BACK!!”

“YES!” you advanced with enough force to make me begin to stagger backwards. “THEY ARE!”

“No, they’re NOT, TURBO! Even if SOME of them do--”

“ALL! OF THEM! WILL COME BACK! ROADBLASTERS IS JUST SOME RUSTY BOX OF SCRAP METAL -- I’M THE TOP DOG! I’M KING OF THIS ARCADE! THEY CAN’T LEAVE ME!”

“So what if they DID?! Why do you NEED THEM?!”

“I DON’T! I DON’T NEED ANYONE!”

“You JUST SAID you do!”

“Not ME! My GAME! My GAME needs them!”

“Your GAME?! You think-- YOU--” I seethed, “You’re so-- I can’t freakin’ STAND you! Why do you have to be KING OF EVERYTHING?! Isn’t there ANYTHING more important to you than your EGO?!”

“Oh, you think--” you pointed a shaky finger, “you think this is just about my PRIDE?!”

“Yeah! I do! Literally NOTHING else is at stake, here!”

“EVERYTHING!” your hands curled into claws, “EVERYTHING IS AT STAKE! Aren’t you LISTENING?! My GAME is at stake!”

“Oh, for the love of-- You’re not getting UNPLUGGED! Maybe it’s hard to see from your pedestal way up above our tiny world down here, but being second best DOESN’T get your game killed!”

“Doesn’t it?” your voice dropped suddenly, into nearly a whisper, and your eyes went as wide as saucers. A clipped, strained laugh slipped out of you. “Doesn’t it, though?”

I had no idea what you were going on about, but your sudden shift disturbed me a bit. I just furrowed my brow and stared at you, at a loss, waiting for you to make sense.

You continued, speaking very quickly, “One day, a game’s at the very top. Everyone loves it. It’s Litwak’s favorite. Gamers crowd around and laugh and fight over who’s next, just for a chance to play. No one could ever picture the arcade without it. And then the very next day, this newer, shinier hunk of machinery--”

You threw an arm out, as if gesturing to it, and your voice began to quake. “This usurper with ‘better graphics’ and ‘better music’ and freakin’ guns on cars just waltzes right in and yanks the crown right off the king’s head. Then what? I’ll tell you what. The crowds, the laughter, the fighting over a turn? Gone. Now it’s just a couple gamers at a time. Time passes, now its one gamer at a time. Soon, hardly any come at all. Some other even newer game takes the crown from the usurper, and by then, even that game is old news, so what does that make the very first king?”

Uneasy volume crackled into your voice. There was a distinct note of urgency. You were just stressing yourself out the more you spoke. But, still, you continued, without allowing a breath for me to step in. 

“Nothing. It makes him nothing. He’s not old news. He’s no news at all. Litwak finds a new favorite. Gamers don’t even glance at him. They don’t even LOOK. He just drives in the same Dev-forsaken circle all day ‘til his cabinet’s so covered in dust, no one even RECOGNIZES it anymore. Then-- Then when that day comes, when Litwak needs space for some new, exciting idiot cabinet, no one even CARES when he-- when he finally--”

You crumpled into yourself a bit. You plainly shook, like you were about to burst. I knew what I was looking at. I never thought I’d see it in you, but I knew what it was. I knew what it’s like. How it feels.

Truth be told, I realized that watching you break down... felt like looking in a mirror. That’s when I really figured out just why I’d come back into your trailer in the first place.

I won’t say that I wasn’t at least a little nervous. But I also knew it could never be as scary to anyone else as it is to you. I’m sure plenty of sprites would have told me to run, but I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. And if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t have hurt you either. So, like hell was I going to leave. I resolved with iron-clad stubbornness to stay. I backed up against the front door and tried to dial myself back from the hurt and rage I’d been in seconds ago. I had to keep calm and keep still. As long as you knew where I was, I knew you would steer clear.

And I watched uselessly as you had a good ol’ fashioned Mavis-style meltdown.

“WHEN HE FINALLY UNPLUGS THE DAMN THING!!”

You whirled around and slammed your fist against the fridge. Magnets clattered to the floor.

“BAM! GONE! WHEELED OUT THE FRONT DOOR INTO NOTHING!”

You whipped open the fridge door and slammed it back with enough force to send things falling and clattering together inside.

Blindly, drunkenly, with no rhyme or reason, you paced the small space, stumbling into things and attacking them in frustration. It was the first time I’d seen someone else freak out the way I do. I’ll admit that it wasn’t fun to watch. I did freeze up with more anxiety than I thought I would. Not over what you might do, but over what I should have done. I felt like I should have known what to do, since I had so much experience in this field. But I didn’t. I had no idea how to react or respond, let alone help. I barely know how to handle it when I break down myself, and I know that when I’m in a blind rage, I definitely don’t want help. So how could I help you?

My first, feeble attempt took the form of me just saying, “Hey-- Hey-- Turbo-- C’mon, cool it--!”

You carried on, not even hearing me, “SEE-- YOU DON’T GET IT! YOU COULD NEVER GET IT! YOU DON’T KNOW THE PRESSURE! I HAVE TO KEEP MY GAME ALIVE! THE SECOND I STOP FIGHTING TO STAY ON TOP, I’VE ALREADY LOST! MY GAME’S GONE -- I’M GONE!”

You tore a cabinet door off its hinges.

“I’M GONE IF I GO DOWN WITH THE SHIP! I’M GONE IF GO GAMELESS AND WASTE AWAY! IS THAT NOTHING?! ISN’T THAT A BIG DEAL?! AM I BEING STUPID?!”

You swiped a stack of plates to the floor -- it was loud, but they didn’t break. Plastic.

Not to say you were faultless, but guilt just writhed around in my gut. I was the one who upset you enough to make you break down like that. I know how much it sucks, and I hate that I was the one to trigger it in you. Like I said, I turned an ugly situation uglier. My drunken, upset, hideously miserable brain just couldn’t quite fathom why I did it. I knew why I really came back in. I just wished I hadn’t taken so long to figure it out, and that I hadn’t set us both back so freakin’ far before I did. I’m really quite adept at making huge, huge messes, but cleaning them up escapes me, even when I’m sober. So, completely inebriated, unable to just stand by any longer, I made a mistake.

I tried to move closer while you weren’t even looking.

“I’D BE HISTORY! NO-- NO, I’D BE MYTH! N-NO -- EVEN MYTHS ARE REMEMBERED! HISTORY, LEGENDS, MYTHS -- ONLY WINNERS END UP THERE! WHO’S GONNA REMEMBER A LOSER?! I WON’T BE A LOSER! I WON’T!”

You swept your arm across the counter, throwing all the empty bottles from a long night of drinking everywhere, and those that fell did actually break. A couple didn’t quite make it to the floor. Shaking hard, your hand just barely managed to grab one, and you turned your back to me. For a second, your voice jumped into a sort of sing-songy wheeze. 

“Hey, remember that game, Turbo-Time? Huh? What’s that? Turbo? Never heard of him. Doesn’t ring a bell. Who’s Turbo? Huh?”

I moved a little bit closer, trying to side-step the broken glass on the floor. I was way too far from my starting point. You couldn’t have known, in the state you were in. You weren't even facing me. I knew that. Why did I move? Why did I sneak? Why didn’t I say anything?

You went eerily quiet for a minute, quivering over the sink, holding your head with one hand, like your mind was going to fall out. Then, whatever was holding you back snapped.

“WHO’S TURBO?!”

Without a glance, you whipped around and threw the glass bottle with all your enraged might. You didn’t know I was there. You thought you were aiming away. 

All the same, you threw it right at me.

It didn’t hit, not directly. I dodged just in time to avoid a broken nose, shredded face, and probably a concussion, but I didn’t go unscathed. The bottle exploded on the wall behind me, and a hefty shard ricocheted and slapped me hard across my right cheek, slicing a long gash as it went.

I didn’t yelp. You didn’t notice. But that pain triggered something awful.

The lines between memories and buff hallucinations began to blur and intertwine. A memory I never wanted to see again suddenly began cutting into the one that was playing. My vision glitched. My ears popped with static. My heart started going absolutely nuts. The pain on my cheek multiplied as I felt jagged metal scratch score marks all over my face. My head began to split, my legs felt clamped in traps that squeezed tighter and tighter, and the clothes on my chest ripped into strings as letters started to carve deep into my skin. I heard barking, and I heard shouting. I don’t think I’d ever felt that scale of panic hit me so quickly. It took me right to the brink of total hysteria.

But, just like that, it was all sucked away from me. In a staggering shift, the grip of your hands and sound of your voice snapped me out of it.

You had grabbed onto my shoulders. My head fizzled and ached and my heart burned as my mind tried to settle back into the main memory. I stared at you blankly. I had my hand pressed to my cheek, so you didn’t see the cut. You just looked at me with these wide eyes, and… I’d never seen fear like that in your face before. 

“WHO’S TURBO?!” you demanded, as the cold realization washed over me that you weren’t yelling at me anymore. “Who’s-- Who’s Turbo?!”

You were really asking. 

Not just asking, but begging for an answer. Your face was desperate, and your tone was pleading, but I still had no idea what to say. Or what to do. I’d never been faced with an emotion like that before, and, honestly, you almost… sort of looked like a stranger. I’d never formally met that side of you before. There was nothing I could think to do but stare back at you, dumbfounded, and try to keep my footing while we teetered together.

I managed to barely breathe, “T… What...?”

“Who’s Turbo?” you asked again, your voice breaking down, your eyes searching mine like they’d lost something in them. Your grip on my shoulders urgently tightened a bit. “Who am I to them? Who am I to the arcade? Who am I to you--?!” you squeezed painfully tight for half a second, but after that, your grip loosened. “...If I’m not a winner? What if I lose everything?”

I couldn’t speak.

“Say I won’t…” you insisted. “Mavis, say I won’t. Say they’ll come back.”

I couldn’t.

“Wh--...” your eyes squinted at the edges with this… awful, fearful pain. You hissed pleadingly, “Say something!”

I wanted to. I wanted to say whatever it was that you needed to hear. I wanted to say even one single word. But what could I have said that would undo the damage I’d done? I’ll keep saying it, but this was beyond anything resembling my realm of expertise. I was useless. I’m still pretty ashamed of that, to this day.

Just then, you let up a bit. Eyes wide, staring right through me, you straightened up slowly and rubbed my shoulders where you’d been squeezing. “No,” you breathed. “No, it’s okay. You don’t have to. ‘Cause I know they will. I’ll get ‘em back on my own.”

You backed off from me, stumbling on a bit of glass (thankfully, your shoes were on) before you made it back to the sink. You turned away from me and braced yourself against the counter, trying to catch your breath. For a minute, I thought you were going to puke right into the sink, so I looked away. I pulled my hand from my cheek wound to assess the damage, and saw a familiar sight that threw little glitches in my vision and sharp pain into my head.

White glove. Red streak.

In all those trips, this was what I’d been remembering.

At the time of seeing it, though, my only clear thought was that it was bleeding way too much to hide, and I was not looking forward to whatever drama it would add to the situation. There was enough already.

And it just kept getting better.

I heard wind begin to whistle in your throat. You tried to keep talking, but your breath was coming too rapidly. Your sentences were cut into jagged pieces.

“It’s fine-- It’s fine-- I’ll get ‘em back somehow-- I always do-- I always do-- They won’t leave-- They won’t-- I’ll win ‘em back-- somehow--” your breathing grew so sharp, it rattled your whole body, “but-- how-- they won’t-- they won’t even-- even look at me-- I’m right-- right behind them-- and they-- they-- they won’t-- even LOOK-- how can I-- get ‘em back-- if they WON’T LOOK-- LOOK AT ME?!” 

Dread pooled in my stomach. In every other situation, with every other sprite, with any emotion even a fraction of what you were throwing at me, I’d have been clear out the door, on the other side of the arcade, acting like it never happened.

But, no.

You’re always the Dev-damned exception.

So, I tried to do… something. I put my hands out a bit and slid closer. “T, it’s okay. It’s-- Just breathe. You gotta breathe.”

You crumpled against the counter, and half-wheezed, “They-- I’m-- I can’t--...”

And your knees buckled. I envisioned you fainting right back onto the minefield of broken glass you’d created. 

So, finally, finally, I really did something.

Before you could fall, I jumped to your rescue and managed to catch you under your arms. I think, in the heat of the moment, I forgot how heavy you were, and how drunk I was. I fell too. Not on the glass, though, thankfully. I managed to turn us around enough for me to stumble back hard against the fridge and slide to the floor, with your weight pinning me back. You made feeble attempts to struggle away, but you were losing strength fast. You were hyperventilating so hard, you couldn’t talk anymore. You just stared straight ahead, your hands slipping and squeezing my legs on either side of you.

I’d saved you from the glass. But I was still lost. I was so, so lost, and way too drunk. I knew you would faint if I didn’t manage to help you. So, what did I do?

I started panicking too. ‘Cause that helps.

“Okay,” I said, my own breathing coming too short. “Okay. Okay. Stop. You need to stop. This is really bad.”

Amazingly, telling you to stop didn’t work.

So, out of deep-rooted reflex, I told you louder. “Stop,” I insisted, “stop, stop, stop--” and I started yelling, “STOP IT, STOP IT! YOU’RE GONNA PASS OUT!!”

Even more amazingly, that made it worse. Bits of your voice rode out on your rapid breaths, but there were no words. Just distress. I think you were trying to sound angry, but you just sounded terrified. And I felt like I’d just kicked you while you were down. Like an asshole.

But, right at that point, something else took over. I realized that this was one of those problems I couldn’t solve by yelling (I hate those). I had to calm down if I was ever going to help you. I’m not even exactly an expert at calming myself down, but I’d wager that I knew more than you did. So, I just thought… I’d do what I had to, and make you do it with me.

I took a deep breath, put my hands on your chest and my head next to yours. “Okay,” I told you quietly, but definitely urgently, “okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. Take deep breaths. Deep breaths.”

You didn’t.

“T… T, come on,” I said, embarrassingly close to tears. “Listen to me. Please. You’re okay. You can do this. You’re gonna be okay -- just breathe-- just breathe--” I needed to take my own advice. I buried my face in your shoulder and tried to slow my breathing against the fabric, and then it hit me. I snatched my hat off my head and brought it over your mouth and nose. Your heels scraped against the floor and you tried fruitlessly to pry me off, but I wouldn’t budge. I was a little afraid of smothering you by mistake, honestly, but thankfully, that didn’t happen.

I told you, “Just-- shut up for a second-- Just trust me, okay? I promise it’ll help, but just-- just breathe. Deep breaths…” I thought for a second as I tried to steady myself. “Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe with me, I’ve got this. It’s okay.”

I inhaled, “In…” waited, and exhaled, “...out.”

It took a moment, but you surrendered. I felt your jumping chest try to rise and fall as I instructed, and it was working. The moment you realized it was, your hand flew up to mine, the one holding my hat to your face. I expected you to tear it off, to insist that you could take it from there, but you didn’t. If anything, you pushed it on tighter. Apparently, you didn’t want me to let go. I didn’t try to.

Eventually, I didn’t have to say anything. You just followed the slow rhythm of my chest pushing up against your back. And finally, we reached steady breathing together. For a while, that’s all we did. We rode that fragile, awkward silence after a screaming fight, probably the worst one we’d ever had. 

“Okay,” I sighed again, and hung my head back against the fridge. “Okay. It’s okay.”

As we began to relax, our grips against the hat on your face let up. Your fingers were still laced over the back of my hand as you brought it down slowly and tiredly, but when I felt my hat slip from my fingers and into your lap, suddenly, you stopped. You paused, and looked closely at my palm. My stomach dropped. The blood. Of course you saw the blood.

It took a minute of staring, but once it clicked, you twisted your head back to look at me, looking… alarmed, I guess. Even more so once you saw the weeping gash on my cheek. I tried to avoid your gaze. I didn’t want it to be a big deal.

“Was…” you muttered, the pieces falling together. “Was that me?”

“...Well, I didn’t do this,” I muttered back, “but whatever, y’know. It’s just a little cut. Who cares?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched as I leaned as far away as I could. I saw your hand rise to the side of your face I’d been pushing my own against, and your fingers came back slick with my blood that had been smeared there.

You were silent. And then something about that silence went cold. You let go of my hand. You hung your head.

And you said bitterly, “Get out.”

I replied slowly, “...What?”

“Get out of here, Mavis. Go.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you here,” you growled.

My insides burned a little bit, but I pushed back without hesitation. “No.”

“You heard me -- I said get out!” you snapped and leaned forward, away from me, but didn’t look back. “Take a freakin’ hint, sweetheart! I got nothin’ for you here anymore! It’s over! Now, beat it, and don’t come back!”

Man.

I didn’t enjoy that.

It seemed like, in a single evening, you were making it your goal to check off every possible thing I’d always been afraid you would say to me. You just kept digging deeper into bleeding cuts, hitting harder on broken bones. 

But, lucky for me, I’ve got a lot of HP. And for the second time that night, I found myself looking in a mirror. I wasn’t about to fall for my own tricks.

“No,” I insisted again, my voice shakier than I intended, although a lot of that must have been anger. “No. Screw you. I ain't leaving.”

You tried to shoot a sharp look over your shoulder, but I could tell you didn’t want to look at me. “Why?!”

“Because I know what you’re doing!”

“Throwing you out on your ass?! Yeah! What was your first clue?!”

You moved to stand, to leave me sitting there on the floor, alone, but I hooked my arms around you again and trapped you back against me. You fought, but I could tell your heart wasn’t in it.

“Let go of me!”

“No!” I snapped, “Stop it! Shut up! Don’t bullcrit me -- I know you don’t want me to go!”

“Have you been listening?!”

“Yeah! ‘I hear ya loud n’ clear, baby.’ You screwed up, big time! You didn't want me to see all that, and hell, I didn't want to see it either! But now you think I’m gonna ditch you over it! So you’re trying to leave me before I leave you! I know! Don’t try to pull that move on me -- I invented that move, okay?! Just stop!”

You went quiet. But you didn’t relax. You were tensed as if you would try to jump up the second I let go.

After a breath, I continued a bit softer, “You really think I’m gonna leave you? Just like that?”

You countered, your voice just burning with pain, “Well, I never thought that THEY’D leave me, either, and look how that’s turned out! So, why don’t you save us a lot of time and trouble, and just--”

“NO.”

You stopped dead. I squeezed you like a vice, definitely enough to ache at least a bit. I’d never been so offended in my life.

“No,” I said severely, “no, don’t you dare lump me in with them. Ever. I’m not one of them. I’m not just one of your adoring fans. I’m not gonna just suddenly get bored of you and replace you with some other racer. And I’m not gonna run away just because you freaked out. I’m not scared of this--” I half-lied, “--and I’m not scared of whatever else you don’t want me to see. I know why you don’t want me to. I know. Trust me. But I don’t care. It’s not gonna make me ditch you. So cut the crap. You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

You said nothing.

I felt you give up, let yourself sink back against me again, your whole body shaking. You brought your palm up to your face and didn't lower it. Some of the thickest, heaviest misery I'd ever seen in another sprite emanated from you. 

I hate how I could hardly stand to be close to you, right then and there.

I broke the silence and continued softly, more from exhaustion than gentleness, “I'm not leaving. Keep trying to push me away if you want. Be mean. I'll be mean back. But I won't back down, no matter how hard you make it for me to stay. Because, believe me, you're making it really hard. But it doesn't matter. You can't shake me, now.”

You still said nothing.

I decided the fight was over. It was time to carry on like it never happened, as per usual. I'd had enough emotional toil for the day. For a whole month, probably.

“Okay,” I told you slowly, “I’m gonna get up now. I need to deal with my cheek. But I'm not going anywhere near that door. I'm just gonna patch myself up and go the cuss to sleep.”

You leaned forward and freed me from your weight. I got up on unsteady legs and headed to the bathroom. The moment I turned on the light, your voice stopped me from going in.

“Mav.”

I paused and braced myself on the doorframe. Looking back, I saw you still sitting against the fridge where I'd left you, your face hidden in the crook of your elbow draped on your bent knee. You asked me a question in a voice so drowned and low, it almost didn’t sound like you.

“Why'd you come back in at all?”

I didn't want to answer. Of course I didn't. But I also… kind of did.

I looked into the bathroom, and locked eyes with myself in the mirror. There was no glow in my pupils. Just big, beautiful blue eyes, flowy brown hair, and rosy, sun kissed cheeks. One of which was streaked with an open, bleeding wound that looked so much worse than it actually was.

Unlike me.

Maybe it was just my morose, drunk brain talking, but it struck me right then how unassuming I was. How no one would expect me to be capable of what I am. There's so much bad in me. So much more than you'd ever see on the surface. That's never bothered me too much. I'm not the protagonist or the antagonist or even an NPC. I can be whatever I want. And I can't honestly say I have any desire to be good for the arcade.

But in that moment, it shook me just how badly I wanted to be good for you.

Keeping eye contact with myself, I carefully confessed.

“The first time the gamers did this to me… I was alone. I guess I came back in because… I just didn't want you to be.”

I stepped in and closed the door.

[cherry3point14]

Stranger Than Fanfiction: Ch 6

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader   Warnings: Not much except for the dangers for staying up all night. And Meta. Word count: 1,900. Chapter Summary: Fanfiction is not your friend. A/N: I am very sorry but like all my writing we are in that awkward middle where we have to hang on for dear life and hope the writing improves by the end.

Ao3 if you prefer

You hadn’t gone looking for it, the story. Your new online friend sent you a link. Innocently. Casually. Like she wasn’t going to absolutely, swiftly, and utterly change everything.

It was only supposed to be a story.

You had tried to explain as gently as possible that you weren’t reading fics anymore but she'd sent you the link anyway, in case you changed your mind. She hadn’t been holding a gun to your head or anything, you didn’t have to click it. You could have let it sit in your little inbox till the end of time. She’d mentioned that you might like this story is all. This person, the writer she linked you to, was well known and pretty good. The stories were, her words, one of a kind. It had been late, you’d already been tucked up in bed and unable to sleep. The blue light from your phone was doing very little to help with the whole getting to sleep thing, but really, it’s Friday night. No harm, no foul.

Your bedroom was the perfect temperature, your blankets were the perfect weight over your body. Everything was soft and cocoon-like, the ideal place to hide from the world while you read something you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. More fanfiction.

The first story was twelve chapters and you devoured them. Your new friend had been right. The story was brilliant. If you hadn’t known better this could have been another unpublished book, albeit shorter than Supernatural books usually are. There had been a vivid interaction between Sam and Dean finishing each other's sentences that felt bone-chillingly real. Probably because you’d seen the real them do the exact same thing in front of you a few days ago.

Well written fanfiction is not the issue. Nor is the fact that you’re reading fanfiction at all. The crazy, unbelievable part came down to four familiar words.

Little did she know.

If you remembered anything it was those words. They had haunted what nightmares you’d had since you heard them a week ago. Those words were the reason you jumped easier at every sound or movement.

Then you’d read them on the screen. Little had that character known that she wouldn't make it past the week. Alone those words weren’t irrefutable proof, not enough to convict anyway, the rest of the story might be. The way it was written. It was like you could hear the words in your head again, a different song sung in the same voice. An echo of what you heard most days since that first Friday in May.

Only when you get to the end do you dare to even think your suspicions.

There’s no way. It’s impossible.

The clock at the top of your phone tells you it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning now. You hadn’t devoured that first story as quickly as you thought. Maybe you’re tired. That’s what was causing this delirium. Tiredness was sending you further and into the realms of crazy. Crazier than the voice or the Winchesters or the fact that a shapeshifter is killing people.

It’s beyond deranged. It’s insane, it’s… it’s… unbelievable.

Your life, what you’ve been hearing, it can’t be just that; a story. It’s supposed to be in your head. Sure, everything you'd heard had been strung together like a book but it’s not actually being told. It’s something in you, broken, you needed an MRI. Or a therapist. You read too much, that’s all. You have too many books in your memory.

It would be easy to turn your phone off now. One a.m. That’s sleeping time. Your eyelids are heavy and it’s a struggle to keep them open.

But you click the link that says Masterlist anyway and see a post for something in progress at the top of the page. Till Death Do Us Part.

The synopsis alone makes your throat dry and your heart stop.

Y/N spends her days on paperwork and procedure. In the worst days of people’s lives, she is the full stop at the end of the sentence. When a loved one is lost, she replaces the irreplaceable; by completing the insurance claim. Her work sits on the outskirts of tragedy, far away enough that she pretends to have a normal life. But when she discovers two men attempting to steal her job out from under her? Everything changes.

The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Gravity has forced you deeper into your pillow to the point where you couldn’t get up, couldn’t move, if your house caught fire around you. It’s a comfortable prison but you’re still trapped all the same, which only leaves scrolling, clicking, and reading as your options.

Yet your thumb is slow. It’s the only part of you that can move but you can’t bring yourself to do it too quickly. You suddenly can’t sleep either and indecision starts eating at you.

It might be an hour before you click on the first link—chapter one—it might be thirty seconds. The chapter eventually loads and when you do start skimming the words something steals the air from your lungs. A single line stands out to you, black letters on a white background that will haunt you for the rest of your short life.

This is a story about Y/N Y/L/N.

The early morning sun starts to leak through the gap in your curtains, sending a slither of light into the room. It slices over your bed, your arms still holding your phone and your face.  It's not particularly bright but it's enough to inform you that you haven't slept yet and you paw at your cheeks to wipe the tears from them.

Six chapters out of ten. There are six chapters online for anyone to read. Every facet of your life. There’s so much more than the words you'd heard in your already. Entire sections where the real you deviated from the path, because the you that is being written about has no idea what’s coming. She has no idea that she’s going to die. Or that you both are.

When you’d first heard that you’d run home in a panic but in the story you never did. You sat at your desk and worked mindlessly, made small talk with Harry about his weekend plans. You’d carried on living.

The invasion of your privacy is not the reason for the tear tracks blotting your face though. No, you'd cried for two reasons. Frustration had been what made your chin wobble and your eyes sting. What you were reading is what knocked your resistance enough to feel the wetness on your cheeks.

It's poetic. The irony of this character only learning to really live in her final days, without knowing it's her final days. The foreshadowing and tragedy perfectly  littered throughout. You may think you're better off knowing except what did you actually know? The only thing you know is the same thing everyone on the planet knows; death is coming. Yours is sooner than you'd like, sure, but you still had no idea what was coming at all.

You're not a crier, not pretty prose alone, but this isn't a character. It's you. The implication of sad, wasted days were your choices, your time, your shell of an existence.

You wouldn't have even thought your life was that ordinary until you'd read that it was.

So, you'd read. Over and over again as if you can will the ending to appear by memorizing whatever has already been posted. Sleeping was second hand to re-reading. You'd thought back to everything before this and your love of a good mystery, convincing yourself that you alone could find the clues. That’s where the key to solving this was. Hidden to anyone else but you.

Now you know every word; the good, the bad, and the ones you already heard in your head. There’s nothing. No glaringly obvious tips or hints anyway. Nothing that makes you sit up dramatically because of a fact only you know about yourself. Then again—you're reminded by the promise of an update soon—it’s still in progress.

The answer hits you between your eyes.

This story is in progress. It’s not a product of your mind anymore, it's being written by a human being. Although you have no idea how you are hearing it, or how she’s controlling you. Or if she brought you into existence like a monster from the books. There's still hope. She’s a person typing on a keyboard.

People can be stopped. Keyboards can be smashed. Stories can go unfinished.

You click back to her main profile and see her name. Emma. Your author has a name now, all the better to find her.

Emma. Iowa. That doesn't narrow it down much further. The only other slightly identifying piece of information on her profile is her age.

There's one thing Emma has gotten right in everything she's written so far, you have changed. Imminent death will do that to a person. Old you would have given up, let defeat win out. Luckily you're not that person anymore.

Not everyone is as honest as you would like when it comes to insurance. Sometimes you need to treat things like fraud because they are fraud, so you already have a friend who has dug up information for you in the past. With a lot less to go on.

Hi Stan,

It's been a while but I was hoping you had time to check something out for me. I'm looking for an Emma, 34, Iowa. I also have a link to her blog below. I know it's a long shot but if I can get a phone number, address, anything. You'd be doing me a huge favor. Are normal fees ok? Let me know if you're busy or if anyone else can do this for me.

Thanks,

Y/N

The email is brief but once your phone makes that tiny woosh sound to signify it's sent you feel comforted. A small semblance of relief wraps you up like the blanket you still have tucked under your arms. For the first time, you're not blindly trying things and hoping to solve the problem. You may not know how this is happening but you're being proactive with the facts you have. If your off the books P.I friend can actually find this woman then you may have an honest to God shot at preventing your own death. You might even get her out of your head to boot.

You check the time again, even though it's six a.m. you're finally tired enough to close your eyes.

Continue to Chapter 7.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23   Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278​ @bloodydaydreamer StrangerThanFiction tags: @jaylarkson @starsandmidnightblue​

[rokutouxei]

in a way that would make you proud

bungou stray dogs dazai osamu (& oda sakunosuke) | T | 2913 | [ao3]

warnings: post-canon, alcohol, dazai-typical suicide references, implied/referenced self-harm, oda is still dead, also everything is in lowercase. spoilers for dark era / 黒の時代.

notes: this was supposed to be for dazai’s birthday, but i started it way too late. i didn’t want to rush it, so i took a week to write it and now it’s just a long angsty love letter from me to him (in a way.) + first bsd fic so i wanted to make a good impression LOL

summary:

dazai didn’t think he’d live up to the age of 23. hell, he didn’t think he’d make it to 18. he was sure, at 10, that he would be dead by 15. everyday he would wake up wondering (hoping? believing?) that he’d be dead the next day. he never really does. alternatively: june 19th, every year, just feels like a long, long night.

-

(midnight.)

dazai doesn’t celebrate his birthdays, at least in his head. it’s just another likely-humid day in the country’s short rainy season. every birthday is just another reminder, no, a testament to a year of failed attempts to take his own life. it’s miserable at the worst. today, it’s just numb. he doesn’t even wake up feeling any different.

but he doesn’t let that train of thought stop everyone around him for celebrating for him.

dazai considers, for the first few minutes after waking up, skipping work altogether. it’s not going to be surprising, or anything new from him, really. and an earful from kunikida is just going to be cheap fun for the next day. but as dawn slowly gave way to the sun, he figured dealing with the pleasantries (as in, the “surprise” party that had stopped being a surprise a week ago) and sitting in his office chair would make him feel a little more put-together, at least more than just lying in his futon with his new roommate, a growing stack of empty cans of ready-to-eat crab.

dazai sighs, shuffles out of his bed, hearing the imaginary shackles that bind him there clink around.

(one o’clock am)

besides, the members of the armed detective agency think of themselves a small family at best, and for families, birthdays are special. (dazai hums this to himself on his way to work, like it’s a fact he’s learned, not a lived experience.) he’s spent the past two years carving himself a spot in this mismatched little group, and even if his space feels just as impermanent as anything he’s ever wanted, it’s still a place. he isn’t going to lose all that hard work over a random day.

budget is tight this quarter, but when he gets to the office, he’s welcomed with, salad, karaage… and even crab! there’s no alcohol because kunikida is too strait-laced for that and he insists there’s still work to be done. dazai whines and makes complaints, as everyone expects him to.

most of his colleagues have small gifts for him, like an orange from kenji, a candy from ranpo (quickly taken back), his favorite bandages from yosano… nothing really spectacular. kunikida gets him nothing, but the wordless glance they share with each other says otherwise.

atsushi feels indebted to his mentor, so he splurges to get him something nice: a scarf. which is hilarious, to say the least, considering it’s basically summer, but since scarves are off-season they are cheaper, and that’s the only way atsushi can afford something as stunning and high-quality as this—a nice thick cotton one in a deep blue shade. he passes the credit to kyouka for choosing which to get and for wrapping it nicely.

dazai’s eyes flicker with something for a moment before it’s gone. he thanks them with as much heart as he can muster, then does his usual dramatics. asks if the scarf is sturdy enough to hang himself with.

atsushi begs him please don’t and dazai feels something squeeze in his heart.

after the feast, the rest of the day goes as it usually does: dazai smiles and makes jokes and laughs and drives kunikida batshit insane. it’s just a normal day at the armed detective agency office.

just not for dazai.

(two o’clock am)

a work day is still a work day, though, and there’s no getting away from kunikida even on “personal holidays.” there are reports to be written and things to be followed up. dazai isn’t being efficient about it, but he still does his share—at least enough so that it’s even a bit fair for his begrudging partner, who is always gentler to him on this particular day.

an extra serving of patience—that’s what kunikida always gives him on his birthday. and even on this year, dazai’s quick to claim it; two hours before the work day officially ends, he’s already packing up to leave.

not that kunikida’s screaming will really stop him, but it feels a little better when dazai can afford to leave a little early with permission.

atsushi’s a little surprised no one stops dazai from leaving, but he asks no more questions when kyouka shushes him. kunikida only tsks when dazai is out of the building.

(three o’clock am)

out of the office and back into the rush of the city, dazai’s feet bring him to a beeline to that place, like on autopilot. he’s humming all the way there but his brain’s only echoing a sort of static. that is, until the imagery of sitting next to empty seats begins to burrow into the haze of his mind—and it hurts. numbness is okay, but pain? it hurts the same way squeezing into old shoes that no longer fit you does.

and dazai hates it.

so he steels himself, says, no one’s there anymore, insists, there is nothing to come back to.

even if he knows he will find himself there again one day. he always, inevitably does.

but not today. that’s not where he feels safe enough to break.

this time, dazai’s a little more purposeful, a little more awake.

he drops by a liquor store to get whiskey. just goes up the aisle and picks up the first one he finds. it’s not like he’ll remember what it tastes, anyway. the cashier doesn’t make small talk. dazai smiles at them anyway.

he contemplates buying flowers, but he feels a pang of pain at gifting something that’ll die before he does.

and so he begins the long, slow walk to the seaside.

(yesterday, today, and tomorrow)

yokohama is too familiar to him now. he’s lived here too long.

every street bears his secrets. every crosswalk has a memory.

every inch of the city has a weight.

when he was still learning to maneuver the ins and outs of the city, a little boy barely filling in the hollow of his new uniform, there was darkness everywhere. everywhere he entered, everywhere he left. dazai was sure the darkness would quickly consume him.

dazai didn’t think he’d live up to the age of 22.

hell, he didn’t think he’d make it to 18. he was sure, at 10, that he would be dead by 15.

every day he wakes up wondering (hoping? believing?) if he’d be dead the next day.

today, he’s 23.

odasaku died at 23.

dazai should have died at 15.

or better yet, it should have been him who died at the hands of mimic.

he’s sure.

(four o’clock am)

even if odasaku had acted of his own accord, he was still given a mafia’s burial. the details, of course, were hushed: it didn’t matter that mori had orchestrated the entire deal with gide. what mattered is that odasaku’s death had led to the granting of their prized business permit.

a piece of paper in a stupid black envelope.

in the months between the port mafia and the armed detective agency, dazai struggled to find a way to put into words what the experience left in him. it was like it was him who was shot clean through the chest. he was walking down the path the end of odasaku’s life had pointed him towards, but then what? at what cost? to what end?

his friend’s death left no trace of him, his private files burnt, the ones still useful to the mafia kept in confidential locations. (dazai knows where everything is.) to the outside world, all that was left of the man named oda sakunosuke was a headstone, on a rather beautiful gravesite on a fancy cemetery overlooking the sea.

it was dazai who overlooked all these tiny details, even while on the run, in hiding.

honor the dead, they said.

he figured it was the least he could do.

dazai always felt like he could offer too little to the only man who ever really knew him.

so now he offers it all, stumbling along the unfinished path of a dead man, even if he didn’t know where was he going with it.

“ya, odasaku.”

(ten minutes past four)

not much of anyone comes to visit this grave, really. ango, maybe, dazai bitterly thinks, but he’s gladly never had the chance to see the man here. (he hopes he never gets to.)

because this is the only place dazai truly feels quiet.

he doesn’t really stop thinking. he doesn’t know how to. there’s always too many things to consider, so much going on, and even when his brain lets go of the tangible, of the here and now, there are other things for thoughts to latch on to, like old wounds that suddenly seem fresh if dazai closes his eyes hard enough, or the phantom sensation of a noose, or the sudden realization that he’s drowning, just not in water.

dazai’s long mastered the art of keeping his forever-rushing thoughts in neat compartments. he doesn’t usually lose track of his spirals, except when he’s here.

here he counts down, 18, goodbye, 17, 16, 15, hello, he is young again, he isn’t wounded in the places that hurt when he’s alone, he is meeting odasaku for the first time. (he’s walking down the port mafia headquarters and he sees him, and something deep within him, six years away from the future, shouts: don’t! spare him! meeting you is a death sentence!)

and then he is meeting him for the last time.

like freshly pumped from a weakened heart, stuttering, begging to live, the spurting red blood is still warm. it sends those in dazai’s veins boiling. there is no rationalizing here—no amount of reason brings the dead back.

he knows that.

but dazai breathes easier when the lines are less muddled, and he can point the criminal to the judge and sentence them to death.

it was mori ougai, sir.

it was gide, sir.

it was me, sir.

it was him—it was oda sakunosuke’s fault, sir.

(it was him who pulled me out of the dark, sir. who forced me to deal with the mess we made, sir. who told me i belonged here, sir.

i don’t want to be here, sir.)

it is only here where dazai’s mask really breaks.

shatters cleanly in half, then falls down with a thump on sacred ground.

(twenty minutes past four)

dazai rests his back against the headstone, staring out at the ocean, the sunset dyeing yokohama bay a lovely vermillion. the tendrils of loneliness cling to his limbs like they’ve sprouted out of the ground, when really it’s from deep inside his heart.

only here does dazai really feel seen: his transparency only to a man buried six feet under.

dazai’s given up on it, now. it doesn’t matter that people don’t “get” him, as long as he’s able to do what he has to do. this is a luxury is long past him, now that he’s slipped into someone else’s unfulfilled dream. he’s trying to be what odasaku would have wanted himself to be.

if there’s one thing, one thing he would ask for, it’s faith: and with his subordinates’ faith comes success—and that’s all he needs.

just bargaining chips he’s collecting under his pillow as he says, “look, odasaku, i’m doing good, look, cruel god, this duty’s given my life meaning, forgive me, forgive him.”

meaning?

no, there is no meaning here, no metaphor, no hope.

just a gaping void.

(four thirty am)

the sun slips under the bay and the sky is a beautiful lavender-violet; the sea breeze makes him chill. rainclouds have begun to crawl over the horizon, hiding the moon.

dazai feels old. too old. he feels too old for someone in a body that’s only twenty-three. he never expected this body to last as long as it has. he was ready to retire at ages much younger than this. his hands crave death with the same vigor his mind races to write strategies for situations where he survives. now, he lives in a world he never expected or planned to be a part of.

he wonders if odasaku felt this exhausted when he was at this age.

all dazai does here is think. until the thoughts stop.

the cap of the whiskey bottle is screwed on tight but when it opens, the smell takes him back to bar lupin so fast that his head spins. dazai takes a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle.

and he was right. he can’t taste it.

only blood. the blood in his hands, the way it stained his bandages, odasaku’s dead weight, the red pooling on the floor. dazai only tastes blood in his mouth.

blood’s always been the only thing that’s filled him.

and he hated it. felt it thrumming underneath his wrist, his jugular, blood that said try as you might, you insolent mortal, you can’t die, that so many times he’s tried to wring himself dry of it.

he never does.

because if he loses his blood what else would be left in him?

odasaku once told him that the emptiness inside of him will never be filled, not by anything that he’ll ever find in this world. and odasaku was right—dazai knew. dazai knew long before he was told. no amount of money, no amount of power, no amount of whatever will get him out of the edge of the cliff he was dangling on.

for a moment, dazai wonders if odasaku knew and was so sure of it because odasaku was aware he was taking it away with him.

whatever “it” was.

(the sun begins to paint the sky violet)

dazai remembers an afternoon a million years ago when the hollow in his heart didn’t have the shape of oda sakunosuke’s hands. ozaki kouyou was teaching two jittery fifteen-year-olds about literature.

well, just one, but dazai’s really only there because he wanted to mess with chuuya, and kouyou spotted him first.

with not a single year of formal education on chuuya’s back, kouyou’s work with him was nearly tenfold. she was tasked not only to refine his abilities (he’s good, but he can be better, a touch of elegance will not hurt), but also teach him other valuable skills.

being part of the organization, after all, was not just about violence and murder.

dazai knew that. chuuya was yet to learn it.

arithmetic and history and science—the redhead had tutors for that. but literature, kouyou had taken into her hands.

it’s not the text itself, or the language and vocabulary, she said, what we’re honing here is critical thinking, and the bits of philosophical thought to be picked up that’ll shape you into a brilliant mafioso in the future. pretty words, dazai thought. she sipped tea while chuuya read. she tapped his back with a fan when his posture broke and he began to slouch.

chuuya read the books religiously, without complaint (at least not in front of kouyou). dazai never really understood all this. he let his mind wander. why didn’t she just let the boy read war strategy books—the kind mori made him devour? oh, but chuuya wasn’t really a strategist, and well, he’s obedient, that’s why he’s a dog—

the silence of the afternoon was broken by chuuya getting up to ask about a phrase he didn’t understand. kouyou smiled in a way that left dazai unsettled. and somehow, that afternoon was burned into dazai’s memory like it was something he mustn’t forget.

the phrase was 無我夢中.

to be totally absorbed in something, you lose yourself in it.

that is, dazai’s long known what he’s doing, he just doesn’t want to admit it.

(the sky is a weak light blue, giving way to an inevitable morning)

the whiskey bottle is empty now. dazai shifts to stuff it into his little paper bag of gifts when his fingers graze the soft cotton of his new scarf, deep blue.

save the weak, protect the orphans, he was told.

he pulls the scarf out and clutches it in his hands.

feels its weight. imagines rope.

please don’t, atsushi said earlier.

and dazai is trying, and trying, and trying, and—

is it enough?

is he enough?

will he be enough?

“odasaku,” dazai says, hums it under his breath like the wind will take it, bring it where he needs it to go, “would i have made you proud?”

(dawn)

fat droplets begin to pour out of the dark clouds. there are no stars out. yokohama glimmers under the thin sheen of rain.

nearby, a child hurriedly grasps his father’s free hand as he digs into his bag for an umbrella, and the little boy goes, “papa, the sky is crying!”

and maybe the sky is. maybe the man sitting behind the gravestone is.

but there are two sure things about rain:

one, that it washes away any and all things if you let it.

two, that it will always, somehow, at some point, stop.

(morning’s just beginning)

dazai gets up on his feet, with just a little sway from all the alcohol. but the night’s still young, and there are better stuff to drink than whiskey out of a bottle. he looks back at the grave with eyes promising he’ll be back soon, a little better, a little wiser than he is, and then off he goes, into the city he far-too-well knows.

maybe he can bother someone into treating him to some good, expensive, old-fashioned wine.

[boseongkrp]

( the friend #3, park chaeyoung/rose, she/her ) — introducing BAEK SERIN, the 22 year old WAITRESS AND MUSICIAN at devil’s kitchen bar, known around boseong as THE MELOMANIAC. the residents would describe her as painted nails & lipstick stains on cigarettes, lyrics hidden within coffee-stained journals, 1980’s jazz, indie, funk, and rock.

now loading her interview....

PLEASE TELL US MORE ABOUT YOURSELF.

“More about myself, huh?” She quips, supporting her chin in one of her two hands. “I can spin my hands 360 degrees. Wanna see?” An eyebrow quirks as she focuses her gaze on the person before her and doesn’t try to say anything else on the matter of her weird skill, allowing the subject to vanish when the other clears their throat. She shouldn’t have been sitting in this room again in the first place. She remembers too much, even now.

“The story goes like this— Mother was high up in the hierarchy of Boseong’s youth. Beautiful, intelligent, the kind of girl who could have any man she set her sights on but she threw it all away to become a poor man’s wife. Her exact words.” The words flow like a slow drawl. Half-clung to a distracted half-smile, eyes trailing the edge of the table. Past memories knock on her door, and she lets them through. “Enter Romeo. My father, who comes from rags, a farmer that struggles to make ends meet. Father said he used to makes extra money by singing on street corners and busking around with his homegrown magic tricks, which he never shared the secrets to.”

Finally, she settles her gaze. Peers at the other through the overcast glow of the lights up above. Too yellow, too bright. She blinks through the spots in her vision.

“They’re not supposed to meet, you know? Should’ve never crossed paths to begin with, but in true Romeo and Juliet form: they do anyway. They promised to run away together - into the horizon, over the mountains and beyond. So it’s funny then, that I was born here, in the quiet, sheltered middle of nowhere.”

She hates it. Loathes anything that feels forced, and all of these interrogation sessions are the very epitome of it. But she must give them something. Give them the answers they want.

“They had me, and for a while everything was right.” A pause. “But one day, just like father’s magic coin tricks, mother vanished.” For a second her face holds the same look of hurt it held many years ago.

———

It is mid November and the sky was greying. She didn’t say much from behind the window as she watched droplets of rain hit the glass with a ‘tap’ and by now she knew better than to light all the dark rooms in the house. And she could feel it, the tide of the past July. It’s like this one morning she looked across the dinner table and everything that has ever been left unspoken was being said. No one ever had to tell her anything, she always managed to catch snippets of what was happening around her, observation had been but a hobby to her for as long as she could remember and the sight of her father crying was something unfamiliar to her, something she would notice right away. Serin could see it, the way her father spoke in dim lit words, the way her mother’s name escaped her father’s. How often do we wear smiles that hurt, smiles that tell us we have endured too long? Serin feels heavy and the worst thing is, she knows the weather of departure; the humid air, the rain pouring announcing that winter is near.

———

Her flashback montage is interrupted by the soft squeak of a chair, and really, she doesn’t know what else to say.

“Uhm. What more do you wish to know?” She muses out loud, keeping her voice barely audible. She can’t let just anyone hear her sad story after all. “Right, more abo—”she mutters, but leaves her sentence unfinished.

“I’m that one girl no one writes songs about.”

Serin’s like a messy book, filled with half read sentences, marked up paragraphs, folded corners and empty pages. Half a hopeless romantic and half a skeptic. She doesn’t let people in, only a few have trickled deep within the small gaps between the pages, and somehow the book opens and she gives them a chapter. She feels with a terrible intensity. Too many vowels in her mouth, too many crumpled pages in her pockets. Her mouth twisted into rivers, pouring into too many oceans at once. At times, she says quite a lot and nothing at all. She always takes too little and gives too much. Reaches for anything, finding joy in the most rare of places. Comes and goes, disappears like mist rising in the sky. Maybe she is a liminal space. An in-between. A gas station on a longer journey. blurry, dreamlike. A threshold. An exhilarating parenthesis. She is simply someone searching for - a phrase, a light, a fire. The signs along the way.

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK OF BOSEONG?

She’s born in Boseong. It’s obvious in the kind of gaze she enforces. Like dead foliage, a wet morning, the dewy rise of dawn circling the dark pits of her eyes. The idea of the town swells in its bitter taste through the bite of her growing molars; the pith of intelligence blossoming with the ravenous flavor.

“It’s the place I’ve lived all my life. My home.” It feels unnatural to call it that, but it is what it is.

HAVE YOU EVER LEFT OR THOUGHT ABOUT LEAVING BOSEONG?

“Leaving?,” she trails off, gaze drifting away from the other in faux contemplation.

“The thought has crossed my mind a couple of times.”

But, it is sorta intoxicating. Living here, being here, existing among all the rumors and secrets that define it into the town of a thriller setting and sad sound. It’s like she’s born glued to Boseong. Ripped out of the reasoning to leave. Boseong is a void shadow lingering in the background of the world as it parades forward.

WERE YOU CLOSE WITH HA EUNMI? WHAT WAS YOUR IMPRESSION OF HER?

“Shouldn’t you know the answer to this? Is it not scribbled down on the reports?” She certainly doesn’t like it when others ask questions they know the answer to. She doesn’t even bother to look at the other, painted fingernails drumming softly on the rim of the table.

“It is well known we were best friends.” Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she tries to pull a soul-stirring recollection off a dusty shelf stacked with her memories, reminiscing about the day she first met Eunmi, and how lonely she felt, and how much warmth Eunmi brought into her dreadfully cold and empty life.

“She was nice, everyone loved her. She had a way of making you feel—special. Being her friend meant you were liked as well.”

It was hard tho, being Eunmi’s friend wasn’t always easy. Maintaining friendships, having close acquaintances, it all requires a certain amount of effort and sacrifice, something that perhaps not everyone wishes to give away so effortlessly. People grow and outgrow you. People change and most often, people forget about you.

DO YOU HAVE A DARK SECRET THAT NO ONE KNOWS OF?

<   R E D A C T E D   >

[ilovemybarricadebabies]

another fanfic ask game post! enjoy!

This time I’m doing these questions!

Inspiration and Reading Questions:

1. How long ago did you start reading fanfiction? Writing fanfiction?

Reading: I’m not sure. Maybe 2011/2012

Writing: 2013

2. How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

It’s definitely both, but I wouldn’t call it a perfect 50/50 split. It varies. Sometimes I read more, but write less or vice versa.

3. Are there any fics that inspired you to write what you do.

Not really. I usually just write fics for whatever I want to.

4. Link your three favorite fics right now.

Current favorite WIPs.

All That’s Left by @doriangrayscale

flowers for your grave by @grantairesbottle

Lover of the Light by @areyoumiserableyet

Favorite (four) all-time fics

Ask me no question (and I’ll tell you no lies) by Signe_chan

If you offer salvation, I will run (into your arms) by mornmeril

this is fact not fiction by Rianne

Oh, It’s What You Do To Me by captainskellington

5. What are your fanfic pet peeves? Do they have a huge effect on whether or not you decide to read something.

I have a love-hate relationship with slow burn fics. Like I love them because give me the pining, give me the obliviousness, give me the amazing, sweeping first kiss, give me the angst, just give me all the delicious development that comes with finding common ground and falling in love. That being said, however, and I realize that I’m in the minority here, the hate part comes in when the story is really long, let’s 50+ chapters, and the story gets to chapter 50, but the romance still hasn’t started coming into play and I’m starting to just get sick of it because nothing has progressed to romance. Like there gets to be a time where too much is too much and usually, when that happens, it’s time for me to say adios! to the story.

6. How do you find new fic to read? Where do you primarily read fanfiction.

I primarily read fics on Ao3. I loathe FFN.net with every fiber of my being.

I usually just leave the Enjolras/Grantaire category open on and refresh it like three to four times a day for new stories to read.

7. Do you prefer to read short fics or long fics?

It depends on the ship, but I mostly like long fics.

8. How often do you reblog/comment on fics that you like?

I’m absolutely horrid at commenting (I’m working on getting better), but if it’s a story that I really like (ex. the three WIPs mentioned in question 4), I will comment every time there is a new chapter.

9. Tag 3 fic writers you think are underrated/unknown in the fandom/fanfiction community.

I have no idea. In my opinion, I think all writers are underrated and unknown.

10. What’s your favorite fandom, pairing, or character to read fic for?

Enjolras and Grantaire (Enjoltaire) from Les Mis.

Fanfiction Writing Asks:

11. How do you come up with your fic titles?

Through music or quotes. Sometimes one just comes to me, but mostly through music or quotes.

12. Tell the author your favorite fics title of theirs (not the fics, stricktly the title). Author: what’s your favorite title you’ve come up with and why?

I love all the titles of my fics, I can’t possibly pick a favorite.

13. Do you outline your fics? How much of a headache would someone get if they just look at an outline of yours without reading the fic?

I make some sort of outline, but I don’t think they’d really get much of a headache since it’s pretty much just a basic plot, maybe sometimes a little more than that.

14. Do you have personal word minimum that you hold yourself too? Why or why not?

Absolutely not! I write until I think I’ve found a good quitting spot. That can be 500 words or 20k words. It all depends on how I’m feeling and where my motivation is at.

15. Tell the author your favorite fics of theirs. What’s your (the author’s) favorite fic you’ve written?

Forever Was In His Eyes is my favorite with Begin Again as a close second.

Honorable mention because it pushed me out of my comfort zone: Beating of Our One Heart.

16. Do you research your fics? If so, how deep of a rabbit hole have you down by accident while researching?

I only research if the fic absolutely calls for it.

17. How obsessively do you sit and stare at your fic after you’ve just posted and wait for feedback?

On a scale of 1-100, 100. I’m not motivated by feedback like some writers are, but I do love to know if someone is enjoying my fic or not.

18. Do you have WIP that you keep telling yourself that you’ll eventually get back to, but deep down you know that’s probably lie?

Nope. Any WIPs that are unfinished, will probably stay unfinished.

19. Do you edit your fics after you write them, or do you prefer to just post and run (because it’s someone else’s problem now)?

I edit, and then, I’m constantly editing after it’s posted. If I re-read one of my fics and spot a spelling mistake, I can’t just let it sit there, I HAVE to fix it. I am also currently in the middle of long and giant editing project to make sure all my stories are the best stories that they can.

20. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Um...I, for some strange reason, love outlining. I love coming up with the sequence of events. How do the characters get from point A to point B. How does the story end.

21. What’s your least favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Editing and revising. Always.

22. Do you take fic requests? If so, for what characters and why?

Nope. I don’t get enough attention in my inbox to do that.

23. What’s your absolute favorite trope to write?

Forbidden love. I’ve always been such a sucker for this trope.

24. What’s a trope that you’d like to never hear about as long as you live, let alone write?

I’m sure that there are some tropes that I would never touch in a million years, but I can’t think of any write now.

25. Do you listen to music as your write? If possible, link your writing playlist.

I listen to music, but I don’t have a playlist. Most of time it’s just Taylor Swift.

26. What’s your biggest distraction when writing?

Um...if I’m watching a brand new TV show or one I haven’t watched in a long time, I’ll pay more attention to the screen then what I’m supposed to be writing. This goes for movies too.

27, Do you like to give your readers some warning of what might be coming or just slap them in the face with content at random?

I keep my fics under lock and key until they are finished. No one knows any details about them except me. The one exception to this rule was Beating of Our One Heart. I warned that that fic would feature a polyamorous relationship (something I have never written before) while I was working on the outline.

28. How do you deal with writing pressure (ie: pressure to update, negative comments, deadlines, etc)?

Well, the only pressure I usually feel is worry that people won’t like my story, but I think that’s normal for every writer.

29. Have you ever written for an exchange or event of some kind? Which one(s)?

I don’t write for events.

30. Post a snippet from your current WIP without context - no more than 300 words.

R (11:46 P.M.): I’m not sorry.

31. Of the characters your write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain one?

I love writing Enjolras. I’m sure people who have read my fanfics find him to be OOC, but I don’t care. When I write him, he’s half me projecting and the other half is him being the righteous revolutionary that we know him as.

32. Copy and paste your top three favorite lines/jokes/sentences you’ve ever written. What fics do they come from?

I can’t pick three, I have too many favorites.

33. What do you like writing better: one shots or multi-chapter stuff?

It depends. I like writing both. I also really like writing one shots that are 30k+ and multi-chapter fics that are under 10k. It all just depends on my mood and what the fic calls for.

34. How much of yourself and your life experience do you put into your writing? What do you think your readers’ image of you is?

As stated above, I project onto Enjolras. How much, I’m not saying. I do put my likes and dislikes as the characters’. When I write children, I draw inspiration from my nephews. I use my high school class schedule as the characters’ schedule when I write high school AU’s. The jest of what I’m saying is that I have no idea what my readers’ image of me is.

35. How much has writing fic changed your life?

It’s become my escape when things get too difficult or stressful.

36. Are they any fics or fandoms you’re embarrassed to have written or been apart of?

I’m not embarrassed by it, and I never finished or posted it, but I started writing a Sound of Music fic. I don’t remember what it was about, though.

37. Give an update on your current WIP - if you have one, give a sneak peek to a title or idea that you have and would like to write.

My current WIP is almost done. I just have to finish writing more scene.

38. What does your writing process look like? How chaotic is it on a scale of 1 (very tame) to 10 (you can’t handle this kind of chaos)?

It’s very tame, so 1. I write my stories in order of events, if I don’t I get confused on what’s happen. I start by writing an outline, and then I write and I edit (multiple times) before I post.

39. What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

That I write what I want to. No comments can really influence the story (unless it’s a consistency thing) because I write the whole thing out before it’s posted.

40. How did you come up with the idea for [x fic]?

You can see this answer right here!

41. What’s your most popular fic (with the most notes on Tumblr, most hits/kudos on Ao3)?

My most popular fic based on hits: Somethings Are Meant to Be.

My most popular fic based on kudos: The Enjolras Guide to Weddings and Love.

42. Asker: pick three of the author’s works. Author: rank them 1 (the best) - 3 (the worst) based on whatever criteria you want - this could be something totally random that isn’t quality related ( like simply ranking fics based on how many trains appear in them) have fun!

I’m skipping this question!

43. Talk about a positive experience with fanfiction or the fanfiction community that you will always remember.

Every comment that I get, especially if I get it when I’m having a bad day, is like a little ray of sunshine for me. Again I’m not motivated by comments or feedback, but I can’t deny that receiving it is like a cherry on top of a delicious hot fudge sundae.

44. Ran about something writing related.

How long it takes to write. I wish I could just connect some sort of machine to my brain, and it would just churn out the words for my fics and they could be done a lot sooner. And that fanfiction could come before homework and life, but alas it can’t.

45. Fic specific questions - if you have any weird questions about specific works, here’s your shot to ask them!

Skipping this one, but if you have a question about any of my fics, my ask box is currently closed, but my DM’s are always open.

[emutempo]

Ashes to Ashes (Natasha Romanoff x Maria Hill fic)

It’s been a while since I first created this account and announced my intention to use this tumblr as a writing blog. I’d say I sure failed a bit in that regard. Life sure does find a way to, well, get in the way. If I’m being honest, I’m still struggling with the anxiety of posting my writing for others to read. 

But, I’ve recently gotten into the MCU and became a bit obsessed with the Romanoff / Hill pairing. I’m absolutely delighted to see there’s a community for this pairing and have been blown away by the fics I’ve read on here and AO3. So much so, I’ve been a bit intimidated to jump into this thing! Luckily, this little obsession of mine is one I can’t keep in my brain anymore. I had to start putting some words on paper. And to help me rid myself of my fear, I decided to post it here and commit myself to facing that fear. 

With that, I bring you my first foray into Blackhill/Martasha. It’s an unfinished first chapter of a fic I’m calling Ashes to Ashes. Apologies for posting an unfinished chapter but I wanted to post this before I got cold feet and deleted the whole thing. 

It takes place during the final fight with Thanos in Avengers:Infinity War. Since I’m new to this ship and the MCU in general please forgive me if I’ve made any egregious errors in regards to the canon or the community! I’ve tweaked a few things but for the most part, tried to stay true to the events across the MCU.

Once I finish this chapter, I’ll edit this post to include the ending of the chapter and post a link to the story on AO3 in case anyone likes this enough for me to continue. I’d love to know what anyone thinks.

Edit: I finished the chapter! I made a couple of tweaks to what I had posted previously too. Nothing major. Just some sentence restructuring I think improves the writing a bit. 

I’ve also uploaded to AO3 under my handle EmuTempo. 

ASHES TO ASHES: Chapter 1

WAKANDA. PRESENT DAY

All she could smell was dirt and all she could feel was pressure. The ground was like quick sand. Every move she made settled the dirt around her, tightening its hold on her. Like she was buried alive.

Natasha had faced a lot of adversaries throughout her career, some of them capable, dangerous even. And whether it seemed like it or not, she usually had the upper hand. Even against these new alien foes that were popping up over the last few years. Despite all of that, rarely was she ever frightened. But in this moment, as she lay in the dirt, hearing her team, her family, succumbing to this unstoppable enemy and the power of the Infinity stones he wielded, she was scared. 

She had been trained to lose her fear of the ultimate failure, death. She was just a cog in the Red Room’s machine, a pawn on their chess board with no place in the world for herself. Her life already forfeited to the mission. And what had it meant to her? She had nothing and no one to live for. At least not until Nick Fury and SHIELD saved her from the shell of an existence she thought she deserved. Until she had a team who cared what happened to her and had her back.

Until… she met her. 

SHIELD HQ. WASHINGTON D.C. 2008

The Triskelion was impressive even if it was still undergoing renovations. Natasha felt a fleeting moment of pride as she walked through the front doors that this was her new home. No. ‘Home’ was putting too much weight to it. She quickly snuffed out the feeling. A muscle memory triggered by self-preservation. She forced herself to relax a bit. She may not be sure about the rest of SHIELD but for now, she trusted Fury. For now. It helped having Clint there by her side and he trusted the SHIELD Director. And at worst, if things went south, she knew Clint would have her back. 

As they walked through the HQ, Natasha took in her surroundings. Sure, it was part of her training to identify and memorize the layout, the rooms, personnel and most importantly, the exits. But this was more of a ‘sizing up,’ like assessing a safe house. What are the vulnerabilities? Choke points in the hallways? Unsecured air vents? Natasha had to admit, SHIELD was an advanced facility clearly designed with defense in mind. She wondered if the scarcity of personnel in the hallways was coincidental or if Fury had ordered it for her sake. Or maybe SHIELD’s own sake? She couldn’t know, of course, and it would be counter productive to ask Fury. 

Natasha and Clint took an elevator to the top floor and a short stairwell to the roof where they found the trench coat clad Director and two agents beside him, looking out onto the Potomac. Natasha recognized one of the agents — Agent Coulson. Fury had introduced them after her de-conditioning at an unmarked SHIELD off-site facility in who knows where. Coulson was one of Fury’s right hands and Natasha liked him. He had an easy and calming demeanor and she’d bet a few rubles he could keep his cool under fire. 

But the other agent next to Fury was unfamiliar to her. Even with her back to Natasha, she could tell a few things about this new-to-her agent. A few inches shorter than Fury, she was tall, wearing a well-fitting suit that revealed a toned physique. Clearly she took care of herself and appearance. Her hair was in a low bun and that with her militaristic posture let Natasha assume she was probably ex military. Her arms were crossed against her chest but her shoulders were relaxed. Was it doubt? Apprehension? Or maybe she was chilly from the breeze coming off the river and onto the rooftop?  Not surprising for a SHIELD operative. Natasha would need more than just a few seconds to assess but nonetheless, she seated herself in her trust for Barton and Fury as they approached. 

Fury, Coulson and the other agent turned around and for the first time, Natasha got a look at the new agent. She wasn’t surprised, per se, to see such a beautiful woman standing before her. But she was surprised by her own reaction. Their eyes connected and she felt a warmth spread through her body as fast and disarming as lightning, traveling from the pit of her stomach to her throat. And as fast as lightning, Natasha stuffed the feeling down, scolding herself for the involuntarily betrayal by her own body. They walked the last few steps and Natasha took a deep breath, subtly enough she knew no one would notice. 

Fury reached out his hand to Barton, “Welcome to the SHIELD rooftop Lounge Barton, Romanoff.” He shook Natasha’s hand. “Of course, you remember Agent Coulson.” Coulson smiled warmly and shook their hands. “Agents. Glad to see you again.” “And this is my other right hand,” Fury continued,”hell, my left eye too. Commander Maria Hill.” All hopes of squashing any involuntary feelings creeping back died when Maria smiled at Fury’s joke and reached out her hand to Barton in a strong hand shake. “Commander Hill. I’m looking forward to working with you.” “Likewise, Commander.” Natasha couldn’t help be distracted by the brightness of her eyes when she smiled. She had a strong but feminine voice with a no-bullshit firmness to it. She spoke with confidence. 

Hill turned to Natasha who reached out her hand automatically. “Natasha Romanoff.” Again, Natasha chided herself internally but Maria smiled. “Oh, I know who you are.” Natasha tilted her head in slight hesitation. “In a good way, I mean, of course.” The words tumbled out of the Commander’s mouth a bit too fast and Natasha forgot herself for a moment and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you too, Commander Hill.” Natasha stepped back and bit the inside of her cheek. This is going to be a hard one to ignore. 

WAKANDA. PRESENT DAY.

The memory renewed Natasha’s struggle against the dirt prison entrapping her. She pointed her toes, digging her heels into the ground behind her ankles and scrunched her shoulders, trying to get leverage against the ground and slide out. Rocking her body side to side, her hands and feet dug into the dirt but she didn’t move an inch. She tried again and again but made no progress, succeeding only in getting more dirt on her face. Rather than get frustrated, she changed tactics. Rocking her body harder against the dirt sides, digging her shoulder into the hard surface, trying to erode the dirt away. The dirt crumbled a bit, dropping more sediment onto her face. It was a little bit of progress but Natasha wasn’t sure it would be enough in time for her to get back to her team. To stop Thanos. 

She wasn’t sure how, not that it really mattered, but Thanos had threatened to wipe out half of the universe and Vision’s mind stone was the key Thanos needed to do it. Her body rocked harder against the wall, fighting against the thoughts invading her mind. She thought of Tony, wondering where he was, if he had survived whatever he had encountered. They weren’t sure, but the intel had Tony leaving the atmosphere on an alien ship and that was it. No sign of Tony since. When Thor beamed down to Wakanda mid-battle, she had expected Tony to be with him. But, he wasn’t.

As her body rocked harder against the dirt, she gritted her teeth, forcing her shoulder into the walls. More dirt fell but it wasn’t fast enough for Natasha. Not fast enough to fight the thoughts as they hit her harder. Fury… Barton… Maria. 

OUTSIDE OF WHITE HAVEN, PA. 1 WEEK AGO.

An old diesel truck rumbles down a green mountain highway, a middle aged man at the wheel sporting a pair of horn rimmed glasses, a pencil thin mustache and a tattered baseball cap. Paint peeling, chunks of fender missing. You can barely make out logo on the side of the driver door. Musical notes emerging from a cartoon toilet shaped comically like an instrument. The words “Stravinsky Plumbing” arched above. The truck labors to a stop at a fork in the road before turning right onto a dirt road surrounded by trees. The truck finally pulls up to a one story cabin sitting at the edge of a lake. A pile of wood and a lifted jeep sits next to the front door. The driver grabs a large, black duffle bag from the passenger seat of the truck and walks to the front door, giving it two loud knocks. Barely even a second after the second knock, the door swings open. Maria Hill stands on the other side, staring at the plumber with a mixture of surprise and barely covered delight. 

The driver tips his hat and winks at Maria. “Afternoon, miss. I heard you called for a plumber about 9 weeks, 2 days and 3.5 hours ago? Apologies for the delay. There were some unforeseen speed bumps along the wa—” Before he can finish, Maria steps out of the door way and grabs the collar of his shirt in her hands. Her lips close on his and the driver drops the bag, rising to his tip toes and wrapping his arms around Maria’s neck. Their hands explore each other, Maria’s lowering to slip inside his back pockets, his fingers spreading into her hair. Their lips don’t move apart until Maria pulls away, sucking in air. “Igor Stravinsky.”

The driver pulls back, his face turning to a pout. Shaking his head in disbelief, he opens his mouth to speak but the voice doesn’t match the man we see. “How did you—” Maria smiles as her fingers caress the man’s face, “I heard the truck coming down the drive.” She raises an eyebrow, “Stravinsky plumbing, huh?”  “Too obvious?” asks the man. “Maybe a little.” Maria pulls the man in for an intense kiss before they both pull back, needing air. Despite the man’s appearance, they stare for a moment into each other’s eyes, familiar and warm. Wordlessly, the driver picks up his bag as Maria pulls him into the cabin and shutting the door behind them. 

The bag quickly forgotten on the floor, the man reaches up to his face and peels the latex from his face. Rather, her face. Maria watches as she expertly unbuttons the denim shirt worn by the woman underneath. As the last bit of latex comes off and the wig embedded in it, Natasha looks into Maria’s eyes and cups her face. “I missed you.” “I missed you too.” 

[bts-fantasy]

Rain

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

Genre: Angst

Inspired by „Rain“ - BTS

It was raining heavily. Thick gray clouds were hanging low in the sky and the sound of rain knocking on the windows could be heard everywhere in the hotel room. Namjoon woke up in the same position as he was sitting at the desk yesterday. He fell asleep while trying to write a new song. The unfinished song was still in front of him making him growl up in frustration and run his hands over his face. Looking outside of the window everything was just gray. Gray city, gray buildings, gray roads, gray rain. It reminded him of his own situation and he immediately felt the emptiness wash all over him again. The sleepless nights, the lack of inspiration... he could remember the reason for everything like it was only yesterday.

*Flashback*

„Please don‘t do this Namjoon...“, you were no longer able to hold back the tears and felt it roll down your cheeks. Namjoon instinctively reached out to wipe it off but stopped midway and dropped his arm again. This small act alone made your heart break into tiny pieces and you couldn‘t take it anymore. „I- I‘m really sorry Y/N... but I can‘t do this.“ He looked down at his hands not daring to look into your eyes. „Why can‘t you at least try before you give up? Before you give up on us? I know we can get through this!“ You tried to convince him ignoring the sobs that interrupted the words from coming out.

A world tour is a big deal and you know it‘d be hard to maintain a relationship when you‘re no longer able to see each other for a very long time. But you never thought that Namjoon would just give up without fighting for you.

„Y/N don‘t be a fool. You deserve someone who stands by your side and is there for you when you need them.“ He took a deep breath before saying the last words that would finally make you realise that he was serious about this. „And I can‘t give you that.“ His voice was merely a whisper. You wiped your tears off with the sleeves of your sweater and took a deep breath ready to face the reality. A reality without your boyfriend Kim Namjoon. „Okay, I get it.“ You said coldly after gaining a little confidence. You knew you can‘t make someone stay who wants to leave so you were finally ready to let him go. Namjoon looked up in surprise he certainly didn‘t expect this answer from you. „Really?“ You nodded still very confident even though you were breaking down on the inside. You had to let him go...

***

Ever since he left with the boys for their world tour he‘s been feeling empty inside. Actually he had felt this way from the moment you turned around and walked away that day. But in that moment he thought he had made the right decision. The decision to not put you through all of this even though he wanted nothing more than to be with you. But he couldn‘t be selfish with you. He sighed deeply and went to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked exactly like the way he felt: miserable.

After taking a long shower he decided to go for a walk. Rain was still falling outside of the house so he took his umbrella with him and walked around the city with no destination at all. His thoughts were spinning around one person only... You.

His mind was filled with different thoughts. „Did I make the wrong decision?“ „Should I have tried harder to work things out?“ „Will she ever forgive me?“ „If only she was here right now...“

As if the universe had heard his thoughts he bumped into someone when he turned around the corner. You rubbed your forehead which hit his chin pretty hard. „Hey! Watch where you‘re-“ You stopped mid sentence when you looked up at Namjoon. His eyes got so big you were afraid it might fall out. Without a word he embraced you tightly picking you up and spinning around but the excitement was short-lived. He soon realised what he was doing and put you down gently stepping away from you while mumbling apologies over and over again. You haven’t seen him this nervous since your first date and it made you miss him even more. His umbrella was knocked down on the road and the rain was falling down on him merciless. You picked it up again and held it in front of him so he wouldn‘t get any more wet than he already was. Namjoon looked into your eyes while taking the umbrella only to throw it behind him carelessly. Right when you were about to scold him for his childish behaviour he cut you off. „I‘m so sorry Y/N... for everything!“ He took a step towards you but you moved back. The look of hurt flashed over his face but you had to think straight right now. „What are you sorry for Namjoon?“, you asked quietly not breaking the eye contact with him. You could feel how he was lost for words because he didn’t expect to meet you in this place. Little did he know that you took some time off for yourself and decided to visit your grandma who lived here. „I am sorry for letting you go without trying. I was stupid but now I know that I can’t live without you Y/N... You are my inspiration and the time I‘ve spent without you I couldn‘t even write one song! If there‘s any chance that you‘d let me into your life again I promise I‘d make you the happiest girl alive. Please Y/N... I need you.“

You stood there in the pouring rain feeling glad that the rain covered your tears that were streaming down your face. He had hurt you so much and the past month had been the worst for you but you missed him every day a little more. Namjoon‘s confession made your heart flutter and you felt like there was hope again. However, you weren‘t ready to forgive him that easily. „I... need some time to think about it Namjoon. The past month wasn‘t easy for me and I can‘t just ignore the fact that you left me when things got difficult. I have to know for sure that I can trust you again.“ You were surprised but also proud of yourself for saying this and knowing your self-worth. But it still hurt to see Namjoon letting his head sink in disappointment. After all, you never stopped loving him. You stepped forward and quickly kissed his cheek while his face turned bright red. You leaned in to whisper in his ear. „I‘m not saying there‘s no chance...“

Masterlist

Moodboard

[marginalgloss]

the penknife through the boards

‘...days, even weeks later, he was sitting on the grey pebbles of an island, one of the innumerable cold grey Chonos islands, sullenly training his glass not on any wildly exotic migrant but the commonplace resident blackish (but white-footed) oyster-catcher wading about in search of its living. Farther along there was another, a lacklustre female; and neither betrayed the slightest interest in the other: clearly this was not their breeding season, whatever the snipe might think...He fixed it with his telescope, and there indeed was Jacob looking at him through another and making signs – untimely mirth? Whatever the signs were they were very soon lost as the brig rounded yet another great sea-worn cliff in the direction of Surprise, and Stephen’s attention was at once seized by a very noble sight – two black-necked swans flying steadily south, quite low over the water, so low that he could hear the rhythmic beating of their wings. ‘I cannot just sit here, watching pale-footed oyster-catchers,’ said Maturin aloud. ‘But what other course is open to me?’’

Blue at the Mizzen is the last book that Patrick O’Brian finished before he died in 2000, aged 85. There would be another unfinished novel published posthumously but, having worked my way slowly through this series, I don’t feel I need to read it. By all accounts it ends mid-sentence; I doubt it would contribute much in the way of what is fashionably called closure. As it stands this final book ends on a pleasingly optimistic chord. But there is nothing final about it, no sense of an ending close at hand. The writer Jo Walton has written an excellent series of short blogs on this series, and in her assessment of this one she mentions how it seems like O’Brian would have gone on writing this series as long as he drew breath. It’s hard to disagree. 

With Napoleon out of the picture, the plot here is effectively a fictionalised re-telling of another episode from the life of Lord Cochrane, namely his role in the fight for independence of Peru, and the creation of the Peruvian navy. Earlier novels have mentioned this for some time, and the politics of it are quite complicated, but for the reader it is largely an excuse for an epic transatlantic sea voyage from Britain all the way to the Pacific. By this stage O’Brian’s descriptive writing is not what it was, nor is his pacing, but it’s solid, compelling stuff. The gentle wash of his long sentences, with their curious pedantry, nested sub-clauses and old-fashioned elegance, is never less than charming.

Even at this late stage, the author is setting up characters to play a greater role in future instalments (though of course there would be none). Christine Wood returns to Maturin’s attention and affection, and there is Horatio Hanson, the son of a Duke who is reluctantly accepted by Aubrey as a midshipman. Hanson redeems himself on a number of occasions, almost to the degree of being set up by the author as a sort of apprentice to Aubrey. There’s even some nice scenes back in England with Sarah and Emily where it seems inevitable that we must return to them at some stage to witness another stage in their lives. Here, more so than in the preceding novels, O’Brian really seems to be taking an interest in the younger members of his cast of characters. 

It ends with something of a bang. There’s a big battle, and Aubrey is quite badly wounded in the melee. In fact he comes out of it far worse than in any recent confrontation. But once word of his exploits reaches home, his dream is granted, or at least he achieves that measure of security which he has long craved: he is made a proper admiral. Thus, I imagine, he sails home a hero. (That is assuming Jack survives his wounds. In another version of this story that happens only in my mind, he dies on the long journey home. But I can’t imagine O’Brian ever countenancing such a thing.) 

Maturin has done all right, too; Christine Wood might have refused his initial proposal of marriage, but she does so in such a way that seems to leave it an open question. I imagine a future in which they live together in a sort of celibate, platonic ideal of more-than-friendship, residing perhaps in a quiet wing of the greater Aubrey household. There is a very striking sequence in which Maturin believes he sees a vision of Christine, while riding alone in South America:

‘On the next stretch they passed through an invisible barrier into a thinner, cooler air, and there were his – not illusions: perceptions might be the better word – of Christine again, clearer and sharper now, particularly as she moved across a dark wall of rock. A tall, straight, lithe figure, walking easily and well: he remembered with the utmost clarity how, when she was reading or playing music or training her glass on a bird, or merely reflecting, she would be entirely apart, remote, self-contained; and then how she would be wholly with him when he moved or spoke. Two strikingly different beings; and the delight in her company, as he delighted even in the memory of it, seemed to him essential happiness, fulfilment. Of course he was a man, quite markedly so, and he would have liked to know her physically: but that was secondary, a very remote stirring compared with gazing at this phantasm – this now remarkably clear and sharply-defined phantasm against the rock-face.’

This passage also serves as a fine summary of the relationship between Jack and Stephen. Two strikingly different beings delighting in one another’s company – each entirely apart, alone, yet coming together in movement and speech. This is about as intimate as people can ever get in O’Brian’s world.

***

I’ve now written something about all of these novels. (Unfortunately tumblr does not provide me with a convenient way to list them, but you can find all the pieces by clicking on this tag.) Summarising them turns out to be easy, in a way, because they are so continuous that after a while one blends into the next. They are so very much part of a greater whole that in a very real sense they might as well be part of a single endless manuscript. The final part of it might have been lost but that detracts little from what remains.

These novels are timeless in the sense that when you read them you forget the order in which they were written. There are machinations of plot, but these are mostly incidental. Nothing is allowed to disturb the beautiful essential routine of naval life in the early nineteenth century. Bacon and eggs and toast for breakfast, and coffee. The practice of gunnery in the afternoons, at captain’s expense. Port after dinner and toasted cheese in a silver dish, followed by a duet between cello and violin. There is something comforting about all this. The books are formed around a conservative vision of life which seems alien to life in the twenty-first century. It might even have seemed alien to most people in the nineteenth century. You could say with confidence that these books belong to no time at all. 

It is the opposite to when we call something ‘dated’. When we say something is dated, we mean we notice the cultural residue of the time it was made in the details of its production. Almost all films and popular music are dated because they are reliant on era-specific technology as a means of reproduction. Most novels are also dated, for different reasons. O’Brian’s books are not dated. The first book was published in 1969, and the last book was published in 1999, and you would never know this from reading them. There’s no crack in the text against which we can press ourselves to glimpse the twentieth century drifting by. 

Perhaps there’s a pedantic argument that says this cannot be the case. Perhaps we can find literary techniques at work in these books that would have been totally alien to a reader in the Napoleonic era. This may well be true. But what I mean to say is that these books do better than most in allowing the author to entirely disappear within them. Better to say, in fact, that the books themselves — all twenty-odd of them — speak with a singular voice best ascribed to the books, and not the author. It is as though they wrote themselves until one day they stopped.

But of course they didn’t really write themselves. In the last few years of his life certain facts about O’Brian came to light that were, at best, embarrassing; at worst, a minor scandal. We learned that he left (or abandoned) his first wife and child while the latter suffered from a disorder of the spine. He may have lied about being an intelligence agent and he may have lied about his sailing experience, or at least his did nothing to correct those misapprehensions amongst his fans. His name was not even O’Brian; his Irish ancestry was, apparently, a convenient fiction. Little of this is awful enough to be placed beyond the category of ordinary human failings, though much of it seems strange, or even cruel. But once known it is difficult to forget about. And if Master and Commander was published tomorrow it seems inconceivable that the same author could escape similar scrutiny for so long. 

Today we expect artists to be good people. We need them to be exemplars of quality. We need to admire them. Our expectations for them are higher than they are for politicians or other public figures. It used to be the other way around: the politician would be crucified in the press for cheating on his wife, while artists could sleep with whomever and ingest whatever in the name of expanding the boundaries of the possible. Now, we already expect the worst of politicians. We expect them to lie, to cheat, and even to misbehave in their personal lives, perhaps because we have grown accustomed to accepting the line between personal and professional conduct. But the artist must be always at work. And we want them to be everything we can’t be: happy, secure, modest, successful. With moments of excitement, perhaps, but for the most part we want them to be dependable, capable, calm. We want them to be honest.

All of this is what is so appealing in O’Brian’s novels. Theirs is a vision of a world at work which is also, somehow, a work at rest. It is a very old English vision: the peasant in his field, the craftsman in his shop, the soldier at the gates, and the lord in his tower. All capable, calm, and happy in their understanding of what the world requires of them and how they must relate to it. The ideal mood is of things ticking over under the oversight of a supremely competent leader. An authoritarian? Well, perhaps. Democracy is certainly out of it; revolutionaries and radicals of all kinds are never to be trusted in these books. How much better to be ruled by a benevolent king of some sort. Rule by consent, of course, but it must be a rigid, unspoken sort of consent. 

There is something wonderfully comforting about all of this. To give yourself over to someone else — to put all your trust in your own well-being in the judgement of that person — this is what these characters do for one another. The ship is only the symbol of all that: the thing which endures through ingenuity, in spite of everything, even though it is so desperately fragile. There’s a line somewhere in those books where Maturin remarks that he feels safe within the thick timbers of the HMS Surprise, and a seaman laughs, and says that there are parts of the Surprise so thin you could push a penknife through the boards and find the ocean. It is a haunting image, but a resonant one. The boards are always so thin. 

[momo-de-avis]

Do you have any tips on how to start writing? I'm really bad at expressing my thoughts well so I figure if I write like, a diary or something I may get better at talking,

A diary is actually a good thing! A great thing, actually. Because it allows you to practice for yourself only. It’s one of those little writing corners where you can just be yourself, unlimited, boundless, as you wish, and no one will criticize you. If you allow your thoughts to just pour onto the paper, even if only a paragraph per day, I guarantee you will grow. It’s important for writers to keep practising, and it’s common advice to just tell WRITE EVERY DAY, which isn’t so helpful as people make it seem. Most of the time, people use this to mean like, write a story, a short story, participate in NaNoWriMo (if you’re like me and don’t like to set up goals like Nano does in fear of disappointing yourself or are just plain bad with deadlines, Nano is a terrible idea). But actually, a diary does wonders. It’s the perfect way of practising, and it goes both ways---you vent and you practice. It’s for you alone.

First of all: don’t be too demanding on yourself. Whether it’s word/page count, deadlines or quality of what you’re creating, it’s important to keep in mind that you’re just starting and, even if you aren’t, it’s a first draft. First drafts are supposed to be just that---the very first time you write down your idea. It’s supposed to be a rough diamond that will be shaped later on into whatever you want it to be. For some people, that means write it once and then rewrite it entirely (I’m those people), for others it just means it’s got a main body, and then you just work what you have. It really depends. People have different methods, so no matter how much others tell you to do this way or that way, it’s your way that matters. 

Keep exploring your possibilities so you’ll find your work method. Listen to other’s people’s advice only to the limit of your abilities. If you try out a method and you can feel it in your bones right off the bad it just doesn’t work for you, quit it. It’s no good forcing something you’re not on par with. Just scratch that altogether. Methods, discipline, plotting---that varies from person to person and I detest when others say there is a right or wrong way to do things. There isn’t.

As for plotting, there are several ways to go about it---but take this with a grain of salt. I never followed a single method until I found out there are names for this shit. What I do is called a zero draft, or the Direct Writing Process. Word vomit onto paper, in other words. I have an idea, I think about it for a while and just pour it out. I personally work very well with freewriting and improvisation. I am a pantser---that means I don’t plot, I just define my characters, my conflict, my goal, some plot points and go on instinct. Most of the times, other plot points emerge as I write. They just pop up in the process. Other people can be plotters: they plot the whole thing down to the detail. Those are more likely to use methods like the snowflake method, or the 3 Act Method (I personally hate the 3 Act method. I think it’s super limited and most stories these day’s don’t necessarily follow a 3 act structure, but a structuralized (around 5 acts, if you will) plot that has inciting incident (the thing that sets the story off), plot points (the things that push the plot forward), plot twist (NOT necessary in a story, and I hate that we’re in a day and age that’s convinced people that a story MUST have a plot twist---it really doesn’t. Sometimes being predictable is good), and a conclusion. The 3 Act thing is mostly used in cinema, from what I learned).

(Keep in mind there are other methods, these are just the ones whose names I remember)

Pick up books within the genre you’d like to explore and read a lot. Now, I know, this is that sort of shit people just love telling new writers as the number one advice, but I think what lacks is telling people ways of how to read when you’re a writer. So here is how I do it:

I mark pages that have passages that I want to go back to, underline sentences that inspired me and make mental notes of literary devices and word combos that are new and useful to me. The reason why it’s so important to read a lot when you want to write is to submerge yourself in the millions of styles out there in order to find your voice. Re-read passages that make you go ‘shit, that was really good!’ and let yourself be submerged by it. Disconnect from the world if you have to. Re-read the books that have inspired you. When you finish a book you loved, ask yourself why you loved it---take notes, even. Just write down the things you enjoyed, make little essays for yourself. It’s not just that reading a lot helps when you want to write, you gotta THINK about what you read. For youself (USE YOUR DIARY :D).

And on that account, and I am dead serious here, read bad shit. I mean it. Read the worst possible book you can find. You’re going to read a lot of advice saying ‘you shouldn’t do this when you write’, and I’ll tell you right off the bat that I HATE ‘should-and-shouldn’t-dos’ advice for writers. You’ll read that fragmented sentences and heavy thick paragraphs are a bad thing because it wears out the reader, then you pick up Donna Tartt and realize she does that A LOT. So why does she get away with it? Because she’s good at it. The advice should always be ‘do it well’, not ‘don’t do it at all’ (generally speaking, do not trust someone who tells you there are other rules to writing besides grammatical).

But the bad books? Bruh they’re a perfect guide to How Not To Do Things because, contrary to Mister White Male Pulitzer spreading advice on Literary Hub, those books actually show you why it doesn’t work. And by showing you how it doesn’t work, you get an idea of ONE WAY it shouldn’t be done. So while Donna Tartt is great at heavy, thick paragraphs, you pick up fucking Eragon and get the gist of just one way it won’t work: when it forces you to pick up a thesaurus and basically search for every other word in there.

Then, of course, practice. By practicing, I mean---do whatever the crap you want. I cannot express enough how much I want every knew writer out there to cover their ears and go BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH every time someone tries to tell them what they should and shouldn’t do, because when you’re starting, it’s REALLY IMPORTANT that you just go out of boundaries as best as you can. You learn from your mistakes. But you gotta know why they’re mistakes. No one learns a damn thing by being told ‘this is bad’. You gotta see it for yourself. You gotta feel it. You gotta experiment. Because it might just happen that one day, it won’t be bad. And that will mean you will have found a way of reverted a rule---and that in itself means you’re finding your own voice.

So keep experimenting. I’m serious. Don’t be afraid of trying out. Never wrote Sci-fi? Fuck it. Try it out even without reading a book---it’s for yourself, get into the mood and do what you please. Never tried poetry? Go ahead. Be wacky about it. Make it visual, fuck rhyming and do what you please. Want to write a thing that’s historical but haven’t researched that bit of history? Experiment all the same. Go back and forth between your reading and your writing (one thing I do a lot is put the book I’m reading down for a second to go write something because I got so inspired by what I’m reading. If that happens to you, my advice is---bruh let it out. Don’t tame it. Don’t put a lid on it. FLOURISH).

There’s one thing I like telling people: there is no such thing as a bad idea, there are only ideas that need working.

I repeat: no such thing as a bad idea.

You really wanna write something that just came up to you but you’re thinking ‘I’m afraid this is too cliché’? Fuck that. For the love of God, AVOID thinking about the word cliché at all times. Clichés aren’t bad, they’re only bad when they aren’t worked properly. And there’s a reason they exist---people like them. So, let’s swipe that away right now and focus on what’s important: you have an idea, and you want to work it. But something feels off. That just means you need to rethink some concepts, NOT that the idea itself is bad.

Keep in mind that, sometimes, a story takes time to mature. It might mean you’re too young to write it (the one I have on wattpad that’s a first draft btw, Best of Times, I had the idea at 18, but it’s very political and I was Clueless (TM), I had to wait until I matured). Be patient and kind to yourself---you need time, and with you, so does your story. Don’t force anything out, cause a lemon can only squeeze so much juice. Leave a WIP unfinished if you have to, and jump to another one to clear your head---there is absolutely no problem with that (boy do I do that).

With that in mind: Sometimes, walking away from a WIP is a good thing.

Now, as for expressing yourself: as I mentioned above, reading a lot might help. But here’s the thing. Expressing yourself doesn’t come from reading and understanding literature, it comes from yourself. Read a lot and take notes, pay attention to literary devices, ESPECIALLY pay attention to how certain writers break rules. But then, work yourself out.

See, bruh. Work your vision. Look at the world around you. You know how they say a musician is good when they develop good earing? A writer is good when they learn how to see, to see into the world around them in their own way. Listen to the people around you, enjoy the little things in life, observe life’s intervals. Actually, on this aspect let me recommend a book: Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. It’s a YA I think, very small and it was the one book I read when I was 13 that changed my life. It’s also a life-lesson for writers on the matter of ‘how to make the cliché absolutely beautiful’ and ‘how to grab a plot that’s been overdone and make it special’. Here is a synopsis. 

So, all in all, I would say: read, experiment, see and practice. Search for your inner voice. Don’t EVER throw away an idea.

HAPPY WRITINGS, ANON