#I REQUIRE 9-10 HOURS OF SLEEP

[that-one-enby-possum]

Gods my cognitive function is not functioning rn

Vent in tags

[apomaro-mellow]

Wrong Number 2

Someone said they liked when authors put their super-specific jobs in fics so I hope ya like Steve havin a (kinda romanticized) past job of mine.

For the first time in his life, Steve felt like the stereotypical young person who was always glued to his phone. Every time it made a noise or vibrated, his arm shot out like lightning, hoping with every fiber of his being that it was the mystery number.

It had been about five days since he'd sent that first message and he'd been worried about their conversations being stale. But that wasn't an issue. The only times their talks lulled was when they went to bed.

And even that was after texting late into the night. Steve would watch the clock go from 9 to 10 and promise to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. And then it would be midnight and what was a few minutes after that? Then he'd look up and it would be 2 in the morning.

Texting this guy had become the highlight of Steve's days. To the point where he didn't even realize Friday had come until one of his students mentioned it.

Then, purely out of habit, he asked: "Any weekend plans?"

"I've got a soccer game", Zach answered.

"My parents are having date night", Belinda said.

And normally Steve himself would be thinking about going out and finding someone for the night. But the idea hadn't come to him for once. He knew why, but he didn't fully process it until he got home to Robin, who was in the middle of cooking breakfast for dinner it seemed.

Steve was in the middle of replying to a text sent during lunch.

(12:15) I just realized you know about my off the wall job (12:17) But I have no idea what your 9 to 5 is (12:18) Your legally required to tell me if ur famous (12:18) Not bc im a clout chaser (12:19) But bc I might not have a clue who you are

[4:13] Not famous. Don't worry. I'm a teacher.

(4:15) As a former student I apologize

Robin opened the cabinet, looking for pancake mix. “Are you and that girl still texting?”

“Me and the who?”, Steve looked up from his phone.

“That girl? I assume you're finally setting up a date for this weekend?"

"She-" Steve racked his brain for a good excuse. But it was hard to do when the person who knew him the most was staring right at him.

"Whatever flaws of hers you're about to make up, I'm gonna call bullshit because your phone hasn't stopped pinging for days." She started mixing the pancake batter.

Steve looked down at the words on his screen. The one flaw of this guy was that they couldn't meet in person. But maybe it was time to close the distance just a bit.

"She's shy. Might just text a bit more before she's ready."

[4:19] No need for sorries. All my kids are great. But that's probably because I teach their favorite class.

(4:21) Oooh their favorite? (4:21) It's gotta be something like art rite? (4:22) Or are you being a smart ass cuz you teach like calculus or something?

[4:23] I teach cooking 😛

(4:23) Oh shit. (4:24) You're actually the favorite

[4:25] Toldja. Hey quick question and then possibly many more questions.

(4:26) Go ooooon

[4:27] How would you feel about spending the night playing 20 questions? Like are you free tonight?

Eddie bit his lip as he looked at Steve's words. He had picked his shifts this weekend to make sure he had plenty of time to talk to Steve. Which meant he was in fact free tonight. He replied as such and Steve said he wanted a little time to take a shower and then he'd be ready.

And because he was a little shit, Eddie took advantage of him being away from his phone.

(4:35) Since you're in the shower, I'm taking the first question. Boxers or briefs?

[4:54] Cheater. And I prefer boxer briefs. My turn?

(4:55) Go for it

Eddie was curled up on his couch, tv low and in the background as he waited for Steve's question.

[4:55] What's your name?

(4:56) THATS your first question? (4:56) Wait we've been texting for days haven't you saved my number? (4:57) What do you have me as?

Steve bit his lip, wishing he could lie to this guy, but he couldn’t. Instead he sent a screenshot of his phone.

(4:59) Misty? That’s the name of the chick?

[5:00] Yeah. But I guess I should put your actual name now, right?

It was a gamble. But this guy already knew Steve’s name. And by this point they’d been texting for nearly a week. He just wanted to know his name. He pushed back the part of himself that said he needed to know.

(5:00) It's Eddie.

Eddie. The guy he'd been talking to was named Eddie. Eddie with the long curly hair and the chunky rings who threw axes for a living. He was a far cry from the soft girls he usually dated. Or the preppy guys he usually dated.

(5:02) Favorite bug?

The question threw Steve for a moment but he decided to humor him.

[5:04] Bees 🐝I like how fuzzy they are. And I like honey. [5:05] What rings do you have?

A couple minutes later, Eddie replied with an image. It was taken from above and showed his hands lying flat on a coffee table. Steve zoomed to make out the details of each ring. He was also able to see a watch and a couple of wristbands on him.

[5:08] How did you take that picture? With your mouth? 🦭

(5:09) Did you did you just compare me to a seal???

[5:09] What other animal catches things in their mouths?

'I can be an animal with my mouth'. Thankfully, Eddie's fingers weren't as fast as his brain and he didn't send that to Steve. Eddie had in fact put his phone in his mouth the take the picture, having a real 'no thoughts, head empty moment' when Steve asked about his rings.

Steve was letting his own mind wander as he gazed at the picture. Eddie's hands were...his hands were...well they were-

(5:10) Favorite youtuber?

The adoration of Eddie's hands were interrupted by Eddie himself as their question and answers continued. The picture continued as well. Steve sent pics of his favorite pair of shoes, his hair products, and of his neck when Eddie said he didn't believe he had all these moles.

Eddie had sent pictures of one arm, covered in tats, his acoustic guitar, and a super worn copy of Peter Pan.

The hour was growing late and both of them were feeling more bold but at the same time hesitant because it felt like they were close to crossing a line.

Needing an outside opinion, Eddie consulted with The Council (the discord server with his band mates) about whether or not he should shoot his shot. Gareth told him to go for it, what harm could it do? Grant said to do it because it could potentially be the funniest catfishing story. Jeff agreed that he should, if only because their guitarist getting murdered would be a great back story.

With their unanimous approval, Eddie decided to start actively flirting with Steve.

(8:37) Soooooo ya like jazz?

[8:38] I do actually. I really love the piano.

Okay, that one was just practice. Be smooth. Be suave. None of that was in Eddie's wheelhouse but thankfully nothing he said turned Steve away. He always seemed just as eager to reply back.

(9:10) What's your oldest piece of clothing?

Eddie was thinking of his own oldest article a t-shirt that had started out overgrown on his tiny eight year old body but he'd grown into and kept over the years. It was super faded but filled with the memory of the first time he spent more than a couple of days with his uncle.

[9:12] I'd show you, but I'm wearing them right now.

Steve had closed his bedroom door before sending the text. There wasn't anything scandalous but it seemed like it could very quickly veer into that territory. All Eddie had to do was ask. If he wanted to see them, Steve would show it.

'I would like to see it.'

(9:12) I would like to see it

Eddie knew it could be anything. Maybe a holey sock. Or maybe he also had a super faded t-shirt with deep sewn-in memories as well. Maybe he was wearing a class ring?

[9:14] image.jpeg

Eddie was treated (and goddamn what a treat it was) to Steve Harrington's bottom half, barely covered in shorts with a school's logo on them. Thick thighs covered in hair. And a bulge that was there. It was very there. Eddie couldn't overstate how there it was.

He palmed his own crotch before remembering he was looking at a guy's junk and about to jerk off to it in his living room. And he had yet to answer. What was the most respectful way to say 'humina humina humina-wolf whistle-awooga'?

(9:16) Are you trying to kill me Steve?

[9:17] Do you like it?

'Awooga.'

(9:18) ❤️‍🔥 🔥 🥵

Eddie tried to think of any other way to tell Steve how hot he made him but it felt like typing words just wasn't enough.

(9:19) Can I do something insane? (9:20) And feel free to ignore me if it's too much

Steve was lying in his bed, phone of his charger now. Nothing Eddie could do would be too much. He could knock on his door and he would let him in.

[9:21] Go ahead

A second after he sent that, Steve's phone started to ring. It was Eddie. He stared for about five seconds before picking up.

"Hey."

"Hey."

If possible, Steve melted more into his bed. Eddie's voice...he didn't know what he expected but it wasn't that. He said one word and Steve wanted to wrap himself in it.

"That was pretty naughty of you, sending me that pic. I could show up to your school."

"You'd be a few years too late. These are my oldest shorts, remember?"

"Tiniest shorts maybe."

Steve laughed and Eddie was on cloud nine. He was so lost in bliss, he miscalculated and fell off the couch.

"What was that?"

"I uh, I fell. Off my couch."

"Did you fall hard?"

Eddie beamed as he got up and turned off the tv. Now that he had his voice, all he wanted to hear was the man on the other line.

"Oh super hard."

Steve let out a sound from the back of his throat and he wondered if Eddie had heard it. It was honestly amazing how the smallest things got him going. Or maybe he was just that into Eddie.

"You still there Steve?"

....."Yeah. I'm still here."

Part 4

Tag Team (closed)

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @newtstabber @omletlove @ifyoudonlysurrender @rehfan @morganski-19 @corvidcantina @dragonmama76 @just-ladyme @tinyplanet95 @goodolefashionedloverboi @idoquitelikebread @kittydeadbones @manda-panda-monium @rhapsodyinalto @paintsplatteredandimperfect @keylime-green @ihavekidneys @samsoble @honorarybrit81 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @aizawa-emma @deleataecount @thesuninyaface @fromapayphone @justmeinadaze @hbyrde36 @queenie-ofthe-void @resident-gay-bitch @bestwifehaver @dangdirtydemons @ellietheasexylibrarian @perseus-notjackson @pyrohonk @holysteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @mrsjellymunson @geekymagicalpotato @notaqueenakhaleesi @phantomcat94 @ladylokilaufeyson5 @dude-as-in-i-love-u @micheledawn1975 @magpiemuseum @novelnovella @marklee-blackmore @stevesbipanic @martinskis-lydias @beckkthewreck @gay-little-bitch @everywherenothere @emma-elsa-0000 @rlpersephone3259 @songbird-garden @trucoop @omgshesinsane @fantrash @7-starboi @soulminyg @larawrmonster @blackpanzy @offical-potato @aellafreya @mightbeasleep @lorelei724 @moomkin77

If you were tagged but it didn't show up in your notifications, lemme know and I'll do that thing where I tag you in a reblog instead. I know tumblr can't be trusted to function XD

[girl-dot-tzt]

Alright results are in, I'm not allowed to finish for 36 days 🙃

Im going to update this as a lil diary to keep me honest💃

Day 1: I'm feeling pretty good, I notice I get really horny when I take my prog the ✨️fun way✨️ so I'm going to use that method to increase the challenge this month. I'm thinking of meeting a friend tomorrow so I'm excited!

Day 2: more of the same, pretty standard, had a great time with said friend. Getting a teeny but pent up but nothing crazy yet.

Day 3: getting more pent up but it's still manageable, made the mistake of reading a ton of horny posts and getting myself really horny. Thankfully I calmed down and now I'm good to go

Day 4: went to work, did some bike wrenching, now im boutta sleep. pretty uneventful but I'm meeting a good friend of mine tomorrow so I plan on making up for the lack of horny twofold. I need to get some Oregonian mutuals bc I'd like to bite someone :3

Day 5: got my tits fondled for like 3 hours while I watched anime and got insanely high, I need like 4 people to hold me down and grope/tease/fuck me... preferably all at once. I've got 31 more daysssssss, does it count if it's hands free? 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

Day 6: got no sleep, very horny, idk what direction Is up, and I need an answer to the question from yesterday 😫

Day 7: got sleep but not railed because if I get railed too well I'll could possibly finish and idk if that's OK yet :3. I'm going to mountain bike today! I'm super excited bc I need something to take the edge off, if I'm really unlucky I'll get too horny from the idea of getting fucked in the woods and make an update here.

Day 8: we're evening out a little, this may not be impossible, tbf I haven't had time to do much lately so when I finally get the time to ride my toys that might change. I'm planning on doing that tomorrow :3

Day 8 update: I accidentally took two progesterone pills because I boof mine, but I accidentally muscle memory-ed taking my prog orally. Got so horny during work that I nearly cried.

Day 9: I broke some spokes while mountain biking and now I'm sad, but horny and frustrated too. I can only think about being bred, but also being sad that my bike broke, damn fucking stupid sticks getting inbetween my fucking spokes. I need railed bad, etcetera etcetera

Day 10:

Girl abs, that is all

Day 11: I'm going to fuck myself on the biggest toy I own until I'm crying or edging with my Pspot🧍‍♀️ I will return

Day 12: I'm pretty sure I ended up getting edged. Pretty sure because I've never actually finished hands free before and my vibrator died right before I was about to finish. One of you witchy mother fuckers knew I was about to cheat or something, no other explanations, couldn't possibly be that I forgot to charge toys like a dumbass. Laugh it up, I got edged hard by my ADHD.

Days 13: I had a threesome and it was awesome! I explained my agreement to them and got teased a bunch as me and my friend dommed the fuck out of a gorgeous girl. We groped and kissed and sucked all over her body as she got more and more worked up, until eventually I was fucking her with my big purple vibrator and she came hands free for the first time! We made sure to shower her with all kinds of praise and congratulations 💃💃

Days 14-16: started a new job, I'm getting so horny these days that rather than feeling butterflies it's like an almost painful NEED. Like I just desperately need to get tied up and ground into dust, getting edged with my vibrator did a number on me because I'm a mess rn😆

Days 17-20: if I may be honest i embarked on this endeavor to try to finish hands free, I've never done it before but I desperately want to. I think I'll be able to do it by the end of these 36 days or sooner. Idk it's just a hunch🧍‍♀️

Day 21-29: 10 hr shifts in a lab will drive you nuts when there's nothing to think about but getting railed and ice cream percentages. On the plus side I am not only paid but required to eat ice cream every hour at my job. On the downside, I got so horny I cried last night🧍‍♀️😵‍💫😵‍💫

[homunculus-argument]

Been on somewhat of a spin about the subject recently but unapologetically continuing nonetheless. Anyway someone said that your love language is just what you lacked growing up. I was already grown when this happened, but back when I was working at the factory and still living at home, my sister (also an adult, also living at home, ~can't work~ because of the same mental illness that I had but hers was ~valid~ because her coping mechanisms were cuter than mine and I was obviously just being gross for no reason) wanted to play the piano and sing while I was sleeping.

My sister is semi-classically trained in singing. She could have gone pro or at least performed opera on stage had she pursued it. She's not bad with the piano, either, she's actually very pleasant to listen to, but I just want to stress that when she's singing in the living room, you can hear her from the street. Technical vocal skills required for being clearly audible over an entire opera house orchestra. That shit doesn't break glass but it sure can feel like it can shatter your ear drums. And she wasn't even singing opera, but blasting disney tunes, at the very reasonable time of 2 pm.

I was working night shift and had clocked out from work at 6 am, had almost fallen asleep at the wheel while driving home, and had still not managed to get to sleep before 9 or 10 am. And I was not entirely happy about having my sleep interrupted after 4-5 hours by Part Of Your World. My sister, insulted by this, argued that she lives here, too, and I can't demand that everyone should keep quiet during the day just because not fucking letting someone sleep is considered an act of torture and you are literally not allowed to treat prisoners of war that poorly.

Our mother, seeing that her grown-ass-adult-children are fighting again, opted to do as she always would, gently and calmly explaining to me that I can't just take the whole household hostage like that by demanding them to have any respect for me having actual physical needs that I will physically die if I'm not allowed to fulfill.

I woke up this morning at 5:47 am. My boyfriend was up. He hadn't drawn the curtains, he was quietly making himself breakfast, getting dressed and rustling about with only the dim bubble of light from his desk lamp. Because I was sleeping and he wanted to let me sleep.

[elicathebunny]

HOW TO REDUCE MALADAPTIVE DREAMING.

(suggestion post)

I have actually experienced this since the age of around 9 or 10 years and only managed to reduce and basically almost get rid of it after 5 or 6 years. I am no doctor or professional, so all of this is just by experience mixed with online research.

WHAT IS MALADAPTIVE DAYDREAMING?

Maladaptive daydreaming is a mental health issue that causes a person to lose themselves in complex daydreams. These daydreams are usually a coping mechanism for other mental health conditions or circumstances. It's common — but not required — for people who have this to have a history of childhood trauma or abuse.

SYMPTOMS:

Extensive, sometimes compulsive, absorption in fantasy for several hours a day

Inability to stop daydreaming

Having very detailed fantasies, including plot lines and characters

Having real-life reactions to fantasies, like facial expressions, body movements, or verbalizations

Difficulty concentrating or focusing on other things

Sleep problems (especially falling asleep)

Replacing human interaction

The urge to continue fantasizing when interrupted

In some cases, maladaptive daydreaming can also be characterized by the need for additional stimulation, which can be expressed through extensive book-reading, watching films, or gaming.

TRIGGERS:

some of the triggers may include listening to music on headphones, watching movies, and hearing specific conversation topics.

In addition to processing trauma, other causes of maladaptive daydreaming include:

Wish fulfillment

Entertainment (regulating boredom or isolation)

Regulating distress

MY EXPERIENCE: I would spend hours upon hours with storylines that I have had for years. Those stories gave me comfort and I would get lost in the experience of daydreaming. I would even put on music to put myself deeper in my thoughts and would get irritated if someone ruined my thought process by speaking to me. I realised it was a problem when I began to randomly fall into my daydreams without much control. Simple thinking turned into detailed storylines and I would constantly seem lost in thought and lose track of time. This obviously isn't helpful when you have important things to do when you need to focus. I would try to stop daydreaming but would always catch myself doing it because it become normal to me. All the characters and scenarios in my head represented me parts of me that I wish I was in real life, or even things I wanted to happen in my life. Sometimes the dreams happened so frequently that I couldn't differentiate between my memories and dreams. Before I acknowledged it as a problem I never actually wanted to get rid of it, such a big part of me would be lost. I had been daydreaming for such a long time that I became emotionally attached to the characters I had made.

WHAT HELPED ME:

Doing things that take up a lot of brain power and time: e.g. Doing a workout, Dancing, or Solving a difficult equation.

This gives you 0 time to even think about anything, let alone daydream. Go out with your friends, and force yourself into situations that require you to use your full attention. Because I never really went out much or did anything frequent enough to take up my day, I had too much time to myself and became stuck in my own head. Doing things and picking up extracurriculars, ANYTHING will help.

Because I am no longer at home as much as I used to and interact/learn new skills much more than I did before. I simply do not have time to be in my own head, I forced myself to learn to get out of my head and achieve the things I would daydream about.

I am now engaging in improving myself instead of dreaming about the version of myself/life I wanted so badly. Those dreams and characters were just glamorised versions of deep-rooted emotions I had left without facing them. Uncovering the true meaning of why I daydream and the details of the things I was daydreaming about will help you get out of the daze.

NOTES I'VE FOUND ON QUORA:

ONE:

Open up. Speak about it to others. Express yourself. There is nothing to be ashamed of. You need not share your daydreams, just share that you daydream. It's okay.

Write your daydreams down, or type them out… whatever. Get them out of you to have a better look. They are trying to tell you something about yourself. Have you ever noticed that you can't completely control your daydreams? And when you do try to change something critical in your plot it just doesn't “feel right”?

Boil them down to mere feelings. Strip away all the illusory layers of good looks, grand mansions, heroic acts and so on. The truth lies in key moments where the characters feel something deeply for each other. Find those feelings, and question the difference between you and your characters. Ask what is blocking you from experiencing them for yourself.

Realize that you are the reality, not your characters. If you imagine a nobleman or a beautiful girl, it is your nobility and beauty that you impart to those. All your characters are merely objects animated by the light of your imagination and feelings.

Understand that all your daydreams have nothing to do with others, and everything to do with you, and your relationship with yourself. When you realize this, you stop comparing them with your real-world relationships and start relating them to various aspects of yourself.

Know that when you successfully come out of this, you will actually not lose the ability to daydream or run out of feelings to pour into your imagination. It is just that their purpose will have been served, and you will not resort to daydreaming again out of lack or compulsion. You may at any point daydream again and even use it as a tool to know what your Soul is trying to tell you. Yet, you will realize that a moment of self-awareness is more rewarding than a lifetime of daydreams.

TWO:

Here are some serious tips to avoid them:

First of all, make sure you really want to get rid of this, because a lot of MDers get emotionally attached to their imaginary characters.

Disable /avoid the triggers. Block YouTube if you have to. Those websites you visit. The images saved on your computer - delete them. Plenty of apps for that.

This might be rude, but start avoiding the topics or the friends who keep discussing these topics.

Get busy doing something else - take up a hobby, meet new people. Try to stay in public places or with other people. Plenty to do in life other than dreaming.

Avoid that one music/ song that acts as a trigger.

DO I STILL MD? Yea sometimes, but now It is an okay amount. It doesn't consume my life anymore.

[sinner-sunflower]

A HH Lucifer-centric AU 10/?

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

Yknow,

The more I think about it...

This is looking a lot more like an Infected AU.

P.S. already apologies for the Hamilton reference laksjdlksaj I couldn't help it.

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

Lucifer is having a hard time breathing.

Beyond the safety border is a sea of red flowers of a kind Lucifer has never seen before in his lifetime. They seem to have sprouted from the crawling roots.

The King of Hell would've even said it was beautiful- he would've been in awe what with the flowers shimmering under Sloth's source of light creating serene waves whose sounds can lull one to sleep.

He would have.. if it weren't for what's coming out of it.

A thick, black miasma is seeping its way out of the flowers' mouths causing the suffocating air in the previously cleanest place in all of hell.

Roo's presence is more prominent than ever. Belphegor and her people at the site are all wearing masks to protect themselves from the dark mist.

Belphegor's voice makes him come down from the skies.

Belphegor: Lucifer!

Lucifer: What is this?

Belphegor: Sloth lost power for an hour which we guess is Roo's doing. When it came back... all these flowers were here. Most inhaled a bit of the miasma but no immediate effects. We have required everyone to put on a mask to be sure. With the sudden onset of this presumably toxic air, evacuation to Lust is starting earlier than expected.

Lucifer: That's good.

Belphegor: The sealing ritual will start in a day or two. Satan wants to be sure there are no more surprises once we start.

Lucifer: He's right. t will just be a waste of time and resources.

Belphegor: ...Lucifer?

Lucifer: Hmm?

Belphegor: Will I lose your respect if I admit that I'm afraid?

Lucifer turns to his old friend (sibling, really), eyes growing soft.

Lucifer: As long as you won't lose yours for me.

Belphegor: You're afraid?

Lucifer: Yes. Just like I was when I rebelled against heaven. Or when I was made King of Hell. Or when Charlie was born. I'm as afraid now as I was before.

Belphegor: Oh..

Lucifer: Am I worth any less to you now?

Belphegor: No! Of course not! You will always be my, our, King. When you say jump, we ask how high. If you wish to go to war with Heaven, we shall ask when.

Lucifer smiles a bit. He was just teasing Belphegor. He and the Sins have endured Hell's greatest hardships together- he doesn't think he can lose respect for any of them if they tried.

Lucifer: Then there's my answer.

Belphegor: I- thank you.

Lucifer: I have to get going now. The sooner I find her, the sooner I can get back.

Belphegor: Are you sure that she will provide assistance for Hell's problems?

Lucifer: Let me worry about that.

Belphegor: Of course, do be careful on your journey, Lucifer.

Lucifer: Thanks, Bel.

Lucifer mimics opening a curtain to create a portal to the living world. He's about to go through when the Sin of Sloth calls his name once more.

Belphegor: Lucifer!

His sister gives him a deep bow. Murmurs around them spur as the people of Sloth have never seen their Prince act like this before. Lucifer can't blame them, it's not like he and the Sins ever interact in public. They don't know that Belphegor and the others always make sure to show Lucifer their loyalty to him.

Belphegor: I- we- have the greatest honor to be your obedient servant.

Lucifer looks around and sees that all the people have followed suit in bowing.

Lucifer: And I you.

And with that, he finally leaves Hell.

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

The moment Lucifer sets foot on Earth is a whiplash. It has been a while since he even ventured outside of Hell despite being allowed to- too guilty to leave because if the souls his actions had dammed to hell can't, then he too shouldn't-

He feels the cool breeze caress his face and play with his wings like a child would. There are birds up on the trees singing, fish in the nearby pond splashing, and then a few deers looking at him with curious eyes. Wow, Alastor's still following him.

Lucifer casts an invisibility spell on himself and prepares to fly. Once he was up in the sky, he took in one last appreciative look at the scene.

Lucifer: You've grown, Eden.

He says to no one and leaves.

A gust of strong winds suddenly blows through the forest below, causing the animals to sing their sounds along with the rustling leaves of the trees and grass.

If the fallen angel stayed a while longer, maybe he would've heard the wind utter a reply.

'We've missed you, dear angel.'

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

What to look forward to in Part 11:

Luci's thoughts as he travels around Earth.

The meetup

[nunalastor]

Buckshot Anon here! A smaller ask I got was about Alastor’s sleep, that being that he sleeps very minimally if at all, and there was an era on the blog discussing as much and the possibility of him having constant visual hallucinations. Is this possible?

That answer is a little more complicated than one would expect. From the perspective of a human, yes, humans do begin hallucinating after about 30-72 hours without sleep depending on the person. These hallucinations are most often visual and can be quite detailed, so the concept itself of hallucinations of people is real. That would not be the only thing experienced from sleep deprivation, because before that point, someone deprived of sleep would suffer anxiety, irritability, and depersonalization. If sleep deprivation continues beyond hallucinations, it could transition into acute psychosis and delusions.

However, for this to happen, someone would need to actively fight against their body’s natural sleep response, or that natural sleep response needs to be in some way impaired. This can happen to some extent from stress or during a manic episode, but even severe cases of insomnia do sleep enough to survive even if they don’t remember it. The body needs sleep to function, and will make sure it happens. Within 48 hours without sleep, someone could have episodes of microsleep, which is exactly what it sounds like: the body falls asleep for several seconds, and this is more common the more sleep deprived someone is or if they have a sleep disorder. Humans can technically bypass this, the world record for not sleeping is 264 hours, but that is highly dangerous, never try that at home. 

Humans can adapt to less sleep to some extent. Anyone who has ever been in school or a job with long/unpredictable hours can attest to that. It’s a miserable experience, but your body will eventually adapt to at least act less exhausted than you are. But there are limits to that, and it will eventually come back to bite you either in the form of decreased mental health and other health problems down the line.

All of this to say from the perspective of a human, yes, Alastor would begin hallucinating without sleep, and while he could train himself to sleep minimally to some extent, there are limits and he would need to allow himself to go into deep sleep eventually. He can’t live strictly on the occasional micro-sleep. 

However, none of that was taking into account Alastor's deer traits. Deer have very different sleep requirements than humans do. Where humans need usually 7-9 hours of sleep a night with 1-2 hours of that being deep sleep, deer only need 4.5 hours of sleep, and that sleep is very light (there’s actually a debate if they can deep sleep at all, and the consensus seems to be either they can’t or if they do they only need 30 minutes). From my research, their sleep pattern usually involves sleeping during daylight hours in short bursts of 5-10 minutes, being alert for a few minutes, and repeating the cycle for about 30 minutes, and they may do this a few times throughout the day and night. They can also sleep with their head up and eyes open. That’s not their default, but that is something they can do.

Taking that into account, Alastor’s brain functions combined with deer traits that may give him an advantage means he most likely has something between these two sleep patterns. He would be better off if he had a human’s amount of sleep, but he can function with much less sleep than a normal person. While he would still hallucinate from sleep deprivation, it would probably happen in about double the time.

In summary: Hallucinating from sleep deprivation does happen, and Alastor would suffer from this if he deprived himself of sleep for long enough. However, his deer traits would change his sleep patterns, so this may take longer to happen, closer to 60-144 hours instead of the normal 30-72 hours. He would also get more benefit from light sleep than a normal human would, and needs less deep sleep. He would benefit considerably from sleeping longer and allowing himself to go into deep sleep, but he doesn't need it to survive.

He probably doesn’t outright never sleep, rather he utilizes deer sleep and sleeps in short 5-10 minute bursts through the day when alone or during particularly boring hotel meetings by sleeping with his eyes open. Anyone using a human’s sleep patterns would consider this basically never sleeping, but for Alastor it’s serviceable.

Ignoring the world records and studies where the limits were pushed, if he put his mind to it he could theoretically last a week without sleep. Any longer than that and his body would be fighting against him in every way possible both mentally and physically, and he is smart enough to know any possible benefit he has from not sleeping is lost after that point. He technically might be able to push himself for 2-3 days longer, but he would be dead on his feet by then with basically no awareness of his surroundings.

If he did push himself to go days without any type of sleep, he would need to sleep for much longer afterward. Collapsing from exhaustion and staying asleep until his body has healed enough (waking only for basic needs like sustenance) would happen eventually. Once he is rested, the hallucinations would stop either immediately or within a few days depending on how severe the sleep deprivation was prior to collapse.

11 days is the record for a human, but even if Alastor has deer sleep to his advantage, that would be extremely difficult and stupid. Pushing it to any further extreme would be next to impossible.

In shorter summary: Is that possible? Well yes, but actually no.

👀👀

[rottenpumpkin13]

It’s normal for me to sleep for 12-20 hours straight even if I got 9 hours of sleep the night before because A. I’m sick all the time B. I have chronic migraines and C. I’m depressed. These little comas I fall into work out well for me because I usually feel better when I wake up. I headcanon Genesis has the same problem. Do you think he wakes up at 7 PM thinking its 7 AM? Do you think he experiences a minor inconvenience and heads straight for bed? Do you think people open closets and cupboards very carefully because Genesis might be curled up in there taking another one of his 10 hour naps?

I think Genesis made a fuss of his sleep schedule when he was in SOLDIER, prioritizing rest and "beauty sleep" as well as his much needed reset time so he could be wide awake and alert the next day—because goddess forbid he slag behind Sephiroth.

Genesis was also sick a lot growing up, and needed more rest than the average child because his body just didn't cooperate. So he got used to maintaining an immaculate schedule. There were slip ups here and there: out all night partying, pulling an all nighter to finish writing, and those missions that lasted for days and required his full waking attention.

And he always hated how his body reacted afterward, how he couldn't give fighting his 100% because of how exhausted his mind and body were. He felt useless when he got no sleep, so he made sure it didn't happen often.

All of that shifted abruptly when the degradation began. Suddenly his sleep schedule was an endless cycle of either sleeping for several hours, or a brand of insomnia so distinct one might've thought it were limited edition.

The eye bags forming under his eyes, marring his once perfect skin, were suddenly insignificant next to the blackening scar that stretched over his shoulder, crawling onto his neck.

This type of sleep didn't help. They were unlike the restful nights of sleep he got when he was healthy. This sleep knocked him off his feet. He'd go to bed at 8 PM, suffer through a round of nightmares, and wake up at 12 PM the next day with the sun stinging his eyes and shoulder screaming with pain. He would doze off at his desk at 1 PM and awake at 1 AM with Angeal or Sephiroth shaking him.

Suddenly the days began to spiral out of his grasp. Mondays felt like Wednesdays. Fridays felt like Tuesdays. He can't believe it's already Saturday. Wasn't it just Thursday just yesterday? Ah, right. He had spent the larger part of the past two days sleeping.

It would've been just fine if he could blame it all on the degradation, theorizing that the chronic fatigue simply made him sleepier. But deep down he knew that would be a lie—and goddess knows he's had enough of those.

Simply put: Genesis just wanted to sleep. He didn't want to be awake to experience his own body turning against him, or continue to hear the voice in his head screaming for answers, for justice, for a cure. He didn't want what his waking life had to offer, so he succumbed to exhaustion. But it was uncomfortable and unfulfilling.

He then sleeps less when he deserts. This time he wishes he could sleep, or have a guaranteed bed to rest in every night. But there's no time to rest when you're trying not to die.

[freefolkfightorflight]

Things I’m doing instead of cleaning

Why does it take me months to clean and put away laundry why am I like this why 🥺I’m not even talking deep clean. I’m talking the basics of straightening. Living in such a small space with kids is fucking hard yall. It’s so hard. Part of it is I’m fucking tired and therefore lazy. Part is I feel stressed and angry at how messy my kids are and I just avoid addressing it while they’re here so I don’t lose my cool and yell. (And almost everyday I don’t have them I’m working or recovering from working 14 hour shifts). And then there’s the fact that this place is infested so there’s no “if I clean there won’t be bugs” bc I spent a year of spotless house with all the bugs and it’s fucking depressing. Im deadly afraid of roaches but I’ve desensitized my self enough to where I can kill one behind my kids back with my bare hands just to avoid scaring them. 😳🤮(bc they don’t love them either)

I silently and calmly killed a wolf spider the size of my palm with my bare hand in the bathtub yesterday while Molly was about to shower bc I didn’t want her to freak the fuck out too. Living in the country has its downsides I guess.

Re court. I need to win. I need to get the fuck out of this or gut it and start over (which I’m renting so lol I can’t but I could do something better with like a little spending money as far as organizing tools/dressers shelves etc🤦🏻‍♀️)

Part of my lease agreement is/was? mowing like 10 acres. Well the landlord recently said I need to look at buying my own mower this coming year. LOL. I currently use one of his 2 zero turn commercial ($20k) mowers…bc that’s what he said originally. Because one time in 2 fucking years I accidentally ran over a hose and he had to remove it…everything was fine…... I’m just gonna not. It’s not in said lease. Said lease is also not valid since like a year ago…bc he never made a new one for me to sign. I figure if and when he asks me to leave (if it’s before I can feasibly leave on my own) I’m just gonna middle finger and let him go to the courts to get me out bc fuck him and his judgmental racist self. That should give me like 8/9 months right?

My kids still take turns sleeping with me. Because they want to. My girl is super cuddly. My boy has stopped w cuddling but still likes being near. It was his turn last night. When he got up this morning Molly immediately jumped into bed curled around me and said “my mama” like she did as a baby and my heart melted. This is why I don’t clean while they’re here rn. I don’t have the patience to do it calmly(lately) and top tier requirement for me is to make my home a safe space emotionally (and physically) for my kids.

I’m rambling bc hey I’m still avoiding cleaning. I need a friend. Someone to come over and just chat w me while I do this. But I have one friend and she only comes over like 1-3 times a year. I usually go see her bc she lives in a “mansion” with a craft room and I’m already out driving kids to school anyways.

Anyone wanna call and chat? Or text? Pm me if so. I’m US based. No it won’t be sexual. Just friendly chit chat

[raccoonfallsharder]

Hi there! This is probably such a silly question, so I'm sorry in advance, but in your fics, how long is a "cycle"?

I've gathered that a rotation is the equivalent of about a day (I think? lol) . Is a cycle the intergalactic equivalent of like a week or maybe a month in your fics? I originally thought a year, but in WAtG its stated that Jo "crosses paths with the Yondu Clan once every fifteen cycles or so." So a year seems like the wrong assumption on my part haha

Thank you ♡

hey honeycomb! these are SUCH FUN questions because i am such an UNHINGED NERD, especially about time and trying to make things make sense in space lol (also omg please never apologize for asking questions?? ever?? you’re a delight. curiosity is beautiful and giving other people a chance to explain their thoughts/loves/interests is a gift you give whenever you ask)

so first of all it’s worth noting that i’m pretty sure in at least one of the games, it’s the opposite — a cycle is like a day, i think? and a rotation is a week or a month? (i used to know this with more certainty because last year, i had researched obsessively to find out if there was a singular canonical way of measuring the passage of time in marvel-outer-space. fyi the short answer is no). worth noting: this is how i thought of time when i was writing ᯓ⋆｡°✩practice because that takes place in the eidos universe but i deliberately didn't dwell on it too long so people could interpret the length of time however they wanted.

now, my understanding is that in the mcu, this is inverted. i had read that the mcu GOTG writers think of a rotation as being about a day and a cycle being about a week, so that is what i use in almost all of my other fics (especially the longer ones). sometimes in oneshots i default to day and week just for ease of understanding, especially for readers who may just stumble upon the story without having gotten used to my quirks.

now that’s the short answer and you can feel free to bail if you don’t want to read about the stupid amount of time i put into thinking about this lol. i swear I won’t hold it against you. for fucks sake SAVE YOURSELF

tsk. should've run.

as mentioned, i use “rotation” to indicate about a day, and “cycle” to indicate about a week. i also use “multicalendar circumrotations” or “circs” for a year-ish which is halfway made-up (the gotg holiday special mentions the multicalendar and i was like “i need a word that isn’t rotation or cycle or revolution to go with this” lol).

i also broke rotations into three shifts. for my purposes there are usually two wake shifts and one sleep shift per rotation, but i imagine some lifeforms require different amounts of rest and wakefulness - so while the start and end of shifts are standardized, how they are designated really varies by crew.

i think this was about all i had figured out when i was writing Window *:･ﾟ✧* - I think I had maybe approximated a cycle at around 8-9 days and a circ at about a year and a half. but when i started writing cicatrix.⋆☁︎:･꧂ i was referencing longer lengths of time a lot more often (and needed at least a mental guide for things like decades and ccertain chunks of years), so i expanded on my time measurements a lot more thoroughly (see below).

i don’t have anything equivalent to months but at some point i was like “i need to indicate something more than a handful of cycles and less than a circ” and so i added quarter-circs to my lexicon ‘cause months didn’t make sense in the context of a sort of “intergalactic standard” of time measurement.

there was a time when i thought about breaking down hours and minutes and shit too but then i was honestly like “dae that’s fucking bonkers. stop girl” so i decided that most universal translators are capable of doing the basic math required to calculate smaller units of time across languages lol.

a rare glimpse of dae notes/references from the top of my cicatrix notes document:

rotation: 30 hours (10/10/10 shifts) cycle: 10 rotations (300 hours) (1.79 weeks) quarter: 10 cycles circumrotation: 40 cycles (71.6 weeks) (1.38 years) 10 years = 7.26 circumrotations 4.13 years = 3 circs

anyway that's it i think, that's everything, it's ridiculous and i'm ridiculous and also thanks for giving me the opportunity to be a total loser about this. i am very cool and normal

i truly do appreciate the question honestly. may your day be full of morning glories and your night be full of good movies and tasty popcorn

[anime-moreanime-animeagain]

Good news! I can breath again. For the last week I have been absolutely devastated. After reading AoaB 4.8 I was physically ill I got so upset. But then I couldn’t really calm down cause I needed to know what happened to Ferdinand. So I may have….gotten zero sleep and spent every waking hour I wasn’t required to do life things like working and driving, reading nonstop through 10 books straight.

However! I am now on 5.9 and I feel like I can finally breathe and focus and do other things like clean and cook actually food, and make posts for other obsessors to relate to.

All kinds of SPOILERS are ahead for 4.8 - 5.9

There were things that made me less angry with the situation before this stopping point. Moments where I thought “okay…I’m not crazy sad/mad anymore.” Those moments are:

Rozemyne’s declaration that Ferdinand is family and of course she didn’t want to be Zent that’s so troublesome, but of obviously she’d do what she needed to do to save him like duh! And Ferdinand being like I’m sorry what? You think of me as family??? 🥺😭 😭

Please hug him more I cannot! This poor man doesn’t understand any type of love and it makes me SAD! But not going to lie I live for the type of devotion she was showing him. Like yeeeeessss!! Loyalty! Whether it’s romantic or platonic it is fantastic! That’s the personality characteristic I find swoon worthy.

But then there was the interduchy tournament and y’all….THE INTERDUCHY TOURNAMENT! Pretty sure I melted into a disgusting puddle of goo when he gave her the first true “very good” with fond headpat included. I just melted into the couch because okay. Okay. That makes up for a LOT of the grief I was put through. Like a ton. Like at that point I wasn’t even really mad or angry anymore. Not if we were getting THESE interactions in the interim.

And then the bench surprise! I’m not ashamed I definitely cried when he sat down on it and it was soft and he didn’t really say it but everything in his reactions screamed that he loved it and I thought how he’d probably never had anyone go out of their way for him just to make him comfortable and that was beautifully sad so of course crying was done. It felt a little silly to get SO emotional over that but I mean….he likes the bench so much and hadn’t brought it (I assume) cause he thought it would be taken from him like every other good thing in his life and how is that not something to burst into tears over. So yea. Good stuff.

And then things jumped forward again and we got near adult Rozemyne who is so pretty which thank God finally! But then Ferdinand nearly ‘climbed the towering staircase’ and my anxiety shot back up and then there was a whole war and honestly who ends a book in the middle of the battle! I feel sorry for everyone who had to wait and wait for the next volume my goodness.

But it’s okay because we had the mana hall reunion. YA’LL!!! The Mana Hall Reunion!!!! Cue the Aladdin free falling off the balcony onto carpet and taken up into the clouds because ya girl was on cloud 9 that entire scene. It was grand! Supreme! Perfect in every way! Look at this!

Pretty sure I thought this was some amazing fanart when I first saw this and I refused to read the text because spoilers but it’s not fanart it’s canon and I’m just beyond happy that it’s in color too!!! His little ‘when you said you’d defy everyone and everything I didn’t think you meant it’ and her little ‘well it’s your fault you don’t listen when I tell you how much you mean to me sooo your bad’. It’s… it’s everything I wanted. Absolutely everything!

Don’t get me started on their little talk in the gate about how to make their dreams come true together. At this point I’m actively squeeling every other moment I think about it.

I’m a little drained from speeding through 10 books in 8 days but this is fantastic why wasn’t there more to the anime? We were robbed I tell you! ROBBED! Anyway now in the middle of reading 5.9 and I can see I’m going to get super annoyed with people trying to distance my two unhinged shumils. And we still have the loose ends with the sovereignty and Detlinde to fix so I know I need to buckle up but like damn… can my two just chill and get a break?! Can she please finally meet her brother? Can Ferdinand please enjoy being valued without people telling her to stop?

Guess we will see. I should stop…. put on all the breaks until the final volume is out and translated…. yea sure, that’s what I’ll do….

[irenadel]

And if the devil...... 7/10

TW: Blood, domestic violence, talk of SA, miscarriages (this is HotD after all) This chapter is short on Aemond but I promise he'll be back on his bullshit next chapter. Also it turns out I am an absolute idiot and erased this chapter so here I am publishing again. Once more beautiful banner courtsey of @barbieaemond's gorgeous gifs and we have now ten chapters instead of 9

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

The moment he sees you, bag in one hand, jaw clenched so tight your teeth hurt, your uncle orders you close to his chair. He can move, but not well and will not risk it for the likes of you. He demands the truth, and slaps you when you dare withhold it from him. It isn’t a particularly good slap, but nothing ever erases the sting of humiliation. When he rails and grabs for your wrist, twisting it painfully in his slack grip, you still refuse to answer. Your eyes fixed back on the floor, your back having lost its rigid posture. You don’t look stubborn. Just defeated. He does not insist.

Your cousin Angus is white as a sheet, home for a brief holiday, wondering if he’ll be able to go back to his apprenticeship after this is done. The little ones are hushed up by their mother and you sit at the table, eating nothing, feeling nauseous with anger and dread.

Your aunt does not shout, does not ask what happened. She waits for a quiet, private moment. Looks at you with a tired, pinched face and says, “Did you get a recommendation?”

You do not answer this either. You look away, too ashamed and heartbroken to face her.

“I’ll earn the coin somehow,” you promise, cold dread already spreading through your limbs, fear so terrible that your heart seems to have caught in your throat and you are choking on the stupid, wretched thing. “Don’t fret.”

And for a time you keep your word.

It’s grueling work. A miserly merchant’s house that you take on, because a noble house would have required the letter of recommendation you had refused with your fist and your spit on the prince’s face. The sort of merchant who hires only a couple of girls and expects his wife to direct it all, no steward to be had and enough work for a staff of thrice that number. But that is also the kind of merchant who will not care if you worked at the Red Keep or not. It is the butcher’s on rest days, in spite of the neighbors talking about hours sacred to the Seven, and laundry taken in at night because you still can’t manage sewing.

Even then it’s just barely enough.

Your aunt suggests the butcher, over sixty and with bad gout and a house full of children might need a strong, young wife he would pay a good bride price for. It would be enough to pay for Angus’ apprenticeship. You would have a place near them, an allowance of your own and less work. You had done enough, she told you. You deserved some rest from all this toil.

She could not know how you recoiled inwardly at this thought. She could not know that when there had been no laundry to take in, and the miser’s wife had been particularly scathing with you and you were feeling desperate enough to do anything, if only you could ensure there would be enough of everything for your family tomorrow and the day after and all the days after… only then had you considered going to find a man who would buy the only thing of value you possessed.

But you couldn’t. Not now. Not ever again. Thrice had been thrice too many times. And you had known without a shadow of a doubt that if you had to touch a man you did not want, after knowing the taste of flesh, love and blood of the dragon… then you would begin to scream and never stop again, until you had driven the whole world mad with you.

Not even for a butcher and a fat bride price.

You are half thankful you are too miserable and tired to eat much and try not to miss the room and board you got at the Red Keep. All you want to do is sleep and forget. Instead you are awake at dawn, haggard and full of worries. It would be easier to endure misery again if only you could forget happiness. You turn away from talk of the castle. You cannot bear the sight of babes in arms, thinking that the princess’ time will come and go and there is nothing you can do to help her.

At night you go to bed so exhausted you do not dream. When you see his face before you, twisted in a grimace of hatred, you are always wide awake and scrubbing floors, bent down over bread or under buckets of water or heavy gaudy furniture. You wash other people’s filth so hard your hands bleed because all you want to do is work and work and work… work until you are too tired to remember Prince Aemond’s beautiful, wounded expression.

You hadn’t wanted to hurt him further then, but had had no words of comfort for him. No words to explain the ways of the world to a prince, born over gold and silver and dragon eggs, who looked at you as furious as he was heartbroken.

“Aegon is less than a worm,” he had hissed in defeat. “You could’ve broken every bone in his body before you let him touch you.”

You had not known who the anger in his face had been for. You or his brother or himself.

You do your best not to think of him. Even when food tastes like ashes in your mouth and you cannot even be bothered with anger and shame of your own when your uncle throws a laden plate at you, reminding you he is tired of dumplings and turnips, and it is all your fault for managing to ruin the one good chance you had ever known in your life. If you had had any tears left in you, you would have wept until your throat bled. But Princess Helaena had been right. A dragon’s love leaves nothing but devastation in its wake.

Your aunt watches you like a hawk. You can feel her worried eyes drilling a hole in the back of your neck. You avoid her as best as you can but even toil relents after months of careful vigilance. She catches you at night when you are boiling white shirts and scrubbing small clothes by the light of the sputtering, old castle lamp. No one else is awake at this time and you know she has sought you out to give you your privacy. She has always been kind like that, for the small things if not for the big ones.

You are prepared to fend her off, claim you are too tired to talk, but her question catches you off guard.

“Whose is it? That lad who didn’t marry you?”

It takes you a moment to understand it fully. You gape at her and immediately prepare to deny it but the words die on your lips. The truth is you don’t know. Hadn’t even thought of the possibility. Had been too miserable and heartsick to realize it had been over two months since…

Your aunt takes the lamp off its perch and gives you a handful of seed wheat and tells you to go plant it in the yard and piss on it. Better to be sure, she had said. You could not know that Dothraki women had done the same thing for centuries. You had not known any Dothraki women. Just her. Just the woman who had never been a mother to you but always there at least. Even now.

Even when you know, a week after, from the first little seedlings sprouting. Even when you throw up what little food you have managed to eat and sit with her, at night again, too stunned to think, too scared to move.

All you can hear is Aemond’s recriminations. That he should have known from the start the snake he had allowed in his bed. Fool. Thrice damned fool. Blinder than a man with both his eyes gouged out. Telling you, you were to be banished from his and the princess’ presence lest your lechery infect her and everything around her too. You would have begged in that moment. You would have fallen on your knees and tried to explain the world you inhabited, the one where you do not dare say no to princes, even when you know full well you could break their noses.

But you hadn’t been able to look at Aemond Targaryen and lie to him. You had no words to tell him the truth you lived. You couldn’t tell him you had not wanted his brother, or how hard you had tried to keep wanting him even after he spoke to you, if only for a second, before you realized the futility of it. Before you had realized how drunk he was and that only jesting boldness could have ever brought about his interest in you. Because he was beautiful too. A king’s son too. No lice. All his teeth. Hands soft as silk. And he wanted you when no one did. Wanted you before Aemond or Helaena had deigned to notice you existed at all. When all you knew was the small, meanness of the world and endless work without thanks.

But then he had spoken and you had felt your heart die. Because they all had to speak in the end. Prince Aegon and the rancid sea captain and that one drunk, old lecher who had backhanded you and almost refused to pay, when you had been only fifteen and desperate to get your family the things they needed from you. It was as if they could not help but ruin your simple, pitiful illusion that this was anything but animal filth. The knowledge that you had carried every day of your life after you had left the Dothraki Sea: that a man would sooner piss on you than fuck you.

And then you had wanted to rip that silver hair off his head, his eyes from their sockets, knock in each one of his perfect teeth. Because he hadn’t even dignified you with desire. None of them ever did. And you had shredded your nails to pieces against the stone floor, willing it to be over soon, willing yourself not to enjoy it, because it had been so long since someone, anyone, had touched you.

And then Aemond had come into your life and changed it all. With his daggers and his insane, impossible demands. Blood and desire mixed inextricably together for the both of you, so much that love would forever more taste of copper to your tongue. Because that had been his gift to you. Leave to lay hands on him as easily as men had ever laid hands on you. You had used it then, one last time, when he had said, venom overflowing his lips, that he should have known your falseness when you had been kind to Helaena.

And that had been the end of it. You swinging at Prince Aemond one last time. Spitting on his face after splitting his lip open, because there was no more love for you on his sharp, cruel mouth. And because you had had nothing to lose, no further thing to be taken from you, you had said to him you would rather walk the rest of your days, like the old and infirm of a khalasar, before you ever laid eyes on him again.

And Aemond, fierce Valyrian purple eye fixed on both your red ones, looking more regal and perfect than any man with a bleeding mouth had the right to, had cursed you in a single breath, “That is exactly what you’ll do.”

You had left with nothing because you had wanted nothing of him, or his blood. You had refused to look for the steward or Princess Helaena or the queen. And now here you were, staring at your aunt, feeling sick again, with your heart torn from your breast and a belly full of prince.

Your aunt holds you, even when you still cannot find your tears. All you can think of is that the gods had known. From Stranger to Mother of Mountains, to the gods of Old Valyria you had once known the names of because Aemond had taught them to you. The gods had known who you were, stupid, eager girl. Because when you had laid with Prince Aegon you had washed his seed out of you as quick as you could and used honey and prayed. There had been no money for moontea and the terror that you might lose your position had been too great to ask anyone for help. So you had prayed to any god who would listen to you until your blood had come but now… You hadn’t prayed hard or often enough for Aemond. The gods could tell what you had truly wanted.

So when your aunt, face as pale and frightened as yours, had suggested you could go to the Street of Silk to find a way to flush this problem out, or you could marry the butcher, quickly enough that he would not suspect the babe to not be his, you had pushed her away so fast she had nearly fallen and you had stood straight as a spear to tell her you would not.

“He is Blood of the Dragon.”

And your aunt had looked as broken and defeated as you knew you should��ve felt. Had been too horrified by the certainty and conviction in your face to notice your cousin Angus, lumbering as he was, trying to wedge his ungainly big-boned frame closer to the staircase so he could hear you both and remain unseen. Home and awake at this hour because you had finally been unable to continue paying his master.

“The… king?” Your aunt had guessed breathlessly, not knowing the blow she had dealt you when doubting, quite naturally, that you could have caught the eye of a prince. Let alone two. You do not think about it. Refuse to linger on Prince Aegon when you know you carry a babe in your belly.

Your babe. 

You do not know what you are thinking, merely shake your head in denial and murmur furtively,

“The prince. Aemond One-Eye.”

And you do not blame your aunt that her knees buckle under her and she sits down, her hand on her mouth holding in her fear. She knows next to nothing of the royal family, except what little she has pried from you. But this she knows.

She looks at you in something close to awe. Her savage girl. The one born of horses and spite.

“Gods save us all.”

And that was exactly what she had screamed, when your uncle had hauled you out of bed in the morning, after she had let you sleep in while she made breakfast alone, having begged you already to reconsider dignity and heartbreak, to go back to the Red Keep and inform someone, anyone, of the danger you carried in your belly. Because a royal bastard, no matter the mud on its mother’s feet, was an entirely different beast.

But there had been no time. No accounting for her husband’s newfound strength, aided by Angus on his bad side, as shocked and horrified as any of them, but still unable to let his old father falter, as he dragged you out of bed and house.

“I’ll not have you in my home,” he had panted, hard at work dragging you behind him, tripping on his own weak leg, his useless arm all but forgotten in his scorn. “I’ll not have a harlot carrying on like this! With my daughters here!”

You can hear Bree and Delma comforting the younger ones. You can hear your aunt crying and begging and doing nothing. You catch a glimpse of Angus’ stricken face, sick with shock, but still holding up his father’s mangled body.

Always there, never a part of them, you had told Prince Aemond. And he had known exactly what you meant. Had devoured your lips with hunger and urgency and kissed your hands, angry thoughts full of Luke and Jace, Baela and Rhaena.

The worst part. The hardest to swallow. The most painful thought. That you loved them, all of them, sleepless nights and resentment and enduring silence… but still you had loved them.

And there might have been some love left for you in your uncle’s rage. It was the hidden truth behind every man who had ever called a woman he loved a whore. There might have been tears still left in him for the little orphan child he had taken in, his sister’s wild girl, a little ghost of a thing he had sent to work for strangers and been unable to protect.

But it was not enough. It had not been enough for Aemond to hear whatever words you had been unable to speak to him. And it was not enough to stop your uncle, exhausted from the effort of dragging his strong, young niece out the house, and unable to haul you further. It wasn’t enough to stop him from feeling the shame of his aching and weakened body, and of taking that shame out on you, one gnarled hand with a handful of your hair, finding no strength to keep moving, but finding enough anger to slam your face against the door frame again and again and again.

And you would have let him. If you had been nought but the resigned, lonely girl Prince Aegon had shoved against the stone floor, then you would have closed your eyes and prayed it would be over soon.

But you weren’t that anymore and it had been foolish to think you ever would be again. You had tasted fire from Aemond One-Eye’s lips. You had tasted steel and sulfur and hatred. And you had tasted love. You were growing a dragon inside you and you would broker no disrespect for him or yourself.

It’s one swift motion, one even a prince could be proud of. Your right hand grabbing a hold of your uncle’s left and your left using your momentum to swing. You hear a sickening crunch and feel something breaking under your knuckles. Good. You almost don’t feel sorry.

Your aunt and cousins are sobbing and you can barely see through the film of blood seeping from your forehead and the ringing of your abused ear. You want to spit on the floor of this place you had thought a home. You want to say something proud like your father would have, something fierce and scornful like Aemond.

You don’t get the chance.

Angus is a big lad now, a big hurt lad, who had never understood you but had always looked up to you. You don’t want to blame him for knocking you into the floor with the awkward, hulking launch of his body for your midsection.

He’s only a boy. Your boy. Whose hurts you have patched. Whose food you have paid for, in tears and sweat and hate. He’s only a boy defending his father… but you can’t afford pity today. Today your coin’s all spent.

You knee him in the groin, and he does not laugh like Aemond. There are tears of pain and humiliation at the corners of his eyes. A penniless boy’s dignity much dearer to him than to a prince. And you don’t flee him as you had fled Aemond, a lifetime ago, because you know, instinctively, the danger of pursuit. You climb on top of him and grab a hold of his head, hitting it once, twice for good measure, so he will know to stay down.

He does not. For a second you are proud.

Then you feel his fist knock the air out of you, but you do not falter. You do not back down. You find his nose with your left hand because you do not trust your exhausted sight, and ram the heel of your right between his eyes, breaking one more thing in this house before you leave it forever.

Angus does not try to hit you again, just lays on the floor, clutching his face, moaning in pain. You grab a handful of his hair so you can haul him up to you, so he can hear you. Shout it so the rest can hear it too.

“I am fucking done with all of you!”

You don’t want to look at your aunt. You don’t want to try to discern her expression behind the veil of sweat and tears and hate. But your eyes are as treacherous as they are dead and you seek her out anyway. You do not know if it is rage or hurt or grief on her, but you know something is wrong.

She is crying, unmoving but crying, her older girls in her arms are looking at you with something close to horror. And through your pain and nausea and heartbreak you can hear her say it again.

“Gods save us all.”

When you look down at where she’s looking, you see your skirts blooming red with blood.

[caffstrink]

do you have any tips on how to live off as artist professionally?

First of all art isn't always a viable option depending where you live. The only reason ive been able to live off art is because the american dollar is worth 5x more than the brazilian real so even if i didn't get many comms i could still get by with the few i had. and if that wasn't the case I'd pretty much be eating breadcrumbs off the floor like a pigeon.

1. Whore yourself out and draw fanart of every popular or trending thing to gather attention to youe art

2. Learn your platforms: learn how each websites algorithm works, learn what are the best hours to post, etc

3. I cannot stress enough how important it is to find your niche

4. Everyone is fake no one wants to be your friend, other popular artists will start following you the moment your following becomes good enough. They'll start to interact with you too and want to become mutuals in order to share followings/traction. If you can play into that you can get them to share your stuff as well, but honestly don't fall for it bc most of them shittalk other artists on their privs or personal servers and the stress isnt worth it

5. Draw nsfw if possible/if you're comfortable with. People who commission porn pay well and they often have very few options when commissioning stuff bc most artists don't accept porn commissions.

6. Accept being an artist is a hard job that doesn't pay really well. If you're freelancing on comms life's always going to be a tightrope, so i suggest trying to do professional work once in a while so you can at least have the security of a salary. Draw backgrounds, gestures, scenes, studies, and the likes, bc those are what companies will want in your portfolio

7. Depending where you live it's extremely hard to live off as an artist, and being an artist is often means a very difficult struggle with finances. It's a job that requires passion, and more often than not turning art in a job causes creative burnout and complete loss of spark for it. Ask yourself: why do you want to be a professional artist? Isn't it better to keep it as a hobby? Maybe a side gig if you need money? You can still pursue art even if you don't do it to earn money, and it doesn't make you any less of an artist. It's a difficult job, and you need to understand its not going to be viable at all times and sometimes you'll have to throw in the towel and do something else to survive and there's 0 shame in that.

8. Be professional and courteous with your clients. Don't be a doormat, but don't go around ghosting people or being passive aggressive or taking them for granted and never deliver any product. Doing art for money is a JOB. Treat it like such. Inform your clients about delays, or any issues that may come up.

9. Take care of yourself and by that i mean eat decent food, exercise your arms, get 8 hours of sleep and get some sun (or take vitamin D periodically if youre a basement dweller). This isn't some self care uwu shit, it's actual science that your body is a machine and not providing what it needs to function leads to issues, and some of those issues include affecting your mental health, and mental health issues include and are not limited to: anxiety, depression, burnout, loneliness, feeling like your art sucks, feeling unmotivated, feeling like you're a failure, etc. Same with physical: for the love of GOD you DON'T want wrist issues. You dont want carpal or ulnar nerve entrapment. Don't draw 24/7. Don't push yourself either. If youre feeling shitty its time to STOP. Just picture a shitty graphics card trying to run minecraft with 5 shaders and 10 mods at once on fullscreen with 60 fps. Thats you. Youre the graphics card

10. Don't be a bitch, don't get involved with drama. Can't be an internet artist if you get cancelled so don't try to start shit at any point in time. Don't be a shit person.

And from the top of my head thats it, hope you like eating plain bread 🍞

[yyawnjun]

LOVE GUIDE(SAY YES) chap2

You wake up at 7 a.m. to the sound of your alarm clock, going to get ready for your first class at 9 a.m.

You quickly ate breakfast before preparing to leave. And you were still sleepy when you put on your headphones and shut the door to your apartment.

The blue sky was cloudless, and the sun warmed your skin slightly. A gentle breeze blew over your hair, and the music in your ears seemed to magnify the good sentiments caused by everything around you. Although it was a Tuesday morning a smile decorated your face and warmed your heart.

You entered the classroom a few minutes early and instantly noticed Dk, your desk mate, who was handing you a white bag with two cupcakes inside while his head was still lying on the desk. As you walked to your seat with the gift in your hands, your smile brightened even further, and you thanked him with a simple pat on the head.

The professor entered the classroom while you were still delighting in the things that had cheered you up that morning, and all the students fell silent.

"Good morning, everyone. As you already know there will be a collaboration with another class today. The class of your own year of Stylists." At those words, your eyes lit up as Yunjin-one of your closest friends in that class.

"Every student in the Fashion class will work in pairs with a Stylist," and your tension continued to rise.

"The teachers have already chosen the partners.

-You can see your project partners on display boards outside this classroom.

-The entire project will be completed in one month.

- The student designer will be required to create three sketches, one per week. The sketches will be produced by outside assistants.

- The duo will choose the theme, which must be approved by the teachers.

- The fashion show will be evaluated and held at the end of the 30 days.

- The grade will count for half of the overall grade.

Be creative, and good luck."

The thousand pieces of information began to run through your head uncontrollably. The professor kept talking, saying how some classes would be suspended and how it was not possible to change partners…

As soon as the hour was over all the students jumped out of the classroom, curious as to what their partner would be.

Soon after the long crowd had dispersed, and many students had gone on to their next classes.

With your heart in your throat, you got up, and after waking up Dk who was still sleeping blissfully you moved toward the board with your heart in your throat.

"…Huh Yun-jin," said Dk reading from the board as he yawned and crinkled his eyes.

"I KNEW IT! I knew I would end up with Yunjin! Today is definitely my day!!" you exclaimed happily ready to run to your friend.

"I don't know how to tell you this…but they paired me with her," and with just those words your gaze changed completely.

If Dk was with Yunjin. Who are you paired with?

You moved quickly to check the list and scrolled through all 38 names until you found yours. Connected to it was a name-and that was: Kwon Soon-young.

"Kwon Soon-young…" you uttered in a low voice as you were intent on reading his name. Your tone appeared almost like a whisper, a faint call, a manifestation?….

Kwon Soon-young at that very moment felt shiver; "someone is talking about me," he thought as he walked toward the classroom whose lesson began 10:30 a.m...

chap1 // chap3 ; mlist

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summary: It is clear to everyone that Kwon Soon-young has a huge crush on the model student Yn. But can Hoshi, a passionate and funny stylist make her fall in love in just a month? What if he followed a weird LOVE GUIDE, that he found in the school bathroom?

。　　　　✧　　　　⁺　 　 　。

taglist(10/50): @alsktudy @kissesfrmwonwoo @marsstarxhwa @haohyo @wonwooz1 @wonwoos-wineparty @mhlsymlysn @nishloves @punkhazardlaw @manooffline

send an ask or comment under THIS post to be part of it !!

[thatbanditqueen]

Basic Training

I Don't Date Soldiers

A new fic, possibly a new WIP, about Elvis' life at Fort Hood. Let me know what you think.

Summary: Bess is a smart, young secretary working for the Commander of Army Intelligence training at Fort Hood, dreaming of a life beyond the military one she has always known. That's why she doesn't date soldiers, they only break your heart, and she is looking ahead to something better. One Friday night in March, she stumbles in to the new draftee who's turned the base upside down, and in a moment of weakness, decides to try and help him sleep. Just this once.

Warnings: None, fluffy and angst combined, but innocent. For now. There are a lot of typos.

Word Count: 4.8 K

Some notes: Probably good to know the acronyms, every Army base has a chain of command, and at the top sit the Commanding Officer (CO), the Executive Officer (XO), and a bunch of other officers, of different rank denoted by their ascending O rank, from 1 to 10. WAC - Women's Army Corps, established in WWII, their was a sizeable WAC presence at Fort Hood in 1958. Oh, and Killeen is the closest city to Fort Hood and Austin, TX is about an hour away. Also I really wanted this to take place on a Friday night, but also have had Elvis at the base for two nights, so I gave myself creative license to make March 30, 1958 a Friday. Just don't look it up and we'll be fine.

This fic was inspired by the writing prompt:

Many thanks to my beautiful sister-wives-in-arms whose advice support and love make being an Elvis girl possible and fun, @be-my-ally @vintageshanny @from-memphis-with-love @ellie-24 @powerofelvis @missmaywemeetagain and @whositmcwhatsit, from whom I have stolen her trademarked description of Elvis' awkward manner of kissing half on the cheek half on the lips like a goofy weirdo who was never taught how to kiss right so he decided to make up his own style. And thanks for reading and connecting with me here, the Elvis fandom is the best and I love our community!

Friday, March 30, 1958

9 p.m. at Sal's Cafe

Bess pushed her veal marsala from one side of her plate to the other, feeling the vibrations of her fork scrape across the bottom of the plate. The place checked off all the requisite Italian restaurant requirements: checkered table cloth, candle in an old wine bottle, violin player sawing away at a classical reinterpretation of “That’s Amore.” But the brown sauce, and the meat it was congealing around, was inedible. It was the sort of food that begged the question “why not stay in and cook at home?”

“I said, don’t you think, Bess honey? You follow that stuff, dontcha?”

Bess looked up at her friend Dori’s face, realizing she had drifted off daydreaming of a future far away from Killeen, away from her job at Fort Hood, away from the Army, away from officers, like the ones sitting across from them. Away from soldiers in general.

“What, Khrushchev? Well, I think we all knew he wasn’t going to take the threat laying down.”

Dori hit Bess' shoulder lightly, smiling at their dates, two officers from Army Intelligence.

“No, y’all will havta excuse my friend here, she still thinks she’s studying political science in Austin. You’d think a year of civilian life would make her normal again, huh?”

Dori flipped her blonde hair and drawled on.

“No, silly goose, no one here is interested in that Russian stuff, we’re talking about Mike Todd. What do you think poor Elizabeth Taylor is going to do now that her husband's dead?”

Bess tried very hard not to roll her eyes. Dori was right, she read the movie gossip magazines, but her friend’s distraught, serious expression had made her think they were discussing something with a little more gravitas. The recent atomic weapons testing, or Russian political shifts, the stuff at the top of her New York Times front page everyday. But why would any one in the Army want to talk about that?

Bess smiled at her date and tried to focus on the conversation at hand. Later in the bathroom, Dori chided her while applying a fresh coat of lipstick onto Bess’ mouth.

“I wish you would try to be polite.”

“Dori, you know I am breaking my rule here with you. I don’t date soldiers. I have two goals I'm focusing on: get into law school and shake off these twenty pounds. ”

Bess rubbed her hands over her waist.

“Rules were made to be broken, Bessie Pie, and you look great, men like a girl with a jiggle, I think you look like a brunette Jayne Mansfield.”

“Hardly. You’re Mansfield and Monroe rolled into one.”

“Don't sell yourself short. I know you were fixin' to marry that boy last year, and now all you talk about is law school this, politics that. Don’t you wanna get married? We're not getting any younger.”

“I’m twenty three. Same as you.”

“Eggg zactly. Sure, it seems young now, but you're gonna blink and be thirty and single, with nothing but your degrees to keep you company. You already have a good job now. I just know you’d set this law school thing aside if you met the right guy.”

“Of course I wanna get married, someday. But not now. You’re the one in a hurry to quit your job and settle down, not me.”

“I don’t have a job.”

“See, you’re half way there, Doreen. Me, I’m not giving up my goals for Captain Smarmy out there. How did you even meet these ones?”

Dori steadied her self on Bess’ shoulder.

“Stop moving, or this lipstick won’t be straight. I met them outside the PX, I thought they were cute. Arnie knew who you were, he was the one who suggested we all go out. He really likes you, I can tell - “

“Yeah, he was just in my pop's office lobbying for an assignment, he doesn’t like me. He is using me.  There’s a difference, I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“So what if he was? Maybe he saw you there and couldn’t get you out of his mind. He’s good looking, smart, he’s already an O3 —”

Bess stopped her friend’s hand, and fixed her hair in the mirror, pushing up her bust and sighing at the rounder curves that had been widening at her waist since she’d graduated from college and settled into a very sedentary, very single, and currently very celibate life living back at home and working for her father. She turned to look at Dori who was waiting to blot Bess' lips with a tissue like the sweet girl she always had been. For Dori, a fresh coat of perfectly applied lipstick fixed all of life’s problems.

“Look, Captain whatever out there is only here for six months or so for training, then he's off to Heidelberg. That’s why I don’t date soldiers anymore. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m waiting for you to catch up.”

Bess gave her dark curls one last fluff.

“How’d you get these suckers to come out on a double date anyway? They aren’t scared of your father?”

Dori avoided eye contact as she smoothed her blonde bouffant and pursed her lips, then looked at Bess in the mirror.

“They don’t know.”

“How do they not know your father is the CO?”

Dori shrugged, then pinched Bess as they walked out of the ladies’ room.

“Don’t tell, ok? Let’s just have fun. What if you fall madly in Arnie? And he asked you to marry him and go to Germany with him?”

Bess snorted as they walked out to the men waiting for them in the restaurant lobby and Dori's eyes took on a knowing look.

“Hmm, so that’s big fat ol ‘no’ to dancing tonight, I’m guessin’?”

Bess nodded.

“Please at least tell me you aren’t going home to work on that boring research project?”

Bess smiled mischievously. “Professor Blotke agreed to help me, it’s going to be my submission sample for Georgetown. Papa took Mama to D.C. with him for his meetings, so I have the house practically to myself. It's just Kay and me, and she’s probably already asleep. I just have to grab a new typewriter back on post, I busted mine.”

Dori shook her disapproving of Bess’ plans for the night, then turned to greet their escorts with her usual vivacious pleasantries. Bess smiled at Dori's ability to interact with the men so casually and intimately, sliding her hands through both of officer's arms as they walked to the car. She considered how different she was from her girlfriend, despite the fact that they were both twenty three year old daughters of career Army officers. Every relationship she'd been in seemed to occur in spite of her inability to feel at ease or flirt with boys.

The conversation turned to recent events at Fort Hood as they walked.

“So,” Dori exhaled, squeezing herself against her date. “Has anyone seen Elvis yet?”

Bess pounded her foot a little harder into the concrete, hearing that name now provoked instant irritation.

“Ughh, no. It’s only been what, three days, and honestly I wish he’d been sent somewhere else for training. All I do is answer calls about him. It is driving me up the wall and I can’t get anything done. He’s turned the whole base upside down. Must have been a hundred cars parked outside the main gate, all scattered around the fields. It’s a security issue. I just —"

“Well, that’s not his fault Bess, and I think it's great. I wanna to meet him, don’t y’all?” Dori looked at the officers on her arms.

Arnie smiled a big dumb smile as he looked at Dori’s bouncing breasts and agreed. “I think it’s good for the Army, boy, I just - I just wish we could get the other enlisted to lay off him.”

“What do you mean?”

Bess felt the pit of her stomach tense as she thought of the thousands of green little boys running around base on edge with no external distractions for entertainment.

“Yeah, the boys’ have been giving him a hard time, shouting out when he runs during PT, or at the chow hall. There’s some concern he hasn’t been coming to eat all his meals cuz a the way they’ve been taunting him.”

Bess sighed, her irritation dissipating momentarily into sympathy as she considered how hungry and lonely Elvis Presley must be. Then she remembered that she was hungry, hungry because all the good restaurants had been filled up tonight by people trying to catch a glimpse of him. Elvis was the reason the only benefit from breaking her vow against dating a soldier, the free meal, had been a bust. She wondered if it was going to be this crazy around town for the next six months while he was here.

“I feel sorry for the poor kid, I do. But I still wish he was some other base’s problem.”

***********************************************************

Back on post, Arnie asked Bess for the fourth time if she wouldn’t like him to come help her carry the typewriter to her car. Then they could meet the others at the night club.

Beth pursed her lips with a demure smile.  “I think I can handle a typewriter, Captain, I use them all day.”

Dori chimed in with a reminder that it was Friday night and they were only young once, but Bess put them off, grinning as she heard Dori exclaim that both men would just have to dance with her all night.

“Two gorgeous officers all to myself,  what eva shall I do?”

Free at last, Bess drove her car to the supply building, and snuck in the back door carrying the type writer that she had been using at home, the big sticker along the bottom reading “Property of U.S. Army” evident as she held the machine under her arm to unlock the door. Bess slipped off her heels at the door so that they didn’t click down the dark hallways, and she easily scurried in to slip the broken machine into the repair center and help herself to a new model, grabbing a few spools of typewriter ribbon and a package of paper on the way out. Balancing everything as she locked up to leave,  Bess smiled at the cool air on her sweaty arm pits and laughed to herself for pulling this stealth operation in a tight green cocktail dress and pumps.

“A better use of this outfit anyway, I’d say.” She muttered to herself, sheathing her right foot back into her white heel with a sense of pride that she’d managed to get in, get the new machine, and would probably be home before 11 p.m. Bess had propped her self up against the building to slip her left foot into the other shoe when she heard a voice behind her call out.

“Uh, hey, need any help there?”

Startled, she almost toppled over, catching herself at the last moment by dropping everything in her hands.

“OWW fuck fuck fuck a duck!

She screamed in pain as the typewriter clanged down on her bare left foot and she almost knocked heads with the tall, gangly soldier who squatted down on front of her at the same time to try and help her retrieve her supplies.

"Oh man, I sure am sorry, listen -"

“At ease, uh Private,” she glanced briefly at the rank on his uniform while straightening up, holding her foot in pain and taking in the view below her. The paper knob at the top of the new machine had broken off completely.

“Fuck, this is what I get, I suppose,” she laughed, looking up find herself across from the shy, inquisitive face of Elvis Presley.

“Oh fuck a duuuuuck.”

Bess forgot about the typewriter, the paper spilled everywhere, the throbbing pain in the left foot she was now holding up and cradling. She didn’t even notice how she was exposing her thighs until she rubbed her foot again and dropped it with a thud, realizing she was about to flash Elvis Presley. He seemed to realize it too, and smirked as he turned his face to look away as some sort of attempt to give her privacy while she smoothed her dress down. Bess did this while clumsily trying to balance between one heeled foot and one bare foot.

Elvis found it very hard to stifle his chuckles as he watched her stiffen, and held out his hand to put her at ease.

“Uh, hey there ma’am, I’m Elvis, Elvis Presley.”

Bess shifted and smiled awkwardly, wiping her dirty, sweaty hands on her silk dress and extending her right hand out to shake his. The the same right hand, that had, moments ago, been rubbing her smelly, left foot. Honestly, it seemed like the most polite option, since she decided to act as if the last five minutes hadn’t happened. As if  sneaking out of the supply building past 10 p.m. on a Friday night with her arms full of government office supplies was perfectly normal.

“Bess Schwartz, I’m, uh, I work in the Front Office here. I’m, I’m, I'm the secretary for the Army Intelligence Commander.”

She gasped when Elvis took her hand, the hand cover in her foot sweat, and squeezed it warmly, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss.

“Nice ta, uh, meetcha. Imma sorry, uh, for startlin’ ya Miss Schwartz, ma’am.”

Bess shivered in the darkness as she heard herself whisper for him to call her Bess almost incoherently while she watched Elvis drop down in front of her and fit her other white pump over her left foot. She tried to remember how to breath. It was hard.  Hard because she was struggling to subdue  her visceral reaction to Elvis' thumb as it slowly smoothed over the top of her foot, which made it harder still to recover from the embarrassment of getting caught stealing a typewriter. By the most famous person in the world. Bess shut her eyes in disbelief that this was actually happening, and was disappointed when she lifted her eyelids to find that it actually was happening and Elvis was still there. He met her eyes, his finger delicately stroking her ankle.

“There, now, honey, you think you can walk?”

She pulled her leg back and nodded as she scanned the parking lot, the road along and other buildings behind it.

“Mhmm. Thank you, Private. Say, what are you doing stalking around the base right now? Lights out is at 9.”

Elvis bit his lip, looking at the ground as he stood.

“Can’t sleep.”

Bess arched her eyebrow as she started to bend, but Elvis put his hand up to stop her and stooped to gather the paper. He crushed it under his arm as he grabbed the typewriter and ink ribbons, talking slowly and deliberately.

“Well, my first night some jokers went an put shaving cream in my shoes, I ‘spose it gave em a good laugh to watch me run around like a damn fool getting ready for inspection. An well, I ain’t been able to sleep since, can’t bare to, uh, to uh - ”

His voice trailed off, but Bess knew what he meant. He was afraid of looking like poor sport or tattle tale if he complained, and a coward if he just took it. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the bags under his eyes, calculating he must be going on 40 hours without much sleep. Or much food either, if her date was to be believed. Men. Boys, more like. Little boys amusing them selves by torturing this poor kid. This, tall, lanky, kid, who hovered above her and whose large hands made her typewriter ribbon look like a checker piece.

“Yeah, uh, they’re just scared they won’t be able to get any tail now that your here.” She smiled as best she could under the pressure of trying to talk with Elvis smoldering, lonely boy eyes piercing through her.

Bess looked at a passing car just so she could collect herself, then back at Elvis, thinking of the crowds of women lining the gates.

“The men should be thanking you, we haven’t seen this many pretty girls hanging around the base, since, well, since ever. Probably gonna be easy picking, especially for the soldiers who can leave post. Those poor girls hanging 'round outside the gates don’t know you aren’t allowed to go near ‘em for the next three or so weeks.”

“Mhmm, seems like, uh, uh, ya don’t havta go off post to meet pretty girls.”

Elvis bit his lip again, enjoying how Bess became flustered and embarrassed, smoothing the sides of her dress. She reminded herself that she hated him, as she felt the butterflies swarm through her belly and make themselves at home, flitting willy nilly up her spine. Bess also became keenly aware of how hungry she was from skipping dinner. She didn’t have time for his teasing and looked Elvis squarely in the eyes as she spoke.

“I recommend staying away from them, too. Especially the WACs. You’re definitely not supposed to fraternize with other soldiers.”

Elvis looked off at the trees that lined the road to the right. “How bought civilians? Is, um, ah, frater-a-nizin', uh, allowed?”

Bess turned, ignoring the question, though she was unable to ignore the warm, playful flirtation in Elvis’ voice as it washed over her and her chest heaved up and down at a quicker pace. Once again she told herself that she did, indeed, know how to breath. Her annoyance at his line melted away when she returned to his eyes and saw the exhaustion underneath his bravado, instantly regretting what she was about to do before she even did it. Somehow she couldn’t help herself, it was as if she was having an out-of-body experience, watching herself fumble through a simple sentence.

“Listen, I, um, I just had the worst date of my life, at the worst restaurant. Couldn’t eat a bite. You help me get another type writer, and I’ll, I’ll fix us something to eat. Then you can sleep on my couch for a few hours.”

Watching  his eyes light up, Bess felt the need to add. “But no funny business. I’m just helping out a new recruit, doesn’t mean anything.”

For the second time that night, Bess oversaw sneaking a broken typewriter into the repair shop and taking a new one, hobbling as she led Elvis to her car and directed him to put the stuff in her truck.

“Ya live on post?”

Bess patted the passenger seat of her blue Ford.

“Nope.”

“You know I ain’t supposed to leave?”

“Yup.”

“So — what’s the plan, stan?”

Bess turned to Elvis, removing his hand from her knee where it had somehow landed, and whispered with breathy excitement.

“I’m going to sneak you off.”

Elvis quirked his eyebrows as she kept talking.

“I, um, well, I share an office with the CO's secretary, Mabel. Who might actually be the most powerful person at this command. So, as long as I get you back in time for reveille, we’ll be fine. None of these guys will mess with me.” 

“I, uh, I don’ wan no special privileges, I wanna, uh, be treated like any other man, any other soldier. I reckon I better -”

Elvis trembled when Bess touched his shoulder and rubbed it gently, looking up into his face with her big brown eyes, now tender and reassuring. He looked to her like he might cry as he spoke of not being special.

“Look, I would do this for any new recruit. Boot camp, uh. Well. This is the hardest  part of being in the Army. I promise. I’m not offering because you’re famous. I actually kind of hate you, do you know how much trouble you cause my office? So, you should know I’m helping you in spite of who you are. Promise. I would - I would do it for any soldier in your predicament.”

Bess said this firmly to convince herself as much as to convince Elvis. Then she added a friendly wink and drove off, enjoying Elvis’ bemused smile and telling herself not to worry. Underneath her calm, confidence was the nagging thought that, unlike Elvis, Bess knew exactly what happened if some rule-minded officer were to find out that she had snuck Elvis off post. She had a good understanding of rule-minded officers. Like her father. Who, thankfully, was out of town.

******************************

The bacon and eggs sizzled on the stove and Bess flipped them, shyly avoiding Elvis’ gaze from where he was leaning with his back arched against the door jab, his right hip twisted up and his thumbs hanging from his belt loops as he watching her cook.

“So, uh, what’s a secretary doing taking typewriters uh, um, out late on a Friday night an a bringin' ‘em home for, huh?”

Bess shook her head into the frying pan, then met his gaze.

“I , um, I happen to have some very important work I need to do from home. For the General I work for. That’s, uh, why I have a master key.”

“Uh huh.” Elvis’ smirked, nodding his chin as he stuck his hands slowly under his armpits, and lifted one knee up to lean back further against the wall.

“Hand me your plate, dinner is ready.”

Elvis bounced off the doorway and strode slowly over to where Bess stood at the stove, his long arms dangling loosely at his side. He had become more relaxed and confident once they got to her house, after tearing up a bit in the car and telling her how much he missed his parents and home and how he didn’t have any idea what Germany would be like. He had then muttered on about how millions of guys have been through this, so he knew he’d be alright, though the tear dripping down his cheek made Bess think he believed the exact opposite. Now he was behind her, almost a different person, cocky and teasing as his strong arms snaked around her waist to steady her hands.

“Nah, see how the egg is still all jiggly wiggly, Bessie? S’not done, not nearly. Wanna get the bacon good and browned up, so’s there ain’t no more pink left.”

She flushed at the way his breath hit her neck while his words softly compelled her to make his food the way he liked it. The rumble of his voice as her nickname rolled off his tongue was an assault on her sense of decency, and she let his hands linger at her waist for another beat before lifting them off and assuring him that she understood.No jiggly wiggly, no pink. Black. That she learned, was how Elvis liked everything, and everything was what she gave him, as he ate the pound and a half of bacon om her fridge and her last six eggs.

Bess mused that sneaking a fatigued Elvis off post and filling him full of food must be what made him clingy, comfortable and forward when he put his arms around her as she led him upstairs to the guest room. Rubbing his eyes as he plopped on the bed, Elvis grabbed her wrist imploringly and begged her not to leave him all lonesome in a strange house, in a strange town, where she was the only nice 'lil gal to treat him like a real human bean. Sighing, Bess sat at the top of the bed and let Elvis lay his head in her lap, where she stroked his forehead, and, at his request, started to tell him her life story. He had passed out after five minutes, when she had barely finished detailing how her parents met at Coney Island in 1932, three years before she was born.

Elvis' eye lids fluttered closed and he mumbled, “That’s a when I was borned. Aww, Bessie boo, we musta been babies at the same time.”

Bess groaned as she couldn’t seem to pull herself away from him, and stayed there with his head in her lap for another twenty minutes, afraid if she rolled it off her lap she would wake him. She was cupping the back of his head to gently move it off her lap when he thrashed around and called out the name Satnin. This led Bess to give up and lean against the head board, reconciling herself to a night sleeping sitting up with the most famous rebellious heart throb soldier in the world calling out for his mama in her lap.

Elvis’ hands moved first at the sound of the alarm, roving over Bess tummy and breasts  before he opened his eyes to the smacks of her hand hitting him off her. Somehow she had been pulled down into his arms over the course of the night, and she jumped up, commanding him to get his boots on while she ran down stairs and made some coffee. She prayed her younger sister hadn’t heard the alarm. Still wearing the dress from the night before, Bess watched Elvis gulp down his black coffee and chomp down the bread and cheese she had thrown at him to eat in the car. Loudly. With an open mouth. Wiping the crumbs from his mouth, he put his arm around her and squeezed.

Despite sleeping in his arms, Bess felt a shock and jolted at his touch.

“Just so we’re clear,  Mister, uh, Private um Presley, uh, this was just a friendly, patriotic gesture. I wasn’t, uh um, trying to seduce you.”

Elvis arched his eyebrow, his expression one of amusement and incredulity at the idea Bess thought of her behavior seductive. The way she had hesitated spitting out the word ’seduce’ so earnestly was adorable and endearing.

“OK, honey, you’re the boss, jus do me a favor and call me Elvis, huh?”

She nodded, eyes forward in concentration as she felt him squeeze her shoulders even tighter. She left it there, and found herself relaxing and leaning back into him after a few minutes with a sigh. She couldn't help it, it was an instinctive response to the way his fingers widened and began to tap out a rhythm on the side of her arm. Everything felt good, and their two bodies melded together in the dusky morning twilight for a spell until a gate came into view and Bess jerked up to throw Elvis’ arm onto the car seat with a smack, not noticing how he, too, stiffened with trepidation.

She stopped around the block from Elvis’ barracks and met his strong, uninhibited bear hug with her body, letting him press the air out of her lungs and kiss her cheek.

“Hey, Bessie Boo, I,uh, I can’t, I don’t even, I uh, I hate to leave you, honey, I ain’t even had time to tell you what I want to say, what -”

Bess put her finger to his lips, feeling his breath as she shhhed him. His brows were furrowed and he frowned, not wanted to leave her car and return to the barracks. She rubbed her hand up his chest reassuringly.

“You only have five minutes to get into your bunk, Private Pres - Elvis.” She murmured. “Now, go be a good boy, I have an idea, for how to help you sleep in the future.”

“Hmmm, sounds fun.” A naughty expression played across his face, his jaw hung open and he waggled his eye brows.

Bess realized the insinuation and hit his arm.

“Not that.”  She cocked her head towards the road. “You better go.”

“Huh, usually girls are tryin to run after me, not run me off.” She hit him again as he teased her. “Ok, ok baaaby. I’m off like a gun.”

Elvis face twisted into a crooked grin, and Bess felt like the sun was rising in her car, the earth was suddenly brighter when Elvis’ blue eyes beamed down at her and he kissed her goodbye. It was a light, sweet kiss aimed at her mouth but somehow missing and hitting the crease of her lips.

It had been, what, a year since she had been kissed? Bess kept her eyes closed, just enjoying the soft, tingling sensation of  his mouth crushed into her face. Elvis’ hands gripped her tightly, one hand on her neck, the other at her back, and he moved as if to kiss her again. In a brief moment of clarity, Bess realized she had been fighting her attraction to Elvis all night. It had been gradual and immediate, and she felt very different being close to him then she did when she saw hm in the movies or on the TV and radio. At the back of her mind she could hear all the reasons she shouldn’t kiss him. She pushed her hand up between their lips.

“Um, hey, look. Think we could just be friends? I, uh, I have a rule. I don’t date soldiers.”

Elvis sat back, a quizzical expression softening on his face into a smile as he rubbed her shoulder.

“Sure, Bessie baby, friends. Got it.”

He clicked his tongue and grinned, shooting her a thumbs up. Bess nodded, unable to stop the flutter of her heart as she watched Elvis’ long legs carry him forward as he jogged around the corner to his bunk, pausing to look back over his shoulder at her with a goofy smile as he waved goodbye.

“Fuck a duck.” She heard herself mutter, as she put her car into gear and drove home to shower and get Elvis Presley out of her head.

***********************************************************

Chapter Two: Moo Moo & Tupelo

If you enjoyed this and want to read more, comment, reblog, and let me know what you think and if you would want to be tagged. Tagging a few of you on here who read my stuff, but DM or comment if you would rather not be ;)

@doll-elvis @richardslady121 @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @father-of-2cats @everythingelvispresley @j-v-9-2 @eliseinmemphis @moonchild-daniella @notstefaniepresley @louisejoy86 @amydarcimarie @kingdomforapony @dkayfixates @artlover8992 @18lkpeters @literally-just-elvis-fics

[iffeelscouldkill]

Fic: the old stars are of no importance

Summary: In which RJ McCabe has more emotions about listening to a drunken group singalong than they'd expected. Set during season 1 episodes 9 & 10 and the aftermath of episode 10.

Also posted to Dreamwidth & AO3, or just keep reading for the fic!

---

Junior Agent RJ McCabe is having a terrible day.

A terrible week, actually. Or make that a terrible career.

RJ is no stranger to hard work – no-one can power through the Academy and get a Junior Agent role at twenty-three without working incredibly hard. But since Park was tak- since Park was rightfully apprehended, it’s not felt like hard work so much as desperately paddling to keep their head above water. All the weird stares, the muttering, the pointed questions from their superiors that RJ answers as honestly as possible while frantically analysing the words for anything that could reflect negatively on them.

They go from urgent briefing to the office to one-on-one report with the Major General to another briefing to the office to home, finally, though they’re barely sleeping. RJ is pretty sure their blood volume is 95% caffeine, lately – thankfully the IGR doesn’t test for that.

In recognition of the awfulness of break room coffee, they brew it at home and bring a big flask with them. Or they would, except that this morning they tiredly fumbled the pot while pouring and scalded their hand, causing them to flinch and drop it, splattering half of the coffee across their tiny kitchen floor. They lost ten minutes to the clean-up and they have half as much coffee as they need, damn it.

All of which is to say that they’re not in the mood for Junior Agent Goodman’s attitude.

“Twelve hours of nothing?” RJ repeats as they stare down at Goodman, whose normal mask of impassiveness has given way to annoyance. He looks tired, but RJ is no stranger to all-nighters, and Goodman shouldn’t be either if he wants to get anywhere in the Republic.

“The crew was mostly asleep for part of it,” Goodman responds. “Is there coffee?”

“It’s dreck,” RJ says. They’re wondering if padding out their stock of coffee with the break room sludge will result in halfway drinkable coffee. It will probably just taint the decent stuff.

“Yes, because I drink break room coffee for the delicate aroma,” Goodman says, his sarcasm acidic, and RJ’s patience snaps.

“I don’t want to write you up for insubordination—”

They listen to Goodman’s rationale for throwing away a full twelve hours of audio, interjecting with pointed questions. When Goodman says, “Trust me,” they almost snort. Trust Goodman. Trust Goodman after his leading questions about Park and his poorly-hidden recording device. After RJ had confronted him about the recording, he’d simply smiled and said, “You can’t be too careful.”

RJ is just taking his advice. They hold out their hand. “Hand me the headphones.”

The audio picks up mid-conversation, and at first it sounds like so much nonsensical rambling, until RJ is able to pick up the thread of what the insurgents are talking about. Edict 1837. Any confession by a known criminal needs to be transcribed, analysed, and examined for veracity – no matter what the contents.

RJ has to suppress a smirk when they realise what Goodman has been dealing with all night. For once, they’re glad they’re the ranking Agent.

They’re tempted to skip over it, but they can at least listen to the entirety of the group’s confessions. Patel and Tripathi’s knowledge of Republic laws and edicts gives them the advantage in creating, if not convincing confessions, certainly detailed ones. Jeeter’s is less elaborate, but would require a qualified Ancient Pre-Crisis Languages expert to verify. The Dwarnian Krejjh’s ‘confession’ is a pure flight of fantasy – no-one rational has believed Dwarnians can shapeshift since at least 2175.

As for Violet Liu – RJ would have expected her to choose a confession oriented towards her history as a Republic scientist. “The lead singer of Birdie and the Swansong” is just silly.

Their finger hovers over the fast forward button as Patel drunkenly challenges Liu to “prove it”.

And then –

Violet Liu starts to sing.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on...”

RJ has heard Violet sing before, during 'Report 1: Violet Liu', but there's something startling about hearing her suddenly strike out into song, a little unsteady but clear and melodious.

The note hangs there for an uncertain few seconds before Patel takes up the next line.

“But it’s not the sea that’s coming for me-”

And then Liu joins back in-

“-and it’s not the storm, no, it’s not the storm…”

Tripathi starts playing a guitar – they’ve heard her idly strumming it in her room during downtime – and suddenly they’re all singing.

“When I go to sea, don’t fear for me,

“Fear for the storm, fear for the storm!”

RJ squints in confusion, forehead creasing. What are they all doing? Is this a taunt? Because they know they’re being listened to? Why else would the whole crew be sitting around singing like they don’t have a care?

(Fleetingly, RJ wonders what it would be like to have that level of comfort with a group. An image of Nan and Ferdy flashes across their mind’s eye before they quickly squash it. They’re getting distracted).

“So gather your charts and your portents,

“Throw them aside,

“The old stars are of no importance,

“They’re not what I navigate by...”

In hours of monitoring, RJ has never heard the crew sing together, yet they harmonise seamlessly like they’ve done it a hundred times.

The words are – nonsensical, just old-world seafaring imagery of seas and charts and stars. But the way the group sings gives them an energy; makes them important. Like they might be the last thing you’ll ever hear.

“Though I may burn, the heavens may learn to fear for the storm...

“Fear for the storm.”

Liu sings the final lines, and then Krejjh exclaims, delighted,

“Oops – I guess we’re all Birdy and the Swansong. What a coincidence!”

The whole group bursts into laughter, and RJ’s finger stabs angrily down on the fast forward button.

“Don’t tell me it’s all like this.”

They pretend not to see Agent Goodman rolling his eyes.

---

The rest of the day blurs past, the usual chain of reports, audio, meetings, exchanging terse words with Goodman (who’s even more sarcastic thanks to his all-nighter), more reports, more audio.

They dismiss Goodman at the end of the workday, even though overtime is the norm in the Republic to the point where the ‘workday’ doesn’t really have a beginning and an end. (This was less depressing to RJ when they thought the agents were all getting overtime pay). He quickly goes, obviously not wanting to wait around for them to change their mind.

Silence descends.

RJ mechanically fills in a few more forms, initials some reports, getting caught up on the endless paperwork that’s generated by active cases. The Rumor audio isn’t being logged as it’s coming in; last night was an exceptional case in the aftermath of the insurgents making contact with the other Violet Liu, but based on the subsequent twelve hours of audio and today’s similar experience, they’ve determined it’s a more prudent use of resources to analyse it after the fact.

So, there’s no reason for RJ to be going over to the bank of audio desks and slipping on a pair of headphones. An audio file has just come in, but RJ pulls up an older file and scrubs through it, looking for the right timestamp.

They’re just double-checking Goodman’s work – making sure nothing was omitted when investigating the insurgents’ confessions under Edict 1837. A missed detail could give rise to a lot of additional paperwork, and their department can’t afford another blot on its track record. They pull an empty notepad towards them and poise a pen over it, ready to take notes.

But the notepad stays blank throughout the confessions, and then the singing begins.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on…”

Maybe the lyrics could be – could contain some kind of code? RJ scrawls, The old stars are of no importance, and then just as quickly scratches it out. Code for who? That wouldn’t make any sense. The words don’t mean anything.

“So gather your charts and your portents,

“Throw them aside...”

RJ has never been one for music or singing (especially in public); they always shrugged Nan off when she tried to cajole them into karaoke. At the Academy, they’d sat on the sidelines during that kind of drunken, raucous group bonding, nursing one drink and wishing they could be literally anywhere else. Eventually, they’d started making excuses about work to catch up on.

Listening to the Rumor crew sing should sound like that – the kind of alcohol-fuelled stupidity that RJ has never wanted to be a part of.

It shouldn’t sound like –

Like family.

“Though I may burn, the heavens may learn to fear for the storm…”

The song ends, and RJ quickly hits ‘stop’. Almost guiltily, they navigate back through the audio to where the beginning of the song would be.

Distant footsteps sound in the corridor, and RJ goes very still, listening. Clark went home hours ago, so it’s not her.

They refuse to look around furtively, because that would be childish and also, they’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just doing their job.

RJ hits ‘play’ again.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn…”

---

Chaos reigns as RJ, Park, Liu, Patel and Krejjh dash towards the window where Tripathi hovers with the heisted spaceship. The Vre Chel Noke nanoswarm, which had been a thick, shimmering mist around them seconds ago, hovers ominously like a warning.

It’s enough to keep Goodman and the other guards from trying to retaliate as Tripathi begins helping each of them into the open spaceship door. (RJ was tempted to take a potshot at Goodman in the chaos, but they told themself they’re better than that. Also, they didn’t want to waste any time). RJ is keeping their eyes fixed on Park, deliberately not thinking about what they’re doing, just thinking about the next moment. Stay alive. Get out of here. And then – we’ll see.

As Tripathi holds out her hand to RJ, though, they can’t resist a last glance behind them at everything they’re leaving behind. They thought this building would be the site of a long and (hopefully) distinguished career; it was practically their home, their life – until recently.

A line bubbles up in their mind, and RJ stifles the absurd urge to laugh. The old stars are of no importance – They’re not what I navigate by…

RJ turns away and accepts Tripathi’s hand up into the ship.

---

All things considered, it’s not surprising that only a few hours after joining the crew, RJ finds themself in the middle of a group singalong.

The mood is a mixture of tense and exhilarated in the immediate aftermath of their getaway. Everyone is visibly exhausted, Park possibly most of all, but it’s clear they’re all too wired to sleep or rest. They wander around the new ship, acquainting themselves with the layout and the rooms. The Rumor crew all exclaim over the size of the mess hall, which is pretty small to RJ’s eyes, but they guess anything would seem impressive compared to the homemade junk bucket the crew were flying in before.

The crew have a couple of bags stowed away, stuffed with supplies – all that’s left of the old ship. RJ thinks fleetingly of their small, bare apartment. There’s nothing they’ll miss.

Jeeter – Brian – makes some food and crucially, coffee, which is as bad as the break room dreck, but RJ will inhale anything at this point. The group chatters, their voices still surreal for RJ to hear in person and not through headphones.

They glance at Park, who looks more relaxed than they’ve ever seen him. The Rumor crew are sharing details about what happened to each of them during ‘The Plan’; Park volunteers a little about his own part, though there’s a conspicuous lack of detail about anything related to Zone Z. Sometimes the conversation falls awkwardly silent when the subject comes up. RJ isn’t about to push, and can tell the others don’t want to, either.

Trip- Sana and Krejjh determine it’s safe to set the new ship to autopilot, and Krejjh comes into the mess, intensifying the noise and cheerfulness. RJ tries not to stare; they’ve never been in close quarters with a Dwarnian (well, before shooting Krejjh earlier) and have only ever seen them in Republic training footage and, uh, Sh’th Hremreh. But Krejjh seems to find them fascinating, too, gamely questioning them about their ‘sharpshooting’ skills. Apparently sparing their life carries more weight than shooting them in the leg.

Eventually, Krejjh’s attention turns to their fiancé and the wider group, and RJ, no longer observed, lets their shoulders slump. They’ve drained the last of their coffee and want to ask for more, even though they’re practically vibrating. Adrenaline has carried them this far, and they don’t want to find out what happens when they crash and the reality of what they’ve done hits them. Part of RJ feels like they left their body back at Headquarters; or like they’re about to blink and wake up in their office chair with Goodman glaring at them.

“You okay?” Park asks in an undertone, and RJ jolts, upsetting their thankfully empty cup. They open their mouth to reply, but then Sana calls, “Okay, everyone!”

She’s holding a guitar, and RJ stares, wondering how much space that must have taken up in the supply bags. Arkady groans, but she doesn’t look angry. Violet covers her mouth in amusement, and Krejjh cheers.

“I thought we could christen our new ship with a bit of a song,” Sana says earnestly (RJ is learning that ‘earnest’ is Sana’s default mode). Park’s eyes widen, which makes RJ glad that they’re not the only one experiencing slight panic. Is it too late to sneak out? Sana plucks at the guitar strings, twiddling the pegs to tune them. She strums a chord and nods, satisfied.

“What shall we start with? Any suggestions?” Her gaze alights on Park and RJ, and she smiles encouragingly. “McCabe – do you want to suggest a song? You don’t have to sing if you’re not comfortable.”

“Uh…” RJ would like to suggest something less – incriminating, but unfortunately, there’s only one song currently on their mind. “What about... ‘Fear for the Storm’?”

To their relief, Sana doesn’t ask questions. “Good choice!” she says, and RJ feels, ridiculously, pleased. Park quirks an eyebrow at them after Sana looks away, but RJ just shrugs, not wanting to explain.

Sana strums a few opening chords, and Violet and Arkady begin, singing the first line together.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on...”

RJ sits back in their chair and fractionally, begins to relax, letting the singing wash over and around them.

Quietly, too quietly, to be heard beneath the singing, they hum along.

---

A/N: So the idea conception for this fic went something like this:

Me: Okay, I've got this fun idea I want to write about the real lead singer of Birdie and the Swansong listening to the Iris casefiles and reacting to the group singalong-

My brain: I have an even better version of that idea!

Me: Yes?

My brain: What if McCabe-

Me: OH MY GOD

...Go on...

I have one (1) character whose perspective I'm consistently inspired to write from and can do so at the drop of a hat xD (I was trying to write this in a few days for the Small Fandoms Surprise Scramble on Dreamwidth. I succeeded!

The idea that became this idea was sparked off by listening to the full cast version of Fear for the Storm and having some Emotions about it again :D I remember how captivated I was by this song when listening to Episode 9 for the very first time, and so the idea of giving McCabe some of those Emotions was a very appealing one. Poor thing is going through it.

This also gave me a chance to write about the immediate aftermath of Episode 10, which I had not done before!