#I NEED edits like I need air to breath if a fandom doesn’t have edits I go crazy

[sunnibits]

y’all I am cooking up the most despicable fucking malevolent edit rn,, god should not have given me access to video editing software I feel so deeply evil for what I am doing

[solarsturniolo]

ik you've been critical of the triplets before (breath of fresh fucking air tbh)

wanted to know what you thought about the whole mallory situation? she made a tiktok saying she was concerned about their physically aggressive behavior and how she didn't think it was right that they would act like that, and they responded to her tiktok in a friday video. idk i certainly have thoughts but i wanna hear yours if you're ok with sharing them

Oh i was waiting for this one.

To start, THIS IS NOT A HATE POST. But it is something that needs to be said. I’d also like to clarify that i’m not trying to ‘clock’ anyone in this post. This is not meant to spiral out into another episode from them or their fans, but if they aren’t going to be good role models for young impressionable children, I will.

First and foremost, absolutely nothing about the way matt reacted in that video was okay. He is 21 years old, he is a grown adult that pays bills and taxes. He should not be laying his hands on anyone in an aggressive matter, even if they are just brothers. Whether you agree or not, that was abuse. Here is the Oxford dictionary definition of the word abuse, for those of you who need clarification.

Now of course, including content like that in a video is an option. And it was an option that they decided to take. Nick DID NOT have to leave that in the video, and if he hadn’t it wouldn’t have caused so many issues. What gets me the most is that some part of him KNEW it was too much because he edited half of that moment OUT of the video. We saw the extended clip through their photodump that shows just how obnoxiously aggressive Matt’s tantrum was. Not only did he hit Nick (quite hard and in a very vulnerable spot), but he also took a gift that Nick had gotten (gag gift or not, it doesn’t matter) he threw it onto the ground and told him to go and pick it up. The average person knows better than to behave that way, and it was very alarming to see that behavior from someone that we all look up to.

This led to a large divide in the fandom. Some people were (understandably) very uncomfortable with Matt’s behavior. And some people defended it with their lives. Now i’m not saying me and my sisters never fought, but we don’t lay our hands on each other. Idk maybe im out of touch with some new-found sibling abuse agreement or something, but we don’t hit each other. We argue, we get mad at each other, we fight and we make up.

Personally, i don’t think there’s anything wrong with calling out your idols when they do something wrong. At the end of the day, we’re all human and we all make mistakes. It’s easy to forget that when you let fame and money get to your head, making you feel invincible because you know your bandwagon of 13 year olds are going to be at your every beck and call. It’s our job as supporters to remind them that mistakes are okay, but accountability still needs to be taken for actions like that.

When you are in a position where you pay your bills by posting your private life on the internet, you cannot get angry that people are going to have comments and opinions about the stuff that you post on the internet…Nick made a comment in yesterdays video about how people need to mind their own business, but…you…willingly posted…that clip to the internet. For millions of people to see. Nick did not have a gun to his head while editing that video, he did not need to include it but it was a decision that he made.

One reason why i don’t watch them anymore is because they refuse to take accountability for anything that they do. They have also been drawing this out much longer than they needed to. The fanbase would’ve talked about it for a week and forgotten about it with the next friday video. The only reason why it’s still getting attention is because they so badly want to seem ‘unbothered�� by it but they keep bringing it up in everything they do. Matt’s instagram story, his comment on Nick’s recent post, their recent tiktok…literally anything that they have posted in the past week and a half, Matt and Nick just CANNOT HELP THEMSELVES from making a snarky comment. It’s a very icky trait to have imo but i’ll keep my mouth shut on that (since it’s illegal to have opinions in this fandom.)

Personally, I think Mallory was valid in her opinion and responses. Maybe terrifying was a strong word to use, which she has addressed, but it’s not like the boys don’t use hyperboles ALL THE TIME. And nothing about her video was her trying to “cancel the triplets”, she was simply sharing her concerns with Matt’s behavior.

The fanbase LOVESSSS to jump to conclusions. Most of us that had an issue with Matt’s behavior were not trying to cancel them. We’re frustrated because they’re grown adults who refuse to take any constructive criticism or accountability. I’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, the boys dislike ANYONE who is NOT AN ENABLER. Especially Nick. They LOVE an enabler that doesn’t call them out on their crappy behavior.

Back to yesterday’s video, I was VERY unimpressed with their responses. Snarky comment after snarky comment, only proving more and more that they aren’t unbothered by the situation because they’re trying so hard to prove a point. Why not stay silent like you do with everything else? Your ‘friend’ (who you still communicate with but won’t publicly hang out with) who was cancelled for contacting minors? Didn’t have much to say about that did you? But the second something makes them look bad, they jump the gun and go right into defense mode. It’s so funny to me because people would respect them so much more if they just took some accountability, reflected on their actions, and made a change to their behavior.

Including her tiktok in their video was yet another choice they made, and it was a very immature one. You cannot tell me they didn’t think about the outcome of this situation. Singling out ONE PERSON’S VIDEO, putting a target on their back, and opening the gates for these 13-15 year old hellspawn brainwashed sturniolo cult fans to go and cyberbully someone for having an opinion (and a respectful one at that.)

Also trying to blame Chris and saying Matt was ‘provoked’ into hitting Nick???? Chris made a simple comment??? And this is NOT the first time Matt has gone overboard in a reaction he’s had to one of his brothers. He’s had many outbursts, all of which ARE concerning. Throwing things aggressively, hitting, punching, cussing your brothers out on camera…it’s fucking humiliating???? I am so sorry to break it to you all but nothing about that interaction was Chris’s fault AT ALL. So for Nick to pin it on his younger brother, i found it absolutely ridiculous.

And, to sum it up, Nick did not ‘clock her’. I’m sorry but his responses when people call him out always remind me of a middle schooler. He refuses to take any accountability. HE edited the video. HE kept the clip in. HE posted the full clip on their instagram. NICK STURNIOLO DID THAT. HE DID NOT HAVE TO DO THAT.

Can’t wait for reacting to hate comments part 2!!! Because, let’s face it! This isn’t hate, it’s the truth. I’m not an enabler and apparently that makes me a hater.

And yes, they over-do the drama for our entertainment, but they’re so much more entertaining when they’re all getting along?! Even if they have an argument, it’s far more entertaining when they aren’t hitting and kicking and punching. I genuinely think their emphasis on the physical aspects of their videos came straight from the tea party video, because it’s just gotten worse and worse since then.

I haven’t watched them in months and decided to watch that video and it was a clear reminder as to why i don’t watch them anymore. This is not a hate post, i will always be grateful for their videos because they’ve gotten me through some of the darkest moments of my life. From abusive relationships, to losing a loved one to suicide, to the loss of a childhood pet, to losing my job, to trying to take my own life…I am beyond grateful for their videos and I always will be. That being said, i think they have some serious maturing and reflecting to do if they want to continue to grow at the speed they were growing at a year or two ago.

Yes i think Matt is a sweet guy. No i don’t think he meant anything serious by hitting nick. The point is that it does make some of us uncomfortable to see that behavior from a grown man because so many of us have experienced abuse. I’m not saying we’re weak or snowflakes for our responses either. Posting your outbursts on the internet for 6-7 million people to see is a choice, and you cannot expect it to come without consequences.

[seamsterspell]

Why do you think Levi only ever said Dedicate your heart to Hange?

What a surprise! Hello there anon!

Oh, I actually like this question very much >:D I’m sure there are many explanations out there by all the amazing people in the fandom regarding this topic. However, since you asked for my opinion, then I will gladly give my two cents regarding this topic.

Let's see if I can put my psychology degree to good use.

Disclaimer: since I'm a levihan slut, I'm sure you know what to expect from this. Also, English is not my first language, so please forgive me if you found any mistakes :D

First of all, we know that Levi had never said “Dedicate your heart” before (as suggested by Hange). 

If that’s the case, then why did he never say that before? Well, I think it’s because he wasn’t your typical by-the-book soldier. Unlike most people in the corps, Levi joined under a special circumstance. We know that he didn’t voluntarily enlist himself as a trainee so he could join the Survey Corps and heroically save humanity from all the titans. Instead, he joined the corps because Erwin personally scouted him. Because of that, he didn't have any particular or specific reason to join it in the first place (unlike let’s say Eren or even Hange), he even planned on quitting the corps at one point. His reason for staying in the corps—other than his belief in Erwin—was just as simple as: “I like the fresh air of the outside world.”

EDIT: Okay, I just want to make myself clear. I'm not saying that his motivation in joining the corps was so shallow or even implying that he does not care a bit for humanity. He cares obviously, if he didn't then we would not have Captain Levi in our SNK story. What I meant by my statement above was to highlight how simple he was as a soldier. Like, he didn't need a grand motivation to join in the first place, because he just knew that staying in the corps was the good thing to do. He risked his life everyday in battles just for a simple wish of breathing the fresh air. He wanted the people in the wall to be free from the stinky air, because for him freedom is in the mundane things in life. To quote my other post: "His simplicity is what makes him kind."

Also, I made a follow-up post regarding my interpretation of Levi's character here. You don't have to read it, but if you want to know how I see Levi as a character, I hope that post can help.

But anyway, since he was scouted under a special condition (as well as having enormous strength as a soldier), I think he somehow had a privilege in the corps to fuck around and be as “disrespectful” as he wanted to be. Not to mention Erwin became a commander around a year after Levi joined, so my man was probably living his best nepotism/VIP life. Therefore, I would think that Levi wasn’t as strict with the rules as other soldiers. He wasn’t the kind of soldier who kept preaching about "dedicate your life" to others. He just came to work, did his job, and went home (just like me fr). I’m not saying he doesn’t care about humanity (he cares obviously) it’s just he doesn’t express it in a traditional soldier way.

No wonder we all were so surprised when he did say THAT WORDS to Hange. It wasn't like him at all. Even Hange was caught off guard by him saying it, right?

But then, this raises another question, why is it when he finally said it, he only said it to Hange? Why, for instance, he didn’t say it to Erwin? I mean, both Erwin and Hange went on a suicide mission. Moreover, out of all the people that we know in the story, we can see that Levi shares many significant moments in the narrative with these two. If that’s the case, then why did he say different things to each of them?

For me, the answer is quite simple, it’s because Levi is an empathetic person. Both “Give up on your dreams and die for us” and “Dedicate your heart” that he said to Erwin and Hange respectively were something that he believed they needed to hear at THAT moment. It was his last words for them right before they died, his last comfort.

He told Erwin to give up on his dreams and die because at that moment, when their troops were cornered by the beast titan, Erwin showed his vulnerable side to Levi. Erwin admitted that he actually had a plan (albeit a suicidal one for him and the rest of the soldiers) to defeat the beast titan but he withheld it at first because: 1) he didn’t want to die because he wanted to see the basement; and 2) he didn’t want to send any more soldiers into their death because he was being haunted by the ghost of the past soldiers who had dedicated their heart to his plan.

Therefore, Levi, out of his compassion for Erwin, took the burden of making that painful choice from Erwin’s hand. He even made a promise to kill the beast titan, as if to say that all of their death wouldn’t be in vain. He said it to make Erwin feel better, which is why Erwin smiled after Levi said that. 

I think the same explanation can be said for Hange's situation. However, to understand why he only said “Dedicate your heart” to Hange, I think we need to talk about the nature of their relationship first. First of all, they were close friends, that is obvious. They had known each other for quite a long time and they had gone on many missions together (and survived), so their bond was strong. To quote Moblit from that one Smartpass AU he shares with Levi: “[Levi and Hange have] a special kind of bond from spending many years together. It’s something that Moblit didn't have with [Hange].”

Speaking of Levi, one of the things that I feel people tend to overlook from Levi is his caring nature. He cares for his squads, for humanity as a whole, and especially for his trusted comrades (e.g. Erwin and Hange). However, since he isn’t exactly a very eloquent person, he has a weird way of showing his affection, like when he told Erwin that he would break his legs so he didn't have to join the dangerous operation to retake Shiganshina. Fortunately, since Erwin knew Levi’s character, he understood the meaning behind his words. Although for most people, it was probably hard to tell. 

Other than Erwin, the other person who could see Levi’s kindness was of course Hange—who also received a lot of care from Levi. It might be because of the nature of her job (getting too close to titans for her experiments + her role as a commander later) and because of her tendency to be a little bit reckless as well as forgetful of taking care of herself when excited (which was why she had Moblit by her side) that made Levi feel the need to pay a lot of attention to her.

And by a lot, I mean A LOT. 

This is just my opinion, but in the canon, I noticed that Levi is actually the one who expresses or initiates a lot of actions toward Hange (believe me, my man is working overtime):

Asking about her new “hobby” in rocks (after Annie’s capture).

Noticing her distress after Pastor Nick’s death and trying to lift her spirit up.

Calming her down when she was upset at Keith Shadis when he finally told the truth about Grisha's past & his reason for leaving his commander position in Survey Corps.

Thinking about Hange’s safety during missions (after Bertholdt’s transformation in Shiganshina and when she was attacked by one of Kenny’s men in the Reiss Chapel).

Telling her to not touch some random things at the beach.

Telling Moblit to take care of Hange because he can't be always by her side (Smartpass AU)

Knocking Hange out to forcibly bathe her (Smartpass AU). Also, the way he worded it in a way that "yeah I don't like her filthiness when I'm off-duty, so I took it upon myself to clean her." I see you...

Levi saving Hange from being hit on the head by a bunch of books + telling her to change her wet clothes (Smartpass AU)

Well you get what I mean. Anyway—at least for me—he doesn’t seem to do this solely because of Hange’s lack of self-care. I think he shows a lot of care for Hange because she’s important to him, which is of course exacerbated when they became the last two veterans to survive after the operation to take back Shiganshina. After so much lost, he clearly saw her as the last person he’s close to. I mean, in one of the Smartpass AU, she was the first person that came to his mind when he was asked about his family.

Not only that, I think he generally likes Hange as a person because she saw him for who he truly was. Like, remember their first meeting, Hange was the only one who was willing to approach Levi (while everyone was sceptical of him) and she did it purely out of admiration. She genuinely was impressed by him and wanted to get to know him better. A gesture that might be alien to Levi, which explains why he was unsure at first about Hange, but it seemed after many missions together, Hange was eventually able to earn his trust. Hange became a person who could freely tease him (him being a clean freak + their poop jokes) as well as became a walking dictionary for him (the way she translates Levi's words to Eren).

On the other hand, contrary to Levi, I noticed that Hange tend to be more neutral with Levi. I’m not saying that Hange did not care for him. I mean, when she found his injured body, she became so protective of him that she willingly risked her life by jumping into the lake so she could save him.

There was also this one scene of her trying to comfort him when he learned that titans was actually a human. Moreover, she also considered him to be her closest friend in the Survey Corps.

I believe she rarely showed her caring side to him because she knew that he is a capable fellow, and so she didn’t think he needed her help in particular. I don't think she had ever think that this man, the strongest man in the world, would ever sustain a horrible injury or even die. Sadly, she thought wrong. When she found his injured and dying body (chapter 115), Hange had to face a horrible realisation that she could actually lose him.

Then, in chapter 126, we finally saw Hange taking care of Levi. She killed two soldiers to protect them. She also tended and healed his injury with so much care. In my opinion, being confronted by the mortality of the only person that she had left in the world, Hange most likely learned—the hard way—about how important Levi had actually become to her. Thus she was willing to do anything for him.

When this realisation mixed with her exhaustion from the war, she finally reached her breaking point. With no one but an unconscious Levi by her side, the passionate-happy-go-lucky researcher and the ever-so-composed commander of the Survey Corps found herself gradually letting down her guard to show her weakness, her feelings. In her vulnerability, she weakly expressed how she would rather live with him in the woods, away from the chaos outside. Like, can you believe this Hange, who always fought for humanity’s sake said, “Humanity be damned, I would rather spend the time I have left with you.” 

I think this explains why her confession in chapter 126 caught us (the fandom) off guard, because not only it was out of character for her, but also for the first time, she showed her feelings to Levi.

Later we know that Levi heard about her “confession” but since he also knew that Hange would never ever run away, he instead encouraged her to do the things that she believed in, and that was to stop Eren from committing genocide. However, I think her words had never left him, even after they left the woods. Because as you can see in chapter 132, he somehow made a seemingly random remark to her about how her feelings are not always unrequited. As if he knew which feelings of her that is requited. 

Consequently, we finally came to the big question. We see in chapter 132 that before Hange embarked on her suicide mission, Levi did something that was so out of character for him. He touched her heart and said, “Dedicate your heart”.

Why did he do this?

To repeat my answer above, it’s most likely because he knew that it was exactly the things that she needed to hear the most. So he said it out of empathy. But isn’t it too short or even too formal for a goodbye between two close friends? Well, we have to take into consideration that Hange could read Levi like a book (remember their iconic telepathy?). She could easily translate his roundabout words and expressions, thus he didn’t need to write an essay for her. Which is why “dedicate your heart” was more than enough for both of them.

Moreover, I also infer that the reason why he never said “Dedicate your heart” while he was a soldier before was because he probably thought that he didn't necessarily have to give his heart to the corps and humanity. Again, he didn't have a grand reason to fight in the first place, and so he just wanted to do what he thought was good: to lend all his strength to help humanity. Therefore, by saying it for the first time in front of her, he seemingly wanted to show her how important and special she was to him. As if he was saying that he wants to dedicate himself only to her.

Hence, his gesture and words to Hange combined with all the preceding events (especially events in chapters 126 and 132), I could say that behind those three words, he was actually telling her: “Hey, the things you said in the woods, it was not unrequited. I actually feel the same way as you. I want to live with you as well, which is why I don't want you to go. However, I know I can't stop you because you’ve dedicated your heart to the freedom of humanity. So, I’ll let you go, but before you go I want you to know that you’re the only person I’m dedicating my heart to. My heart is yours.”

I'm not Hange so I don't think my translation is accurate HAHA but that's how I see it.

In conclusion, Levi had only ever said Dedicate your heart to Hange because: 1) he knew it would make her feel better/happy and special; and 2) it was also his answer to her soliloquy in the woods (it was his way of telling her that they share mutual feelings).

-----

So yeah, that’s my opinion. I hope I was able to express myself clearly :D

Also, I can't believe you are asking me this, anon. No one ever asked me about my opinion before. Usually, people come for me for my silly fanfic(s) xD 

ANYWAY, your question is very much appreciated! Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my thoughts regarding Levi, especially his relationship with Hange. This was fun to write (and research!), I really enjoyed the process!

Although it was a bit painful too tbh because I had to reopen my old wound by rereading chapters 126 and 132 :') You did it anon, you made me cry... at 12.30 AM T_T)b

[lightseoul]

cw. gn!reader, depressed reader (but this doesn't rlly discuss themes of depression), pro-hero!katsuki, established relationship, aged-up

word count. 0.6k words

It was his words, the way they lingered in the air—making it even harder to breathe, that brought you to finally, finally tilt your head up and look at him.

But it was his face, and every bit of raw emotion written all over it, that destroyed and led your walls crumbling down.

“Say something, Y/N. Please.”

You look at the wall clock again, unable to handle his gaze.

Bakugou takes a cautious step closer. Your breath hitches despite all efforts in steeling yourself, only watching him as he reluctantly reaches for your hand, only to pull back regrettably in seconds.

How did everything come to this?

“Sorry. I just—” He starts, stumbling with his words. You can’t believe what you’ve reduced him to. “—I just need you to tell me what I can do to help.”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” you mumble to yourself.

At that, Bakugou’s eyebrows furrow even more. You sigh, darting your eyes away from him, exhausted.

Of this conversation.

Of hiding from him.

Of everything.

“I already told you, Kats,” you shake your head, “it’s not your job to fix me.”

“So, what?” he spits back, the all-too-familiar anger finally bleeding into his tone. “Are you saying I should just fucking leave you to go through all this alone until this swallows you up completely?”

“Yes,” you exclaim exasperatedly. And on that note, one emotion of his becomes finally clear enough for you to identify.

Hurt.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Some twisted part of you—the part that wants Bakugou to keep on fighting—wishes he’d bark out another response.

Another rebuttal.

Another retort.

Anything to prove you wrong.

But it doesn’t come.

When you look up again from your clenched fists, Bakugou’s head is bowed in what looks so much like defeat.

And despite him being the most strong-willed person you know, his shoulders are sagging in what you can only assume is frustration.

Hell, you’d be equally frustrated as well, but you weren’t at the receiving end, and your end was a whole different story—one you just can’t brush aside despite your tendency to suppress all personal, unwanted feelings.

When he finally lifts his head to face you, his eyes are bloodshot.

“I love you, Y/N,” he starts, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “And I’ve been the damn luckiest person alive to be in love with you.”

He reaches out and takes both of your hands in his.

You don’t break away from his grasp.

“So you have to give me a chance to take this in and plan how to get through this with you.”

“But that’s the thing, Katsuki,” you smile, willing the tears to stay where they are. “I love you, and I just can’t sit back and watch myself drag you down with me.”

You clench your eyes closed, finally letting the tears fall down.

“You deserve better than that.”

At that, Bakugou opens his mouth to protest, but before he can say something in retaliation, you withdraw your hands from the warmth of his calloused yet oh-so-familiar ones, and dash for the door.

You hear his broken voice call out your name, but you don’t dare look back.

I’m doing this for him, you chant in your head as you run, turning another block, and then another, getting further away from your shared apartment.

And the person you would’ve wanted to keep on calling ‘home’.

a/n. fun fact: i was going thru my files and found this WIP which i wrote at 16 for another fandom. i edited it a bit and made it sound like bakugou and here we are lmao

tagging. @katsukis1wife @rinalou @loverboyrin @brunnetteiwik

[twwpress]

Weekly Press Briefing #96

Welcome back to the Weekly Press Briefing, where we bring you highlights from The West Wing fandom each week, including new fics, ongoing challenges, and more! This briefing covers all things posted from April 21 - April 27, 2024. Did we miss something? Let us know; you can find our contact info at the bottom of this briefing! 

Challenges/Prompts:

There are no open challenges or events on our radar this week. Do you have a challenge or event you’d like us to promote or know of one we’re missing? Be sure to get in touch with us! Contact info is at the bottom of this briefing.

This Week in Canon:

Welcome back to This Week in Canon, where we revisit moments in The West Wing that occurred on these dates during the show’s run.

Season 1, Episode 19: Let Bartlet Be Bartlet aired on April 26, 2000.

Season 2, Episode 19: Bad Moon Rising aired on April 25, 2001.

Season 4, Episode 20: Evidence of Things Not Seen aired on April 23, 2003.

Season 5, Episode 19: Talking Points aired on April 21, 2004.

Season 7, Episode 19: Transition aired on April 23, 2006.

Photos/Videos:

Here’s what was posted from April 21- April 27:

Allison Janney posted photos from this week’s episode of Palm Royale. 

Bradley Whitford posted a photo of Amy and their pets in bed. 

Bradley Whitford posted a photo of himself holding Anne Lamott’s new book. 

Dule Hill posted a screenshot announcing his appearance in the upcoming Hulu limited series Orphan. 

Dule Hill reposted a PBS video of clips of him tap dancing (and another one!). 

Marlee Matlin reposted a video of a skit she was in with John Maucere and other friends. 

Melissa Fitzgerald posted photos from a panel at the Irish Ambasaddor’s house, including pics with Dr. Fauci and his wife Christine Grady, Deborah Cahn (who was a writer on The West Wing), and Todd Flournoy: 1 | 2 | 3

Peter James Smith posted production photos and backstage pics from Nora, the play he’s currently in, which opened April 26 at Antaeus Theatre Company. 

Donna Moss Daily: April 21 | April 22 | April 23 | April 24 | April 25 | April 26 | April 27

Daily Josh Lyman: April 21 | April 22 | April 23 | April 24 | April 25 | April 26 | April 27

No Context BWhit: April 21 | April 23 | April 24 | April 26 | April 27

@twwarchive: April 21 | April 22 | April 24 | April 26

Edits/Artwork:

#JOSHDONNA: cream & three sugars by @sinistercherubs [VIDEO EDIT]

Editors’ Choice: 

This week, we celebrate the anniversary of the airdate of Season 7, Episode 19: Transition. Here are some of our favorite fics that center around or feature moments from that episode!

if i piled something good on all my bad (i could cancel out the darkness) by sam_writes_fics for scullymuldrs | Rated E | Josh Lyman/Donna Moss | Complete | Josh reaches out tentatively, his hand hovering in midair for a second before he finds the courage to keep going. He traces her scars—still pink and slightly raised, a reminder that the past isn’t nearly as far behind them as he wants it to be—lightly, slowly dragging his fingertips over the three jagged lines. //scar fic: josh seeing donna’s scars from gaza for the first time how sharp the pieces were you’d crumbled into by hufflepuffhermione | Rated T | Josh Lyman/Donna Moss | Complete | It’s clear to her now, as she kicks off the covers of the bed, suddenly feeling restrained by them, that Josh needs company more than he needs intimacy. Josh doesn’t need her body—perhaps he does want it, but it’s more than that—he needs her. She practically jumps out of bed, unable to to stay there any longer. Not when Josh is alone on what has to be one of the hardest nights of his life (which is saying something). Josh is falling apart, and Donna tries not to notice. Until she does. //prompt: taylor swift songfic late november, holding my breath by mikaylawrites | Rated G | Josh Lyman/Donna Moss | Complete | "I can’t promise that I’m always gonna be clean or thoughtful or that you’re not gonna wanna choke me every now and again, but I’m in this.” Donna and Josh come home from Hawaii. it’s paradise as long as i’m with you by thotsandfeelings | Rated E | Josh Lyman/Donna Moss | Complete | Hawaii. Flowering Like the Stars by spinninginfinity | Rated M | Josh Lyman/Donna Moss | Complete | Sex and stargazing. That's largely it. ‘I’ll take all the blame,’ she says. ‘I’ll explain that it was just because you were so devastatingly sexy.’

Fics:

Presenting your weekly roundup of fics posted in the tag for The West Wing on Archive of Our Own. 

Other Pairings/Gen Fic

The Weight We Carry Is Love by piratequeenofgreenthings | Rated T | Abbey Bartlet/Jed Bartlet | In Progress

Triage in Hindsight by Kajos | Rated T | Mandy Hampton/Josh Lyman | Complete

Multiple Pairings

What Sons Do by kcat1971 | Rated M | Josh Lyman/Donna Moss, Helen Santos/Matt Santos, Abbey Bartlet/Jed Bartlet, Ainsley Hayes/Sam Seaborn, Zoey Bartlet/Charlie Young | In Progress

Children of the Apocalypse by murph283031 | Rated T | Leo McGarry/Annabeth Schott, Josh Lyman/Donna Moss, Mallory O'Brien/Sam Seaborn, Abbey Bartlet/Jed Bartlet | Complete

A Silence Full of Sound by mandolinrains | Rated T | Leo McGarry/Original Female Character(s), Josh Lyman/Donna Moss | In Progress

THE WEEKLY PRESS BRIEFING TEAM CAN BE REACHED VIA THE FOLLOWING METHODS:

Twitter: @TWWPress

Email: weeklypressbriefing@gmail.com

That's all for this week! Feel free to let us know if we missed something, if you have an event you’d like us to promote, or if you have an item that you’d like included in the next briefing!

xx, What’s next?

[thefanfictiontaria]

Light in the dark

Fandom: MCU

Genre: hurt/comfort

TW: suicide attempt, very brief mentions of assault

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark

Peter was fine, truly. Except for the numb feeling inside.

===

I had a great thought about someone panicking for whatever reason and this was made.

================

[29/03/2024] This fanfiction was posted on ao3 by me. it was slightly edited. new fic here

Peter was fine.

Really, he tried to be.

He smiled through the days. He laughed at Ned’s jokes, he smiled when Aunt May came home. But he never felt it. It was automatic really.

In reality, Peter felt dull.

The monotone routine was exasperating. He knew he shouldn’t feel like this. He has no reason to feel like this. He knows Tony stark for hells sake! He’s Spiderman!

He’s Spiderman.

And he sees so much goddamn death and pain every single day.

Sometimes he’s late to the scene and arrives just as the oppressor finishes his job.

Sometimes he just finds a body and someone running away.

Sometimes he has to see life leaving someone’s eyes.

So he thought, why? Why live in a world full of pain and suffering? For every person he saved, there’s 20 that got robbed, assaulted or died.

He is no hero.

A hero could save everyone. A hero could really smile. A hero doesn’t have problems.

He is no hero. He is useless.

So now Peter stands on the edge of the bridge, his phone and shoes abandoned on the other side of the rails.

He has nothing to lose. The numbness consumed him to the point of no return.

The cold air of November bit his skin, the fog blurred his vision. The surface seemed so far away, but he knew it wasn’t as far as it looked.

He took in a breath, and jumped.

The air was even colder as he fell.

Then he felt a sudden impact.

His back hit the water and it felt as if someone pushed the air out of his lungs.

Then he began sinking.

Panic set in.

He tried to breathe in, but he was met with all surrounding water.

He tried to swim.

Everything hurt.

Why does everything hurt?

It should be painless.

He thought it would be painless. Why does it hurt?

It’s so cold.

He doesn’t want to die.

He has Ned to live for.

He has MJ.

What will they think when they see him dead?

His corpse being dragged out of the river.

Everything hurts.

He doesn’t want to die he doesn’t want to die HE DOESN’T WANT TO DIE

He can see light.

He’s underwater, where did light come from?

Maybe I should swim towards it?

He can’t move.

Why can’t he move?

The light got closer.

How?

Everything is so fuzzy.

Everything is dark.

~~~

Tony was just in his workshop, adding small details to one of his newest tablets. The thing was almost done, but it still needed the tiniest bit of colour to truly feel like a stark invention. Of course it wasn’t just his invention, Peter helped a lot in the process. The kid was very helpful in inventing and engineering a lot of things.

Lately though, Stark has been concerned. Due to spending that much time with the kid he knew certain speaking patterns and behaviours of his. That’s how he noticed the slow decline in Peter’s happiness. He’s been acting less and less enthusiastic for some time.

The most obvious sign that something was wrong when Peter stopped responding to the small remarks by the man. It’s not that he stopped smiling at all, he still gave little laughs and grins, but the light from his eyes was gone. Tony looked with concern at his kid and asked some questions, but it was brushed off.

“I’m fine! I just didn’t get a lot of sleep today, that’s all. I swear!”

Tony got very worried but never thought it would get any worse, he just thought it was seasonal depression.

“Mr. Stark, Peter seems to be in high distress.” FRIDAY boomed through the speakers, breaking the scientist out of his deep thoughts.

“Oh yeah? Do you know why this is?” Tony usually shrugged off the many alarms that FRIDAY gave him on a daily basis, especially the high heart rate ones. The kid was prone to stressful situations, the alarm was installed for the more severe ones. Stressful tests were one thing, but being shot at by one of the criminals he was trying to stop was something that should definitely have a safety measure installed.

“I am almost certain he is in danger, Mr. Stark. His heart rate is unnaturally fast.” Tony stopped in his tracks.

“Well, what is he doing? Where is he?”

“He is on the edge of the Marine Parkway Bridge. He seems to be standing on the other side of the rails.”

“HE IS WHAT?! GET ME MY SUIT RIGHT NOW.” Tony scampered out of his workshop and towards the nearest balcony. He felt the metal engulfing him before he flew out of the tower and towards the location.

“FRIDAY, connect to Peter’s phone, call him now.”

“He seems to have turned off his phone, sir.”

“Shit,” he swore under his breath.

Soon enough he saw the bridge and the small figure of Peter letting go of the rail. He saw the fall.

Tony quickly got to action, flying towards where the figure hit the water and diving headfirst into the dark depths. He saw Peter sink, he saw him shift just slightly. The man grabbed the limp figure of his intern before flying to the surface.

He carried Peter back to the bridge. At first he seemed to not be breathing, which scared Tony, but after a few seconds the boy took in a heavy breath before coughing a few times. He remained unconscious.

Tony noticed the teenager left his shoes, watch and phone on the sidewalk. He then asked FRIDAY for a scan of Peter’s vitals.

“It appears that his heartbeat is irregular and he has liquid in his lungs and stomach." Tony was taken aback by it all. He quickly grabbed Peter and his belongings before flying back to the tower.

“FRIDAY, get the med bay ready for Peter. I want the best staff there right now.”

“Sir, it’s 1 am.”

“I don’t care! Get whoever is there ready for Peter! I am not losing my kid today!” Tony sped up.

When they finally reached the tower, he almost broke the window that was quickly opened for him to fly directly into the med bay before leaving Peter to the doctors.

~~~

Peter’s eyes slowly opened to be blinded by bright white lights. He thought he finally entered heaven, that was until he heard the beeping of a heart monitor and felt the intense smell of sanitizer. He was in the med bay.

“Fuck,” he swore, noticing how dry his mouth was.

He felt a stir to his right. He turned to see none other than his mentor sitting next to him, seemingly just woken up from sleep. The man quickly regained his composure before embracing Peter in a light hug.

“Peter! Oh thank god you’re alive!” Tony let go, just holding the boy’s shoulders. “You got me so worried! What were you thinking?! Jumping off of the bridge, almost like you tried to-“ he stopped in his tracks upon noticing the blank stare Peter gave him. It was blank, and yet so much emotion hid behind it. Sandess. Anger. Agony. Grief.

“Peter, were you trying to actually…?”

The silence was painful.

It was broken by a silent tap of a tear on the white covers.

“Yes. I wanted to kill myself.”

Peter slowly started crying. “I actually tried to… I tried to kill myself. I went through with it. And I lived! I fucking lived! Why the fuck can’t I just-“ he fell sobbing into Tony’s embrace, who quickly accepted the hug.

“Peter… I don’t know what you’re going through, but know this: I’m always here for you. Your aunt is always here for you. Your friends are always here for you. If you ever feel like you need to talk about you emotions, please do. If you need like you need a therapist, just tell me, and I’ll find you the best one in the city. Just, please… Talk to us. Talk to me.” The grip got a bit tighter.

And suddenly Peter knew.

He knew he had people to live for.

He knew he could maybe make a change.

He just needed a little bit of help.

There was light at the end of the tunnel afterall.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Fandom: Psychonauts

Rating: K+

Genre: Gen?? Sickfic?? mild H/C??? you got me, man

Characters: Caligosto Loboto, Boyd Cooper, Gloria Von Gouton, Fred Bonaparte, Crispin Whytehead, Sheegor

Warnings: Vomit, blood, depictions of sickness... (SPOILERS: implied torture + amputation)

Description: Loboto is having a very bad night. The inmates are not helping.

Beta Readers: @jaywings​ and Rocket

Notes: This fic is based on a theory that comes from a few figments in Loboto’s mental world in the demo footage of Psychonauts 2. ...also I wrote this while sick with a fever, edited it while still sick, and illustrated the cover while recovering from said sickness. have fun

—~~~—

He did not remember arriving back at the tower.

Partially because he wasn't even back in the tower, instead standing on the frosty shoreline, the chilly waves lapping at his boot heels.

Loboto stared dumbly out at the cliffside for a long moment before frustration simmered beneath his fogged mind. Yes! Of course, they wouldn't send him back to his lab. No! He could do with a good climb, especially on a frigid night like this! His chest heaved with quiet, dazed laughter before he took a gasp of cold air that grated against his sore throat.

The wind, though not harsh, cut through every part of him that wasn't covered by his shower cap or lab coat like a fine knife, as cold as it was painful. It grazed his shoulder, and his vision went white as his mechanical eyes flashed. But even with the blasted optics glitching, he could still see. His imagination ran wild with absurd visions of ridiculous things that had never happened.

On top of that, the slice of pain brought with it a violent realization that it was not the only pain he was in. The numb shock he’d been in gave way to an agony that tore through him, ripping up and down his side, nearly bringing him to his knees. No, no, no, that pain could not be real, just like the horrific visions of red and yellow that flashed through his mind. It was all a trick—all a stupid trick from his malfunctioning eyes and his brain. Pah!

He found himself clawing at his shower cap, occasionally stopping to smack his mechanical eyes a few times until they flickered back into focus, the desolate beach snapping back into view. "Enough of this!" he growled hoarsely at the sand beneath him. "That little army man will be back any day now, and we can't keep him waiting."

With a grunt, Loboto marched forward and heaved himself up onto the first narrow ledge, already finding his body shuddering with the effort and his mind struggling to push back the imaginary waves of pain. "Ridiculous!" he blurted into the rock he leaned against for balance. "A child can climb a mountain ten times this height!" And it wasn't like he'd never done it, either. Muscle memory helped him get from one step to the other, but keeping his balance was harder than normal, especially as his mind repeatedly dipped back into brain fog.

His eyes flickered in a blink when he found himself on the ladder, his boot slipping on the frosty wood and one hand losing its grip. Realizing he was about to fall, he flung his weight back against the ladder, biting down on the nearest rung to keep himself in place. A frantic giggle worked its way through his clenched teeth—ah, teeth! Useful for so many things! They would never let him down.

If you let us down one more time—

Ripping himself away from the rung and leaving rough teeth-marks behind, he let out a snarl and heaved himself the rest of the way up the ladder and onto the ledge. He sat on his knees for the moment, his mechanical eyes pulling back as he tried to make sense of the gate that seemed to be spinning around him. No, not just the gate—the entire cliffside spun beneath him like some wild carnival ride. He couldn't remember it doing that before, but the absurdity of it made him laugh, the action tearing through his sore throat. Yet he continued to laugh until his stomach lurched and a cascade of vomit silenced him.

He managed to scoot himself away, spitting and coughing as the world slowly came to a halt. At the same time, a figure that had been sleeping against the opposite wall snapped alert with a panicked gasp.

"Ah—ah!" Boyd stammered, scrambling to his feet and whipping his head around until he spotted Loboto on the ground. "Who are you working for?"

"That fool Oleander," Loboto grumbled under his breath, his eyes swiveling to glare at him.

Boyd's eyes blinked separately before recognition dawned upon him. "Y-yes! Of course!" Fumbling with his keys, he got to work unlocking the gate. "It's said he knows the milkman..."

Gritting his teeth, Loboto shakily began to push himself back upright. A large hand suddenly clapped against his shoulder, and he gave a yell as he was heaved to his feet. Without turning to look, he struck at the one who'd grabbed him. "Tricky terrible traitors try to trap—"

"AH—no, I am no traitor, I am the guard!" Boyd cried, stumbling back and holding up his hands as Loboto found his balance.

The two stared at each other for a tense moment, Loboto's eyes glowing harshly as Boyd trembled beneath his gaze. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction at seeing his subordinate cower.

"Th... the milk is not ready yet!" Boyd said, wincing away as he eyed the doctor's clenched fist.

Loboto stared.

"I'm lactose intolerant."

Boyd glanced at something on the ground. "I-I noticed."

With a growl, Loboto finally marched past the guard, who frantically closed the gate behind him.

Now that that mess was over, he could finally get back up to his lab and get back to—

He paused.

"SHEEGOR!"

His voice boomed through the empty grounds. It was empty of people, now empty of crows, and empty of elevators.

When his assistant did not spontaneously appear, he clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white beneath his glove. "Yes! Wonderful!" he proclaimed to no one as he stamped toward the withered garden with a harsh laugh. "I can scale this dilapidated tower myself then. Fine night for some exercise!"

He knew his way through his asylum, of course, so it wouldn't be overly difficult, but he would have much preferred the express elevator so he could get back to work immediately. But as it was, he ducked through the entrance to the greenhouse, fighting to keep steady as the action made his head spin, his back ache (no it didn’t, he was fine), and his shower cap to catch against the branches overhead. Turning his optics up, he pressed a hand down into the cap, pulling it away from the plants. He'd hoped to avoid the woman who occupied this corner of the asylum, but as he straightened his back, he bumped into one of the flowerpots, knocking it to the ground with a dull clunk.

"My, you need to buy seats in advance if you want to come to my shows!" Gloria said, turning to him with a patient, hazy smile. "No need to be harassing the paying customers."

"What do they pay you in? Leaves? Seeds?" Loboto asked, the frantic giggle that followed clashing with his strained smile.

Gloria ignored the comment, glancing him over and waving him off. "Please see yourself out. I'm not an usher, but since they seem to be ignoring their duties, I'll have to tell you you cannot bring food or drink into the theater."

Swiveling his optics in an approximation of an eye roll, Loboto turned away to head out the other side of the greenhouse. "I don't have any."

"Not anymore, but anyone can see that wine you've sloshed onto your nice suit."

Loboto froze.

"It's a wonder it didn't get onto the carpet—"

The next thing he knew, he was staring down at an entire line of flower pots that lay in pieces on the floor of the greenhouse.

"Oh!" Gloria cried. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure the ushers will attend to this ruffian, and the play can resume..."

He left her to continue rambling to her imaginary audience as he tried to rid the imaginary nonsense (visions, pain, glowing yellow eyes) from his mind. "Fickle fumbling females feeling faint for fading flowers..." he mumbled as he stepped into the lower floor of the asylum. It brought its usual sights and sounds of one of the former orderlies dozing over a makeshift game board (with stolen game pieces, he noted), the artist in the room overhead scraping old brushes furiously against a canvas, and finally Crispin standing dutifully in front of the asylum's only other elevator.

"Crispin!" Loboto said, and the man turned to face somewhere slightly to his left. "Let me up, will you?"

"Of course, Doctor Loboto." Crispin turned toward the elevator controls, only to pause, his dull eyes squinting as he turned back. "Wait..."

"Wait for what?" Loboto threw out his arm in a wide gesture. "Do you want to hear that army man ranting at us again? Or perhaps you find it funny! Though it is, isn't it? Shouting about sneezing powder and tanks! HAH!"

While he'd been talking, Crispin had been leaning forward, eyeing him up and down. He frowned. "You're not Doctor Loboto," he said at length.

"WHAT?!"

Behind him, Fred sprang to his feet. "Sacré bleu! We have fallen asleep on ze battlefield!"

Ignoring the man and his terrible French accent, Loboto stepped closer to Crispin, finding himself trembling—in rage or in suppressed laughter or something else, he wasn't sure. "Of course I'm Doctor Loboto! I was, last I checked. Highly trained and professional!"

"Yes, well," Crispin began, leaning back and raising a brow, "the real Doctor Loboto does not wear an actual straitjacket. It's merely a strappy jacket fashioned from one."

"This is my jacket, you milky-eyed moron!" Loboto cried, tugging on the front of his coat in demonstration. "It doesn't have my arms tied up!" He lunged toward Crispin to grab him by the collar, but stumbled as the world spun once more. He struggled to keep his stomach from flipping again.

"Well, that's because you're wearing it poorly. But you are certainly not Doctor Loboto. I can tell. You don't have the right jacket, or the right complexion." He tipped his head. "The real Doctor Loboto is blue, not sickly gray. As you can see, you can't fool me. Now go back to wherever you came from and—"

"He has returned from ze war!" Fred blurted behind him. He blinked, then shook his head, hunching in on himself. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, we really shouldn't—" He straightened again. "Yes, shut up! We are in ze presence of a great war hero!"

Crispin rolled his eyes. "What are you going on about now, Fred?"

"Do you not see? He bears ze blood of his enemies upon his robes, and ze scars of victory—"

Loboto whirled on him faster than he could think, managing a swift kick to Fred's shin.

With a yelp, the man crashed to the ground, curling up on himself and whining. "Ohhh... can we just postpone the battle until morning?" He twitched. "NON! Ze enemy never sleeps, so neither shall we!"

"Well, Fred's down for the count again," Cripsin remarked. "So if you're done, kindly step away from my elevator and off the nearest cliff, thanks."

Loboto wanted nothing more than to knock Crispin to the ground and find a few bad teeth to remove, but his vision was blurring and flickering, and he found it hard to think.

"No, really, we can't fight in the dark, and the enemy can't either, can they?" "Rrrrrghhh, I suppose you are right, for once. We shall camp here for now, but come sunrise, we fight!"

A weak laugh made its way past his lips as he stared down at the former orderly settling on the cobblestone. Yes, that crazy man had a point. There was no point in fighting tonight—he'd get his work done in the morning. And that work would have to include getting back into his lab in the first place.

After a brief moment, he snatched an item from the floor before stumbling back through the greenhouse and toward the entrance.

A nice night for sleeping under the stars, he supposed.

---~~~---

Judging by how bright the world was by the time his mechanical eyes flickered back on, the sun was starting to rise. But he couldn't tell for sure when there was a large metal cage blocking his view, with something else within—

"He said he would be back by nightfall, but he hasn't come!" a high pitched voice cried as a familiar form stepped out of the elevator, her back to him. "Oh Mr. Pokeylope, do you think he's gone for good this time?"

The corner of Loboto's mouth twitched.

"Oops!" She clapped an oven mitt over her mouth. "I'm glad he's not around to hear me say that," she said as she began to turn. "If he was, he'd be—EEK!"

Sheegor jumped back at the sight of Loboto laying sprawled out at the foot of the fountain, having slept (or passed out) there the remainder of the night. He clutched his worn teddy close to his chest and stared her in the eyes.

"Oh—I—I—!" Sheegor held her pet turtle close to herself. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry Doctor Loboto, I didn't mean any of that, I—"

"Yes, well it's a nice morning, isn't it?" Loboto grumbled, tucking the teddy bear under his arm so he could push himself to his feet. His entire body ached (from sleeping on the ground, not from anything else). "A nice morning to get some work done after you left me stranded here all night!" He took a threatening—but wobbling—step forward, fist clenched.

Oddly, Sheegor didn't seem as intimidated as usual. Her mouth gaped, and her eyes darted between his face and his right side.

"What are you looking at?"

"Y... you..." A trembling mitt was covering her open mouth. "D-Doctor! What happened to you?!"

His eyes flickered. "I slept out here with a rock for a pillow."

"N-no, it's—it's—!" Her whole body was shaking now, but not, he sensed, in fear of him. It should have made him angry, but exhaustion pulled at him instead, making his frame droop.

"Yes? Well, spit it out."

Sheegor held out one hand, pointed toward his right side. "Y-your arm!"

Loboto's optics slowly angled down to his right. For the first time he noticed the enormous, darkened bloodstains on his jacket, and a torn, empty sleeve hanging limply at his side.

"Oh," he said dully, feeling himself wobble as the pain finally worked its way to the forefront of his mind. "How did that happen?"

At once the world tipped to the side, and Sheegor caught him, straining to keep him from fully collapsing to the ground.

Wordlessly she helped him into the elevator, letting him lean onto her while he bit back the urge to scream. He wanted to protest, to berate her for touching him, but everything felt distant, even the upper floor of the asylum as they rapidly ascended toward it. And anyway, once they reached the top, anything he would have said was held back by his rolling stomach ejecting whatever bile still occupied it.

As he gagged, he could hear Sheegor whispering to the turtle in her mitts: "I know, I know, but I-I can't leave him like that—th-the asylum wouldn't... w-we were supposed to..."

"Just... get back to work... Sheegor," he managed to slur around the acrid taste in his mouth. Bitter bile breaks brittle bones of the mouth.

Sheegor looked from him to her turtle a few times, her mouth wobbling, and carefully eased his arm over her hunched back again. Instead of leading him to his lab, however, she led him down into the asylum, into the usual room he slept in: a mostly-intact bedroom with a mattress and blankets over a broken bed frame shoved into one corner, a chair and a desk with papers scattered across it, and a meticulously crafted and framed (and official) DDS license on the wall.

After easing him down into the bed, Sheegor stepped back, looking away. "Um... I-if you want, Doctor, I can clean that robe..."

His initial thought was that the blood stains made a wonderful addition to his ensemble, but glancing down at them again caused his brain to supply him with more awful, made-up nonsense. No, he wouldn't have that any longer.

With some amount of struggling he managed to get the thing off, unceremoniously tossing it in Sheegor's general direction. She managed to catch it and quickly scurried out. "I'll get this back to you as soon as I can Doctor bye!" she squeaked before the door slammed behind her, leaving Loboto sitting in the empty room.

Everything felt surreal, being in familiar surroundings after spending an entire night on freezing cobblestone. The sight when his gaze turned downward, however, was less familiar: there was new stitching across his chest, and on his right shoulder where his arm had been. It was cleanly done—they hadn't wanted him too much worse for wear, since he still had a job to do for—

Oleander. He had a job to do for Oleander right now. The sneezing powder, yes. His mind drifted over the things they'd discussed in their last meeting.

They'd both figured out a way for it to be made, more or less. The remaining issue was how to properly dispense the stuff. Oleander had suggested keeping it in a bag, but that was easily-spilled, and it may lose potency if pre-ground. But what was he supposed to do? He didn't have a grinder with him on-hand at all times—

A shock of brilliance bolted through him, and he stumbled to his desk with renewed energy. He grabbed a well-chewed pencil and began to write, his non-dominant hand shaking badly as he forced it into motions it was not used to.

But that was fine. It wouldn't have that job for long.

A manic giggle bubbled out of his throat as he worked out the notes and rough sketches, detailing a jointed pepper grinder with claws and a strap to secure it to his now-unoccupied side.

This loss of a limb, baffling as it was, was exactly what he needed.

[shyday-ao3]

So I started doing this today. Daredevil style, since Matty and I have recently reunited.

I'm super new to this whole tumblr thing (fandom abandoned me for a while) so if I'm doing something terribly wrong - especially with regard to tags or trigger warnings - feel free to send a friendly message. The world is very different from when I first started writing fanfic.

4 drabbles. Warnings for blood, torture, general whumpiness.

5. faint

Foggy’s window squeals as he slides it open, an incriminating screech in the quiet night. Matt doesn’t so much climb in as tumble through. Clinging to the windowsill, he wavers on shaky legs as the well-known smells of his friend’s apartment weave around him.

Familiar footsteps. “Matt? What are you doing here?”

He’s sweating under the cowl, the rubber heavy and constricting. The volume of Foggy’s voice fading in and out with his general sense of the room. “Needed…” His lips are tingling, as is the air. They’re uncomfortably out of sync. 

“Matt?”

“Think… think I…”

He’s falling. Then nothing.

*

18. knife

The biggest knife he’s ever seen slips between Matt’s ribs, and Foggy’s not sure which of them screams louder. The bastard smiles at him as he pulls it out, making sure to give him an unobstructed view of his best friend hanging from the ceiling beam. Foggy thrashes against the wide leather straps holding him to the chair.

Four sudden steps and the knife is too close to his face. Blood glistens as it shifts in and out of the shadows. Matt’s writhing shape out of focus behind it. 

“No one’s coming,” the man says. “We can do this forever.”  

*

35. shock

His chin droops, the collar around his neck delivering a shock that wrests a cry from strangled vocal cords. It snaps his head up, jolts him awake. For the moment. By the time he feels like he can breathe again, exhaustion’s already creeping back.

Two days? Three? He can’t tell anymore, sleep deprivation and pain blurring the world around him. There aren’t any windows in this concrete cell, his meals delivered irregularly through a slot in the wall. His captor so far only a voice from a speaker.  

There’s nothing to do but speculate. Plan. Try not to fall asleep. 

*

72. lonely

The rain splatters over the costume, the roof where he perches. He ignores it, his attention where it’s been for the last hour. The apartment across the street.

They’re talking about nothing. Light. Teasing. Comfortable. It’s obvious they do this a lot, voices relaxed and close. He didn’t even know they still hung out.

His name isn’t mentioned; there’s no reason it should be. He hasn’t talked to Foggy in a month. Karen longer. He isn’t on their radar, which is definitely better for everybody. The rain picks up, slanting sideways. 

Matt shivers. Foggy and Karen choose a Netflix show.

[silkling]

Good day, @pastelpaperplanes. It’s me. Again. Here with another fic for your C&M Prowl. This time it’s the Jettwins edition! The fandom needs more jettwins content, so I made some. Fear not, this time it’s just silly fluff and sibling idiocy. Hope y’all like it! Fair warning, this is a long one.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Jetstorm woke up to the smell of something cooking. That in and of itself wasn’t all too odd–Jazz enjoyed cooking, and it was fairly common for the three of them to eat breakfast together in the mornings when their respective jobs didn’t require an earlier start. However, Jazz also had a large sweet tooth, and so did his brother, which meant his breakfasts usually consisted of things like pancakes and waffles and other similar sweetened breakfasts. Jetstorm didn’t mind sweets. He loved a good dessert just as much as Jetfire did, but for his meals, he preferred savory food. Usually, this meant Jazz would have to cook a smaller portion of something like cyber-hen eggs or mecha-hog bacon for him. However, this morning was notable because the food Jetstorm smelled cooking wasn’t sweet. It also seemed milder, somehow, than the strong smell that usually filled the house when Jazz cooked.

Curious, the young bot shifted under the covers, scowling when he realized that Jetfire was once again tangled around him. They both had their own rooms, but the twins would often sleep curled up together if the mood struck. It was comforting to have the familiar weight at his back at night, but in the morning, when he wanted out of bed, it was irritating to have to fight his brother’s unconscious body for freedom. Finally, he succeeded....only to end up throwing himself halfway off the bed, face pressed to the floor and legs tangled in what little blanket Jetfire hadn’t stolen from him. Jetstorm just lay there in defeat for a long moment, then pushed himself up onto his hands and pulled his legs free. He slid fully to the floor, then slowly stood and crept out of his room while Jetfire slept on. As he closed the door, his brother sprawled into the warm spot he had previously occupied, even further rolling himself into the blanket as he did so.

Jetstorm sighed, rolled his eyes and crossing his arms, only to pause as he realized he’d left his visor on his nightstand. He tilted his head, considering for a moment before shrugging and going to follow to smell that had woken him. He stepped out of the hallway that led to the bedrooms, only to pause when he saw who exactly was at the kitchen counter. It wasn’t Jazz. No, it was actually their guest. Prowl stood there, mixing something in a pot over the stove, dressed in a loose sleeping robe that Jetstorm recognized as belonging to their guardian. Ah, that was right. He’d come over the day before to talk with Jazz, and they’d spent so long together that it had been dark by the time Jazz suggested Prowl might as well stay the night.

He still remembered the day they’d met the strange mech. After Prowl had thrown their frisbee that day in the park, and Jazz had seen him, their adoptive father had all but tackled the smaller bot on a hug so tight Jetstorm was still surprised he hadn’t broken anything. They’d stayed like that for a long time, Jazz just whispering things to Prowl is a tearful rasp that Jetfire and he hasn’t been able to hear. His brother had made to interrupt, but then he’d heard the hoarse “I finally found you” from the white mech and it had clicked. This was Prowl. The same Prowl Jazz had told them about (though he’d only ever been able to bring himself to tell the twins about his lost friend on a couple occasions, the topic obviously still painful to their guardian), the same Prowl that Jazz had spent the past several years trying to find. He’d pulled his brother back, hissed a hurried “Do not be interrupting, it be Jazz’s friend Prowl that he be telling us about” at the orange mechling, and his brother had stilled as the realization caught up. After that, they’d all eventually made it back to the house, where Jazz and Prowl had talked for the rest of the day while the twins played in the yard, and though the black and gold mech had left that night, he had also become a somewhat regular guest. Though, sometimes Jazz had to literally drag him here.

“You’re staring.”

Jetstorm startled at the smooth voice, stifling a yelp. He flushed when he realized he’d just been standing there, lost in thought. “I am sorry.” he said after a brief pause. “I was thinking you were Jazz.”

Prowl turned his head to look at the youngling over his shoulder, and Jetstorm was startled to see that the Praxian was without his own visor just as he himself was. “I take it Jazz cooks for you two in the morning?”

Jetstorm nodded, then sniffed at the air and padded over, peering curiously at the food the older mech was preparing. “What you be making?” he asked, curious. “Jazz and Jetfire like sweet breakfast, so we be having that often. But this does not be smelling sweet.”

Prowl paused, frowning. “I know Jazz has a sweet tooth.” he said after a moment. “But would all of you prefer something sweet?” he seemed hesitant, and Jetstorm quickly realized he seemed displeased with the idea. It seemed this bot too preferred a non-sweet breakfast.

“No.” he assured. “They be eating not sweet breakfast as well. I be liking not sweet better for my breakfast. Sweet is for desert, I think.” he explained.

He noticed Prowl’s faint hum and the way his shoulders relaxed. “I see. Then it seems you and I are of the same thought.”

Jetstorm nodded, then stared at the ingredients laid out on the counter. “What you be making? I am not recognizing this.”

“Currently, I am preparing miso. It is a broth traditional to my home, made with a metalli-plant product and energon. I also plan on making rice and some egg roll.”

The youngling perked up at the mention of the last food, head tilting. “How do you be rolling an egg?” he asked, confused.

Prowl blinked, glancing at him. “You prepare the mix, then pour a thin layer of it in a heated pan, and as each layer cooks you roll it on itself, push it to the side of the pan, and add another layer.”

Jetstorm stared, brain struggling to picture his that would work, before he gave up and asked another question. “Can I help? Jazz is be cooking with me sometimes.”

Prowl seemed startled by the question, before he paused and nodded. “...I can take care of the rice. The miso just needs to simmer until it’s served. I can guide you through making the egg roll, if you’d like?”

Jetstorm perked up, beaming at the elder bot. “I be liking that very much!” he said eagerly. “Thank you!”

Prowl blinked slowly, then nodded and gestured at the young bot. “Get a bowl, a whisk, and some cyber-hen eggs.” he instructed, rummaging in the cupboards for rice, he stopped in surprise when he noticed a rice cooker, shaking his head as a small smile twitched at his lips. He shouldn’t be surprised. It was Jazz, after all. He pulled the rice cooker out of the cupboard, then found some rice in the next one over.

Jetstorm, meanwhile, gathered the things as instructed before turning back to the elder mech. “What else I be needing?” he asked

“Sugar, salt, soy sauce, and rice vinegar.”

The youngling gathered those as well, and turned his attention to Prowl once more. By that time, the older bot had set the rice to cook, and turned to focus on his cooking companion. Seeing the littler bot standing eagerly, Prowl restrained a smile. This was odd, but it was also....nice.

He guided Jetstorm through making the mix for the egg roll, letting the youngling do all the work as he kept watch. By the time the bot was almost done cooking the second roll, Jazz and Jetfire trudged into the kitchen, bleary eyed and curious at the smell of food.

Jazz recognized the meal immediately, perking up. “Makin’ yer favorite breakfast, Prowler?” he rumbled, walking past his friend to grab dishes, bumping their shoulders as he did. At his friend’s snort and muttered “obviously” he just chuckled and shook his head. Then he went out to the dining room, Jetfire following with cutlery. Prowl and Jerstorm transferred the food to serving dishware, then brought it out and sat down.

Jetstorm watched as the older ninja sliced the egg rolls, taking a few pieces for himself, then ladling miso into a small bowl and scooping rice onto his plate. The other three followed suit, and Jetstorm was about to spoon some miso into his mouth when he noticed both adults were simply lifting the small bowls to their lips to drink the broth. He blinked, startled, but shrugged it off and followed suit. If that was how it was meant to be consumed, who was he to disagree?

He returned his attention to Prowl as the older bot went to eat a bite of egg role, holding his breath. He blinked, then made an approving hum and took another bite. “Very well done, Jetstorm.” He said softly.

The youngling beamed at the praise, taking a bite of his own portion and humming. This was nice! It was very faintly sweet, but not too much so, and it went well alongside the rest of the breakfast.

“Prowl’s right, Jetstorm.” Jazz grinned at his young charge, “Ya did a fine job this mornin’, mechling.”

“Thank you.” Jetstrom said with a faint, shy grin.

“You be the one who is making the egg?” Jetfire asked, surprised.

“Yes, Prowl be teaching me!” Jetstorm chirped cheerfully, grinning at his brother. “Do you like it, brother? It is not being as sweet as your normal breakfast, but I think it is tasting good.” he hummed, taking another bite.

Jetfire hummed, pausing as he took a bite. “It is tasting good.” he said after a moment of thought. “Is it supposed to be so lumpy?”

At that, Jetstorm winced. While it was true the egg rolls tasted good, they were indeed lumpy and a bit wrinkled. He had struggled with rolling them properly, as each layer was so thin it broke too easily. “No.” he said despondently.

“That doesn’t matter.” Prowl said smoothly. “You did very well. Better than I did the first time I made these. My first attempt wasn’t even edible.” he murmured into a sip of miso.

Jetstrom blinked. “Really? So I is not being too bad at rolling the egg?”

Prowl quirked his lips. “Really. You just need to practice.” he paused as if thinking. “I...would also not mind cooking further meals with you in the future.”

At that, Jetstrom looked positively delighted. “You be hearing that, brother?” he crowed. “I can be cooking with Prowl again!”

Jetfire snorted into his rice. “You be saying that like you be winning something, brother!” he snipped. “Cooking is not being fun! It is so boring it be making me want to sleep!” he complained.

Jetstorm bristled. “That is not being true!” he protested. “And anyway, you be finding anything without action boring!”

Jetfire bristled, looking like he was going to snap something back when Prowl cleared his throat. “Jazz told me you two work during the day?” he said smoothly, redirecting their attention to him.

Jetstorm grinned. “Yes! Jetfire and I are being delivery bots! We are riding are special bike, it is being called Safeguard! We have been the ones who be building it!” he chirped.

“Impressive.” Prowl said, tilting his head.

Jetfire preened under the praise. “It is not always be working right, so we always be having to fix and upgrade it, but one day we will be making it work and then we will be the fastest delivery bots on all of Cybertron!”

“That is only being happening if you can be steering right when you drive!” Jetstrom cut in with a grin.

“I can be steering right! I am not the one who crashed us into the river!” Jetfire snarled in return.

“That time I was only be crashing us because you were being distracting!”

“I was not being! You could not be seeing the road right, brother! Are you being sure you do not need optical correctors?”

“I do not be needing them!” Jetstorm bared his teeth.

(Jazz watched, grinning into his bowl of miso, as Prowl once more redirected the twins from their argument. His old friend asked another carefully constructed question, trying to pull the two younglings into a proper discussion, and he felt something warm and fond settle deep in his chest. He’d missed Prowl something fierce in the years since the little ninja had gone missing, and a part of him was scared he’d never see Prowl again whenever he left his sight. But seeing this, his old friend and one of the most beloved people in his life, interacting so naturally with the little bots he’d adopted and come to love as his own sons...it did him something good. This, right here, was everything he had ever wanted for his future. Eating a nice, home cooked meal with his family, just enjoying a peaceful, easy morning. He knew Prowl would have to leave soon, but if he could have more days like this...he’d be happy. This was good. This was what home was supposed to be.)

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Jetfire set down his gaming console with an irritated grumble. He’d lost. Again. For some reason, he level he was on kept stumping him every time he tried it. He grumbled, flopping into a wide sprawl on his bed and staring at the ceiling of his room, which was decorated with a giant glow in the dark dragon sticker. He was bored. He couldn’t play with Jetstorm; his brother had gone with Jazz to the grocery store. But...Prowl had stayed. Maybe he could see what their adoptive Sire’s old friend was up to?

He slipped out of bed, having gotten properly dressed after breakfast, and padded out of his room. He checked the living room, but found it empty, and then wandered around the house until he saw the older mech in the back yard. He paused, watching him through the window. Prowl shifted into a crouch, hands pulled in against his hips, then shifted his weight slowly to his back foot before moving swiftly to shift his weight forward, leap straight up, and execute a complex twist and kick in the air before landing in a wider, lower crouch, one leg bent and the other straight, almost sitting in the grass, with one arm up by his shoulders and the other remains tucked close to his hips. Jetfire gaped, eyes going wide at the maneuver. It was complex, but Prowl had made it look so smooth and even, his movements natural and easy and Jetfire wanted.

The youngling hurried to the door, opening it and pouncing into the yard with an eager look. “That is being so cool!” he gasped, loud and delighted.

Prowl startled, body going stiff as he jerked to attention and snapped his head towards the smaller mech. “What?” he asked, confused.

“You did the kick and twist, yes? I was being watching you!” Jetfire chirped, practically bouncing in place. “It is being very cool. Do you be thinking you can teach me?” he asked, eyes wide and pleading and oh-so-hopeful.

Prowl faltered, stuttering as he tried to gather his thoughts after being so roughly startled out of his meditative mindset. After a moment, he managed to gather himself, and he straightened to stand fully. He was dressed in a loose tank top and sweatpants he’d borrowed his Jazz, once again wearing his visor, and his feet were bare. He’d come out here to the yard to practice some of his forms while his old friend was shopping. He’d thought Jazz had taken both younglings with him, but apparently the orange twin had stayed behind. He cleared his throat, frowning. “I am not sure.” he said haltingly.

Jetfire blinked, then frowned. “Please?” he asked earnestly. “It be looking fun and cool and I is being wanting to be able to do that too.”

Prowl sighed, crossing his arms and regarding the youngling. “I can’t teach you the maneuver you saw me do. Not yet. It took me training and practice before I could do that. Lots of it.”

Jetfire blinked, then sagged, signing. “I be understanding.” he said quietly. If it really did take that much training, he couldn’t fault the mech for not wanting to teach him.

Prowl paused when he saw how down the mechling looked, and he sighed. “...if you are willing to start with something less exciting, I would be alright with beginning to teach you the basics.” he offered. He didn’t know why he was doing this. Maybe it was because it felt wrong to see the orange youngling so down. Maybe it was because he remembered how he’d enjoyed bonding with Jetstorm that morning, and maybe it was because an old, long-buried part of him remembered how nice it felt to go through the forms with another frame at his side.

Jetfire perked up at the offer, the action almost puppy-ish in the way the little bot visibly brightened and his eyes lit up. “You be meaning it?” he asked eagerly. “You are really being okay with teaching me?”

“As long as you’re prepared for less glamorous lessons in the beginning.” Prowl said, bemused. At Jetfire’s rapid nodding, the ninja’s lips twitched. “First, you need better clothes. We don’t have proper training clothing here, but sweatpants and a tank top will do. Don’t wear your shoes.” he instructed,

Jetfire snapped a salute, then turned on his heel and raced to change. When he returned, he was dressed in his own tank top and sweatpants, and and came to a stop in front of Prowl. He was all but vibrating with his eagerness.

Prowl tilted his head, then nodded. “I want to teach you meditation at some point, as being able to slip your mind into a calm, still state is rather important for later lessons. But for now, I can teach you warm-up stretches and basic stances.” he said.

Jetfire made a face at the mention of meditation. But, he did remember that maneuver earlier. Prowl had looked so peaceful, and so calm and serene, and if that was a result of meditation than Jetfire was willing to give it a go. “Okay!” he chirped, snapping another salute.

Prowl exhaled a brief huff of laughter, then gestured the youngling to his side. “Do as I do. I’m going to guide you through a set of warm-up stretches. It will allow your body to be properly prepare for the real action.” he explained.

Jetfire nodded, then did as Prowl indicated. He watched as the older mech slid his feet into a wider stance, then arched down and to the side, stretching his arms down to touch his ankle and keeping his legs straight. He held that position, then slowly pulled up and repeated the action on the other side. After a brief hesitation, Jetfire copied him.

They spent a while slipping though various stretches, and by the end Jetfire was surprised by how he ached. It was bearable, but his body also was definitely not used to that type of activity. Still, he had to admit, his limbs did feel almost...looser, and he could understand why these stretches would be important before doing something more serious.

Prowl was watching the youngling carefully, and he nodded as he seemed to observe...whatever he was looking for. “Are you ready to continue?”

Jetfire nodded. “Ready!”

“Good. Try to copy me as best you can. I’ll correct you if need be. Right now, I’m going to just show you a few simpler stances.” He explained.

Prowl shifted, then stood with his back straight, feet planted shoulder width apart, hands fisted, and wrists crossed at his front near his hips. Jetfire stared, then mimicked him carefully, brow furrowed.

“This is the ready stance. It’s very easy to slip from this stance into the other basic forms.” he explained. “Hold it as you are. I’ll correct you.”

He slipped out of the stance, then walked forward and paced in a circle around the youngling. At his back, he pressed his palm to Jetfire’s spine. “Straighten further. Posture is important for what I’m teaching you. Poor posture can lead to improper balance, and that can in turn lead to injury.” he said carefully.

Jetfire straightened his spine, waiting until Prowl was in front of him again. The Praxian nodded. “Good. Now copy me again. I’ll show you another.”

He stepped back, slipping into the ready stance, then spun on his right heel 90° to the left, stepping forward with his left foot as he did. His left leg bent, his right remained straight. His left arm raised, elbow bent, to block in font of his face, and his right arm was bent tucked to his hip, hand fisted. Then in one movement, he lowered his blocking arm to bend and tuck at his hip, hand fisting, while his other arm shot out straight into a punch. He held that, then shifted his left foot back, arms relaxing to lover at cross in front of him at his hips until he was once more in the ready stance.

Jetfire watched everything with rapt attention, as as soon as the older bot looked at him he did his best to copy. He slid into the ready stance, about to move when Prowl stopped him.

“Slowly. Keep your back straight all throughout.” Then he stepped back and walked around the youngling to observe him carefully.

Jetfire did his best to copy what he’d seen Prowl do, but even he could tell it wasn’t perfect. The surprising thing was that, every time Prowl noticed a mistake in his stance, he’d put a hand out to halt the youngling, gently correct it, and then let him continue. Jetfire performed the whole maneuver several times, Prowl making corrections every time he did, until finally the Praxian nodded.

“Good.” he said, sounding pleased.

Then he moved to stand next to the youngling. “Together, now.” he encouraged.

And so they did. Jetfire could tell that Prowl’s movements were much more fluid, much more elegant, but at that moment he didn’t care. Pride filled his chest and he grinned as he came to a finish in the ready stance. As soon as he saw Prowl shift out of his own finishing stance and relax, the youngling launched himself at the older mech in a hug.

“Thank you!” he gasped, loud and delighted. This wasn’t as exciting as that twisting air kick, but for once Jetfire didn’t mind the lack of action. He’d found his body challenged all afternoon, his mind having to constantly work to keep track of every inch of his body to keep his form right, and he liked it. “Can you be teaching me more?” he asked eagerly.

Prowl blinked, then relaxed and shifted his arms to awkwardly hug Jetfire back, though the youngling didn’t seem to mind the stiffness of the action. “Not now. Your body needs rest. It’s not used to such activity. But...how about I teach you more the next time I’m here? In the meantime, practice those stretches and that maneuver.”

Jetfire blinked, then beamed. He stepped back, standing another salute and laughing. “Okay!”

At the the youngling’s playful actions, Prowl could only smile and shake his head.

(Jazz watched from the window, his lips pulled into a wide grin. He and Jetstorm had returned a short while before. The blue twin was digging through the kitchen for a snack, and Jazz had come looking for his other son and friend. He’d come to the window just in time to see Prowl step next to Jetfire and see them both shift through what he recognized as one of the first most basic sets of Circuit-Su. The full maneuver was actually much longer, but that was the first part of it. Jazz had watched Prowl perform it countless times in their youth. He watched his son laugh and tackle his old friend, and found his grin growing. He knew he couldn’t stop Prowl from continuing his self-imposed mission, but maybe, just maybe...he could give him a home, and more importantly, a family, to return to. Though, as he watched Jetfire send Prowl a sloppy salute and watched Prowl smile, he realized that maybe the twins were already taking care of that.)

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Dinner had come and gone, and Jazz and Prowl were out in the backyard, talking about...whatever it was they talked about. The Twins were curled up on the bed in Jetstorm’s room, staring at the large glow in the dark nebula painted onto the ceiling.

“Brother?” Jetstorm said quietly. “What you be thinking about Prowl?”

Jetfire was quiet for a moment, before he spoke. “I is liking him. He is not treating us like younglings when he fight, and he is not getting angry when I mess up when he is teaching me.”

Jetstorm nodded. “Yes. He did not be angry when I did not make the egg roll correctly.” he agreed.

Jetfire hummed, seemingly thinking hard about something. Jetstorm couldn’t resist. “Do not be thinking too hard, brother! I am not being sure your processor can handle the strain!” he crowed.

Immediately, Jetfire seemed to snap out of whatever train of thought he’d been stuck on. He rolled to face his brother with a snarl, eyes narrowed. They were both dressed in pajamas, and Jetstorm wasn’t wearing his visor. “Did you just suggest I’m being stupid?” he barked, eyes narrowed.

Jetstorm blinked at him, eyes wide and innocent. “Is it not the truth, brother?” he asked. “You could not even finish one level on your game. You be having to ask me to beat it for you!” he stated, grinning at his twin.

Jetfire growled and tackled his brother. Jetfire yelped, and they rolled and tussled on the bed as they tried to pin each other. “I is not being the one who bought salt when we be needing sugar!” Jetfire barked, briefly rolling on top of his brother.

Jetstorm sputtered, heaving forward and managing to roll them both over. “That is not being my fault! Someone else be putting salt with the sugar, and the bags be looking the same!” he protested. He managed to pin Jetfire, sitting on his brother’s stomach and smirking down at him. “And I am not the one who be spilling soup on Jazz!”

Jetfire hissed up at his brother, bucking underneath him....and sending them both crashing to the floor. Both twins froze, breaths stilling. They were supposed to be asleep. Sure enough, the door opened and Jazz peeked in, they could see Prowl glance though the open door behind him. The Praxian was once again dressed in a borrowed sleeping robe, and neither adult was wearing their visor.

“Really boys?” Jazz deadpanned. “It’s 11:00. Go to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”

The twins shot him identical grins, sheepish and embarrassed, and pulled each other up onto the bed. “Goodnight.” came two voices from the heap of blankets and younglings. Jazz felt himself soften. “Goodnight, boys.” he said warmly. To his surprise, he heard a soft voice behind him speak up. “Sleep well, little ones.” At their sleepy murmurs, he closed the door with a click.

In the bedroom, Jetstorm stared up at the ceiling. “I be liking Prowl.” he said softly. “I do not be wanting him to disappear again.”

At his side, he heard a sleepy grunt of agreement. “Me too. I be hoping we can make him to to stay.”

Jetstorm smiled. Yes, that was what they could do. If they showed Prowl that there was something for him here, maybe he would stay. “Goodnight, brother.”

A yawn. “Goodnight.”

(Outside the door, Jazz stood calmly under Prowl’s probing stare. He was grinning, lazy and pleased, and he knew what his old friend was thinking. Still, he wouldn’t say anything until the Praxian did. Yet, it seemed he wouldn’t, because he only huffed and shook his head, taking one more look at the twin’s door before turning towards the guest bedroom. As he left, Jazz’s grin softened and he glanced at the closed door. Yeah, the twins were growing on Prowl. He just hoped it stuck. He wasn’t ready to lose his friend a second time.)

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In the guest bedroom, Jazz and Prowl both sat on the bed. Jazz had followed his old friend, wanting to have one last talk before he settled down to sleep in his own room. The two mechs sat in silence, Prowl staring out the window at the night sky. On the nightstand, Jazz saw a bundle of gold fabric. It took him a moment, but he remembered where he’d seen it. It was the sash that Yoketron had often worn. Well, that was as good a point as any

“....I know I can’t stop you from continuing your little mission.”

“No. You cannot.”

“Yeah. Figured.” Jazz sighed. “So I won’t. I ain’t sure I can help you either. I’ve looked over all the police information on the case, Prowl. You’ve told me what you know about it, and...well.” he sighed. “To be honest with you, the police don’t know all that much more than you do, mech.”

Prowl exhaled roughly. He’d known his friend had joined the force, and he couldn’t deny a part of him had been hoping for more information in the face of Jazz’s willingness to lend aid. “I suppose I should have expected as much.”

Jazz grimaced. “I’m sorry, Prowl.” He glanced at the old sash. “I know how close you and your Sire were.”

Prowl flinched, looking down at his lap. “Indeed.” he said, voice tight.

“Made me jealous, you know.” Jazz mused. “Seein’ how much ol’ Yoketron would dote on you...sometimes I wished my own Sire and Carrier would be like that. I was more an heir to them than a son, I suppose.” he mused.

Prowl winced. “I...I may have been my Sire’s heir, but...I do not think he would have been angry had I chosen a different path. If things....if things were different.” he admitted, voice quiet and pained.

Jazz smiled sadly. “Y’know, I think you’re right. You were his son first, and his heir second. That’s what made me so jealous.” he chuckled. Then he sighed, leaning back on his hands.

“I got over it right quick though.” he mused.

Prowl looked up, surprised. “You...did?”

“Yep.” he grinned at his friend. “How could I stay jealous when I learned why he cherished you the way he did?”

“What do you mean?” Prowl blinked, now just very confused.

“I learned how easy it is to love you.” Jazz confessed. He pushed himself closer to his friend, gaze fond and adoring.

Prowl stiffened, inhaling sharply. Jazz knew he was remembering their first kiss in the dojo gardens, shared over a handful of gifted flowers and hidden behind leafy bushes. He knew he was remembering the many quick, stolen kisses that followed. Kisses to lips, to cheeks, to foreheads and noses and jaws. They never took it further, then. They were too young, too shy and only just learning of their own intimacies, not yet ready to share that with another.

“Jazz...” Prowl whispered. “I’m not sure...” he trailed off.

Jazz smiled. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea either.” He admitted. “But that don’t mean I’m not willing to try. I think it’s worth it, Prowl. I think you’re worth it.” For a second, he held his breath. Hoping, praying that he didn’t just screw this up forever and that he wasn’t about to lose Prowl again.

Then his friend swallowed, and ducked his head. “I think you’re worth it too.” he whispered. “I want to, Jazz, but there’s so much that could go wrong.”

Jazz paused. “I know.” he said seriously. “What you’re doing is dangerous.” He said.

Prowl let out a shuddering breath. “Then how...?”

“We take it one day at a time, my mech.” Jazz said, leaning in and meeting Prowl’s uncertain gaze.

“One day at a time.” Prowl whispered. “That sounds...reasonable.”

“Good.” Jazz grinned. “I’m gonna kiss you now, Prowl.”

The Praxian let out a breathless laugh. “Then do it.”

And he did.

(That night, two aching souls reconnected. It was a fragile bond, riddled with cracks and insecurities. That sparks that fueled it both burned bright for each other, it was only the uncertainties of the lives the two mechs led that kept the two sparks from fully reaching for one another. That night, two bots relearned their love for each other in a series of kisses, long and soft and sweet. There was passion, but not of the fiery kind, for tonight was not about that. Kisses and whispered words of affection and apology and assurance were exchanged, and slowly, festering cracks began to heal. That night, Jazz and Prowl remembered why they had fallen for each other in the first place, and they fell only further as they exchanged truths and promises from their very sparks. They could not be sure of what was to come, but they could know they would have each other’s strength to borrow whenever they had need of it. That night, Jazz regained a lost love he had only ever hoped for.)

(That night, Prowl began to heal.)

✧

The song for this one represents the relationship between Jazz and Prowl, but also the familial bond building between Prowl and the twins. It’s “Love Can Build a Bridge” by The Judds. Thought it’d be fitting for the relationships and character journeys in this little family unit.

[organabanana]

What spring does to cherry trees || Supercorp

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Supergirl (TV 2015)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor

Characters: Kara Danvers, Lena Luthor

Additional Tags: mostly fluff, with some porn for flair, pre-canon, but also, post-canon, tooth-rotting fluff.

Summary: I want to do with you what spring does to cherry trees. What does that even mean? It's taking a simple I love you and putting lead-lined glasses on it to keep its power contained. No offense, Mr. Neruda, but that's just weak. Kara doesn't like poetry. Until she does.

Notes: Written for a very patient anon who prompted me with “Seeing the cherry blossoms in Washington DC” but I got sidetracked by Neruda and my favorite of his poems and it turned into This.  It's poem number fourteen, found in "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada" (Twenty love poems and a song of despair) by Pablo Neruda, which you can read here (Spanish) or here (English). I mostly translated the lines I needed myself, so I can't guarantee they'll match the official translation (I'm also not sure there is such a thing as an official translation, so there's that). With special thanks to the most patient anon in history for the prompt, to @lavenderrry for praising my vibes, and to @emiltons for the gorgeous graphic.

[ao3 link]

The first time Kara encounters Neruda's poetry she's nineteen and bored. In her defense, she thought taking a poetry class would make her feel sophisticated and cultured, but all she feels is annoyed at the insistence of using language to obscure your message rather than share it.

And yes, yes, she gets it. It all sounds very pretty and evocative. It's just Kara has been hiding her true self in plain sight for the last six years, and she can't understand why anyone would willingly and needlessly do that to themselves. To their feelings. She may never have been in love, but Kara is pretty sure if she ever is -- if her heart ever feels full to the brim with the kind of big feelings her professor keeps making them read in metaphors and symbolism -- she'll want to make them clear as day.

I want to do with you what spring does to cherry trees.

What does that even mean?

It's taking a simple I love you and putting lead-lined glasses on it to keep its power contained.

No offense, Mr. Neruda, but that's just weak.

***

Kara doesn't take any more poetry classes, and she doesn't think of Neruda (or any other poet, for that matter) for years. She has so many other things to think about. She moves to National City and starts working for Ms. Grant. She grows into herself, she thinks. She becomes Supergirl and feels more like herself than she has since her pod left Krypton. She dates, a little bit. Dips her toe in the dating pool, if you will. She meets Lena Luthor.

And that's the second time she runs into Neruda. Right there on a shelf in Lena's living room, on a book that looks well loved and well read, spine full of small cracks and lines from being opened over and over again. Kara has always thought you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their shelves.  

"Pablo Neruda," Kara says, one finger tracing a line down the spine of the book like she's trying to read something in the pattern of the cracks, "I didn't know you liked poetry."

"I don't dislike it." Lena's heels click-clack on the hardwood floor before she sets the bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table and sits on the couch. "Have you made up your mind on what we're going to watch?"

Kara can hear the faint electrical hum of the TV being turned on, but she's a bit too distracted by the book to focus on deciding whether tonight is a night for a romantic comedy or an epic drama. She couldn't say exactly why this book feels important. It just does. Maybe it's because Lena keeps so much of herself hidden somewhere not even Kara's X-Ray vision can reach, and finding little clues about her thoughts and feelings feels a lot like she's struck gold.

Yeah. Maybe that's why.

Her fascination with the book only grows when she pulls it out of the shelf only to find the title written in Spanish. "Veinte poemas de amor--"

"And a song of despair," Lena finishes in English. "Atonement? I've heard good things about it."

"No way. I said I could be persuaded to watch a tear jerker, but I did not sign up for actual depression." Kara brings the book along when she walks over to sit down next to Lena. She's so focused on the book, still, that she miscalculates her landing just by an inch or so and her thigh bumps against Lena's as she settles on the couch. But Lena doesn't move away, and Kara figures there's no reason why she should. They're friends, after all. Close friends. Figuratively and now very, very literally close.

"I didn't know you spoke Spanish." Kara speaks again, breaking the silence before it solidifies into something potentially awkward.

"I don't. It's a bilingual edition. Can we please pick a movie?"

Kara would love to do exactly what Lena wants. In fact, giving Lena everything she wants has become sort of a constant in this fledgling friendship between them. It just feels nice, you know? Giving her what she wants and making her smile. But this book. It's all so very distracting.

"So. Do you prefer the twenty love poems, or the song of despair?"

Lena rolls her eyes, but she can't quite hide the amused smirk behind the glass when she sips her wine, so Kara knows she's not nearly as annoyed as she's trying to appear.

"What is it with you and Neruda? I didn't know you were a poetry fan."

Kara scoffs. "I'm not." She still remembers the feeling of relief washing over her when she saw her passing grade on that stupid course and realized she'd never have to read another line of poetry in her life. "I don't even like poetry. I'm just curious, that's all."

Lena cocks one eyebrow at her. Studies her, in a way that makes color rise to Kara's cheeks and has her wondering if Lena can see through people, too. 

"Anyway!" Kara shakes her head like she's hoping that'll make the blush fade. "The love poems, or the song of despair?"

"The poems," Lena finally concedes, "and I'm very surprised you don't like poetry. You seem the type."

"What?" Kara is already thumbing through the edge of the book, trying to find the place where it'll open naturally and hopefully show her which of the twenty love poems Lena happens to like the most. "What does that even mean?"

"Well, you have a big heart. Big feelings." Lena looks into Kara's eyes like she's trying to read all those feelings right there in shades of blue, and Kara finds herself looking down at the book just in case. Just in case all those big feelings she can't even name herself are there for Lena to read. "Seems like a recipe for liking poetry."

Kara shakes her head and pushes her glasses up, just in case. Just in case the lead in them can shield more than just her powers. And just as she's about to argue -- just as she's about to tell Lena precisely why she doesn't like poetry -- she opens her book and her gaze lands on a familiar phrase.

"Quiero hacer contigo," she reads out loud from the page on the left, and her fingertip is already finding the next verse on the right when Lena finishes for her.

"What spring does to cherry trees."

If Kara was just Kara Danvers, she'd have missed it all. She'd have just heard her best friend speak a line from a poem that -- much like most poems -- means very little to her. But she's not just Kara Danvers. So Kara hears the way Lena's heart beats just a little bit faster. The way her breath catches just so. The exact fraction of a tone her voice drops when she speaks. The faintest hint of a sigh.

"See? This is why I don't like poetry." Kara chances a look into green eyes, and she's so very grateful Lena has no superhearing to tip her off to the way Kara's heart seems to trip all over itself.  "'I want to do with you what spring does to cherry trees'. What does that mean?"

Kara swears -- she swears -- she catches Lena's pupils dilating just enough to make her think she knows exactly what the poem means. 

"It's not about what it means, Kara. It's about what it makes you feel." Lena lets out a soft chuckle, something light and airy like this is just a silly little conversation with no weight to it at all. Like she can't feel the way the air itself seems to have changed into something new. 

"Is it your favorite line?" Kara pretends she can't hear the way her own voice has changed, too.

Lena shakes her head. "No. My favorite is actually--"

Kara hears the DEO alarm before Lena's fingertip can make contact with the paper, and she almost considers ignoring it. She almost considers letting whatever danger is looming over this whole city have at it because finding out what's Lena's favorite line in her favorite poem seems far more important right now.

But of course, that would be crazy. Crazy! Kara would never.

"I'm so sorry, Lena, I--" Kara stands up, already hearing Alex's voice telling her where she's needed as she pulls her phone out of her pocket and pretends to read a text, "I have to go. I forgot I had this thing with--"

"Go." Lena's smile is just small enough to make Kara's heart twist in an uncomfortable way that's become familiar since she started lying to her friend. "Sounds important. I understand."

Kara nods, just once. "Tomorrow?"

Lena's smile doesn't grow, but it suddenly reaches her eyes, and something settles in Kara's chest. "Of course. Tomorrow."

Five hours later, foe defeated and safely locked away at the DEO, Supergirl touches down on Lena's balcony. There isn't a single light on inside the apartment, and Kara hesitates for a second by the sliding glass door. She shouldn't sneak into Lena's apartment in the middle of the night. That's a little creepy, right? Even if she knows Lena's said over and over again Kara's welcome any time.

It's just.

That book.

Lena's favorite line.

Kara may never be able to sleep again if she doesn't find out what it is.

So with a non-zero amount of shame at her own choice, Kara ends up sliding the door open and slipping into Lena's living space. She listens for Lena's breathing to make sure she's asleep, and once she's satisfied that's the case she makes a beeline for the shelf and the now-familiar book. It doesn't take her long to find the page she'd been reading before, and soon enough she's reading the lines Lena had been pointing to.

How you must have hurt getting used to me, to my savage, solitary soul, to my name that sends everyone running.

The words wrap around Kara's heart like a vice. If she could do it without blowing her cover and putting Lena in danger, she'd go in her room right now just to wake her up and tell her what Kara thinks about her soul. About her name, too, while she's at it. She'd tell her everyone else is free to run if they want, but Kara isn't going anywhere. 

But she can't do any of those things. 

***

The two lines stay with Kara, sort of swirling under the surface of her thoughts. She never actively thinks about them -- about poetry in general, for that matter -- but they're there. 

She remembers them sometimes. When their friendship grows and strengthens and one day Kara realizes Lena may be the person she loves the most in the world (tied with Alex). When the secrets and lies catch up with her and she thinks she may have lost Lena for good. When she finally gets Lena back.

It's been five years since she snuck into Lena's apartment that one night to find out about her favorite line in her favorite poem. Five years since she's actively thought about Neruda and the book and the words inside it. But for some reason, when Kara wakes up a couple hours earlier than she needs to and finds herself unable to sleep, she feels like that's precisely what she needs to read to soothe her brain. Maybe poetry will have the same sedative effect it used to have in college.

Wearing only an old t-shirt, Kara walks out of the bedroom and into the living area, scanning the shelves where she thinks she last saw that book. It's hard to keep track when your book collection has multiplied and turned into more of a home library situation than anything else, but she eventually finds it -- spine still cracked and pages still well-loved and well-read -- and settles down on the couch.

Kara flips from poem to poem, not really paying attention to any of them. A line from the third and then two from the eighteenth and a word or two from the seventh, eyes flicking between the Spanish lines and their English counterparts on the other side of the page. It's soothing, in a strange way. Like white noise, she figures. Nonsensical but calming. Until she lands on the fourteenth. 

"Oh, those cherry trees," Kara half-groans in a whisper. The cherry trees and the spring and the convoluted way to say I love you. And Lena's favorite lines. 

Kara feels it all over again. The pang of pain at the sight of that line.

My name that sends everyone running.

It lands different this time, five years into a friendship that turned out to be so much more and nearly went up in flames at one point. Because of names and lies and... well. Everything else. Lena was right after all, wasn't she? It's not about what the poem means. It's about what it makes you feel. And right now Kara feels a lot more than she'd be able to put in words if she had to.

Maybe Mr. Neruda was on to something after all.

"Hey," Lena's voice is laced with sleep, and Kara smiles as she listens to her footsteps bringing her closer, "what are you doing? It's the middle of the night."

Kara wouldn't call it the middle of the night -- more like a very early morning, really -- but she's not about to argue. "Reading. I couldn't sleep."

"Everything all right?" Lena reaches the back of the couch and makes the most of the rare height advantage over her girlfriend to press a kiss to the top of blond hair. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

Kara opens her arms before Lena can even think about sitting next to her instead, and smiles at the familiar weight of Lena sliding onto her lap. Even as she shrugs off Lena's question, Kara is already burying her face against the soft skin of her girlfriend's neck, breathing her in and letting the familiar scent filling her lungs soothe her like no amount of poetry ever could.

"Kara," Lena's fingers slide into blond hair, blunt fingernails scratching at Kara's scalp and making her hum in delight, "that's not an answer."

"No reason. I'm just not tired anymore I guess." A deep, content sigh. "Baby, you're so good at that."

There's still a slight crease between Lena's eyebrows, but that doesn't stop the smile Kara's praise brings to her face. "You'd tell me if I had to worry?"

Reluctantly, Kara pulls away from the warmth of Lena's neck. Her arms wrap around Lena's waist as she looks into green eyes. "You know I would."

And Kara watches Lena let the words sink in. They've had this conversation before, and Kara knows they'll have it again. They both have sore spots that need special care from time to time. And just to keep Lena's mind from going down any sort of rabbit hole, Kara decides it's time to continue a conversation they left unfinished five years ago.

"It didn't hurt at all, you know. Getting used to you." Kara shows Lena the book she's been holding, and grins when Lena smirks as the reference clicks.

"I thought you didn't like poetry," Lena chides, taking the book and flipping through the pages until she lands -- unsurprisingly, if you ask Kara -- back on poem fourteen.

"I don't. It's like... giving feelings a secret identity."

Lena arches one eyebrow, looking somewhere between amused and curious. "Care to explain?"

"Well, you know," Kara leans in to steal a quick, soft kiss, "say I want to kiss you. I can just say it. That's better than hiding it behind some kind of... flowery metaphor that'll make you wonder if I'm even saying that in the first place. Right?"

There's this look on Lena's face. Kara knows it well. It's like a challenge. Like she's playing chess and she's already thinking six moves ahead and knows you're toast whatever you do from that point on. Kara finds it nothing short of delicious.

"So you're saying," Lena says, and there's victory right there simmering under the surface of her words because she knows -- she knows -- she's won, "you'd rather I say 'this is a lovely sunrise we get to see together'," Lena's gaze drops to the open book in her hand to refresh her memory on the line she's about to quote, but she makes sure she's looking into blue eyes once again when she speaks, "than 'so many times we've watched the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans', right?"

Kara swallows, hard. Her cheeks burn with a blush that will simply not be contained, no matter how hard she tries to keep some semblance of dignity. Her mouth feels dry all of a sudden, heart beating just fast enough -- hard enough -- that she's sure even Lena's plain human hearing can pick it up. And the look on her girlfriend's face lets Kara know she knows exactly what's currently happening to her.

"W-- well." Kara blinks, shaking her head like she's trying to physically clear the fog inside. To her credit, she thinks she manages to sound more indignant than turned on. "I mean that's unfair. You made it hot."

Lena lets out a delighted chuckle that hits Kara right in her heart, like a little pinball ball making it ding with the knowledge that Lena Luthor is happy enough to laugh. Really, truly laugh. 

"What?" Lena asks, still grinning, fingertips teasing the soft hairs at the back of Kara's neck like it's nothing -- like she doesn't know what she's doing to her. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Ohh no, ma'am," Kara grins, cheeks still burning with the feeling simmering down low in her belly but too charmed by her girlfriend's teasing smile to stop, "you don't get to pretend you didn't do that on purpose."

"Kara," Lena says, in that way, because she knows, she knows, she knows Kara's weaknesses so perfectly well, and Kara wouldn't have it any other way, "I was just quoting Neruda, I didn't do anything."

"You did the voice thing!" 

"What voice th-- Kara, if you can't just admit plain language and poetic language are simply not on the same level I--"

"You purred the words! How is that fair!?"

Kara presses her lips together like she can retroactively keep the words from exiting her mouth. Too late, though. Lena looks positively delighted.

"I purred the words?" Lena echoes, barely able to keep a straight face. Actually, you know what? Scratch that. She's openly pleased with herself. Smug, even.

"I mean. I mean," Kara says, and she touches the bridge of her nose with one fingertip because for a moment she's forgotten there are no glasses to push up at all, "obviously it's not the same. Poetry and prose, they're inherently--"

"Different, right," Lena finishes Kara's thought, "so you see how you'd use one or the other depending on how emotionally charged--"

Kara shakes her head. "But you don't need flowery metaphors to convey emotion! You can just say what you mean and mean what you say."

"But you just said it yourself. It felt different when I just said it's a sunset, and when I quoted--"

"You purred poetry at me, Lena, of course I'm going to feel a certain kind of way!"

And there it is. Kara feels it in her bones. The checkmate Lena had seen coming a mile away. She sees it right there in the smirk on her girlfriend's face. In the way Lena's pupils dilate just so. The way her tongue peeks out to lick her lips as she looks at Kara like she's lunch.

Or, you know. Breakfast, as the case may be.

"You feel a certain kind of way?" Lena shifts on Kara's lap and they've been together for long enough that Kara absolutely knows there's nothing innocent or coincidental in the way Lena's night shirt (Kara's high school gym t-shirt, mind you) rides up to expose Lena's lace-covered ass. "What kind of way is that, Supergirl?"

Kara perks up at the sound of her name. Her other name. Because maybe it wasn't checkmate after all. Maybe it was just check. Because the thing is, it's not just Lena knowing all of Kara's weaknesses. That knowledge very much goes both ways. And Lena calling her Supergirl? 

Oh, Kara is absolutely not the only one who's feeling a certain way.

"You know." Kara shrugs slightly, pretending to still be the mouse in this little game. She rests one hand on Lena's knee and lets her palm slide up her thigh, slowly, listening to Lena's heartbeat speeding up with each inch of skin Kara explores. "You know the way I mean."

Lena's breath hitches just so when Kara's hand slides further up, and Kara savors the sound of Lena's heart tripping over itself when her fingertips drag along damp lace.

"You're listening, aren't you?" Lena cocks her eyebrow, but her lips stay parted and her breathing comes in short, warm puffs so the whole thing really doesn't come off as stern as Kara is sure Lena would like. 

"Hmm?" Kara knows she's probably pushing her luck, but she bats her eyelashes anyway, her face the very picture of innocence as if her fingertips weren't tracing the very edge of Lena's panties, hinting at what they could (will) do if she just happened to push that fabric aside. "Listening to what, baby?"

Lena tries not to -- Kara can see the struggle right there in her eyes -- but she whimpers anyway, quiet and just barely audible to the human ear. 

"Kara." It tries to sound like a warning, but it falls just this side of pleading instead. Lena blushes so very pretty when she's feeling a certain kind of way.

"Yes, Lena?" 

"You're listening," a breath, slow and measured like she wishes she could take in a deep one but her lungs can't quite cope with that right now, "to me."

"Well, I mean," Kara shrugs slightly, like she can't feel the warmth of Lena's pussy against her fingertips, "I try to. I feel like it's good girlfriend etiquette."

Lena is trying so hard to look at least moderately annoyed. It's not working at all, but Kara can see that's her intent. She also knows exactly what Lena means, too. She means Kara is listening to her. To the beat of her heart and the air in her lungs and all the tiny, inaudible (for everyone else) sounds that tell her exactly how much Lena wants her. 

"You're listening to what you're doing to me." Lena drops the book on the floor to wrap both hands around Kara's neck, hips shifting forward just enough to get more contact with Kara's hand between her legs. Kara knows Lena doesn't need superhearing to notice the way Kara's breath catches in her throat. 

"And what am I doing to you, baby?" Kara won't cross the barrier of Lena's panties just yet, but her fingers becomes more purposeful, less teasing as two fingertips press against Lena's clit through damp lace. Lena's eyes flutter closed and she takes in a sharp breath that sounds almost like a gasp, and Kara rewards such a gorgeous sound with a kiss to Lena's jaw. "What Spring does to cherry trees?"

Lena must feel Kara's teasing grin even if she can't see it, because she lets out a breathless chuckle even as her hips start rocking to meet the movements of Kara's fingers. "Just admit poetry can express richer emotions than prose ever cou--"

Kara's mouth is on Lena's before she can finish her thought, and Kara would maybe feel a bit guilty for interrupting, but Lena's fingers fist in blond hair and pull her close and there's no way someone who's offended would kiss her like that. And Kara isn't even listening anymore, because Lena's tongue is in her mouth and all she can hear is her own heart thumping along anyway.

When she breaks the kiss, Lena keeps Kara close. She's panting slightly, breath hot and wet against Kara's lips and pupils so dilated Kara wonders if she can see her at all. A quiet, hitched moan escapes parted lips, and Kara swears there's nothing in the world -- in the universe, really -- more beautiful than Lena when she's like this. Like putty in her hands. And Kara just can't resist. 

"Admit you purred," she whispers against kiss-swollen lips, knowing if there's one chance for her to win an argument with her girlfriend this must be it. When she has Lena rocking against her fingers, wet and wanting and just the right amount of needy to get her to give in, for once. 

"Kara." It's practically a whine, and Kara swears it sounds like victory. Until she sees the glint in her girlfriend's eyes, and Lena gets her checkmate move after all. "Shut up and fuck me."

Kara feels the words rather than hears them. They hit right between her legs and spread all over her body, and you know what? Kara really is okay with losing under these particular circumstances.

Two fingers hook under the crotch of Lena's panties and Kara tugs lightly, almost like she's testing the strength of the lacy fabric. "Do you really like the..." Kara's voice trails off as Lena pulls the t-shirt up and over her head, blue eyes staring unabashedly at her girlfriends breasts as she struggles to finish her thought, "...these?"

It's just polite to ask before tearing someone's panties to shreds, if you ask her, even if you're currently transfixed at the sight of her breasts.

"I don't care." Lena's voice is doing that thing again, except this time Kara is pretty sure she's not doing it on purpose at all, it's just that's what Lena sounds like when she needs Kara now and isn't that just the best thing ever? "Baby, please, I don't care."

Kara doesn't know if she rips the panties off first and then leans in to catch Lena's left nipple with her mouth or if it happens the other way around, but she honestly doesn't care either, as it turns out. All she knows is two fingers slip inside Lena in one smooth, firm thrust, and her free hand grabs Lena's right breast, and then--

"More," Lena moans, breathy and greedy, but when Kara starts thrusting harder into her Lena shakes her head, "no, no-- more fingers," and Kara lets out a quiet whimper around the stiff nipple between her teeth. 

Kara pulls her fingers out of Lena and stretches her ring finger to join the first two before sliding them back inside. Her movements are slow and careful, all of her senses focused on detecting even the slightest hint of discomfort in her girlfriend until her three fingers are fully inside Lena. 

"Go on, Supergirl." 

Lena's tone is just the right amount of teasing to make Kara chuckle lightly, mouth leaving Lena's breast to trail kisses up her sternum and to the freckles on her neck as her arm starts pumping once again. She's so very close, Kara can tell, and even more so when she turns her wrist just so to press the pad of her thumb against Lena's clit.

Lena's fingers dig into Kara's scalp, into the strong muscle at her shoulder as Lena holds on and rides Kara's hand, hips rocking hard and fast in time with Kara's thrusts. Kara couldn't listen to any one thing if she tried. It's a symphony of sighs and moans, whimpers and ragged breaths and stuttering heartbeats that nearly overwhelms her senses until she feels Lena clench around her fingers, hips losing their rhythm as Lena comes with Kara's name on her lips.

Kara pulls her face away from Lena's neck just so she can look at her. Watch her come around her fingers and then relax, chest heaving with the effort of trying to catch her breath. Kara swears there can't be a more beautiful sight in the universe, especially not now, with the sun rising and bathing Lena's damp skin in early morning light. And as much as Kara tries to suppress it, there's a thought running through her head. A line from that stupid poem with its stupid cherry trees.

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body... 

"You're thinking very loudly," Lena whispers, already resting her head on Kara's shoulder as her fingertips play with the hem of Kara's shirt, "what are you thinking?"

For a second, Kara considers telling her, but Neruda's words aren't what comes out when she opens her mouth. "Just how beautiful you look," she says, which is in fact the truth. Kind of. She can't let Lena win every single time, right?

***

"Apparently the first cherry trees got here in 1910, but they had to burn them all because of a bunch of insects." Kara holds the little guide book in her hand as she reads, her other hand safely in Lena's as they walk along the Tidal Basin. "These ones are newer, from 1912."

 "Oh, like the Titanic!" Lena looks delighted with the coincidence, and the bright smile on her face makes Kara lean in to steal a kiss from her lips. Her fiancée is super cute when she lets her inner dork show, if you ask Kara.

"See? I told you buying an actual guide book would be worth it!" Kara holds the small book in her hand with the pride of someone who's just won an argument (for once). "Where else are you going to get that kind of high quality trivia?"

"You do know the prototype L-Corp keychain I gave you last week can access Google, yes?"

"Not the same."

"Not to mention the actual supercomputers we all carry around in our pockets. Or the high-tech communicator in your wat--"

"Lena!" Kara groans. "Look around! The cherry blossoms! The quaintness of springtime! A romantic stroll along the river! Where's your sense of romance?"

Lena chuckles lightly, her free hand sliding up Kara's arm to wrap around her bicep. And Kara would complain about the obvious use of one of her many Lena-related weaknesses, but you know what? It works.

"Kara Danvers," Lena says, voice low and teasing, "that's all very poetic."

Kara rolls her eyes, but she can't quite stop the bright smile that's already appearing on her face. "Don't you start with me," she warns, not very convincingly. 

Lena presses a kiss to Kara's shoulder, and it makes color rise to Kara's cheeks even through the soft fabric of her cardigan. Even after all these years. But she figures if there's one day to be particularly enamored with one's fiancée, that's the day she's scheduled to receive a Presidential Award for her contributions to science and the betterment of humanity.

Not to brag. But Kara is proud.

"I love you," Kara says, because she can't not, "and I'm just so proud, I--"

Lena presses a finger to Kara's lips, stopping what was potentially about to turn into a whole speech about the many ways in which Lena Luthor could not possibly be any more perfect if she tried. 

"Kara," Lena warns, all cocked eyebrow and slightly pursed lips, "you promised. You promised you wouldn't cry before the actual ceremony."

And Kara would argue. She'd argue that she's perfectly capable of going on about Lena's many virtues without actually crying, but you know what? Her eyes are feeling just a tiny bit misty already so she's just gonna go ahead and trust Lena on this one.

"You know what I also love?" Kara presses a kiss to the pad of Lena's finger and obediently changes subjects. "Sushi. Let's go get some." Kara starts walking away from the beautiful soft pink trees and in the general direction of the street festival, tugging Lena along. She's all for the romance of blossom-watching, but she'd be lying if she said hearing about the culinary side of this whole festival hadn't excited her a bit more than that.

It's only when she hears a sigh coming from Lena that Kara's focus shifts from food to the woman next to her. That wasn't a happy sigh. 

"Are you okay, baby?"

Lena smiles. It's not a fake smile, but there's a hint of something in it that isn't fully happy, either. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. It's just... between the cherry blossoms and all this talk of sushi, I guess it made me a bit nostalgic for Sendai." 

"Sendai?" Kara looks at Lena with curiosity written all over her face. "What's Sendai?"

"Oh, it's a city in Japan. I lived there for a few months for an exchange when I was in college. Did I never tell you?" Kara shakes her head, her face the picture of delight at getting to learn something new about Lena. "There was this little restaurant near Tohokudai, I swear they had the best sushi in the world." Lena hums, letting her eyes flutter closed for a second like she's trying to imagine the taste. "I'd do anything for some negitoro maki from that place right about now."

Kara listens intently to her fiancée's words. She knows it's just a silly little comment. She knows Lena will be perfectly happy eating the undoubtedly delicious sushi currently being sold at the street festival. And yet.

She can't resist a chance to make Lena just that little bit happier, can she? 

So Kara looks around to make sure they're not being watched, and lets go of Lena's hand. "Be right back."

"Where are you--?"

But all Lena gets is a quick kiss and a gust of wind on her face before Kara disappears.

She's only gone for a couple of minutes -- just enough for Lena to wander back towards the cherry trees -- and when she comes back she's holding a small box which she immediately presents to Lena.

"Sushi for my... sushi," Kara lets out a chuckle, her now-free hand coming up to scratch at the back of her head like she's aware she may have gone just a little bit overboard but she's hoping it won't be too much, "Sendai's beautiful, by the way."

Lena's smile is soft, and Kara has a feeling -- not to toot her own horn -- if she'd been listening she would've heard Lena's heart skip a beat. 

"Kara Danvers," Lena sighs, shaking her head like that'll do anything to hide just how charmed she is right now, "you're something el-- what's that?"

"Nothing," Kara shifts slightly and puts her hand -- and the little carton box it's holding -- behind her back, fully intending on letting the focus of this moment be on her romantic gesture, but Lena raises one eyebrow and Kara loses her resolve. "Potstickers." Kara's voice is quiet as she shows Lena the box. "What? I was in the neighborhood!"

"In the neighborhood of," Lena squints slightly as she reads the words on the box, "Shanghai?"

"Well, China is next door to Japan, if you think about it."

Lena chuckles, clearly too charmed by this whole thing to even continue teasing Kara about it. "Thank you. For this. You didn't actually have to fly all the way to Japan to get my favorite sushi, but I appreciate it."

Kara shrugs, chopsticks already grabbing the first potsticker in the box. "I'd go way farther than Japan to make you happy. You know that."

"I do know," Lena nods, looking just a little thoughtful, like she's just now realizing she fully believes Kara would stop at nothing to make her happy, "you even promised when you proposed."

Lena wiggles her finger, flashing the kryptium ring that's been there for a few weeks now along with a teasing smile, and Kara can only shrug. "Well, I meant it," she says, popping the potsticker in her mouth and leaning against the trunk of a nearby cherry tree.

"I know," Lena says again, but this time she's smiling, amusement shining in her eyes, "if only Lex had figured out the one true way to have the world in the palm of your hand is to make a Kryptonian fall in love with you."

"To be fair, I really don't think your brother is Kal's type."

***

Eight hours later, they're seeing the Tidal Basin from above, the cherry blossoms looking nearly white in the moonlight. They could be in National City already, but Kara figures there's no reason why she can't take the scenic route with Lena in her arms and enjoy the view without the crowds and the bustle they experienced earlier today. Perks of being your own private jet.

"Go a bit lower, baby," Lena's voice is soft against Kara's ear, like she's afraid if she speaks too loud she'll break the spell and they won't feel like the only two people in the world anymore, "I want to see the flowers."

Kara doesn't make her wait. Lena's just been awarded an actual medal by the President, and spoiling her a little is the least Kara can do. So she dips until they're hovering just above the soft pink blossoms and then a little lower still, close enough that Lena can smell the sweet, fresh scent of Spring.

The night is clear and quiet, just cool enough for Lena to reach for Kara's cape and pull it forward to wrap it around herself. Kara holds her a little closer, just enough to hopefully provide a bit of extra warmth, and she figures it was the right move when Lena slips one arm from under Kara's cape to reach for the tree and pick a particularly pretty blossom from one of the branches that's closer to them.

Lena looks at it for a moment, twirling the little stem between her fingers like she's pondering what to do with it. And then she turns and tucks Kara's hair behind her ear, sliding the small flower between soft blond strands and smiling when she's satisfied it'll stay exactly where she wants it.

"Happy?" Kara chuckles, something soft and quiet and a little teasing because there's something equal parts amusing and endearing about Lena's perfectionism when it comes to silly little things like putting a flower in Kara's hair.

"Very."

And there's something about the way Lena smiles, more with her eyes than with her mouth, that makes Kara see, clear as day, just how serious Lena is. How sincere, when she says she's very happy. 

Maybe that's why Kara gets a little transfixed just looking at her, suddenly aware of just how different this Lena -- the Lena wrapped in her arms and her cape, wearing her ring and smiling with a smile that's just Kara's -- is from the Lena she first met all those years ago.

"Kara Zor-El," Lena's voice is soft just like the sound of Kara's true name on her lips, "what are you thinking about?"

And Kara wishes she had the words to tell her. But how does she even begin to explain what she's feeling right now? How she's still the same Lena that made Kara's heart trip all over itself the first time she saw her, but she's so very different all the same time. Brighter. Lighter. Loved. God, she's so loved, and Lena knows it, finally, and that's what's different, maybe. Not just Kara's love, because Lena's had that from the very first day, probably, but the fact that Lena can feel it now. 

How do you put that in words? I love you just doesn't feel like enough. 

And then it hits her.

"I'm thinking," Kara smiles, cheeks pink with the knowledge that she's just been proven wrong, "about what Spring does to cherry trees."

[fortunatelyfresco]

A Holistic Integration of Type 1 Narcolepsy into the Reading of Moist von Lipwig

Literary Interpretation, Disability, and Finding Yourself Between the Lines

As it goes, "I wrote this for me, but you can read it if you want." It might be a fun ride for anyone who is very interested in Moist von Lipwig, or narcolepsy, or both, and/or anyone who enjoys collecting small details from within a body of work and arranging them into threads that are supportable by the text, without being actually suggested by it.

Personally, I find it very interesting to read the meta behind different headcanons, and see how creators can unintentionally write a character who fits certain criteria. There are only so many traits, after all, and some of them tend to travel in groups! Humans are pattern seekers, etc etc.

The first step of reading Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic is wanting to read Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic. Being narcoleptic myself and relating heavily to Moist, this step was very easy. I invite you to take my hand and come along, at least briefly, if you were interested enough to click the readmore.

Once you have taken that step, things start falling into place. At least they do if you're intimately familiar with narcolepsy, or if you first learn about it in detail through, for instance, a Tumblr post with an agenda :)

I'll break this down symptom by symptom, citing only the ones I both have personal experience with and see textual support for.

I'll be using OverDrive's search function to catalogue "evidence" in (the American editions of) Going Postal, Making Money, and Raising Steam, so I might miss passages that don't use certain keywords.

Please take any statements along the lines of "being narcoleptic means X" with a huge grain of salt. Sometimes it's just more succinct. Narcolepsy can manifest in many different ways, and is still being actively studied. Don't base your entire understanding of it on a fandom essay I wrote to cope with the crushing pressures of capitalism. I have not even fully read the scientific studies linked here as sources.

Here we go! Spoilers abound.

I. Excessive Daytime Sleepiness (EDS) and sleep attacks.

Being narcoleptic means (salt now, please) that your brain does not get adequate rest while you sleep, no matter how much you sleep. This is because of a disturbance in the order and length of REM and NREM sleep phases. This leads to constant exhaustion. Some sources describe narcoleptic EDS as "comparable to [the sleepiness] experienced by a healthy individual who has been sleep-deprived continuously for 48–72 hours."

(Source.)

Sleep attacks can come on gradually or suddenly. In my case, I become irritable and easily overwhelmed, and nothing matters except finding a place to lie down. A more severe attack, under the right circumstances, can put me to sleep while I'm actively trying to stay awake and engaged.

Moist refers to 6:45 am as "still nighttime." He is "allergic to the concept of two seven o'clocks in one day" and is "not good at early mornings," and the narration even cites this as "one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn't have to get up until other people had got the streets aired."

In Going Postal, he repeatedly falls asleep at his desk. I can only find two instances, but the first one describes it as having happened "again," so it happens at least three times over the course of one week. Both of the times I found were after Mr. Pump cleared his apartment, giving him access to a bed, and I can't find any reference to the fire destroying it—just that his office is "missing the whole of one wall." His presumably wooden desk is still intact, even, just "charred."

There's also no build-up either time. No direct narration of the time right before he falls asleep, just retroactive accounting for it.

Which is primarily a function of stories not showing us every boring second, and secondarily one of the smaller ways we're shown Moist being overwhelmed and racing to keep up with himself, but tertiarily it's a great set dressing if you've already decided he's narcoleptic. Sometimes sleep is just a thing that happens, without any deliberate transition. Sometimes you sit down to catch your breath or get some paperwork done, and wake up several hours later.

I've found only one example in GP of Moist waking up in his actual bed at the post office: the morning after being possessed by all the undelivered letters. Presumably either they put him there, or Mr. Pump did.

There are two points in Making Money where Moist, in an effort to be a comforting and/or guiding hand, advises people to get some sleep. First Owlswick Jenkins, and then one of the clerks (Robert) who is worried about Mr. Bent.

I take the optimistic view that this is Moist genuinely caring about these people, not just trying to get them to do what he wants. He has always done some combination of those things (GP opens with him having befriended his jailers, after all), but there's definitely a thread of him learning to treat both himself and those around him more like real people. (See also.)

Looking at this thread through narcolepsy-colored lenses, you get Moist perhaps drawing from his own experiences in an effort to be helpful. In Owlswick or Robert's position, what is something he would want to hear from the man currently in charge of his fate, or at least his job? "Get some sleep."

If we accept this as a pattern, it culminates in Raising Steam, when Moist starts to worry about "Dick Simnel and his band of overworked engineers," fixating particularly on their lack of sleep.

What sleep they got was in sleeping bags, curled up on carriage seats, eating but not eating well, just driven by their watches and their desire to keep the train going.

[...]

"People are going to die if we push them any further," he said to Dick. "You lot would rather work than sleep!"

[...]

The young man swayed in front of him and Moist's tone became gentle. "And I see now that part of my job is to tell you that you need some rest. You've run out of steam, Dick. Look, we're well on the way to Uberwald now, and while it's daylight and we're out of the mountains it's going to be the least risky time to run with minimum crew. We're all going to need our wits about us when we get near the pass. Surely you can take some rest?"

Simnel blinked as if he'd not seen Moist the first time, and said, "Yes, you're right."

And Moist could hear the slurring in the young man's speech, caught him before he fell and dragged him into a sleeping compartment, put him to bed, and noted that the engineer didn't so much fall asleep as somehow flow into it.

Moist then recruits Vimes to help him talk the rest of the engineers into getting some rest. The two of them briefly commiserate about people not realizing how important it is.

"I have to teach that to young coppers. Treasure a night's rest, I always say. Take a nap whenever you can."

"Very good."

II. Insomnia.

This is a lesser-known but very common symptom of narcolepsy. Or a comorbidity, depending on how you look at it. It seems counterintuitive if narcolepsy has been presented to you as "sleeping all the time," but it makes sense once you know it's really a matter of disruption in the brain's ability to regulate sleep cycles.

The case for this symptom is flimsier, and I fully admit I'm just reading my own experience into it. But here are two excerpts from Going Postal that I find quite suitable for my sleepy agenda:

1. "A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a wall's thickness away."

I latched hard onto this detail the first time I read GP.

At my worst, I could not get more than a couple hours of sleep in my bed. I kept taking naps in the bath because it was one of the few places I could sleep. It seemed to fulfill some of the criteria (isolation, temperature control, etc) that my brain demanded in exchange for playing nice.

We're told over and over again, throughout Moist's books, that he functions best under pressure.

(Brief aside: This is often cited as a reason to interpret Moist as having ADHD, which I'm also fully on board with. Not coincidentally, narcolepsy and ADHD share a few symptoms, have a notable comorbidity rate, and are treated with some of the same medications. Source.)

So again, if you're already inclined to read Moist as narcoleptic, the following is an easy jump:

"Moist thinks he's good at sleeping in strange places under strange circumstances. This is because A) his basis for comparison is a disordered attempt to sleep in normal places under normal circumstances, B) something about danger satisfies his brain into running more smoothly, and C) he's a resourceful person who is 'not given to introspection,' and so is less likely to wonder why his body demands sleep at strange times and more likely to focus on finding a place for that sleep to happen, and chalk this up later as a skill."

And returning briefly to EDS: Why would someone like Moist waste time finding a safe place to sleep while people are actively trying to kill him? At the beginning of GP, he leaves Vetinari's office and immediately goes on the run. In multiple books, when he feels threatened, his brain instinctively launches into complex escape plans. We see him successfully blend into an Ankh-Morpork crowd at least once after becoming a public figure.

So why bother? After all, a safe place to sleep is also a safe place to change clothes, or at least remove whatever distinguishing features he's given himself. Why wouldn't he just become someone else and leave town immediately?

The obvious answer is that sometimes things just happen, and an author doesn't need to know or explain every single detail of a character's past.

I would suggest, though, that one of those things might be Moist reaching a point where sleep is just not optional. A point where he not only doesn't, but can't, care about anything else. Where he is too tired to think straight, too tired to talk his way out of trouble, too tired to even contemplate the long journey from one town to the next.

2. "Moist knew he ought to get some sleep, but he had to be there, too, alive and sparkling."

Sometimes (especially in combination with underlying mental health issues) narcoleptic sleep deprivation can bypass everything I've described so far, and lead straight into a manic state. You won't necessarily find that on Google, but it's been my experience.

That's obviously not what the text is implying. "Alive and sparkling" is just a very relatable description. And we do often see Moist getting away from himself, speaking without thinking, making absurd promises that he justifies immediately afterwards as Just Part Of Being Him, always raising the stakes.

And here are a couple of excerpts from Raising Steam that could be interpreted as Moist being a light sleeper, AKA struggling to get deep sleep:

1. "And slowly Moist shut down, although a part of him was always listening to the rhythm of the rails, listening in his sleep, like a sailor listening to the sounds of the sea."

2. "All Moist's life he'd managed to find a way of sleeping in just about every circumstance and, besides, the guard's van was somehow the hub of the train; and although he didn't know how he did it, he always managed to sleep with half of one ear open."

Moist is exactly the kind of opportunist to see that as a useful tool, isn't he?

III. Hypnagogic and Hypnopompic Hallucinations.

These are hallucinations that come on as you're falling asleep or waking up. They can also happen during REM intrusions while you're awake. My most memorable ones include piano notes, someone calling my name, being trapped in the waves of a large body of water, and a huge truck going over a guard rail and tumbling down a hill. These are often, but not always, accompanied by sleep paralysis (and sleep paralysis is often, but not always, accompanied by hallucinations).

In GP, Moist casually cites his own hallucinations as proof that what is happening at the post office is not one.

"They're all alive! And angry! They talk! It was not a hallucination! I've had hallucinations and they don't hurt!"

Obviously that's not true for everyone, but it's true for Moist, and he has enough experience that he immediately recognizes the difference.

At one point while awake, Moist "[snaps] out of a dream of chandeliers" to realize someone has approached him to talk, while he was busy having visions of what the post office used to look like/could look like again.

Now, that's cheating, because we're probably supposed to assume it's a side effect of being possessed, but... I'm putting it here anyway.

There is also perhaps a case to be made for the tendency of Moist's internal monologue to lapse into extremely specific and prolonged hypotheticals. The lines between hallucinations, waking dreams, and "regular" daydreams have always been very blurry to me. I'm especially curious about the example at the end of Going Postal, which goes like this:

"Look, I know what I'm like," he said. "I'm not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I'm not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I'm still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can't tell. I mess with people's heads—"

"You're fooling no one but yourself," said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.

Moist shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city, and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn't seem to work anymore, the flair wasn't there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn't seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—

And an angel appeared.

"What just happened?" said Miss Dearheart.

Perhaps you do get two...

"Only a passing thought," said Moist.

In-universe... what is Adora reacting to? What did just happen? The fact that these incidents are not isolated to Going Postal is a point against it being some sort of literal timeline divergence caused by The Spirit Of The Post.

So maybe Moist visibly zoned out. Maybe he had some kind of minor but noticeable cataplexy attack (more on those later) as part of a REM intrusion, brought on by the intense emotions he's currently struggling with.

IV. Vivid Dreams.

Again, at least some of this is probably supposed to be part of the possession, but I've been professionally projecting myself onto the surreal dreams of magically afflicted characters for years. Do try this at home.

1. "Moist dreamed of bottled wizards, all shouting his name. In the best tradition of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him."

2. Moist is uneasy about the Smoking Gnu's plan, and then he has an extremely detailed dream about the Grand Trunk burning down.

This culminates in "Moist awoke, the Grand Trunk burning in his head," followed by a paragraph of him thinking things through and starting to form his own alternative plan, followed immediately by "Moist awoke. He was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head."

So he fell asleep at his desk, woke up from a vivid nightmare, was awake just long enough for a coherent train of thought, and then passed back out. Which once again is not "proof" of anything, but fits the predetermined interpretation like a glove.

V. Cataplexy.

Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle control, usually triggered by strong emotions. This is thought to be a facet of REM intrusion—waking instances of the atonia that is meant to stop us from acting out our dreams.

The most well-known manifestation is laughter making your knees buckle, but it's not always that severe. My own attacks range from facial twitching, usually when I'm angry or otherwise extremely upset, to all-over weakness/immobilization and near-collapse when I laugh. My knees have fully buckled once or twice.

This is the biggest stretch. This is the one that is absolutely only there if you've already decided to read entire novels between the lines. It's also not even necessary for the broader headcanon; plenty of people have narcolepsy without cataplexy (or such mild cataplexy that it's never noticeable, or very delayed onset, etc).

However. I am doing this for fun. So I want him to have it. It's also become a major part of how I imagine Moist engaging with emotion, and I'd like to make a case for that.

There are a few scattered references to Moist's legs shaking, or being unsteady, or outright giving way, but there's usually an external physical reason, and/or enough psychological shock to justify it without a medical condition.

The most compelling example I've found so far comes from Moist and Adora's conversation about people expecting Moist to deliver letters to the gods.

"I never promised to—"

"You promised to when you sold them the stamps!"

Moist almost fell off his chair. She'd wielded the sentence like a fist.

"And it'll give them hope," she added, rather more quietly.

"False hope," said Moist, struggling upright.

"Almost fell off his chair" at first sounds like casual hyperbole, but then "struggling upright" implies it was a bit more literal. It's also an accurate description of me recovering from my more severe attacks, supporting myself on a wall or my spouse, or pushing myself up if I've fallen over in bed.

That happens to me multiple times per day, by the way. It doesn't bother me, and I didn't realize there was anything unusual about it for a long time. I barely think about it, except to fondly note that my spouse is good at making me laugh.

Which is to say, even severe cataplexy is not always noticeable or debilitating. Sometimes it absolutely is! It can be downright dangerous, depending on where you are, what you're doing, and whether you have any other conditions it might exacerbate. I don't want to undermine that.

I am just hell-bent on justifying the idea that this fictional character could have repeated attacks throughout the canonical narrative that are so routine they don't merit an explanation, or even a description. Especially for someone who is used to hiding his few distinguishing features behind false ones that are much more memorable. (See also.)

(That link goes to my own fanfic. Sorry.)

On the milder side, between Going Postal and Making Money, there are three instances of Moist's mouth "dropping open" when he's shocked, upset, confused, or some combination of the three. This is the kind of thing that shows up a lot in fiction, but rarely happens so literally in real life.

(There's technically a fourth instance, but I'm not counting it because it seems to be a deliberate choice on his part to convey surprise.)

And then there's laughter. Or rather, there isn't. I could be missing something, but I've searched all three books for instances of laughter and various synonyms (not counting spoken "Ha!"s), and what I've come up with is:

Moist laughs once in Going Postal, when he receives the assignment for the race to Genua.

Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.

There's also an instance earlier in the book where Moist nearly "burst[s] out laughing."

I find the specifics here interesting, and, for our purposes, fortuitous. Cataplexy is complicated and presents differently for everyone. In my case, when laughter triggers an attack, one of the effects (which is sometimes also a cause) is that I laugh very hard, with little or no control. "Burst out laughing" is quite apt.

Let's move on to Making Money, and start with a quick tangent:

Mr. Bent explains that he has no sense of humor due to a medical condition, and that he isn't upset about this and doesn't understand why people feel sorry for him.

Moist immediately starts in with "Have you tried—" before getting cut off by the frustrated Bent.

Out-of-universe, "Have you tried" is such a well-known refrain to anyone with an incurable condition, I'm not at all surprised to find it in a book written by someone who had at least begun the process that would lead to a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's. And Pratchett has certainly never shied away from portraying ignorance in his protagonists.

In-universe, it feels a little odd. Moist's tongue runs away from him all the time, but usually in the form of making ridiculous claims or impossible promises. Moist's entire stock-in-trade is People Skills, and it feels strange for him to make this kind of mistake immediately after being told Mr. Bent is not looking for solutions.

But if one were reading with, for instance, the idea in mind that Moist himself has an incurable condition related to laughter and is enthusiastic about, but still relatively new to, the practice of drawing on his own experiences to help people... it is easy to imagine the gears in his head turning the wrong way, superimposing those experiences over the tail end of Mr. Bent's explanation. Disabled people are not immune to these well-meaning pitfalls.

There is another Mr. Bent moment that I want to discuss, but we'll circle back around to it later.

I found two instances of Moist himself laughing in MM.

1. "He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little."

This is deliberate laughter, employed as a social tactic. A polite chuckle, probably. Not the sort of thing that generally triggers cataplexy.

2. "Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression."

The first and only involuntary laugh in MM. It doesn't always trigger attacks...

Which brings us to Raising Steam. Compared to the first two books, Moist laughs a lot here. I count nine instances. Two of them are "burst out laughing"s, a couple include him as part of a group, some of it comes off as deliberate, and some of it doesn't.

I've always seen a lot of... rage in Raising Steam. Combing through it for laughter, I realized Moist's emotions in general are much closer to the surface here, and he's much less concerned about letting people see them. He laughs with friends and acquaintances, he cries in front of strangers, he shouts at Harry King, he has that entire conversation with Dick that boils down to "I'm very worried about you," etc.

Opinions vary wildly and sharply on Raising Steam. I have my own hangups with it, as I do with most books in the series. (Every time I make a new Discworld post, Tumblr passive-aggressively suggests the tag "my kingdom for a discworld character who is normal about women and other species.")

But I like this particular change in Moist, and I choose to see it as character development. He's trading in the professional detachment of a conman for the ability to grow into himself as a person and make meaningful connections.

So, what does that have to do with cataplexy? A lot.

I don't want to get too maudlin, so I'll just say I have plenty of personal experience with emotional repression masking cataplexy symptoms. And so, I believe, does the version of Moist we've put together over the course of this post.

Which brings us back to Making Money, and Mr. Bent. He says something about Moist that I find very interesting: "I do not trust those who laugh too easily."

Unless I've missed something, at that point in the book, Moist has never actually laughed in front of him. And Mr. Bent is a man who pays very close attention to details.

So, what is the in-universe explanation for this? I'd like to propose that Moist is very skilled at seeming to laugh, without actually laughing. He smiles, he's friendly, and he makes other people laugh, which is another thing Bent dislikes about him. He gives the impression of being someone who laughs a lot. (He certainly left that impression on me; I was very surprised by the lack of examples in the first two books.)

Even staying strictly within the bounds of canon, it's easy to imagine why this might have become part of Moist's camouflage in his previous life. He wasn't looking to get attached to anyone, and he didn't want anyone getting inside his head. Engaging with people genuinely enough to laugh at their jokes would run counter to both of those things, but some of his personas still needed to come off as friendly and sociable.

Still working within the canon, it makes sense to assume he's similarly distanced himself from emotion in general. He sits in a cell for several weeks without truly believing he's going to die. He's bewildered when Mr. Pump points out that his schemes have hurt innocent people. He has no idea what to do with his feelings for Adora. Etc.

Interpreting Moist as having cataplexy adds an extra element of danger. Moist thrives on danger, but there's a difference between the thrill of a con and the threat of sudden, uncontrollable displays of vulnerability. And so it becomes even easier to see him stifling his own emotional capacity.*

We meet Moist at a moment of great upheaval. He is forcibly removed from his cocoon of false identities, and pushed out into the world as himself. And we are shown and told throughout Going Postal that he does not know how to be himself. (See also.)

He is repeatedly stymied by his own emotions. He gets tongue-tied and confused around Adora, he snaps at Mr. Pump, he lashes out at Mr. Groat, he gets lost in school flashbacks when he meets Miss Maccalariat. This thread continues in Making Money, where the sudden reappearance of Cribbins immediately rattles him into making an uncharacteristic mistake.

I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

Later in the same book, Moist misses a crucial opportunity to run damage control on the bank's public image... because he's excited to see Adora.

The Moist of GP and MM is not used to feeling things so deeply. It throws him off his game. I'm not at all suggesting cataplexy is the only (or even primary) reason for that, but I do think there's room for it on both sides of the cause and effect equation.

With or without the cataplexy, I find Moist's relative emotional openness in Raising Steam... really nice. (It's a work in progress. He's still getting a handle on anger.)

Cataplexy just adds another dimension. A physical manifestation of emotional vulnerability, which would have been especially untenable for a teenager on the run. Just one more facet of the real, human, fallible Moist von Lipwig who spent years buried beneath Albert Spangler and all the rest.

Another piece of himself that Moist is growing to understand and accept, as he learns to more comfortably be himself.

The Moist of Going Postal runs into a burning building to save lives without fully understanding why he wants to, and justifies it on the fly as an essential part of the role he's trying to play.

The Moist of Raising Steam mindlessly throws himself under a train to save two children, and then blows up at Harry King about the lack of safety regulations. Freshly traumatized by the murder of several railway workers and his own violent, vengeful response to it, he still offers, in the face of Harry's own grief, to be the one to inform their families. On a long and dangerous journey with plenty of moving parts to think about, he worries about Dick Simnel and the other engineers, and pushes them to take better care of themselves.

He also meets a bunch of kids who nearly derailed a train as part of a childish scheme. His admonishment is startlingly vivid.

"Can you imagine a railway accident? The screaming of the rails and the people inside and the explosion that scythes the countryside around when the boiler bursts? And you, little girl, and your little friends, would have done all that. Killed a trainload of people."

[...]

"I'll square this with the engine driver, but if I was you I'd get my pencil and turn any clever ideas you have like this into a book or two. Those penny dreadfuls are all the rage in the railway bookshops."

Maybe what he is also saying, between the lines, is:

I left home at 14 and began a life of smoke and mirrors. I was empty inside, and I thought everyone else was, too. It was all fun and games, and then a man made of clay told me I was killing people. Nip it in the bud, child. Write books.

------------

*There are studies suggesting that in addition to deliberately employed "tricks," people with cataplexy may experience physiological reactions in the brain meant to inhibit laughter. (Source 1, Source 2.)

Most of the information here is way over my head, but that second link also says "one region of the brain called the zona incerta (meaning 'zone of uncertainty') was only activated during laughter in people with narcolepsy, not in controls. Research on the zona incerta in animals suggests that it also helps to control fear-associated behavior."

The linked article about that (https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-018-03581-6) is also over my head, but I would certainly describe Moist von Lipwig as having unusual fear responses.**

**Narcolepsy is a fun roller-coaster ride of constant scientific discoveries about exactly which parts of your brain are paying too much attention, not paying enough attention, or trying to eat each other.

[kindofwriter]

Hello Skyjacks fandom, may I please introduce you to my favourite thing to do: turn RPG scenes I love into TV scripts. I’ve never done a scene that doesn’t have fluid dialogue before, so this is more of an edit, but aah! Flashbacks, my beloved! From ep 15.

Transcript under the cut:

INT. TAVERN. DAY.

TRAVIS' footsteps echo as he picks his way around upturned tables and towards the bar. JONNIT and GABLE remain by the door.

TRAVIS pauses and lifts up an overturned tankard. He tilts it, and a few dregs drip to the floor.

TRAVIS: Well, we might be able to at least scavenge something.

TRAVIS: Well, we might be able to at least scavenge something.

GABLE: I think our best bet is probably to find the warehouse. Get as many supplies as we can to get us to the next port, then try and trade there.

TRAVIS has reached the bar at this point. He hops over it, then begins inspecting bottles.

TRAVIS: Guess I'll start here.

GABLE makes a move towards the bar. JONNIT stumbles after them.

GABLE: Trav- Hey! This isn't the warehouse!

TRAVIS picks up a tall glass bottle, flips it in the air and catches it again, then begins to pour it into a whiskey-sized glass he found behind the bar. He is beginning to make a Maelstrom.

TRAVIS: Can I get you anything?

GABLE stops just before the bar, JONNIT beside them. They pause for a second, look to JONNIT, then sit.

GABLE: You know what? What the hell. Uh, what do they have back there?

JONNIT tentatively sits beside GABLE.

TRAVIS: Well, uh, do you have a signature drink?

GABLE: No.

A smirk, softer than usual, spreads across TRAVIS' face.

TRAVIS: Would you like one?

GABLE: Uuh...

His own drink poured, TRAVIS begins to mix something for GABLE.

TRAVIS: Jonnit, would you like something?

JONNIT: Uuh, I'll take a pickle?

With his back to his companions, TRAVIS gives another small smile. He turns.

TRAVIS (with a jovial eye-roll): Well, there's the jar.

TRAVIS slides a large jar of pickles down the bar at JONNIT. JONNIT opens it, grabs a pickle, then fidgets in his seat for a moment.

JONNIT: Hey Gable? This is kinda maybe something for a little later, but-

TRAVIS pours something into GABLE's glass that makes the clear liquid begin to smoke. He grabs a shot glass and begins pouring something into it.

JONNIT; I was wondering, when we get back in the air, this thing-

JONNIT gestures to his forehead.

JONNIT: Has been on my mind a lot, and, uh, I just wanted to know: would you maybe be interested in  helping me figure out what it is, how to use it? I feel like it's, it's special. And I wanna be able to call on it when I want, but I don't know how. And it's sometimes a little scary.

TRAVIS sets the shot glass in front of GABLE - it's filled with blood red liquid - then grabs another bottle.

GABLE: Jonnit, from what I've seen you're capable of some incredible things. Things that I know are frightening to you, and I know you have a desire to control. But those things are quite unique to you. As far as I know, perhaps it's divine magic, but it's nothing I've ever encountered. When it comes to magic  the most powerful thing I've found you can do is to allow yourself to do it.

JONNIT: To just... let it happen?

TRAVIS places the smoking glass before GABLE and picks up his own drink. JONNIT and GABLE pause their conversation to look at him.

TRAVIS: To letting ourselves be ourselves from time to time. Even if it is a little painful.

GABLE: Take flight.

JONNIT: Take flight.

TRAVIS: Take flight.

JONNIT crunches down on his pickle. GABLE takes a sip. TRAVIS watches them over the rim of his own glass.

GABLE: This is delicious! It's not often we get to.. have fun?

As TRAVIS downs his drink, GABLE turns back to JONNIT.

GABLE: Just, don't be afraid of it, is what I mean.

JONNIT: I feel like that just ends up with me waiting around for it to happen, and it happens when it wants to, and I feel like I want it to happen when I want it to.

GABLE: You feel that it controls you?

TRAVIS sets his now empty glass down on the bar. He pokes about a little, finds some peanuts and chucks a couple into his mouth.

JONNIT: Yeah. I wanna be in control.

GABLE: That's wise. I'm not sure how much I can help-

JONNIT's shoulders droop, and he tries really hard not to let the disappointment show on his face. To hide it, he takes a bite of the pickle.

GABLE: But I can show you how I do my thing.

JONNIT: Yeah, uh, that'd be great. Thanks, Gable.

TRAVIS wanders out from behind the bar, winding around tables, clearly looking to see if anyone has dropped anything. He reaches a corner, tucked away behind a support beam, where there is a small, square table for playing Illimat. 

TRAVIS runs his fingers over the grain and a slightly glazed look overtakes his face. He begins to take a seat and-

CUT TO:

INT. BAR. DUSK.

The exact same place, only now it's bustling. A shanty plays in the background. The scene is packed with characters. Out the window we can see, across a fog-less mountain top, the sun is preparing to set. 

TRAVIS is sitting in the exact same seat we just saw him drop into, but he looks different. Same coat, but it's newer, better maintained. There's a softness to his face and a lightness to his eyes that we haven't seen before. He looks younger, though of course he isn't.

Across from TRAVIS is sat a burly man with curls pulled back into a ponytail. The two have almost finished playing a game of Illimat.

TRAVIS makes a move, and the crowd that have gathered around them cheer - it looks like he's going to win. The sly look TRAVIS gives his competitor confirms this.

With a flick of his wrist, the COMPETITOR plays his card, and the crowd goes wild. He crosses his arms and leans back, smirking at TRAVIS.

For a moment TRAVIS looks confused, then he begins to reach across the table.

TRAVIS: You cheated!

COMPETITOR (rumbling: )Didn't take you for a sore loser.

TRAVIS: That was the only card you could have possibly played to win. The odds are impossible.

COMPETITOR: Guess fate was just on my side.

That gets TRAVIS' hackles up.

TRAVIS: No, that card was already in the harvest pile, I saw it!

As TRAVIS reaches for the deck a knife is thrown down, pinning the cards to the table.

COMPETITOR: Oi!

The COMPETITOR rises, looming over TRAVIS, who also quickly jumps to his feet.

COMPETITOR: That's not the way we play here.

The energy in the crowd has changed now. People are tense, anticipating a fight.

TRAVIS tries to respond to the man, but instead he bares his teeth, a short, sharp growl emitting from his throat. We see panic flare in TRAVIS' eyes as he notices the sun through the window behind the man's head: it's setting.

The COMPETITOR took this to be a sign of aggression and lunges for TRAVIS. TRAVIS winces, but before any damage can be done two other patrons have grabbed hold of the man. They begin to drag him from the table, mumbling that he's drunk and should head home, not worth it over a visitor etc.

The COMPETITOR reaches to grab something from the table - the money, TRAVIS assumes, and also starts reaching for it. However all he does is scoop a small snuff box up and shove it into his pocket.

People begin to move in towards TRAVIS, asking if he's alright, where he's staying, congratulating him on his skill. TRAVIS ignores them, covering his mouth with one hand as we hear the loud and painful snapping and twisting of his jaw.

With his other hand he scoops up what should have been the winnings and slinks out the door.

CUT TO:

EXT. TAVERN. DUSK.

Now lifting his cravat to cover his mouth, TRAVIS exits the tavern and starts to turn, aiming to slink down an alleyway. Before he does, however, his eyes are drawn to a commotion just past the warehouse. The COMPETITOR is still being guided away, into a bunk house down the street.

CUT TO:

EXT. TAVERN. DAY.

TRAVIS is stood outside the door in the exact same position, looking to the bunk house. Now, however, the tavern is dark and cold.He starts to walk towards the bunk house.

GABLE and JONNIT emerge, clearly confused.

GABLE (hissed): Travis?

JONNIT (whispered): Travis?

We pan out in order to see TRAVIS walking towards the bunk house and GABLE and JONNIT at the door simultaneously.

GABLE (slightly louder): Travis?

JONNIT (normal volume): Travis?

GABLE (yelling slightly); Travis!

JONNIT + GABLE: Travis!

TRAVIS continues to ignore them, having almost reached the door to the bunk house now.

GABLE shrugs to JONNIT.

GABLE: Well, I guess we don't need to go to the same place. Do you wanna go to the warehouse?

JONNIT nods and the pair set off.

CUT TO:

INT. BUNK HOUSE. DAY.

TRAVIS is just pushing open the door to the reception area. There are chairs and tables littered about - untidy, but not in disarray as the tavern had been. It's deadly silent.

Faint light filters in through the windows, but with the thick fog it does little to illuminate the room. TRAVIS reaches up and lights an oil lamp that hangs beside his head. It looks as if he lights it with his finger, but as he reaches to take the oil lamp down we see him palm a lighter.

Taking the lamp with him, TRAVIS makes his way down a corridor at the back of the room, lined on either side with doors. He pushes the first one he comes to, and it opens onto a set of bunks. The beds are unmade and there are a few belongings scattered about, but nothing that suggests a struggle.

We see TRAVIS continue down the corridor, pushing a few more doors, until suddenly he stops.

On the floor of this room, slightly tucked beneath a bunk, is a brass Illimat box, the one the COMPETITOR had laid on the table. The lid has been lost or removed.

TRAVIS crouches and reaches inside, lifting out a small snuff box. He closes his eyes, letting out a soft, slow breath. As he stands he pockets the snuff box, turning on his heel, only to stop in his tracks again. 

We pan round until we can see the back of the door. Etched into it, in thin, jagged letters, is the words 'IT IS TIME!'

TRAVIS pushes the door open and hurries out of the room, back towards the entrance.

[dearlydecayed]

Soup for Shigaraki

Mmm yes first fic. No idea how this works, so just do whatever Tumblr users do if ya like it ig Summary: You're a member of the league when Shigaraki falls ill, and of course doesn't take care of himself. Being the good villain Samaritan you are, you do it for him.

Pre-relationship (?)

Word Count + Warnings: 1,665 - Sfw, Shiggy swears at you and is a bastard in general, and descriptions of sickness. Not beta read.

-----

It's been three whole days since you'd seen him- since anyone else had seen him for that matter.

The entire league was off doing busy work to kill time; little side-missions and personal vendettas to fulfill while they waited. While you waited. While the world waited.

Shigaraki couldn't exactly lead a revolution while bedridden.

Dabi and Toga had left the base a few minutes ago, Dabi huffing in general annoyance while the latter trailed behind cheerily. She had invited you along, but you declined. You had someone to check on.

Pushing yourself off the counter you had been leaning against, you turned to the broad and decrepit expanse of cabinets that made up the bar. The top rows were filled with glasses, cups, and bottles, so you worked off a foggy memory as you scrounged the lower levels. Sure enough, your hands made contact with a singular dusty can. Aha. Pulling it out, you grimaced at the expiration date but nonetheless cranked the lid open with the pocket knife you carried. Red liquid sloshed in the tin, and you gave it a cursory sniff. At least it still smelled like tomato soup.

Rummaging through another drawer, you found a clean-ish spoon and rinsed it off in the sink. Unable to find a pot, you made your way over to the small stove-top in the corner.

The scent of gas filled the air as the ancient device clicked to life, and you were reminded of why no one used it when Dabi was around. Placing the can directly on the burner, you couldn't help but hum to drown out the sound of metal scrapping metal as you stirred the broth; steam wafting through the air as it began to boil.

The best you could manage for a hot pad was a tattered rag as you took the tin off the stove; and let the scent of tomato soup soothe your concerns of expiration. Dipping a finger into the cooling liquid, you confirmed that it tasted about right too.

Now for the tricky part...

Same as when you'd checked it earlier, his door was locked. The hallway was as silent as it had been for days, and worry crept into your periphery as you again pulled out your pocket knife. Picking the lock was an easy feat, and you soon stepped into your leader's dark room, tin can in hand. You'd only observed the space in passing prior to this, and you took a moment to take it all in.

It was a lot more cluttered than you had anticipated, his walls lined with shelves of fandom paraphernalia and books. Dark clothes littered the floor and haphazardly hung off a hamper in the corner- interlocked with junk food wrappers and boxes.

You would've lingered longer at the sight if a pathetic sniffle hadn't caught your attention; your gaze drawn to a slumped pile on his bed.

There, your noble leader lay snot-faced and unconscious as his throat rasped with every breath. His face lacked its usual paleness, instead graced with a red flush, and you knew his temperature would be scorching by the sweat on his brow. Regardless, you set the can down on his desk, and sat yourself on edge of his bed.

Before moving further, you closed your hands on both of his wrists. Instantly, his arms relaxed, rendering his hands immobile for the near future. Benefits of a paralysis quirk included immobilizing your delirious boss, apparently.

You then confirmed your prior hunch as you placed a palm against his forehead, clammy skin shuddering at your touch. A gurgled groan escaped as he squirmed under your hand, his brow furrowing as some form of consciousness returned to him.

His eyes still closed, a croaky "Kurogiri..?" was offered as you propped him up against some pillows.

"Mm. Afraid not, boss"

In the moments it took him to process your words, you moved the soup can to in between your thighs, bringing a spoonful of liquid into the air in front of him. His bleary eyes opened a few times, clearly straining to gain some awareness and failing miserably as they fell shut again.

You shushed him, and readjusted. "Shh shh, 's just me, boss. I've got some nice, warm soup for ya." To illustrate your point, you teased the spoon to lightly rest against his chapped lips, desperately hoping he remained passive instead of really waking up and throwing a fit.

Blessedly, he did no such thing.

Rather, his lips finally parted and you were able to ease the spoon in, letting the liquid fall into his mouth. He swallowed, made a noise, and you took it as a sign to get another spoonful.

Time became irrelevant as you spoon fed him, his tense shoulders falling and his face relaxing as soup levels fell. The only sounds in the whole base were his raspy breaths and the spoon scraping against the can.

When the can was about half-way empty though, he became fussy and pursed his lips again, refusing the spoon. You also noted that his fingers were beginning to twitch, and you took it as a definite sign to bolt.

However, you didn't leave until he was laid back down and tucked in.

A cup of water left on his bedside table, you locked the door on your way out.

-----

"What the fuck are you doing."

Rather than a writhing mass on his bed, you were greeted the next day with a much more conscious Shigaraki.

Reheated soup in hand, you stood dumbly as the door clicked shut behind you.

The next few moments were tense as he stared you down, before being interrupted by a painful cough racking through him. As he tore open a lung, you let your gaze drift to his bed side table where an empty glass stood.

"Oh good, you drank some water."

His scarlet glare was again directed at you after briefly glancing at the table himself, and he sneered. "The fuck do you want."

You blinked at him, and raised the can up a bit. "Y' want more soup?"

This seemed to catch him off guard, and his bleary eyes met with the soup can for the first time since you entered. He sniffled, and moved to sit up. "Give it to me then get the fuck out." You raised your hands in surrender and stepped forward to pass the can to him. Sure enough, he snatched it like a feral animal and almost went to chug it before he noted the ragged edges were you had sawed it open, and instead went for the spoon with a petulant grumble. "D' ya need anything else or-"

"Fuck off."

"Mk."

Toga had asked later why you were buying chicken noodle soup, and you told her it was for emergencies. -----

He was sitting up and playing on a handheld device when you entered the next day.

Though sweat still clung his brow, his face had regained its normal paleness and his eyes were noticeably sharper when they snapped to you.

His gaze rather quickly re-centered on the new can of soup and glass of water your were holding however, and you stepped forward with a chuckle to set both on his side table.

Game forgotten, it was tossed down to the foot of his bed as he downed the glass you had given him. Before leaving, you glanced to the screen and recognition sparked in your gaze. "Oh, is that the newest installment?"

Now sipping at the remaining liquid, he eyed you over the rim and grunted in hesitant confirmation.

"Do you have the gold or platinum edition? I can't tell by the level you're on."

"S' gold," he croaked.

You hummed in acknowledgment, and left his room yet again.

-----

The next day, you walked right into his chest rather than his room.

"Ah," you offered after stepping back. "I guess you don't need anymore soup then?"

He stepped out into the hallway too, looming over you as you stepped back further into the wall. Red eyes clear as the night you had met him, he stared down at you while reaching for the can.

Four fingers brushed against yours as he took the soup from your hand, and he turned silently to walk down the hallway into the main gathering area.

Kurogiri took that moment to warp in, startling then quickly fussing over Shigaraki as he nonchalantly spooned the soup into his mouth.

-----

Life of course resumed after his recovery, and you quickly forgot about the night spent nursing your boss back to health as business continued as normal.

It wasn't until many nights later that you had any time to yourself, let alone him after days of making up work.

You had been sitting on a tattered couch well into the night, scrolling aimlessly on your phone when a plastic bag was thrust unceremoniously into your lap. Not looking up, you scrambled to unbag it when you saw liquid begin to cling to the plastic.

Pulling the warm container out and holding it upright, your brow furrowed at the sight. Sure enough, a styrofoam container of soup was sitting in your hands.

It was then that you looked up, and were unsurprised to see Shigaraki looming awkwardly near you. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, and his eyes seemed determined to rest anywhere but you.

Not wanting to be rude to the man who disintegrates people on a whim, you offer an "Uh, thanks?"

He tches at you, and turns to leave. "I fuckin' hate soup," Is all he offers before he disappears around the corner, and his door slams shut.

You shrug, and pop the lid off to check the damage. It had spilled a bit in the bag, but was still a hearty portion. A plastic spoon was even attached at the side, and you plucked it off as you snuggled in to the couch.

You couldn't place the flavor, but enjoyed it nonetheless.

[reifromrfa]

Surprises: Vanderwood x MC | Mysme RBB fic

Hi guys! I’m sure you’ve seen this project in the fandom, there are a lot of talented artists and writers who are a part of it ^^ This piece is for the @mysme-rbb and it was such a thrill to write it! I’ve missed writing for the fandom and I’m glad I got this opportunity to do so <3 Even luckier that I got paired with two amazing artists! 

For this first collab, I got paired with the wonderful GLX ! Please check out their instagram HERE!  We’re super lucky to have collaborated on a character we both love: Vanderwood! So I hope you enjoy the story and I hope I can write for everyone again soon ヾ(@^▽^@)ノ PS: I’ll edit this post with the link to the art once it’s out! ^^

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Surprises

In collaboration with gl.artsy 

"Hurry!"

Vanderwood chuckles and closes the car door, hoisting bags and baskets on his arms and shoulders. MC laughs and hugs the beach towels to her chest, grinning widely.

"Sorry...I'm a little excited," her grin turns sheepish but Vanderwood shakes his head, his smile mirroring her own. Seeing her this happy makes him feel things he hasn't felt before --pleasant feelings. Feelings...that a secret agent just doesn't have the luxury to be thinking about, much less feel. But he's not a secret agent anymore --he has a legal job now, one where he doesn't have to risk his life everyday or dirty his hands. Hell, the dirtiest his hands can get with his new job as Jumin's bodyguard is cleaning up after his cat.

With his free hand, he reaches for hers and weaves their fingers together.

Today is their one-year anniversary and Vanderwood wants everything to be absolutely perfect. He's not one for grand gestures and romantic stuff, but he knows celebrations like these matter to girls.

In the past year he's been with MC, he's gotten used to watching those cheesy romantic chick flicks. Never in his life did he imagine he'd be forced to watch those kinds of shi--stuff. But he's braved through The Notepad, A Stroll to Remember, Crazy Silly Love...and he's learned a lot from those movies. For one, his girlfriend ends up crying every time they watch the shows together.

Every. Single. Time.

But he'd see how immersed she is in the scenes where the guys make a big move for the girl. Vanderwood would notice how she heaves a deep sigh and wipes her eyes, a dreamy smile on her face.

Ha...he's new to this relationship thing but he's not stupid; Vanderwood knows how this works. The bigger the gesture, the happier MC will be...

...right?

He's startled out of his thoughts when MC tugs his hand, pointing at a spot on the beach. "Over there! There's a free spot there!"

Vanderwood follows after MC and starts setting up their towels and beach umbrella. This is the first step in his grand surprise for MC today: spend the morning at the beach, a place MC rarely went to. The excited look on her face is all the confirmation he needs; he did good, choosing this as the start of their date.

MC sits on the towel under the shade of the umbrella and takes off her wide-brimmed hat, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opens them, she turns to Vanderwood. "Baby, this is perfect. The skies are clear, there's a breeze and there's not much people; it's almost like we have the beach to ourselves!"

Vanderwood chuckles, sitting beside his girlfriend and reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. "You like it?"

At his touch, she blushes and smiles, nodding her head. "I do, Vanderwood. I really do."

He leans forward, lips quirking up into a smirk. "Good...that's real good, MC." Vanderwood can see the blush on her face deepening as he inches closer and his own heart races, eyes darting to her slightly-parted lips. As he draws nearer though, he hears a whooshing sound through the air and a distant yell: "LOOK OUT!"

His reflexes kick in and Vanderwood pulls MC against his chest then pins her against the ground, using his body to shield her from whatever it is --MC doesn't even have the time to process what's happening. But she feels herself warming, eyes fixated on Vanderwood's tense expression, at the way he's hovering on top of her, holding her protectively against him.

A second later, their umbrella is knocked over and a spray of sand flies across Vanderwood's back. He turns away and shields MC's eyes, a million thoughts already flying through his mind.

"Could it be that some agents found me? How many are there? How am I gonna get MC safely to the car? The taser's in the bag, if I could just reach it in time

"Vanderwood turns his head to look for the target-

-when his eyes fall to the white volleyball lying on the sand near them.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, that's my fault!!!" A kid with blonde hair is running up to them, waving his hand and trying to bow at the same time. Vanderwood's eyes narrow. Wait a minute...isn't that-

"Yoosung?" comes MC's voice.

Sure enough, Yoosung's purple eyes widen as recognition dawns and he laughs, running faster. Right behind him is the silver-haired actor and Jaehee Kang, all dressed in their beachwear. Zen smiles when he spots the two familiar faces but it only lasts for a second --the moment he realizes the position the couple are in...

"YA!!! Vanderwood! What are you doing!" Zen glares at Vanderwood, pointing an accusatory finger at the Silver Spoon's bodyguard. Vanderwood narrows his gaze at the actor but hurriedly straightens himself, his face feeling warm.

"Baby, are you okay?"

"I am...what was that all about?" MC takes Vanderwood's hand and he pulls her up just as Yoosung stops in front of them, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Sorry! Zen hit the ball too hard and I received it wrong so it went flying...I didn't know it would end up here where you guys are! I didn't even know you two were going to be here too!"

Vanderwood rubs the back of his neck, wishing they'd leave him and MC alone. It's not that he doesn't like them, but today he'd like MC all for himself. "Ha...yeah, what a coincidence."

"Ya, you!" Zen jabs a finger at Vanderwood's chest, eyes blazing. "What the heck was that!"

Vanderwood looks at Zen with a deadpan look on his face. "I thought there was a threat, so I was defending my girlfriend. Will you stop having perverted thoughts?"

MC giggles. "It's true, Zen! He was just trying to protect me~"

"That's very quick thinking." Jaehee pipes in, picking up the ball. "I suppose that's what makes you a great bodyguard, Vanderwood."

"Ha...thanks." Vanderwood feels awkward still, but for an ex-agent with no family and no friends...his life's shaping out real good. Still, friends or not, he wants these people to go away and let him pamper his girlfriend. "So, now that that's settled-"

"OH! Why don't you two join us in a game of volleyball? Please!!! I'm tired of picking up the ball all the time!" Yoosung begs them, hands pressed together in front of him.

"Aww, that sounds fun! We're game, right, baby?" MC says, winking at Vanderwood. To the others, she says, "The two of us will be in a team against you guys! You'll see, Vanderwood will carry our team!"

Vanderwood can't help but feel proud at MC's words. Okay...maybe one game of volleyball wouldn't hurt. After that, they'll go back to their spot and maybe he can go swimming with MC, or get some cool drinks.

~

Yoosung, Jaehee and Zen stayed with them the entire time. After volleyball, they took MC and Vanderwood to their rented cabin and shared their meal. Vanderwood and Zen ended up grilling meat and seafood for the rest but it was actually fun. The non-stop chatter and laughs, the volleyball games, seeing MC enjoy herself --okay okay, it's not so bad that their first date got interrupted. But of course, Vanderwood has more tricks up his sleeves.

A long drive and a shower later, Vanderwood and MC change into more semi-formal attire as he drives them to one of the fancy restaurants in town. The restaurant is situated atop a building, with the entire floor encased in glass windows so guests can dine with a view overlooking South Korea. It's fine dining and Vanderwood has never been to a classy restaurant while off-duty; to be honest, something like this kinda suits Jumin Han more...but Vanderwood doesn't want to take MC to their regular dining spots. No, for this special day she deserves something special too.

As they're led to their seats by the hostess, Vanderwood once again intertwines his fingers with hers. "I heard this place has the best seoullangtang."

MC tugs at his hand, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Baby, this place is really expensive...you didn't have to."

Ha...oh no, doesn't she like it?

"It's our anniversary," he tells her, lifting their hands and then turning hers so he can kiss the back of it. "Don't even think about that, baby."

MC turns red at Vanderwood's blatant display of affection. Usually, he's more reserved and careful when they're in public; she assumed it's because of his past and she didn't mind. But today, he's been more touchy and showy...MC has to admit, it's giving her heart a pleasant workout. They're seated right by the window and Vanderwood is the perfect gentleman, pulling her chair out for her and helping her onto her seat. MC feels shy all of a sudden as Vanderwood slides into his seat across her. With the dim lighting from the restaurant, the candle in the middle of the table casts Vanderwood's face in a warm glow and MC unconsciously swallows, entranced by him.

Their previous dates were never this fancy and she's not complaining --she loves wherever they are, be it the beach or the supermarket, a fancy restaurant or McFonald's. As long as they're together, she's happy.

But seeing her boyfriend all dressed up in a crisp button-down shirt and a coat, hair tied into a half-ponytail, brown eyes staring at her --she can't help but feel the depth and seriousness of their relationship. Today is their anniversary, which means she's spent 365 days with this man...more than that, of course. Ever since they met, her days have been full of color and life. MC reaches across the table for his hand and holds it tightly in hers.

"I love you, Vanderwood."

Vanderwood's glad it's kinda dark because his heart does that weird little thing and he feels his cheeks burn as a smile spreads across his face. "I love you too, MC."

She mirrors his smile and it's strange but MC feels like she did the first time she met him in person, nervous and intimidated, but at the same comforted by his presence and intrigued. This once mysterious man is hers and though she knows she's barely scratched the surface of all that he is, she can't wait to learn more about him everyday, for the rest of their lives.

"Baby, order whatever you like, okay? Haha, don't be worrying about the prices." Vanderwood says as they open their menus. MC's eyes are skimming through the dishes (half of which she can't even pronounce because they're in different languages) when she hears the sound of a familiar voice.

"I didn't expect to see you both here this evening."

Vanderwood tenses. No freaking way...

But he's been hanging around that voice for months now and he'd recognize it anywhere --his boss, Jumin Han. Vanderwood reluctantly looks at the man standing beside their table, the leader of the RFA at his side. Jihyun at least looks apologetic for barging into their date.

"Jumin! Jihyun! What a coincidence!" MC exclaims happily, smiling at them. Truth be told, she was looking forward to spending more alone time with her boyfriend, but she also doesn't want to be rude to her friends. "Did you guys just arrive?"

"Yes. A business colleague recommended this place. I would have asked for a private room but Jihyun preferred to stay close to the windows."

Jihyun laughs good-naturedly at Jumin's words. "This place is popular for their stunning view of the city, after all. We should get going to our table, Jumin, let's not bother them..."

"Have a good time, boss, Jihyun." Vanderwood gives them a little wave. "Nonsense. We haven't seen MC in a while. Perhaps we should ask for a bigger table and dine together."

You've got to be kidding me.

"Jumin-" Jihyun tries to interrupt, but Jumin is already gesturing for the host. In mere minutes, Vanderwood and MC are seated with Jihyun and Jumin. Of course...it's not all that bad. He didn't have to be so formal with his boss since they're outside of work, and Jumin knew his way around the menu; the meal Jumin ordered for them was mouth-wateringly delicious. Vanderwood had no idea which ones were good, so he's grateful for that part, at least.

But seriously...this was starting to get annoying. Would the RFA be popping up at his planned dates with MC? Vanderwood represses a sigh though, and fights the itch for a cigarette.

They enjoy their meal and, realizing he has no choice but to endure it, Vanderwood relaxes and allows himself to enjoy the company.

All of a sudden, they're bathed in a hue of colors and MC's eyes turn to the windows, widening with surprise. The sky is lit up by fireworks --something Vanderwood had arranged for. Her eyes are bright and her smile is priceless. As the fireworks paint the night sky with streaks of brilliant color, MC feels a peace inside her, knowing that's exactly what she was thinking of moments before. Vanderwood is like the scene outside, illuminating her life with the most dazzling colors.

And while MC gazes at the beautiful display, Vanderwood stares, enchanted, at the woman who brought light to his life.

~

The last stop of the evening is the last showing of the latest romance movie, a movie MC has been waiting for. Vanderwood settles into their comfortable lazy boy couches, glad he paid for these seats.

"I'm so excited, I've heard a lot of good reviews already!" MC whispers to him, leaning close. Vanderwood chuckles.

"Baby, it's gonna be amazing." He leans closer to her, stealing a quick kiss in the dark theater. MC bites her lower lip as he pulls away, wanting to tell him how much she loves him. But the movie starts and MC has to stop herself from squealing in excitement. She keeps her hand locked with his, eyes focused on the screen.

Vanderwood feels relaxed now, knowing no one can interrupt them, knowing he can enjoy this moment with his girlfriend and sneak glances at her cute reactions.

But just thinking those thoughts has jinxed the situation. The doors to the cinema creak open and Vanderwood picks up the sound of popcorn bags and two hushed whispers. He glances at the empty seats beside him and sighs.

"Oh! If it isn't Mary and MC!"

Vanderwood curses inwardly and almost slaps his hand to his face. No. No freaking way. No damn way.

But after some shuffling sounds, Saeyoung plops down on the seat beside Vanderwood with Saeran occupying the other.

"Ohoho, I didn't know you were into romance movies, Vandy~" Saeyoung whispers before leaning forward in his seat and waving at MC. "Hi, MC! Thanks for restarting this guy's heart! If you ask me, you should have used a tase-"

"Ya! Shut up!" Vanderwood says, a little too loudly. The audience shushes him and Vanderwood slinks into his seat while Saeyoung covers his laughs with a hand.

For the duration of the movie, Vanderwood has to put up with Saeyoung's reactions and his hushed side comments. At some point, popcorn starts to fly towards the brown-haired man too, bouncing off his hair. Saeran shakes his head, heaving a sigh as Saeyoung takes another popcorn and throws it subtly to Vanderwood. The ex-agent was ready though; he catches the popcorn and throws it back to Saeyoung, who slides down his chair dramatically.

"I've been hit...Saeran ah, save yourself~~~"

Vanderwood glances at MC's face to watch her reaction and he's surprised to see her eyes fixed on him. She's biting her lower lip, trying to stop herself from laughing. Vanderwood smirks, reaching out and freeing her lower lip from her bite.

"You want a shot at the idiot?" Vanderwood murmurs near her ear. MC nods and takes a piece of popcorn then tosses it to Saeyoung, who's crawling up his chair as quiet as he can.

Saeyoung gasps and flops back down on the ground, holding his chest as though he's wounded.

"Sneak attack! Saeran, help m-"

"No."

"Okay no ;;;;"

~

Vanderwood stirs, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn.

Damn, what time is it?

Yesterday felt so long --with all that happened, Vanderwood feels exhausted and a little disappointed at himself for failing MC. Everything should have been perfect, but as luck would have it, the RFA just had to meddle in all his plans.

He lays in bed, blinking away his sleepiness, wondering if he can do anything today to salvage their anniversary. Absently, he reaches beside him, wanting to pull MC to his side and wake her up with kisses --but his hands come up blank.

"What the-?"

His head whips to the empty space beside him and Vanderwood sits up just as the door opens. MC comes in, balancing a small tray table filled with food.

"Baby, what are you doing?" Vanderwood asks, bewildered. He starts to move from the bed but MC makes a sound and continues moving towards him.

"No no, you stay right there," she says, eyes staring at the orange juice sloshing inside the glass. "Don't get off the bed, baby!"

Vanderwood freezes, unsure what's happening. Finally, MC lays the tray table on the bed and beams at Vanderwood. "Happy anniversary, baby!"

The brown-haired man blinks, surprised. Then a soft chuckle escapes his lips. "MC, baby...did you do all this for me?"

MC shrugs, her smile wide enough to light up the room. "Maybe~"

She carefully sits on the bed closest to Vanderwood, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Baby, yesterday was amazing! I wasn't expecting those surprises at all."

Vanderwood's brows furrow. "What do you mean..? MC...I...was gonna apologize-"

"What? For what?"

Vanderwood awkwardly scratches his cheek, not sure what to say. "Uh...ha, 'coz I didn't intend for the RFA to show up. And I mean, anniversaries aren't supposed to be celebrated like that...right? The movies we watched, the celebrations ain't like that."

Giggling, MC leans towards her boyfriend and kisses his cheek. "Oh Vanderwood, it was perfect. I had so much fun, even more so because our friends were with us celebrating our special day with us.

Without the RFA, you and I would have met in a different way. But I like our love story, because everything that has happened so far has led us to this moment, baby." She holds his hands, cheeks turning red. "I loved watching you play volleyball and grill our lunch, I loved listening to you talk with our friends, I loved catching my boyfriend all dressed up to take me on a fancy dinner, and I loved that you sat through another romance movie with me, all the while having a popcorn battle with Saeyoung."

MC squeezes his hands and all of Vanderwood's doubts vanish; his eyes fix on her, his heart beating loudly against his chest.

"Vanderwood...the girls in those movies we watch get one big gesture per movie but I got three amazing dates in one day. My friends were there to celebrate a special day with me: the anniversary of the day I promised forever to the love of my life. And I-"

Before MC could finish her speech, Vanderwood closes the gap between them and meets her lips for a kiss, pulling her close to him without toppling over the tray. MC's hands clutch the front of his shirt and her eyes close, her body tingling as he pours his emotions into their kiss.

"MC," Vanderwood says breathlessly, leaning his forehead against hers, "I love you. I'll keep takin' you out for dates, keep celebrating this day with you every year. 'Coz it's the day you and I got together, the day my life started to make more sense..." He gives her another peck and pulls her closer, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "But every day you remind me that there's more to life than fighting and running. Every day, I wanna see you smile and hear you tell me you love me."

MC giggles and wraps her arms around him. "I love you, Vanderwood." She lays her head on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart, a heart that's tied to hers. "Yesterday was amazing but today I'm keeping you all to myself."

Vanderwood chuckles, reaching for a piece of bacon and holding it near her lips. MC takes a small bite from it and Vanderwood takes a larger chunk. "You and me all day, huh?"

MC nods, reaching for her phone. "You and me, all day, everyday." She holds the phone away from them, opening the camera app. "Happy anniversary, baby~"

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Thank you so much for the opportunity to participate, @mysme-rbb :) I had fun and kudos to the mods for an amazing project! 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Check out my other Mysme writings here!

Mango Shake/Ko-fi is always very much appreciated (ᵔᴥᵔ)

I’d be honored to write your story <3 (Commissions are full and closed atm ;A;)

[ultimatebethylficlist]

Veteran Author of The Month: June 2021

The featured veteran author for June is also a co-admin right here at UBFL: SquishyCool (or @im-immortal )!

SquishyCool can be found on AO3 and FFN under the same penname.

When asked what got her into Bethyl and what the fandom means to her, she said:

I’ve been a hardcore TWD fan since the show began airing, but that’s because of my love for zombies. In all honesty, I didn’t really ship anyone for the first 3-4 seasons. I kind of shipped Daryl with Carol, but then it became clear that it was a platonic relationship and in all honesty, I just wanted to see them both get some action lmao. Then the prison fell... and in those first moments of “Still,” when we see Beth and Daryl running and running and finally collapsing on the ground, breathless and exhausted... the butterflies started. Something clicked and I immediately thought, “uh oh.” The rest is history, especially considering how “Still” and “Alone” played out. I can’t explain how or why I’m still so heavily invested, especially considering my last 2 fandoms only kept my attention for about 2-3 years each, but here I am. And I love it! I am so incredibly grateful for the Bethyl fandom because not only has it helped me improve my writing so much more than I ever could have imagined, but it has also introduced me to some of the most amazing people, including someone who I now consider one of my very best friends! It’s my happy place :)

For her personal fic rec list, she recommends:

In The Maw by ronsparkyspeirs

Way Down We Go by LeathernLaces

Surfacing by lindentree

Wild Things (The Moonshine Poet) by Abelina

The Gift by Feliz

The Man Who Can't Be Moved by burningupasun

New Experiences Series by wallflow3r

Whisper Softly to Me by taylorcatherine

Interstice by leftmywingshome

To Love Like a Man by Seraphique

Death, Death (i defy thee) by alamorn

In My Blood by Courtneyshortney82

Let the Good Times Roll by gutsforgarters

Resolved by Allatariel

the weight of these wings by peachthorns

all my spaces are filled with you by annabeth_writes

A Little Jailbreak with the Little Jailbait by wandering_gypsy_feet

between the beginning and the end by sheriffandsteel

SquishyCool’s Works & Personal Thoughts:

Dirty Fingernails and Dried Blood Summary: What happened during the months between "Still" and "Alone"? Beth uses the last pages of her diary to write down every detail of surviving with Daryl. Thoughts: My first Bethyl fanfic. It holds a special place in my heart for that reason, though it is pretty rough. If I could go back, I never would’ve done it entirely in first-person. But I do plan to finish it one day. There are some scenes I’m particularly proud of, and I still have a long note full of ideas and plot points.

Most Wanted Summary: After Beth’s mother and half-brother are murdered in a drug war, the godly veil on the Greene Family operation is lifted, and law enforcement comes down hard. In an effort to protect her family, Beth commits a heinous crime that could mean life in prison alongside them. Now everyone she’s ever trusted is in police custody and her only chance at freedom is to get as far away from Atlanta as she can... Thoughts: Well, this is a must-read if you like my writing. I hope to one day convert this into an original fiction and maybe get it published, but I need to finish it first LOL. I got the idea from ONE scene of “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt,” and from there, it exploded into a huge mystery thriller (with lots of romance and smut). I’m really really proud of it, and I’m scared I’ll fuck it up tbh, so I keep putting off continuing it. But I really need to get back to it because I really want people to see what I have planned! (Also, this fic is the reason @courtneyshortney82​ started talking to me, so that alone is pretty historic lmao)

The Crow’s Song Summary: Beth and Daryl spend a few more days together in the funeral home and come to terms with all they've lost along the way. But soon, they must decide what comes next. Thoughts: This fic... this fucking fic. It took me a full year to write. I made numerous edits. I even got a little depressed while I was writing the last two chapters, and my bf didn’t know why until he read what I’d been writing lol. It’s honestly the Bethyl fic I’ve always wanted to write but just didn’t know how. I’m still really really proud of how it turned out.

Carnival Games Summary: Daryl is a traveling carnival worker and Beth is a barely legal farmer's daughter looking for a night of fun when the carnival comes to town. Thoughts: Omg this fic is so fun!! One of my first Bethyl fics, and one of my first Bethyl smut fics. Short, sweet, a little funny, and a lot hot. I am still impressed with myself on this one, especially considering how much my writing has improved since lol

Breathe. Please. Summary: Beth shows up at the Hilltop. Alive. Daryl can hardly believe his eyes. Until she's lying in his bed, an arm's reach away. And he can hear her inhaling... exhaling... inhaling... Thoughts: Another “fix-it” that I’m proud of. Tbh I didn’t think it was anything all that special, but a lot of readers have said it’s one of their favorites, and some say they reread it regularly, and nothing makes me happier than hearing that, so I am extremely proud.

picking @ scabs Summary: Sometimes, no matter how much you love someone, being with them just isn't right. But what wouldn't you give for it to be right? Can someone like Daryl learn how to swallow his pride and stop repeating the same mistakes over and over? Can someone like Beth learn to fight off her demons and allow him to get close enough to hurt her again? How can they stay away from each other when it's all too easy to fall back into one another? Picking a scab will leave a scar, but they both have so many scars already... what's a few more? Thoughts: This fic is very, very personal for me. It’s like my “therapy” fic. I have poured some of my deepest feelings and struggles into its chapters, and the whole idea that got me to start it was that I wanted to find a way to navigate and cope with ending my 3-year long relationship with my emotionally/mentally/sometimes physically abusive ex. I still have a lot of fond memories from that relationship, but even more so, I have painful memories. Not to mention, going through your early 20s as a woman in the modern day is a fuckin’ trip, so this kind of explores that. It’s really self-indulgent, I think, but I’m really proud of the smut in it. And more than that, I’m proud of the response. I’ve had a few people message me or comment to say that they’ve felt all those things, or have experienced similar things, and it’s really just... relieving. I put my heart and soul out there, and what I got back was “you’re not alone.” So yeah, this fic is special. I wanna finish it soon, but I have to be in A Mood to do so. 

In Toto Corde Summary: Despite a million reasons not to, Beth and Daryl fell in love. Then he made the ultimate sacrifice in order to keep all of his promises. Now, facing unimaginable consequences at the hands of witch hunters, Beth has no choice but to use her powers to bring Daryl back from the dead. "He won't be the same..." Thoughts: I LOVE THIS FIC. I love it so much that I had to rewrite it after like 4 or 5 years. And I already started on a sequel that I really hope I’m able to finish. Though it doesn’t have many hits, and I don’t think many people have read it at all, which I understand since it basically is entirely focused around Daryl being killed. But damn, I’m proud of this one, and it was really fucking fun to write because witch!Beth is just... the best.

risk it all (part 1 of in for a penny, in for a pound) Summary: Daryl Dixon has a pretty decent life, all things considered. He's got his own place. A good dog. A few friends. Even a girlfriend. He keeps himself out of trouble. Until he starts texting Beth Greene. And hell, if he ain't about to risk it all for this damn girl. Thoughts: This was supposed to be one short multichapter fic focused entirely on smut and social media. Then I got on a roll and it ended up being the beginning of a series! This fic is purely fun. Nothing too serious or heavy. I write it when I’m in a Good Mood because it’s my little happy place. I have plans for about 4 more fics before the series will be finished!

Don’t Make Me Haunt You Summary: So here's the thing: Merle Dixon is dead as fuck. And as it turns out, Beth Greene is the only one who can see or hear him. Which is weird considering she's never met or even heard of this guy, let alone anyone with the last name Dixon. That's her first problem... Thoughts: The reception to this fic has absolutely blown me away. I had no idea anyone would want to read about ghost!Merle haunting Beth and forcing her to solve his murder with the help of his grumpy brother. And it was all inspired by an episode of South Park lmao then I started really getting into it and now it’s just like, my super fun fic where I explore a range of emotions and all kinds of religious beliefs and different mythologies and I can build the world however I want and goddamn I just love writing this fic. Plus there’s a podfic for it! I can’t even begin to explain how much I love this fic and how proud I am of it :)

[pi-cat000]

BNHA: something sad (Grief)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him. A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ AU.

Characters:  Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS: Major Character death, swearing, heavy angst. destructive behaviour.

(Additional part here)

..

(Grief- Katsuki self reflects and visits Izuku’s grave)

Katsuki knows he has a volatile personality, probably inherited it from his mum, and enough attitude that he has steamrolled his way through life without much difficulty. Things annoyed him easily and he got irritable at the drop of a hat. He has enough self-awareness to recognise that as a flaw, even if he had never seen it as much of a problem. 

There was a difference between irritation and anger. Deku had always made him angry, inducing a burning hot sensation that ate at his insides. Now Deku was gone and he couldn't turn any of it off. It was like the world was suck behind a filthy pane of glass that he couldn’t smash through no matter how hard he tried.

Katsuki watches the head of his Kamui Woods figurine bend at an odd angle as the plastic began to superheat, having been exposed to a string of minor blasts. He had been slowly working his way through his figurine collection as both quirk training and to take the edge off his anger. Melting this figurine was particularly cathartic. 

“Perhaps we should look into getting you some new hobbies.”

Katsuki shifts his focus to glare at his father who stands at his bedroom door, an expression of worry pulling at his features. No surprises there, worry was his father’s default response to anything Katsuki did these days.

 “Not interested.”

“Something to get you out of the apartment,” his father continues to which  Katsuki narrows his eyes. He wouldn’t be in the apartment if he had any say in it. Both his parents know this. 

“Some physical activity where you’ll be able to let loose without having to worry about property damage. I have a colleague whose brother runs a kickboxing studio. I can make arrangements for you to spend time…” 

“I said, I’m not interested,” he grumbles, returning to his current distraction.

“Well, I want you to think about it,” his dad instructs, “It would do you a lot of good and it’s something you’re passionate about….” 

The figurine Katsuki is holding begins to blacken, colours melting away under his tiny, controlled bursts. There is an unhappy sigh from his father and the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. He growls and the figurine explodes with a small Bang. Melted plastic is flung across his walls and floor. 

He knows what his dad is trying to do…

How many times had he begged his parents for better training opportunities, for karate or boxing lessons, only to be denied due to money restraints? Outside of a few judo lessons he had received as a birthday gift from Inko one year, any combat training he did he had been self-taught. 

Now he’s no longer interested, his parents are practically threatening him with extracurricular activities. 

It’s fucking annoying is what it is. 

He reaches for another figurine only to find that he has none left aside from his limited edition All Might collection.  He lets out an angry breath, trying to rid himself of his restless irritation. It doesn’t work, and he ends up standing so he can pace back and forth, listening to the pop, pop, focusing on his tingling skin as sparks run up and down his arms. It keeps him distracted for all of two seconds. 

Usually, he would be at the library studying, or going on long runs and working on his physical conditioning. Sometimes, he would meet up with a few of the loser-extras from school and they would visit an arcade. Recently, he had taken to wandering through the streets around his neighbourhood, waiting for something to piss him off enough that his mind would white-out in pure rage and could forget reality for a few seconds. Obviously, that had become a lot harder after several run-ins with the local police had had him all but permanently grounded outside of school hours. 

This is what he wanted… he remains himself. His plan to piss people off enough that he received some iota of punishment was working like a charm so, of course, it sucked. He hated it, but then, he hated all the alternatives as well so what did any of it matter. 

Katsuki ends up with his ear pressed against the door, listening for activity in the living room, waiting for an opportunity to make a break for it. He needs to be careful because Aunt Inko is visiting and the last thing he wants is to see her stupid, sympathetic smile. 

When it sounds like the coast is clear, he creeps out, stealing down the hall. Muffled voices from the kitchen are all the encouragement he needs to beeline for the door and slip out before anyone can spot him. He’ll be in trouble for this later. He’s counting on it. 

The hot summer air is a welcome change from the chill of air conditioning. There is the loud buzz of cicadas, chirping away in the sticky heat. He picks a direction and walks, not caring that he is wearing the sweatpants and the black singlet he had slept in. If someone has a problem with his presentation, he is more than willing to throw down. 

Unfortunately, the relief being out of the apartment brings is short-lived. Today, a feeling of discomfort follows after him which has nothing to do with the heat. A bubbling frustration that bites at his heels as he stalks the streets. It is that feeling he has come to associate with times when all his rage burns away, leaving him numb.  

He doesn’t plan to stop at the florists, he just sort of does. 

He turns suddenly into the store before he can properly process what he is doing. The chime on the glass door rings and the sickly-sweet smell of the store has his nose wrinkling. Before he can chicken out and retreat, he walks to the counter. 

“How much?” He snaps at the older lady in overalls manning the register, pointing at the nearest bunch of white flowers. He has no idea what type they are but that wasn’t the point wasn't it?

“Ah,” The woman squints at him, taken back “That depends how many you want?”

“I don’t care” He smacks the few yen he has on the counter, “However many that’ll get me. Don’t rip me off.”

 The woman nods slowly, “Do you just want these specifically? You don’t want to add some more colour to the bouquet? White is a bit of a dower colour.”

“Whatever is cheapest…just make it quick.” He is already regretting coming in.

The woman hums, pulling out a roll of paper, beginning to place and wrap the flowers Katsuki had pointed to. 

“Who are they for if I may ask?”

“No.”

“Oh? A special friend maybe,” She begins to tease.

“He’s dead,” he snaps abruptly, “and he’s not my friend. Just give me the damn flowers.” Why did people always make this shit more difficult than it needed to be?

The old hag is silent after that, awkwardly finalising his purchase which ends up being an assortment of white flowers with a few smaller yellow and red ones scattered between. It almost looks pretty and it is sickly-sweet smelling, just like the store.

He tries no to think about his destination as he walks with renewed deliberation. He doesn’t think about it right up until he is practically walking into the low stone wall nearest the gate. The shock of seeing the place has him freezing in place, breath catching. The last time he had been here had been during the funeral.

There are lines of thin, tightly packed, gave markers, rising horizontally on sets on uneven steps. There is barely room for people to pass between them on the narrow, flagstone path. Trees are scattered throughout the space, providing patches of uneven shade. The noise of the cicadas is louder here, almost oppressive in its throbbing hum.  For a moment, all he wants to do is walk up to the nearest stone and blow it all sky high. Then he would be sure to flatten every marker in the place until the land was a barren waste. That would get him arrested for sure. The thought passes quickly, and his eyes slide away from the cemetery to his flowers. They don’t look nearly as nice now he has almost strangled them with an unintentionally tight grip.

He breaths out, resisting the urge to set something on fire. Slowly, he walks up the steps, passing the small temple at the entrance. Deku is buried further in, his stone modest in size when compared to the others.

“Deku…” He grows out a greeting when he arrives and it gets caught in his throat. The stone, obviously, does not respond.

Before he can accidentally blow them up, he carefully places the flowers next to the small pile already adorning the small stone. There are more offerings than he expects to be there. He recognises a few of the names from school. One larger bunch looks especially expensive and elaborate, monopolising most of the limited surface space.

‘From Yagi Toshinori’ the card attached reads. Katsuki doesn’t recognise the name. 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, he didn’t know shit about Deku other than their shared ambition to be a hero.

“Deku…” Why the fuck is he having trouble talking, “You’re...” He stops.

 “You’re a fucking moron,” he manages to spit.

“I didn’t need you to save me.” The anger is burning so hot that its almost unbearable. Pop, pop, his hands fizzle. “I didn’t want your help.”

BANG! He makes sure the explosion is directed away from the stone and up into the sky. The small shock wave it produces rustles the flowers and nearby trees. All the cicadas stop chirping at once, plunging the area into an eerie quiet. His legs feel shaky and he is practically vibrating with anger. 

“What did you think a quirkless idiot could have done!”

Save his pathetic life while the real Heroes watch him suffocate from the side-lines? His brain supplies an answer. It was all a big joke wasn’t it? The bastards had all watched Deku die. That was what a Hero did apparently, wait for backup while someone died because it was safer for them. Safer for the Hero.

 His legs give way and he falls to his knees, curling his hands into fists, jaw locking up. Finally, the haze of anger falls away and his mind quietens. Everything was painfully clear now. People didn’t care when Katsuki yelled, swore, and hurt other kids, because his quirk was amazing, making him amazing. What a joke. If he hadn’t had his quirk, then the Slime Bastard would have had nothing to work with, and Deku might still be alive.

“I’m…I’m fucking sorry okay." He had always treated Deku like shit and he doesn’t think, if their positions had been reversed…he doesn’t think that he would have even thought about saving someone like himself.

The truth stings. He slams his fist into the flagstone next to him and he watches it crack.

"I’m sorry…”

He was lucky…that’s all he was… He wasn’t special… he was just an average human with a good work ethic and a garbage personality who just happened to have a powerful quirk.

He wasn’t a hero…well, not one like Deku had tried to be…like Deku had been…

He didn’t even want to be a hero...not anymore...He doesn’t know what he wants.

“Damnit…” the words have no heat behind them. The explosive rage that had been burning continuously in his chest for the last week simmers, snuffing out like a candle. There is a hole where his anger had eaten away at something fundamentally him, leaving empty space.

Katsuki leans forward, letting his head thump against the stone.