#(I the author am trying to get something productive out of this conversation but unfortunately idk if it can be helped)

[nereb-and-dungalef]

This OC Sure Can Destroy And Betray Himself For Nothing

[justworthlessreblogs]

waffleverse: full bibury fic author's notes

this fic is so long and i had so many writing decisions/notes i wanted to talk about that they couldn't all fit in ao3's 5000 character limit. so i figured i might as well put them here. they'll be under a cut to prevent any accidental spoilers!

writing notes:

- first off this fic drove me CRAZY. another one of its nicknames was “the frankenfic” because i really did feel like i had 3 fics i was shoving into one. and it also took on a life of its own. every day i wake up and scold myself for deciding that covering 33-40 was a good idea. it was not helped by me not having many strong feelings about any of the episodes in that set, which led to me feeling really bored when writing them, and then in the last month of writing i said “fuck it, we ball” and started just making up shit. i also remembered Hey I Made Bibury Try To Kill Rio Back In May I Should Do Something About That. so you get bibury backstory! plus i was sad that they never explore her’s and rio’s time working under noir in canon aside from like. one scene in episode 18

- rio is trying his best to be better at emotions but it is definitely an uphill battle and not linear. the other cures meant well by accepting bibury so easily - after all, it didn’t really work out that great when they were constantly suspicious of him - but he didn’t see it the same way they did. in his eyes bibury was getting away with everything even though she did similar things to him. this was inspired by how the show itself does not seem to ever hold bibury accountable (at least as of where i’m at) but makes it very clear that rio needed to do something to make up for what he did (which i am fine with! this is not a “omg poor rio he was so hated by the writers” moment. i just found it interesting and thought i could explore it)

- episode 37 was the reason for like. nearly all of my original writer's block. it almost got cut, but in the end 34 got the chopping block instead because i felt that bibury didn't really have a justification to be there and 36 got basically entirely cut because i thought it was boring. plus 37 was just… too important to not acknowledge unfortunately. i still definitely want to write a waffleverse version of 34, though, i just think it’d work better on its own! which is why i summarized it here. i had the entire thing written out and saved it, so the original version will probably get uploaded to spice of life someday

- rio being like “i am so mad at my sister. however she is upset so i will make her waffles” was very funny to me. the duality of rio kuroki

- i left the bib & rio talk at the end open-ended, since i had so many things they could have possibly discussed that i couldn’t fit them all in naturally no matter how hard i tried. so let your imaginations go wild lol. however i guess i do have to thank that original draft of their conversation since it was the thing that finally, finally, made me figure out what i wanted from this fic - exploring not just bibury, but bibury and rio. this fic was originally a lot more ciel-heavy than what the final product ended up being, and frankly bib & rio didn’t interact much at all, and i wasn’t able to get to the bottom of why they still hated each other until i remembered. hey. attempted murder

- you are all so lucky that i ended up incorporating 26 into this fic because the original plan was for the scenes that changed to be stuck into spice of life when i got around to writing them someday. the mcu-ification of waffleverse is defeated for another day

- no fantastic animale because i really dislike those super forms and the attack. this is one of two times i have actively disregarded canon, i usually try to stick as close to canon events as possible (which is why the crystal animals are in this. you have no idea how badly i wanted to cut them). fantastic animale is Just That Bad. this was literally the first thing i decided after i started planning this fic. so animal-go-round is powerful enough in this ‘verse. just roll with it please

- no "do sweets bring sadness?" dilemma here because i didn't vibe with that part of the episode. i was looking forward to bibury shenanigans :( the crystal animals are just cielbib shippers /j

- if the writing seems disjointed i apologize it's because this thing was written on and off over a period of 3 months and is also super long

- i had so much fun writing the bathroom scene. finally allowing myself silly rights. the flashback scenes were also really enjoyable

- i messed with the yukari v. kirarin fight because i was a little disappointed with how it played out in canon. yukari tells everyone right away here because she had a Realization because of part 4. kirarin is more resistant than the average fairy to diable in this universe but not fully immune

- RIO FINALLY GETS TO SAY FUCK WOOHOO i've waited so long for this. also bibury is definitely a character who would cuss if the show's rating wasn't the japanese equivalent of tv-y7 so i was a little looser here

- you all know it in your hearts that aoi was 100% a vine kid. also there was no way i was letting that joke slip past me

- did the math and i'm preeettty sure that rio's age in the prologue section checks out with the waffleverse timeline? when i started this series i was under the impression that rio had been gone for way longer than what the series ended up implying, and so in waffleverse i decided he was gone for about a year. he's 12-about-to-turn-13 in the prologue and 14 in the present (his & ciel’s birthday was shortly after part 4!)

-bib starts calling him rio pretty quickly because a) she may have been evil, but she respects people's preferred name choices and b) yukari already had an arc about realizing how he's not julio anymore and i really didn't want to write that same arc a second time!

- waffle’s secondary attack finally shows up!!! waffle protége my beloved. giving him some sort of barrier just Felt Right (and waffles are the perfect shape for it). i like to think he can split it apart and use it offensively a la rosetta reflection. it was originally supposed to show up in 34 (which got cut) then in 37 (then i cut the battle from the episode since it felt very forced) and then i worried i wouldn’t be able to fit it in at all but got the opportunity with the climax rewrite

- in regard to bib's aging i'm going with "noir's presence slowed down her aging a lot somehow, so she may be chronologically 106 or so, but in all other aspects she's around 13-14 and will now start aging normally again". the same would've happened to rio had he stayed with noir longer. insert noir child labor joke here

- hey remember that time noir tried to take rio back!? i guess 40 kinda busted that for canon by establishing he sees them all as expendable but in my defense while i was writing part 3 i saw it more as a twilight-dyspear situation. and then i ran with that. at this point i’m just gonna have to accept that waffleverse isn’t purely canon divergence any more thanks to me writing it as i watch the show, which leads to the show debunking things from earlier parts 

- was a bit disappointed that the great fairy meeting episode didn't really involve, well, a meeting. so they actually get some time to talk strategy here! i'm so sad the technological limitations of ichigoyama meant that i couldn't have waffle give a powerpoint presentation on noir like i wanted to. it would've been so funny. maybe i'll make it for fun someday

- yeah i messed with episode 40 like. a lot. sorry. it's just how it ended up working out tbh. i actually debated back and forth for literal months on if i should give bib a "canon cure waffle" moment or not, and nearly did it, but decided against it because in the end it just didn't feel quite right for a multitude of reasons. so you were going to get fairy combat and then bib yelling at grave instead. and then that got rewritten once i decided i wanted to expand more on why rio & bib are so antagonistic to each other. you can still see traces of the original climax though in ciel showing up with the fairies, as well as the part where bib confronts grave! bib also originally wasn’t supposed to be dragged into the town with them, she was gonna stay on the mountain and then venture down with ciel and the fairies. but rio said Nope She’s Coming With Us once the fic's course changed direction

- my beta enabled me on the "bibury hasn't slept in an actual bed in a century" thing. i originally sent it to him as a joke. he told me to go ahead with it. but let's be real noir would do something fucked up like that

- let waffle fight the townspeople 2k23. this is the other time i actively disregarded canon in the fic idc what it says He Would Do It

- bibury’s verbal beatdown of grave was inspired by her canon one in episode 40

- ciel & bib's relationship isn't gonna progress past "mutual crush" at any point in waffleverse simply because i cannot write romance sorry. rest assured it blossoms into a beautiful love story. they get married on the island where they met properly for the first time. rio is ciel's best man

- i came to the realization that a lot of my decisions regarding this fic were along the lines of "fuck canon". idk what that means

[lemme-just-oops]

um, hello again! i was the anon who asked permission about your requests, thank you for replying ^ ^. and for my request, how would the arcana twilight boys x an INFJ mc? but do feel free though to ignore my request, no pressure to do it.

also if i can say this, can i just say that your headcanons for arcana twilight are so good?? they feed me in this small fandom, and i am forever grateful for it (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠). you honestly write the characters really accurately, which just shows how much amount of attention and care you put into your writings. you're an amazing writer!! anyways, tysm and take care ^ ^.

Alpheratz finds it a little overwhelming sometimes how quickly you are able to change your mind. You have such strong opinions but you can change them so easily when you are proven wrong, he considers this your superpower. He loves watching you follow your hobbies and losing yourself in the activity, but he may not try it himself. When you ask him for his opinion about one of your ideas/works, he will be constructive though and it may hurt. But this is not his intention! He will try his best to point out what he liked the most from then on, and only briefly mention: "I think X could have been more in the background."

Arcturus: If anyone has the power to make the world a more moral place, it is the two of you. You are the definition of idealistic peace. Both of you have a strong need to help and please others, and you compliment each other's attempts. While he often lacks a proper plan, you are able to make one. And he prevents you from overworking yourself on the changes you bring. You inspire strangers who manage to only catch a glimpse of you, because that id what you two radiate.

Pollux: This man will call you a less strict version of Spica. He never gets tired of your opinions and listening, and your speeches will infect him to help you out. Not always, because it does depend on your ideas, but most of the time. If the environment is something you work to protect, he takes it to heart and will use waste-free products as much as possible. No more plastic packaging in hid snacks. If you are passionate about helping unfortunate people, he will help you volunteer at shelters sometimes. He has been banned from animal shelters for trying to adopt all of the animals and crying when it was not allowed, but he will bring you there and pick you up if you ask!

Sirius: Both of you are picky when it comes to trusting people, or letting them be involved in your life. This will make you develope extremely slowly, where neither of you are sure what it is between you. He has trouble remaining sincere, which may be upsetting to your honest nature. It can be a rocky road, but he tries to hold you close. Even if not physical, he offers enriching conversations to keep your mind filled.

Spica: This man enjoys offering support in countless ways. Usually through planning and organizing. Since you are an advocate, your opinions matter a lot to him, but if they seem unrealistic, he is not afraid of saying so. It is easy to find a compromise between your opinion and reality though, if you two keep talking about it. What becomes dangerous for you two is the fact that you tend to overwork yourselves and you need to find a plan on avoiding this. Ironically, you two remind each other of taking a break more than you remind yourself.

Vega: Romance with him can be hard as an advocate, as he is quick to state his opinion without filters. This may sound harmful sometimes, and he attempts to be as kind with his words as possible. It takes him too long to realize how painful it can be on you. Both of you want the world to become a better place, but in different ways, which makes it hard to talk about. Yet, your positive way of thinking helps him warm up and his pessimistic view helps you determine a better reality.

Authors note: Thank you, anon! Your words are really flattering! What I love about small communities is that we grow and get tightly knit together! You are all my rays of sunshine and I want all of you to be well and well fed in this fandom! Take care

[tolkien-feels]

Okay so I've been thinking about Tolkien... and I'm not 100% sure how to express my Thoughts but I wanted to dump them on you because I feel like even if I communicate it awkwardly you might understand what I'm trying to say and help refine what I'm saying.

So there are various criticisms of Tolkien wrt his ratio of male to female characters and how he's just not progressive enough, but I feel like a lot of people who use this to insult Tolkien and claim that he was a Bad Person and thus nothing he did was good (or if it was good, it was only accidentally so) don't even realize the much-more-relevant-to-his-era statement he was making about class!

LOTR is the best example of this, because literally all of the Company is royalty or akin to royalty or high class except for Sam. And while each one of them plays an important role in the story, the inarguably Highest Class character (Aragorn) in the most important part of the story is nothing but a distraction, and it's the inarguably Lowest Class character (Sam) who emerges as the most important part of the puzzle, the Real Hero. They are all heroes - Frodo is no less of a hero because he fails in his task, Boromir is no less of a hero because he temporarily falls under the thralldom of the ring, Aragorn is no less of a hero just because in the end he's not much more than a distraction so the Real Heroes can do their thing - but it's Sam, the lowest class one of them all, who is THE hero of the story. And while there are important discussions to be had and to tell in various stories that do include race and gender, I feel like it's disingenuous to ignore the important discussion Tolkien was having about class when talking about important discussions to be had.

And frankly, class is extremely important, and the fact that it's often overlooked in these conversations is very frustrating. To give the most extreme example of this: A black, female, lgbtq, Hollywood celebrity is going to be much less disadvantaged in life than a straight white man who lives on the streets and depends on free food pantries, soup kitchens, and charity to survive. And to say that the straight white man is privileged compared to her is stripping all of the complexity related to class out of that comparison. So I think that Tolkien's statements about class are extremely important conversation points, but which... largely get ignored just because that is the conversation that he was having (which I feel is much more relevant to his era) than conversations that people insist we should be having about him/his work.

And idk... maybe I'm just tired of people calling Tolkien a bad person when he clearly wasn't. He was at worst a product of his times, and even then while he didn't write a ton of stories about women it's clear that he respected women through the stories he told about them. And his infamous replies when Germany asked if he was Aryan proves something similar to his opinions on racism and antisemitism. And since he intentionally was writing a legendarium for his own country, to say that he was racist for essentially saying "the poc are the ones who live far away from where the main story is taking place" and thus were far away from the elves and the gods and things that were Good and so unfortunately were easily manipulated down a dark path by Evil is... well, it's disingenuous. Especially when you consider the important conversation topic he was addressing and was trying to talk about.

I do get what you mean! And I have so many thoughts on this, but I don’t want to share them lol

You see, there is a lot to be said about Tolkien’s social views - both in praise and in condemnation. But critical literary analysis of 20th century literature is an actual academic field, and there’s a reason for that. You need a lot of knowledge and a lot of hard work to be able to accurately, fairly assess a single work - let alone an author’s entire corpus. I, a random person on the internet without that background, am simply not qualified to make that kind of analysis.

Can I have opinions? Sure! I’ve had them since I first encountered Tolkien, and I’ve been refining them ever since! But these are personal and I don’t want the responsibility of holding up my ideas as Good Takes, because I’m very aware of my limitations. For things like “Hey do you have an opinion on this obscure character?” I’m thrilled to share all my opinions, but for things that are (rightfully!) considered such serious subjects because they affect real life people, I feel like the only thing I can do is take a step back and admit I probably don’t have particularly good answers.

Can you probably guess that I think Tolkien does some things right and some things wrong, just by reading through this blog? Absolutely, but that’s the nature of interacting with any kind of art. But to go out of my way to present A Unified Opinion is more than I am prepared to do.

I do think you make a very valid point, and I agree with much, though not necessarily all, of it, but to quote LotR, this would need “a week’s answer, or none.” As I’m not comfortable with sharing a week’s answer for the reasons above, I’ll just have to go with none, even though I very much get where you’re coming from with this!

[granny-griffin]

Hi guys! This post has content warnings for the following: suicide, incest, abortion, politics, and swearing. I've tagged this post for all of the above, so you should add one or all of them to your blocked tags if you don't want to see it. Stay safe friends!

@arists started a conversation with me on this post. I'm making my own post now so that I don't clog up op's notifications with our discussion. I'll post the relevant screenshots here, but I'm including the link so that you can fact check what happened if you want.

#1 (op's post)

Image Description: "A screenshot of a twitter thread. Sarah Chavez writes, 'It's not hard to see what a pro-life world looks like. It looks like a world with a lot of dead women in it." An article is linked, but the url is cut off. Emily Gould replies to the first tweet, saying, '"Amnesty International reports that suicide now accounts for 57 percent of deaths of pregnant femals ages 10-19 in El Salvador." That's what a "culture of life" looks like.'"

#2 (in the notes of op's post)

Image Description: "granny-griffin replies, 'This. Suicide is an evil we have to prevent. But murder is NEVER the answer. I'm not sure how it even became a viable option. We need a better solution.'"

(note that there is a significant time gap between images #2 and #3)

#3

Image Description: "arists replies, '@granny-griffin the only other "solution" is mandatory vasectomies on males but good luck telling men what you want to force onto their bodies. ntm abortion at 6 weeks isn't fucking murder but science doesn't fucking matter to you.' Then granny-griffin replies, '@arists if you want to start a conversation, then I'm happy to talk! you can dm me or whatever! But if you're just angry, then I'm glad you found an outlet and I hope you feel better soon'"

#4

Image Description: "arists replies, '@granny-griffin go start a conversation with the women of texas' Then granny-griffin replies, '@arists I mean. I am a woman living in texas so that should be pretty easy. I'll try to do that sometime soon! It's always helpful to me to hear other people's perspectives on important issues'"

#5

Image Description: "arists replies '@granny-griffin so you're a traitor then? when you see little girls being forced to birth a product of incest you feel better about yourself? you see women who have a dead baby in their body forced to cary to full at the risk of her life and think "nice job me!!" And you've probably never adopted with makes it even funnier. youre an embodiment ignorance and selfishness.'"

#6 (private message between arists and granny-griffin)

Image Description: "granny-griffin says, 'hey I really. don't want to fight you. I know that you're upset. I think we both want to help women in vulnerable situations, we just have different ideas of how that should work out practically.' In a second text, granny-griffin continues, 'If you need to keep venting, you should do it here. That way if you say something you might regret, it won't be in public'"

#7

Image Description: "arists sends three messages. The first one says, 'I'm not venting I'm saying it how it is' The second one says, 'I've dealt with ill-minded christians like you my entire life I know your strategy' The third one says, 'now go back to the post because I refuse to deal with you behind doors so you can appear "holier than thou" by putting on a fake image'"

#8

Image Description: "granny-griffin sends seven messages. The first one says, 'ok we can do this in public' The second one says 'give me until tonight though I've got school' The third one says 'do you care if I make a separate post? I'll copy all the previous stuff from our conversation and the main post' The fourth one says, 'I just don't want to have a whole conversation on op's thread' The fifth one says, 'it would feel disrespectful almost?' The sixth one says, 'like they have their whole point and I don't want to completely de-rail them' The seventh one says, 'but if you aren't cool with moving them then I can come to wherever is comfortable to you'"

#9

Image Description: "arists says, 'go ahead'"

to preface—airsts I'm still not totally sure what you want out of this. You aren't obligated to respond to anything I say—just like I'm not obligated to respond to you. We don't know each other, and this is kind of an unfortunate way for us to meet. Still, I hope we can have a productive conversation going forward. I'll go through everything and ask questions. You can respond to as many or as few of them as you want.

#3:

The only other solution to what—suicide? unwanted pregnancy? incest? Is that really the only other solution? What are some policies you would like to see implemented to deal with each of these?

How do you define murder? How do you define what a human life is? Are there particular scientific facts or theories you make use of in your definition? If you have time, please either explain them, or reference an article/book/other source that does. I would like to learn! But I understand that fact checking is a lot of work so if you're too busy I understand.

#4:

(A note here—my knowledge of the situation is not as thorough as I would like it to be, but from what I know I'm not satisfied with the way abortion restrictions are being implemented in Texas. What are we doing—reporting each other to the secret police or something? Notifying the authorities of a crime is one thing, but why is there a finder's fee? Why are we sueing each other? This kind of thing will only breed corruption and mistrust.)

#5:

Huh, what am I a traitor to? Women? Is there a point of view that is specifically the "pro-women" point of view? Traitor makes this sound like a war—are there sides? are there good and bad guys? Who gets to define all of this?

No, I don't like it when girls are forced to birth a child conceived in incest. What are some ways that this situation could be prevented? Do you think that easy abortion access could ever perpetuate abuse by allowing abusers to get rid of the evidence of their actions? Is providing abortion services to victims of incest worth this risk? (and I mean that as a legitimate question, not a leading question)

(Another note here—I am pretty sure children who die in the womb can still be born naturally (hence the term "still-born"). But again, my knowledge here is limited and my issue with abortion is largely because of the harm it does to the child. If the child is dead already, and abortion is the only way to remove them, then I don't have a problem with this.)

Do you think adoption is the only way to take care of vulnerable children? Did you know that people who adopt sometimes need help raising funds to do so, or need help with babysitting, or need meals made and chores done for them? Did you know that mothers who raise their own children need these things too? Is this an attack on my argument, or an attack on me (ad hominem)?

#7

Sorry to assume you were venting—I should have asked what your purpose was instead of making assumptions.

Okay but do please tell me—what is my strategy? I am curious to hear your psychoanalysis of me and my goals.

Arists, I'm really sorry if I came off as "holier than thou." I'm not a better person than you. I know that I think I'm right—everybody does. But I do want to be open to hearing and learning from your perspective. Even if you don't change my mind, you can increase my empathy, and that's extremely valuable to me.

okay, that’s it! I’ll wait for your response!

[fanfictionaries]

The Seduction of Sirius Black - Part 1

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Sirius Black

Summary:

Hermione loves her boyfriend, but there’s just one little problem -- she’s hopelessly attracted to Sirius Black. 

Warnings: Swearing, Smut/18+ NSFW, Angst, Ron bashing (sorry) 

Author’s Note: Posting some old stuff! Honestly, editing it has been a nice lead back into really writing. Very cathartic! 

Also, apologies for the Ron bashing in this story. I know it’s a stupid trope and to a certain extent I really enjoy Ron as a character, buuuuut I’m using it as a cheap way to move plot. 

ALSO, this is obviously a AU where Sirius didn’t die in the Department of Mysteries. 

ALSO (and this is the last one I swear), I AM a big fan of Wolfstar but I also have daddy issues and find Sirius Black extremely attractive and this is my tumblr so I can write the stories I want I guess. Haha Not to mention, Sirius Black gives BIG bisexual energy.  

MASTERLIST

*** 

Hermione didn’t really know when it had happened – this attraction to Sirius Black. It wasn’t as if she had woken up one day with the sudden urge to jump across the table and shag the older wizard into the next life. The whole thing had occurred much more gradually than that, she supposed. However, despite all of the trivial aspects of her…situation, Hermione chose instead to focus purely on the fact that he was entirely off limits. For many reasons. There was no way anyone in her close-knit circle of friends would be okay with her becoming entangled with a man more than twice her age and who also happened to be her best friend’s god father. It would be unacceptable. It would be impractical. Most of all it would be highly inappropriate as she was currently dating her other best friend, Ronald Weasley.

She supposed the attraction was inevitable to a certain degree. At the beginning, nearly a year and half ago, things like physical attraction were far from her mind. She’d just started her new position at the Ministry, Harry and Ron were training to be Aurors, the war had just come to an end and thus her life was a whirlwind of people and places. But over time things slowed down. Ronald was stationed away on official Auror business more and more often, leaving very little time for him to visit her and when he did come back, he had to split his time between her and his large family. Harry, having waited for Ginny to finish her final year at Hogwarts, had gone and married her the summer after and for all intents and purposes abandoned her. Harry…

It was really all Harry’s fault. Or at least that’s what Hermione liked to think whenever she felt her heart skip and her pulse slip between her thighs in Sirius Black’s presence. It had been Harry’s idea for Hermione to move into Grimmauld Place with him and Sirius after the war. Family, it seemed, had taken an important role in everyone’s lives when Lord Voldemort fell for the final time. All of the Weasley children had moved back to their childhood home of the Burrow – even Charlie much to everyone’s great surprise and delight. Tonks and Remus moved in with her mother and father, Andromeda and Theodore, to bask in the cheer of their newborn baby Teddy. And Harry had moved in with Sirius. Everyone had felt the need to be closer than ever to the ones that they loved, and Hermione completely understood that need. In fact, if she had had a family to go to, she would have moved in with them as well. But her parents were still in Australia somewhere, the location even unknown to herself as she’d designed it that way. Harry, being fully aware of this fact, insisted that she move in with him and Sirius. Hermione had been fully prepared to get her own flat in London. But after a bit of prodding she’d accepted Harry’s offer, secretly grateful that her best friend was so kind and thoughtful. Now, she probably cursed him name at least five times a day.

Hermione had been happy for him and Ginny when they announced their engagement. She’d cried not only when Ginny asked her to be her maid of honor, but also when the two had said their ‘I do’s. However, Harry moved out of Grimmauld Place following their marriage and subsequently left her to live with Sirius Black all by herself. So now she sat in the quaint little kitchen of the Black home, sipping her morning tea, and trying incredibly hard to keep her attention on her book rather than glance up at the rugged wizard sitting across from her.

“Hmpf” Sirius let out the little sound of surprise before continuing, “Would you look at that. Sources say that while Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, announces no final decisions have been made in regard to the recent Magical Creature Equality Act proposed last month, there are certain voices in the Ministry that are persuading not only the members of the Wizengamot, but the Minister himself to vote yes for magical creature equality.” He read the words aloud, peaking over his paper at her and raising his eyebrows. “I wonder who those certain voices or voice is…” he mused humorously.

It was no secret that shortly after being appointed a position in the Ministry department of Magical Creatures, Hermione had gone about being a personal activist for Magical Creature rights. Merlin, she had written almost the entire Act herself. Her hand still cramped at the thought of the hours she spent in her office and the library at Grimmauld Place scribbling away with her quill.

“No idea,” Hermione responded, feigning ignorance but blushing all the same in embarrassment. She kept her eyes on the pages of her book but found no matter how many times she read and reread the same paragraph she couldn’t retain it. Slowly her eyes shifted to the man in front of her. His gaze was fixed on the paper and so she was free to take him in. He had just showered, his wavy brown hair hanging damp to his shoulders. It made him look, in her opinion, especially delectable that morning. Hermione felt herself blush even deeper at the lewd thoughts threatening to enter her mind before looking back down at her book and scolding herself.

“So, when is Ronald coming for a visit again? Need me to clear off any time soon?” Sirius asked, sparking up conversation after the long bout of silence.

“Unfortunately, he won’t be back till next month,” she sighed, ignoring the second half of Sirius’s question.

“Well that’s not too bad I suppose—” Sirius smiled warmly and set down his paper as he stood up “—It gives you plenty of time to focus on getting the Ministry on board with your Act before you’re…distracted.” Sirius added the last part with a teasing implication not lost on Hermione.

“My Act?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow jokingly as she stood up as well and took her teacup to the sink. She grabbed the sponge to begin washing up when Sirius took it from her hand.

“I can do the washing up. You’re going to be late for work. Besides, it’s not like I work or anything. Might as well do something productive today,” he stated dryly, turning on the tap.

“Hmm, yes. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You’ve become quite the lay-about. When are you going to get a job and start contributing to the household?” Hermione asked cheekily.

“Lay-about? Need I remind you that this is my house that you live in, rent free. You’re lucky a kind old man like me has taken a liking to you, or you’d be on the streets, kitten,” Sirius said, flicking some water off his fingertips in her direction.

“More like taken pity on me—” Hermione shook her head “—and you’re far from an old man, Sirius. I swear, you’d like people to think you’re closer to eighty than twenty!” She exited the kitchen and slipped into her heels next to the front door.

“Mind picking up some milk on your way home, kitten? We’re almost out!” Sirius called out to her, ignoring her statement on his age. Hermione tried not to focus on the way her stomach flipped in response to Sirius using his nickname for her for a second time that morning.

“Sure thing!” she called back before exiting the front door and apparating the moment she hit the sidewalk.

Hermione found it very difficult to work that day. The summer heat had become abysmal, proving to be quite the sticky, humid season, and of course that meant the Ministry’s cooling charms were on the fritz. By the time the day was over, Hermione’s hair had grown three times its size. Catching her reflection in a Ministry window, Hermione had gasped at its state. Even she hadn’t known it could get that big. In addition, her silk blouse that she had tucked into a polyester pencil skirt had become damp and uncomfortable from the sweat that accumulated on her body throughout the day.  And even after casting multiple drying spells to herself and her clothes, there was still nothing she could do about her hair. To add to her physical discomfort, she also struggled with a mental discomfort as well. Ron had been plaguing her mind all day long.

Ronald Weasley. Her oldest friend, now boyfriend. It hadn’t been a shock to anyone when they had gotten together after the war had ended. It had almost been expected in fact. She’d liked him since third year and aside from his short tryst with Lavender Brown, it had been obvious they would be together. Hermione loved Ron, she really did, but he was gone so often. Gone often and when he was home things felt…off. His affection seemed to have waned and Hermione was left thinking that perhaps it had something to do with her. Every time he chose to kiss her cheek as opposed to her lips or pat her leg friendly instead of holding her hand Hermione felt a little blow to her confidence. Bitterly she thought of how he and Lavender had been all over each other sixth year. She certainly wouldn’t enjoy having Ron’s tongue shoved down her throat in broad daylight, but surely, it’d be nice to have him show a bit of affection. In the beginning he’d been much more enthusiastic. They would often sneak off for a cheeky snog and hands often lingered under tables. They’d even gone all the way. It had been romantic and sweet, and Ron had certainly enjoyed himself. Or at least she thought he had. But now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe she’d been rubbish at it and he didn’t know how to tell her. Maybe he just didn’t find her attractive anymore. She had put on a bit of weight in the past year and a half. Hermione figured it was for the best as she was no longer starving to death on the run from Voldemort and his Death Eaters. But now when she looked in the mirror her eyes focused for too long on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the thickness of her thighs, and the softness of her stomach.

Despite this possibility, Hermione couldn’t help but feel guilty about her lustful thoughts involving Sirius. She often tried to reason with herself that it was perfectly normal to feel such base emotions. Everyone had them and as long as she didn’t act on them, she was fine. She was just lonely, and Sirius was there.

Resolving to speak with Ron about her concerns when he returned in a week, Hermione shook the troubling thoughts from her head and continued down Diagon Alley, intending to just pop by the small corner store at the end for some milk and maybe some ice-cream for later. She needed a small pick-me-up after the day she’d had. Jogging the last few steps to the corner store, Hermione pulled open the heavy door and sighed happily as the cooling charms inside enveloped her. She wiped her forehead with her arm and headed to the back of the store where the freezer section was. The store was practically deserted aside from a single witch staring at the ice pops with a heavy look of concentration. Hermione walked up next to her to stare at the ice-cream choices and smiled when she spotted the Rocky Road. It was Ron’s favorite.

“It’s a scorcher out there, innit?” commented the witch, her thick London accent coming through endearingly sweet. Hermione looked to her left and took in the girl. She was thin and tan with beautiful golden hair tied up into a long ponytail. She had a friendly, heart-shaped face and sparkly green eyes. Something about her seemed familiar – Hermione must have seen her somewhere before.

“I’m practically melting,” agreed Hermione, shaking her head, and grabbing the Rocky Road, thinking she would have that tonight rather than her usual Mint Chocolate-Chip.

“Any fun plans for the heat?” the pretty blonde asked casually, grabbing a box of grape ice pops and a carton of Rocky Road ice-cream as well.

“Not really. Probably just go home and cast as many cooling charms as possible—” Hermione crinkled her nose and quirked the corner of her mouth in a wry grin “—Yourself?”

“Me and my boyfriend are planning a nice night in. He’s just got back from assignment with the Ministry. He’s an Auror, so we’re doing a bit of celebrating before he has to go back.” The girl smiled, her voice heavy with adoration.

“How nice! My boyfriend’s an Auror as well.”

“Really?” the girl asked, eyes lighting up.

“Yes, he’s actually away on assignment right now. I wonder if they know—” Hermione had been about to ask if perhaps their respective partners were familiar with each other when a voice called out from the end of the aisle.

“Babe, they didn’t have the crisps you like, but—” Basket hanging from one hand and a bag of Salt and Vinegar crisps in the other, Ron stopped dead in his tracts at the sight of Hermione. His eyes grew wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “’Mione?”

Hermione stared back too, but unlike Ron she was unable to find her voice. Instead she just stared. Ron was back from assignment? Why hadn’t he told her? What was he doing there? Why was he calling this girl babe when—

“Wait—‘Mione? As in Hermione Granger?” the witch asked, taking a step back from Hermione and towards Ron. She looked at Hermione with wide, incredulous eyes. “Oh my gosh, I feel so foolish. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”

Hermione looked on in confusion as she watched the witch hook her arm in Ron’s and smile politely back at her.

“Hermione,” Ron said her name again, but Hermione was too busy taking the two of them in. She felt like an absolute fool. The carton of Rocky Road slipped from her fingers and landed on the linoleum floor of the shop with a dull thud. Then, in a panic, Hermione turned on the spot and fled, hearing Ron’s call after her mix with a small ‘Oh my’ from the pretty blonde witch.

There were a million places Hermione could have gone. There were a million places Hermione should have gone. All of them much better choices than the seedy little muggle bar she found just outside of Diagon Alley. She should have gone home. Or to Harry. Or to Ginny. The smart choice was to tell someone what had happened and to talk it out. But instead, she spent the next four hours doing her best to get well and truly pissed. Drinking wasn’t like Hermione and certainly the first glass of whiskey had been hard to get down. But she found after the first two, she hardly tasted the biting liquid anymore and the dulling effect of the alcohol was just so nice.

It was just past ten in the evening when Hermione left the bar, tipping this way and that way in her heels and feeling exceptionally light-headed. The night had cooled down and the sun had just set, allowing Hermione to feel some semblance of relief as she walked down the street to a nearby alleyway. It probably wasn’t the best idea to apparate when she was so inebriated, but Hermione wasn’t really thinking in that moment. She just knew she didn’t want to walk. Thankfully, she managed to land, although very ungracefully, in front of Grimmauld Place without splinching herself.

“Shit,” Hermione whispered followed by a snort of laughter when she tripped over the threshold after finally getting her key in the keyhole. The world had gone all wobbly it had taken her ages to find the right key and get it in the lock. Closing the front door as quietly behind her as possible Hermione found herself overtaken by the strong urge to laugh again. Hermione Granger was well and truly sloshed and for some reason she found that to be very funny.

“Hermione?”

Hermione jumped at her name, letting out a little shriek as she turned around and found Sirius standing in the hall. The hall was dark, but light streamed out through the doorway to the kitchen illuminating him in long shadows where he stood, arms crossed.

“Sirius—” Hermione held a hand to her heart, feeling it beat wildly in her chest. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

“It’s past eleven, where have you been?” There was a strange tone to his voice, like he was angry with her but also like he was speaking to a small, frightened animal.

Past eleven? How long had it taken her to unlock the front door?

“I was—” Hermione tripped on the rug, catching herself on the wall and letting out another little laugh “—I stopped and had a little post-work drink.” Her words were slurred, even to her own ears and she laughed again, holding a hand over mouth in embarrassment. “Well, maybe one or two post-work drinks.”

“Are you drunk, kitten?” Sirius asked, sounding amused now.

Hermione continued down the hall, getting closer and closer to Sirius. Each step was a new struggle. A trip here, a wobble there. But Hermione didn’t care. In fact, she felt…good. Free almost. “Maaaaybe,” she drawled, giggling like a small child as she closed the last bit of distance and swayed before Sirius.

He stared down at her, arms now uncrossed as he seemed to be trying to figure out whether he should be amused or concerned. Hermione’s mouth went dry. Now that she was closer, she could see him more clearly and Merlin did she see him. There was a shadow of facial hair across his square jaw, and down his neck. Hermione found herself wondering what it felt like – whether it was soft or rough. Gaze traveling down the thickness of his neck she found his upperhalf bare, the only thing covering his torso, an open robe revealing the inky black of his tattoos. She loved his tattoos. They made him look dangerous. Mysterious. Hot. His chest was free of hair, the lean muscles dipping low and high like delicious hills and valleys she’d so like to explore. In fact…she reached out a hand, her body working opposite of a clear head as her fingertips tentatively touched the smooth planes of Sirius’ chest. He was warm.

He went sort of rigid under her touch, but Hermione barely noticed. Instead she was too entranced by the feel of him. Had she ever touched him before? She didn’t think she had. Her gazed traveled further south and with it, so did her fingertips. Ghosting down the center of his chest from sternum to bellybutton, she blushed furiously at the sight of thick dark hair starting at his navel and disappearing below a pair of pajama pants that sat dangerously low on his hips. She swallowed thickly, her breath coming in thick hot puffs as her hand traveled further, barely brushing the thick hair before a hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

Hermione gasped, looking up suddenly into the stormy eyes of Sirius Black before her. He lifted her wrist to shoulder height, pulling her forward slightly as he did it. The distance between them closed even more.

“Kitten.” It was a warning. Hermione knew it. But for some reason her whiskey-idled brain didn’t care. She liked the risk behind his tone. Her body practically purred at the sound of his special nickname just for her – the irony of that sentiment lost on her in the moment.

“Yes, Sirius?” she responded, her voice coming out deep and breathy and dare she say seductive? Hermione had never sounded like that before. She kind of liked it. Looking up at him with her best attempt at innocent eyes, she waited for him to say something.

Sirius stared down at her, his face a stony mask, but a war was raging behind his eyes. Hermione’s gaze flickered from the stormy grey of his eyes to the fullness of his lips and back up. With a deep breath and a long swallow that made his Adam’s apple bob in a mouth-watering way, Sirius finally spoke.

“You should go to bed.”

Hermione huffed, a bit like a petulant child but not quite as bratty. “What if I don’t want to?”

“It wasn’t really a suggestion.” His tone was dark, and it sent a surprising thrill through Hermione’s body. Her center throbbed. Her breath hitched. Maybe it was all in her head – this thick tension between them. Or maybe it wasn’t. It was certainly taboo, this…energy radiating between them. But Hermione didn’t really care because in that moment she made the sudden realization that she could have this. She could have this and not be the bad guy. Ron was the bad guy. All those months of guilt for feeling basic human attraction and he was off shagging some beautiful, leggy blonde. But now…she didn’t have to feel guilty anymore.

Before she could stop herself, Hermione lifted up onto her toes and closed the distance between them. Their lips pressed together for a moment, firm and warm. When Sirius failed to respond, Hermione’s stomach dropped, and she made the mortifying realization that he didn’t want to kiss her. She was just beginning to pull away, an apology poised on her lips when the grip on her wrist vanished and reappeared around her waist, pulling her in tightly as Sirius’s lips claimed her own.

It all happened very quickly. A meshing of lips and teeth and tongue that left her hot, sticky, and out of breath. Before she knew it, she was being pushed up against the wall of the hallway, her back and head hitting the plaster hard, but she did not care. The only thing she could focus on was the feeling of Sirius’s lips on her own and the hot cloud of their shared breath.

His hands remained wrapped tightly around her torso, gripping the material of her blouse in his fists, but Hermione’s hands were everywhere. She wanted to touch all of him, and she was determined to do so. It wasn’t until her hands wound themselves around his neck and threaded up into his hair, gripping the strands vice-like, that Sirius broke. He let out a ragged groan before moving his hands from around her waist to her front. Grabbing the material of her blouse in each hand, he gave a great tug, not even bothering to try and unbutton it. Hermione gasped at the sound of ripping fabric and the pop of her blouse buttons. Cool air brushing her sensitive skin and the hitch in his breath made Hermione acutely aware that she was now bare to him from the waist up. She remembered the bra she’d chosen to wear that day – a thin and see-through number that cupped her breasts perfectly but left little to the imagination. He was kissing her neck then, sucking and biting in ways that left her breathless and needy. His hands covered her breasts, kneading and stroking in a gentle way that contrasted so strikingly with how he was attacking her neck.

The only thing Hermione could do in that moment was hold on for dear life. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest and when Sirius’s mouth traveled south to envelope of her nipples, she thought that actually had. She let out a low, needy moan and arched into him. Feeling bold, she slid a hand from his hair, down the firm planes of his chest and to the front of his pajama bottoms. At the feel of his hard length she whined, high and breathy. Her hand had been there for barely a moment before Sirius tore away from her, distancing himself the width of the hallway. Hermione leaned against the wall behind her, needing the stability of it to stay upright due to her still drunk nature and the shaky state of her legs.

“What?” she asked, looking at the panting man across from her with confusion.

Sirius stared at her for a moment, chest falling up and down as pieces of his thick dark hair hung in his face. Hermione tried to focus but the only thing she could think of was how much she wanted to brush that hair from his gorgeous features so she could see him more clearly.

“You’re drunk. You should go to bed,” said Sirius, his voice low and gravely and filled with an edge of regret.

“But—” Hermione hesitated, confused at his response “—I don’t understand.” She crossed the distance between them, kissing up the older wizard’s neck. Did he think she didn’t want this?

“Kitten.” Sirius’s voice was strained, but he still managed to grab Hermione’s wandering hands and push her away again. Hermione gasped at his rough touch as he pulled her off of him. “I said you should go to bed.”

Hermione stared up at him in shock for a moment before a surprising rage filled her. Was she not good enough for him? Was she not pretty enough? Did he not enjoy what they’d been doing? The hot sting of angry tears reached the inner corners of her eyes and she tore out of Sirius’s grip before stomping up the stairs towards her room with a huff.

Part 2

[fangirlinglikeabus]

hello, here is part three of ‘i decided to read every dr who novelisation and now i’m making it other people’s problem’

galaxy 4 by william emms see, i like the tv version but even then i kinda had an inkling that this dude just Does Not Like women, and unfortunately the book only confirmed that! not just through the weird obsession with the drahvins’ beauty and the way the characters think about them, but i’m pretty sure there’s some added dialogue about it too. rip steven, whose character is assassinated once again by an author arbitrarily deciding he’s going to be a misogynist. also, bizarrely, this is the second novelisation where he’s been described as blond (or ‘fair’, this time). like, what? absolutely don’t recommend this one lol, which is a shame because i do actually like the whole idea of having a sympathetic alien race which looks really horrifying from a human point of view, and everything around that. uh...maybe if you’re super into reading the few references to regeneration that william emms put in?

the myth makers by donald cotton not quite as Out There as the romans which i thought was a shame but the myth makers is a fave of mine so even though there are a few points that i didn’t like (cassandra’s compared to a man in drag, pederasty is referenced in the context of achilles/patroclus, there’s a reference to rape which might seem blasé, there’s a conversation where the trojans are sarcastically called reactionaries and the greeks progressives which left me a bit ???is this an attack on progressive politics??) i still had a lot of fun. it’s told from the point of view of homer, taking some of the role of cyclops in the original, and as such we get his sarcastic commentary and slightly rejigged elements of the plot to explain how and where he’s getting his information. he even gets a bit involved at points, although he is by and large a commentator. this also leads to an epilogue that i really liked, personally. one random comment: it’s a bit bizarre that the dr’s trying to get vicki and steven to the 60s - maybe there was a bit of miscommunication there from production team to writer on where they’re from? anyway despite some reservations i do think this one’s worth reading, if only for the most...original description of the tardis materialising that i’ve come across yet. oh, and the terrible chapter puns. 

mission to the unknown by john peel two parter baby! despite its flaws, there’s something in me that finds an obnoxiously long dr who story fundamentally appealing, so i am a Fan of the daleks’ master plan. and for the most part this is a solid novelisation! however, john peel has decided to get Weird about women in it, which manifests in an uncomfortable number of comments on their attractiveness and the decision to make 1) katarina’s dress skimpier 2) sara’s uniform a form-fitting catsuit, so there were lines in this that made me cringe in on myself and hindered my enjoyment more than i’d’ve liked. plus there’s a line where mavic chen’s like ‘he had never felt the attraction of women himself�� so ig we’re getting queercoding added to ‘cruel compassionless and megalomaniacal asian man out to destroy  the planet which is otherwise exclusively represented by white people’ in terms of Unfortunate Tropes he embodies. other than that, we get a recap of the escape from troy, a few things that are slightly expanded on like bret’s confrontation with sara, her argument with steven ‘he was my brother’ scene in a cave instead of walking, and For Some Goddamn And Slightly Disturbing Reason, the implication that at least FOUR separate characters have been/are about to be eaten by native wildlife. 

the mutation of time by john peel this had less creepy stuff with women (although that did pop up occasionally) so it’s already better in my book. sara’s explicitly been travelling in the tardis for a few months and i liked that the story kept her thoughts of bret a bit more central than on tv! steven has a crush on sara which i’m uh. indifferent to and basically goes nowhere except for being mentioned in like 2 scenes. there are a lot of little things there, like a few references to earlier stories, a change in the egypt stuff so that one of the daleks gets killed, naming the police officers after z cars actors. dr who no longer wishes the audience merry christmas and steven doesn’t list the names of the dead at the end but we do get 2 extra scenes, one on skaro with the dalek prime and one where chen’s collaborator gets arrested. a few continuity points: the reason the tardis keeps going to earth is that the doctor spent so long trying to get ian and barbara there that it got stuck in a pattern; the doctor claims he’s over 700 but this directly contradicts the second doctor in tomb of the cybermen so i guess we’ve got more evidence of dr who lying about their age for the records. 

the massacre by john lucarotti oh this one is interesting. i know there was behind the scenes stuff in the 60s that led to this one being rewritten - did not realise that with the changes undone we’re given an entirely new plot thread! and it’s one that explains the burning question of the television version - where the hell was the doctor for all that time? he gets caught up with the huguenot apothecaries as they flee to the catacombs, and ends up being roped in to impersonate the abbot in order to gather information, all while steven is mostly kept in the dark. also, the tardis gets burned at the stake now. i think all that added stuff definitely makes this one worth reading, although honestly i don’t like the ending so much as the one on tv - the intensity there works better for the subject matter, imo, whereas here it’s bizarrely upbeat for a story about a religious massacre where several characters we meet are confirmed dead. the doctor does definitely intervene to save anne though, so that’s nice. oh, and the time lords get an appearance in both the prologue and the epilogue, in case you wanted to see those guys.

the ark by paul erickson ngl was not a fan of this one. it tries a bit to emphasise the monoids being mistreated and the dr criticising it but really this highlights a problem with the original: an ‘everyone was wrong’ moral doesn’t work when one side is ignorantly patronising and the other wants to commit genocide. like, the guardians are wrong, yeah, but the monoids are too over-the-top villainous for it to ever feel balanced. there’s a lot of expansion on the world (both on and off ship) in the first half that’s mildly interesting (even if the statements about genetic engineering are a bit disturbing - you bred aggression out of predators?), including a trek to several different ‘zones’, but after that all the stuff added in the second half just drags the plot (and also has this weird bit where the refusians adopt earth names? i guess aliens are just rushing to assimilate with the earth culture that’s going to colonise their planet). plus there’s way more criticism of the way dodo speaks, which i don’t like. this does technically mean that dodo never gets an introduction in the target books though, because her entrance was cut out of the last one and it’s not here either - instead there’s at least one line that gives the impression she’s been around a while.

the celestial toymaker by gerry davis and alison bingeman  this is written by two whole people and it’s still one of the most unremarkable novelisations i’ve read since an unearthly child. on the one hand, you’ve got a book that seems largely to have been churned out at an industrial speed (although i do like the description of the toymaker’s study as merging with space, and it gives us some nuggets of information like dodo being a ballet fan and steven reading military history books). on the other hand, at least they don’t include the racial slur this time? there’s this one line about soldiers liking the fair sex though, and i’m like...she’s sixteen. i don’t particularly recommend this one, but i do feel compelled to tell you all that one of the few significant and easily marked on changes to the original is that the dance floor now compels dodo and steven to dance to several different styles of music, including tango, foxtrot, and, uh, disco. 

the gunfighters by donald cotton it’s a deep tragedy in my life that they didn’t work out a way to keep the ballad of the last chance saloon, but after the last book i was glad that this one at least had a distinctive prose style to it - although the narrator’s slightly less remarkable, since he’s just someone writing up an account of what happened after interviewing the dying doc holliday. like cotton’s other works he plays a bit fast and loose with what happens on screen (expanded/altered dialogue, there’s a few scenes added to or curtailed, some stuff summarised, extra background) - and there’s like, sex jokes in this one?? they’re not particularly extreme at all but given that kate’s also allowed to say the word bastard as an insult i do suspect the bbc had stopped caring about overseeing these children’s books. there’s a few uncomfortable references to people thinking dodo might be in relationships with grown men (it’s 1881, i guess, so that might explain it cos they’re all made by 19th century characters but i don’t think it needed to be there in this light-hearted dr who book) which i didn’t like. wyatt is super religious now, also? highlights include johnny ringo, classicist; the phrase ‘steven, who had not hitherto realised he had a jib to cut’; dodo deciding that love doesn’t seem all that great and she’s just fine without it, thank you, which made my aro heart happy. not my fave of cotton’s novelisations and there’s definitely bits that made me go Um, but i don’t think you’ll be wasting time with it either!

the savages by ian stuart black my notes are so lacklustre for this because basically nothing of note gets changed. i like black’s prose when he writes it, but this is another one with large swathes of dialogue and not much flourish to them. not even things that the original could do with, like a more focused justification of steven’s stay, are there. steven says ‘not even dodo could be that silly’ instead of ‘stupid’, which is good because he already spends a fair bit of time delegitimising her viewpoint in this without attacking her intelligence so directly. i think having the narrator refer to the oppressed underclass as savages kinda undermines the moral - sure, they’re called savages by the people who want to view them as inferior to justify the way they treat them, but why does the neutral voice have to when we know what the implications of the word are? mainly i just wish black had written more, because there are some genuinely nice moments when he’s not just using what was there in the original.

the war machines by ian stuart black it was fun reading this back to back with the savages because it definitely doesn’t have the same problem: this feels like an actual proper novel with thought put into it, rather than a script with some bits added. i really liked the fight scene, it actually makes an effort to substantiate dodo’s departure (although she still doesn’t get to say goodbye, it mentions the doctor suspecting she’s wanted to go home pretty much since steven left), and ben no longer accuses polly of leading on a man who was harassing her - a minor victory, i guess, but there are definitely novelisations that haven’t cut dodgy parts of the original out even when they were written years later, so i’ll take what i can get. ian gets referenced too, which is nice, although given the progress he’s made in his career and references to things he did ‘at the beginning of the decade’ and the doctor’s belief he’ll have trained today’s scientists, it gives the bizarre impression that black’s backdated ian and barbara’s travels slightly. aside from this weird line near the beginning that implies ‘womankind’ value the ‘primitive safe space’ more than ‘mankind’ (???) i would really recommend this one. 

[imnotwolverine]

Couch People

Henry Cavill x OC (you) drabble 

Word count: 2.907

Warnings: Alcohol consumption and pure and utter fluff. 

Author’s note: I had a DREAM (last night). And I decided to write about it in Henry’s POV, since that’s a cute lil’ twist on the usual meet-cute situation. 

--

My couch is my new favourite object. It wasn’t up to last night. Yesterday it probably was like..my kitchen aid, or my glute drive. But today? It’s definitely my couch. Not only because I’m still slightly hungover and the thing is darn comfortable. No. It’s something else.

Sighing, I sink further down into the soft pillows, that darn tartan red throw still lingering in the corner, smelling of you. Fuck. I’m having it bad, huh?

—

Should I lose the tie? Was it too formal? Hesitantly tugging at the silk I watch the last of the audience leave the London Studios, the infamous red couch now moved to the side so a cleaning crew can ready the stage for the next show. I’m glad it’s over and fans leave me be for a hot second, my mind quite elsewhere as of this moment.

Before me stand the people I recognise to be your friends. Men, all of them. Their voices low but merry as they bounce off the walls of the almost completely emptied out space.

‘Hi Henry.’ Your voice tinkles above the low hum of voices and quite instantly I feel my nerves back in my throat. Shit..Now what? What the hell was I even planning on…Damnit …

‘Hi.’ Is all I can manage back, the six men around you now also turning to offer me a warm welcome. And from the looks on their faces, they know full well why I am here. You, however, seems to be a bit clueless, your fingers reaching into one of your friends’ backpacks to fetch some lip balm.

‘Good show, hmm?’ You mumble, brushing the balm over your supple lips. Kissable lips.

‘Sure was.’ I agree. Come on Henry. You’ll have to do better than that! You don’t seem to care though, your attention drifting back to one of your friends, who raises an expecting eyebrow at you.

‘Oh, eh..Henry, you want to join us? We want to go out for some drinks..and some food maybe?’

‘FOOODD.’ One of the guys grabs his beer belly and makes a gesture like he’s been starved for weeks - which is obviously not true. I chuckle. They seem like good guys. And so very normal, which only makes me like you more.

‘I’d love to.’

‘Oh! And I still have to pee.’ One of the more lanky built men intervenes, to which the whole group blurts; ‘Pee-break!’

—

One pee-break and a short cab drive later,  I have brought you to one of my favourite pubs. Not only because it’s close to my home. Also, because I know the owner and with a blink of my blue eyes I can get us to use the room upstairs, which is usually reserved for exclusive events. Well. Tonight is an exclusive event, okay? The pub is old, mahogany and smelling of good times, the upstairs level reached through a very, VERY steep and very narrow step of stairs. With hands and feet we climb up, finding a low ceiling room, in equally dark and wooden hues. A lone rough table is set up, inviting us to take a seat before an old paned window that lets you look out over the drunken banter below.

In moments there is fish and chips by the bucket load and a few pitchers of beer, which your friends drink from greedily. And, of course, a glass of wine for you. You don’t like the bitter taste of beer. I make a mental note of that.

There’s nothing stuck up about you. You smile so easily, joke so merrily - and did I spot some nerdy references that escaped your lips? With every glass of wine there are more and it makes my whole body thrum with excitement.  Though perhaps that’s also just the beer talking.

Much too soon your friends have to leave to take their late flight back home. The fact that they had flown out here just to celebrate your success after years of hard work, just shows how good a bunch they are. And you are to them. With any other women with male friends, I’d easily pick on ulterior motives. But not with these guys. You go way back. You’re good. Golden. One of the guys. Though, dear god in heaven, am I happy you’re a woman.

Long bear hugs are exchanged between you and your friends as I stand there on the sidewalk, trying to evade the looks and attention of the drunken merry. The night is cold and winter is soon to come, the lot of us huddling in our winter coats as cars pass by, driving through deep puddles. With a last wave we send your friends off into a cab, back to their homes.

And then it’s just us.

‘So..’ You suck your lips in, eyes darting out to send a warning glance at some drunk brits that take a snapshot of us - it happens so often I barely even care about it still. I try to look as gentlemanly as ever, but the pints dance happily in my eyes. I know it from the way your gaze softens when you look back at me. ‘It was a good night.’ You say.

And I half disagree; ‘It IS a good night.’ As soon as I say it, I’m not sure if the drink is making me overly courageous, my arm hesitating to reach out and offer you something to hold onto. You chuckle.

‘You’re right. Especially since it’s not raining. GOOD HEAVENS.’ And with that you slip your hand around the crook of my arm without question. Like it’s the most natural thing to do, your cold fingers feeling like icicles through the wool of my coat. If only I could warm you up properly.

‘And you’re taking a long holiday? Any plans?’ I try to keep easy conversation flowing, referring to something you had mentioned during Graham’s show. I knew you were taking some time off after this movie was all wrapped up. I had been there, working on the same set, so I know how crazy it had been.

‘Yea...it’s been a crazy two years. Which is a long time not to have any holidays.’ You widen your eyes in exasperation as your feet elegantly move around a large puddle.

‘Tell me all about it.’ I sigh. Unfortunately for me, I’m soon to start on yet another production. Which means no holidays for me.

‘But ehm..I actually made zero plans. My whole life was planned out near minute to minute for the past years. I just need to ..get back to basics, you know? Sleep a full 8 hours. Walk. Cook. Take long baths. Maybe..go hiking in the highlands. Or..go to the Bahamas..I’ve never been to the Bahamas! Or…’

‘A right here.’ I interrupt you, sending us into the direction of a small alleyway.

‘Oohh..must I trust you now or is this where I find out you’re a serial killer, Mr. Cavill?’ You tease.

‘Mm..I’m too busy a man to spend my time planning out how to murder people.’

‘Very well Hannibal.’

‘Hahaha..good series.’ - There’s those nerdy references bubbling up again.

’Tis.’ You agree, sighing deeply as the darkness swallows us, leaving the crowded street behind until there’s nothing else but us and the tap of our feet on the cold wet cobble stone. You lean slightly closer to me and I’m glad you do.

‘So..’ You look up at me. ‘Are we mere wanderers or are we heading to mount doom to get rid of some pesky ring?’

I snort laugh. Yep. I definitely snorted. And you laugh merrily in turn. God, you’re cute.

‘I don’t know Sam, I don’t know.’

You grumble softly in playful dissatisfaction. ‘What if I want to be Frodo?’

‘If you so wish to be, fellow over-sized hobbit. Though I think, since you sound like such a well planned, yet easy going lady, you’re a Sam. BESIDES, you say you love to cook and work in the garden..that definitely makes you a Sam.’

‘True, true.’ You hum, the light at the other side of the alley coming closer, your feet suddenly starting to drag. Almost as if you don’t want to get back into the light, where drunk hustle and bustle is about. I stop and you look up at me, head tilting slightly upwards.

‘Say, Frodo. What does a woman do in this town when she doesn’t want to call it a night, yet?’

I pretend to think about it, though my mind knows full well where we could be going now. ‘Depends on what you want to do, Sam.’

‘As much as I’d like an adventure..so cold are my feet. Something indoors, perhaps?’

Exactly what I was planning.

‘I know just the place. Though…it’s..very private, okay?’

‘Are we going to find prancing ponies and kitten heeled Striders there?’ - With that you print this vision in my head of Aragorn in high heels, lurking on a pipe, and it makes me chuckle aloud. You are slightly cheeky too.

‘Mmm..more like large hounds and vast amounts of books, all crammed into a cute little..’

‘It’s your place isn’t it?’

I chuckle. ‘Yea..I live 5 minutes from here.’

‘Okay. But just in case you are considering a career change; please don’t eat me.’

I smile, nudging us to move ahead, our eyes squinting at the bright street light as we return to the land of the living drunk and the hum of stationary engines. As most pubs are closing for the night, everyone tries to grab a cab.

‘Well, looks like I wouldn’t have come home at this hour anyways haha.’ You mumble, our feet jumping over another puddle as we move to yet another alleyway.

We don’t have to take this route. But I like the lack of people. And having you squeezed up against my arm. So maybe it’s not a five minute walk entirely. You thankfully don’t seem to care.

‘You live in London?’

’Not really. Though for work I’m here half of the week. I stay at this cute hostel with THE MOST COMFORTABLE BEDS I have ever slept in. Like. Ugh. It’s fantastic.’

‘And your real home?’

‘Not such a good bed.’

We shouldn’t be talking about beds at this hour, but I suddenly can’t think of anything else to talk about.

‘Well, the best bed I’ve ever slept in is right at home.’

‘Mmm..are you suggesting anything there, Hannibal?’ Where you were clueless about my flirtations whilst we were sitting on Graham’s couch, the message seems to come across quite perfectly now, your eyes glittering with promise.

I act shocked, but we both know better. ‘Never!’ I say, to which we belt out in loud laughter, the sound echoing off the tall buildings at either side of us.

‘Gods, you are cheeky after a few pints hahah.’ You laugh.

‘And you are walking home with a complete stranger.’

‘Naa..I checked your Wikipedia page. So. Not complete stranger. I think it’s actually YOU who’s walking home with a stranger.’

‘Quite so.’

You’re right. We’ve worked together for 3 months on the same set, but I’ve only seen you from afar. In fact, you were kind of my boss. Which would’ve made any advances from my side even weirder. Tonight felt like the first real opportunity, now the project was finished. And here we were. In front of my house.

After a few awkward fumbles I manage to unlock the door, the two of us being welcomed by a sleepy Kal, his wet nose diving head-first into my face.

‘Down boy.’ I grumble, but thankfully you’re not afraid of my large hound, your fingers already racing through his thick fur before I have managed to close the door behind us.

‘Hi baby!! You are SO CUTE! JUST LOOK AT YOU!! And so tired too! You been sleeping, big boy?’

Kal loves you already. And I..?

‘A wine would be good.’ You look up at me as I just stand there staring at you. Shaking myself from my thoughts and awkward nerves, I put our coats away and try to find some decent bottle of red wine. I forgot to ask what kind you like, so I’ll just have to pick whatever. ‘Make yourself comfortable!’ I say aloud, but as I return with a bottle and two glasses I already see you’ve done just that, legs pulled up and that stupid tartan throw wrapped around your legs, Kal getting yet another head scratch from you.

Oh, he loves you a lot.

‘I hope cabernet is alright?’

You laugh and wave it away; ‘Henry. I had 5 glasses of wine. By this point you’d ALMOST get me drinking beer. Almost haha.’

In what seems like a blink of the eye this bottle is finished as well and the world is near spinning when I get up to make us a snack. Which of course is the worst idea ever at like 2..3..4 am? I can’t see quite straight enough anymore and the giddiness in my bones is showing in the most idiotic grins I’ve probably ever had on my cheeks. My face is going to hurt tomorrow. From laughing, that is.

As I haphazardly decide I should first ask what you want to eat, I suddenly find the long despised throw of my ex earning a much welcomed new, far sweeter memory. In the deep soft pillows of the couch, there you lie. Knocked out asleep, fingers still trailing through Kal’s fur, his head not daring to move as I look the pupper in the eye.

‘Well..’ 

I can’t send you home like this. And so, with a dangerous wobble in my inebriated knees, I tuck you in, the smooth wool warm as it moves beneath my fingertips.

For just a moment I wonder if I should put you in my bed, so I’ll sleep on the couch. But you’re laying so comfortably, that I’m afraid I’ll wake you..and then you’ll probably leave. I don’t want you to leave. Yes. I should have you stay. I..eh…

Blinking I look around the room, deciding how I should keep you to at least stay for breakfast. I don’t want this to be the last time I see you, you know? And so I grab for some paper and a pen, my handwriting not what it should be.

“Good morning, Sunshine. In case the drinks were too many; the dog’s name is Kal. Don’t worry about him. And I’m upstairs. Feel free to grab anything you like. Also. In exchange for a couch..how about we have breakfast, together? Henry.”

—

Waking up was like thinking everything was a dream. A very drunken dream. My head was screaming for water and sleep, but I couldn’t stop myself from racing downstairs first, only to find you were still asleep. Just where I left you. It was only after I started cracking up my cooking skills (cheesy eggs with toast), that you woke up. Large yawns were heard from the couch-area, before you groggily walked into the kitchen, hair in disarray and just perfect in my humble opinion.

‘Mmmoo- *yawn* -orning.’ You bring out, hands rubbing over your eyes.

‘Hi.’

You are so cute. 

And then you step in closer, eyeing my cooking, your scent and body so close, I wish we were at the point that I could grab you into a hug, delve my nose into your hair.

‘Sleep well?’ I ask with a crooked smile, your face nodding but your body saying: I need more sleep, for the love of the gods.

After breakfast you quirk up, that cute smirk back on your lips as you lick them in satisfaction.

‘That’s some fine cooking there Frodo.’

‘Thanks Sam.’

‘And a couch that makes a close second to the hostel’s bed.’

‘HAhaha..oh..yes. I was not sure what to do. Wake you up? Put you in my bed? I mean..a lot of..options.’ I trail off as your smile grows. 

‘..I’m so sorry for putting you in that position, Henry. And also, apologies for falling asleep as you were just about to make a snack. Its typical me; midnight snack-time? I fall asleep.’

‘Well, it’s your holidays. You can sleep all you want’

‘So it is.’ You fold your fingers around your hot cup of tea - no sugar, no milk. I make a mental note of that too.  

With curious eyes you watch me sit across you, the kitchen table suddenly feeling too large, too wide. I want to be closer to you. Snuggle up to you. You look so snuggable.

‘Any plans for today?’ You inquire lightly.

And that’s when it clicks. I could keep you around a little longer, maybe? De-hangover together, maybe?

‘Want to stay for a bit?’ I ask, hope sparking in the swallow of my nervous throat.

‘Sure.’

I think that’s what I like the most about you. It’s easy. Natural. No hassle. No hunt. Though I would have hunted you, if that is what it would have taken.

—

Now I’m sitting here on the couch and you’ve just gone back to your hostel. I mean, I get it. We’ve been together for nearly 24 hours. When we’re not even..like..more than strangers. For a moment I wondered if I should kiss you, after we walked Kal, our hands interlinked - which also felt so very normal.

The more glad I was when you did it for me.

You kissed me.

Those sweet chapped lips on mine. 

I sink further into the couch and sigh. I like you a lot my sweet Sam.

--

(Link to my Masterlist)

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[tatooinetraders]

Falling

Obi Wan Kenobi x Jedi!Reader

word count: 2294

summary: obi wan is worried about breaking the jedi code, but he breaks the reader’s heart along the way. angst, but a happy ending :) inspired by falling by why don’t we

author’s note: this is also my first star wars fic, so enjoy! if you want to be tagged in future fics, let me know!  also mostly unedited, so what’s new?

Falling in love was never a part of the plan, but sometimes the force works in mysterious ways. Unfortunately, Obi Wan was bound to the ways of the Jedi and y/n was caught in between her heart and her head. 

It all started when the Council sent the two out on a mission to Kamino to check on the clone army production and talk to Shaak Ti in person. They were in a small starship to stay out of the Seperatist scanners as they flew through the galaxy. The conversation started as they went into hyperspace.

“Master Kenobi, don’t take this the wrong way, but why did the council pick the both of us for this mission? Why not send General Skywalker with you, or even Commander Cody?” y/n said as Obi Wan turned to face her in the co-pilot chair. “I am sure that he wouldn’t mind seeing his home.”

“Well, I am glad that we were chosen for this. It sounds simple, and honestly, a little time away from the battleground is amazing. It also doesn’t hurt that I have a skilled General and Master Jedi to travel with,” y/n blushed and turned her chair forward to try and hide the emotion that had reddened her cheeks. “And to answer your second question, Anakin is currently travelling with Padme and we really can’t afford to take Commander Cody out of the war right now.”

“I am glad that you think that I am adept, but I think the only thing that we will be needing on this mission is your master negotiation skills.”

“Don’t overstate my wordsmith abilities. It is no match for your incredible actions on the battlefield. The council probably wants you to make an appearance to inspire the clones. If I were one of them, I would be praying to serve under you.”

And with that, y/n was stuck in the sand; unable to free her mind from his compliments. To Obi Wan, he was just saying the truth and didn’t think much about what he said. It is not because he did not mean what he said, but he believed that their relationship was strictly professional. Y/n did not realize that this moment would be when she fell off the ledge.  

The next few months separated the pair, but every night since their trip to Kamino they tried to contact each other through datapads, comlinks, and the occasional hologram. They both convinced the council it was to discuss strategy, but they really could not go long without each other. They seemed to understand each other in a way that nobody else could. Obi Wan and Anakin had an unbreakable bond, but it was something different with y/n. This was attachment. This was something that he was not allowed to feel. This was something that y/n was not allowed to feel. But here they were, harboring affection for each other behind the back of the Jedi. He told himself that this was no different than his relationship with any other member on the council, but he knew deep down that this was something else and he could not bear to admit it. 

After both generals successfully won their battles, they returned to Coruscant to meet with the Jedi Council and the Senate to report. Y/n arrived first and when she got word of Kenobi’s arrival, she dropped what she was doing and rushed to catch him before he met with the council. Obi smiled immediately when he saw y/n approaching him. 

“Y/n! Maker, it has been too long since I have seen you in person. I was starting to think that it was normal to be light blue and transparent,” Obi Wan stated while resisting the urge to embrace y/n in his arms.

“The sound of your voice is so much clearer when it is not coming through a transmission,” y/n laughed back.

“You know that you love it either way.”

“Yeah right.”

“Just admit that you love the sound of my voice,” Obi Wan pressed.

“Nope, I absolutely do not love the sound of your voice. I love you” y/n said back with a silly smile, but that is when the laughter stopped. Y/n finally said what was on her mind and it seemed to make the galaxy stop. 

Obi Wan heard those three words and shut down. He realized where he was standing: The Jedi Temple. He was in the one place that would disapprove of those eight letters. He felt so conflicted at that moment. His heart was telling him to say it back, but his head was telling him that it was wrong. He was usually so great with words, but now, he could not even think. Y/n stood there, searching Obi Wan’s eyes for some kind of response. She did not mean to do something wrong, but she still meant what she said, even if it was in response to Obi Wan’s classic quips. She would not take it back for anything. The silence was killing her. She prayed to herself, Oh maker, please just say something, anything. Suddenly Obi Wan came back to reality and shook his head.

“I-I am sorry. I just don’t know how to respond. You know I can’t say it back,” Obi Wan said, avoiding eye contact. Y/n then cut him off and closed the space between them.

“Why can’t you say it back if that’s how you feel. The force is flowing through us and it doesn’t lie. I would not ask this of you if it was not something that I thought you capable of. In case you forgot, I am a Jedi too. I am at as much of a risk at even contemplating what I admitted just minutes ago. Don’t you understand that I am not going to let the code dictate how I feel about you?”

Tears were rolling down y/n’s face. Faint footsteps were heard echoing from another part of the temple. It broke the silence that would have been too much to bear. Every emotion felt stronger and y/n cursed the force for heightening them. 

“Y/n, you understand better than anyone that sometimes I do not agree with the council, but the code is something that I live by. You can’t ask me to disregard everything that I stand for just for you.” Obi Wan finally looked into y/n’s eyes and pulled her hands into his.

“Don’t just do it for me. Do it for yourself.” 

There they were, staring into each other’s eyes. Both sets were filled with pain and even Obi Wan’s eyes were welling up with tears. It felt like an eternity and the only thing y/n could hear was the blood pumping through her veins. How could she stand here, staring into the eyes of the man she loved, feeling so lost and alone? She always felt safe and comfortable in Obi Wan presence, even now in this state of passionate confusion, she could not deny that her hands felt comfortable in his. Why could he not feel the same?

Obi Wan finally responded with a shake of his head, “I must go. This is not the time or the place.” And with that Obi Wan took off down the hallway, pulling his hood up as he went.

“Kriff you, Kenobi.” y/n said just loud enough for him to hear as he marched down the hallway. 

From that moment on, they distanced themselves from each other. Y/n did it to protect herself and keep her emotions in check. Even though she did not always agree with the Jedi, she agreed with the ideals and swore to follow them. Obi Wan did it for the same reasons, but he also did it because he did not want to admit what he was feeling. How could he feel this way when his entire upbringing was against it? He thought that if he revealed his love that he would be breaking the code. What he did not know that everything that he had done to spend time with y/n in the past revealed how he truly felt. Nothing could hide the fact that he loved her too. Anakin and Ahsoka harassed him about it on the daily. If they accepted it, why couldn’t he? 

~

Three long and lonely weeks after their fight, Obi Wan and y/n were forced to work things out. They were going to be leaving on an undercover mission soon and if they did not trust each other with their lives, it could result in a catastrophe. He journeyed out to find y/n conversing with the younglings that had just returned from creating their lightsabers. The children laughed and smiled as they proudly showed them off. Obi Wan had never seen this side of her before; it was always the confident general that inspired everyone around her and incited fear into her enemies, but this time it was different. She had been vulnerable in front of Obi Wan all those weeks ago, but something about this interaction with the younglings had changed him. He finally realized that attachment was not so bad. These children had proven that. It was at this moment that Obi Wan realized that he must admit his love. If y/n brought light to everyone around her, he wanted to be a part of that light. Y/n looked up and saw Obi Wan observing from a distance and realized that it was time to prepare for their departure. She finished talking with the younglings and then they ran off. Y/n stood up and brushed herself off as Kenobi approached.

“I am not looking forward to these mission preparations, but let’s just get on with it, Kenobi” y/n stated, still upset from earlier this month.

“Listen, y/n, I know you don’t want to go on this mission with me, or let alone be around me, but I have something that I need to say,” Obi Wan had y/n’s full attention now. “I l-”

Suddenly Anakin arrived and alerted the pair “Master Kenobi. Master y/n.”

“Yes, Anakin,” Obi Wan sighed.

“Master Yoda wants me to inform you that it is time for you guys to depart.”

“Thank you, Anakin. We will be on our way.”

Y/n stood there confused, but happy for them to get on their way and avoid this whole conversation. She was not ready to open up with Obi Wan after the way she was hurt the last time she conversed with him. She started to walk towards the ship, but Obi Wan grabbed her forearm to stop her from leaving.

“Y/n, please,” Obi Wan pleaded, “just let me finish.”

“You heard Anakin, it is time to go.” 

“No, this needs to be said before we go. Y/n, I love you. I know this goes against everything that I believe in because of the Jedi, but I can’t deny my emotions any longer. I know that we are not supposed to have attachments, but I feel stronger because of it. I see the way you interact with those around you. I have loved you since the day I met you. I love the way you use your emotions to guide you. You are brave, courageous, and someone that I strive to be.”

“Obi, I just, I don’t know what to say.” Y/n was shocked, but smiled happily. This is something that she wanted to hear for so long, but could not believe that it would actually happen. Obi Wan’s hands traveled to y/n’s shoulders. They were staring at each other intently, breathing in sync. The tension of the confession pulled them close. Obi Wan was the first to cut the tension with light sarcasm.  

“Don’t say anything then,” Obi Wan breathed out as he leaned in y/n. When their lips connected, they forgot that they were standing on the hanger, exposed. The force flowed through their bodies and they felt connected. This moment was something that each of them had been longing for. Soon they both remembered where they were standing and pulled apart. Luckily, nobody had passed by, but the two would always remember to stay hidden in the future.

A shared smile appeared on their lips as they walked towards their ship. This time the silence between them was comfortable, nothing like weeks ago. They both boarded the ship when Obi Wan decided to answer a question that had been asked long ago.

“Hey, y/n, do you remember when we went on our first solo mission together and you asked why the council would send the both of us?”

“Yeah, I still can’t figure it out, but I am glad that they did.”

“Well,” Obi Wan said sheepishly, “it is because I asked them if you could go with me. They asked me who I wanted to go with me since my usual companions were busy elsewhere, and I chose you. I never really knew why I was drawn to you, but the force influenced me.”

“I guess we have the force to thank for setting us up,” y/n laughed. “And if the force set us up then the Jedi are just going to have to deal with us. I mean, I don’t think that they will ever find out, but the force will be with us.”

Obi Wan nodded and let out a small chuckle. Each Jedi buckled into their seats and prepared to leave. As the generals flew off, their hands found each other. Silently, they both thanked the force for catching them as they fell, falling into love.

[goodluckchenle]

your love would be too much

pairing: haechan x gender neutral!reader genre: ANGST vibes: enemies to lovers, trainee!au, tw for body shaming , anxiety attack , yelling , swearing , NO HAPPY ENDING word count: 6k

author’s note: aaaaaaaaa this took so l o n g. i spent forever and a day writing it but i’m kinda proud of it! definitely didn’t proof read the last couple of paragraphs but it’s Fine

you and haechan should've been friends, or at least that’s what everyone else thought. you were the same age, you’d auditioned for sm at the same time, and you were widely regarded as two of the most talented 2000 line trainees. the two of you had a lot in common, but one thing stood out beyond the rest of your shared qualities: you’d both never hated anyone more in your entire life.

if opposites attract then you and haechan were practically the same person. all you did was get on each other’s nerves. you liked to think that you were a mature person, someone who chose to take the high road, but when it came to haechan all bets were off. the two of you were petty in every way imaginable; you took every chance to get under each other’s skin. you would go out of your way to make haechan’s day worse, and he did the same. your relationship wasn’t hard to understand; it was sneers in the hallway and cruel insults under your breath. it was looking him in the eye as you took his favorite sandwich in the cafeteria or him clicking his tongue just because it drove you insane. it was simple, it was immature, and it was petty. and you still did it anyway.

the funny thing was that no one could’ve told you how it started. everyone’d just kinda assumed something went down one day, but the truth was you didn’t really have a reason to hate haechan except that he hated you. if you thought at least a little bit about your relationship you could probably figure out that there was no fair reason for you two to hate each other, you just rubbed each other wrong and neither of you were humble enough to back down. but we don’t talk about that. the point is, lee donghyuck was your least favorite person in the world, and it was always going to be that way.

but no matter how much you hated him, the trainee grind went on. which meant that you could never truly avoid each other. today was your monthly performance evaluation and as fate would have it, you and haechan went one after another. you were first up. you’d prepared for this performance like it was your last, practicing the choreography for weeks and memorizing every run and adlib until you could sing them in your sleep. you had chosen this song even though it was a challenge and you were proud of how far you’d come to be able to pull it off. after you finished you bowed deeply to the trainers and bit back a smile when you saw the awe on your fellow trainee’s faces. but as you returned to your spot in line, you heard haechan scoff under his breath. you raised an eyebrow.

“got something you’d like to say, donghyuck?” you said quietly, emphasising his name. the moment lee sooman had changed his name haechan let it go straight to his head and you refused to feed his ravenous ego. 

“not really,” haechan quipped back. “just that maybe you should try not to do something so...above you. watching you butcher that was painful and the fake smile didn’t help.” you scowled as his name was called and haechan stepped forward, bowing with a charming smile as he introduced himself to the coaches. right before he started his performance he looked you in the eye, and you swore you could feel rage bubbling up within you.

haechan was infuriatingly impressive. he’d picked a song that played to his strengths and his facial expressions were on point, two areas that were still stinging after his comments earlier. you kept a straight face as he performed, imagining all the things you’d say as soon as you walked out of this room. unsurprisingly the other trainees were enthralled with haechan’s performance but when he made his way back his eyes were only on you, one eyebrow cocked in a confident smirk. now it was your turn to scoff.

“you know, that was actually a smart choice,” you muttered so only he could hear. “play it safe and you won’t disappoint anyone. but maybe turn down the facial expressions a smidge? felt like i was watching a third-rate comedy sketch.” you relished the look on his face as he struggled to remain nonchalant. you shrugged and turned towards the trainee about to perform, leaving haechan to stew in the silence between you two. you were sure this wasn’t over, but did you really want it to be? you were almost looking forward to the fight you knew was coming.

the moment you left the room all eyes were on you and haechan. you wouldn’t say that the two of you made your hatred public, but you definitely didn’t try to keep it private. you were sure haechan felt the same way; you both felt fully justified in your distaste for the other and you kinda expected everyone else to take your side. to be honest haechan's friends thought the whole thing was kind of ridiculous and as for you, well you didn't have anyone close enough to care. you were a little annoyed by the audience you'd amassed but you would never let that stop you. however you needn’t worry; the moment you'd cleared the doorway haechan was already on you. "you always have something to say, don't you?" he said, glaring. you couldn't help but chuckle.  

"and you don't?" you shot back. "you literally started this conversation."

“i wouldn’t have, but i just couldn’t bear the thought of you actually thinking whatever you did back there was ‘art’.” more infuriating than his words was his tone, one that dripped with condescension and mockery. unfortunately, you were never one to back down.

“ah yes. because you’re clearly the expert here,” you spat, arms folded.

haechan looked you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl and your blood boil. “between the two of us? that’s not even a question.” you were starting to get pissed.

you scowled, saying, “you really think you’re the shit, don’t you?”

“no,” he admitted with a cocky grin, “i know i am.” it was taking everything within you not to strangle him at this point.

“you know what’s funny about you? no matter what you do, you always end up thinking you’re the best.”

“are you saying i’m not?”

            “you’re a lot of things, donghyuck, but you’re sure as hell not perfect.”

“what am i then?”

            maybe you weren’t thinking very clearly anymore.

“well the first word that comes to mind is stupid, but clueless and obnoxious work pretty well too. try-hard’s a little informal but it fits the bill, and- oh, duh! you’re replaceable.”

you’d never seen haechan look more serious than when that word came out of your mouth. the shift in mood was immediate. “excuse me?”

            you raised an eyebrow, a little shocked that he didn’t have more to say. “you heard me.”

haechan’s voice was calm, but something about it seemed deadly. the onlookers watched with bated breath as they anticipated haechan’s response. “no, please, elaborate. i want to hear more. how am i replaceable?”

there was a pit forming in your stomach but you didn’t stop. “there’s nothing special about you. you’re not unique, you’re not remarkable, you’re not even bad enough to leave an impression. you’re completely average. and therefore, you’re replaceable.”

haechan barked out a dry laugh, hollow and numb and absolutely terrifying. suddenly he walked forward, brushing past as he muttered, "that's rich, coming from you." his friends rushed after him, the youngest ones looking at you with wide eyes before darting after them. you shrugged, trying to bury the panic growing within you. how did you get here? if anyone had looked closely, they’d see that your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

you went about the rest of your day, pushing your latest episode with haechan to the corner of your mind. you went over the notes you got earlier, practiced for a few hours and headed back to your dorm early, something you rarely allowed yourself. you cleaned your room, ate a sparse dinner, and studied for your exams, but even though you were highly productive something still felt wrong. you did everything you knew to do, but you couldn’t shake the restless feeling in your stomach. did it have something to do with you and haechan today? absolutely. but what good was dwelling on it? then you’d have to address the complex and slightly concerning nature of your relationship. and we don’t want to do that.

it’s well past midnight and you’ve accepted that sleep is out of the question. you decide to start your day early, maybe get a jump on your next assessment. so that’s why you walk out of your dorm at quarter to three in the morning, fully dressed and prepared to dance like your life depended on it. you wander down the corridors of practice rooms, but just as you find an empty one (you clearly weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight,) you hear a familiar voice. is that,,,donghyuck? your rational brain would’ve said to mind your own business. unfortunately, your rational brain was probably the only part of you asleep right now.

you walked into haechan’s practice room, waiting for him to notice you. from what you could tell he’d been singing (which begs the question, why is he in the dance hall?) and taking notes. he was hunched over on the floor, legs crossed and scribbling away on a notebook page. you cleared your throat and he sat up, annoyed by the interruption and now you. “late night, hyuckie?” you ask, feigning concern.

“leave me alone,” haechan muttered, returning to his work.

you stepped further into the room. “you sure? you don’t look too good.” and as much as you were mocking him it was true. his hair was a mess and under the light his cheeks seemed hollow, his skin mottled.

“i said,” haechan asserted, a growl in his voice, “leave me alone.”

“jeez, touchy much?” you quipped. your tone was playful and there was a gleam in your eye, one that said to haechan that he was nothing more than a toy. he didn’t feel like playing.

haechan stood up and walked towards you, so that you were standing maybe 3 feet away from each other. his voice was quiet, and you finally realized that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. “do you not know when to stop, y/n? get out. now.”

you don’t know why you kept going. everything in your body was screaming at you to go, to leave, to shut your damn mouth for once in your life. maybe you were tired. maybe you wanted to see how far you could push him. maybe you’re an idiot. whatever it was, there was no excuse for what you said next. and once you said it, you couldn’t take it back.

“make me.”

and all hell broke loose.

“what the hell is wrong with you?!” haechan shouted, voice breaking. “what did i do to deserve this? is this some sort of game to you? you win, y/n! you broke me!” you stood there, frozen. you watched your worst enemy shatter in front of you, watched as tears fell down his face. one by one they came as you stood in shock, until they poured like rain. did you do this? choked-back sobs fell from haechan’s lips, chest heaving with the weight of them. was this really happening? “you broke me,” he whispered. you could’ve sworn you heard him shaking. “just leave me alone. please.” you stayed paralyzed only a few moments longer, then turned around and walked out the door, down the hallway and back to your bed. it was safe to say your early start was over.

if sleep wasn't out of the question before it certainly was now. all the thoughts you'd been avoiding flew to the forefront of your mind and you could practically see them swirling in front of your eyes. obviously haechan was upset, and it was because of you. but how? you didn't think you'd said anything out of the ordinary; the two of you were always coming at each other. your conversations ran on repeat in your mind as the discomfort you'd suppressed all day rose to the surface. haechan insulted you first, so you were good right? and yeah, maybe you’d been a little harsh, but he deserved it, or at least that’s what you tried to tell yourself. but something else was nagging at you too. why did you care? haechan was a nuisance; you hated his guts. he was always treating you trash. so why did his tears prompt those of your own? you didn’t care about haechan, not in the least. you couldn’t. you were enemies, and that was how it was supposed to be.

the next day was odd to say the least. you couldn’t help but look at haechan just a little bit differently, and you figured he knew, because he seemed like he was trying to compensate for your behavior with his own. if he was petty before, he was downright cruel now, but for some reason you didn’t have it in you to come at him. every time he scowled at you all you saw were the tears streaming down his face, the whispers that’d fallen past his lips and lodged themselves in your conscience. when haechan took your food you’d simply get something else, when he brushed past you with a little too much force you stepped to the side and kept going. you were sure people picked up on it, but as usual you took little notice. even haechan’s friends had noticed the difference and though you rarely spoke to them, you noticed their lingering glances whenever you encountered each other. you could’ve figured that they too were wondering what had changed between the two of you (something they’d tried to pull out of haechan before) but the chances of them figuring it out were slim to none. secrecy was yet another of you and haechan’s shared qualities.

but there’s only so long you can go without falling back into old habits. after all, donghyuck still is your greatest enemy. you’re walking down the hallway and you turn a corner to see none other but haechan and his crew heading your direction. their excited chatter grinds to a halt as haechan turns to sneer at you, expecting a quip or a snarky face in return. the only thing you give him is a look of poorly disguised pity, and that’s what does it. haechan’s scowl deepens as he grabs you wrist and pulls you back the way you came, around the corner and away from his friends. “what the- get off me!” you hiss, yanking your arm away from him. “what’s wrong with you???”

haechan completely ignores you. “you need to stop,” he snaps, and the fire in his eyes ignites your own.

“the hell d’you mean ‘stop’?” you snap back, angered and a little bit confused. was this because of that night? you were being nice to him. was it just because you felt guilty for making him have a breakdown? sure. but it was still something. he could be a little grateful at least.

“whatever this is,” haechan gestured between the two of you violently, “needs to go back to the way it was” he was far too close to you and you took a step back, a scowl settling over your features and matching with his. you don’t- you can’t- think about what he means by that. but you can be angry.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t know i was taking orders from you,” you spat. “but next time i’ll be sure to. God forbid i’m actually kind to someone for once.”

hyuck took a step towards you, and now you were even closer than before. “i don’t want your pity. i want you to stop. understand?” you hate how intimidated you feel right now.

you looked haechan in the eye with a face of pure contempt before stepping around him and walking down the hall, making brief eye contact with his posse and quickly making your way past them. unbeknownst to you, hyuck deflates as he leans against the wall, eyes closed and breathing out a sigh of relief, that is until you pass and his friends rush to his side.

“yah, what was that?” a pastel-haired boy said, eyes wide with an incredulous grin. all of a sudden haechan noticed the floor was real interesting.

“it was nothing,” he replied, trying to remain nonchalant. “i just had to say something.”

another one nodded, his eye smile betraying his mock seriousness. “you just had to tell y/n something?” the boy raised an eyebrow, his implication crystal clear. the two youngest friends looked at each other, surprised that jeno had said what they’d both been thinking.

haechan scoffed but still refused to make eye contact. “shut up. you know that’s not what i meant.”

the last one chimed in. “what do you mean then? that you don’t have any feelings for them? at all?” renjun looked doubtful, which only frustrated hyuck even more.

“no, i don’t,” he asserted, “do i look like i like them?”

from the way the rest of his friends looked at him, the answer was probably yes.

“all i’m saying,” jaemin insisted, “is that you can’t hate someone that much without caring about them, at least a little bit.” the others nodded in agreement.

haechan finally looked up, and jaemin took a step back, hands in the air. “i hate y/n. i wouldn’t go out with them if they were the last person on earth. they mean nothing to me. okay?” with that he began to walk to their intended destination, and the boys went to follow him. the others made eye-contact, a look that said they didn’t totally buy it but it wasn’t worth fighting now. they’ve got better things to do than play matchmaker.

so now things are back to how they used to be, and you’re okay with that. in fact, you’re glad about it. your last encounter with haechan renewed your distaste for him, and now more than ever you felt justified in your hatred. he had some nerve to come at you like that when you were trying to be nice to him. thinking about it made your face heat up and your fists clench and somewhere deep down maybe it hurt your heart a little more than you’d like to admit, but there’s no reason to address that. now you didn’t have to worry about that night anymore, or how it made you feel. all that mattered was making haechan feel worse.

monthly evaluations roll around once again and maybe you weren’t on your a-game. maybe you got settled a little. maybe you were spending more time in your head than the studio, and maybe it showed. you tried, you really did, but when you got in front of those coaches you knew it wasn’t gonna be a good day. the actual performance was foggy, but what came after was clear as day. the coaches ripped into you, critiquing your technique, style, even your appearance all in front of the other trainees.

“did you even practice at all?”

“i expected more from you,”

“is this the l/n y/n i’ve been hearing about, or should i be looking for someone else?”

“fixing your face is easy, but when everything needs work? do you think you’ll ever debut like this?”

“you’re a disappointment to this company,”

every word felt like a jab to your stomach, but if you had anything it was a high pain tolerance. you did your best to disguise your hurt, and most of the people in the room didn’t notice. you bowed and apologized after the cutting remarks ended, and walked back to your favorite spot on the wall. you blinked rapidly, refusing to tear up, or at least not in public. you knew how to regulate, deep breaths and muscle control, and everyone brushed it off as you relaxing from your performance. 

that is, everyone except haechan.

as much as he hated to admit it, haechan knew you. when you were happy he knew wrinkles on your nose, when you were angry he knew the flush on your cheeks. when you were triumphant he knew the look in your eyes and when you were hurt? he knew that one best of all. haechan wouldn’t call himself a sadist, but he’d be lying if he never got a sort of sick satisfaction every time he got under your skin. that’s what enemies are for, right? but this, this was different. at first he watched with a cocky grin, excited to have something to rib you about later, but when the comments kept coming it started being a lot less funny. when your face began to harden his face fell because he knew how much you were hurting. and even worse, he wanted to make it go away. every word hit him as they did you, and that’s when he realized.

holy shit. i caught feelings.

of course haechan’s performance went off without a hitch, which was somehow worse to him than doing as poorly as you did. he barely registered the comments he received and he had to pin his eyes to the wall in order to keep them from darting over to you. he pushed through the motions until his time in the spotlight was over, and when he returned to his spot in line he too was tense, struggling not to let his concern show. while you and haechan were both passionate people, one of you was far better at hiding it. it clearly wasn’t lee donghyuck. 

you were out the door almost immediately after you were dismissed, and haechan almost went after you. but before he even had the chance to move he remembered the last thing he said to you, the way he made it clear how much he hated you, and he froze. everything in him wanted to chase you down, ask if you were okay, say he was an idiot and he was sorry for every time he tried to make your life hell because he never knew how much you mattered until you meant everything to him. but he couldn’t. he told himself there were a million reasons but in reality there was only one: he was scared, terrified of upsetting whatever the two of you had. so he spent the rest of his day avoiding you. it wasn’t hugely noticeable but to him it was glaringly obvious. were you that ingrained in his life? or was it that you were just always on his mind? apparently jaemin was right. you can’t hate someone without loving them, at least a little bit.

haechan wasn’t usually an early riser, but for some reason (read: you), he couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. so at four a.m. he found himself wandering the halls of sm entertainment. he'd figured the building would be empty, and for the most part he was right; only one room was taken. his growing curiosity led him to the door, but the sight before him replaced it with dread. it was you. and you looked bad.

the irony wasn't lost on him as he opened the door, and the memory of his night in the studio only filled him with concern. he didn't want to break you the way you broke him, but at this point he couldn't even be sure if you already had. you were dancing, or at least trying to, running your monthly performance over and over again. you would stumble practically every other move and you looked absolutely exhausted. you'd stop for a moment, leaning against a wall with your eyes closed and chest heaving, then force yourself up and start all over again. it was a sickening cycle of abuse, and it didn’t look like you’d stop it if you could.

he didn’t mean to startle you. you were so out of it you didn’t even notice haechan until he was looking you in the eye. you tried to turn away from him but your balance betrayed you, landing you on the floor. a rough growl of frustration what all you could muster as you tried to get donghyuck away from you. it wasn’t clear whether he didn’t hear you, or chose not to listen.

haechan slowly suck to your level, crouched on his knees. “y/n, y/n are you alright? can you hear me?” he asked quietly.

“of course i can hear you,” you slurred, “now leave me alone.”

“i can’t do that,” he replied, “you can’t even stand by yourself. you need to rest.”

you scoffed, but even that seemed weak. “why should i listen to you? you’re tricking me, hyuck. you want me to fail.”

it hurt because you were right. up until today, that was something haechan would have thought. he would have pounced at the chance to set you up for failure. how could he prove to you that he didn’t feel that way anymore? “please y/n. you’re not thinking straight-”

“stop!” you cried, voice trembling. “i-i need to keep working. i’m not good enough. not yet,” your breathing sped up, your body seized with each gasp. “they-they said i wasn’t good enough-i have to be good enough,”

haechan knew that feeling. he’d felt it a million times. the one that sat in the pit of your stomach, the one that chanted over and over again every harsh word said against you. after all,  you were the one who’d given it to him that night. he could have laughed at the irony if he wasn’t so close to tears. hyuck clutched your shoulders, voice shaking with urgency as he said “y/n, i need you to listen to me. you’re not okay. we need to leave. we can come back after you’ve slept,” (he had no such intentions.) “okay? just come with me for now. can you do that for me?” he attempted to pull you to your feet. key word: attempted.

you writhed your way out of his arms, landing violently and curling into yourself on impact. “no!” you shouted. you began rocking back and forth on the ground, muttering to yourself over and over again, “i have to be good enough, i have to be good enough, i have to be good enough,” your chest heaved with broken sobs, a sound almost as heart wrenching as the sight. if haechan’s heart was already broken, the damage was irreparable now. hyuck dropped to his knees in front of you, tears welling up in his own eyes and threatening to spill. you were beyond reason. panicking, he did the only thing he could think to do. he held you.

he pulled your shaking form towards him, flinching at the cold of your skin. rocking with you he clutched you tighter, as if by surrounding your body with his he could shield you from all the horrors in the world. he took deep breaths and tried to steady you, a slow process that only proved effective after several minutes. you felt him gather you into his arms, felt every one of his inhales and exhales, and though you weren’t in a place to speak- to think clearly, really- a thought pushed past the fog in your mind and out through your lips.

“i thought you wanted to go back to the way it was,” you whispered.

“i did,” he whispered back.

and neither of you knew what to say.

if you thought things changed after hyuck’s episode, you had no idea what was coming after yours. it started with conversations, cautious approaches on haechan’s part to get you to crack a smile. then it was surprises. he’d come up to you with food you liked or something that “just reminded him of you.” he started sitting with you during meals, ditching his usual friends for your company instead. he said hi in the hallway, he popped in when he knew you were practicing, he told jokes and played nice and did all the kinds of things that friends do. and as odd as that was, it wasn’t the oddest of it all. the weirdest thing was that you didn’t stop him.

you wanted to, God did you want to, but for some reason you just never told him. part of you appreciated it, craved it really, it wasn’t often you got this much attention. a smaller part of you wanted it more because it was donghyuck who gave it to you, because even when you fought with him you always had something. an even smaller part tried to hide what you really felt, and the smallest part said maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want hyuck to be your enemy anymore. but all of that was drowned out by the discomfort that consumed you every time he got close to you. it wasn’t the actions, though that did feel...odd, it was more like...it was more like you didn’t know what it meant. well, you did, but you weren’t ready for that yet. this isn’t how you two were. it was different. you didn’t like different.

and on top of that there was the attention. haechan figured it was bound to happen. the two of you clearly had a dynamic relationship and among trainees you both were some of the best; there’s no wonder word had gotten around. hyuck continued to deny his feelings for you but by now his friends had figured out at least part of the story, and they teased him almost constantly for it. no one asked you about it, the main reason being that they’re kinda sorta maybe definitely terrified of you, and that was probably the only reason you made it as long as you did. but still, you didn’t try to stop him. or at least you never planned to.

you were eating lunch one day, almost relaxed in the solace you so much cherished; in between classes and practices you hardly had time to think anymore. per usual you refused to think of one thing, (we all know what it is at this point) which would have been fine if that thing wasn't heading this way. you didn't look at haechan coming even though you knew he was; you were tired and glowingly stressed by his actions. plus, you figured, it wasn't like you could stop him. he made his way over and hopped on top of your table, grinning. hyuck ruffled your hair, chuckled and asked, "you miss me?" you ducked downwards, not really up to dealing with haechan's antics, and tried to continue to eat. he huffed (and pouted if you had to guess,) as he continued the conversation with himself, saying, "I guess not," he slipped off the table and sat next to you, still painfully cheerful, and continued to talk to himself, filling your once comfortable silence with somewhat unnerving chatter. you zoned out and apparently your discomfort became more and more obvious because it wasn't long before donghyuck asked you, "hey y/n, are you listening?"

you didn't know why you were getting so upset, and you didn't like it either. you weren't sure if you could do this anymore. you shook your head, trying to stay calm, and haechan leaned towards you, clearly concerned. "are you okay?"

"why are you doing this?" you asked him, your voice shaking just a little bit. you hadn't looked up yet, but your food also seemed last appetizing by the second.

"what do you mean?" he replied, oblivious.

"why are you doing this?" you repeat, gesturing between you two. "is this some kind of joke? or a dare?" internally you begged for his answer to be yes. at least then you wouldn't have to deal with what you knew it was.

hyuck's face scrunched up in confusion, before sinking into realization. "what? no! am i not allowed to care about you?"

you raised your head, finally making eye contact. frustration bubbled up inside you. why did he have to make this so difficult? "no, haechan, you're not."

"y/n, are you alright?" his voice was infuriatingly kind. it almost made you feel bad, well actually it did, but you were too upset for that to stop you.

"why does it matter?" your anger mounted with every word. “we’re not friends. we don’t get along, we never have.” you were getting tense. this was escalating. haechan was getting nervous.

“i know, and i’m sorry, but i’m trying to change that-” haechan’s voice was rising, even though he didn’t mean it to. you could hear- feel even- the sincerity in his voice.

your voice was rising too. you knew people would hear you. you could sense the whispers about to come. you couldn’t stop now. “why, haechan? so you can feel better about yourself? you think this can erase everything else?” you were angry, so angry, so desperate for  his pain. but this wasn’t like before. this wasn’t petty. this was terrifying. and maybe if you were scary enough, mean enough, strong enough, you could make it go away.

he tried to get a word out, but you wouldn’t let him. you were yelling now, saying, “this doesn’t work! whatever this is, whatever we wish this was, could never happen!”

he backed away, standing up as he tried to reply, “why can’t we? y/n, i lik-”

“we can’t do this!” you shouted, “look around, donghyuck! don’t you see where we are? who we are? we’re trainees, and even if we weren’t this wouldn’t work!”

“y/n, listen to me! you know how i feel about you!” haechan yelled, finally cutting you off and catching you off guard. his tone lowered, and you could see the emotion welling up inside him. “and i’d like to think that you care about me at least half as much as i care about you.”

you couldn’t say he was wrong.

“i get that it’s scary, i get that it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but i want this. i want you. isn’t it worth trying? even if it hurts?” there were tears in his eyes. there were tears in yours.

you were quiet now, barely above a whisper. “we can’t do this haechan. i can’t do this.”

and neither of you knew what to say.

so now you and haechan don’t talk. you don’t make eye contact in the hallways, you don’t stand next to each other during evaluations. you don’t take each other’s favorite food or click your tongues or make cruel jokes. you don’t even think about each other. or at least you try not to.

people don’t talk about you either. they used to; right after it happened everyone had something to say. they all had questions, comments, concerns, but they also had the decency not to ask while both of you had tears streaming down your face. you never explained what happened. haechan never did either, not even to his friends, the ones he eventually debuted with. 

secrecy was one of your many shared qualities.

but it's not like you died or anything. you went on with life, went on with the trainee grind until you left, switching companies to make your debut in a smaller company years after you’ve seen donghyuck’s face plastered on every tv screen.

and part of you wondered, what if you’d tried? what if you waited, what if you didn’t fight him that day and let things go until haechan either got over you or confessed to you himself? would you still be together? would it have worked? would it have hurt as much as that last fight? would you have gone back to the way it used to be? you tried not to ask those questions, after all you made the right choice. you got your dream. to get that and have haechan? that would be too much.

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Capt. Syverson-Chapter Two: Therapeutic Procedure

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: Shane and Sy share some moments during their treatment sessions…and a phone call that could set the tone for the next few weeks.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: None, yet… ;)

Author’s Note: Sorry, I was so eager and excited to post the first chapter of this last night, I totally put some inaccurate info in my description notes. I will correct that in the original post and  try to do better henceforth! Hope you enjoy Sy and Shane totally flirting some more and getting more friendly in this chapter. Feedback is appreciated! Even constructive criticism! :D

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism. 

Tags: @onlyhenrys @cavillryarchive @summersong69 @titty-teetee

Let me know if you wish to be added to the list! I’m happy to do it!

Shane woke up that morning with knots in her stomach. She dropped every product she picked up in the shower, she was shaking so much. She accidentally ordered the wrong coffee on her way to work and was now drinking something much less caffeinated and far too sweet for her taste. The barista had informed her it was a grande caramel macchiato with an extra pump of vanilla and extra caramel drizzle…with only two shots of espresso…she couldn't begin to describe how wrong that drink was for her. But it was better than nothing, she told herself, not fully convincingly.

She had chosen her clothes with extra care, even though, with the dress code, her options were limited. And she had made sure to put on a bit of mascara and just a touch of perfume, even though they weren't strictly supposed to wear it…she didn't know why she was bothering.

Well, actually, she did know why. She had been checking her schedule extra diligently lately to make sure she didn't look like a hobo when Sy was coming in. He'd been coming for three weeks now, and after the initial bellyaching about Jordan not being as pretty as her…her heart!...and his feeling extra sore after his visits with him, they were on a roll and had a great chemistry together as far as their treatments went…she tried not to think about…beyond the world of therapy.

She thought back to their first session after she got back from her trip. And the conversation they had.

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

"I think the next time you can't see me, I'm just going to cancel." he had sulked as he wiggled his mass of muscle onto the mat.

"Sy, no. you need therapy. Don't be like that to Jordan. He's an excellent therapist."

"He ain't you though." he smirked, sending her heart racing with that smile that somehow managed to look both boyish and rakish under his full, dark beard. Fucking hell. He needed to stop.

"Well, we can't fault him for that, can we? Lay back, Mister." She demanded. Done with the niceties of the evaluation and onto the treatments where she was in charge. The boss.

"Yes, sir!" she laughed at his clear avoidance of calling her ma'am.

"So where'd you go last week? Vacation or stay-cation?" he asked, the term "stay-cation" sounding downright comical coming out of his country-boy mouth.

"I went to the beach. Gulf Shores."

"I thought you looked like you got some sun."

"Yeah," she pretended his noticing the detail of her awesome tan did not send her reeling. "My folks rented a condo right on the water for my siblings and I to come and stay with them. They're still there. It was tough to leave all that beauty." the beach, pretty much any beach, was her favorite place to be.

"I bet…" he looked at her, something dreamy in his eyes, but he looked away before she could process it. "I thought I had my fill of sand and sun when I was over in Iraq. But you make it sound…like paradise." he smiled softly up at her as she worked on his knee, trying to break apart some of the scar tissue from the injuries and surgeries he'd had…and focus on that, and not the warmth rising in her.

"That's the perfect way to describe any place on the Gulf of Mexico. I doubt it's anything like Iraq, since there's so much water around. It's my favorite vacation destination. Well, apart from London."

"Them British folks always seem so stuck up. Don't know if I'd get along with any of 'em."

"It felt like a second home for me. Everyone was very kind and polite, for the most part. At least it was no worse than it is here."

"Maybe it's just because you're so nice."

"Wait 'til about week eight or ten of your protocol. You won't think I'm nice then. You'll be cussing me out and ready to ring my neck."

"Promise?" he asked, a dark grin on his lips and in his eyes…she faltered for a moment, gulping.

"Cut it out, Syverson." she rolled her eyes, covering…without great effect the way he made her feel.

"Yes...ma'am." he smirked with satisfaction.

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

And now, today, she'd be treating him again, fairly early in the day, and she had to prepare herself. She'd checked the policy, and although there wasn't anything strictly against dating a patient, it was clearly a conflict of interest, and would be frowned upon by her frigid tyrant of a boss. Best to let things remain platonic for now.

Her 9:30 was a no show, so she finished up some notes and was working on some continuing education credits when messenger popped up around 10:00.

Sergeant Sexypants is here. He's quite early and he knows it…*smirk emoji* he must like you, Shane!

Heather, come on, be respectful…he was discharged at the rank of Captain! *rofl emoji* and I think you might be right about him liking me…*nervous emoji*

Oooooooooh!!! You guys are gonna *couple kissing emoji* *eggplant emoji* *okay emoji* *explosion emoji* *baby emoji*

Omg…*three facepalm emojis* I am going to go ahead and start him early since my 9:30 was a NCNS.

Don't finish him too early. Make it last. *smirk emoji*

Jeez. She closed the chat and went to grab him from the waiting area.

"Hey Sy, you ready?"

"You bet, sunshine!" he flashed her a crooked smile. He was calling her sunshine now…ad that to the list of things she'd have to pretend didn't make her swoon.

"Great. Let's start on the bike. How's the knee feeling today?"

"Oh, it's…about the same. Stiff. Lil' sore."

"Well, it's a slow process, like I told you at your eval. You've got a lot going on in there."

"I know…just…it hasn't taken me four weeks to do anything in my life." he sulked. "So…thinking about this taking…twelve or more…" he grimaced as he sat down on the bike, and adjusted it for his longer than average legs, putting his feet in the pedal stirrups.

"You may not see it, Sy, because you're so close to it, but trust me, you're making progress. I can tell you're doing your exercises at home, and you're always willing to put in the work here. You have no idea how much that sets you apart from…some of these other people." she leaned in closer and spoke the last part more quietly to him. It was true. So many of her patients were either lazy or just in it to appease their MDs into writing them scripts for pain meds. That wasn't Sy.

"You really think so?" he gave her the side eye with his baby blues, crushing her with the color like the waves of the ocean she'd just returned from.

"In fact, I know so." she placed a reassuring hand on his broad and thick shoulder. She felt the tension between them hum, like electric current.

"Now, level one, and a steady pace. You're not trying to win any medals here. I'll take those crutches."

"When ya think I can 86 'em damn things?" he griped as he handed over the assistive devices.

"Well, you see Potter again tomorrow? I'll write an update today and send it to him. If he likes what he reads, or more likely pretends to read, regarding your progress, he may discharge them. Do you feel like you can be good to the knee and treat it nice without using crutches? I don't want you to regress and re-injure yourself. That's not gonna get you into your running shoes any sooner."

"I'll be nice. Real gentle." he winked at her…he wasn't just talking about the knee. And she knew it. But again, she pretended she didn't, ignoring once more those butterflies threatening to choke her they were multiplying so fast in her belly.

"Okay, I'll put that in my note. Patient compliant with instructions to be nice." she laughed.

They talked as they biked, Shane sat on the one next to him and pedaled along with him for something to do other than be idle. She thought it made him feel better as well. Like he wasn't doing it alone. They covered the subject of her siblings, an older brother in IT and a younger sister who was an MA, and his German Shepherd, Aika, which he was allowed to bring home from Iraq after they were both honorably discharged. Music, both of them completely in agreeance about the superiority of classic rock.

"I noticed you've worn a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt a few times and meant to say something before now."

"Yeah, they're one of my favorites. But there are a few newer groups that I like a lot, too. Kings of Leon got me through some tough times, honestly."

"Oh, they're great! I love their sound. And their lyrics…poetry."

"No shit. Sorry." she shook her head and raised up her hands to indicate that he didn't need to apologize to her for swearing. She'd been known to make sailors blush when she was off the clock. "Only by the Night…that whole album is…it's just in my blood, ya know? Ya ever have an album do that?"

"I have. Whole artists catalogs, actually."

"Which artist?" he prodded.

"The Beatles. Pretty much every song. Like you said, it just, like, I dunno, it's almost deeper than the veins. It's in the marrow. My soul." she stared off out the windows ahead of them, thinking about her favorite band in the world and how magical it was to experience Sir Paul McCartney playing some of her favorites live…twice…and the timer on the bike went off, pulling her from her daydream.

She looked over at him, startled by both the noise, and the dreamy look in his eyes that was becoming all too familiar.

"Sorry." she stood, grabbing his crutches for him and handing them back to him from where she had leaned them as they rode.

"Hey, don't be sorry for…ahem…for loving what you love. We should all…hold on to the things that make us feel like that." she nodded.

"Thanks…I don't think a lot of people…understand the way I…my tendency to take things like music, movies, and shows…books…so deeply to my heart." they walked to the treatment room from the gym, taking their time, since they had it. A rare occurrence for Shane, always needing to capitalize on every spare minute. To make productivity a priority.

"I think…that…well, seeing a pretty grim side of the world like I have…seems like there's enough darkness and bullshit making everyone miserable. If we find something…or…someone…that brings us some happiness or even just makes that misery bearable…we oughta hang onto 'em real tight. Cherish it like gold." the silence in the small room was loud with that electrical hum of their tension again. He'd said all the right things, as he always seemed to, but under the absolute wrong circumstances. She just nodded.

"They teach you philosophy in Basic?" she giggled. He laughed back in response.

"Oh, no, Basic was way easier than…whatever goes on inside of us."

"Speaking of which," she segued deftly, "lay back, and let my try to get some range out of that knee before I take new measurements for this update I'm gonna write."

"Yes, ma'am!" he chuckled.

"You get some sick thrill out of calling me that, don't you?" she scowled playfully at him.

"Oh, you have no idea…ma'am." he winked at her.

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

The next day, Shane was wondering how Sy's appointment went as she ate her soup at lunch and caught up on her morning notes. She got a ping on messenger.

You have a gentleman caller…*eggplant emoji*  hehe, he's on line three.

Geez…thanks Heather.

No need to ask for a name. She knew Heather meant Sy.

She picked up the phone at her desk in the treatment room.

"Hey Sy! How'd the appointment go?"

"Hey, sunshine…eh…he said I'm doin' good, but he wants me to stay on crutches another two weeks." she could hear grave disappointment in his voice. She felt for him.

"Aww, I'm sorry Sy. I know you wanted off those. And I know they're a pain. Literally and figuratively."

"Why wouldn't he want me off 'em?" he was so frustrated. He must have just left the office.

"Did you ask him that question?"

"You know doctors, Shane. Not like I would have got an answer in plain English. Figured you'd know."

"Well, I haven't seen your post-visit report, but it's my presumption that he wants to play it safe. You know he spent most of his day in the operating room with you, right? An eight hour surgery, you had. He probably doesn't want to undo all that by d/c'ing the crutches too soon."

"I was gonna be careful though, Shane!" he was worked up properly, and she could hear it over the roar of his pickup in the background.

"I know you were, Sy. I'm sure you were going to take all kinds of precautions. But what if you're walking into your kitchen, during a storm, and there's a loud clap of thunder, and Aika gets startled and busts past you? What if you're feeling good one day, and forget about it, and jog to catch up to someone holding the door open for you and miss a stick or something under foot? You can't prepare yourself for every pebble or patch of mud in your path, Sy. Accidents will happen. Some circumstances are beyond our control…we just have to do the best we can. The crutches are going to help you until we get you stronger. That's what we'll focus on until those two weeks are up."

"Why is it you can calm me down like this?" he asked, sincere and truly calmer than he had been.

"I'm just a good therapist, is all."

"Ya don't think that's really all, do ya?" the sound of his deep drawl in her ear from the receiver made her shiver. He was implying something that she just couldn't entertain. It wasn't possible for them right now. Maybe…down the road…in a few weeks…

"I'll see ya tomorrow, Sy. Come ready to work that knee."

"You didn't say no…" he was too hopeful. Damn it, he was cute when he was hopeful. She was glad she couldn't see his face light up like she knew it was doing.

"You may have noted I didn't say yes, either."

"Yet. See ya in the mornin', sunshine."

"Bye, Sy."

She put the receiver in the cradle and her face in her hands.

"Shit."

She had a feeling this particular patient was about to become much more complicated.

Up Next: Chapter Three-Therapeutic Activity

[funfickgirl22]

I can’t let you go.

Author:  Funfickgirl22

Characters: Chris Evans x Reader.

Summary: After three months on DJ set, you and Chris realized you can not live apart.

Warnings:  physical abuse.

Re-blogs are fine. I am not giving any permission to publish my work on different platforms.

It took 8 h flight and 50 horrendous minutes to get into your Airbnb apartment. This morning you supposed to go and work on the new project, tv show called Defending Jacob. You were nervous and excited because for the first time you were responsible for the makeup of the main cast.

Your friend Margaret, women in her 50s, who was a mother figure to you, arrived 30 minutes earlier to give you a lift to the set.  She would be working on that project too but as a hairstylist.

Margaret was over the moon, when you told her, that you decided to leave your dump boyfriend and focus on your career. Your ex didn't like the idea that you wanted to pursue your dreams. He wanted you to become a submissive housewife. Nothing is wrong with that, but you are an independent woman for so long and you knew it wouldn't work out. Recently your ex had anger management issues so you decided to leave him, for your safety.

The DJ's set was small, located in a very quiet and adorable neighborhood of Boston. Everyone from the film crew was very polite and welcoming. You stood in front of the trailer where you would do your work for the next three months, with a plate with your name on.  You stood there full of gratitude and happiness. You even share a happy tear. A manly, deep voice brought you back from your daydream.

-Please, don't need to cry, I know we haven't started yet, I promise, is going to be worth it. You turn your back and there he was: tall, handsome looking guy, with sky blue eyes and smirk on his face.

-Sorry, I was having a moment here, I am completely fine. I am Y/N.

-Nice to meet you Y/N, I am Chris. – He took and shake your hand. Suddenly, you felt like electricity went through your body leaving goosebumps on your spine. Evans seems to have the same reaction looking surprisingly at you and then giving you a huge smile.

-I have heard about you, so many things… your make-up, organic products, such big fun! Chris muttered, could not put a sentence together. He was thunderstruck by you.

-Oh, that's nothing… – you wanted to say something more but you felt you were blushing.

-I need to go but I am also a producer here, so if you need anything, let me know we will sort something out.

Chris send you a wink and walked away. Chris Evans? Why Margaret has not told you that before. She knew you had a massive crush on him.

The next few weeks were very productive, you worked nearly 10 h per day, got closer to everyone in the crew, and even got an invitation letter for an interview for an upcoming Apple project. Everything seems to be working until you started receiving text messages from your ex. In the beginning, you were glad that he is trying to get back to you but after few days of feeling under weather, the dark thought came back to you and you were convinced you won't find anyone better. You told Margaret on giving your ex a second chance, but she wasn't happy at all.

Chris was looking for every single excuse to see you and to talk to you. He talked about scripts and his future projects. The conversation has always lasted for a few hours. Unfortunately, one day Chris has heard the conversation you had Margaret about your ex and he back himself off. You have tried to talk to him, but he was always saying he is busy and you needed to respect that.

The time has come, and it was officially a wrap day. Everyone was excited for the upcoming good bye party, except you and Chris. It meant both of you needed to see each other for the last time.

The party was located in a small bed and breakfast, in the woods, far away from the city.

No one was aware that you invited your ex with you. Chris has seen you in your distance and got very angry at your ex guy for being here, after hearing stories from Margaret how abusive he was towards you. Chris knew it was a time to do something about it, to fight for you. He had nothing to lose. Chris was walking towards you seeing your ex, twisting your wrist, and seeing you in pain. Margaret has tried to help you, but the guy was stranger than both of you. Evans didn't hesitate, just punched the guy in the face and asked someone to the caps. You just stood there, frozen to the ground, looking at the situation with no emotions. You had a feeling you need to escape far away from everyone.

Margaret and Chris tried to call you so many times, but you keep ignoring them. You felt ashamed but you knew you really shouldn't. You let them know you were safe and to leave you alone for now.

After a week of constant doubts, and sleepless nights, Chris decided to visit your apartment and express his feelings. He cannot let you go.  

A sudden knock wakes you up from your afternoon nap. You got scared it was your ex again, but you have heard Chris's voice and you weren't scared anymore.

You have opened the doors and Chris grab you and hold you tight for a few minutes trying to reassure himself you were there, well and save. You couldn't let him go. He was your dream guy, your best friend. You stay there tangled for a while. After you confess the love to each other, and made sweet, sweet love.

[tothedarkdarkseas]

Ink, diary, backstory, carnegie, dickinson, and parchment for the ask meme. Love you too

Ink and Diary - see previous ask!

backstory: how did you come to love writing?

(*Thinks* Do I love writing...?) You know, this probably reflects quite poorly on me, but I'm not sure what the best answer here is. I wrote bits of fanfiction here and there when I was younger, and I also drew fanart-- until I realized I wasn't very good at either of those things. I hadn't written anything in at least 7 years when I started writing Gorillaz, mostly off the back of my inspiration from reading Yearz and obsessing over a scummier, more realistic universe for these characters. The truth is that it wasn't quite a childhood dream or lifelong passion, it was something I stopped when I became too embarrassed by my lack of skill, and picked up again simply because I felt compelled to do it-- and indeed, like any creative pursuit, you do get better the more you do it. I would absolutely say I've rediscovered a passion for writing and I do like to entertain certain ambitions of writing a collection of short stories, but I'm also not hard-nosed in dedication to that goal. I have always loved stories, but that wasn't strictly in regard to written stories, often it was more of a love for movies and music which inspired little imagined scenarios; I wasn't always a voracious reader nor did I frequently write anything to fruition, which seems like it disqualifies me from being an authority on those things.

carnegie: what authors and/or books/stories have inspired you to write or influenced your work?

As mentioned previously, I really wasn't a voracious reader. In fact, this was and is a source of some humiliation-- having not read the classics or other things that people know and respect can make you feel like the dimmest person in the room. The awkwardness of these conversations is honestly something that motivated me to read a bit more recently, but even that was more focused on poetry and essay collections. My go-to answer is generally Joey Comeau, probably most evident in his queer-punk stories Lockpick Pornography and We All Got It Coming, but also his more gentle lingering on grief Malagash and the offbeat and sporadically poignant collection Overqualified. (I really loved Overqualified at the time it came out, so it has a special place in my heart.) I've recently read two poetry collections which gave me a little boost to begin working: Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar and A Fortune for Your Disaster by Hanif Abdurraqib. And I'd be remiss not to mention-- Yearz. Like, it surely embarrasses Danni for me to say that but it is the simple truth.

dickinson: what insecurities do you have about your own writing? what do you think you should improve on?

Sheesh, where to start? All of it, quite plainly, I don't think there is any element which could not be improved on. I always felt that I struggled with dialogue and making it sound natural, but if I were naming the damning culprit I would say my writing is more bogged down by the overwriting and underediting. I remember being younger and feeling a bit defensive of "purple prose" because subconsciously I knew I was very prone to it. To be frank, when I write a story more quickly and don't embellish much in the detail I always feel it is too sparse and not distinct, I fear it isn't saying anything that makes it unique to me-- but those stories seem to be the ones that have "performed" the best based on recent stats, which confirms that I definitely overthink this, haha. The problem as I see it is that these, er, lofty sentences are good on their own ("good" is subjective, some have definitely been Bad, but let's pretend we're just seeing the "good" examples) but when stacked together with hundreds, thousands of "lofty" sentences with similar structure, similar length and similar "impact," it can start to make the reading process tedious. I don't want to tire readers out or make them cringe at how hard I'm overcompensating for my lack of education or formal skill, and I do fear it comes across as exactly that when I write the way my brain tells me to. When I say underediting, I don't mean that I don't edit-- I edit to the brink of madness, I rewrite constantly, but I don't often have the heart to cut something out. I really don't edit things to make them more brief; I do think it's arguable to what extent brevity is good for a story, but... it's more important than my writing reflects, haha. There is some impact lost when you are too precious about unnecessary sentences, and I am unfortunately too precious about it. I don't think I'm particularly good at plotting either, as my fanfic writing has relied more on character studies than progressing actions and events, and I fear in longer form (ie: this current WIP) it will come across to the reader as meandering, aimless, and quite frankly boring. To be kinder, I know these are subjective things. I don't think all of my stories are bad, but I don't think all of them are good. I don't think any are great, and I don't think I'm at a skill level where I feel comfortable resting on my laurels or taking a swing at self-publishing. Writing is still challenging to me, and I suppose it's up to personal perception whether it is good to be challenged because it shows you're putting in effort, or whether it's a sign you don't have a natural talent for something, heh.

parchment: how often do you or your personal life influence your writing?

Fairly often, but it's generally in small, inconsequential ways. I don't try to put myself in the characters in any sort of comfort/projection way, but I also think it's unrealistic to expect nothing of yourself ends up in your writing, even if it's in the form of something opposing the character. A line of dialogue might be revised from real life, or a thought that a character has might be based on something I've thought before. Two examples come to mind-- in November Hasn't Come, the musing about Stu framing childing posters or torn up flyers to look artistic because you become self-conscious at a certain age about taping things on your wall is pulled right from my own life and my dozens of frames. I still have a hang-up about framing things I deem embarrassing without the frame. The other is a line in the WIP which may or may not end up in the final product, but I had certainly intended to use it from the very start-- a character quips to Stu about his casual pill usage that "They're not dinner mints," which is straight from a real story involving a loved one and painkiller abuse. I loved this quote because it's got that touch of grim humor about it that really suits my type of fiction, but it is in fact real. (Now that I've said it I'll try my best to keep that interaction in the final product.)

[hillbillyoracle]

My Complicated Feelings on Waking Witcblr

I've been posting less on Tumblr as I try to figure out what direction I want to take my work. It became pretty clear to me at the end of last year that I wasn't putting out as much work that I was proud of and didn't really know where to go next. It seems like a lot of folks were going through a similar reevaluation as I saw less and less of blogs I really loved.

I've been seeing more Waking Wichblr content rolling across my dash and I've been having some really conflicted feelings on it. On the one hand, I understand the impulse and I love that folks are organizing around it. On the other, I think it fails to grapple with some deep issues the community has and a fallow period could be really fruitful. Let me explain.

Witchblr Hinges on Consumption, Not Conversation

As it currently stands, much of Witchblr hinges on consumption. People reblog things like they're collecting things. I feel like a lot of my pieces wind up being put on a shelf and not much happens with them. There's often not a lot of interaction when I post.

The conversations around pieces tend to happen on other platforms like Discord and y'all I cannot stand most Witchblr discords so I'm not privy to those conversations. I've noticed a marked drop in comments on my work over the last year. One of the reasons I started posting my work on Tumblr was to get feedback and as that's dropped off, I've turned my attention to longer form works. And the strange things is, I kind of get the same level of interaction. It's incentivized me to put more of my energy into creating workbooks, zines, and a support group.

I'm not mad about that at all. I feel very neutral about it. But it is a factor. If the conversation is going to take place away from where authors can benefit from hearing about it, the platform becomes less engaging and less valuable to those producing content.

Witchblr Often Wants to Consume With Paying

After watching several communities connected to Tumblr collapse because leadership got worn thin or didn't have enough money to keep it going on their own, I'm pretty jaded about how much a lot of folks actually want to keep the communities going.

Folks who genuinely don't have money - I'm not talking to you. You're great, you're doing what you can, you can skip this. But I am talking to folks who will drop $50-$100 on "witchcraft supplies" per month but balk at spending $5 to keep a server going on Mastadon or support a writer they love on Patreon.

It says a lot about what those folks value. Content, education, resources - those are expected to be free. Which means those of us who are trying to do it have to take time away from creating content to productize our work in hopes of making any money from it at all.

If there's one thing I wish Witchblr would take from Christianity, it's the concept of the tithe. Of setting aside a percentage of income each month to support the community. It doesn't have to be 10%, it can be 1% for all I care, but just that sense that its our duty as members of a spiritual community to monetarily support those who are following their calling of teaching.

Witchblr Needs to Stop Consuming and Start Documenting to Survive

I'm seeing calls to revive Witchblr by encouraging folks to make more posts which I think is an extremely bad idea. I've said this in other places but the big issue Witchblr has is that so many folks are new. And new people are trying to teach new people how to do things neither of them has much experience with. It's made Witchblr an echo chamber of people spouting the same lines with very little sourcing or evaluation. A lot of what gets passed around winds up being not very high quality.

So are new folks just supposed to lurk? Not at all. New folks can serve two super important roles that benefit everyone, experienced and new, can benefit from - documentation and curation.

For folks who are truly just starting out, documentation is hands down the most important and valuable thing you can offer the community. Do not instruct folks to do what you've done. Instead document what you tried, what sources you used, and whether it was successful or not successful and why. There's so much value in being an artful observer at any stage of development.

For folks who are a little more experienced but still new - hands down one of the best things you can do is the painstaking work of curation. People who make master posts of resources that helped them are gods I tell you. Shout people out. Boost the work that's helping you. It's invaluable.

Tumblr's Policies Have Driven Folks Away and They Will Again

I think it's important to remember that the one of the first mass exoduses of Witchblr blogs happened with the anti-sex media policies Tumblr instituted in 2018. Many people migrated onto their own platforms after the announcement was made in solidarity with people who would be put out of business or needlessly flagged because of the policies. Many of those independent blogs unfortunately petered out and I can't find many of those writers anywhere anymore. I'm still mourning that loss and miss them greatly.

For those who have the time and the spoons to do so, what I would love to see is a network that connects independent blogs with Tumblr blogs (if this is already happening, let me know). A roundup style blog that curates posts both on tumblr and off would be amazing. Without something that, we're likely to fall prey to more exits as Tumblr makes changes. There's always the chance that Tumblr could go away entirely! Having hubs that can connect folks with blogs that isn't entirely based on one platform would go a long way to keeping folks engaged in the long term.

If Witchblr Can't Figure These Things Out, A Fallow Period Could Be Great Actually

For folks who've not been through a community fallow period, this may seem like dire straights. I remember when I was seeing some of my favorite communities dwindle in 2010, I felt scared I was going to lose people I cared about and resources I depended on. But what wound up happening is that many of those communities survived. The people who were the most devoted kept coming back and contributing. Or they'd come back when they could and leave when they couldn't.

People need time to process and practice all the information that's been given to them. If Witchblr does wind up winding down (again, because I've been on the platform since 2008, it's done this at least 3 or more times now) it will likely come with the added benefit of more people synthesizing the material they're reading, practicing it, and having genuinely valuable notes of their own to add. I think it could go a long way toward enriching the community.

I think of it a little like compost. Sometimes the community has to break down a little before it can be fertile ground again. It needs an off season. Even in parts of the world where the weather could technically support year round agriculture, there's a deep understanding that the ground needs to rest. So if Witchblr does slow down, don't fret. Keep practicing, keep processing. And then, when you're ready, tell us about it.

Conclusion

These are just some thoughts I've had knocking around and wanted to get out in words. They're a bit messy but I wanted to see if they resonated with anyone else. Communities are cyclical. Low periods are needed and helpful. They tend to kick back in pretty organically if the foundation is laid properly (and even when it's not). I hope folks are well out there!

[risingsouls]

Recruited: Chapter 10

[I did another thing! This one is a lot shorter than the last several have been and a little more filler-y BUT we’re getting close to canon stuff (that I’m trying to figure out how I want to write and format still). SO here we gooooo!]

Vegeta

Any miniscule time he was forced to spend alone with Frieza aggravated the prince. Whether to bear the brunt of some reprimand, to listen to him discuss business to an audience of intergalactic dignitaries at a stupid feast he was dragged to and forced to endure like some pet, or to nod along with him prattling on about himself and insulting Vegeta or his race in a single breath, he preferred it when running an empire distracted Frieza from his existence. This rare occasion of the tyrant requesting his company on a special mission had the same effects: the usual rage of being helpless to end the emperor's life, the discomfort of watching his every step and word, the humiliation of bearing his belittling commentary and pretending to be his proud, obedient attack dog. It was maddening, and the only solace in the trip was that he left Dodoria and Zarbon both been behind to attend to other business.

Nappa, Raditz, and Nabooru had also been ordered to deal with another assignment while Vegeta accompanied Frieza. Disconcerting due to the fact that, in circumstances such as this, his cohorts would be ordered to remain on base until his return, placed on a schedule that included training and any other grunt work the commanders could find for them. However, he supposed Frieza wanted to keep his top teams busy conquering planets for him. Vegeta hadn't missed the increase in work they had been assigned, and even their latest three day reprieve had been cut short. He tried to convince himself it all meant nothing, that, even if Frieza noticed how the four of them trained more often than usual in their free time, his ego would keep him from getting too suspicious. But Vegeta couldn't deny the increase in his own paranoia with each passing day. Each day he stepped closer to exacting revenge and killing the bastard, and he constantly found himself dwelling on every possible scenario that could skew or outright obliterate his plot.

"It's almost a relief to have different company for once," Frieza mused, a wine glass held between his middle and index fingers. He nodded to the bottle, a silent insistence Vegeta top him off. The Saiyan swallowed his grimace and did as he was bade. Zarbon's or Dodoria’s usual task. He noted the shift of his crimson eyes to the still near full glass in his gloved hand, and took the hint to take another measured sip. "Zarbon and Dodoria tend to bore me after a while. And their bickering...if they weren't so loyal and useful, I may have offed them by now out of sheer annoyance."

Vegeta chuckled, practiced amusement and rehearsed reactions. "I can only imagine," he responded. Another glance spurred him to add, "I suffer the same with Raditz and Nappa. Though it's less their bickering than some inane, disgusting topic of conversation I don't care to hear in detail."

"Yes, I suppose that is an unfortunate vice of the lower classes, their obsessions with sating their lust." Frieza swirled the wine in his glass, black lips downturned in disgust. "A product of lower brain function, I suppose. They have little more than lewd absurdity to keep their minds occupied. Something the two of us fortunately don't suffer from."

The prince bowed his head, performing each gesture that appeased Frieza with loathing. He didn't care for his useless compliments. He found it hard to focus on them when all he could imagine was ripping those horns from his head and burying them in his eye sockets. Or shoving the wine glass into his mouth and forcing him to chew it up and swallow the shards to laugh as he watched him spit blood onto the pristine floor.  "Thank you, my lord. Your compliments are the highest honor."

"And they do not come lightly, Vegeta. You are an enigma of your kind. Had your race not perished, you would have made a fine ruler. Far better than your father." Vegeta ignored the twinge of rage his words plucked in favor of focusing on drinking the dry wine. "Yes, my tutelage has done wonders for you. Perhaps if my father had done the same with yours as I have done for you, perhaps he, too, could have evolved from a mere monkey playing court and dressed in regalia to a full-fledged ruler."

To keep his grip loose on the stem of his glass and not shatter it proved challenging in the face of his father's mockery. No matter his mixed feelings of the deceased Saiyan king, he did not take insults of his memory well. Especially from the likes of Frieza. He bit his tongue and once more drank to silence the blazing barrage of insults he wanted to sling in retort. 

"You are too kind, my lord." The words burned like acid on his tongue. "I agree that my growth under your watchful eye has favored me greatly. I thank you."

"Of course. I saw promise in you the moment I set eyes on you. However, there is always room to grow and learn, wouldn't you say?"

His tone, the smirk on his lips, ramped Vegeta's paranoia to near overload. Had Frieza found out about his plotting? Led him and his team straight into a trap of some sort?

He was given little time to consider as Frieza spoke up again. "Earlier you only mentioned your Saiyan comrades. It reminded me that you and I have never fully discussed the fourth I added to your team. How has she fared?"

"Nabooru is a competent warrior, well-versed in her craft and battle strategy. She fits in well, and, outside of being mouthy and questioning my authority once in a while, she's proven her worth." He glanced to the wide window before them, to the passing stars and junk, the endless void of space. "She learns quickly and strives to improve where she can. She was hesitant to carry out orders, but has grown out of it for the most part."

Frieza laughed. "Such a glowing report from the commander who pitched a fit over my decision." Vegeta's lips tightened to a thin line and his brows lowered ever further, only encouraging the emperor's delight. "I can't say I'm surprised she has a belligerent streak. Her former king said the same of her when I asked in one of our visits. Your temper must be improving if her first strike didn't convince you to kill her. I have seen you kill for less, after all, Vegeta."

Vegeta clicked his tongue. "She's simply lucky she figured out not to take her insubordination too far with me. Otherwise, I would have. Her power level and skill be damned."

"A lesson well-learned, it seems. I recall it took you some time to learn the same, but I suppose you had the excuse of being a mere child."

Vegeta merely nodded, the memories of the physical abuses doled out by Frieza's or one of his cohorts' hands when he rebelled and the scars left behind all too fresh despite their age. The mental mutilation of the mind games the tyrant played with him. Each had served their purpose because he vowed and showed respect to the bastard with little beckoning. It made him sick, clawed at his pride and convinced him death would be a more pleasant fate. But he wanted revenge more than anything, so survive he must. No matter the cost. It would be worth it someday.

"Sir, we are approaching our target," the captain announced. "T-minus five minutes."

"Excellent. Remember, there will be no need to land here." 

Vegeta glanced to Frieza when his scouter pinged. He pressed the button on the side. "Ah, what good timing, Nabooru. You have landed on Planet Noya and met with the other team there?"

Frieza cut the transmission and sighed dramatically. "Unfortunate, really." He finished off his wine and set the glass aside. "Shikoo and his team were quite the commodity. But one too many rumors about stoking rebellions and insubordination makes it difficult to keep such bad seeds among the loyal."

He waited for her reply, the smirk on his lips growing ever wider. "Yes, yes, I am aware of the success in purging the planet. The instructions to rendezvous with the soldiers sent to Noya were...purposefully vague. The task for you and the Saiyans is to kill that team. Don't worry your pretty head over why, dear. It's unbecoming of a soldier.. Their punishment has been a long time coming."

Vegeta's throat closed up and his mouth dried out. "The proper decision, it sounds like, sire," he managed, finishing his own glass and abandoning it. "Not to overstep my own boundaries, but I assumed we were purging this planet we're going to."

"We are. In a sense." He hoisted himself into his hover chair and propped his elbow on the edge, cheek resting in his palm. His crimson gaze rested on Vegeta, unblinking. "The denizens are...formidable enough, especially en masse, and intel suggests they wish to rebel against me. I have decided the time and potential casualties aren't worth the effort for what little the planet has to offer in the long run, so destroying it entirely will be a far better use for dealing with them. One and done, as they say."

A rare instance in which Vegeta agreed with Frieza’s methodology. He wished he would pass down such an order more often than he did, frankly. Putting down rebellions wasted time when they typically ended up murdering them all anyway. Any extra precautions and instructions usually forced them to hold back or went up in smoke not long after they landed. While he understood that some planets had more value than others, blowing up the planets and washing their hands of the business would allow them to take on more jobs. Send a team to gather whatever resources from the planet beforehand and then he and his team or one like his could destroy the place and move on. Not to mention he liked the thrill, the power behind destroying an entire world on his own.

A blue green planet slowly drifted into view, decent sized with a large landmass facing the ship in its current position in its rotation. Frieza waved for him to follow him to the center of the ship. "Come along. Vegeta. We will approach close enough that your ki will protect you from the lack of oxygen. I will allow you to do the honors." 

Vegeta took the blare of the signal for the opening of the uppermost hatch as his cue to surround himself in a protective barrier of energy. While he could not survive the void of space this way, it offered protection from suffocation for at least a few minutes. More than enough to obliterate the planet and retreat into the safety of the ship once more. He followed Frieza up and through the hatch, hovering over it and facing the planet.

Though only allowed the chance to destroy entire planets on a few occasions, he made a point to remember what it felt like. The exact amount of energy he needed to build in his palms, how to adjust for the size and density of the planet. Back of one hand pressed to his palm, he shifted his arms back behind his head. Violet energy surged around his hands, his body, the draw and thrill of powering up familiar and welcome. Up and up he allowed his energy to rise until he deemed it the perfect amount to accomplish the task at hand. He shoved his hands outward once more and the stored cache of energy fired from his palms and through space, surging through the planet's atmosphere and striking the surface within seconds. The blast drilled through the landmass toward the core, wide cracks and fiery splotches already spreading from the point of contact.

With another beckoning from Frieza, Vegeta lingered a moment longer to watch the spectacle of magma shooting upward and his blast rending the planet in twain before following him back into the ship. The hatch closed and they returned to the navigation deck.

"Not bad, prince," Frieza drawled, scarlet gaze locked on the demolition out the window. "A bit messy, but unfortunately we don't have time to witness the entire fireworks show." A nod to the captain. "To our next destination."

The captain bowed and turned back to the controls. Before they swiveled around fully, Vegeta caught a glimpse of the planet's final moments: a series of explosions peppering the surface as its stability caved. Within moments, it would be nothing but space dust floating among the stars. A mere memory until it faded from it. Would any of its race survive? Would they hear the news of their home's destruction immediately, or only find empty blackness when they return? Would they, too, be plucked from whatever refuge allowed their survival to serve the Cold Empire? Told that a meteor destroyed their planet and they really had little other choice left as the empire still technically owned them?

His jaw tightened. He couldn't dwell on such things. None of it mattered. It never did. I never would.

[dashielldeveron]

Viper VIII: Inter Vivos

*author slaps bumper sticker across ass that reads I BREAK FOR QUARANTINE* 

Summary: You have a thought that only Steve Urkel and black-out drunks can have: did I do that?

Warnings: swears, the law. Murder/death. Stupid internet comments.

Show (3719) Comments on “There is Nothing New Under the Sun, But You Are New in Your Conglomeration.”

skellingtonbabey: thanks for putting all of the *gestures vaguely* into historical context. no one’s ever bothered to explain this shit to me, especially in such simple and thorough language. it’s like every other resource i try to learn from is stylistically designed to make me more confused.

readyplayer69: Just because it’s from the 60s and is racist doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have intrinsic value based on the goal towards which it was working. You’re a fucking lunatic. I have a degree in political science, so I know what the fuck I’m about. Though some of the protests may have excluded the minorities you’re talking about, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t ultimately working towards good fucking policies for everyone involved. It’s not like they were doing anything important then anyway; white people had to be the mouthpiece for…Read More

volcanolesbian: bro have u seen the incels freaking out over this???? it got linked in their cursed forum and they SO BADLY wanted u 2 hate women now. like you can regress from being a feminist once you’ve woken up. they’re giving u shit bc you called out the racist terrorists who were active in their community lmao. i can post screenshots if u want. But bruv it’s like they haven’t read anything you’ve written before lol

mozARTsexandviolins: I get when you say that ingenuity spawns ideals for the greater good, but don’t you think tradition has its place? How do we know if the new can spawn the greater good? How do we judge ourselves? Who watches the watchers?

simpleplan2eatthedirt: cool cool nice nice.  protesting is awesome, but be sure to get out there to fucking VOTE, people!!! Here’s a link to register to vote.

EaterJohn: Hello. It is nice to hear from you again, Epiales. Always a treat. Very insightful commentary on modern and past protests. I didn’t know about all of the revolutions in Europe 1848. I’ve send this to my co, and it’s already sparked a good conversation about who we are as a protesting people as we stand in history. Again, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering when the next article in your “Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times” series was going to be released? It’s my…Read More

horneyvulcanbasterd: @mozARTsexandviolins Is that a Star Trek reference? Bc if so the answer’s Starfleet Command lol

MrsKatsukiBakagou: epiales. you have watered my crops and harvested my fields. thank you for the food.

mightiestavengereatmyass: eat shit and die, commie scum. your just a hired propagandaist for the fucking alt-left, aren’t you? You have no right to be running your collum in a real newspaper or on this fucking website. sending u anthrax in the mail would be too cool a death for you. I hope your so-called terrorist groupsfind out where you live and fucking murder you in the middle of the night. fukcs like you are the reason the country is going to shit the police have a total constitutional right int aht jurisdiction to enter. They had a no knock…Read More

fuckyouit’sjanuary: @readyplayer69 [image attached] [image description: blonde woman with caption reading, “I can tolerate racism, but I draw the line at looting the local target]

saltnpepa!!diner707: Hi. I’m trying to cite this piece in an essay, but your publisher isn’t listed on your website. Would you suggest using the NYT as the source in my bib? If it helps, this is due new week; idk if this will run in the NYT by then. Thanks

“I’m sending someone on a grocery run this morning,” said Tom, thumbs tapping away on his phone, “Do you need anything? Want anything?”

You glanced up from your laptop, closing it as much as you could without the light dimming. “I think I’m good, unless you used the last of the shredded cheese at some point.”

“Shredded…cheese,” he said under his breath, typing, “You mentioned capri-suns the other day.”

“Yeah, but I can tolerate the nasty, new flavour. No rush. Here’s a wild idea,” you said, and you waited until he looked up from his phone, a couple of ungelled curls falling over his forehead. “What if—now, don’t dismiss me as crazy; hear me out—what if we went to the store ourselves?”

“Again, no.” Tom grasping his coffee by the round of the mug, despite there being a perfectly functional handle. “Stop pressing me for it.”

“I’m not asking to go to a damn Broadway play. I’m asking to go to the closest 7-11,” you said, jiggling your leg and then making a conscious decision to stop fidgeting, instead scooting your chair closer under the table so that the arms slid underneath.

Tom hummed, his eyes not leaving his phone screen, but when you didn’t continue, he raised an eyebrow as he scowled at you. “Broadway is shut down because of the bomb threat.”

“Fuck off; you know what I meant.”

“Viper,” said Tom, and he locked his phone to set it on his napkin. “Do you want to get assassinated?”

“The term assassination implies I’m getting murdered for political reasons instead of the copious other crimes you’ve had me commit. So, I invite it.” Put your hands on the table where he can see them; it makes you seem more trustworthy. “Does 7-11 have an open carry policy?”

“If it’s any consolation, the renovated office should be waiting for you when you return.”

“It’s not.” You lifted your mug to your lips. “Working from here only makes me feel like a damn bureaucrat. Like I have no stake in the matter. I don’t want to become detached from everything; I might make a callous decision and send people where they can’t come back.”

“Keep watching yourself. If you stay on guard,” said Tom, running his middle finger around the rim of his mug, “then you won’t stray from me.”

“I’m useless here.”

“Then maybe you should become accustomed to the idea of being useless.”

Swallowing, you stared down into your tea. “There’s only so much I can get done through answering emails. Not to mention I hate answering emails. That’s how you get more emails.”

“Harrison has been telling me that your schematics have been more thorough since you’ve been holed up in here.” Tom tipped his mug all the way back to get the last of his coffee. “You’re still being just as productive, if not more methodical.”

“Did you mean obsessive? I have—I’ve had too much time to think. I’d rather not be alone with my thoughts, if I can help it.”

***

You could only read so much before losing your mind. You could only deal with so many of the same exact problems over and over again for lower level soldiers. You could only chart so many stars. You could only read so much fanfiction (if your identity thief were tracking your phone, he’d probably be baffled as to why you kept reading fic for fandoms you weren’t even a part of due to the desire for new ideas).

You could only give Glory Pham so many excuses as to why you’re not with her in person at the Museum of Natural History.

Sucking in through your teeth, you hovered your fingers above the keyboard.

Dear Ms. Pham,

Glad to hear John Mulaney’s signed on. Next step would be to ensure de Blasio doesn’t directly interact with him, given their history. Perhaps I should proof his set beforehand?

Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that I cannot attend the briefing in person yet again. I am currently indisposed, seeing as I am currently in hiding at my hot boss’s house, due to how dead I might be should I leave it (thus the basis of its appeal). Not to mention that if you criticise my blazer choices again, I shall peel the skin off your perfectly made-up face. Get fucked; getting your eyeliner tattooed on was a hell of a decision.

You shook your head, backspaced the last few lines, and stretched towards the wicker end table to grab your glass of pink lemonade, and you stole a glance at Tom’s work as you did so. A couple of files spread across his white wicker lounger (two blue files [socials of the family], two green [recent bids], a yellow [Manhattan locations], and a brown [requests from politicians, upper East side]). The pink sticky-notes had your and his written exchanges and edits on certain papers, and his laptop was open, the screen dimmed, while he copied something into a notebook with his cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear, just listening to the computerised voice.

He had joined you on the back porch to work remotely, claiming he couldn’t go into the city today due to the absence of news on Zendaya—if any information arose, he’d said he wanted your diagnosis immediately.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve as a sweat drop slinked behind Tom’s ear. Even Tessa wouldn’t run in the heat; she’d curled up by the porch railing, her tail slapping against her water bowl. In an experiment to see if she wanted to spend some time outside, you’d slid the glass door open for Trout, to which she turned around to retreat to the bedroom.

Not all of the clothes you’d ordered had arrived yet, so you were stuck wearing autumnal clothes with long sleeves. To exacerbate matters, you were constantly moving—jiggling your leg, tapping your fingers—you couldn’t sit still for very long anymore; you had taken to pacing the porch when you couldn’t concentrate on the stars.

(Once, Tom had come out at night to check on you, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and sitting in silence with you. He’d made you go to bed after a while, claiming you’d run yourself into the ground if you kept this restlessness up.)

When your phone beeped, the both of you jolted at the sound. Tom hung up on the robotic voice as you scrambled to your phone, and he bent your way. “Is it Zendaya?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shook your head. “No. Looks like it’s a jailbreak.”

Tom sighed, his shoulders heaving as he eased back in his seat. “Where from?”

“I don’t even care,” you said, letting your phone fall to your lap. You slumped back in your chair, shielding your eyes from the sun with your arm. But you straightened yourself again and checked. “From Central. They don’t even know who’s all escaped yet.”

“It’d be too much of a gift if New York City would fucking relax for five minutes.”

“It seems like it’s in more uproar than usual lately,” you said, sipping through the reusable straw of your pink lemonade. “Do you suppose it’s our fault?”

Tom took a moment to pluck his damp t-shirt away from his chest. “I don’t think we’re instigating. If anything, we’re simply reacting to chaos.” He stood up and stretched, raising his arms above his head—his biceps strained at the sleeves, and the hem rose above his v-lines. “Unless you’re doing something I don’t know about.”

Ah, casual suspicion. “You’ve caught me,” you said as he approached Tessa and crouched next to her, “I’ve been running a koi smuggling gig on the side.”

“Why koi?” He held out his hand for Tessa to sniff, and she readily accepted his hand for pats. “Are they hard to get?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging, “but I’ve been wondering if they’d be able to survive in your grist mill pond. You look through that water straight to the bottom, nothing living in your way. Just rocks and old equipment.”

Tom sat against the porch railing with a jittery Tessa partially in his lap. “Should we get some?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tom,” you said, grinning, a sweat drop falling onto your mousepad as you shook your head, “You can’t entertain every little pipedream I have.”

“Watch me. What do you want for Christmas?”

You ducked your head, biting your lip. “Promise me something.”

“Provided it’s not my head on a stake, I will,” he said, scratching Tessa behind her ears and cringing a bit when she stretched to lick his face.

“Then we’re going in person to the pre-opening fundraising gala for the Gawain Diamond.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Viper.”

“Bitch, I got John Mulaney to sign on to do the opening monologue, and he’s probably gonna roast de Blasio again. I’m not missing that.”

Your phone blared an alert again, and both of you held your breath as you unlocked it.

“Got a list of prisoners who escaped. Small group. Delores, Larson, Duncan, Mays, Selvin,” you said, “There’s more, but I don’t know them. Tell us something important, by God. Anyway, we’re going. I didn’t say I was going alone, did I? You’ll be there. I’ll be safe, and you’ll be safe.”

His jaw shifting to the side, Tom stilled his hand on Tessa’s back, and then he lifted it to flick sweat off his neck. “How many of us maximum can you get in?”

“It’s a fundraiser for idiotic rich people; if there are too many people without a name, they’ll be noticed.”

“It can’t be just us.”

“Why? Afraid you can’t protect me on your own?”

“Now, don’t start that.” Tom herded Tessa off his lap and onto her outside bed. “I’m not falling for it.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fully aware you’re capable of ripping me in half,” you said, draining your pink lemonade, the airy suction coming through your straw (almost loud enough that you couldn’t hear Tom’s sputtering over it—almost—and his phone beeping). “Want me to get that?”

“Bring it here,” he said, and you snatched it while he sat on the railing, dangling his legs off the side.

“It’s,” you said, eyebrows shooting to your hairline as you read the little notification, “It’s a tweet from Zendaya.” You tossed it to him to unlock and leant on the railing next to him, arm grazing his thigh with a heightened awareness of how close you were to his sweaty, sweaty abdomen. No! No time to thirst. Friend time.

Tom unlocked his phone and held it at your eye level, turning it horizontally as he pulled up the tweet.

ZENDAYA (@ZendayaMedias): Felt cute. Might delete later.

[video]

Tom pulled up the clip, waiting for it to load. “Why didn’t she post it to instagram, then?”

“The finer details of social media are an enigma. Do I look like I know,” you said, and his thumb hovered over the play button.

He cranked the volume up before pressing play, having to try twice due to how slippery his fingers were. “I wonder if Haz has seen this yet.”

A vertical shot of a murky, grey sky from the bow of a boat and dark ocean as far as the camera can see. It pans across the starboard side, and this boat is the only one in sight.

Only the sound of waves striking the boat.

The camera tilts down. Zendaya’s writhing on the deck, furiously straining against rope bonds that line up the entirety of her arms and up her calves; she’s yelling furiously at the person behind the camera through duct tape.

Scuffed, black boots roll Z to the starboard gunwale. She’s still fighting, still shouting.

The camera trucks to the right; before, the pair of cinderblocks attached to her feet were concealed. It returns to her face. A glove grabs part of her hair to show the weights tied into it. She bucks up to headbutt the camera; he avoids it.

Tom clenched his free hand on his thigh. “We’re running another scan for that black-stubble bell jackass from her instagram; did we have any fucking leads at all? What’s his fucking motivation? So he slept with her, allegedly; did she say no to a second time? Doesn’t fucking merit—”

The boot kicks the cinderblocks off the boat, and the camera tilts down to follow the trail of bubbles.

It’s quiet.

But then the camera pans to portside, where the guy in the picture with Zendaya is similarly tied up, but he’s openly weeping and shaking his head. He’s got something drawn on his forehead in black marker. The cameraman steps closer to focus on it: it’s a circle with an upward curve resting on top of it.

He’s still wearing the bell necklace.

Then the cameraman backs away and raises a gloved hand, in which a gun is aimed at the other’s forehead.

The bullet goes through the circle, and the bell rattles as he’s kicked off. Fewer bubbles.

Then the camera tilts up to show off the boat’s surroundings: a black and barren ocean, as far as the eye can see.

When the video started to loop, Tom switched his screen off, his phone hanging loosely in his grip. You released of his thigh once you noticed you’d grabbed onto him, and the evidence of your touch faded as the fabric relaxed.

His eyes glossed over at the blank screen, and his mouth opened before closing again, running his tongue over his lower lip. Tom brought a fist to his mouth and furrowed his brow, his hand hardly concealing the growing tremble of his jaw.

You took a step away from him, rubbing your arms as you ducked your head. “I’m going back inside,” you said, hoping Trout felt like being clutched to your chest, “I’m cold.”

***

The next morning, your mouth felt heavy and dry. You sneaked out as the sun was rising to go hide in the woods surrounding Tom’s house, but you talked yourself out of it. He would make too much of a fuss if he couldn’t find you—but you could delay the inevitable conversation even further. Both of you had separated and kept to yourselves the rest of the evening. Kept quiet.

So you rounded the outside of the house. You’re not camping out in a fucking copse. When you reached the pond, you scanned it for a dry place to hide, but nothing really held any appeal, save for the rounded platform where the mill wheel used to spin, its spoke notches overflowing with moss. You managed to get to it after scrambling alongside the stones for a few minutes, and though it didn’t look like you could get down the same way, you settled against the wall, scraping some moss out of the notches so that your feet could rest more comfortably in them.

(Dr. Prine called ten minutes after you sent her the email. “Did you send me the correct article?”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your face wash onto your cheeks, “Considering it’s the only one I have ready, and I can’t bring myself to write anything. I tried. I just fucking can’t.”

“I don’t think you want this published at this point in your life.”

“I don’t fucking care. Whoever’s using my pen name probably knows who the fuck I am in general. Just publish it.”

“Honey,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening (and fumbling, like she was holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder), “You should probably rethink this. It’s going to connect Epiales you back to Viper you. Get some sleep; eat breakfast. Call me back then.”

“It’s an appropriate article for the political climate.”

“Not for your personal life.”

“I don’t fucking care,” you said between splashing water on your face, “I don’t. It’s a good fucking article, and hopefully, it can affect people for the upcoming election. Fuck self-preservation. Send it to the Times already.”

“Did I dial the wrong number?”

“Hilarious, Dr. Prine. I know it’s not the smartest thing for me to do, but I can’t—absolutely can’t—write anything. I don’t know for how long, but for now, at least.” You blotted your face dry. “I’ve got to meet standard deadlines if I’m keeping my column. It’s really only dangerous if Tom reads it and makes the connection, and his brain is offline right now.”

And so Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times, chapter twelve, “The Political Tradition as Mob Rule,” would be published on Saturday. It’s a little too in the know about the mafia, but hey, you had written it on a whim a month ago, and you were known for your extensive research, anyway. It most likely shouldn’t be too different from your other exposés, though they weren’t on topics that were deliberately misleading the public by what information was out there.

The more you thought about it, it was almost like you wanted to reveal yourself, wanted to get stabbed while you were sleeping, because there’s an overwhelming question rolling around in your brain like a mis-weighted shooter marble: is this—)

“It’s not your fault.”

With crossed arms, Tom leant against the stone wall, his leg bent back for his bare foot to rest flat against it. He glanced sideways at you, sitting on your mill wheel perch almost halfway across the pond, but closer to the far side than to him.

He’s got major bedhead, his curls just fucking flopping about out of his part, and even from where you are, his face burned red amidst wet tracks trailing down it. Still, thank God for little mercies—his biceps were fucking straining the sleeves of his white t-shirt, and those idiotic, blessed grey sweatpants were low on his hips.

You lifted your head from your knees but still clutched them to your chest. “You’re not going out, then?”

“Of course not,” Tom said, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can’t be crying during a meeting, yeah?”

“Been boxing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip and sighed, and then he slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes glossing over while he watched the moss you’d picked off float in the pond.

You’re not going to fucking cry. Tom came out here for a reason. He has a purpose. All you have to do is wait.

Eventually, he said, “You’re avoiding what I said.”

You tilted your head.

“Listen, I know you’re beating yourself up about it. It’s not your fault this happened. None of this is your fault. Hey.” Tom tapped the wall, the travelling reverberations making you look up at him. “Whoever’s doing this is doing it of their own volition and not because of you. You hold no culpability for this.”

“Bruh,” you said, “One of your best friends is dead, and you’re comforting me? I thought I was the masochist.”

Tom scowled, his brow furrowing. “Viper—”

“I can’t interact with someone without putting them in danger, at a disturbingly high rate. You want me to enumerate where I’ve stuck my nose in not my business and people have gotten killed? Senator Hernandez, Isadora,” you began, holding up two fingers, “The nine men guarding Isadora, Maccabruno, Polson—”

“Don’t you dare do that to yourself.” Tom took a step forward, his foot almost curving into the pond. “You didn’t use the knife. You didn’t pull any triggers.”

“Yeah, but I sent them there. And a good many of them went because it was their job.” You sneered and propped your chin on your knees again.

“And it’s part of your job—”

“Yeah, whatever. Your friend is dead, and I have no home. I’ve stopped contacting the few people in my circle on the chance that they get dragged into this—Grace, Adrien—he’s the lights specialist guy, in case you don’t remember—I’ve got to email Glory, but that can’t be helped. And Dr. Prine only—fuck,” you said, dragging your hands down your face. “I don’t want anything to fucking happen to Dr. Prine. Or your family, for that matter.”

“Everyone not involved in the business is currently in hiding upstate,” said Tom, eyes narrowed as he glared at you. “If you like, I can ensure the same—”

“Stop acting so damn calm, Tom.” You let your legs dangle off the platform, hands clenching the edges. “I don’t have any strings left to pull. And fucking hell, I know that it would be extremely and absurdly conceited of me to believe that this series of crimes is aimed specifically at me, because how deluded, how arrogant could I get—but goddammit, this stuff feels a little too personalised. It feels like this person knows me.”

Tom clicked his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s worth something that Glory Pham has been left alone? He knows how to get into Crosscreek, yet Glory hasn’t been touched. Is that not worthwhile?”

Your eyes watered, but you ducked your head so that he couldn’t see—but you released a dry sob (Fuck! Now is not the time for crying! Now is the time for being badass! Frown, or something!).

Tom spoke so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Do you want to leave?”

God, no. But it would make you feel like less of a burden. “Let me find an apartment first.”

“No, not like that. Hey, V. Look at me,” he said, and he tapped on the wall again.

You wouldn’t. Not like this. Not when your nose was running and when you didn’t have a plan.

“Please look at me, Viper.”

Glowering, you raised your head, lifting your chin higher than normal to seem confident, and oh, God—his eyes were wide and gentle; he’s leaning as far as he can over the pond, still unable to reach you.

“What I meant was if you wanted to leave the mob.”

It rang through your head like a distant cathedral bell, chiming through a deserted town—but then you were farther, out on the mountains, still listening to faint clanging.

“You’d have to kill me,” you said, shaking your head, “Don’t you remember?”

“Fuck,” Tom was saying, sucking in through his teeth, and after glancing at the water, he started jogging around the pond.

“I swore. I bled. And then even after that—then you knighted me.” You inhaled sharply when he reached the stones you’d climbed. “I’ve let you down.”

“Viper, get the fuck down from there and come here,” he said, and he withdrew, winching, when he stepped on a sharp edge.

“We shouldn’t have met,” you said, looking over your shoulder at him, and Tom froze, his hand partially gripping a hole in the stone wall. “I shouldn’t have taken the job. I should have gone to a different city. I should have—”

“Wasted your life away in the shadows? Just shut up and get down here.”

“Ah! The fuck?” You swatted his hand away when it grazed the platform, and when he climbed up another step, you pushed yourself off the platform and into the pond.

The first thing that struck you was how quiet everything was once the bubbles dissipated, and then you noticed how clear the water was, even from within it—glancing down, you could easily see your feet treading water above the broken grist mill wheels that had sunken to the bottom.

Before you could take it in to feel the emptiness in your chest, bubbles filled your vision again—and then his hands were grappling for you, grasping at your clothes, and pulling you towards the surface.

“I wasn’t fucking drowning,” you said, sliding a hand back through your hair, while Tom shook his head to flick off excess water. “I was fine without—”

“I know you weren’t.” Tom gripped your waist tightly enough to be painful, and he slid his other hand up between your shoulder blades. “I know. You wouldn’t die on me, and I’m not letting anyone else lay their hands on you. C’mon, arms around.”

He guided your arms around his waist, and once you had a good grip (hands sliding up his back), he kicked off to swim to the stone wall, backing you into it. Your toes skimmed the bottom of the pond, but Tom kept your head above the water, his thumbs circling your hipbones through your wet clothes.

Tom closed his eyes, his eyelashes heavy with water droplets. “There’s no solution to this where you die, got it?”

“Shucks.”

“I mean it. Talk to me. Tell me what you can.” Tom let out a breath slowly, and he bent to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Please,” he said once you tensed up, his breath hot through your wet shirt, “Won’t you let me in?”

(Fuck fuck fuck fuck his chest is flush against yours; he’s so warm, so damn warm all over, and the water’s chill only makes you want to cling to him more, fuck.)

“You won’t like me,” you said, tentatively lifting a hand to curl your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly, “I’m not whom I’ve presented to you. I don’t have it under control.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Tom turned his head towards you; his lips almost grazed your neck (you relish their warmth anyway). “You wouldn’t be human, otherwise.”

“I don’t know an awful lot. Some days it seems like all I do is guesswork.” You grimaced but kept the slim distance from Tom’s mouth. If he wanted to, he would. “I’m lost completely on whoever the fake Epiales is. I keep looking for a pattern in everything, even—even so far back as to—”

You stuttered. Tom had pressed his lips to the base of your neck.

“There’s no consistency,” he said, nuzzling his nose against the spot where your neck met shoulder, “but there’s got to be a larger plan. I get it. The whole case is like a hydra, and we’re chopping blindly at the heads.”

(Oh, my God, he kissed you? He kiss the neck? He?)

“Oh! I forgot to tell you.” Tom pulled away to look you in the eye, and your mouth hung open of its own accord—come back! “I made myself watch the video again.” His jaw shifted. “To see if I missed anything, and I did. This time, I recognised the symbol on the guy’s forehead.” Tom lightly traced it onto your forehead with his middle finger. “It’s a zodiac symbol. It’s the one for Taurus.”

You nodded, still not really thinking at full capacity. “Great. Another piece of evidence that I won’t be able to make fucking sense of. Goddammit. I’m so useless. Goddammit,” you said, dropping your hand from his hair into the water with a splash. “Tom, I don’t talk to my mother much anymore. She doesn’t know where or who I am, and to be honest, I don’t know who I am, either. I don’t know where the truth is.”

You nearly slapped him when you cupped his cheek, like you were desperate, like you had to be touching him, skin on skin, that instant. It’d be nice if he would close his eyes and lean into your touch, maybe kiss your palm, but Tom simply stared at you in shock, eyes wide, brows raised, mouth pinched.

Don’t tell him, you whore. You built this fucking kingdom with its walls and bastions so that you would be safe when the outer defences crumbled. You’ve set aside parts of yourself into neat little boxes so that you can throw any of them away at any time and escaped unscathed. Don’t you fucking dare screw that up. Tom doesn’t know about Epiales so that you can expose and destroy him if you’re on his chopping block; it’s insurance for when everything falls.

Bitch, since when do you want to be honest and raw and vulnerable around anyone?

You can’t let him in.

“You’re still a woman of honour,” Tom said, and—oh, God, oh, fuck—he’s easing his hands down your body, his chest pressed against yours again, and he’s sliding them down your thighs to hook underneath your knees, and he’s hitched you up against the wall, the definition of his muscles real and palpable through the wet clothes, warm, warm, warm—

“I should apologise,” you said, turning your head to the side while he steered your legs around his waist, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“You can’t?” Tom shifted you upwards, and that’s it; your heat is directly against him; you can feel every pull and tensing of his tendons, and if he keeps moving the way he is, then you’ll—

“I’m so sorry for making this about me when Z was closer to you. We shouldn’t waste time on me; we need to be searching, arranging a funeral if we can’t find anything.” You scrunched your eyes shut.

“You’re deflecting.” Tom let out a shuddery sigh. “I’ve lost too many people. Don’t make me lose you when you’re right in front of me,” he said, and he pressed his lips right below your ear.

You flinched away on impulse but tried to relax into him, blinking profusely.

Tom pushed against you (not localised enough to qualify as a thrust), and he cleared his throat before pulling away from your neck. “Listen, please. Please.” He shifted your weight to one hand and gripped your chin with his freed one. His eyes flickered to your mouth before he moved to rest his hand on your cheek. “You’re invaluable. Irreplaceable. You are no burden and are not at fault.” He clenched his jaw. “But I know you’re keeping something from me, and I will make the answer fall from your lips soon.”

Your own chin was shaking, and he was too close. If you put aside separate-self-as-insurance for a moment, let’s consider Tom did find out about Epiales. Would he control you through it? Would he use you to influence those he couldn’t reach? Would he grab hold of Dr. Prine? He might squeeze your life and time through his fist, and your freedom would be gone. Epiales was your freedom, your space to create and connect.

He was too close.

“You’ve got to promise not to hate me,” you said, and when he raised an eyebrow, you made your decision to lean in.

“No,” he said, and—and your lips met his cheek.

He’d turned his head.

After all that, he’s going to turn his head?

“No,” he said again, taking your chin again and leading you away, back to leaning against the stone wall, “I don’t want our first kiss connected to the memory of mourning. I can wait a bit longer.”

Tom released your legs, letting them sink. “You once told me that if you let yourself be vulnerable, you didn’t want an audience. I think,” he said, frowning, “I think you still see me as an outsider. As a member of that audience. And again, you said that you didn’t want it if it weren’t real.” He stepped away from you entirely, and he started wading towards the edge of the pond. “I’m going to hold you to the same standard. I’ll wait until you’re ready to be real with me.”

Tom slinked out of the pond, flicking away what excess water he could, and he squinted into the sun on the horizon. He shook his head, water flying, and he glanced back at you and scoffed. “Easy, sweetheart. No need to wear your heart on your sleeve now.”

His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner towards the door.

The sun is rising, and you feel rather cold.

***

inter vivos: between the living

***

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