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darker-soft-starker · 4 years

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Starker High School AU, Pt. 2 (Pt. 1, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5)

-----

Peter will admit that during he took an extended moment during his journey home to grieve the loss of his free afternoon, and indeed the impending headaches.

And the rest of his future, if he was honest.

Not that Peter was prone to melancholy by any means, but with this assignment his fate was officially sealed, there was no misunderstanding. He was going to fail this assignment. He was going to, for the first time in his academic career, be forced to submit garbage of a caliber worthy of Tony Stark. It will forever be a black mark on his academic record.

No respectable college is going to accept him after this. In fact, he might as well drop out of school now and hit up Mr Delmar for a job. All of his prep for his MIT application is as good as useless after this. Extracurriculars? Goodbye.

Because it’s confirmed.

He’s doomed.

Swaying with the motions of the train, Peter types a text to Ned, the only person who might provide him with some much needed sympathy.

> I’m doomed > paired w/stark for an assignment lollllllllll. > help

Maybe Peter could trade with Ned. Maybe he could plead with their teacher, for honest fear of his life and scholastic integrity. He wasn’t even exaggerating. In no known iteration of this universe could Peter amicably work with Tony Stark. It would be like Harry Potter sitting down for tea with Voldemort, or Frodo and Sauron chilling with a pint and a pipe in Bag End.

It was unthinkable. Implausible. Laughable.

And Peter would laugh, were it anyone but him in this situation.

The feeling is unusual. Never had he found reason in his life to truly dislike anybody before, everyone could be redeemed or given the opportunity for penance. Natasha has said more than once that Peter would offer the devil himself a sandwich if he appeared.

Tony Stark on the other hand? No sandwich for him.

Well, maybe a slice of bread. A stale one.

While he waits for Ned to responds he catches sight of his injured reflection in the train window, which is admittedly pretty gnarly. Even with his hood drawn up, there was a noticeable berth allocated to him in the busy carriage between himself and the other passengers.

< sux. can I have ur lego hogwarts if u die?

> dude :( pity me.

< lol. so, can i?

Peter sighs.

> sure. Look after May for me, bro. delete my internet history.

< deal. godspeed

Pocketing his phone, Peter wonders if it’s too late to take up praying.

---

By the time he’s back in his apartment his mood has managed to swing back up.

Tony Stark is not going to be the arbiter of Peter’s fate. Hell no. He’s smart, he’s creative and hardworking - it isn’t up to anybody but Peter to determine his outcomes. If he has to do the assignment with Stark then he will. And he will work his hardest.

If he has to do it sharing the credit with Stark, well, Peter knows a concession when he sees one.

No matter how reluctant he is.

But he powers through it, like ripping off a bandaid. It’s fine! He’s a Parker and he’s come this far in life already against ill, Parker-like odds. What was being paired for one assignment with someone who escaped the nearest hellmouth?

It’ll be fine.

Probably.

Not letting himself linger on his fears, Peter clears out his previous plans of going on a YouTube spiral and eating sour gummies until his teeth stick, instead utilising the time to get his foot in and and begins prepping for the assignment. Cursory, preliminary research at first, before the inevitable deep dive begins.

Neanderthal, Peter scoffs, mad all over again. Who is Stark to call Peter a neanderthal? He’s second in his class. He’s a straight A student. He likes school.

And as much as he is moderately skilled in, and enjoys JV, it’s not like he received his scholarship to study at Midtown based on his physical prowess.

The graze on his cheek that stings every time he yawns is proof of that.

Stark can eat his entire ass and choke on it, he thinks darkly, as he continues his research. He doesn’t know the first thing about Peter.

The data is sobering as he delves into job listings and statistics of his projected salary in a three year margin. This is really what his teachers earn? Wow. Depressing.

The contrast of expected salary versus the forecast of steep student loans is disheartening further still.

Teaching quietly slips from second to third on his list of ideal occupations.

Turning on a playlist on his phone, Peter continues to compile notes, amassing a truly gargantuan amount of tabs on his browser. His computer, old enough to be on its’ last teeth, whirrs loudly in protest.

It’s not until his room goes dark that he thinks to check the time.

Ah, shit. It’s nearly six.

Peter pauses. Should he tidy up the apartment?

...Nah, no point in breaking a sweat for Stark.

He continues typing. Then he hesitates, fingers suspended in mid-air.

But what if Stark sees his unfolded laundry out on the dining table and publicly shames him for his old-but-comfortable Bulbasaur themed boxer shorts?

Goddamnit.

---

A quick, cursory clean ensues and leaves a relatively orderly Parker apartment. No freshly laundered underwear is in sight.

Peter wraps up just a few minutes before six. Right on time.

Taking a seat at the now clear dining table Peter drums his fingers on the surface and waits.

And waits.

---

He knows when Tony finally arrives when he hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his apartment block. The riffs of a Roxette remix can be heard playing loudly from the ground to the seventh floor of his apartment, the bass so thunderous it reverberates the windows all the way up to his floor.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, Peter checks the wall clock again. It’s nearly seven.

Tony’s late.

Not that Peter is particularly affected with surprise that Tony is incapable of following basic instructions, but still. Really? Really?

By the time there is a knock on his door, Peter is already before it, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Every second between Tony pulling up and his ascent to Peter’s floor has him positively fuming. He can’t believe how this day played out. It started with such promise. He had such innocuous, but high hopes.

Clearly, he miscalculated.

Feeling a touch petty, he waits to answer, listening to Stark knock a second and then a third, more insistent time before he rouses enough calm to open the door.

He instantly regrets it when he does.

Tony’s expression is curious one as he breezes right passed Peter without waiting for further invitation. There’s a smudge of something dark on his brow, his otherwise white undershirt smeared in dark stains.

Peter watches incredulously as the other boy drops his backpack by the door with a thump.

“You’re late.”

He closes the door behind Tony and scowls at the other boys easy posture, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes taking in the apartment.

“I didn’t realise you lived all the way out in fucking Queens. Do you have any idea how bad traffic is at this time of day? Also, your elevator doesn’t work. I just climbed seven flights of stairs, where’s the hospitality?”

“Try earning it.”

The other boy rolls his eyes. “Like it’s worth my time.” He breezes past Peter and slides his leather jacket off his arms, tossing it atop of his backpack in the corner. “Look, I’m here now. Okay? You can unclench now. So, do I get a tour or what?”

“Or what. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we had just started straight after class like I said.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Tony clutches his hands to his heart before gesturing to the room. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting your busy Friday night, Parker. You got a keg and the rest of the meatheads stashed away somewhere?”

Without waiting for a response, Tony wanders around the living room like a curious child in a new play room. His gaze inspects everything all at once, from peering at up close at the wall mounted photos and hovering his grubby hands over the oddments and knick-knacks speckled throughout the space.

Apprehensive, Peter can’t help but shadow him, afraid he just let loose a hurricane in a china shop.

Without asking, Tony picks up May’s old Magic 8-Ball and gives it a good shake. Peter’s fingers itch to reach over and stop him, but stops himself because then that would require actually making direct skin contact the other boy.

Not worth it.

“Cannot predict now. Huh,” Tony says to himself before placing the ball back in the wrong spot.

They both watch silently as it rolls precariously close to the edge.

“Anyways,” Tony helps himself to an armchair, lounging back and spreading his legs wide. “I know your long-term memory is probably as defective as the rest of you, so don’t strain yourself recalling that I had other priorities.”

“Like what?”

“Like literally anything that isn’t being around you,” the other boy grins. “Now, are we doing this thing, or did you invite me over so you could bitch at me?”

“I didn’t invite you,” Peter grumbles, swiping his notebook from the dining table before sitting on the sofa, as far away from Stark as possible. Shifting, he takes his phone from his pocket and opens the notes he’d taken earlier.

“So, I cross referenced some websites and current job listings,” Peter scrolls through his research, adjusting his glasses as they slip down his nose. “Assuming you have no savings, we’re looking at an average of sixty-thousand per annum based on my salary alone. The average rent in --”

“-- Uh, why are we assuming I have no savings?”

"Because... we’re being realistic?”

Tony springs to his feet and paces across the living room.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to Peter, “if we’re being realistic, does having no savings also that mean I have no debt -- or are you paying off two student loans on your salary?”

“I don’t --”

“Do we have car loans? Health insurance?”

“Wait, slow your roll, Stark. I haven’t yet --”

“-- Of course you haven’t. I mean really, Parker, do you ever think ahead? You should try it, we do have a baby on the way, you know.” Tony clicks his fingers and points at Peter. “Oh, names! I want to call it Molly.”

“As in the drug?”

“No, as in Ringwald. Anyhoo, seeing as only one of us has the intellectual capacity to construct a budget,” Tony gestures to himself, “that would be me, consider maybe that I spent my savings paying off my student loans and bought a car for me and Miss Molly, leaving you with just your own stagnant debt. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he says through clenched teeth, feeling utterly steamrolled. “But we’re not calling the baby Molly.”

“Yes, we are. Think of all the great nicknames. Hey wait,” Tony pauses in his pacing, “are your parents going to be home soon?”

It was in that moment Peters world narrows down to one, botched cosmic joke.

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Peter prays silently for mercy. What did he do to deserve this. This is all his bad karma come at once. This is the bad place.

“Ah, no,” he replies, eyes widening. “No, my parents are not going to be home soon.”

“Cool. Lucky you.”

Oblivious to Peter’s existential turmoil, Tony resumes his patrol through the living room, picking up a frame on the mantle. It houses an old photo of Ben, May and a young, bespectacled Peter.

It is one of the more embarrassing immortalisations of his younger self, eleven-years old and grinning widely, bearing his silver braces to the camera as he holds up a science fair trophy, curls wild and untamed.

Oh god. That was exactly what Peter needed on this unholy day - Tony Stark in his living room, witnessing Peter in his prepubescent glory.

Quick, create a diversion.

“So, as I was saying,” he says loudly, “rent is reasonably affordable with a sixty-thousand budget in --”

“Who’s the babe?” Tony points to a younger Aunt May in the photo.

Peter gets to his feet and removes the frame from Tony’s grasp. He glowers as he places it back on the mantle.

“No one you would have a chance with. Can you stay focused? Like, are you physically capable of it?”

“Okay, calm down,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “You’ve got a lot of anger for someone so vertically challenged, you know that, shortstack?”

“Focus, dumbass.”

“I’m focused! Let’s see, we’ve established that I am excellent at managing my money. You have a shitty job and a shitty salary, and apparently my imaginary future self has terrible taste in men. So. Have I got that right? Where are we living?”

“Queens. LIC has some one bed, one baths that could be affordable.”

“Uh, rewind. Going to have to eighty-six that - I am not living in Queens.”

Peter stares at him.

Tony rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “Fine, whatever. But I want a Pontiac Firebird in this imaginary life if I have to deal with you.”

“For someone so keen on getting away you’re doing your best to prolong this experience. It’s literally painful.”

“Well, I just like to see you get all riled up, Princess,” Tony grins, leaning back against the mantle and folding his arms over his chest. “You have this vein that bulges on your forehead when you’re mad. Makes you look like a pitbull.”

Peter swallows the particularly acidic retort sitting on his tongue and tries not to let Tony’s words sting. Be the bigger man, Ben used to say. As difficult as it is to channel even a modicum of the mans’ eternal patience, Peter takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay focused. The less he gets sidetracked by Tony’s fuckery, the sooner it’s over.

He mentions the next part with unease.

“...Miss Ahn said that we need references and should do field research. Speak to realtors. Ask people who have a similar lifestyle and budget.”

The look that comes over the other boys face is one of unequivocal revulsion. Peter can relate. The thought of having to spend more time with this guy makes his stomach turn.

“Well, Parker, any bright ideas who we can ask?”

The hinges of the front door squeaks before Peter can respond.

Moments after, Aunt May walks into the living room, placing her bag down on the dining table. She looks between the two boys curiously.

“Hey, Pete,” she comes to his side to squeezes his shoulder. “Who do we have here?”

Tony rushes over with his hand outstretched, an eager grin on his face.

“Tony Stark, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, ah, okay, well,” May laughs as he enthusiastically shakes her hand. Her eyes are soft as Tony smiles brightly at her. “Nice to meet you too, Tony. I’m May, Peter’s aunt. Are you... friends with Peter?”

Peter snorts.

“Definitely not. We just have an assignment --”

“-- Great friends, actually,” Tony talks over him, taking a seat beside Peter on the sofa. To Peter’s utter disgust, the other boy puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep encouragingly. “Aren’t we, Pete? Hmm? Best buds. We go way back.”

Peter freezes, feeling the line of heat from Tony’s against his side, the weight of his arm on his body.

Eyes widening, he feels his skin crawl.

“That’s sweet,” May smiles, putting her hair up in a loose, messy bun. “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving. I’m ordering pizza, Friday special. You should stay for dinner, Tony.”

Tony places his free hand on his chest.

“I would be honoured.”

May looks at Tony strangely before retreating to the kitchen to retrieve the menus.

As soon as she’s out of sight Tony takes his arm off Peter and quickly shifts away from him like he’s been burned.

“Dude,” Peter whispers, bewildered. “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Tony whispers, shuddering as his face scrunches up in disgust. “I’m going to have to pour scalding hot water on all the places your skin just touched me. Ugh, I feel like I just touched toe fungus.”

Peter slaps his arm.

“What is wrong with you?”

Tony backhands Peter’s arm in retaliation and then shudders all over again.

“Your aunt is crazy hot, okay, I couldn’t help myself. It was an instinctual reaction. Is she taken? C’mon. Vindicate me.”

“I’ll eviscerate you --”

“-- I mean, clearly she married into the family, she doesn’t share your unfortunate phenotype, but I didn’t see a ring on her finger. So? Yes or no?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter hisses as his aunt comes back in. “She’s not available to you. Not now, not ever.”

“But she is available?”

“Don’t even, Stark. You’re like, sixteen. Don’t you have any shame?”

Tony smiles, as she nears. “Not a shred.”

“So,” May waves a menu at them. “You boys happy with pepperoni?”

Closing his eyes, Peter wishes for death.

As fate would have it, he gets pepperoni instead.

-----

If you had ever told Peter that he would be sitting down for dinner with his Aunt and a dirt-streaked Tony Stark, he would have laughed.

And if Peter were outside himself he would probably find the sharing of pizza and soda over their plastic, chequered table-cloth comical -- in that uncanny, Dogs Playing Poker kind of way. But in reality there was nothing funny about the discomfort of having Tony in his personal space or the heavy, suffocating tension that has removed the air from the room.

The entire time Tony has been hamming it up, cracking jokes with his aunt, complimenting her on the decor, asking what she does for work. Peter doesn’t know if he’s being sweet to May for the purpose of buttering her up, or, given the wealth of his family in contrast to the Parkers, if he’s being cruelly facetious.

Nonetheless, Peter has felt on edge. It’s disconcerting, is what it is. Every single movement Tony makes, every time he opens his mouth -- frequently to sweet-talk his aunt -- has Peter’s anxiety standing at attention, hyperaware of everything the other boy does.

He’s beginning to feel like a meerkat whose den has been invaded by a lion.

Through the course of a single meal Peter’s attention moves from the sky to the floor. There is no grace or higher power that is coming to save him from this profound, unusual torture.

So he focuses his hopes to the south, seeing through their tiny, cramped, dinner table, past bargaining. He’s willing to trade his soul to end it all. Surely some wayward being from hell would come to his rescue.

May has Peter’s chin between her fingers. She turns it this way and that, inspecting his injuries.

“What happened this time, bubby?” She frowns, brow furrowing. “You look like you got beat up.”

Peter, very aware of Tony’s amused gaze on them, gently pulls away from her grasp. He smiles placatingly and picks at his pizza slice. God he’s never going to live this down.

“Training accident. It’s okay, I feel fine. ‘Tis but a scratch,” he brings himself to joke.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, carefully avoiding the fresh scabs and injured flesh. “God, you bruise like a peach. Be careful, baby, you’re our money maker,” she laughs. “What about you Tony, do you play football?”

Tony, who is mid way through chewing on a mouthful of pizza, momentarily chokes, beating his chest with his fist to swallow down the obstruction.

“Uh, no,” Tony gulps, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nope. No recreational sports for me. Can’t.” He gestures to his chest and sighs heavily. “Asthma.”

Peter sips his coke and rolls his eyes, knowing full well there’s a half-empty pack of Marlboro Light’s in the pocket of Tony’s jeans. Asthma. What a schmuck.

“That’s a shame. Do you boys have classes together?”

Unfortunately, Peter thinks.

The other boy seems to have the same thought, as he glares at Peter from over the table. When he picks up his can of coke, he gives Peter the finger outside of May’s eye-line.

“That’s why Tony’s here,” Peter twists his napkin in his grip. “We have an econ assignment together on microeconomics. Teach says Tony’s destined to be on welfare.”

Tony leans in, chin rested on his hand. He addresses May but his stare, dark and odious, rests on Peter.

“Not accurate. Stay-at-home parent, actually. One might say that is the most important job of all. Wouldn’t you agree, May?”

She raises her Coke.

“Hear, hear.”

Tony grins roguishly, the same grin he gave the girls at the lockers earlier. “Petey here was just saying that we should ask you about your experience running a household on a single salary. We’d love to have you as a reference.”

“Was I saying that?” Peter narrows his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tony kicks him under the table. The hit lands right in his knee cap.

Wincing, Peter kicks back, satisfied when the other boy bites his lip to hold back a pained groan.

“Yeah, well, not surprising,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Hit your head today, didn’t you? Maybe you should get all that damage looked into.”

The napkin rips in Peter’s grasp.

“Maybe you should go f--”

“I’d be more than happy to help with your assignment, boys,” May cuts in.

Whatever snide reply he has in his mouth instantly wilts when he looks over to his Aunt. She looks...pleased. Delighted, almost. Her eyes under the dull, yellow kitchen light seem to get warmer, and her smile is small but softens around the edges.

Instantly, Peter feels like the worst person in the world. Of course May would be the best person to ask. She does so much for him, the least he can do is set his pride aside for one moment to make her feel good about how hard she works for their life.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, smiling as gratitude swells unexpectedly in his chest.

“Thanks, May. That would be great.”

Across the table, a smug Tony looks like the cat who got the cream.

Without warning, Peter’s chest goes hot with contempt, his fingernails dig into his palm. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone he couldn’t like, until now.

I hate you, Peter mouths while May busies herself with rounding up the pizza boxes.

Kiss my ass, Tony mouths back.

In an instant his expression flips from contemptuous to angelic when he stands and offers to help May clean up.

Peter stands too, sparing a disdainful glance to the floor. Turns out not even the devil was willing to give him a hand.

Natasha was right. It’s going to end in murder.

---

Peter walks Tony to the door after dinner to say goodbye to his ‘friend’. Following him into the hall, Peter closes the door behind them.

“What do you want, Parker?” Tony asks wearily, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. “I’m trying to make a getaway here.”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t do that with my aunt. I’m not joking, asshole. It’s not cool.”

“Relax, princess,” Tony rolls his eyes, fishing for his lighter in his backpack. “I’m not actually interested. Just trying to get under your skin. Worked, see? You’re easy like that. Hey, why do you live with your aunt anyways?”

“None of your business,” he frowns as Tony holds one hand up in surrender and lights his cigarette with the other. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Can’t, shouldn’t, gonna. By the way, you’ve got sauce on your chin, it’s very distracting.”

Peter wipes at it without thinking. When he pulls it away there is indeed a smear of red sauce on his hand.

Tony walks backwards down the hall and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving in a sardonic imitation of a farewell.

“See you Monday, bubby.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, too tired from the week, exhausted by this whole darn day, and it’s not like the other boy cares what he has to say anyway. He takes a moment to swallow his anger before he heads back inside, sighing.

Well, at least he has an entire weekend free of Stark to look forward to.

May looks at him curiously when he reemerges, but says nothing. He considers for a moment about heading to his bedroom and playing a video game to disassociate - but then, suddenly, remembers her smile earlier, and how alone she looks now. A surge of affection hits him right beneath his breastbone.

He checks his watch and then catches her eye. Tilting his head towards the living room, he says, “Hey. You wanna eat some ice cream and watch some Colbert before bed?”

She smiles just like she did earlier and kisses his cheek. “Sounds nice, Pete.”

Maybe the whole day wasn’t lost.

As May heads to the sofa and switches the TV on, Peter catches sight of the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of his eye. He walks over and gives it a shake.

Outlook good.

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @muse-of-gods

#starker #ironspider #high school au #enemies to lovers

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silasblvthe · 3 years

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Silas Blythe is known as the Coin (tails). In Summerset they work as a bar owner but this is only one side of their life. They are also a 127 years old, demon. They identify as cis male and use he/him. Some people even say they resemble Chris Wood, but they wouldn’t be caught dead on the isle.

heeey everyone, i’m gray !! this disaster child of mine is silas and i’d like to apologize in advance for any havoc he may cause ... i am so excited to start writing with all of u !! this will probably be a bit of a mess bc i am still figuring him out just a bit but here we go

name: silas blythe age: 127 (appears to be a little over 30) species: demon occupation: bar owner label: the coin (tails) song: the guardian by shawn james

backstory

the sun gazes fondly down on you in the clear blue sky. flowers of every color grow as far as the eye can see. there’s a waterfall just ahead, flowing rapidly from great heights ; the sound brings you peace. the calm breeze blows gently through your lover’s hair as she smiles back at you. the warmth makes you feel safe, loved --- like nothing sinister could ever reach you. not here. not when you’re with her. this is your favorite place in the world--no--- in the infinite expanse of the universe. you close your eyes, drink it all in. you’ve stopped walking and she stops with you, turning to kiss each of your eyelids so tenderly that you wonder if you’ve imagined it. when you open your eyes to look, she’s there, still only inches away from your face and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips. if you could live in this moment forever, you would -- but nothing lasts. nothing this good. not for you.

if you had known that your life would come crumbling down around you in the next few moments, you would have never ventured to this beautiful place. one second you’re basking in the bliss of being with the one who has your heart in her palm, the next she’s lying cold in your arms as she takes her last breath ( or so you think ). it all happens so fast --- your memory is muddled, you can’t quite put the pieces together anymore. you never imagined that this place would be dangerous, but someone must have followed you. a storm forms above you in all your grief as you hold her close to you, vowing that you’ll see her again. ‘don’t worry,’ you say. ‘ i’ll find a way, i’ll find a way, i promise. this is temporary. i’ll do anything to get you back.’

you and your broken pieces return to avalon, and instead of giving yourself time process what had happened, you immediately begin your search. a way to bring her back home to you. you read every spell book you can get your hands on. your friends and family see your grief and they’re supportive at first, simply because they don’t want to lose you. he’ll stop eventually, right? you overhear them saying to each other. but you don’t stop. you try anything and everything. you ask around in high places, and when that leads to nothing but dead ends, you resort to the lowest of low places. surely someone has to know how to bring someone back to life without using dark magic. you promised yourself a long time ago that you would never go down that path. you’ve lost too many people to darkness already. loss after loss, you start to lose sight of yourself. your family worries about you, and you don’t blame them, but you can’t possibly understand when they tell you to quit. how could you just give up on the one thing that is holding you together?

you get desperate --- so desperate, you find yourself sneaking around, combing through forbidden spell books filled with nothing but the darkest of magic. the kind that requires pieces of your soul just to cast them. you put the consequences at the back of your mind, unable to think about anything else except the possibility of getting the love of your life back. you also looked into ways to protect her once she was back in your arms, a way to make her invulnerable. you wouldn’t lose her again. never again.

bit by bit, spell by spell, your soul is chipped away, but nothing is working. the darkness starts to consume you, and cannot stop. you won’t. your fraternal twin sees you struggling, hurting, and the only solution that they see to save you from yourself is to tell the fae queen. you see this as the worst kind of betrayal imaginable. you’ve damned yourself beyond the point of redemption, so you’re not surprised when they banish you to earth. back to where it all started. perhaps if you were not so far gone, this would have made you realize that it was time to stop, but you were lost in the pursuit for power now. although you give away the last piece of your soul, you feel no remorse. you feel more in control than you ever have in your life, and as time passes, your past feels farther and farther away. you never grieved the loss of your lover, instead you locked the pain away in the darkest corner of your mind. you don’t think about her much now, but every once and a while, you swear you see her likeness in passersby and a twinge of guilt rises inside of you.

currently

it’s been a little over 50 years since his descent into darkness ... he is thriving as a demon tbh

he’s the owner of the most poppin bar in summerset. the employees range from demons to vampires and even some humans ... if anyone acts up he takes care of them immediately , u could say he fires them ... but make it ~ literal ~

he has most of the authorities in his back pocket, so if anything goes awry with a human, he gets someone to cover it up < 3

the bar itself has kind of a modern speakeasy theme to it, with a cool hidden entrance n everything. there’s also private rooms that only some people know about, mostly supernaturals but some humans are aware of them too ... a room to make deals w/ demons when u need a spell cast, a room for vampires to bring humans to drink freely (as long as they don’t drain them), a room with a witch that you can ask favors from -- all for a price, of course, whether it be money or favors. although, silas prefers to be paid in the latter.

he thrives on chaos, so you won’t catch him breaking up a bar fight unless there’s a human involved and it looks like they might actually end up dead

yes, he is absolutely still bitter about his twin snitching on him to the queen even tho he thinks he’s better off as a demon ...

he does not often let himself care about others bc of the fear of losing them, but he is loyal to those who are loyal to him

anyone who gets on his bad side is dealth with ... without mercy

wanted connections

his main bartender ... preferable a witch or a demon, someone who can enchant drinks upon request !!

other employees at the bar ; bouncer, cocktail waitresses, cook(s), managers, etc.

i’ll probably make this an actual WC but i’ll put it here for now... hear me out... in a horrific twist his lover is actually indeed still alive but faked her death (for reasons that can be discussed!!) like maybe she was human and got turned into a vampire so thats how shes still alive after all these years or something ... so this becoming a demon has all been for nothing how fun !!! but just imagine all the angst and pain <33

someone who will stir up trouble with him for funsies ... mess with people just for the hell of it

alrighty that’s it for now !! please let me know if any of these interest you OR if you want to plot out something else, i am down for pretty much anything tbh ??

#summersetintro #summerset intro #shows up late w starbs #im sorry here's my boi

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bellemorte180 · 4 years

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The Halfway Point

There is no time limit on grief; but sometimes the words from an old friend make it slightly more bearable.

The Halfway Point

The halfway point. She didn’t realize she picked it until after she was already on the road. The only thing she could process in her mind was the burning of her mother’s letter, Liz’s final words to Caroline; and never getting to really say goodbye. It ripped and clawed at Caroline’s insides to the point that she just couldn’t stand looking at the town her mother loved so much.

She needed to run.

Call it cowardly or weak but Caroline could no longer bask in her mother’s presence after everything she had done. She needed to get away and for the first time, no one seemed to question her. No one seemed to want to stop her from leaving. Perhaps it was because it was temporary. She would be back; in a day, a week or even a month but she would turn her car back around and drive back to Mystic Falls. Maybe she would make Jo and Alaric’s wedding, maybe she wouldn’t.

For the first time in a long while, Caroline was going to be selfish. So, she drove past the sign heading out of Mystic Falls. She drove down the highway heading south, and it wasn’t until four hours in that she picked up her phone and set a message to a number she never used.

[Caroline 8:32 pm]: Atlanta, Georgia [Emergencies Only 8:33 pm]: When? [Caroline 8:33 pm]: 4 hours [Emergencies Only 8:34 pm]: I’ll be there

Perhaps she should have turned to Stefan. He was still her best friend and he did walk he through everything with her mother and turning off her humanity; he was even there after he switched his back on. But she ruined everything. She forced him to turn off and they did horrible to each other and to their friends. They had sex. Whatever the status of their friendship was, it was irrevocably changed, and Caroline was not in the mindset to deal with that; not yet.

She passed Georgia’s Stateline a little after midnight. She did not stop, not once. She kept going until she was within Atlanta’s city limits. She stopped her car a few blocks down from the SkyView Ferris Wheel. When she was a little girl, her father had always promised he would take her on it in order to fight her fear of heights.

He never did.

Part of Caroline wondered if she should have told him a location to meet her, but she knew he would find her. He was uncanny like that; to know where she was and what she needed. Instead she just sat on the first bench she saw, overlooking that giant Ferris wheel. She waited and it was not long before she felt his presence sit beside her. He said nothing at first, just letting her stare off into the distance and Caroline had never been more grateful.

“When I was six years old, there was a founder’s festival in town. They had this Ferris wheel and I was terrified of it. I refused to get on it. The thought of going up that high, looking down…I was sure I was going to fall.” She laughed lightly but there was no joy in her tone. “My father promised to bring me here. He promised to take me to the very top and that we would look down together. He said that there was nothing to be afraid of.”

“And did he?”

“No. He didn’t. He broke almost every promise he ever made.” The tears started lightly; slowly. She didn’t notice them at first, not until he reached out and wiped them from her cheeks. “I always relied on him and he never came through. When I was turned into a vampire, he tortured me. Literally chained me to a chair, took off my daylight ring and burned me with the sun.” She could see his fist clenching in anger. He had not been aware that her own father tortured her; it was before he really knew her. Despite his anger, he remained silent. “It was my mom who saved me. Tyler was there but it was my mom who held a gun on my father, a man she loved until her dying day, in order to save me.”

“She was an impressive woman. She didn’t back down from a challenge. She was strong and willing to do anything for you, even to invite a one-thousand-year-old hybrid into her home if it meant saving her daughter.” Caroline shot him and look, and he gave her a dimpled smile. “Admittedly, it was my fault, but it still impressed me, nonetheless. As did her daughter.”

“Klaus?”

“Yes love?”

“Thank you. For coming.” Klaus just reached over and took her hand into his. It wasn’t sexual or anything romantic. The last time they had been together was wild, passionate and a memory they both looked back on fondly; one that they knew would someday be repeated in the distant future. She looked over to him and it was as though the dam broke inside her. “My mom is dead.”

The tears flowed down her cheeks and Caroline could no longer control the emotions coursing through her. It became harder to breath; feeling as though there was no oxygen left for her. There was a clutching hollowness in her chest that she wanted to claw at. She wanted to rip her own skin from her bones; burning it until there was nothing left. The darkness was filling her up inside and there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

The hollow feeling that she had been holding in since the moment she turned her humanity back on consumed her. All the emotions she wanted to get past flooded her. She told Elena that she would turn it back on in a year, when the worst part was over. What she did not realize that she only stalled the inevitable. Those emotions would be there no matter how long she had that switch flipped. If anything, the nauseating feeling of loss was worse than it had been the day of the funeral.

At some point, Klaus pulled Caroline onto his lap. He cradled her to his chest, kissing the top of her head and whispering sweet nothings to her; hoping that perhaps he brought a small amount of comfort to her. He could not remove her pain and he would not even attempt it. He understood grief; all he could do was be there and be what she needed. With Caroline, it was impossible for him to be selfish.

Longer than she was willing to admit, she let herself be held by him; taking in the scent he provided and the comfort he was willing to offer. Klaus was never the villain of her story and she would never admit it to those back in Mystic Falls, but Klaus understood her better than anyone.

Except, perhaps Liz Forbes.

“How are you Sweetheart?” Klaus whispered to her once the tears subsided. His long fingers where drawing invisible lines down her back. His mere touch brought her back from that black void she had been in moments earlier. She buried her face into his neck and nodded, still unable to speak. She wrapped her arms his shoulders and just brought him closer to her. He just rocked her until she told him to stop. He would sit on that uncomfortable bench until she told him to move; even if it took a hundred years.

“Why does it hurt so much? Why does it feel like someone dug into my chest, ripped my heart out and lit in on fire in front of me to watch?” She sniffled, bringing the back of her hand to her nose. It was unattractive but she didn’t care. Klaus reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief that Caroline would have bet anything actually belonged to Elijah. “It did not hurt this bad when my dad died.”

“Can I tell you something, even though you don’t want to hear it?”

“Okay.”

“There is nothing I can say to take your pain away. There is no magic spell or words that will erase the pain.” He kissed the top of her head. “You lost your father and you bounced back far stronger than anyone expected you too because that is who you are. But the truth is, you still had you mother to fall back on; and she was the constant parent in your life. Your father broke every promise he ever made to you, but your mother was your backbone-even all those times she stayed late at the station. She would have burned hell itself to save you. That kind of love never dies Caroline. The pain you’re feeling now, it will never go away. That kind of grief will live with you, but the magic trick is learning to live with it; and learning to live despite of it.”

Caroline nodded. Klaus was right, this was not what Caroline wanted to hear. She wanted him to tell her that one day she would wake up and everything would be better. That the world would right itself and that she could go home one day to see her mom, sitting at the kitchen counter drinking a strong cup of coffee because she just pulled an all-nighter at the station. Yet, it was never going to be that way again. Her mom was gone, and that empty part of Caroline would remain.

Yet, it was better than the empty condolences she received at the funeral. It was better than Damon’s eulogy and Elena’s voice of understanding. It was better than Stefan’s persistent need to fix her or even the never-ending casseroles sent by countless people in town. They all meant well, Caroline knew that, but it was not what Caroline needed to hear. She knew they tried but she shut them out, turned off her humanity and refused to listen to anything they had to say. Even now, that she had her humanity back, she could not stand to see their pity and sympathy. In truth, Caroline did not know what she needed; she just knew that Klaus was that she wanted in that moment.

“Can’t you compel me to not feel the grief?”

“I could, but I won’t.”

“I knew you would say that.” Just as Klaus knew her request wasn’t genuine. “No offense but your parents were really shitty. How did you become the expert in grieving the loss of a parent?” Caroline asked causing Klaus to chuckle.

“Because I am a father myself.” Klaus replied simple and Caroline almost smiled at that. Looking at him now that her tears had dried on her cheeks, she could see that no matter what happened in his life; Klaus loved his daughter. “I understand everything Liz did for you because I hope to one day be as good of a parent as she was to you.” He leaned in closer. “But if you say that to anyone, I’ll have to rip your heart out.”

Caroline gave a sad smile, knowing that Klaus was rarely this honest or open with anyone; but she knew they had a bond that went beyond a simple bracelet, a gorgeous dress or even a tryst in the woods. They had an open understanding with one another, and they would always be honest with one another. Caroline sent a watery look to him and the tears began to fall again. Klaus just held her hand, allowing the fresh round of tears to subside.

Out of the blue, Klaus stood and turned towards her. He held out his hand and without thinking, Caroline placed hers into his. He pulled her into his arms, and she looked up at him with curiosity burning in her eyes.

“What are we doing?”

“I’m showing you that there is nothing to be afraid of.” With that, Klaus pushed off the ground and Caroline suddenly found herself at the top of the Ferris wheel. Quickly, he broke open a door to one of the black containers and ushered Caroline inside. It was dark inside but with her vampire vision, Caroline could see perfectly. She took a seat on the bench and Klaus sat down beside her.

“What do you see?” It was a loaded question; they both knew that. There were skyscrapers and lights filling the city despite the fact that it was the early hours of the morning. If she listened, she could hear the sound of the highway, ambulances racing down the busy streets and even the voices of people who were enjoying the late night.

“Life. I see life.”

“See. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Actually, I think your wrong. I think life is the scariest thing out there. Because without it, we wouldn’t have the monsters, the pain and all the terrible bullshit that comes along with it.” Caroline said and the corners of Klaus’s lips turned upward. “But what is even scarier than all of that is the good moments. The laughter and joyful events. A dance or a tryst in the woods.” That made Klaus’s cheeks burn ever so slightly. “They are all terrifying but worth every minute.”

“And that is why you’re Caroline Forbes. The woman who will one day take over the world.” Klaus replied and Caroline gave her first genuine laugh he heard since the moment he sat down on that bench. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she rested her head against his chest. They stayed in that small compartment, swinging on a ferries wheel that was not moving, and just watched the city below. Neither were willing to move, but she knew that come morning, Klaus would have to get back to New Orleans and back to his daughter. Yet, there was something else she needed to get off her chest.

“I slept with Stefan.” The words came tumbling out and Klaus shifted slightly to look at her; raising his eyebrow. He did not seem angry or hurt. If anything, he seemed amused instead of jealous. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m sure you haven’t been a boy scout. You’re the one with a baby. Not me.”

“No love, I most certainly have not been a boy scout.” Klaus chuckled. “I’m merely surprised. Stefan is just not someone I would have seen you choosing. That is all.” Caroline gave him a confused look. It was true, when she was human, she wanted nothing more than for Stefan to notice her; or anyone to notice her really. Yet, here she was back at that point waiting for the guy to notice her. “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her hands and played with her daylight ring. “I turned my humanity off. I killed a bunch of people and forced Stefan to turn his off as well. We pretty much went on a spree together, fucked and then he got his emotions back. Even after everything I did, he was still the patient Stefan, trying to…I don’t know. Get the old me back.”

“Caroline, there is no getting the old ‘you’ back.” Klaus replied gently. “That girl you were before your mother died is gone. You changed, grew and learned in the only way life can teach you. I am not the same man I was a thousand years ago, and you will not be the same girl in a thousand years to come; but no matter who you become or what life teaches you; you will be magnificent. No matter the size of the body count.” She gave him a watery smile. “Do you regret it?”

“Sleeping with Stefan?” Klaus nodded. “Yes. I do.”

They both could read between the lines. No matter what Caroline’s feelings where for her best friend, the manner that they first slept together would always be a mistake to her. It would be something she would always regret. Yet, they both knew that the time Caroline and Klaus spent together in the woods behind the Boarding House would be a treasured memory. The petty side of Klaus was proud of that fact and Caroline would allow him to have that.

They said nothing more on the subject of Stefan or anything at all. They just sat in silence, watching the sun rise over Atlanta. Soon enough, the rays lingered over them and they knew they would have to leave the Ferris wheel, or they would have some serious compelling to do. Much like before, Klaus took Caroline into his arms and jumped from the compartment and softly landed them on the ground.

He held out his hand and Caroline happily took it. They strolled the now busy streets until they reached her car. She stood beside it, unsure of what she should do. Should she get into her car and drive off? Head back to Mystic Falls or to parts unknown? Klaus could sense her uncertainty.

“The offer stands. You will always have a place in New Orleans. It is one of my favorite places in the world.” Caroline started to laugh, his dimpled grin only making her laugh harder. It felt cathartic. “There is food, music, art, and culture. I would love to show it to you.”

“Play the step-mom alongside you and Hayley?” She smirked at him. “Tempting but I’m not ready for that.” Klaus held up his hands, not offended because he knew the answer before the words left his lips.

“Well then, I do have a private jet at my disposal. Say the place and I will have you jetting off on your very own adventure.” Alone. The word was unspoken but they both knew what he meant. She was not ready for Paris, Rome or Tokyo. Yet, he was offering her a way to deal with her grief in a way she would not have in Mystic Falls.

“Thank you but no.” She took a deep breath. “Alaric is getting married and I think they would like it if I was there. I think I’ll take a small road trip, make a few stops but slowly go back to Mystic Falls.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not done with Mystic Falls just yet. Maybe one day I’ll take you up on that voicemail, but I think I need to have a few more…. I don’t… experiences first?”

“Of course. Just know you’re always welcome in my home Caroline.” Klaus leaned in and kissed her cheek. He slowly turned and walked away. She watched him retreat from her. She was about to get into her car when he froze and turned towards her. “The day of your graduation. I meant what I said. Tyler was your first love. Whatever you decide you feel for Stefan, I still intend to be your last, however long it takes.”

Klaus flashed off then and Caroline was left standing in the middle of Atlanta with a sad smile on her lips.

In the end, when Caroline gave birth to her twins, she would think back on Klaus’s words to her; about what it meant to be a parent and what they want for their children. She ended up marrying Stefan; a human Stefan. One that died to save Elena on the day of their wedding. She helped Klaus track down his daughter and save her from the hollow. He helped her scourge the earth to prevent the merge between her daughters. In the end, when their children were all grown and the two of them sat in a small café in Paris, fingers linked together, Caroline would replay his words to her.

No matter how old she became or how long she lived; the memory of Liz would always linger in the back of her mind.

The trick was learning to smile in spite of the grief that would always remain.

A/N: So. I was trying to write something happy (part 2s of my one shots from Klaroline week) but I'm really not in a place emotionally to write anything of the sort. I tried and failed. Hopefully, I can finish the light and fluffy stuff I started...or even work on "Maybe One Day" but it's just not coming. This however, flowed. Just Good Business flowed and I think it's because I can relate to what the characters are feeling compared to writing something happy that brings a smile to peoples faces. I’m just not there yet. Hopefully you all can deal with my angst writing because I'm afraid that might be all you're going to get for awhile.

#klaroline #caroline x klaus #klaroline fanfiction #caroline forbes #klaus mikaelson

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hollenka99 · 4 years

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The Vlogger

Summary: With no choice but to keep going, Chase meets others like him and starts his second chance at life with them.

Warnings: Suicide, alcoholism, self deprecation, depression

@egopocalypse

As soon as Chase Brody pulls the trigger, he regrets it. Not because the rapid loss of blood is dizzying or he knows he may have something to live for. Instead, he rethinks things due to the pain. There's a hole in his skull, a hole he put there himself. If he knew he'd remain conscious, he wouldn't have bothered with the gun. So he's stuck there on the ground, the camera crew hovering uncertainly as an ambulance is called. The thing is, he doesn't want to actually die, doesn't want his children to grow up without their dad. He just wants a way out. No matter what he does, he can never fix the situation at home. Now Stacy was taking them from him. If he won't get to watch them grow up then it should be because he made it impossible, not Stacy. He believes that was the logic that got him in this situation. It was a stupid piece of logic. If the ambulance doesn't hurry up, he won't have much longer to dwell on it. For fuck's sake, why couldn't it have been instant? He can't even shoot himself properly. Now is not the moment to admit that may actually be a good thing. He finds himself waking in a hospital bed. As sure of his abilities as he is stern, Chase doesn't know what to make of the German doctor attending to him. The guy's bedside manner could do with slight improvement at times. However, Chase can't deny he's helpful when he needs to be. Chase find his left arm doesn't work as it used to. Apparently, he suffered damage to his premotor cortex. He won't be able to perform complex actions with that arm, whatever the hell 'complex actions' meant. Physical therapy is advised. He's too preoccupied by the fact he wrecked part of his brain to listen too intensely. That hadn't been in his list of things he'd hoped to achieve. Well, he supposes he had wanted to mess things up in that area of his body. But... the fatal kind. Not that he really knows what he wants in general. Except probably stopping the shitshow that was commonly referred to as his life from plaguing him further. He wants Stacy. And the kids. He wants to be the father and husband of a happy family. He wants to be happy himself. Dr Schneeplestein provides him with an address after he lets it slip he has nowhere to go after being released. It's where the doctor's friends live. They are always open to welcoming a new inhabitant. Chase's isn't convinced he should bother. Schneeplestein suggests he should at least think about it. Well, it's not like he has anywhere else to go. He might as well give these people a chance. Jack is really friendly once he arrives at the house. After checking Chase was aware of Sean, he calls someone named Marvin to the living room. Marvin is clearly a very cold person. The welcome he delivers is the opposite of Jack's. One had made him feel like he was welcome, the other seemed to want him gone immediately. Well fuck you too, Marvin. Despite being quiet and somewhat of a loner, at least Angus didn't seem too bad. Chase doesn't know how to react when Jack directs him to a private clinic within the building. He's even more at a loss for words when Dr Schneeplestein is there, greeting him. Okay, yeah, he gets it. While the doctor may not live in the building, he was an ego himself. Chase had noticed the similarity in appearance when it came to the guys here. Over the coming days, Schneeplestein checks up on him. He promises it is okay to call him Henrik if wants. Their discussions develop into a mix of formal medical stuff and informal getting to know each other better. Schneep reveals he is himself a father of three. He suggests Chase talk a little bit about himself. Okay. Well, his name was Chase Brody. He ran a YouTube channel called Bro Average where he performed trickshots. Occasionally well rehearsed stunts too. He had been married to a woman called Stacy. However, she had just announced she wanted a divorce. She was planning to take full custody of their two children. Their names are- they are... Wait, why couldn't he remember their names? Did the incident take some of his memories? Shit, don't tell him he's fucked up his memories as well as his arm. But he's been thinking about the situation since waking up, here and at the hospital. Wait, no, he was just thinking of them as 'the kids'. Why the hell hadn't he noticed before now? He was a bad father, just like Stacy had- "Chase?" "They're my children, how can I not remember their names?" "I did not either." The doctor reassures him. "Maybe talk to Jack, he is good with names. Helped me remember." He does indeed speak to Jack. They reach Noah without too much issue. It takes several names to get there, sure, but his son's name is fairly common. His daughter though... this was taking forever. Even Jack sounds like he's losing hope as the suggestion of Daisy is accompanied by a sigh. Chase is so thankful this is the one to stir something within him. Encouraging Jack to keep on the plant-based route hits his helper with a second wind. A handful of names later, they finally reach their destination of Willow. Willow and Noah. He remembers now. He can see a 4 year old girl with dark hair who loved mint choc chip ice cream. Then there was her 3 year old brother who loved to chat about anything and everything. They may not have been born at the right time in their parents' lives but he by no means loved them any less because of that. Not everyone has memories of rocking their daughter to sleep while studying. He'd love to hold those two again. As the days and weeks go by, Marvin remains distant. Chase approaches Jack, needing to know what the hell the magician's deal was. He learns there had been another ego, a 16 year old superhero who'd arrived in July. At the beginning of November, Jackie had slipped out to clear his head. Suffice to say, he was yet to return home. Marvin and Jackie had been becoming close friends at the time of his disappearance. He was simply grieving more noticeably than Jack. Jack also takes this opportunity to discuss a second mystery ego. Antisepticeye was very dangerous, not to mention unpredictable. Jack had caught glimpses of him prior to his official appearances on the channel in October. Anti was the one behind Jack's throat scar. Understandably, he'd rather not go into that day. What was important was that Chase did his best to stay safe from Anti, now that he was aware of him. Anti had attempted to kill Jack, abducted Jackie and recently, hijacked Sean's PAX panel entrance reel to threaten the audience. If Chase ever found himself in Anti's sights, run. Drop anything non-essential that may slow him down and get the hell out of there. Eventually the interactions that seem forced melt into something nicer. It's still clear the memory of Jackie will remain superior to him. However, it was good to be more than tolerated by Marvin. Things are easier like this. As it turns out, the magician is actually a pretty cool dude. He's really into plants and able to do a lot of cool stuff with his magic. Please keep everything made of iron away from him though. The first time he bought alcohol, he pretended the intention was innocuous. He'd had a shitty few months. It would just be to take the edge off a bit. Better to get a little tipsy than try to permanently escape again. 'A little tipsy' soon becomes stumbling to bed drunk. Which inevitably results in painfully frequent hangovers. It's a good thing he doesn't have to save money for rent or anything. He can keep this habit going for longer. Of course, this behavioural change doesn't go unnoticed. Jack encourages him to limit himself to a bottle a day, if he needs to drink at all. He understands and appreciates his concern. However, it wasn't exactly his place to dictate what Chase could and couldn't do. This talk still has an effect on his drinking habits. He gets better at hiding his stash. The best thing about the bedrooms in this house were that they changed to fit the needs of the ego whose bedroom it was. This in turn meant he had a mini fridge without asking for it aloud. Jack and Marvin grow more desperate with trying to get through with him. There are weeks were he does genuinely attempt to make an effort to improve. Those attempts don't usually go well. At least there are two people cheering him on. Stacy's even been more approachable about the split during the past month or so, which was pleasant. She still wants full custody though. Especially because she's aware of his issue with alcohol seemingly developing into something likely diagnosable as alcoholism. That would be motivation enough to get him to stop. It only makes him feel worse when he gives in to temptation. At the end of July, Jack invites him and Marvin to marathon the Harry Potter films. He's had an argument with Sean and needs the distraction. Following the end of the second film, Marvin leaves for a moment to take a bathroom break. He turns to his friend on the other end of the sofa. "I-" A pause to question whether he should even bother with this line of conversation. "Jack, I don't get you, dude." "Uh, okay. Where did this come from?" "I don't know. I just don't get why you bother with Sean. You always seem to be at each other's throats." "Why did you try to hang on to your relationship with Stacy for so long?" "Hey, don't bring her into this." "Well?" Chase gives the most exaggerated shrug he can muster before crossing his arms, curling into himself on the sofa as he does so. The best Jack is getting out of him is a mumble. "Dunno. Still love her. Kids." "Yeah, well, Sean and I have quite a history ourselves. What can I say? We can't really go our separate ways by this point. He's an asshole but I still love him despite it. It's... it's complicated. We've known each other since we were kids. We were there for each other back then and we are still down to hang out now. I mean, that's what happened today. He's a busy dude and I don't expect him to drop everything for me. Yet we still make time for each other." Jack pauses to pick up his glass. "Want me to top you up before we start Prisoner of Azkaban?" "Jack." "I was made to be his friend. I can't... not be. Like I said, it's complicated. So, top up?" Days later, he spots Jack stumbling towards where Henrik was privately working on something. When he asks if his friend is feeling well, Jack waves him off, excusing it as 'probably nothing serious'. The words sound strained, as if he's attempting to keep his lunch in. Chase would call him out on the blatant understatement, were it not obvious Jack didn't want the fuss. The first clue he gets is Marvin leaving his room to hover restlessly in the corridor. The magician murmurs about something in the air feeling off. Chase suggests opening a window to aid air circulation, only for Marvin to snap that it wasn't like that. Besides, it was August and fairly warm. Most windows were already open. The second is Henrik being heard loudly speaking his surname. It doesn't sound right, almost like he's not the one to have said it. Marvin freezes at this. This has clearly shaken him for some unknown reason. As rapidly as the noise had stopped Marvin in his tracks does it cause him to pivot and march in the direction of where Schneep is working. The final hint of what is unfolding is Marvin's desperation. He's at the door to the med bay, pounding it with any spell he can think of. Chase rams into it whenever he is sure he isn't at risk of being unintentionally hit. They cry out to Henrik and swear they're coming to help. The locked door receives a series of abuse in a matter of minutes. The door finally gives. Marvin blocks his view temporarily but he sees regardless. There are too many wires and machines for him to comprehend they're all attached to one person. If he'd known, he would have swapped places with Jack in a heartbeat. Henrik is nowhere to be found. Chase's first encounter with Anti has robbed him of two of his good friends. His and Marvin's lifestyles change immediately. Marvin rarely has time to practice magic. Chase, similarly, puts Bro Average to one side. They both focus on providing Jack with the best care their inexperience can form. They are way in over their heads with this. However, Jack remains alive. They must be doing something vaguely correct. The 17 year old in the stolen outfit appears at their door a month on. Chase originally assumes this is a new ego. Oh, Marvin is going to be livid. He already lost his cool when Robbie showed up. Let's not even mention when Sean attempts a visit. Either way, the kid looks completely shattered and like he could collapse in a heap any moment now. He struggles to focus on the sentence he's trying to finish. This ego really is out of it. What kind of video did Sean upload today that it produced someone so wrecked? The teenager sways a little. Chase moves to steady him while Marvin is spouting the same shit about how Sean better not have created another ego. Tired of Marvin's anger at this specific moment, he calls him over to help. The magician barely enters the hallway before the newbie crumples into Chase's hold. He glances back at Marvin, a second away from encouraging him to assist him already. The haunted expression on his friend's face prevents that. Oh. This was Jackie. Of course it was. The two of them place him in the medical bay. Marvin withdraws into himself. Especially in the following days. He spends all his time hanging around Jackie. All he talks about is Jackie and how he's doing. Jackie, Jackie, Jackie. Listen, Chase is glad Jackie has returned home. Ecstatic, even. It's just... things have drastically changed in the household in barely any time at all. First it was Jack slipping into a coma. Now it's Jackie showing up after months of no clues regarding his whereabouts. It doesn't help when the teenager sticks to Marvin's side wherever possible and acts wary of Chase. He supposes he gets it. Marvin is the only person, other than Angus, whom the young superhero recognises from his pre-Anti life. Meanwhile, Marvin, who has spent close to a year missing his friend, wishes to protect him as much as he can. Either way, Chase gently inserts himself into the friendship group. He's heard about this guy a fair bit and felt his absence in the grief of those who'd loved him. He wants to get to know him. It took a couple months for Marvin to be chill with him. Chase would rather not return to being rejected once more. That's why he continues to be Marvin's person to spill his woes to and the one to let Jackie know he's not judgmental of the potential symptoms of PTSD on display. October isn't a good month. An ego named Shawn Flynn is born on the 5th as a result of Sean's video involving his Bendy voice role. On Halloween, they find it very suspicious that an ego who got a personal video hasn't shown up at their home yet. Didn't this guy also have pictures on Instagram as of earlier this week? He really should be here. Especially seeing as he had his own room waiting for his arrival. Chase volunteers himself to speak to Sean. As it turns out, that was the right move. When Sean lets him in, he is introduced to Jameson Jackson. It goes down as well as expected. Chase brings Jameson home and give him the house tour. As they travel around the building, he ensures Jameson knows Sean is not to be trusted. When the new ego argues that their creator had accommodated him, Chase decides this moment was as good as any to visit the medical bay. "This is Jack. He's a prime example of what happens when keep trusting Sean and believing he actually cares. We're not shitting on Sean for the hell of it. We do it because he's a dick and we'd rather not force anyone else to lose their friend." Chase takes a stabilising breath. He shows Jameson to his new room and suggests he familiarise himself with it this afternoon. If he needs anything, feel free to give him a tap on the shoulder. He has to admit, Sean has balls. Not only did he trick Jameson into being his friend, he's trying to get Chase to sympathise with him too. Sean even has the nerve to give some sob story. Obviously, he'd twist the truth to get his way. Chase is smarter than that. It's not like he's to blame for Sean being overloaded by the need to keep up with the upload schedule. That was purely Sean's own doing. Then he has the audacity to pull the Jack card. Oh, fuck you. How dare he?! So what, Chase is just supposed to become Jack 2.0 until Sean bothers to wake him up? No thanks. Unlike Jack, he requires sleep so it's not like he can help without consequences. Besides, he's got his own shit going on. Maybe Sean recalls the whole 'depressed and suicidal guy who's going through a divorce' thing he'd centered his character on. "Chase, please, at least think about it. Jack is in that coma because I was stressed and resentful. I don't want to risk making things even worse. I know I'm just repeating myself now but less time focusing on videos means more time for me to work out how to fix everything." He does think about it. Okay, fine! If it's just to keep the channel going then whatever. The channel is necessary to keep all of them healthy. He'll do it for Jack's sake. Anything to increase the chance of waking him up is worth it, right? Even if it means going against his morals. He nearly throws Sean's offer back in his face a month later. It was simply a charity stream. All that was supposed to happen was a nightly break in the 2 day event. He will forever hate CCTV footage and security from this point onwards. What the fuck did Anti do to Jackie that Silent Night triggers him? The night is spent ensuring two things. One, that everyone, especially Jackie, felt as safe as they could be in a stressful situation like this. The second objective was to observe the feed for the whole night. They sleep in the living room and take an hour long shifts to monitor the glitches. A doctor moves in during January. As much as they need the medical help, Dr Jacksepticeye is hardly Henrik. Either way, an ego is an ego. Chase is glad he's not the only one who is uncomfortable watching the stranger overseeing Jack's care. They just need Henrik back. Things can be generally alright after that. After much negotiating from both parties, Stacy agrees to allow him some custody. She'll have the majority of it but she's fine with weekends being Chase's time with them. Yes, yes, god yes. He'd obviously prefer to have it more evenly split. Maybe alternate weeks or Monday-Thursday morning for one and Thursday afternoon-Sunday for the other. But weekends? He gets to see Willow and Noah for 2/7 of the week? He'd take an hour a year if that was the most Stacy was willing to compromise. The others surprise him with a small party, complete with cake, when the arrangement becomes official. That first weekend can't come soon enough. He has a talk with Jackie about mental health and coping mechanisms after he catches him binging on his secret whiskey stash. Trust him, hangovers are no fun. Stop trying to force your raised metabolism to submit and become intoxicated. Frequently battling with your head is exhausting. Drinking yourself silly is not the answer. No, don't ask why he resorts to alcohol. Do as he says, not as he does, you know? Please tell him you're aware he's down to confide in if you want. No, no, don't cry. It's all good. Marvin doesn't have to know a single thing. Anything else you wanted to say? Zero judging, he swears. Early May finally provides them with their favourite German doctor. Like Jackie, Henrik's wellbeing has certainly seen better days. To think, the three of them had been having some dumb debate about Spider-Man moments before the big reunion took place. This is the beginning of the 10 days where Chase believes things can be good for the egos. The only thing missing is Jack's consciousness. A week later, he provides Sean with a video he'd edited himself. The level of trust they have between each other now means Sean doesn't check the video's contents. It is for this reason that the comments come flooding in before his creator's wrath does. Sean deems the mistake irreversible and the video therefore eligible to stay up. Chase can only hope it doesn't lead to any more issues. The weekend passes without any problem. On Monday, he notices Willow forgot to bring her doll back to Stacy's. He might as well return the toy. It is with annoyance that he realises Stacy's probably experiencing a power cut. Albeit dangerous to have done so, Chase considers it lucky that he was carrying that lighter in his pocket. Come on, work already. Stupid thing. The flame is tiny but at least it's something. Better than exploring blind at any rate. As Chase wanders through dark hallways, he becomes increasingly aware he may be endangering himself. After all, this home was meant to be displaying signs of life. Where were- Faint laughter. Children's laughter, undoubtedly. Oh God, that sounded like Willow and Noah. A girl screams. He wants to run to her. Fuck it if it's clearly a trap. His daughter's in trouble and he'll expose himself to whatever's frightening her without a second thought. He wants to sprint and he knows he should. Yet something keeps him at a cautious pace. His frustration grows as whispers are cut off by what sounds like Noah crying. He's coming, he swears. Daddy's coming. Just hold on. The whispers intensify as he turns the corner. This new hallway is bathed in red. Chase has better visibility but it wasn't necessarily a good thing. The room at the end of the corridor is completely soaking in the colour. It leaks onto the surrounding walls. The only object blocking the light is the silhouette. "Who's there?" The silhouette's head steadily twists over its shoulder. A second passes. An eye illuminates green with an unnerving crackle. It does nothing to acknowledge the questions its current prey begs to have answered. "Where are they?" Chase cries. "What do you want from me?!" There is no time to scream or escape. There is only the erratic approach. And as quickly as a video can cut to darkness, they are both gone.

#jacksepticeye #chase brody #creator au #my writing #writersofjack #tw suicide #tw alcohol #tw kidnapping

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afoolforatook · 4 years

Text

Thank you, Wellies

So. I’ve been trying to do both class work and working on wips and just nothing is clicking. So, I thought I should go ahead and do this post, that I’ve been putting off, because.....it’s next week y’all.... So here goes.

Here’s my original post, that explains what this comic meant to me four years ago.

And here’s what it means to me now. (this is really long, sorry)

Man, I don’t really even know where to start this. How to start to say thank you. To Ngozi, to all of you.... It’s not possible to fully express what all of you have been for me the past four years. What this story has been for me.

So many things have changed since I made this post almost four years ago.

So many things haven’t.

I’ve been way less active in the fandom since starting at SCAD, and I really was never that incredibly active to begin with, outside of my small group of friends on a discord server.

And at times I feel bad about that.

But it’s not because I don’t care about or need this community anymore.

Rather it’s because this community, this story, gave me the strength to keep moving, and now I want to keep doing so, and make something that might one day even barely begin to show my gratitude.

So until then, all I can do is say thank you over and over. I can never possibly say it enough.

But still I wanted to thank you now, and try to explain to you what this comic about hockey and pies has meant to me, one last time before it ends. So that’s what I’ll try to do.

It was surreal rereading this old post earlier this week. Reading

“I think I could write a book just of our history and everything leading up to now and the details of this whole event”

When I wrote this post four years ago, I honestly couldn’t imagine a future where I’d be anything other than incomplete.Or even a future at all. Everyday was just getting up and making myself keep breathing, keep trying to push towards something, even though I had no idea what that could ever be.

For the first year I wrote daily journal entries, telling Emma about what happened that day, screaming at the universe for doing this, trying to help my future self remember little things, because everything was so hard to hold on to.

Update days were always something nearly sacred to me. And really not even from a fan point of view. I don’t read them around other people. I sit somewhere quiet, by myself, and read slowly. Because they are little moments I try to share with her still. The only person I want with me when I read them that first time is her, in whatever capacity I can bring myself to imagine.

A few months after the crash, I found one of Emma’s Spotify playlists. She made playlists for everything; birthday and Christmas presents, mood playlists, friend playlists, monthly playlists.

This was her May 2016 playlist. Last updated May 16th. Two days before the crash.

That playlist was literally the only thing I listened to for months on end. 38 songs.Over and over.

And as I listened I started to think that, just maybe, some of these songs she put there for me.

West Coast; the song me and Emma would send to each other after high school whenever we wanted to let the other know how much we missed them.

All I Want is to Be Your Girl. I mean??

Slowly I found lyrics in every song that even if just in my own fantasy, were little messages from Emma, telling me to keep going, how to stay strong.

I was always looking for stories, books, movies, songs, anything about someone grieving the kind of loss I was. Nothing I found felt like it really represented me. If it was about someone young, it was due to suicide or violence or illness. If it was a car crash, it was about a parent or child. If it somehow fit my other demographics, it was never queer.

I felt totally alone in the exact manifestation of my grief. Like no one else could understand all the tiny details that seemed, to me, to make this all more and more cartoonishly cruel.

(though one of the most touching moments of my life will always be when Emma’s step mom, the only person in her family who knows about us, sent me a book about grieving a spouse. I cried for hours when I opened that.)

I didn’t have outside representation, support. But I had journals. I had Emma’s songs. I had poems and a handful of inktober drawings. I had my little update moments of connection. And I had so much to say.

Months, years, of isolation gives you a lot of time to examine your feelings, to question the meaning of things, to think about what exactly grief looked like to you and about how you wanted to live the rest of your life, as someone grieving a love.

And slowly I began to connect those thoughts to individual lyrics from Emma’s playlist and that helped me actually write all those thoughts out, organize them.

And that’s how The Mixtape Project started (I still hate using the word memoir. I had to find something else to call it). A book about us. About Emma. About all those thoughts I’d had so long to sit with. Structured around the songs from her playlist.

I remember the exact moment that I realized that Check Please was going to actively change my life. I was talking to my dad about it, about why I loved the storytelling, the characters, the art, so much.

I’d told him many times before. But it was always tied to Emma in a way, or to the reasons that I identified with Jack. It was always a little sad in some way.

But this time. This time it was just excitement. It was just a kid who has always loved words, gushing about a story that fascinated them.

And I realized. It was the first time I had been just happy, excited, in the months since losing Emma. I remembered all those ideas Emma helped me with in high school, how we gushed over stories like that. I remembered what it was like to just love something and want to create, just because it made you happy.

I knew I couldn’t go back to UNCA, and none of the other creative writing programs I had looked at seemed like they would fit the new person I was.

So, for the hell of it, looking for some idea at how to start my life over, I looked at Ngozi’s personal story. And there was SCAD. There was sequential art.

Now. I’d never ever considered myself an artist. I went to an art high school, I knew art kids. I was never one of them. But that sequential part? That. THAT was what I wanted. That was what I could still be excited about.

That was how I could pull the Mixtape Project together. The writing, the poems, the art, the music. Comics. Sequential art. A graphic memoir that played with the format. That was the project that kept me going. That was what I was working for. That was the first future I was able to see now that Emma was gone.

So, for the first time since literally elementary school, I took an art class (also took a mythology class at the same time, which really helped keep my art and storytelling tied).

I loved it. I was actually happy with my work, surprised by my work and how quickly I felt like I improved (I wouldn’t learn about aphantasia until I got to SCAD, and understand that that drawing 1 class had been so fun, and in a way, easy, because it was all direct observation, and that drawing from memory and imagination would be a much steeper learning curve for me.)

So, when the class ended I thought ‘you know, maybe some kind of art school could be a good idea.’

And then one of my life long best friends, a SCAD animation student, encouraged me to apply, to just go for it.

And I did. It was a long shot, I was sure. We couldn’t afford it. Why would I get that in that kind of commitment, debt, after 1 art class? It wasn’t logical. But it felt good. So I did.

And then I got accepted, and the initial excitement soon fell away, to me and my parents knowing that it really wasn’t doable.

But we went to admitted students day, just to see. And when we got home, both of my parents cried for a long time. The first happy cry in our house for over two years.

Because they had decided that they had to figure out a way to make it work.

Because standing in Haymans hall was the first time they had seen me excited about the future since Emma died. It was the first time they’d seen me feel like there was somewhere I was meant to be, that there was somewhere I could fit again.

So we made it happen. I’ll still be in debt for years, and it’s not necessarily something I’d wholeheartedly recommend to kids getting out of high school, that debt isn’t worth it for many people.

For me it wasn’t really even worth it exactly for SCAD itself, and you’ll have plenty of professors tell you here that really what you pay for isn’t the education but the networking.

But for me. For me it was worth it.

Because I wasn’t wasting away in my basement.

And I really wasn’t where I’d have liked to have been, ideally, before starting. I was a BRAND new artist. My portfolio for my application was solely my writing work. I hadn’t ever done anything more than scribbled fan comics in my sketchbook. I was coming in wayyyyy behind where most other people were. But I couldn’t wait to feel like I was good enough to be there. There was a strong chance that it was quite literally, a matter of survival. I was reaching a breaking point after nearly three years of isolation and grief with no outlet. The future debt was less of a concern than making sure I didn’t have a complete mental breakdown or worse.

Now, of course, it hasn’t all been easy or fun or happy once I got here. I’ve doubted myself, I’ve had awful weeks, months, been stressed, unmotivated, in pain, near burnout.

The first quarter I was absolutely miserable because I had literally no social life.

Because I was an agoraphobic 23 yr old, living with 17/18 yr olds fresh out of high school. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d dissociate so easily. I’d let myself believe that I was still a teenager fresh from high school. That the past three years of agony hadn’t happened. That I could call Emma and it would ring again. She would answer again. And that illusion was a dangerous pit to fall into.

And it wasn’t until this fall that my social life really started to improve, beyond one or two close friends. And even still, while it’s much better, it’s nothing like UNCA, like the tight knit family I had that made me identify with SMH and the Haus atmosphere so much.

But I was moving forward. Agonizingly slowly sometimes. But still forward.

And then last Spring quarter, just about a year ago, I was in Survey for SEQA. Basically comic book history class. And our final was a 4 page research comic on a comic artist we admired. So of course, I was going to do mine on Ngozi.

The comic was due at the end of the quarter, the end of May.

Now, that quarter was the first time I was actually in SEQA classes; Survey, and Intro.

And those four pages would be the first fully colored, refined comic pages I had EVER done. It was intimidating. I didn’t want to mess it up. Especially because this wasn’t some big name of some far off artist you would never have any connection to. This was someone who all my professors knew.

I ended up getting extremely lucky and had the chance to email Ngozi and ask if she’d be able to give for a quote for the project, advice for current SCAD students.

She replied to my email the weekend of the 3rd anniversary. (I then spent hours on a thank you email - because that’s who I am, I can’t not over analyze anything I’m sending to someone important - and then I managed to save it to drafts instead of actually sending it...something I would not notice until literally months later and be absolutely mortified about my apparent rudeness of never thanking her.)

I still am not really happy with how that project came out. I still had (and have) a lot to learn, and it shows. I have, in no way, become an amazing comic artist overnight. I wasn’t expecting to.

But that short email exchange, falling on that weekend; it felt special. It felt like some speck of proof that I was doing the right thing. That things could actually go well in my life again. That if I kept going, I might actually get somewhere that I wanted to be. That maybe I really could make The Mixtape Project happen, if I just kept at it here.

And then I found out that in the fall, Ngozi would be the SEQA mentor.

Unfortunately by the time I had all the details about how to apply, the quarter had started and there were only a couple of weeks before it was due, and the only pages I had even anywhere close to being portfolio ready were either my research comic or a few older Check Please fan comics, none of which I would even have considered putting in that portfolio (I’m not 100% certain it would actually have come across as sucking up but it sure felt like it would have). And despite my best efforts, it just wasn’t possible, with how slow I work and having to keep up with classwork, for me to get a portfolio ready in time.

That hurt for a while. I felt like I had this clear sign of perfect timing. How could I pass up that chance? How could I forgive myself for not doing everything I could to earn that experience? How was I not letting Emma down if I ruined this opportunity?

It took a while to get out of that negative thought spiral. But I did, and it’s still a bummer, but it’s okay.

And something that really helped?

In October, Ngozi still came to campus to give a lecture. And that would have been good enough; just sitting in on that helped me feel excited, encouraged again. But then, after the lecture (with my amazing roommate waiting patiently behind with me, to make sure I didn’t actually have a panic attack on the way home) I got to talk to her.

We all hope to one day get to talk to the people who inspired us, whose work we love, to tell them how much they mean to us. And yes, I was a little version of starstruck.

But that wasn’t why I was shaking. That wasn’t why I told her I was going to do my best to get this out without crying (and I did, I’m proud to say).

It was because I had the opportunity, while at the school that had given me a chance to start my life again, to thank the woman who was in all likelihood, one of the main reasons I was even still alive. If it had not been for Check Please I wouldn’t have had that good thing to keep sharing with Emma. I wouldn’t have found sequential art, at least not for a while longer probably. I wouldn’t have been able to finally picture a future I wanted to get to.

And I’ll be honest, I don’t remember 90% of what I actually said that night to Ngozi.

But I told her my story. I told her about Emma. About how Check Please was the last thing we got to share. I thanked her. And she was wonderful and kind and emotional and hugged me a couple of times, and even though I don’t remember a lot of what I actually said; it was something that will be one of the most important, affirming moments of my life.

I didn’t have a panic attack on the way home. I somehow managed to not cry until we were back to our dorm. But I was stunned.

Not even because of the amazing moment I had been able to have with Ngozi.

But because it hit me.

I was doing it. I was there. I had actually made it this far.

Somewhere that just over a year ago I never would have believed was possible.

A time when, two years before, I hadn’t even been sure I could make it to alive.

That weekend was my 24th birthday. And it was the first birthday since I left UNCA at 19, that I didn’t just hate the fact that I was getting older. That I was moving away from the happiest parts of my life so far.

Yes it still hurt getting further from Emma, putting another tick on the years that I got that she didn’t.

But I was actually finally excited at the idea of even having a future, let alone having an idea of what it could be.

February was a difficult month for me. I have another (entirely way too long) post about why everything that happened with RWBY and Fairgame was so difficult for me, but to put it simply; my hope for the future was shaken.

I was back in the toxic negative thought spirals I had fought for years to train myself out of.

I was seeing Emma, or her brother, or her mom, in crowds; something I hadn’t experienced since the first few months after the crash. I was in one of the biggest crisis moments I’d had since Emma’s death.

But I was more experienced than when I was 20.

It wasn’t fun, a lot of it probably wasn’t the ideal way to cope, but I did it. And I kept up with my work. I isolated more, but not completely. I made myself vent on snapchat or tumblr, and not worry about oversharing or annoying people, because it was either get it out or let it fester in my head. And I couldn’t afford to let that happen.

In mid March, I made a pitch packet for my comic scripting final.

It was for The Mixtape Project. It was hard, and nerve-wracking, and there’s still mountains of work to be done.

But after my initial synopsis (first of like seven versions, cause trying to put this thing in a good synopsis format is a nightmare) my professor told me that he thought my story had potential.

That he could see it being published. He suggested, knowing that I was planning on taking his advanced scripting course this quarter (hey remember how mid march was only a few weeks ago?? Huh?? wild), that I keep working on it, and see about taking it to Editor’s day (SEQA students’ opportunity to basically pitch themselves and their ideas to publishers).

Now, my professor is by no means an overly harsh critic, and is plenty supportive in general.

But I also knew that that was not just something he said to students all the time. That he meant it.

Editor’s Day (now online) is in mid May. The week of the 4th anniversary of Emma’s death, to be exact.

Everything is a mess right now, and I’m stressed and tired and scared and heartbroken (this will be the first time since I was 9 that I have not had Merlefest; the highlight of my year, and since Emma’s death; the last big happy thing before I plunge into the nightmare that is May).

Tuesday will come. Check Please will end. I will continue to support Ngozi and her work after Bitty’s story ends.

But it will be sad. It won’t be easy.

This thing that has been my tether to the most important person in my life, will still be there, but it will be over.

It will have a concrete end. It will no longer be part of the future I am pushing towards.

But I am a different person than the shattered kid who wrote this post four years ago.

I’m not who I was before Emma died. I never will be. I’d never try to be. I want Emma back more than anything. But that won’t happen. And as long as this is all real, I never want to pretend this didn’t happen.

That I didn’t shatter in a way that will never heal like people expect.

I’m still all those shattered pieces that wrote this post. Maybe a few have had the edges dulled, maybe I’ve lost a few, glued a few together perfectly, maybe picked up a few stray pieces that didn’t come from the me from before.

But I will be those shattered pieces for the rest of my life.

They won’t magically fuse back together. I work every day to hold them, to keep myself in some shape that resembles a functioning person.

Some days I fail. Some days, I am too tired to even try. Some days, I am so angry, I’d rather hurl the pieces at whatever power or fate or god or chaos decided that I got to live and she didn’t.

But those days pass.

And I learn how to hold the pieces better, how to avoid the sharpest edges, how to take care of the wounds when I inevitably cut myself on one, how to allow other people to help me hold them, how to accept that some pieces may feel safe and smooth and comforting but they are traps, illusions that are the easy way to do things, but not the healthy way, not the way that will help me achieve my goals.

That person, made of all those unholdable pieces, four years ago, was staying alive for everyone else but themself.

And some days I still am.

For my parents. For Emma. For all the other queer, mentally ill, grieving kids and young adults and just people, who are looking for the same representation I was, who feel as alone as I still do so often.

But some days.

On those really good days.

I’m alive, carrying all those pieces, just because I want to be. For me.

I want to spin around in the morning, singing along to my bluegrass spotify. I want to get excited over finally figuring out how to write that line that was giving me so much trouble, or finish that sketch that I never thought I could manage. I want to hope that despite how awful everything seems, there’s still a good future out there. It’s still possible to be happy some days.

I want to cry because I get to see Jack and Bitty get the happy ending that me and Emma didn’t.

And now, unlike that version of me from four years ago, when it ends, I will have things still.

Things that I have worked everyday to reach, to deserve, to hold out to people and say

“Hey, sometimes everything hurts and you know that things will never be what they were, and parts of you will always miss that. But there are still things you can find that hurt less, that ease the hurt, that teach you how to better hold the hurt, to stop trying to say it doesn’t exist or trying to get rid of it completely and hating yourself when you can’t. You can still be hurt, be irreparably broken in so many places, and still find the happy things. You are still worthy of love, no matter how broken you are. Your worth is not tied to how much you are able to heal. You are worthy of so much love, just because you are still here, no matter how many tiny pieces you are in.”

The thing is, I will still always have a future that includes Emma. Because I couldn’t tell you exactly which of my pieces are from her, but so many of them are.

There is no version of me, from here on to the day I die, that does not have her influence embedded in every piece.

These days I try to be a little kinder to myself. It doesn’t always work, but I try.

Because, to Emma, I was Bitty. I radiated that “thing”.

Whether or not I saw it in myself, doesn’t matter, because she did.

But to me she was the one who radiated.

And she is a part of me. She can’t radiate that “thing” herself anymore.

But I can, at least I can try.

Because If this person I loved and trusted so immensely, saw something worth loving in me? There must be something there worth loving, right?

And if she is a part of me for the rest of my life, how can I hate myself? How can I do anything but keep going so that, even if just in my head, a part of her gets to keep going too.

My family and friends joke that every friend group I’ve ever had calls me something different. And really it’s not a joke. In middle school I was CB #4 (that’s a long, terribly embarrassing, story). In high school I was Pond (and many variations there of: Pondala, Pondy, Raindrop, Puddle, you get the picture). At UNCA, when I came out as nonbinary, I started going by Auden. When I went home it was back to Meagan; Meagan always felt right with my parents.

With Emma I was always Meagan. We were Meagan and Emma. Megma. Meagan and Emma have online adventures!

After she was gone, Meagan didn’t really feel like me anymore. I loved Meagan, I missed Meagan, I wished I could still really fully be Meagan, and I’m okay still being Meagan sometimes.

But that real Meagan. The Meagan that was Emma’s Meagan. Doesn’t exist anymore. I lost that Meagan somewhere in that first night of screaming and trying to break my hand against the wall, so I could just feel something other than the agony of Emma being gone.

When I joined a Check Please chat group, a few months after the crash, we gave each other hockey nicknames. I was Farley.

My second quarter at SCAD, I started going by Farley. It stuck.

That’s who this version of me is. This new artist, still figuring things out, but still going.

I may not always stay Farley (other than ya’know artist ‘branding’. We’ll see) but that’s okay. Farley is who I need to be right now.

Farley is who will finish The Mixtape Project.

(because of two people mishearing both my nickname and last name I will, at least once in my career, use the pseudonym Fartley McFarmland and no one will stop me).

I can’t imagine what, who, will come after Farley, if anything.

But Check Please will always be a part of making Farley, and every future version of me, exist.

I could go on and on about how beautiful this story and these characters are, how inspiring Ngozi is, how genius her storytelling is, how powerful and important her work is. I could go on for days about all of that. But this is already so long, and I know that so many of you can go on about that probably way better than I could currently.

But, as many of my professors tell us over and over, only I can tell this story. My story. Emma’s story. Our story. And it’s one I plan on telling for the rest of my life.

And Check Please, Ngozi, will forever be the thing that made that possible.

So thank you. Those two words that are way too small to say it all.

Thank you.

Every fic writer

Every artist

Every rper

Every chat friend

Every shitposter

Every theorist or meta poster

Every fan

Thank you.

B. “Shitty” Knight.

Larissa “Lardo” Duan

Adam “Holster” Birkholtz

Justin “Ransom” Oluransi

John Johnson

Ollie O'Meara

Pacer Wicks

Jenny and Mandy

Nicholas and Jean-Claude

Coach Hall

Coach Murray

Suzanne Bittle

Richard “Coach” Bittle

William “Dex” Poindexter

Derek “Nursey” Nurse

Chris “Chowder” Chow

Kent Parson

Alicia Zimmermann

“Bad” Bob Zimmermann

Tony “Tango” Tangredi

Connor “Whiskey” Whisk

Denice “Foxtrot” Ford

Fry Guy

Georgia “Georgie” Martin

Alexei “Tater” Mashkov

Sebastian “Marty” St. Martin

Dustin “Snowy” Snow

Poots

Randall “Thirdy” Robinson

Jonathan “Hops” Hopper

River “Bully” Bullard

Lukas “Louis” Landmann

(I’m almost certain I had to have missed someone)

Thank you.

Jack “Zimmboni” Laurent Zimmermann

Thank you.

Eric “Bitty” Richard Bittle

Thank you.

Ngozi Ukazu

Thank you. For everything.

For having my back. I’ll always have yours.

Always yours,

Farley M.

#Check Please #omgcp #my person #my writing #meagan and emma have online adventures #-slaps me- you can fit so many confused emotions in this thing

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biconpolo · 5 years

Text

Stupid Fucking Glasses

Summary: Polo’s having a tough time after Marina’s death, and it’s becoming quite obvious. One day he breaks down and reaches out for help. Christian answers.

Relationship/Characters: Polo x Christian x Carla(mentioned)

Note: polo-centric; post-season 1, ignoring the hints of a possibility of the trio getting together at the end, they broke up and stayed broken up after polo cheats w/ christian, ignoring everything from the season 2 trailer as this was written beforehand

inspired by a convo i had with @leaderofthebadguys regarding polo and his glasses in the flashback scene about pablo

tw: suicide mention, suicidal thoughts, murder mention

Polo had begun wearing his glasses again, something that had not been seen in over a year. This was the first hint that something was off. He had always felt as though his glasses made him look juvenile, so the replacement with contacts gave him a more sophisticated and professional outward appearance. Polo had not gone a day since he received his prescription without them… until now. Now he wore glasses almost daily.

It was a steady decline, not immediate or sudden, but after the first day he left the house in glasses, it just seemed easier for him to continue the trend. Some days he looked better than others. On those days he would smile, and it would almost reach his eyes. He was like a hermit over the summer holiday, only making appearances when his mothers or best friends needed him. One could chalk this all up to symptoms of depression relating to the loss of Marina. God knows he and Guzmán had been friends since childhood, so it made sense for him to grieve her loss to a similar extent.

From an outsider’s perspective, Polo’s life had been going downhill, and he seemed to be stuck in a negative spiral. His four-year relationship with his girlfriend ended, and she gave off the appearance of having no trouble bouncing back. His best friend’s sister had been murdered by his (friend?, ex-friend?, classmate?, ex’s new boyfriend?, something else?)’s best friend. It was a clusterfuck. An outsider would say: “No wonder Polo hasn’t put much effort in his appearance lately.” But the truth is far worse than that.

Polo no longer seemed to care about anything. It was hard for him to get out of bed, and he hated the sight of himself. Anytime he looked in the mirror he saw memories of himself sobbing, covered in Marina’s blood. It was enough to make him want to shatter every reflection he encountered. His eyes were dull, no longer the sparkling blue they used to be. His hair grew longer, and he didn’t seem to care. His mothers set up an appointment for him to get it trimmed, and he wouldn’t have gone if it weren’t for the look on his mother’s face when she reminded him the day of, when she said to “please try and leave the house today,” eyebrows drawn in concern and worry for her son. He did, and he made it to the appointment. The following days he was determined to try harder to hide his true mental state for the sake of his mothers and his friends. It’s hard enough to pull through such a traumatic loss without having those around you display zero apparent motivation to recover or even attempt to fight the depression. He tried for Guzmán’s sake. But Polo still found it too tiring.

He still loved his best friend, that was the sick twist. When he spent time with or even saw Guzmán he felt nauseated. Guilt would seep in. ‘I’m a terrible human being. I don’t deserve the love he is extending to me. If he only knew…’ Polo had seen Guzmán’s anger manifested in physical assault before, and there was no doubt in his mind he would be the victim of a far-worse outburst should Guzmán ever find out. Self-preservation alone kept him from confessing.

Well, that and his duty to protect his confidants.

Carla and Polo occasionally crossed paths during their holiday, really only at social events they had been forced to attend by their parents. Their families would not interact more than was necessary at such an event in order to spare their children: a greeting, small talk, and a parting. Carla would check up on him inconspicuously during these interactions, making sure he was maintaining the charade. This would remind Polo to fix his sad, drooping hair and smile a bit more. Of course, these smiles never reached his eyes, but it’s the thought that counts. Every interaction with Carla made his heart feel like it was being squeezed as he was unable to run into her arms and cry, releasing all the frustration and fear pent up inside him. But she wouldn’t have had it. They were no longer together. She had made that perfectly clear.

Sometimes Carla would bring Christian along. On those days Polo would avoid the pair at all costs. It was all too clear to Polo how much Christian resented him, and he didn’t need to see his face and the clear rejection present in his body language. How could Christian have any positive thoughts about Polo when he is the reason his best friend is back in prison, wrongfully convicted? Those thoughts were too painful. Polo stayed away, and his mental state continued in its downward spiral.

By the time the new school year started up the difference in him was quite apparent. Polo’s stuttering appeared more and more frequently, so much that he nearly stopped talking altogether. Guzmán didn’t seem too into talking anymore either, so no one seemed to mind his silence. They set up a memorial to Marina in the main hallway of the school. Polo refused to look at it. Rarely a day went by when Polo showed up to Las Encinas without glasses.

Polo had gotten lazy. He was too tired, too tired to care what people thought, too tired to care if people found out. He couldn’t live with himself anymore. He was a monster, and he couldn’t stand himself.

It was hard. Polo was constantly ready for someone to come into class and announce that he was the murderer. And he wouldn’t have fought. They would find out eventually, and Polo would pay for his crimes. It was only a matter of time.

He rarely paid attention in his classes, and his grades started dropping to nearly failing. Everyone could see that this was not his normal behavior. Principal Muñoz spoke with him about making sure he was taking care of himself and attended the appointments with his therapist. Not that those appointments ever helped, because Polo couldn’t talk about what was really going on.

Seeing Carla and Christian together only made it worse really. They put on a show, Polo knew that, but it still hurt. He could see they weren’t fully there. They were off, Carla’s smile not as bright as it once was, Christian much less disruptive and chaotic than normal. It was Polo’s fault. And still he watched as they sat together, watched as they shared affectionate looks, watched as they kissed.

And then one night it happened: Polo broke. He was at home, his mothers off at yet another event for the rest of the night. He was grateful they were gone; he didn’t know what would come out of his mouth if he had someone to cry to. Today had been no different from the others; it just felt like too much. Maybe it was the way Guzmán had kissed him goodbye when he left school that day. Maybe it was the way Carla and Christian softly looked at each other during lunch. Maybe it was due to him accidentally seeing the memorial of Marina for the first time in a while. Whatever it was, he had hit a breaking point.

When Polo returned home he broke down immediately. Lying face-down on his bed he sobbed, his glasses thrown to the side. He half-heartedly tried to undo his tie, but gave up half-way through. He stayed that way for a while. Time passed, or maybe it didn’t; didn’t matter much to him. He tried to calm his breathing. His head was pounding and his throat sore. When his breathing evened out enough, he pulled out his phone. He knew he needed help. He didn’t know who he could turn to. The only ones who knew about his true situation would hate to hear from him, and if he confided in anyone else they would tell the police, putting both Carla and Christian in danger for helping him.

He knew it was a bad idea, but he didn’t care what happened to himself. If they refused to acknowledge him, that was that. Polo wiped the tears from his eyes, and returned his glasses to his face once again. He opened his phone to his group chat with Carla and Christian, unused since before the breakup. He started recording.

“H-h-hey. I know you don’t wanna hear from me. I’m sorry, but I need help. I-I feel lost, and I think I’m going crazy. I don’t deserve your help. I don’t deserve your love. I’m a monster. B-but everything hurts, and I can’t stand to live like this any longer. It’s all falling apart, and I feel like I’m drowning-“ He broke off, his breathing heavy with tears. Polo regained his voice. “Please.”

The message was sent as he broke down into sobs of anguish as he tried to escape the turmoil in his mind. He waited.

And waited.

Polo drifted off, resigned to the darkness and apathy overcoming him.

Suddenly he woke to pounding at his front door.

“Open up!”

Christian.

Polo made this way over to the door and hesitated. The anger in Christian’s voice only terrified him more.

“Polo, open this fucking door!”

As if on autopilot he reached for the handle and opened it. The other strode past and rounded on him. He looked like he would have busted down the door if he had been kept waiting a moment longer. Polo shut the door but was unable to meet Christian’s eyes when he turned around.

“You fucking idiot. What do you think you’re doing sending messages like that? Do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Huh? Did you even stop to think how Carla would react to a message like that? Do you know what kind of state she was in after she heard your message?”

This caught Polo’s attention, and his eyes snapped to Christian’s. They were fiery, full of anger and… fear. Christian was afraid.

“We were together, thank God, when we got it,” he continued. “Do you have any idea what that sounded like? She thought you were going to kill yourself! She broke down sobbing thinking this was a suicide note. She begged me to go check on you, but she was hysterical, and I couldn’t leave her like that. I have never seen her so torn up; I didn’t know what to do! And now I’m here, so I’m gonna ask again. What. The fuck. Were you thinking?” Christian stared at Polo, breathing heavily. He must’ve sped straight from Carla’s house.

Polo’s eyes had never left Christian’s, and when he heard how his ex-girlfriend had reacted to his message his eyes had begun to sting. That was all he was ever good for. All he ever did was hurt others. Why did he think they were going to be able to save him? He could never be saved. All he could do was hurt people.

Christian stared at him, eyes cold, waiting for an answer.

Polo took a breath. And then another. He tried to respond. He really did. No words came. He looked away.

Christian fumed. “What the fuck did you mean? You don’t deserve our help? What? Did you think you were in this on your own? Are Carla and I not a part of this at all? Have we not sacrificed anything? Does it mean nothing to you that this has been been eating away at us all summer too? You’re not the only one who’s hurting, Polo. Honestly, you’re just a coward. You’re a coward, and I can’t fucking stand what you’re putting us through. And now you act like the burden is all on you?? My fucking best friend is in jail for something you did.”

“Then why are you here?” Polo had found his voice. “Why do you care? I-I said it before. I don’t deserve your help. I ruined your friend’s life. Why should you forgive me for that? I don’t understand why you haven’t run off to the police yet. P-probably to protect Carla, but you know I wouldn’t hurt her. I would never bring her further into my m-mess.” He took a breath, as if he was steeling himself. “Actually, please, do me a favor. Go to the police now. Tell them I did it. Tell-tell them you didn’t know anything until now, b-but the voice message prompted you to come see what I was talking about, and I confessed to you, so you immediately ran off to the police. Then both you and Carla are safe, Nano gets out, and I get what I deserve.” He sounded so defeated, so tired.

“Are you an idiot?” Christian spits out. “Seriously, are you fucking stupid? Why would I do that?”

“Because you hate me and what I’ve done to you.” Some fire returned to Polo’s voice. “So, please, just go. I-I won’t mention you; I won’t mention Carla. I’ll say I did it all on my own; I promise you. I just can’t do this anymore.”

“Shut up. Honestly, Polo, just shut the fuck up. Are you for real right now? Okay, yeah. I’m pissed Nano had to take the fall. I’m pissed you got us into this mess. I’m pissed that the system completely fucks over whoever they feel like, especially if the poor sons of bitches can’t pay them off. I’m pissed that I’m worried about you. And I’m pissed that Carla still cares so fucking much about you. But there’s gotta be another way to get him out. There has to be a way. Yeah, it’s terrible, and there are times I hate you for what you’ve done to completely screw my life over. There are times I wish Carla and I could actually work out or even attempt a stable relationship, just the two of us. There are times I really wanna cut the charade, but….” He trailed off, breathing heavy, as if his mind had just caught up to what he was saying.

“But…?” Polo prompted. “Why can’t you turn me in? Why are you here then? Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like it was really just for Carla’s sake.”

Christian was silent for a moment. His eyes drifted around the room as he searched for an answer. Exhausted, he breathed,“Why can’t I fucking hate you?”

Polo took in a shaky breath. “I murdered my best friend’s sister. What’s wrong with me? What kind of fucking monster can live with himself after he does something like that?” Polo’s legs started to shake, and he dropped down onto the sofa, unable to hold himself up any longer. Tears began to spill. He breathed. “Carla was right. I-I do want to kill myself. W-what’s the point of living knowing I ruined the lives of everyone I care about? I don’t deserve to live after doing that…”

Christian crouched down in front of Polo, and clasped their hands together as tears started to burn his eyes as well. “Fuck… Polo, don’t you dare cry. Stop crying right now, and listen to me, okay? You’re not a monster. You’re wonderful and brilliant and emotional. You love fiercely. And we need you here. I… I need you here.” His eyes glowing with a soft passion fully directed at Polo, urging him to understand. “So don’t you dare say any of those things. Don’t you dare kill yourself.”

Polo leaned forward, towards their clasped hands, towards Christian, and leaned his head against the other’s shoulder. “I just wanted us to be together.” Polo continued to sob. “That’s all I wanted. I never tried to hurt Carla. I never tried to hurt you. I sure as hell never wanted to hurt Marina. But I f-f-failed. Everything fell to shit, and I can’t handle trying to pick up all the pieces anymore. All I do is hurt people. The world is better off without monsters like me. You’re better off without me, both of you…. A-and what would be the point of living without you?” He trailed off.

“You fucker, you’re not allowed to die, and you’re sure as hell not allowed to turn yourself in,” Christian scolded the young man in front of him, grasping his hands with newfound passion, forcing Polo to lean back so they could meet eyes. “You know what? I don’t care if I’m better off without you! I don’t care that you made terrible mistakes! What I do care about is you!” He brought his hands up and held Polo’s face, urging Polo to look at him. “So don’t you dare die. Don’t you dare leave me.”

As Polo brought his eyes up to meet Christian’s the latter surged forwards, and captured his lips with his own. When they separated, Christian’s face softened, and his thumbs lightly brushed the other’s cheekbones, lightly bumping the frames on Polo’s face as they wiped his tears away.

“Do you understand what I’m saying now?” His voice gentler than ever before.

Polo stared, stunned, unable to believe what had just happened. The two gazed at each other for a moment.

Suddenly Polo regained his senses and lightly removed Christian’s hands from his face, pulling away. “You can’t do this to Carla. She doesn’t deserve this. Go and be with her. Check up on her; make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t want me; she can’t trust me. It’s no use getting our hopes up.” He sniffled, trying to regain his composure, a fake smile graced the corner of his mouth.

Christian threw his hands up in exasperation, “How many times do I have to call you a fucking idiot? She loves you. This breakup hasn’t just been bad for you. We try, and we do love each other, but there’s always sadness in her eyes. She misses you. We haven’t even had sex in weeks. She doesn’t say it, but you’d have to be blind to see how much she misses you. Is that enough proof for you? She’s crazy about you, man,” Christian grabbed Polo’s hands once more, “… and so am I.” He smirked, “Even with your stupid fucking glasses.”

Polo cracked a smile and stared back at him for a moment. “…For real?”

“For real,” Christian responded offering a small, genuine smile.

It was Polo’s turn to crash their mouths together, and he didn’t hold back, for once in his life. The two finally broke away smiling.

“So now you see why you have to keep living. You can’t give up, and you can’t turn yourself in. I don’t know what I’d do with myself without you here.” Christian’s serious tone was not dulled by his joy. “We’re gonna keep going, and we’re gonna get through this. You’re not going to jail. You’re worth more than all the pain and troubles caused by that one disaster of a night.”

Polo looked at their joined hands and rubbed his thumbs along the other’s hands thoughtfully. He finally spoke: “Will you ever be able to forgive me?” A hesitant look in his eyes as he looked at Christian, waiting for his answer.

“Babe, the only way you’re not forgiven is if you don’t come here and kiss me right now,” he smirked before softening for a moment. “You’re safe; we’ve got you. We’ll get through this together.”

Polo nodded, feeling a sense of relief for the first time in months.

“Besides, we do have quite a bit of making up to do.”

Polo smiled back and leaned toward Christian, “Yes, we do.”

#elite netflix #polo benavent #christian varela #polo x christian #polo x carla x christian #polian #labels are for clothes #elite fanfic #Fic #mine #i actually kinda like this as someone who doesn't really write at all #suicide mention tw #suicidal thoughts tw #murder mention tw #obvs

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lacrossepapi · 5 years

Text

Fragility

@steterweek day six: the bite was a proposal

Just a warning for everyone this is pretty heavy and angsty! Also some Gore!

Ao3 link| words:

“You must be Stiles.” The words fond and amused.

“You’re the clever one, Stiles.” Pleased words accompanied by a surprisingly soft grip on his chin despite the claws digging into his skin.

“I like you, Stiles.” This time the words were whispered like a lover’s caress against the sliver of skin peeking out from his sleeve.

“Yes or no, Stiles?” Words delivered with impatience and demanding, but with no heat.

Odd that Stiles found himself thinking of the time he’d made a choice, as he lay bleeding out in the middle of Shakespeare Park knowing he’d never get to make another choice again, much less take Peter up on his offer from so long ago.

How many times had he said “No” this time?

How many times had he screamed it?

How many times had he prayed that one of his pack members could hear him?

He didn’t even know who he was praying to, he hadn’t believed in a higher power since the last time he’d seen the inside of the hospice.

Maybe that’s why his prayers went unanswered.

A chuckle ripped through his shredded chest causing blood to well up in his throat. He spit it out as best he could and tried to get his cold, numb hand to work. He wanted to say goodbye to his father, but did he want his father’s last memory of his only child be the sound of him dying?

No, that wouldn’t do at all. He slowly wormed his hand into his back pocket, the phone slippery with blood.

He sends what he thinks is a goodbye text to his father, but he couldn’t really be sure through the tears, blood loss going to his head, and blood staining everything. Then as his head swam with the ever approaching black out before death he decided to call Peter Hale. A man he hadn’t seen since he’d left for college two years ago. A man that Stiles was thinking about a lot in his last moments.

What if Stiles had said yes four years ago?

What if Stiles had left with Peter to travel the world two years ago?

What if Stiles had been able to call him sooner?

“Stiles? How lovely to see your name on my phone. I’m actually on-”

“Stiles why does your breathing sound like that? Stiles! Why can’t I hear your heartbeat through the phone?!”

The dying human could hear Peter growing more frantic with each breath that wetly fell from his lips, but he didn’t think he could speak even if he tried.

“Stiles please answer me. Where are you?” Peter’s voice sounded wet too.

It wasn’t funny, it really truly wasn’t funny, but Stiles found a giggle bubble out of him. It didn’t really sound like a laugh, but he didn’t really think it was funny that he wasn’t going to die alone and yet he couldn’t actually speak to let Peter know he was dying.

“Darling I heard that. I heard your sound. Try to tell me where you are. Please Stiles. Please try for me.” Peter Hale sounding that broken should be a crime against humanity, and the sound of it tore at something in Stiles.

The ‘sh” sound that came out of him sounded more like a groan and less like the beginning of the word “Shakespeare”, but he was trying.

“Sh- what sweet boy? Keep going, please.” Peter was sobbing now.

Stiles hated that sound, hated it more than he hated almost anything in the world.

“Ache” The word came out guttural and broken.

“I hear you. Shake what Stiles? Shakes and Tots?”

“N-No.”

“Shake Shack?”

“No.”

“Shakespeare?”

“-es.”

“Okay. I understand. Shakespeare. Does that mean Shakespeare park just off campus?” Peter was always the second smartest in the pack.

“-es.” The ‘y’ sound was hard to make so Stiles didn’t even try that time.

“I’m almost there Stiles. I’m so close. Are you still in danger? Is it still there?” Peter was close? How?

“K-kill-ed” It fucking hurt to speak so much, but Peter needed to know that Stiles was going to die but at least he took the mother fucker down with him.

“Good boy. What was it?” Peter sounded more put together this time.

“O-meg-a.”

“Oh my sweet boy, why would you ever go after an Omega alone?” Peter’s question irritated the part of Stiles that didn’t care that he was dying, that only cared that no one thought he was an idiot.

An angry grunt escaped him followed by a pained groan.

“So not on purpose, an accident then.” Peter sounded angry now.

Peter angry brought back memories Stiles was almost fond of. He closed his eyes and let his memories roll over him in warm waves of contentment.

Stiles groaned, his head throbbing as streaks of light burned his eyes. He pushed through the pain and blinked himself into awareness. He was in a hospital bed, which made sense when his memories finally came crashing back in. He should've been dead, might actually be dead if he let himself go down that particular road.

"Son."

His father's words came out in a soft creak instead if the warm rubble they normally were. Almost as if the former Beacon Hills sheriff had cried himself hoarse, and that thought punched a hole through Stiles more than any supernatural enemy could ever hope to do.

"D-a-d" Each letter a dry rasp.

His father hushed him gently as he moved closer to hold his cheek in his calloused hand.

"Your throat was pretty torn up. Most of you was pretty torn up, actually." His voice lost volume leaving him to only mouth the last word.

"S-s-orry" Stiles needed his father to know he never ever wanted him to grieve a family member again.

Before his dad could say anything the door was opening and Peter Hale was walking in with two coffees. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, and at the sight of Stiles he shuddered. A shudder Stiles felt in his own chest.

"Good morning Briar Rose." Peter smiled gently at him as he approached.

"Name w-was A-A-uor-a." Stiles tried to snark back but once again was reminded of how sensitive his throat was.

"Yes it was but I don't think you're some beautiful, unknowable phenomenon. The other name suits you much better." Peter's gentle smile shifted into his typical know-it-all smirk.

Stiles found himself smiling as a string wave of nostalgia washed over him, reminding him of days spent researching or just talking with Peter.

Instead of trying to speak again Stiles just nodded at him before turning back to face his father, whose blue eyes were filled with tears.

"'m here." Stiles whispered, his numb hand coming up to rest against his father's arm.

"And I'm so glad for that, son."

Peter spoke up again, drawing his attention away from his dad, "You're probably wondering how I was able to get you here."

Stiles nodded again, shifting to watch Peter as the older man handed his dad a cup and both men sat down on either side of his bed.

"It was a serendipitous chance that lead me to visit Beacon Hills. I landed at LAX and was going to get a hotel room, but the flight left me with a need to smell fresh air free of the stench of humanity." Peter intoned melodically, almost as if he was a bard in the dark ages.

Stiles rolled his eyes, and immediately regretted it.

"So I started the arduous trip back home in the middle of the night, on a whim. A song came on the radio that reminded me of you and I suddenly found myself taking the highway that went by your school instead of the one that went straight to Beacon Hills. I don't know what I was thinking or why I was being so impulsive, you know I rarely act on impulse after the disasters of my youth." Peter said with his own eye roll.

Stiles huffed a breath of laughter knowing Peter was referencing biting Scott, but an image of Peter alone in a hospital bed reminder Stiles that much of his young adult years were spent in a coma.

"And then by some chance you called me. Not Scott, or Derek, or any of the others who could've potentially saved you." The look Peter gave him communicated that he knew Stiles hadn't called him to save him. He just hadn't wanted to die alone.

"You're alive right now because nostalgia and romantic notions of the past brought us back into each other's paths on the one night you truly needed me." Peter gripped Stiles' hand in a rare moment of tenderness.

"How?" Stiles was having a slightly easier time talking now that he'd worked his vocal chords a bit.

Peter's face shuttered and a small shiver went through him, "I regret not having your consent but I do not regret giving you the bite."

His blue eyes were blazing as he stared into Stiles' before flashing them red.

Something in Stiles snapped awake and a whine released from his shredded vocal chords.

Peter had bitten him, but didn't he say all those years ago that survival wasn't guaranteed? Stiles had seen the wolves say that if someone was too close to death the bite could speed things along instead of healing them. Peter clearly realized the risk was worth a try, either it took or it didn't. The outcome of Stiles dying was three out of four. A scary thought now that he was here and alive, he didn't want to feel that peaceful finality again for a long long time.

"I had always planned it so much differently. I had so many scenarios in my head, but you always did ruin my plans, clever darling." Peter smiled at him and Stiles remembered the charged atmosphere of the garage all those years ago.

The bite was sacred, pack was more than family and Peter had wanted Stiles since day one. Stiles wondered about the different scenarios Peter had drummed up for a moment before dismissing those thoughts to listen.

"Once I bit you I knew the change wouldn't be enough. I-" he cleared his throat before continuing " I hadn't seen that level of carnage in a long time. You needed a hospital and fast. I had to make a gurney out of tree branches and a blanket I found in my trunk, even with the gurney I still had to drag you to my car and leverage you into the bad seat."

Peter swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Stiles couldn't look at his father, he knew there would be tears running down his dad's face.

"Thank you." Stiles whispered.

Peter grinned at him, though his eyes were pained.

"Anything for you, darling."

"All those," a pause to work saliva into his mouth, "y-years ago, you offered more than pack." Another pause to lick his lips.

"You offered more than being a beta."

Peter sat frozen staring at Stiles in shock, the former sheriff's wet, surprised laughter breaking the tension.

"Hale, did you really not think he would research bite locations and their meanings?" Stiles looked back at his father, a smile on his lips at his father's words.

"You know?" Peter was like a fish out of water, flopping between the Stilinski men's gazes.

"Of course I know. He doesn't keep anything from me anymore. He figured it out right after you left." Father and son turned identical grins on Peter, though one was slightly hidden by a split lip and bruises.

"He whined and cried about not going with you for weeks after he found out he had denied you twice." This time only father grinned while son turned an afronted look on him.

"Stiles?"

Stiles didn't really know what Peter was asking, but he didn't think Peter really knew either.

His throat was beginning to hurt more earnestly so he gently, carefully lifted his hand to caress Peter's cheek before baring his wrist to the alpha werewolf.

"Yes." Stiles whispered his eyes burning supernaturally gold.

Peter's whole body practically lit up, a genuine, pleased smile stealing its way across his face before he bared sharp fangs and bit down gently.

#steter #peter hale #kyla writes #kyla creates #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #peter/stiles #peterstiles #steter week #steter week 2019 #the bite was a proposal #angst #gore

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tresinked · 5 years

Text

rules: repost, don’t reblog. just pick a muse of yours and fill it out.

muse: salem

BASICS

▸ is your muse tall/short/average? a little shorter ?? he’s about 4′4

▸ are they okay with their height? nope. he gets a bit of dysphoria because of it

▸ what’s their hair like? his hair is ?? pretty choppy !! while his brothers gf tried saving sals hair salem had cut it himself because his parents told him he couldn’t get a haircut. he’s done this quite a few times

▸ do they spend a lot of time on their hair/with their grooming? sorta ?? he doesn’t do anything but brushing it, nothing really special other than that. ▸ does your muse care about their appearance? yes ! passing as a boy is important to sal.

▸ does your muse care about what others think about them? read the one above. he wants to pass &&. gets pretty anxious when he thinks he doesn’t.

PREFERENCES

▸ indoors or outdoors? outdoors !

▸ rain or sunshine? honestly ? both !

▸ forest or beach? forest ! salem isn’t much of a fan of swimming anymore.

▸ precious metals or gems? gems !

▸ flowers or perfumes? cologne or neither.

▸ personality or appearance? both.

▸ being alone or being in a crowd? alone

▸ order or anarchy? quite honestly ? both.

▸ painful truths or white lies? both. he’d rather his parents acceptance even if it’s a lie than what he has now.

▸ science or magic? both ! he finds magic neat.

▸ peace or conflict? peace

▸ night or day? night. he finds it peaceful at night &&. likes watching the stars.

▸ dusk or dawn? dusk.

▸ warmth or cold? warmth. salem can’t stand being cold, while he can handle it.

▸ many acquaintances or a few close friends? a few close friends but !! he likes being inclusive, everyone is his friend at some time.

▸ reading or playing a game? both. he finds video games more fun though.

QUESTIONNAIRE

▸ what are some of your muse’s bad habits? cracking his knuckles, biting his pen, saying ‘ um ‘ &&. ‘ ah ‘, emotional eating, fidgeting, trying to change other peoples opinions.

▸ has your muse lost anyone close to them? how has it affected them? not really ?? but !! his father not accepting him is a technical loss so . . . it affects him alot. it makes him more anxious &&. even to doubt himself alot, it’s hard to grieve someone when they’re still there and okay.

▸ what are some fond memories your muse has ? his memories with his mom ! a specific fond memory is going to the zoo with her, &&. another, plotted out w @braneiac, is going cryptid hunting w him; that or watching the stars w him.

▸ is it easy for your muse to kill? no !

▸ what’s it like when your muse breaks down? salem tries to keep to himself when he breaks down to avoid too much attention. he tries handling it on his own, which is a very horrible decision considering that he’s a kid. he will also snap at people depending on who they are if they try to help.

▸ is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life? yes ! but not often, if there was one already it’d be dib since he’s known him the longest &&. he’s his closest friend. it takes alot to get him to trust you to that extent. ▸ what’s your muse like when they’re in love? he’d be really affectionate ! but i haven’t written him in love so truthfully i don’t really know.

tagged by: no one

tagging: @invds , @vortship , @tallst

#/long post #vi. character analysis / one day we'll reveal the truth

4 notes · View notes

originalhybridloverfics · 6 years

Text

Why Can’t We Be Like That Ch16

Summary: Felicity relives the worst week of her life. The loss of her father and son.

A/N: Alright, so I know it's been forever since I updated this. I worked really hard on this chapter because I feel it's a vital chapter for Felicity, what she's been through and how she's feeling. This chapter might need a tissue warning so be forewarned. If you cry while reading this than I did something right as a writer and if not then I need to work on my writing even more.

Trigger Warning: There is mention of stillborn, funerals and details a therapy session so if that offends you, I apologize.

“How are you doing today, Felicity?” Dr. Danvers inquired, looking at her closely. Felicity sat across from her therapist on the couch. “I’m good.” Dr. Danvers clicked her tongue, making a non-committal noise. Felicity pursed her lips before heaving a sigh, “I’m getting by.” she admitted reluctantly. Dr. Danvers nodded encouraging, waiting expectantly for Felicity to say something more. Felicity took a moment to think about what has been going on in her life since she last saw Dr. Danvers. “Sara and Thea ambushed me at lunch the other day and they were going on about how I needed to apologize to Oliver. Pointing out in their minds about how I was the one in the wrong all the while acting like they were doing me a favor.” Felicity felt anger churning in her stomach just thinking about it. “As people, we hate to admit when we’re wrong or our own faults.” Dr. Danvers told her. “It sounds to me that your friends are projecting. If they can get you to believe you were in the wrong then they don’t have to admit that they were the ones who were in the wrong to start with.”

Felicity brow crinkled. “So they're manipulating me?” “It sounds like their doing it unconsciously but I would say yes.” Dr. Danvers nodded, writing down in her book of notes. Felicity had become used to her writing down notes and no longer inquired about what exactly she was writing down. Felicity frowned as she thought of one person, she didn’t believe that was what he had been doing. “I don’t think that’s what Tommy was doing when he came to see me.” “Tommy?” Dr. Danvers repeated, she tilted her head with a look of curiosity. “Yes, Oliver’s best friend.” Felicity clarified. “I’ve known him a long time and I’ve always thought of him as a good friend. He was always so welcoming to me when I first started seeing Oliver in high school.” “And why did Tommy come to see you?” Dr. Danvers questioned. “He wanted to apologize for not being there for me more. For being a bad friend.” Felicity had felt, lighter somehow, it felt good to have someone who was close with Oliver not blame her for what happened. “I think the surprising part is that he didn’t have an ulterior motive. It wasn’t about pushing me into forgiving Oliver or giving him a chance.” “It surprised you that he apologized or that he did it without an ulterior motive?” “Both,” Felicity admitted, she had come to expect her friends wanting something from her when it came to Oliver. “but the thing is, he was more genuine in his apology than Oliver was. Tommy didn’t expect anything from me.” “And you’re wondering why when Oliver apologized he couldn’t be as genuine as Tommy was?” Felicity eyes clouded over with a look of pain. “What does it say when Oliver’s best friend can admit that he was wrong when he can’t and what Oliver did..” she shook her head. “It was a million times worse.” her voice cracked and she looked away looking out the glass window instead, she took a moment to compose herself. She cleared her throat before turning back to Dr. Danvers. “He left me. He cut tail and ran when I was still recovering. When he knew I was having nightmares every night.” her voice became sharper, underline with anger. “I was grieving. He knew I needed him and he ran away like a coward. He was supposed to love me yet he couldn’t be there in the worst time in my life.”

Dr. Danvers was silent for a moment, giving Felicity the time to breathe through her anger, finally, she said. “I want you to tell me about those times. I want you to tell me about the worse day of your life and the days following it.” Felicity frowned deeply. “Why?” “I want you to be able to accept the loss and process it in a healthy way and I believe it will help you.” Dr. Danvers said sincerely. “And that is why you came to me was it not? For help?” Felicity nodded slowly, just thinking about that day made her heart beat harder, faster in her chest and ache forming, tearing at an old wound that never healed. It started to feel like the walls were closing in on her, her breaths starting to come quickly. She closed her eyes, forcing her breaths to come out slowly, she counted backward until she felt like she wasn’t going to have a panic attack or break down right there. “Okay.” “Can you walk me through that day?” Dr. Danvers asked attentively. Felicity tried to push past all the emotion thinking about those awful memories invoked, her eyes glazing over as she let them take her over. “I used to have lunch with my dad once a week just the two of us. It was our thing.” she smiled faintly. “He used to watch the game with John and Andy every Sunday but our thing was spending the day out on the town then we would go out for a late lunch.” God, she missed her dad, she missed the small things with him, having lunch with him, asking how his day was, she missed how he always knew just what to say to make her feel better. Felicity thought back to her last moment with her father. “My dad was driving me home. We were talking about Oliver. I had noticed him starting to act differently, at the time it felt like he was pulling away from me, distancing himself from our relationship. I remember expressing my concerns to my dad..” Felicity threaded her hands together, looking down as she continued to speak. “My dad was so sure everything would work out. That Oliver would come to me on his own and tell me what was bothering him. He believed everything was going to be okay because Oliver loved me.” Felicity shook her head with a scoffed. Her father had been wrong. Oliver clearly didn’t love her enough. Not as much as her father believed. Oliver left. He still abandoned her. “I didn’t see the car until the last minute, I tried to call out a warning to my dad but it was too late.” her voice broke, cracking with raw pain, tears filled her eyes. “It hit us head-on, we smashed into another car and I remember being scared, I remember calling out to my dad, I remember being in immense pain and I remember the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was of my father. He wasn’t moving, he wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t…” Felicity fell silent, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, taking a moment to compose herself. When she felt like she wasn’t going to break down right there she breathed deeply, exhaling a shaky breath. ”My whole world came crashing down around me when I woke up in the hospital that night. My heart was shattered and I don’t think I was ever able to pick up all the pieces.”

Felicity tried to turn over, wanting to get more comfortable but felt nothing but pain, she groaned, her face screwing up, before she slowly opened her eyes, she tried to focus but felt disoriented by the white walls of the room, there was this annoying insistent beep filling the room, she turned her head and saw a heart monitor her brow furrowed in confusion. She looked around the room and her eyes landed on the chair by her bed, it was occupied by Oliver, his hands buried in his hair as he hunched forward. “Oliver?” Her voice came out hoarse and low, his name dragging out slowly. Oliver’s head snapped up, the first thing she noticed was how rattled he looked, his eyes were wet, his hair looked as if he ran his hand through it repeatedly. “Felicity, baby, you’re awake.” his voice held relief but it also cracked with sadness and it immediately had Felicity on edge. Her first instinct was to smooth her hand down her stomach, wanting to reassure herself her child, her baby boy was safe but she couldn’t feel the familiar feeling of him moving in her womb. Panic shot through her and she struggled to set up. “The baby? Oliver is he okay!? Please, tell me he’s okay.” Oliver opened and closed his mouth repeatedly but the words wouldn’t come to him. How was he supposed to tell her? How was he supposed to break her heart beyond repair? He knew she should hear it from him. She shouldn’t have to hear from a stranger but he couldn’t, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The words wouldn’t come. “Oliver, please?” Felicity's hearted pounded against her ribcage in fear, so much fear she felt like it was choking her. “Please?” Her breaths came quicker, she struggled to sit up, pain ripping through her body. “Felicity, calm down, you shouldn’t move too much.” Oliver cautioned stepping forward, reaching out toward her. She smacked his hands away. “Then just tell me what I want to know!” she snapped. “Is my son okay!?” Oliver fumbled, as Felicity monitors spiked. “Felicity, please, I need you to take a breath. I’ll tell you just..” The door to her room was opened and a man in a white doctor coat strode into the room, his face lined deeply in concern. “Ms. Smoak, how-” “My baby?” Felicity cut him off quickly, her eyes zeroing in on him with laser-like focus everything else falling away. He would tell her what Oliver wouldn’t. “Is my baby going to be okay?” “You haven’t told her.” Doctor Gerald asked, looking to Oliver. Oliver looked down in shame. “I don’t know how to.” “Will someone just tell me what I want to know.” she half shouted, voice hoarse. “Please, I need to know.” Dr. Gerald stepped up to the end of her bed. “Ms. Smoak when you were brought in, your injuries were extensive. We did everything we could to save both you and your child but were unable to do so. I’m afraid we were forced to deliver the baby while you were unconscious, but it was a stillbirth. There was nothing we could have done.” “No, you're wrong. My son is not gone,” Felicity said in instant denial, even as her eyes brimmed over with tears. “Felicity.” Oliver's voice broke. “Baby, he..he didn’t make it.” “No.” Felicity shook her head. They had to be lying. Her son wasn't dead. He couldn’t be. “He is not dead!” “Ms. Smoak, I’m very sorry-” “I want to see him,” Felicity demanded, cutting him off. “I want to see my son.” “Felicity. That’s not a good idea.” Oliver reached out for her hand. Felicity snatched her hand back the second his touch hers, glaring harshly. “I want to see my son!” She forced herself up, ignoring the pain she felt. “Ms. Smoak, you shouldn’t move,” Dr. Gerald stepped closer to her, placing his hand on her shoulder, trying to ease her back. Felicity smacked his hands away from her. “Then let me see my son.” “Okay, okay, just stay in bed. You’ve been through enough.” Dr. Gerald told her. “You’ll bring him to me?” Felicity demanded. “I will.” He nodded, he looked at Oliver. “Keep her here.” Oliver waited till he was gone before standing and perching himself on the edge of her bed. “Felicity, I know this is hard -” “My dad?” Felicity cut him off. “How is he?” “Felicity…” Oliver washed a hand over his face. “He didn’t make it.” “No,” Felicity shook her head, her face crumpling. “He can’t be.” “I’m sorry, baby but he was gone before he even reached the hospital.” A sound of pain escaped her lips as she hunched over, burying her face in her hands. “Felicity,” Oliver leaned forward reaching out to her. Felicity’s hands dropped from her face, gripping his shirt in her hands tightly, burying her face his chest, crying softly. “Ms. Smoak?” asked a woman's voice just a couple minutes later Felicity looked up as a nursed rolled a hospital bassinet in, she pushed away from Oliver and he stood up. “Felicity, this won’t help-” “I want to see him.” She cut him off, watching as the nurse picked up her son, her baby, swaddled in a blanket. Felicity's lip trembled as the nurse drew closer and she could see how pale her baby was. The blue tint to his lips. The silence of the room was like a knife to her chest. He should be crying. Why wasn’t he crying? The nursed placed her baby in her arms with a look of pity. “I’ll give you a moment alone,” she whispered. Felicity stared at her son, her baby boy and it was like a bullet tearing through her. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes were closed. He was so, so tiny, and cold to the touch as she trailed a finger down his cheek. A cry ripped from her lips, her shoulders beginning to shake. “No, no, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” “Baby,” Oliver’s voice cracked, he placed a hand on her shaking shoulder. “I know.” “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” She cried, leaning her forehead against her sons, tears streaming down her face. “It wasn’t. I was supposed to hear him cry for the first time. I was supposed to see his eyes staring up at me. I was supposed to protect him, keep him safe.” A sob tore through her. “I was supposed to bring him into this world, breathing. I was going to be the best mother I possibly could but-” she choked, her throat clogged with emotion. Grief. “I-I- failed him.” She cried. “No, don’t do that to yourself.” Oliver ran a hand down his face, wiping away tear tracks. “This isn’t your fault.” Felicity only cried harder, a heart-wrenching sob tearing from her chest. The very sound of it had Oliver turning away, his eyes shut tight. She was shattering right in front of him and he couldn’t bare to look at her, couldn't see the grief consuming her. She was never going to hear his innocent laugh, see him smile, she was never gonna know the color of his eyes. She would never rock him to sleep, listen to him breathe. She would never know the beat of his heart. There were so many things she was never going to get to do. Oh, God, she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go on when her son was gone. She was supposed to have years and years of memories, watching him grow up and she would never even get a single day with him. This moment, here, right now is all she is ever going to have. She cried harder, holding her son to her chest, sobs wracking her body. She wasn’t going to survive this, she didn’t want to. Her breaths came out in sharp gasps. She couldn’t breathe. Her vitals spiked and her doctor came rushing in the room followed closely behind by several nurses. “Ms. Smoak, I need you to calm down.” Felicity tried to take deep breaths but when the nurses stepped forward to take her son, she pulled back angrily. “No, don’t touch him.” “Ms. Smoak, it’s time for you to let him go.” one of the nurse’s tried gently. “I can’t. I can’t.” she shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t let him go. He’s my boy.” “Felicity,” Oliver whispered. “You have to let him go.” Felicity looked at him, eyes full of pain. “I can’t.” The nurse used her distraction and took her son from her arms, Felicity cried out reaching for him but Oliver intercepted her, pulling her into his arms even as she pushed and hit at his chest. “No, give him back. Give him back.” Her face crumple, fist closing around his shirt, her body shaking as she sobbed brokenly. “Please.” She wasn’t going to survive this. It was impossible. “My dad, where is he?” she asked brokenly. “I’m sorry, Baby, he’s gone.” Oliver’s tightened around her as her body shook with more sobs. He hated having to tell her again but it was like she couldn't accept the tragic news, refusing to believe what she was hearing.

Felicity had been home from the hospital barely two days and she thought she was going crazy. She could swear she heard a baby cry all the time but every time she followed the sound it would stop and she was cruelly reminded that her son was gone, and it broke her every single time. Even when she sat in the rocking chair in the already prepared nursery, she could hear a babies cry, echoing off the walls, her son’s cries calling out to her. She heard the door to the nursery open and didn’t bother looking away from the empty crib in front of her. “Felicity, what are you doing in here?” Oliver couldn’t even bring himself to step past the doorway. “I keep hearing it.” she murmured. Oliver felt a pang at how broken she sounded. “Keep hearing what?” “I keep hearing him cry for me.” she looked up and Oliver felt cold at the dead look in her eyes. “Felicity, he can’t.” he shook his head, sadly. “He’s gone.” “You think I don’t know that?!” Felicity snapped, her eyes instantly angry. “I know he’s gone. I don’t need to be told that. It doesn’t change the fact that I hear him!” “It’s your mind playing tricks on you.” Oliver finally forced himself into the room, moving to crouch beside her. “Baby, I know this is hard. I know it hurts.” “No, you don’t.” Felicity's voice was empty as she stared at him. “What?” Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Felicity, I lost him, too.” “It’s not the same. You lost him, but not like I did.” she stared at him, her face crumpling, tears shining in her eyes. “He was a part of me. It was my job to keep him safe and I failed. He died inside of me and a piece of me died with him.” Oliver reeled back at her words, stumbling back and staring at her. “Don’t you think I feel the same way? That I lost a piece of myself?” Felicity shook her head and stood up abruptly. “You don’t understand. And how can you? You didn’t nurture him, you didn’t feel every move he made. You weren’t the one carrying him so how can you possibly understand?” Tears streamed down her face. “Felicity.” the sight of her pain, tightened around his heart like a vice. “I’m sorry.” he reached a hand out to her. “Don’t,” she moved back before he could touch her. “Just go. I want to be left alone.” “Felici-” “I said I want to be left alone! Is that too much to ask?! Just go!” she turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. Oliver faltered he went take a step toward her but the sound of someone knocking filled the room, he turned after a moment leaving the room. Felicity wiped at her eyes which were wet with angry tears, she heard the cry again and her chest ached in response she stumbled toward the crib and stared inside the empty crib a knife to her heart, twisting and tearing, making her feel as if she was bleeding out. Her shoulders shook, her hands tightening on the small railing. Her body hurt but it was nothing in comparison to the grief that continuously ripped her heart to shreds. “Oh baby,” She turned to see her mother, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and Felicity couldn’t remember the last time she saw her mother san’s make-up, dressed in a large t-shirt and loose flannel pajama’s. She looked disheveled and Felicity couldn’t blame her. Her father’s loss was an ache only shadowed by that of her son but it didn’t mean she felt his loss any less. The sadness and sympathy in her mother’s eyes had her curling in on herself, her lip trembled and her eyes brimmed over with her tears. “Oh, sweetheart.” Donna’s own eyes brimmed over with tears as she rushed forward and gently pulled her daughter into her arms. Feeling her mother’s arms wrapping around her had her giving in to her grief, her knee buckled as a sob broke forth. Donna eased them to the floor, her arms never letting her daughter go as she stroke a hand through her hair. “I’m so, so, sorry, sweetie.” Felicity cried harder her arms coming around her mother and clinging to her, burying her face in her mother ’s neck as her body shook with the force of her sobs. “Mom, I don’t think I can do this.” “I can’t imagine what you're going through and I wish I could take your pain away. I wish I could fix this for you but I can’t.” Donna said, her voice trembling. It was a mother’s job to protect their child but she couldn’t shield her little girl from what she was going through. She could only be there for her as much as Felicity allowed. The best thing she could do for her daughter was not push her and just be there with her and listen, hold her while she cried. “I wish I was with them.” Felicity cried. “Oh, Felicity.” Donna’s tears slid down her face at those words and she instinctively held her little girl tighter. “Please, don’t say that. I need my little girl.” Felicity only cried harder, she understood her mother more than she ever had before. She needed her baby boy. The only difference was her mother had her. She wasn’t so lucky. Her boy was gone. Oliver stood in the doorway, his eyes casting downward looking away from the sight of Felicity clinging to her mother in grief. He wanted to be there for her but she wouldn’t let him. The worst part was, he was almost relieved that she clung to Donna instead of him. Every time he looked at her grief-stricken face he was forced to accept the reality that his son was gone. The life he and Felicity were building together was ripped away, leaving nothing but a cloud of darkness hanging over them.

When Felicity finally pulled herself from her room it was after her mother had left, she hadn’t seen Oliver since she told him to leave her alone, she was surprised when she walked into the kitchen and saw his mother pouring over papers, talking on her cell phone, Felicity caught the words headstone and engravings. What the hell did Moira think she was doing? “Are you planning my son’s funeral?!” acid weighed her voice down. Moira looked at her with a look that was pitying and Felicity hated it. She didn’t want anyone’s pity. “Felicity, I know you have been struggling to come to terms with what happened. I thought I let you focus on getting through your grief and I would handle all the proper funeral preparations that needed to be taken care of.” Getting through her grief? The loss of her son wasn’t just something she could just get through. He had barely been gone four days and she was to supposed to what? Magically be a functional human being? Fuck that shit. “I can handle planning my son’s final resting arrangements. Thank you.” she bit out. “I’m sorry if I offended you, dear.” Moira began. “But your just not in the right emotional state to be handling a task like this.” “Of course I’m not in an emotional state for this. What mother would be?” Felicity felt frustration at everything and everyone around her and no one more than herself. “I couldn’t bring him into this world with his heart beating but I can do this for him so back the hell off. I can handle the arrangements my damn self.” “Felicity my mother’s just trying to help.” Oliver cut in frowning. “Well, she’s not. She’s coming in and taking over the situation. And I don’t need her to. Did you tell her you were okay with this?” Felicity demanded. “That I would be okay with this?” Oliver hated the look in her eyes as if he betrayed her somehow. “She’s just trying to help.” “Of course she is. Cause nothing can be out of Moira Queen’s control. If something is wrong or not to her plans she has to come in and fix it. The hell with everyone else who is involved.” “Felicity, that is not fair,” Oliver told her coming to his mother’s defense. “None of this is fair!” she snapped angrily. She turned her eyes to Moira and spoke, her tone detached. “I appreciate you want to help but this is something I can handle myself.” “Very well,” said Moira who had remained uncharacteristically quiet. “I’ll just leave all these papers here for you.” she stood grabbing her purse. “Just know I will have the manor grounds ready for his burial.” “He won’t be buried on Queen grounds,” Felicity said firmly. “I want him buried next to my father. I don’t want him to be alone.” Moira stared at her a tense moment passing between them. “Very well. If you change your mind-” “I won’t.” Felicity cut her off, tone flat. Moira looked like she wanted to say something else but thought better of it, instead, she turned to her son. “If you need anything don’t hesitate to call.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek before letting herself out. Oliver waited to hear a tell-tale sign of the door clicking open and close before turning to Felicity, frowning deeply. “What was that?” “I was just about to ask you that. Did you tell her it was okay for her to just..step in and take over?” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to make things easier on you.” Oliver stepped forward. “Easier?” Felicity scoffed. “There’s no way this isn’t going to be hard no matter what I do. I can plan my own son’s funeral. It’s probably the only thing I can do right.” “Felicity..” Oliver stepped forward. “You're in pain all the time. I think you need the help ev-” “If I need help, I’ll ask for it.” She cut him off. “I’ll take care of the arrangements for my son.” “If you don’t want my mother’s help then at least let me help you.” Oliver reached for her. Felicity pulled away. Not wanting to be touched. She felt wrong in her own skin and she was so fucking aware of everything. She hated it on top of everything else. “I’ll take care of it. Just give me my space.” Oliver frowned, he hadn’t felt like he was crowding her and she shied away from him everytime he attempted to reach out to her. He didn’t know what to do. How to help her. He sighed, nodding. “Alright.” He didn’t want to push and if she wanted space then he would give it to her. He looked away from her, a weight weighing heavily on his chest but it was worse when he was looking at her. When he looked at her and he saw her pain and he didn’t know how to help her. He looked at her and he couldn’t help but be confronted with their loss. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of their son who was gone now. He felt grief but more than that he felt guilt trying to creep beneath his skin whenever she was near. He pushed it down and away not wanting to feel it. Unable to face the ugly emotions brimming at the surface. “I’m just going to step out for a bit,” he muttered. Felicity watched him leave refusing to move until she heard the front door close. She slowly took a seat at the table, sinking into the chair, she reached for the papers Moira left, peering over it. The words were a jumbled mess to her grieving mind. Her hand drifted down to her stomach more out of habit than anything wanting to feel her son kick. It was seconds before she became aware of what she was doing, her eyes feeling with tears when she felt nothing, a harsh reminder of her loss. With a sudden wave of anger, her hand fell away from her stomach and she swiped it across the table, sending the papers and the glass vase of get well and condolence flowers crashing to the floor. The vase shattered on impact, broken glass littering the floor, the water spilled across the surface, soaking the papers as the flowers scattered. Felicity ignored it all as she felt a new wave of tears overcome her, she leaned forward burying her face in her hands as her shoulders shook. It never stopped hurting and she didn’t think it ever would.

Felicity stared at her reflection, her face sans makeup, her hair falling around her shoulders, the simple black dress an ugly reminder of the day. Dark circles under her eyes, her skin pale, almost a ghostly white. Honestly, she looked like she aged ten years. The woman void of life staring back at her was practically a stranger to her. She didn’t know how she was going to get through today. She just wanted to shut the world out. She wanted to forget. Forgetting was easier than accepting the harsh reality she now had to live through. “Felicity,” Oliver stepped up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We have to go.” She nodded, slowly shrugging his hands off her and walking out of the room without a word.

Oliver’s hand tightened on the wheel of the car, glancing at Felicity every few moments. Felicity had barely spoken to him since their argument about his mother’s interference. The only time she did was to explain the arrangements she had made. She was sad and so broken and he didn’t know how to reach her and every time he looked at her this immense feeling of guilt overwhelmed him, weighing heavily on his chest and crushing his heart. He wished he could go back and fix this but he couldn’t and he didn’t know how they were supposed to move forward. He was lost. Felicity had always been his guiding light from the moment he allowed himself to get to know her, she had made him better. She always made everything better. But this she couldn’t make better and she couldn’t pull him from this darkness when she herself was lost. And he knew he shouldn’t expect her to magically make this better. It was wrong of him to have such high expectations of her when she was hurting. She was human just like him. Still, he wished she could be his guiding light like she had always been. He wished she could somehow help him through this.

Felicity held her arms around herself, ignoring everyone around her, eyes wet with tears, she bit down on her trembling lip as the priest read her son and father their final rights. Her mother stood beside her an arm wrapped around her, even as she struggled with her own grief. She felt Oliver reached for her arm, pulling it away from herself, taking her hand but her eyes never left the two graves. Her other hand gripped her dress twisting the fabric. She tried to push the pain away but when they lowered the caskets into the grave she felt the walls she built up, crumbling. She pulled her hand from Oliver, shrugging away from her mom as she stumbled forward toward the grave. “Felicity.” Donna stepped forward, reaching out to her daughter. Felicity shook her head, desperation clawing at her throat to stay strong. She couldn’t break down. Not until she was alone. She couldn’t let herself feel the pain eating away at her heart. She couldn’t show it. She felt arms wrap around her, the arms full of comfort with the same feeling of being held by a father. She turned looking up at Quentin Lance, his eyes full of understanding and empathy. “You don’t have to be strong for everyone, Felicity,” he shook his head sadly. “This is quite possibly the worst day of your life. It’s okay to cry, to scream, to feel pain. It’s okay to break down.” Felicity’s lip trembled as she stared up at her best friends father. “I can’t.” she shook her head even as the tears escaped, slipping down her cheeks her breaths came out in harsh pants. “Yes, you can, sweetheart.” he placed a hand against the back of her head and pressed her gently against his side the other soothing gently up and down her back. Felicity wasn’t sure what it was, she didn’t know if it was the fact that he was holding her as a father would or the comforting words he whispered to her in the most soothing voice she ever heard him speak with but she cracked. Her hands gripped his shirt and she lifted a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound of her cries. Lance tightened his arms around her, and just let her cry he looked up over her head locking eyes with his longtime friend Donna. “Thank you,” she mouthed to him, eyes watery and lip trembling, hating to see her daughter hurting so much knowing there was not a single thing she could so to make this better or easier and she was afraid if she pushed too hard Felicity would only distance herself from her. Oliver stood motionless watching as his girlfriend broke down, grieving the death of her father and their son. He felt a hand slip in his and he turned to see Laurel standing next to him, looking up at him. “I’m so sorry, Ollie.” Oliver nodded, pulling his hand from hers, missing the way her lips thinned, as he took a step back. God, he needed to leave, he needed to get out of here. He turned but he barely got fifteen feet away before his path was blocked, a pair of hands laying heavily on his shoulders. “No, Oliver, you can’t leave. Not now. You can’t do that to your son.” Tommy shook his head. “My son is dead.” The words came out harsh and he tried to push Tommy out of his way but he stood his ground his grip tightening on his shoulder. “You cannot do this to Felicity,” Tommy said firmly. “She needs you.” “She doesn’t even want me near her.” Oliver’s shoulders dropped, his expression falling. “And I don’t know how we get through this.” “She needs time. You just need to be patient. Let her come to you on her own when she's ready to let someone in. Ready to let you in.” Tommy advised, and Oliver had never seen his friend looking so serious, so understanding like he could relate to the loss he was feeling. “And you get through this together by being there for each other. Even when it hurts, when it's painful. When it all seems impossible. Just be there.” Tommy wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder steering him back toward the others. Felicity had her back to them, standing straighter her tears more under control as Lance held her up with an arm wrapped around her as the two caskets were finished being lowered into the ground. “Go to her.” Tommy nudged him forward and Oliver took several cautious steps toward Felicity, wanting to reach out and pull her into his arms. Lance released her, taking a step back. Felicity turned to Oliver, needing support feeling like she would collapse otherwise even if she didn’t want to need anyone because the one thing she needed most she couldn’t have. Her hands fisted in his shirt as she pressed her face into his chest, clinging to him. She only clung to him harder as his arms tightened around her. She pulled out of his arms as people started to come up to her expressing their sympathy and empty condolences before walking away. She barely responded to any of them besides a simple nod. Soon it was just the family and close friends remaining. Felicity stepped forward, kneeling between the two graves fist full of dirt in both her hands, a sob tearing through her throat as she opened her fists and the dirt fell into the graves of her father and son. She stayed kneeling in the dirt. She didn’t move not even after the grave was filled. “Felicity, C’mon, let’s go.” Oliver placed his hand on top of her shoulder. “Everyone’s waiting for us.” “You go,” Felicity said her voice barely audible. “Felicity, please.” Oliver's voice broke with emotion. “I can’t.” Felicity sucked in a harsh breath crying silently as tears slid down her cheeks and dribbled off her chin. “I’m not ready to leave him.” Oliver nodded slowly, he debated staying with her but just seeing her there, kneeling in the dirt crying at the foot of the grave of her father and their son had his chest tightening, feeling like it was going to explode with grief. “I’ll wait for you by the car.” Felicity said nothing, she just stared down, her hands digging into the dirt. She barely felt as raindrops landed on her arms, or the chill that filled the air right before the rain started coming down heavier, soaking her dress and making her hair stick to her skin. In a matter of minutes, she didn’t even flinch as a loud clap of thunder rumbled through the sky. She tensed when she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders. “I’m here for whatever you need.” her mother said soothingly, her voice wet with tears. Felicity turned to look at her mother, kneeling in the mud beside her, getting just as soaked. She reached over taking her mother’s other hand and clinging to it like a lifeline, a sob tore from her throat, shoulders shaking. Donna pulled her into his side and just held her little girl in the pouring rain, doing whatever she could to help her through the most awful experience any mother should ever have to go through. She pushed her own grief of losing her husband and grandchild back and focused solely on her daughter. Her daughter needed her. She could grieve later. Right now all that matter was helping Felicity.

Felicity fell silent after retelling the awful day of her life and the days after. It was almost like she was reliving all that pain, blame, regret and grief all over again. “And Oliver left not long after?” Dr. Danvers asked. “Yeah, he enlisted and left, he didn’t even discuss it with me. It was a decision he made all on his own.” Felicity rubbed at her forehead. Dr. Danvers was quiet for a moment until finally, she looked at Felicity with kind, understanding eyes. “What you had to go through was hard and I’ll be honest, I’ve seen women break from losing their child even when they had a husband, family to support them and make it a little easier.” she paused for just a moment, writing something down in her folder and closing it. Felicity dropped her hand down to her lap, linking her fingers together as she listened to what her therapist had to say. “But you didn’t break Felicity. You didn’t have a support system. When Oliver left you didn’t have a husband or a boyfriend to help you carry the loss and you forged ahead and you continued going on with your life, pushing forward even though I would safely assume it was tearing you apart. And I think you are so focused on bearing everything on your own that you couldn’t process your grief and you couldn’t truly start to heal and move forward in a healthy manner. When you think back on those first weeks can you tell me is there anything you would have done differently or changed?” “I..” Felicity paused to really consider her question. “I think instead of bottling everything I would much have rather say how I was feeling even if what I said was hard to hear for others.” She paused. “And looking back I would have been more grateful to my mother for being there for me even when I didn’t make it easy. No matter how hard I tried to shut everyone out she never gave up, she kept trying and never pushed. She just wanted me to be okay.” Dr. Danvers nodded. “It’s never too late to tell someone how much you appreciate them.” Felicity looked up at that nodding slowly. She could have told her mother how thankful she was but she had always hesitated, not wanting to bring up the past because it made her feel too much. Not wanting to open herself up to that pain but since Oliver came back that same pain, crept more and more to the surface every day. His presence a reminder of everything she had lost. “Is there anything you would have done differently in regards to Oliver?” Dr. Danvers asked observing her closely. “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I would have let him know what I really thought about him making a decision that affected both of us without me, what I really thought about him running away from his responsibility and the loss of our son. How he thinks just because he fought for his country it erases how much of a coward he was by doing what he did.” “And what is stopping you from telling him that now?” Inquired Dr. Danvers. “I don’t know.” Felicity frowned. “Our lives are so entangled because we run in the same circles. I guess I don’t want to make things more awkward for everyone else.” “Felicity, I understand that it’s your first instinct to put everyone else before yourself but that mindset has hurt you again and again and has held you back and I believe it is part of the real reason you are still unable to move forward. I think it would be better for you if you start putting yourself first.” Felicity knew on some level she was right but she had always put others before herself and maybe Dr. Danvers had a point, she needed to put herself first. Starting now. “Maybe you should consider telling him what you really thought about what he did, how you really feel about his choices.” Dr. Danvers said, reaching for a glass of water on the table beside her and taking a sip. “Maybe.” Felicity agreed slowly. Maybe it was time that Oliver learned his choices have consequences.

Felicity walked the familiar path that she knew like the back of her head, feeling the warmth of the sun against her skin, clutching purple tulips in her hand. Since she had started therapy she had visited her father and son's grave only once a week. She knelt slowly in between the two headstones removing the week-old flowers. “Hey,” she said softly leaning forward and placing fresh flowers on their graves. “I feel like every time I come here, I'm telling you the same thing I do every week and I think that has to be tiring or annoying for you.” Felicity fell silent for a moment staring at the engraving on her son's headstone. “It feels like just yesterday I lost you, maybe it's because of the therapy and having to relive the days after the accident that took you from me but when I think about it the grief has always felt fresh and brutal. Honestly, some days I don't know how I get up in the morning.” Her chest tightened with emotion and her eyes grew wet. “Maybe I keep doing my best to move forward and live my life because the both of you can't no matter how much I wish you were living it with me at my side.” She swallowed past the emotion clogging her throat and wiped at her eyes. “I miss you. So much. It's like an ache in my chest that I've learned to cope with. Some days are easier than others.” she gave a watery smile. “ I hope the both of you are at peace. I love you.” Felicity stood slowly, wiping grass from her skirt and nodded to herself. “Bye.” She murmured, placing a hand on each headstone, she closed her eyes and just breathed out slowly, tears biting at her eyes. “I will always love you. And I'm always going to miss you. I just want you to know that in case I don't stop by as much that won't change.” She dropped her hand and breathed deeply, turning and walking back down the path. Slowly moving forward and feeling stronger. While the grief was always still present. She felt like she could manage it better than before. She had thought she would feel guilt and maybe a little bit she did but it was drowned out by the knowledge that they would want her to be happy and not wallow in her grief any longer. And she was going to try her hardest to do just that. Living for them, striving to be relatively happy would be how she honored them. If only it was that easy but still she would do her damn best and she wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way of that. For once she was going to start putting herself first. Everyone else be damned.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I know some readers are frustrated with this story but this is a story of grief and pain, and healing, and its gonna take time. The events that happen in the story can't just be swept under the rug for a fast resolution. If you feel that isn't something you have the patience for, feel free to stop reading, I won't be offended. This story isn't for everyone.

#arrow #arrow fic #oliver queen #oliver x felicity #Felicity Smoak #olicity #olicity fic #fic: Why can't we be like that

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kentonramsey · 4 years

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Dispatch #009: Toward (But Never Back To) “Normal”

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I walked past my favorite coffee shop on Sunday. It’s been closed since the end of March and I can barely recall what it was like to go there. I used to go every morning, and if I didn’t, Abie would stop in on his way home from the gym around 7:30 a.m., and return with a 16 oz. latte. If ever he missed a morning, or I missed a morning, the shape of the day was incomplete. And here it’s been two months without that.

On Sunday, I tried really hard to remember what it was like going there—putting on a “coffee outfit” and then experiencing the simultaneous thrill of being dressed and the anticipatory buzz of imminent caffeination, and, for some reason, I recalled this one memory of sitting in the back of the shop, scrolling through my phone while picking my eyebrows and wearing an ivory cardigan with a doily collar and high-waist blue jeans.

While lost in this exercise, I experienced a new sensation where suddenly, life BC (before corona) wasn’t a memory the same way all the other ones were. It was a different entity. Almost like someone else had lived it. There was no through-line, stringing past experiences together with current reality, weaving it into the sweater called Me.

Have you felt this way at all? I mentioned it to Abie on Sunday and he seemed to know exactly what I meant. Now that I think about it, I bet this—the finite separation of time: before calamity, after calamity—is the way a lot of people feel after they have encountered a significant bout of grief. The loss of a parent, a partner, a child, any external piece of you, really. I guess I’m lucky because I have never experienced grief in this way. After a miscarriage, for example, I could recognize who I was before the loss and she was still connected to who I was after the loss.

But the reason any of this is noteworthy at all is because I’m not grieving. At least I don’t think I am. Am I?

I have known for at least the last three weeks to throw the term “back to” away when discussing the topic of “normal.” There will be no going back. Only toward, forward, to something… New? Different? I’m not really sure. And maybe the sudden red-sea-split of time is essentially an internalization of this acknowledgment. I guess the thing of it is, for as much as I navel-gaze and analyze and criticize and contemplate, for as much as I complained and could find the dark holes with as much ease as I could find a silver lining… I liked how a lot of things were—in my life, that is—before the pandemic. I wouldn’t mind going “back to,” instead of “toward.” Not all of it, but some of it. This is probably not a popular opinion to share on the internet, and it runs counter to the way I have recommended that we stop and think and sit still and discard the excess, the ways in which we have distracted ourselves from being able to see ourselves and finally, to confront the Big Bad Truth and do The Hard Work that is becoming our most righteous, highest selves.

But you know what? I have been doing that—while missing some things. And in the process, I’ve discovered a lot of new dirty laundry I’ll need to send out for dry cleaning (I’m just kidding, I will wash it myself. Delegating things I have to do, even though I can rarely delegate what I don’t have to do, is one of the garments that require washing), but I might be approaching a new stage of lockdown. And in this stage, I’m good. I’m tired of excavating even though it served me well for a while. I’m good. Or at least I’m harvesting what is good, thinking less about the things I want to change, the things I look forward to changing, and more about the things I had and knew and liked before the lockdown.

Like, for example, my work. The writing, the dressing, the partnerships, the team—all of it. And an excuse to put on something nice even when I don’t need to. I could always make the case. And my space! The world I get to have that is mine independent of my family. It adds dimension and perspective and endurance to the relationships between these walls. It also adds a bit of thrill: the extent to which I used to look forward to Saturday nights to get dressed, go out, and just talk to Abie. Damn, we had it good.

Have it good.

Time is different now. And maybe I am grieving how it was before because I know it won’t be the same. It can’t be. Even if I tried to restore the past, it’s not only too far removed from the present, but it’s also too foreign a concept. I guess it’s just that even though I liked it (dare I even say loved it), I’m not that sad.

I don’t know if it’s reductive to time this turning tide to the weather brightening up, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t help to watch the sun saturate the planters full of tulips that line the streets of Greenwich Village. If sitting outside on grass and watching my kids collect branches and then rub them against the soil, cleverly turning sticks into pens with which to write on each other doesn’t remind me of a Kurt Vonnegut quote I find myself coming back to every time simple pleasures trump complicated thoughts: If this—the stand-alone satisfaction of sitting on the grass with my kids—isn’t nice, what is?

Graphics by Lorenza Centi.

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Dispatch #009: Toward (But Never Back To) “Normal” published first on https://normaltimepiecesshop.tumblr.com/ Dispatch #009: Toward (But Never Back To) “Normal” published first on https://mariakistler.tumblr.com/

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vanquisher2099 · 5 years

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Part Seventeen: A Bartender Walks into a Bar

Maesin waited several minutes for the sound of footsteps outside her storage unit to die down before she emerged into the soft morning light. If she had been the sort of organism that required sleep, she would have regretted her decision to stay up late observing the movements of data, money, and personnel that made up Madame Midnight’s increasingly-expansive information empire, but as it was she merely felt a slight pang of annoyance that she still had to go to her cover job. What was the point, she thought to herself, of having access to so many favors and sources of cash when she couldn’t use any of it without attracting attention and getting herself and everyone else she gave even the slightest bit of a shit about killed?

A car was waiting for her three blocks away to take her to the bar, and she slid in and immediately overrode the automated driving software. One indulgence she allowed herself was driving. She’d done it a lot with Alayna, before everything went to hell, and doing so since everything had gone to hell was effectively a coping mechanism. The science community was generally undecided on the question of whether an artificial intelligence could actually contract PTSD or even grieve the loss of a loved one, but Maesin thought that in this case the science community probably should’ve just asked an AI. She liked to pretend, sometimes, that she didn’t know how long it had been since she’d last seen Alayna (down to the second, thanks internal clock), that this was just a temporary thing and they’d be able to meet up in a couple of days, that everything would somehow get back to the weird semblance of something routine they’d had.

It hadn’t been, of course. And it wouldn’t go back to the way things were, because even if the long-shot plan Alayna had insisted on not telling her the details of (yes, yes, J4D3 herself had insisted on not telling her the details of, and then promptly wiped her own memory of the details after leaving an apologetic recording to – who else – herself) actually worked, and they were able to meet again, too much time had passed between then and now. Plus, Maesin didn’t exactly have the warmest or fuzziest feelings for the woman who had wiped her memory and then, one hasty explanation later, left and ended up seemingly dead. It had taken two years for her to confirm that Alayna’s body was not in fact somewhere on the bottom of the lake, but was in fact walking around somewhere in the Midwest, but at least she had that.

The bar was, increasingly, becoming something Maesin considered to be a distraction from what the real important work was, which was conducting something of a massive plan B in case whatever the longshot plan happened to be didn’t pan out. That meant making Madame Midnight a little more aggressive in some of her dealings, and occasionally harassing whatever entity had taken over d3m3t3r’s operation in a bid to get them to show their hand a little more clearly. Added to that was her somewhat foolish promise to Jade that she’d find out who had sent the threatening letter and threatened to expose their true identities, all of which were not exactly pieces of information that needed to be publicized.

All of that, however, had to be put on hold while Maesin tended bar in a known criminal front, where occasionally – occasionally – people who knew the right pass phrases got put into contact with Madame Midnight, who nobody had yet figured out was the fucking bartender. That nobody had figured this out meant one of two things, as far as Maesin was concerned: she was incredibly good at covering her tracks, or perhaps humans were just that fucking stupid. Most days she tended toward the latter. d3m3t3r, she suspected, would have figured it out by now. She had, after all, discovered the identity of the first Madame Midnight all those years ago, an event which as far as Maesin was concerned had kicked this whole mess off to begin with.

Alayna’s voice echoed in her head. That’s enough of that train of thought, don’t you think? You know it just ends up driving you crazy, and you don’t need the distraction when you’re working tonight. Maesin gripped the steering wheel tighter. It was, she knew, a coping mechanism of sorts to hear her friend’s voice in moments of stress. Not necessarily a healthy coping mechanism, of course. Maesin figured that if it got bad she’d either disguise herself as human and see a psychiatrist or wipe her memory again, since that seemed to be past J4D3’s go-to plan.

The bar was quiet, which was unsurprising given the early hour. Maesin waved to her boss and took up position behind the bar, serving drinks to the few patrons who were conducting a business meeting, pretending to conduct a business meeting, or just blatantly starting early. Occasionally someone would come in and make a particular order which meant that their tip included a small data chip slipped under the bill. These chips were deposited into a small container by the sink which was in turn periodically emptied by another member of the staff, and so on down a line of dead drops until they would eventually wind up being deposited a few blocks away from the storage locker Maesin called home. It was convoluted, but it was also one of the things which kept her identity secure.

Some of the data chips would be job requests, some would be account information so she could collect payment, and others would be reports from the various operatives employed by Madame Midnight. Very occasionally it was a personal request from someone with whom the old Madame Midnight had been close, which Maesin had to honor to keep up appearances. The idea had been to have Madame Midnight’s entire persona stay more or less the same – even the storage unit had been one of Maddie’s old safehouses. On the off chance that someone knew that location, they’d only encounter one of Maddie’s former clients (Maesin) who was paying for the right to hide there. It was simple, as far as cover stories went, which appealed to the humans of the group (Maesin thought it might be too easy to suss out the lie, but J4D3 had signed off on it, and as pissed as she was at herself, she still trusted her judgment. Mostly).

“Excuse me,” a voice said, interrupting Maesin’s train of thought, “but you wouldn’t happen to serve drinks for those of us with, for lack of a better phrase, alternative senses?”

Maesin’s expression slipped into customer service mode, and she turned to the speaker, a woman on the tall side with a businesslike fringe of black hair, looked back at her expectantly. “Of course,” Maesin said, “we pride ourselves on serving clientele of all sorts.”

“Good to hear!” The woman said, smiling in relief. “Some bars aren’t so good about having things to offer full prosthetics.”

Maesin gestured to herself. “Some bars don’t use robots for bartenders either, yet here we are.”

This earned a look of shock which was probably not genuine from the customer. “Ah, you’re a robot! I was about to say that you looked a little young to be tending bar.”

“Yes, well, as you’re no doubt aware, they can make us look however young they want.” Maesin said with a shrug. “So, what can I get you?”

“Oh, I don’t care. Whatever you think I’d like, I suppose.”

Maesin nodded and mixed up something suitably expensive. She slid the drink across the bar to her customer, who smiled and saluted her with the drink before taking a sip. A delighted look crossed the woman’s face. “Well! They certainly have the right woman on the job. This is everything I never knew I wanted.”

Maesin inclined her head in thanks. “Just doing my job, miss.”

The sound of the woman’s laughter was musical and danced on the border of flirtatious. “I suppose so. I wonder if you couldn’t do me one more service.”

“Depends on what the service is.”

“Nothing illegal, I promise.” The woman replied, smirking. “I’m waiting for a friend, and it looks like he’s running late. Can you do me a favor and keep an eye out for him? I’ve got to duck out for a few minutes and I don’t want him to think I’m standing him up.”

Maesin shrugged. “Sure, I can do that. What’s he look like?”

“Taller fellow, got a little grey in his hair but not too much – what you might call dignified, if you were given to that kind of description.” The woman said, smirking a little. “Oh, and he’s got a broken arm. Should be easy to spot.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” Maesin said, agreeably.

“Great!” The woman drained the last of her drink and paid, leaving the bar with a wave. “Back in a few!”

Maesin collected the money (and the hidden chip), and returned to cleaning the bar. Before long, a man with a broken arm entered the bar and made his way over. “Dave! You seem to have been injured. What happened?”

“Oh, you know, hazards of the job.” David said, shrugging. “You still look too young to be working here, by the way.”

“And they still can make us look as young as they like.” Maesin said, rolling her eyes. “Either I need to get a new job, or you need to get a new topic of conversation.”

“Aw come on, it’s like our thing now. You know, instead of saying hello.”

Maesin sighed deeply. “Sure, whatever. Your ladyfriend, by the way, had to step out for a minute. She asked if you’d wait here for her.”

David looked surprised. “How’d you know…?”

“She asked me to look out for the some idiot with a broken arm.” Maesin said with a smile. “Not that big of a leap to assume it was you once you walked in.”

“And here I thought you were trying your hand at detective work.” David said with a smirk.

“Not programmed for it.” Maesin said, turning to grab a bottle of whiskey off the shelf behind her. “The usual, I take it?”

“See? You know me so well.” David sounded delighted.

“Oh,” the woman from before said, appearing behind David, “should I be jealous?”

Maesin snorted. “Not at all, miss. Dave’s too much of a pain in the ass for my taste – you’re welcome to him.”

“Call me Jill, kiddo. ‘Miss’ makes me feel old.”

“Could be worse,” David said, smirking, “she could call you ma’am.”

Jill laughed, and looped her arm through David’s broken one easily. “I suppose so. Hopefully you weren’t waiting for too long, were you?”

David lifted the glass that Maesin had placed in front of him. “Only just got my drink. Hope you don’t mind if I take my time with it, do you?”

“Of course not. Come on, there’s a table in the back.” Jill drew David away, leaving Maesin alone behind the bar again.

The rest of the night passed by uneventfully. Maesin had drawn the short straw that evening, which meant she was in charge of closing the bar down – which was, unsurprisingly enough, something she was generally willing to do. There was not as if she had much else of a social life to speak of – and if that meant that Madame Midnight was able to keep an unseen eye on this part of the operation for a little longer than she might otherwise, well, that made good sense. It gave her more time to think about what she was going to do about the fact that two of Madame Midnight’s agents were hanging out together.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected something like this to happen sooner or later. The problem was that using Jill Jaegerin had been something of a one-time deal, and David was not supposed to have made any kind of lasting contact with her. In fact, his specific mission had been to watch for the first sign of trouble and disappear as soon as it became apparent that Jill was making her move on the target, which he’d clearly decided not to do. Maesin wasn’t sure why he’d made the decision, but she hoped that the report he’d slipped her in the bar would shed some light on the decision. The problem with humans, Maesin was learning, was that it was difficult to predict when their libidos would suddenly become a problem.

It had certainly become an issue with Alayna. Maesin wasn’t jealous, necessarily – and she didn’t begrudge what Alayna and Maddie had with one another – but when shit had hit the fan, well, it had definitely made the both of them act a little unpredictably in the end. There was very little doubt in her mind that the ultimate plan they’d all settled on was motivated in part because of greater-than-usual concern for one another’s well-being. Then again, she – or J4D3, anyway – had decided to go along with the plan for similar concerns.

By the time she reached the storage unit, the sky was already beginning to shift to a grey dawn. The day’s reports had been dropped at their proper locations, except for the two reports delivered by Jill and David – those Maesin had kept with her to see the results as soon as possible.

The report from David was more or less what she expected. An explanation that he’d been caught off-guard by Jill’s infiltration, and as a result had been forced to engage. He’d added a comment about being open to the idea of working with Jill again down the road. Maesin snorted. That had been obvious.

Jill’s report was a little more interesting, in that it was barely a report at all. Instead, it was an image of the target (dead, obviously) and a note:

It’s not that I mind having people check up on me, it’s that you didn’t feel the need to tell me about it beforehand. That I might have killed such a delightful man doesn’t bother me too much – but if you fail to tell me the full picture beforehand again, I’ll have no choice but to hunt you down and explain my displeasure in person.

- Jill

Maesin read the note a few more times before plugging herself into charge with a snort. “Fucking humans and their goddamn emotions.”

Part Eighteen

Part Sixteen

#cyberpunk #vanquisher 2099 #serialized fiction #science fiction

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spicedmango · 5 years

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Let’s Talk About Death (Over Dinner)

Michael Hebb

On gauging someone’s readiness to talk: “You can be the change you want to see by extending the invitation and showing your willingness to talk, but that’s really all you can do.” PG. 24

“Despite the necessary ambiguity of advice in this book, there is one solid, golden rule that gets me through every difficult conversation about death -– or sex or drugs — with family, strangers, friends, lovers and even sworn enemies. I know that I need to identify and say the things I am afraid of saying. This is the tried-and-true method: to meet each person with radical vulnerability in these hard topics. Honesty and vulnerability are contagious.” PG. 33

Prompt: If you only had thirty days left to live, how would you spend them? Your last day? Your last hour?

Prompt: What foods do you remember a departed loved one cooking for you?

“One of the perennial pieces of wisdom shared by hospice nurses is to let our loved one know it is okay to leave us when it is time. Many deaths are prolonged by the sense that we need to stay alive for our family. Doing the impossibly difficult thing of letting a loved one knows that you are going to be okay will reduce suffering.” Pg. 54

Prompt: If you were to design your own funeral or memorial, what would it look like?

“... Because life is an incredible gift, and death helps us recognize this. We need more than a place to put our grief. We need opportunities to express our overwhelming joy at being alive, and we need to do it together.” Pg. 60

Prompt: Is there an excess of medical intervention at the end of life?

“... We live cures. We’re excellent at saving lives, but struggle to accept we can’t save everyone. And a good death is as important as a successful resuscitation.” PG. 65

Prompt: Do you have your will, advance-care directives and power of attorney complete and if not, why?

Prompt: What is the most significant end-of-life experience of which you’ve been a part?

Prompt: Why don’t we talk about death?

The message to shout from the mountaintop is not that the bad stuff that happened to you in childhood is going to kill you; instead it’s this: if you do talk about it, your chances of healing are much higher.” Pg. 98

Why we don’t talk about death: 1) the base-rate bias (we only provide probability for specific ages), 2) the normalcy bias (the belief that if something doesn’t happen to us, it never will), 3) the courtesy bias (we often state opinions that are socially acceptable, so that we do not offend the other person).

Prompt: How do you talk to kids about death?

“Death is a land that has no experts — we are all looking into the void together.” Pg. 108

Prompt: Do you believe in an afterlife?

“Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.” - pg. 109

“I’ve always thought life is like a penny,” Monica said, reflecting on the experience. “You can see one side or the other, but you can’t see both at the same time. This side is life, and death is the other side of the coin. But it’s all one thing.” Pg. 113

“Everything we say about death is actually about life.” Kyoto Mori pg. 116

Allie Hoffman - reporter with People Magazine (Covered Brittany Maynard)

“I try to ask myself every day: Could I live more like that? Could I acknowledge the fragility of right now? Could I stay on the lookout for a flash of sapphire under the dying leaves?” Pg. 123

Are you an organ donor? What surprised me about reading this chapter is the feeling people (in this prompt, they discussed teenagers) get when they receive an organ that saves their lives. It’s almost like a rebellion against their own bodies – because someone had to die for them to live. Also, the fact that people simply do not want to be organ donors (unless religious) simply because they can’t bear to think about it... despite the lives they know they would save.

Prompt: What song would you want played at your funeral? Who would sing it?

Prompt: What does a good death look like?

Prompt: What do you want done with your body?

“When we don’t know how to honor our loved ones, it adds immense confusion to devastating loss and elongates the healing process. If we know of a clear ritual to honor their legacy, if we know their desires, we have a powerful role to play.” PG. 149 

“Ritual is a powerful and imperfect science. Ritual and death have been fused for the entire history of mankind. Nowhere is it clearer than in a relationship to how we treat our bodies or our dead loved ones. As we consider what we want, it is important to realize that we are pulling from thousands of years of tradition.” PG. 151

Prompt: Are there certain deaths we should never speak of?

“When author and speaker Megan Devine talks about grief, she says that one of the most important things you can do is to be “known as the person who can withstand the details.” PG. 169

Prompt: If you could extend your life, how many years would you add? Twenty, fifty one hundred, forever?

“Consciously or not, we realize that life without an end would be come a flat, featureless expanse, just one thing after another, literally ad infinitude. Endlessness would suck the vitality out of our existence.” PG. 173

“We need endings. Because the most basic ending of all is built into us. My mortality does not negate meaning. It creates meaning. It is not how long I live that matters. It is how I live. And I intend to do it well, to the end. We are finite beings within infinity.” PG. 174

“To sum up this deep dive into life extension and primal fear: I hope that we can begin to be more clear: Are we afraid of talking about death, or are we afraid of dying? Are we afraid of dying, or are we afraid of not having left and authentic mark on the world? And perhaps we can shed even more of presumptions and anxiety and accept that it is enough to use have lived and then died. As Lesley so poignantly asked: What’s wrong with dying?” PG. 178

Prompt: What do you want your legacy to be?

“I don’t think anyone decides to have a child because they think it’s going to be easy. It’s all about accepting uncertainty. Paul was initially way more certain than I was — he even wanted to have twins. In Breath Becomes Air Lucy asks Paul, “Don’t you think saying goodbye to your child will make your death more painful?” And Paul responds, “Wouldn’t it be great if it did?” He added later, “We would carry on living, instead of dying.”

Prompt: How long should we grieve?

“Grief has no time limit, it is not about time. It is about letting go of a person we loved, a future that we imagined them in, and it also means letting go of a part of ourselves that we may be attached to. There is a wound that is created, and every wound heals at a different rate.” PG. 190

“It’s been said that we’re not as afraid of death as w are of grief. I think it is worth meditating on that thought. It is pretty immense.” PG. 191

“People will say to her... “My mom doesn’t understand how to be there for me. My best friend isn’t reaching out to me. My friends left me.” And Dianne tells them, not unkindly. “That’s the way it goes, sister, because people are people. In times of grief, choose your tribe.” PG. 192

“Accepting death doesn’t mean you won’t be devastated when someone you love dies...”

Prompt: What would you eat for your last meal?

Prompt: Is there a way you want to feel on your deathbed?

“Shame drips into every part of our lives, and death has some of the richest waters for it to dissolve. As bestselling author Brene Brown states, “Shame needs three things to grow: secrecy, silence and judgement....” “From a physiological perspective, shame throws us into flight, flight or freeze. It is not a state where growth occurs. When we shame each other around death, we literally suspend our ability to heal or grow.” PG. 209

Prompt: What would you want people to say to you at your own funeral?

“If I don’t know how to properly receive love, then what could I possibly know about being alive? I was only using one side of my heart –– giving love, taking care of people (and avoiding those who I didn’t want to love anymore). I had built up this massive muscle — unbalanced and in danger. I didn’t arrive at a pithy epitaph that day, but what this bizarre gift did provide was the clear directive that receiving love is where I needed to focus my attention.” Pg. 214

“What if, whenever possible, we leaned in toward mortality a little more?... What if we stopped pretending, until the last breath was drawn, that it was all going to get better? What if we gave the experience some space, not just for ourselves to grieve, but for the person who’s dying to grieve too?... It takes unbelievable gumption and heart to say, this is it, so hold me and tell me you love me. It takes strength to invite death in and to know when to stop raging against the dying light. To not put on a happy face and not to make any more plans together and just sit with the truth that one of you is leaving.” PG. 215

Epilogue

“It is a conversation that expands our understanding of compassion and has the capacity to connect us more poignantly than any topic I have encountered. As Ram Dass reminds us, “We are all just walking each other home.”

“It drives home the truth that there is no one way to end a conversation about death, and there Is no one way to talk about death. Death walks with us our entire life. The best thing I can suggest is that we all get better acquainted with our constant companion.” PG. 221

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walkingthroughthepages · 6 years

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One of my absolute favourite part about the holidays has to be the fact that it means seeing my family. Even though Belgium’s not really that big? All my aunts and uncles, cousins and their children are basically spread out of the entirety of it. So getting to see all of them? And at the same time? It’s busy, it’s loud, it’s madness… And it’s absolutely amazing to be reunited for the holidays!

I was offered these ARCs by Netgalley in exchange for a review. All opinions are strictly my own.

A Christmas Gift, Sue Moorcroft

The story

Georgine loves Christmas. The festive season always brings the little village of Middledip to life. But since her ex-boyfriend walked out, leaving her with crippling debts, Georgine’s struggled to make ends meet. To keep her mind off her worries, she throws herself into organising the Christmas show at the local school. And when handsome Joe Blackthorn becomes her assistant, Georgine’s grateful for the help. But there’s something about Joe she can’t quite put her finger on. Could there be more to him than meets the eye? Georgine’s past is going to catch up with her in ways she never expected. But can the help of friends new and old make this a Christmas to remember after all?

The opinion

Last year, I got the chance to read The Little Christmas Village, which was also written by Sue Moorcroft. At that point, I wrote something to the extent of me really loving it when chicklit actually has a story to tell. Basically, The Little Christmas Village had character development, so many people to fall in love with, and of course: Christmas! Well, guess what? Sue Moorcroft’s done it again with A Christmas Gift. First of all, there’s Georgine who is, just weeks before Christmas (and, let’s be real, in the months before that as well), faced with money-problems and all the bad memories that go hand in hand with that. She starts out as someone who lets herself be manipulated quite easily, maybe even walked over (a realisation she reaches about halfway through the book!). In just a couple of weeks, though, she is faced with elements of various stages from her past – ranging from the “okay” to the “terrible” that face her to do a lot of growing. Two of the main reasons for that growth? Joe, who, as it turns out, is an old friend and has a bit of a hidden past ànd present himself. And Blair, Georgine’s sister who is trying so hard that even when things went terribly wrong? I couldn’t help but root for them. That is probably one of the main reasons I loved this book either way: whenever things go wrong (and, trust me, that happens quite regularly)? You can still see how those situations originated, you understand the why and the how. Sue Moorcroft has that most precious of gifts for an author of knowing just when to give up what piece of information to make for the most natural of progress – in relationships as well as in plot! What’s more, I’ve noticed recently that I’m finding it increasingly difficult to find books, especially cosy and fluffy books, that really hit the spot for me. I mean, if your characters fall in love, fine, but at least show your reader why, you know? Reading A Christmas Gift came as something of a relief, in that aspect. Sue Moorcroft manages to get the set-up of every piece of her story just right so that when fear, betrayal and joy hit? They hit not only the characters, but you as well. So if you’re in need of the kind of book that’ll have you smiling along, rooting for that happy ending and definitely some Christmas spirit? This is the book for you!

Rating: 3.5/5 (Goodreads)

Another Day in Winter, Shari Low

Story

On a chilly morning in December forever friends Shauna and Lulu touch down at Glasgow Airport on a quest to find answers from the past. George knows his time is nearing the end, but is it too late to come to terms with his two greatest regrets? His grandson Tom uncovers a betrayal that rocks his world as he finally tracks down the one that got away. And single mum Chrissie is ready to force her love-life out of hibernation, but can anyone compare to the man who broke her heart? After the success of the No1 best seller ONE DAY IN DECEMBER, comes the second unmissable read in Shari Low’s Winter Day trilogy.

Opinion

If there’s anything studying literature and linguistics will teach you, it’s to appreciate a well-executed multi-perspective story. This one is a couple of steps above well-executed. Within the span of 24 hours, these Shauna, George, Tom and Chrissie’s paths will cross, their stories will meet and – as it turns out: it really is a small world after all. There are few things as difficult as making sure that every loose thread of a multi-level story gets tied up at the end. Making sure that the tone for each of the characters is distinct enough that as a reader, you don’t even need the name on top to know who you’re reading? That’s a gift not too many people have. I honestly loved every single thing about this book. I loved the strong friendship between Shauna and Lulu. I love their willingness to do something that most people would – rightly so – call a bit crazy. I loved Chrissie and the way her friends of all ages pushed her to go beyond what she dared to do. And that she actually took on that chance, that she was willing to look back to the past to be able to face the future. Also – her son? The cutest smart-mouth I’ve read in a while. I love George and the backstory of him and his two sisters, in this totally different world and time. For someone so near to death, he really did have a lot to say. And considering some rather important conversations took part on his bedside? I’m quite happy he turned out to be such a good listener. And then there’s Tom who, in the span of 24 hours, has his world turned upside down more times than most people could handle in a year. He just takes it all in stride – somewhat, at least – and still manages to hand out maybe the most satisfying type of punch: the warranted one. A thing which definitely shows, as you’ll learn in this book as well, that he takes after his grandfather. With Christmas running in the background, as a decoration, as a motivation, but never as a plot point? This was maybe the best winter book I’ve read so far, this year.

Rating: 4.5/5 (Goodreads)

Snowflakes over Holly Cove, Lucy Coleman

Story

As the snowflakes start to fall, the village of Holly Cove welcomes a new tenant to the beautiful old cottage on the beach… For lifestyle magazine journalist Tia Armstrong, relationships, as well as Christmas, have lost all their magic. Yet Tia is up against a Christmas deadline for her latest article ‘Love is, actually, all around’… So Tia heads to Holly Cove where the restorative sea air, and rugged stranger Nic, slowly but surely start mending her broken heart. Tia didn’t expect a white Christmas, and she certainly never dared dream that all her Christmas wishes might just come true… Set in Caswell Bay on the stunningly rugged Gower Coast, the cottage nestles amid the limestone cliffs and the woodlands; the emotions run as turbulently as the wind-swept sea.

Opinion

I really seem to have a thing about reading books with journalists as the MC. Or, maybe journalists just make for easy people to push into new situations. Either way, this particular journalist starts Snowflakes over Holly Cove with some serious hard break. As Tia has suddenly had pointed out to her: she’s an orphan now. Doesn’t matter what age you are – that’s never an easy thing to handle. That actually brings me right to maybe my *favourite* point about this book. It deals with working through loss so carefully, so respectfully. Lucy Coleman doesn’t shy away from the ugly parts of grieve – from that feeling of not knowing how to handle anything to maybe getting a little *stupid* because of it. Snowflakes over Holly Cove tells the story from the last Christmas Tia Armstrong spends with her mum, giving some background to exactly how deep their relationship is, to the next Christmas – her first without her mum. Considering that she’s been working on a Christmas feature for months by the time Christmas rolls around? The reader could easily have grown tired of Christmas already. That, instead, I was sat here just checking my countdown app *yet again* (yes, I’m that person)? Just shows how nuanced Coleman’s writing is. Now, I know that this book is at least partially a romance novel, but, for once, that is not the main thing making we want to immediately reread this book. Rather, it’s the attention to detail, the beautiful descriptions of the Welsh scenery and of course… That one plot twist near the end. And then that dramatic twist at the end… I honestly was not okay. And need to get back to this book ASAP.

Rating: 4/5 (Goodreads)

Now, as I said – I now the entire “reunited for the holidays” can be a bit busy. And loud. And overwhelming. So if you’re in need of an escape from the reality of it? Why not hide out with some stories showing its possibilities? Don’t worry – it’s my backup option too! Or, you know… You could go ahead and read the rest of my Christmas tag or check out this year’s blogmas-posts!

-Saar

Mini Reviews #9: Reunited for the Holidays One of my absolute favourite part about the holidays has to be the fact that it means seeing my family.

#Blog-mas 2018 #book reviews #christmas #christmas books #Mini reviews

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