#Last year I was really angry in a righteous fury kind of way and I fought for all our older traditions like I WILL ENJOY THIS ;dlksjfg;sldl

[lighthouseborn]

fellow "holiday season is complicated for grief reasons" kids wya? how r u doin this year? ilu. i've got a ten year dead parent membership card if you want to come cry about it being year two or year one or year six and a half or something/anything, i got you, i know ♥

[princesssarcastia]

2021 Harry Potter Fanfic Primer

im here to point fingers at the incredible authors that have enabled my new interest in HP content.  im still conflicted and upset about it, tbh, but for now we’re leaning into the curve.  we’re getting out our shovel and finding out just how deep we can make the hole we’re in.  hand in unlovable hand my beloved <3.  anyway, these fics are wonderful, their authors are wonderful, and you should go read their stuff. if there’s a star next to it that means im losing my mind over it and always will be.

Creatively Maladjusted, by elumish on AO3, 101k  (they also have a wonderful writing advice blog on tumblr, @elumish, which I recommend following if you are a writer) 

A very excellent re-telling of harry’s first year at hogwarts if he were sorted into Slytherin, plus some more not!fic or piecemeal re-tellings of his second and part of his third year.  Harry, in this, has a slightly different trauma response to growing up with the Dursley’s.  He’s a bit quieter, and the signs are a bit more obvious to the people around him, and I enjoyed that immensely. 

Honestly, if you’re going to get sucked into something you have absolutely no business getting sucked into, elumish is the way to go, their fic is incredible. their teen wolf fic is also immaculate, if you’re so inclined. 

Dissonance, by ImpishTubist on AO3, 2.5k (@impishtubist on tumblr)

Set during fifth year.  Oblivious!Harry has always been a delightful trope when well executed, and this is well executed.  Plus, some angst between Remus and Harry over what Umbridge has been doing to him.

I would certainly recommend a lot of ImpishTubist’s other hp work on AO3, like Lacuna.

blow us all away, by rexcorvidae on AO3, 23k (@rexcorvidae on tumblr)

In progress (like, updated last week in progress).  Currently in the beginning of Harry’s first year.  Fem!Harry, Indian!Harry.  Hagrid puts Harry in touch with Remus when she has questions about her parents, and they become reluctant, traumatized, angst-ridden pen pals who keep missing each other’s true intentions like ships in the night.  hot DAMN do I love this fic.  there’s hints of the way the dursley’s treat Harry peaking through in her letters, and I appreciated the attention to “hmm, her experience as a girl of indian descent in britain under the thumb of a bunch of white people who like being Normal may not have been gucci”

Definitely comb through the rest of their HP fic, too, I may or may not have gone feral over it.

Where the Heart is, by silver_fish on AO3, 15k (@kohakhearts on tumblr)

Woof.  This one said, “hey, harry was probably SUPER depressed in the summer after fifth year.  like, clinically.  maybe someone should do something about that.”  Fuck yeah.  Then this one said, “that someone was Snape.”  You all know my opinions on Snape; generally, Bad.  But damn if this fic didn’t wholly convince me by the end of it.  I thought it was a very realistic way for Snape to start seeing Harry as a person all on his own, and not a proxy for Snape’s angst over James and Lily, respectively.  The angst is wonderful, the ending is even more so.

*bernie sanders voice* I am once again asking you to read through the rest of the author’s HP fic.  a lot of them have similar themes; there’s actually a great one with Molly that i’m not reccing here, Wonder.

☆Bindings, Bindings, by Quietlemonhush on AO3, 60k (@quietlemonhush on tumblr)

WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS TO YOU HOW MUCH I ENJOYED/AM ENJOYING THIS.  If I had to pick a single fic and say “you, it’s your fault I’m stuck here,” it would be this one.  Anyway Lily in the afterlife is So Very Angry about how Petunia is treating Harry, and how Sirius is rotting in Azkaban, and how Remus is alone, that she literally brings herself back to life and drags James and Regulus with her.  All three of them are there to chew bubblegum and fix everything that went wrong after they died—and would you look at that, they’re all out of bubblegum!  There’s only Fury left.  That inciting premise is very crack, but every moment after that is very much not crack.  Lily and James love harry more than anything, the way a child should be loved; James and Sirius have the epic friendship of a lifetime; Sirius and Remus have staggering amounts of resolved sexual tension and take turns keeping each other in check; Regulus, though he realized that Voldemort and his family were shit before he died, is still unlearning all his racist bullshit and, also, years of trauma.  Actually, they’re all traumatized, but hey: now they have one another again and not a damn one of them seems inclined to let go anytime soon.  Quietlemonhush went, “hey, HP has a lot of Awful people in it, and a lot of Righteous people in it, and many of them are Very, Very Powerful; also, love is the most powerful force in the universe” and i said “hell yes tell me more right now.”  And then they did!

Quietlemonhush writes Sirius/Remus in a way that makes it sooo much fun to devour, so the rest of their HP fic is most certainly worth a look, if that’s your thing.

Rebuilding, by Colubrina on AO3, 113k (@colubrina on tumblr)

Hermione/Draco (*shrug emojis into the abyss* yeah, yeah, like none of us have ever been there before).  Takes place during Hogwarts 8th year, and while the beginning is, IMO, a little unfair to Ron, it gets much better.  Tells the story of Hermione and Draco clearing the air, learning to like each other, having some hormones over each other, and then falling in love.  Also tells the story of Hermione and Theo Nott becoming friends; the story of how every single 7th and 8th year student is fucked to hell by the war and the Carrows; the story of how they start an emotional support group about it and all become friends; and the story of, what the hell do you do with yourself after that kind of trauma?

I’ve been dipping in and out of Colubrina’s HP since before I was even on tumblr; I actually found them in those dark yesteryears when the only fandom interactions I had were on fanfiction.net.  Of such fame as Green Girl, which is an HP fic staple, and has also written a lot of wackier, crackier, and darker things than that.  If you don’t take yourself too seriously, I highly recommend many of their big HP works, though I imagine it’ll press some people’s buttons.  Colubrina’s work really does take up a corner of my mind whenever I’m in an HP mood, and will take up yours if you let it.

☆ all waiting is long, by shuofthewind on AO3, 149k ( @shu-of-the-wind on tumblr)

This is so well written that I can’t stop thinking about it.  It is occupying my mind when I lie awake at night, you know?  It’s one of those.  Hermione messes with something she probably shouldn’t have in Grimmauld Place, so when Sirius is sent through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, she gets thrust into an alternate universe...in 1975.  Instead of handwaving it away, shuofthewind actually gets into the mechanics of it in a way that makes sense, to emphasize that hermione is never going home.  ever. The world she finds herself is shifted slightly to the left, quite a bit darker, but in a “the author is treating the idea of a society-wide conflict over blood purity much more seriously than JKR ever did” way, not a sensationalist way.  Now, Hermione has to grapple with all her grief at losing everyone she’s ever loved or known, the moral/ethical/magical implications of sharing what she knows about her future in an alternate world, and, you know, a goddamn war with people who want to murder her for being who she is.  This Hermione is smart, and she’s kind, and she’s powerful, and she’s making real friends.  If you hate JKR’s guts I’d go read this right now, because it delivers in all the ways she failed us.  It’s plotty, its got great world-building, and it pulls back the white curtain on the wizarding world to show you that, like real life, it’s multicultural and full of queer people...and the discrimination that comes with both.

shuofthewind write epics, mainly for the MCU, and I’ve read some of them a looooong time ago, so this fic kinda seemed out of left field for me but im SOOOO GLAD it exists.  If you want MCU fic you can sink your teeth into, go for it, but alas, they do not have any more HP fic (.......yet?)

Speak Now [+] Listen Now, by mrsfrizzle on AO3, 33k altogether

Harry reaches out to Remus for support because Umbridge is getting to him with her literal torture.  Remus, being a former professor, former mandatory reporter, person who loves Harry and has since he was born, and all around good man, tells Harry he has to tell someone, or Remus will.  It’s everything any adult looking back on that time in HP canon ever wanted, which is for an actual adult to say “what the fuck, those are literal chidlren” and then do something about it.  Then, a far more dangerous task: Harry trusts Remus enough to go to him about the Dursleys.  Harry and Remus’ relationship develops SO WELL, and there’s a bit of exploration about how Sirius may not exactly be guardian material, because he did in fact spend 12 years of his life getting tortured instead of growing up.  I think I’m actually going to go reread this right now, because it speaks to my id.

they do have some other HP fic which did not appeal to my hyperspecific wants, but may appeal to some of yours.  I think they’re also a published author, there should be a link on their profile page.

chase the stars, by Duskglass on AO3, 101k (@felix-duskglass on tumblr)

When Harry is five years old, a picture of him ends up in the Daily Prophet, and Sirius Black, Terror of Ministry Officials Touring Azkaban everywhere, gets a hold of that issue.  He then, in order: breaks out of Azkaban; crosses the countryside to Surrey; Finds Harry: Kidnaps Harry; Breaks Into Remus’ Apartment; starts processing (or maybe just acknowledging) his trauma from Azkaban, the war, and his childhood; and pines after Remus.  It’s a little plotty, and deals a lot (sometimes through flashbacks) with the specific awful things that happened to Sirius—largely because, after years in the constant presence of Dementors, those are nearly literally the only memories he has left.  It’s a wonder he’s got the strength to love Harry and Remus at all.  But then, maybe it isn’t.

This is a Very Serious Fic, but the rest of Duskglass’s HP work is actually just cracky enough to tickle your funny-bone, while still making you think “okay but why couldn’t we have done that in the first place.”

So!  That’s it for recs, for now.  These are all things I’ve found and read in the last month; if any of y’all are interested in my old HP recs, let me know and I can make a post for that, too.  While I’m still very conflicted about my choice of current fandom, I am not in ANY way conflicted about my taste in fic and authors.  Send these guys some love, read their fic if you’re so inclined, and leave some nice comments at the end of it.

[i-make-my-journey]

It’s interesting to think back on how my relationship with my gods has changed. I was originally an independent kemetic, then went into Kemetic Orthodoxy, where you undergo the “Rite of Parent Divination”. You find out the gods Who claim you as Theirs - as Their spiritual child and as Their spiritual ward - “beloved”, in the platonic/familial sense of the word. When I first “got” my gods - when They were assigned to me, or They claimed me, depending on who you ask - I remember feeling a few emotions quite quickly.

First, elation that Anubis and Sekhmet-Mut chose me; I was already so devoted to Anubis and Sekhmet, it would’ve felt wrong if They hadn’t shown up. I was overjoyed - I cried with relief and happiness to see Them as the first two in my lineup. The top slots, as it were - the most important gods in my life.

Next, confusion; How could Hathor and Sekhmet, one deity technically, claim me twice with two different faces? And what was Bast doing here? I’d reached out to Hathor a time or two, but not often, so didn’t expect Her to be here at all, never mind in Her form of Hathor-Nut, Whom I knew next to nothing about. And for Bast, I had reached out to Her before but felt nothing in return from Her, whereas Anubis and Sekhmet I had felt a response from. I expected Them to be here, but not Bast. So why was She here? After being silent, what made Her decide to step forward? Or had She always been there and I simply hadn’t heard Her?

Then, disappointment; I was so sure, so convinced, so unswayable in my belief I would have a powerful, violent lineup, and yet there I was, presented with a group of gods so soft, so well known for being loving and kind and gentle, and I was angry. I had so much anger in my heart already, full of fear and self hatred and hurt, and this seeming affront had only fueled it. Why was I assigned these soft gods who kept Their teeth hidden and claws sheathed? Where was my righteous fury?

It clearly wasn’t here, so I sought it out in Mafdet and Shezmu, adding Them to my lineup. I convinced myself my Father, as Anubis-Anupet, both male and female, was in His aspect of the warrior, the destroyer, who cuts down the wicked with knives. That Sekhmet-Mut, too, was in Her blood-thirsty role, the lioness wreaking destruction across the land. That Bast was Pakhet, sand storms and claws and sharpness. And for Hathor-Nut… I didn’t really acknowledge Her much. I couldn’t twist Her to be angry, and so I didn’t really speak of Her.

But in these years - and especially these last two, as I’ve gone through some strange and sometimes devastating changes in my life - I’ve come to find that the anger and sorrow in my heart has never been quelled by more anger. Through financial hardships, emotional upheavals, wounds to my pride, and even the temporary crumbling of my faith itself - in Them and myself and the virtue of living - this whole time, the only thing that has been a balm to my soul has been the sometimes infuriatingly steady love and kindness and softness of my gods. Never have They shown me wrath - frustration and sternness, yes, but never wrath. They gave me space where I needed it, and now give me comfort, patience to trudge forward even though the way is dark, hope for a better tomorrow though I cannot see the sun rising just yet. I’m grateful for that.

I’m still figuring Them all out, of course. It’s only been a few years. But I think I’ve made progress on Them, my Father most of all. No longer do I expect violence and blood from Them - I know now They are kind and loving and gentle, and I’m so very grateful for Their patience. I know why I was upset back then - and some days, I cannot lie, I still feel a twinge of that anger, as things continue to be hard, as I’m still confronted with hurt and loss I cannot control. But it never lasts, as it never helps. I’m too tired for that now. I’m glad to just be immersed in Their warm, soft love. It may not fix the problems I face, but it gives me the little bit of respite I need to face each day.

[faffreux]

Why Fawful? No judgment I’m only curious

oh boy what a hard question to answer LOL

listen, i honestly couldn't possibly list all the reasons in a post. that would literally require an entire essay. i'll just TRY to sum it up for you.

CLEARS THROAT

Fawful makes me feel understood, like, completely. He's weird, I'm weird. We understand one another's strangeness and he's one of the many people in my life that make me feel less alone in all of this. I see him and I'm meeting a kindred spirit.

in many ways he also embodies a lot of traits i admire and want to gain for myself, even the ones that have had negative impacts on his own life. for example i always had trouble experiencing anger, even when the situation completely justified it... i would often back off sadly instead and allow myself to be stepped on. in one of my dreams fawful talked to me about the concept of "righteous fury" aka justified anger... the kind we all need in order to stand up for ourselves and help motivate us to do the right thing both for us and for others around us. I'm able to utilize that in reality now much more than I used to, as if something was suddenly unlocked in a way I cannot even begin to explain. Being able to allow myself to just be angry for once in my life is honestly cathartic and feels like finally being able to release all of the energy from when i was wronged in the past so i can finally move forward into the future and let it all go. I literally even made my first pieces of vent art (one in 2021, one this year) whereas previously I was NEVER able to project anger into art.. like, legit never in my entire life before now.

THEN THERE'S THE CONFIDENCE. and the fact that he didn't ALWAYS have it. You see his journey from SSS to BIS as a huge growth for his character where he goes from STUTTERING with anxiety under the spotlight to performing on stage with complete confidence. That is INSPIRING. I see myself in him and I know that if he can grow in that way, there's no reason why I can't either. I've already conquered so much of my own anxiety in the last 2 years alone so I KNOW it's happening and he's been a big part of it!

he also came into my life at just the right moment when I needed him most which deepened the attachment i already felt. my love for his character goes back to when i was a teenager so he's also a connection between my past and present... which makes him even more meaningful!

he's also just fun, man. like, everything about him is fun and colorful.. from his permanent smile to the kingdom he comes from being a place of laughter, a place I want to live in too. HIS SENSE OF FASHION.............don’t get me started

then there's the whole part where he is LITERALLY THE REASON I'M MAKING ART AGAIN. I don't know HOW you don't get attached to something that is the sole reason you are able to do creative work again after 8 years of feeling like it wasn't even worth the effort.

i also think he's extremely physically attractive so that helps too LOL. i've always been into the unconventional. all of my media crushes were weird little aliens or monster people from the first time i ever felt a crush.

also... my dreams. which if you're here you probably know at least somewhat about. i've had experiences in my sleep that are hard to even put into words and putting them into abstract art symbols is sometimes the best i can do bc i just don't feel like i can do them any justice otherwise. just know that they've been intense and meaningful and sum up everything said here and MORE.

really hope that helps at least a LITTLE bit lksdfsdf

[dayurno]

under the cut is the kandrew throw down of the year™ aka my attempt at reasoning the ch*king scene in therapeutic context. the events in this happen in betsy’s office, on the grounds that andrew asked her to fix them a few weeks after canon. could probably be the kickstarter for a kandreil fic but who knows. i sure don’t

tw: discussions of abuse, choking, kevin flipping his shit (aren’t you tired of being nice? don’t you just want to go apeshit?)

"You’re a spineless, despicable, selfish, obsessed and self-righteous person—” Andrew starts, a tinge of anger simmering under his words. It’s almost dangerous, but Kevin knew Betsy would throw Andrew out of his room if he tried solving this with his fists. 

Maybe it’s that safety that has Kevin cutting him off, perhaps just as viciously, “You are a man,” he says, pointing a finger in Andrew’s direction. “You are an average, lazy, boring, cowardly, success-fearing man. You have potential and you waste it. You think feeling nothing makes you have the upper hand, but that makes you average. It makes you so-so; irrelevant; not special. You settle because you’re a coward.” He takes a deep breath. “You think violence makes you a man. It does not. It makes you a petulant child with knives.”

“Not so spineless after all,” Andrew snarls, a cold fury settling all over him and tightening his muscles into unbearable tension, as if he was about to snap. 

Kevin does not find fear when he looks for it; most of all, he’s tired. He’s tired of Andrew’s leash and how short it is, he’s tired of pulling at his teeth, he’s tired of up-keeping a deal with a man who did not keep his word in the first place. “Do better, then. Stop acting like a child and do better. You can’t like me if you tried and I’m getting tired of pulling at your teeth.”

“Andrew,” Betsy interrupts before Andrew can —  most likely —  launch himself onto Kevin, “what do you think? How does that make you feel?”

He stares at her fixedly, avoiding Kevin as if he weren’t there. “I think that I want him out.”

She considers it for a second, then says, “No. I can’t let him leave, Andrew. This is the root of all your issues with each other, and you’ve asked me to fix you two. Let me help.”

Andrew takes a long, shuddering breath, so deep Kevin’s own lungs hurt as he follows it. Inhale; exhale. They do it as parallel lines, eyes pointedly away from each other. “I think,” he roughly replies, “that Kevin could simply go back to the Ravens if he wants someone that gets off to Exy as much as he does.”

“Oh, because that’s so mature,” Kevin fumes, at once the forest fire and the leftover ashes. “It’s so easy for you to throw other peoples’ abuse around, isn’t it? Andrew gets to have boundaries, Andrew gets to keep secrets, but God helps anyone who wants to do the same. No one can touch you, but you can hurt people however you want without a single care for the consequences. Doesn’t sound very fucking healthy to me, Andrew. It sounds like someone I know and you won’t like to hear who it is.”

Andrew’s gaze is stone cold. Kevin would shiver if he wasn’t so deep within the flames, and then again —  he's seen worse. If Kevin survived Riko Moriyama, he'll survive anyone.

 “Say it,” Andrew demands. “I dare you. Say it.”

“I don’t fucking do what you tell me to do,” Kevin snaps, struggling to keep his voice down. “I’m not your fucking pet, Andrew. Obedience under the coercion of a knife is not the choice you think you’re giving me.”  

“Is that how you feel?” Andrew asks, dead gazed. His lips are chapped and his hands are balled into fists; shaking with the strength it takes him to hold himself back from giving Kevin another necklace of bruises. “You were not forced to strike a deal with me. You did it out of your own volition. Do not speak of things you do not understand because you want to lash out at me.”

“He thinks I don’t understand what it’s like to not have a choice,” Kevin laughs, a cynical sound choked out of his throat. “Oh, aren’t you farsighted. Before I got out of the Nest, saying ‘no’ to someone was not even in question, Andrew. There are things I still need spelled out for me because I don’t know what it’s like to have personal fucking boundaries. When you choked me, I,” at this point Kevin’s hands are trembling at the same violent rhythm Andrew’s are, though a part of him —  untainted and scared; perpetual in its adolescence —  still thrashes at his insides at the mere thought of arguing back, biting back. “I didn’t even know. I didn’t know that wasn’t a thing you should be allowed to do. I didn’t have a name for that. All I thought was that I was submitted to you, and that it was right, and that I was paying for keeping something from you. I didn’t know and you did it anyways. You took advantage of me.”

Andrew’s entire body tenses up. “I didn’t. I didn’t. If you say something like that again, I’ll kill you.”

“Then be it,” Kevin replies, leaning back against the chair with a slump of his shoulders. “Kill me. Do it. Finish the job you started. Live with yourself afterwards. Live your sad, average, miserable life and feel free to tell me if it’s worth it in the end.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Betsy holds her palm up in a quieting motion, looking only slightly tipped off by Kevin’s blowout. It was probably the last thing he’d ever say to Andrew —  probably the last thing he’d say at all, if Andrew’s murderous wishes were to be fulfilled —  and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. “That’s enough, you two. Kevin, do you understand how heavy of an implication that is? You cannot take it back. You know Andrew’s issues with being taken advantage of.”

“But isn’t it, doctor? Isn’t it being taken advantage of?” Kevin spits out, “Isn’t it taking advantage of someone to hurt them from a position of power, thus rendering them unable to defend themselves? I think it is. I think I won’t allow him to make me seem crazy for being angry.”

Betsy blinks for a few seconds, searching for Andrew’s eyes. Andrew, on the other hand, is perfectly still, frozen from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. There is no pride in Kevin to have made him like that —  there is only tiredness, so deep it settles in his bones. His bones; the place he knows Andrew the best in. Kevin sighs, “I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to. But I can’t do that with you using me as your punch bag because you know I won’t hit back, Andrew. I can’t do that.”

“I did not mean to,” Andrew says in a whisper, almost a prayer. “I did not mean to.”

“Andrew,” Betsy calls, her tone unwavering, “breathe. Breathe. You can’t fix this if you’re having a panic attack. You’re with me, you know this. You’re in my office at Palmetto State University. You are safe. You are having a joint session with Kevin.”

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Andrew repeats, and it’s the most vulnerable Kevin has ever seen him. Something in his chest recoils sadly at the sight. “I did not mean to take advantage of you. I was just—  Neil—  I lost control.”

Kevin purses his lips, allowing his bruising heartbeat to will down. “I know you didn’t mean to be cruel. That doesn’t mean you were kind.”

“Okay,” the therapist sighs, adjusting her glasses. “Okay. Andrew, I don’t think Kevin shouldn’t be allowed to manifest his anger in a controlled environment. You hurt him in a way that hindered his own recovery, and triggered memories of his own abuse. You did not mean to bring those memories back, but it has happened all the same. Kevin, do you think this could be fixed?”

He wets his lips, gently thumbing along the skin of his throat where sickly yellow, green and purple bruises were only a few weeks ago. Andrew follows his movements almost obsessively, and something glossy shimmers under the layer of apathy Kevin knows too well; guilt. Self-loathing. Kevin huffs a soft sound, and answers honestly, “I don’t know if I can forgive it in a way that’s healthy.”

She nods. “Thank you for your honesty. Andrew, do you think there is anything you could do to make it up for him?”

Andrew exhales shakily. “He could hit back.”

Betsy frowns, but Kevin beats her to whatever she was going to say by uttering, “No. I won’t put my hands on you.”

It makes Andrew offer him a weird look, though he’s still far, far away, the guilt now a lot more emptier; cotton-white. He looks speechless, so Kevin completes it for him: “I’m not like them. I’m not like…” like you, he wants to say, but wills it away; it would be too cruel. “I’m not going to hit back. I just want… I don’t know, Andrew. I don’t know what you want me to do and I’m tired of having no choice. I'm tired of having the yes choked out of me.”

“I will make it up to you.” Andrew steadies his gaze onto Kevin’s face, gripping the armrest of his chair until his already pale knuckles turn white. It sounds like a promise. “I will make it up to you. You have my word.”

It doesn’t mean much to me right now, Kevin wants to say. Instead, he answers, “Okay,” because really, what else is there to do? Andrew’s word is the best he can offer. There is nothing else he can promise and not even Exy can mend —  whatever this is. Whatever Andrew has made of them. 

“Is there anything else you want to say, Kevin?” Betsy asks, gently, her words a feathery touch skimming down the side of his face. 

Kevin doesn’t answer, staring directly at Andrew, wishing that he could at least hold his gaze for a second, a minute, a lifetime —  enough that Kevin could peel back the years of apathy from him like jackets, meeting Andrew, for once, in all of his mess the same way he has met Kevin’s messes one too many times. “Yes,” he says, and Andrew snaps his gaze towards Kevin with something too akin to shame for it to be any comfort. Still, Kevin holds it like it’s a prize, challenges him, tells him something Andrew might have not believed until now: I am unbreaking. “Wash that look out of your face. It’s a waste of blood and sweat, and I won’t have it in my life or in my Court. You cannot break me. I am angry at you because you tried when you were supposed to have my back.”

“I know,” Andrew answers, his grief razor-sharp and stupefying. “I will not be like them. I will not be like him. I will make it up to you.”

“Good,” Kevin tells him, crossing his arms and baring his teeth. “I’m expensive to keep.”

Betsy looks like she wants to interrupt their relentless stare down; Kevin’s muddy green meeting Andrew’s forest fire hazel, a battle of wills years in the making. Kevin might not hit back outside of Court, but he does not pull away —  he is not the man to do it. If it aches in Andrew, then it should ache and ache and ache, until it balances out the pain he caused; until he rots into something new.

He is just a boy, barely a man, a shadow of what someone with such unrelenting morality should be and act like. Kevin looks at him —  really looks at him, no bias clogging his mind, and what he sees is what he’s always seen; a boy. 

Leave it to the rest of the team to mistake Andrew Minyard for a hero or a villain. Their eyesight is filtered through their own self-beliefs, their opinions are based on their inability to believe others have the same nuance and complexity they believe themselves to have. Kevin Day, though —  he has always had perfectly sharp vision, and he cannot be fooled by sharp knives and dead eyed gazes. He came from men much worse; he sat with the horrors of the world, unflinchingly, long before Andrew did.

If Andrew could only be what he pretends he is.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Brilliant interview ‘Neil Gaiman in conversation with Nilanjana S. Roy’ ❤

Nilanjana: One of the reasons Terry Pratchett's books was so powerful, was that behind the fun and, you know, the great world building and everything, he was writing with a tremendous anger. And not a despairing anger but an anger that was fuelled by a thirst for change, you know, saying: our world is not in the shape what it should be, discrimination should not be happening the way it is. And you wrote not necessarily with that same searing anger but a lot of what you were writing about from Sandman to American Gods to a lot of the other books was also about looking at injustice, looking at tyranny, looking at freedom, and particularly you’re right from the start whatever you were doing whether it was comics or whether it was novels or short stories or films you’re being preoccupied by the question of who has freedom and who doesn’t, you know, freedom in their lives or freedom in a fantasy world, and do you think this is one of the gifts of fantasy, really? I know that mainstream critics often don’t see this, they think of fantasy as something that is escapist, but it is the oldest form of storytelling that we have.

Neil: You have touched on so many important things in your question, I’m going to miss things out while I answer, but, first of all: Terry Pratchett - absolutely. That anger, a fury, righteous indignation drove Terry, and what also drove him was knowing that one of the things that fantasy does best is taking something that you know, you’ve always seen from this angle and turning it around so you see it from this angle and you’re not seeing the thing that you’re used to, taking reality and allowing you to lose preconceptions. Because you may think that you don’t like this kind of person but actually here’s a story with this kind of person. You may think that the problem with the poor is that they just don’t work hard enough because you’ve worked hard and you’re rich, and then you get Terry writing about boots from the point of view of Vimes, he’s sort of police captain in the city watch, and just thinking about the fact that if you can afford a good pair of boots, that good pair of boots will last you the rest of your life, but if you can’t afford a good pair of boots you’re gonna get a pair of boots with cardboard soles that are gonna wear out after a couple of years and then you have to get another pair of boots and another pair of boots and actually if you’d had the money you would’ve saved a lot money and it’s expensive being poor. And Terry puts it in a way that actually means that you read that and you go ‘oh, that actually changes the way that I’ve viewed powerty, because yes, it’s really expensive being poor, the poor get to pay more for stuff’. Terry would write about racism. Terry would write about things that made him angry in the world. I wish that Terry was alive right now and I wish that he hadn’t had Alzheimers and I wish that his fury and anger could be with us today because I would love to see what he would make of the governments, of the tech world, of the foolishness of people, and I know that he would phrase things in ways that would just change peoples minds because that was part of Terry’s power. When we wrote Good Omens we wrote about stuff that we were upset about or concerned about 31 years ago. And the weirdest thing with Good Omens was that it came out last year as a TV series and we have people asking us if we changed it to become timely because here was stuff about War, here was stuff about Pollution, there was a lot of environmental stuff that was killing whales, it all seemed incredibly timely and we’re like: no, no, no, all of this really timely stuff is 31 years old, it’s just the world has got worse. The one huge thing that we missed of course was we have a joke in Good Omens how Pestilence, Plague has retired in 1936 making way for Pollution...

Nilanjana: And he’s out of retirement, isn’t he?

Neil: Absolutely, out of retirement and making us all realize that it never got away.

[spicykoreantatertots]

Camp Blue Side - Part Two

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x Reader

Genre: Summer Camp AU, Non Idol AU

Rating: 18+ (eventual smut)

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Swearing, angst, (more in future parts)

Summary: Last summer, sparks flew between you and Hoseok. He had an unforgettable smile, and you were putty in his hands. By the end of the summer, promises were made and you shared your phone number. But he never called. This summer, you're back at camp with a vengeance. Ghosted or not, you're ready for some friendly competition. He may be a Camp Blue Side veteran, but you won't back down.

Notes: This fic has been updated and is now part of the Summer of Love Collab! Please join us as we finish summer strong with seven summer themed fics!

Summer of Love Masterlist

Beta Readers: @thesoftsoobin

Banner: @sunshinejunghoseokie​

Camp Blue Side - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

~~~~~~~

The staff parking lot is filled with cars and this year’s counselors are celebrating each other’s arrival. Each time a new car pulls up, usually honking loudly, the group cheers. Just about everyone has arrived already, Namjoon is fiddling with his clipboard and pen. Everyone should have been here by now.

Hoseok arrived about ten minutes ago. His beat up old mazda pulled up and you did your best not to look in his direction, only stealing a glance as he exited the car. The only way to describe that man is bright. Neon green shoes, rainbow tye-dye shirt, and his dazzling heart-shaped smile. 

Somehow, he was even more beautiful than you remembered. You had spent the past school year hating him, but now he’s here, in the flesh, and you just want to feel his arms around you. You tore your eyes away from Hoseok, and you felt Seokjin’s hand on your shoulder. It grounded you back in reality.

As the final car, holding Jimin and Jungkook, pulls up, half-hearted cheers ring through the crowd. Not that you aren’t all excited to see Jimin and Jungkook, but no one likes to see an angry Namjoon. 

“Hey! It’s Jimin’s fault, okay? I even got to his place early!” Jungkook jumps out of the car, hands held defensively in front of his body. Jimin, screaming his rebuttal from inside the car, is cut off by Namjoon’s announcement. 

“Now that everyone is finally here, we will give cabin assignments and you can all get settled in before dinner.” Seokjin, standing a good two feet away from Namjoon, produces a clipboard from his backpack and begins listing off the cabin assignments. Two counselors of the same gender identity per cabin. 

Of course, you already know who your cabin mate will be this year. You’ve learned a lot of privileged information by arriving early with Seokjin. 

“Margo! Hey! We’re paired up this year in Cabin 2.” You whisper, not wanting to speak over your friend. 

“Oh hey, that’s awesome! Let’s go!” Margo picks up one of her bags and you reach to grab the other. The two of you walk off to Cabin 2, making casual small talk about the past year away from Camp. 

You were stoked to see a familiar name next to yours on the cabin list. Although you and Margo barely kept up with each other over the summer, you had gotten to know her quite well the year before. She was a first year counselor, and you were only a second year. You knew what it was like to feel alone, so you tried to take her under your wing and show her the ropes. 

She ended up being a great person to talk to about your crush on Hoseok, and well now you have a lot of tea to spill. 

“And he just... never called? Or texted?” Margo asks, eyes wide in disbelief. 

“Nope.” 

“But he’s here now.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re going to be competing against him in team competitions.” 

“Exactly.” You share a devious smile.

“This is going to be an interesting summer, isn’t it?” Your cabin mate asks with a sigh.

“You bet your ass it is.”

~~~~~~~

After Margo got her belongings unpacked and stowed away, the two of you head to the Mess Hall for dinner and to catch up with your fellow counselors. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous to see Hoseok and to have to explain to everyone why the two of you weren’t... together. 

But it appears that Hoseok may already be handling that himself. A group of male counselors are sitting at a table where he is recounting some tale, and they are all listening intently. 

You can’t quite make out what he is saying, but you spot Seokjin sitting at a different table with Yoongi and a young guy you don’t recognize. Must be Yeonjun, the new JC who will be co-leading Team One with Hoseok. You’ll be keeping an eye on him. Seokjin waves you over and Margo follows you. 

“What has he been telling everyone?” You hiss at the guys when you sit. 

“Well...” Seokjin starts and your heart begins to sink. You know that tone.

“He’s got a new girlfriend.” Yoongi says, ripping the bandaid off in one swift motion. It stings. “He’s been bragging about her to all the guys. She’s hot and they met at work, or something like that.” He adds. 

“Ah.” You try to breathe through the feeling of your stomach dropping out, and Margo pats your bag gently. You spent the past year hoping he would call, processing the fact that he wasn’t going to, and burning with righteous fury. And now... you just want to cry. 

But you can’t let anyone see you cry. Especially not here and not now. Hoseok may have hurt you, but you can’t let him know you’re in pain. 

“Alright everyone, while we’re waiting on our dinner, let’s pair up in our activity groups and get to know each other a little better!” Namjoon announces and the room begins to buzz as everyone finds the people they would be working with this summer. 

You look around for Margo’s twin brother, Mack. He is going to be your co-leader for Team Two this year. 

“Hey Y/N!” Mack says, extending his hand for a fist bump. 

“What’s up! You excited to crush Team Two and Team Three this year?” You may be over-enthusing to make sure you don’t seem... sad. 

“Yeah! I’m sure you are too. Especially to beat Hoseok’s team.” Gulp.

“I do love some friendly competition, haha.” You reply dryly. 

“Well aren’t you guys together?”

“Uh...” you pause, color draining from your face.

“Oh god. I’m so sorry. He was talking about some awesome girl he’s been dating. I only caught part of the conversation, I thought he was talking about you.” Mack, looking mortified, tries to explain himself.

“No, it’s okay. He ghosted me. I haven't heard from him since last summer.” You clarify. Mack looks so sorry he mentioned it.

“Well I guess we really do have to beat his team now, don’t we?” He says with a smirk.

While Mack makes some more small talk about the plan for the coming weeks, your eyes scan the room. Everyone is paired off in their little teams. Yoongi is with Xavier, his Music co-leader, Taehyung with his Arts & Crafts co-leader, but his eyes are across the room on the Lead Counselor in Training who is chatting with Namjoon and taking notes on her clipboard. You spot Hoseok all the way on the furthest side of the Mess Hall from you. He’s talking to Yeonjun, facing away from you and that feels intentional. 

When the cook, Heather, steps out of the kitchen with a large sheet pan full of pizza, the counselors cheer. Then they immediately run to get in line, but before they can be served, Heather goes back into the kitchen. 

“How are you doing?” Seokjin asks, lining up behind you.

“Fine, Jin. Just fine.” 

“So, not fine, then?” He quips, laying a hand on your shoulder. 

“He’s gotten ahead of the narrative.” You reply, but he gives you a puzzled look. “He’s already told everyone about a girl and now I just look... pathetic.” 

“You’re not pathetic, Y/N.” Seokjin replies, giving your shoulder a pat. 

Heather returns from the kitchen with a tray of side salads and a tray of desserts, a choice between a sugar cookie and chocolate pudding. 

Unsurprisingly, you can see that Hoseok has secured a spot at the front of the line. Against your will, you watch him closely. He grabs his pizza, two slices, grabs a side salad, and reaches for a pudding cup. Something in your stomach twists, and you just want to get out of there. 

“Hey, where are you going?” Seokjin asks, but you’re already out the door. 

You try to hold back tears as you walk toward your cabin. 

He used to give you his chocolate puddings. Who is he going to give it to now? Why would he pick it up if he doesn’t even like them. 

When you make it back to the cabin, you throw yourself onto your bunk and let the tears flow into the pillow. Seeing Hoseok has been harder than you anticipated. 

~~~~~~~

“Hey, Y/N, you okay?” Margo asks, tiptoeing into the cabin.

“Yeah, you should head back, isn’t everyone still hanging out?” You ask, bring your head up from the pillow. It’s dark outside already.

“Well, no. It’s kind of late. Did you eat anything?” She asks.

“Yeah, I had a protein bar.” You reply, but your stomach growls, as if to say, that wasn’t enough. Margo reaches into her bag and pulls out a package of oreos, holding it in your direction. 

You cave, holding your palm open for a handful of the cookies. Your nearly empty stomach accepts the sweet treat and settles. 

“Did everyone notice I left, they must think I’m so pathetic.” You pout. 

“You wanna know what everyone noticed?” You nod in response to Margo’s question. “Everyone noticed that Hoseok left as soon as he realized you were gone.”

~~~~~~~

CPR training is a vital part of the yearly annual counselor training. Everyone needs to know how to resuscitate and potentially save the lives of the campers. Though it is a very serious topic, it’s hard to take the CPR dummies seriously. The faceless, limbless, lifeless dolls look very much like... blow up dolls. 

“If I hear one more moan out of you guys I will dock your pay!” Namjoon shouts over the chorus of immaturity. Very suddenly, the room goes quiet, “I thought that might get your attention, now Seokjin, please continue with the demonstration.” 

“Yes sir.” Seokjin replies, holding back a smirk.

He begins pumping the inanimate heart to the beat of a song and your eyes wander to Hoseok across the room. He’s giggling and whispering something to Yeonjun. Those boys will be fierce competition. 

It’s something you thought about this morning on your run. As you were jogging on the wooded trail, you realized Mack was right, you have to do everything in your power to take Team One down. The fire of competition will get you through the sadness of Hoseok’s betrayal. And tonight, you’ll get your first shot at beating them in the game of glow in the dark capture the flag.

Standing from his kneeling position, Seokjin asks, “Alright, who is up next?”

~~~~~~~

The sun has set and the teams have been divided for a game of capture the flag. Hoseok ended up on Seokjin’s team, and although you wish you were on your friend’s team, you’re relieved you didn’t end up on Hoseok’s. 

“Okay, Y/N, you’re a runner, I want you and Ryujin to be in charge of trying to get their flag. The rest of us will try to distract their team and protect our flag.” Namjoon orders in the huddle. The huddle breaks and everyone waits for the final ray of sunlight to fall behind the horizon. 

“I’m nervous.” Ryujin whispers to you while you stretch your calves.

“Ah yeah, you probably should be.” You joke. “Listen, all you need to worry about is getting tagged. Just don’t let anyone touch you and do your best to stay hidden. If you get your hands on the flag, just sprint back to our base.”

“You make it sound easy.” She laughs.

Seokjin’s whistle sounds and you take off. Ryujin, poor girl, runs straight for the field between the two bases. A rookie mistake. You, however, have played this game before. You run to the trees on the side of the field to take cover and watch the game unfold. 

It’s hard to see, but you can just make out Ryujin’s form running around the field dodging other bodies. It looks like so far your team is doing a good job of keeping the flag safe. Namjoon tackles a member of the other team and you decide to make a run for the other team’s base while everyone is distracted. 

You can hear your heart beating in your ear as the blood rushes to your legs. You’ve almost run the whole distance of the field behind the trees when you hear something. Suddenly a pair of neon green shoes catches your eyes. Hoseok. 

Holding your breath, you take cover, crouching behind a tree and hope to god that he doesn’t come over here. If he knew it was you, maybe he would spare you both the confrontation. You count to 60, slowly, and when he doesn’t come, you decide to stand up, intending to run for their base in a hail mary attempt to win. 

But you’re cut short. Just a few feet away, Hoseok is standing, waiting. He doesn’t move at first, but after a few breaths, he takes a step, and another. You can finally make out his eyes in the darkness. It’s the first eye contact you’ve made so far.

There are no words shared between you. At this moment your mind is blank. Having your old summer fling within arms reach is overwhelming. You feel the pull to reach out to him. He’s eyes are looking directly into yours and for a moment it looks like he’s going to speak. But he stops himself, his brows furrow for a moment, and then, he runs.

~~~~~~~

After a long week of training, morning runs, avoiding Hoseok, and trying to figure out what happened between you and him during the capture the flag game, you are really looking forward to lake day. A day off from training before final camp preparations take place. The campers will be arriving in just two days. 

You are one of the first ones to show up at the beach after lunch. You wasted no time changing into your bathing suit and slapping on some sunscreen. Jungkook and Jimin, the aquatic leaders, had already arrived as well. 

Other counselors trickle in and you get to watch their interactions. It’s only been a few days, but everyone is already back into the Camp Blue Side swing of things. 

The JCs all tend to head straight for the lake, while the older counselor’s chill on the beach. You’ve opted to sunbathe for a while before cooling off in the lake. You expect Seokjin will take a spot next to you when he arrives. 

The LCT has found a spot on the sand with Yoongi and Taehyung, no surprises there. She’s delicately rubbing sunscreen on Taehyung’s back. When she finishes, Taehyung’s Arts & Crafts co leader calls him over and he puts sunscreen on her back. You’re pretty sure you can see steaming coming out of the LCT’s ears. 

Someone lets out a joyful shout as they run from the edge of the beach all the way down the dock and jump into the lake. Hoseok.

“He really is still a camper at heart, isn’t he?” Seokjin asks as he sets his towel out next to yours. 

“If you mean to say he’s a child, then I can agree with that.” You roll your eyes. He is horsing around in the water with the JCs, no wonder they all look up to him. Yeonjun, his co-leader, is trying to pull his head underwater, but Hoseok isn’t budging. 

He hasn’t changed much and it takes you back to last summer. The campers would climb all over him during lake days, and he would let them. Once the two of you had become... a thing, you would always notice that he didn’t rub in the sunscreen on his nose. It became your responsibility to make sure the lotion was rubbed in all the way. 

“Y/N, Jin! We need one more for volleyball!” Jimin’s invitation brings you back to reality. Seokjin consults you before claiming the spot. You follow him over to the net to watch the game. Hoseok is playing. 

At first, you try not to watch him, but when the game gets going, Hoseok steps up his game. He serves, he sets, he dives, it’s hard not to watch him. You notice, toward the end of the game, that Hoseok has his signature white streak across his nose. He catches you looking, but instead of looking away, you point to your nose. 

Hoseok, still looking at you, misses a ball that lands right next to him, losing the game for his team. 

“Hoseok! What the hell man?” Jimin shouts, frustrated by Hoseok’s lack of attention. 

“Sorry, sorry. I got... distracted.” Hoseok replies, picking up the volleyball. “Round two anyone?”

~~~~~~~

“All right campers, let’s give a big round of applause to Heather for cooking our dinner tonight!” Seokjin announces over the microphone. The children, hyped up on carbs from dinner, cheer loudly for the Camp chef. They all arrived just a few hours ago, descending on camp like a swarm of buzzing bees. 

You’re a bit of a nervous wreck. For some god forsaken reason, you decided that you could volunteer to give a presentation at the camper orientation, and now you’re about to have to do that. Your notecards are organized and you rehearsed your talking points with Margo twice, but it doesn’t feel like enough when there are close to one hundred people in the audience. 

“Okay, now that we’ve gone over the basic camp rules, let’s give it up for Y/N, the Team Two leader who will be discussing the team games!” Seokjin says cheerfully, stepping off the stage and handing the microphone over to you. This is it. 

“Hey everyone! Who’s excited for the team games this year?” You ask, a big smile across your face. Of course everyone, counselor’s included, cheer loudly. 

“Yeah, that's great to hear. I am also very excited. As you can tell I took a lot of notes to make sure I give you all the important info.” You joke, but there’s only a few scattered laughs. You have to tuck the microphone into your arm awkwardly so you can flip your note card over to find the right page.

“Oh well they’re out of order, so I guess...” You look out into the crowd of expectant faces. Some of the campers are already not paying attention, you’ve lost them. As always, Hoseok catches your eye. He can see you’re floundering already, and he smirks. He fucking smirks. “I’ll have to wing it.” You finish your thought and toss the notecards to the side.

You manage to get through it, even working a few jokes in here and there. And it seems like the kids are really pumped for the team activities and the competition. 

“Okay, I think next up is Jungkook with some information about water activities and lake day!” The kids cheer, the girls squeal, all too excited for Jungkook to be on stage. 

“Hey, that was pretty good Y/N!” Seokjin whispers as you step back down from the stage.

“You missed a few talking points though-” Namjoon’s critique is cut short.

“You were GREAT!” Seokjin reaffirms. 

~~~~~~~

Hushed whispers can be heard in the cabin, but it’s the first night and you’re not going to try to enforce lights out. You would probably be struggling to fall asleep either way. 

Your interactions with Hoseok thus far have been quite puzzling. He has been confusing, rude, and annoying, but what does it mean? You keep thinking about the look in his eye that night during capture the flag. You could feel a spark between you, but he almost looked pained. But he’s the one who caused your pain. 

Maybe he’s just trying to get under your skin to make sure his team wins. Well tomorrow is day one of camp, and you’ll be damned if you let him win.

~~~~~~~​

[missinashkin]

Foxiyo Week 2020 - Agony

@foxiyoweek

TW: Vomiting, mentions of death, gore, blood, survivor’s guilt, and trauma. Please don’t read this if your head is in a bad place at the moment!

Wow this was exhilarating to write! I always wanted to know Riyo’s immediate reaction after the events of Orto Plutonia, so I kinda did it myself!

Please be aware of the triggers!!!

Riyo walked into the guest quarters aboard the Resolute, where she had stayed on the venture to Orto Plutonia and what would remain to be her room until they arrive in Coruscant.

The room she was occupying was simple. Not that she had really expected anything else, she was aboard a military cruiser after all. She was surprised at the existence of spare rooms more than anything, though her surprise was somewhat muted.

Laying her headdress on the white dresser next to the door, Riyo has a flashback of white armor in white snow stained with red. She shook her head and attempted to dispel the visions accosting her mind. 

Entering the ‘fresher, she pauses at the mirror and stares at herself for a moment.

Riyo knew she was fairly pretty. Her lilac hair was shiny and held shape well, her golden eyes were framed with dark lashes, and her delicate nose was the last addition her slight figure needed to present herself as a meek, delicate woman. The only thing that hinted at her exhaustion was the dark circles beginning to form under her eyes.

Their mission hadn’t even taken a full day, and yet it felt like she had aged years. 

The clones - the men - that had escorted and protected Chairman Cho… the ones that were dead… she couldn’t get them out of her head. And there she was, standing in front of a mirror while innocent soldiers were frozen on the planet below.

At that moment she kind of wanted to punch her reflection. 

What made her so special that she was allowed to live while they were not?

What made Chairman Cho so special that he had had the authority to command and ensure the deaths of dozens of people? If she hadn’t been able to contact the Speaker of the Assembly he likely would have made sure that dozens, if not hundreds more troopers died for such a needless cause, not to mention ensure the extinction of the Talz. 

He wanted to be remembered as a hero of Pantora, but instead, it was likely that he would always be known as a foolish man, too prideful, too self-centered.

If only she had fought Cho more, Riyo thought furiously, if only she had contacted the Speaker of the Assembly earlier, if only she had been quicker, faster, stronger, braver- all of a sudden the fury and anger melted into sorrow and anguish. Because for a moment she could imagine the Coruscant Guard troopers she had gotten so close to over the past few months in the 501st’s place.

She saw Jek, Rys, and Thire’s bodies close together, protecting each other even in death. She could see Hound and Grizzer’s corpses in place of the Talz rider and his narglatch. 

She saw the bodies she walked past to negotiate peace with Thi-Sen… she’d wanted to stop and mourn for them but had ignored them because she needed to focus on the mission. For the greater good. And then she left.

Would she have done that if it was Fox?

She could clearly envision the commander she had grown so close to over the past few months on his stomach, sprawled out on the snow-covered ground, a spear in his back, eyes glassy in death. Lips she has kissed are red with blood and legs that have been intertwined with her own are bent unnaturally, as if he had been trampled.

Suddenly, she felt sick and rushed to the toilet before vomiting up what little was in her stomach. She couldn’t stop envisioning the faces of the men - of Fox, her heart - rather than the protective helmets they wore.

Tears ran down her cheeks as the acid burned her throat and reality broke her heart. Riyo rested her forehead against the basin seat, shaky breaths and quiet sobs causing her slight frame to tremble.

Riyo didn’t know how long she sat there, but she was beginning to notice the taste of vomit in her mouth, so she picked herself up and brushed her teeth. 

Glancing once more at her reflection, she wrapped her arms around herself and made her way to the bed. 

Maybe if she could get some sleep, maybe she would feel better. Maybe she would stop seeing Fox’s dead eyes whenever she closed hers.

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

Riyo bolted up in bed, awoken by the sound of screams. It took a few panicked breaths before she realized that the screams she woke up to were her own. It took the same breaths to realize she couldn’t stop seeing dead clones killed yesterday behind her eyes. 

Except…

It wasn’t the 501st she was seeing, it was the bodies of the friends she had made in the Guard.

Fox’s body.

Riyo let out a sob. And then another. And then she couldn’t stop crying. 

She had never felt more like a child in her adult life than at that moment, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

In complete honesty, she wanted nothing more than to comm her mother. But she was asleep at this time, and Riyo worked hard to make sure her family knew as little about the dangers and negatives that came with her career.

Even as she was in emotional agony, Riyo didn’t want her family to know anything. She resigned herself to a sleepless night, but before she could pull herself together (but. She thought scornfully, maybe she wanted to let herself be broken, if only for tonight) her comm started flashing with an incoming message.

She stared blankly at the communicator before registering that someone was trying to contact her. 

She took a deep breath and answered the call, belatedly realizing she hadn’t checked who was contacting her. “This is Senator Chuchi speaking,” She was very proud of how her voice didn’t waver.

“Riyo?” The tinny voice questioned, and Riyo’s heart nearly stopped. A clone’s voice…? But there was only one clone that had both her personal comm code and felt comfortable calling her by her first name.

“Fox,” she gasped out and nearly broke then and there. The cool and collected senator she had mustered for the comm call was suddenly gone, and all that was left was a broken young woman. 

“Riyo? Riyo, what’s wrong?” Fox’s voice was full of concern and Riyo couldn’t stop a sob from escaping her lips. Her dreams and the events from the day before came rushing back to her and her heart was in agony all over again. Sudden;y, she was crying and mourning and tormented by memories all over again.

“Fox,” she sobbed, “Fox, I’m so sorry, I left them, it’s my fault, I wasn’t fast enough-” 

“Hey, hey,” he soothed. “Calm down for just a minute Ri’ka, What’s going on?”

“I left them, and they died and I left them and I can’t stop imagining you instead of them.”

“Oh ner kar’ta..”

Fox must have realized that he wouldn’t be able to get any information out of her so he resorted to murmuring sweet nothings in her ear and assurances that he was still alive and not going anywhere. 

“Cyare, can you help me? I want to make this a holocall so I can see you. Can you do that for me, darling?” 

Riyo nodded before remembering that he couldn’t see her yet and voiced a shaky affirmative.

The comm call transferred to her handheld holoprojector and seeing Fox’s face helped assure Riyo that he was real and not dead as in her dreams.

His expression was full of worry and concern and she felt a flash of guilt for worrying him so. Though, when his gaze rested on her figure his eyes softened, and he spoke gently.

“Ri’ka, please tell me what happened. Why are you so upset?”

So Riyo confided in him about the mission. About the dead clones in the base. About the Talz, about the Chairman and everything he did wrong. She stumbled over her words when it came to the battle and recalled all the men that had left to protect the chairman and the number of men still alive by the time she and the Jedi had arrived. 

“Fox, it was awful,” she buried her face in her hands and tried to stop the tears from running down her cheeks again. “So much death, and it was all needless. I-I’m so angry and frustrated and I feel so much guilt for just walking past their bodies. I wanted to bury every single one of them right then and there, but I had to make peace, and then I couldn’t think and I got on a gunship and-”

“Cyare, hold on,” Fox interrupted her, not unkindly. “Take a deep breath.”

Riyo did as he instructed and took several shaky breaths. When she felt calmer, she lifted her eyes to the person she trusted most out of everyone in the galaxy. His eyes were kind, but sharp as a tack as always, even through the haze of the holo. 

“Riyo,” he spoke gently, but firmly, “what happened was not your fault. From what you told me it was completely on Chairman Cho, and you were vital in stopping any more bloodshed from happening.”

“So many men died for nothing,” she protested weakly, her eyes mournful and glassy with unshed tears. “And I didn’t even stay to help.”

Fox’s hand twitched, as though he was about to move his hand to cup her face as he had done many times before. “I know, darling, but that is war. Sometimes battles are unnecessary but they happen anyway. Good people die for nothing. But we move on.”

“How?” She begs, “Fox, I don’t know how to stop seeing bodies every time I close my eyes, It’s not fair, why do people like me get to live when your brothers deserve so much more?”

Fox’s shoulders slump “It’s what we were created for Riyo,” and she flinches at his use of her name. In a single moment, something clicks, or snaps, or finds its place inside her, and she uncharacteristically snarls, shocking the commander. 

“I swear to you Fox,” her voice trembles, but not with sobs, rather with rage and conviction. “I swear,” she repeats, “I will find a way to end this war and stop your brothers from dying needless deaths. I will fight for this if it’s the last thing I do.”

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

On Coruscant, Fox watches his runi fall into a righteous rage over the deaths of clones, and feels both incredible love for her and an immense fear, aware that if she plays her cards wrong, this cause will burn her up from the inside. 

“Riyo,” he speaks cautiously, “just… don’t forget to be careful. You’re no use to us dead.” He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you to this.”

Riyo’s expression loses the fury it had held and slumped over in her bed, appearing more exhausted than anything. If he looks closely he can still see the fire in her eyes, but there is also mourning and love and a great deal of other emotions he can’t quite grasp the names of. 

“Of course, my moea,” she speaks quietly, “I promise, I’ll be careful.”

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

After half an hour of speaking of better things, Riyo and Fox bid each other their goodnights.

As Riyo settled back into bed, (seeing as it was only two in the morning, she could still get some sleep before needing to be up,) her eyelashes fluttering shut, she promised herself one thing. 

As long as I still have breath in my body, I will fight to ensure no one goes through the agony of needless death in this war ever again.

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

ner kar’ta - my heart - mando’a

cyare - beloved - mando’a

moea - soul in southern sotho, one of the official languages of South Africa, (pantorans have south african accents and I wanted to have Riyo call Fox by an endearment in Pantoran, but I didn’t want to make it up, so here you go!)

runi - soul in mando’a

[bookandcranny]

Beatrice - Chapter Five

She sucked on her lower lip and it tasted sweet. Bittersweet really, but any amount of sweetness was good enough for her.

Sprinting up the staircase two at a time, Gianna couldn’t remember why the climb had ever been an obstacle. She burst into her apartment and out of it again, through the window, onto the fire escape. Before she could think to be afraid, she leaped.

If she’d faltered, if she’d slowed for a second before making that jump, she would’ve hit the ledge and, best case scenario, clawed her way up to safety with a shattered pelvis. The worst case scenario was a lot messier and, she decided, not worth thinking about at the moment. 

The important thing was she had made it, barely, and miraculously unbroken too. Unbroken because “unharmed” would’ve been too generous a word for it. She landed badly, twisting her ankle and spilling forward onto hands and knees. It was only thanks to the cradle of some overgrown greenery that she hadn’t cracked her skull open on the fountain while on her belly blindly grasping for leverage.

Maybe it was the headrush of having survived her nigh-suicidal recklessness, but the combined scents of the garden were making her dizzy. The exotic flowers’ natural perfume that had been pleasant at a distance now took on a noxious quality. The air seemed to be choking her. How did Beatrice stand it, she wondered.

Feeling a strange twinge she looked down at her scraped palms and sucked in a sharp breath. The cuts themselves were barely deep enough to draw blood, but beneath the tissue she was bubbling, boiling. She tore her eyes away and blinked hard to dispel the vision. 

Am I awake? Am I dreaming again? Did I miss the ledge?

Her mind screamed at her.

It’s something in the air. It’s something about these damn plants. An infection? An allergy? No, can’t think about it now. There’s no time. Look away, deal with it later.

Thankfully the sliding door was unlocked. Most people don’t expect intruders at five stories up. It opened with a click and Gianna tensed, withholding herself against the urge to rush in, metaphorical guns blazing. She stood there in the doorway and listened for sounds of distress, but it was eerily silent. The luxury apartment was as serene and sterile as she remembered it.

“Bea?” she whispered as she stepped inside. “Beatrice?”

No response. Her own dragging footsteps were loud in the emptiness, scraping along the tile like a murmuring: hush, hush. 

Gianna rounded a corner into the dining room and there she found her, and the mad doctor too. Beatrice was sitting at the table in a white dress with a gauzy quality to it that reminded her, sickly, of a wedding dress. Dr Rappaccini came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder before at length turning his sunken eyes towards the uninvited guest.

When he spoke, his voice sounded thick as if speaking around a swelling. “After all these years, you think I don’t recognize the taste of one of my own formulas? I’ve been doing this since before you were born, children.”

“It was only medicine, Father,” Beatrice insisted, looking up at him. “To help you sleep.”

“A long sleep indeed,” he growled. Gianna had no rightful reason to flinch away from the fury of an old, sick, and at least partially drugged old man, she reasoned. There was nothing of him to be so afraid of. But she did, and she was, and deep down she always had been, since the moment she saw him. There was something wrong with him, something she couldn’t put a name to, although if she tried the word “evil” might make an appearance. 

It had been a long time since Gianna had considered herself one among the faithful, the kind of person to buy into such archaic concepts as pure good vs pure evil. She never quite believed in a soul that could be broken down into quantifiable measurements— a half cup of goodness, an even ounce of vice. She couldn’t say from what recipe a man like Dr Rappaccini was formed, but what she saw before her now repulsed her. The layers of him peeled off like old paint and underneath were all the years and all the people who ever imposed their will on her. It didn’t make her feel righteous, it made her feel small and scared. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t want to catch what he had.

“This really has gone too far.” He spoke not to her but to Beatrice again. Although he kept her penned within his periphery, Gianna was an insect to him. “What did you think would happen? That you’d run away together? Go off into the sunset and live happily forever after like those books you read? You know better. This is only a passing fancy. She’ll die, and you’ll find another.”

Then he touched her cheek, almost tenderly. For a moment he almost looked like the father he was, or at least pretended to be. Gianna saw him and a younger Beatrice: teaching her, dressing her, holding her, bringing her to life only to take it away.

“Let go of her, she’s coming with me.”

Dr Rappaccini sneered. “Oh by all means. Who am I to get in the way of my daughter’s happiness? But if you two are going to insist on keeping up this charade, I think it’s only right I let you know what you’re getting into.”

The young woman stiffened. “Father, please don’t.”

“Have you been feeling ill lately, Ms Alexander? Been noticing some certain sudden changes?”

Gianna instinctively closed her fists and felt her bloodied palms sting.

“Now now, no need to be embarrassed. I’m a doctor you know.” He wheezed a little laugh to himself. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? Peculiar dreams? Maybe even during the day you find yourself feeling disoriented, seeing things. Do you find yourself feeling breathless or dizzy when you take in the city air? If not, you will. The medicine my daughter so kindly shared with you will be wearing off soon.”

Startled, she turned a questioning glance to Beatrice, but the other woman wouldn’t look at her. She’d told her the tea was medicinal, but it had never occurred to Gianna that she might be more familiar with the ailment than she let on. 

“It’ll only get worse from here, you know. Look at me,” he coughed. “Like the late great Madame Curie, my passions took their toll on me in the end. Though not before affording me a sturdy tolerance for most known and unknown poisons, I’ll have you know. That’s over fifty years of gradual exposure for you. Ah, but you didn’t come here to listen to me talk about work. 

“I’ll get to the point. You can treat the symptoms, but there’s no cure, no release from her poison. Even as we speak it’s tainting your healthy young blood, devouring you from the inside out. If I act fast, you may still live to a ripe old age. You might not even have any lasting side effects, lucky thing! But all this is if I give you the antitoxin, and if you don’t continue to willfully expose yourself to the source.”

“The source? You mean…?”

“Yes! My sweet Beatrice.” He petted her hair with the back of his fingers. “Lovely, isn’t she? Everything I grow… so very lovely. Don’t worry, I’d never do a thing to harm her. Can she say the same about you?”

“Don’t listen to him!” Beatrice stood up suddenly, surprising both Gianna and Rappaccini himself. “I never wanted to hurt you! I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

“But you can’t help it,” said the doctor. “It’s in your nature. It’s in your scent, the touch of your skin. Imagine what she could do with a kiss, Ms Alexander! Oh I almost want to see it. I’m sure it would produce some valuable data. But I’m not the cruel monster you make me out to be. That’s why I tried to stop you, even though my daughter begged me not to spill her secret. I tried to make you understand. 

“She can’t be released upon the world. Maybe in a few generations we’ll have a version that can control her own potency, but not yet. Not you, Beatrice.”

The poison-blooded woman spun on her creator. “Why did you make me! Why did you make me like this! Why bring me into the world at all if I can’t be a part of it! What is the point of being alive if I can’t touch another living thing without hurting them!”

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, hot and angry. Gianna instinctively reached out to comfort her.

“No, stay away!” she screamed.

Dr Rappaccini took her into his arms. Her tears soaked through the shoulder of his ill-fitting coat and raised his flesh with welts, yet he didn’t flinch. Arrogant gray eyes locked with Gianna’s and the message was clear. No matter how much she loved her, Beatrice belonged to him. She would rather choose an empty life under the heel of a man who could never truly care for her over the risk that she might further harm the one person who did.

Then, a curious thing happened. It started with a gentle rumbling that gradually grew in intensity like the beginnings of an earthquake. Then there was the smell. Beatrice always had a slightly floral scent to her that Gianna had assumed was perfume, but now, like in the garden, it was so overpowering that it seared the nose and throat and muddled the senses. Rappaccini noticed as well and turned to his daughter with a delirious look on his face.

“Girl, what have you done?”

The woman lifted her head. Veins like dark tendrils bulged beneath her skin, wispy strands of violet encroaching at the corners of her eyes like ink in water. A noxious venom bubbled up and spilled over her lower lip. The doctor staggered backwards. Gianna might have followed his lead if she were in her right mind, but as it was she was stricken, mesmerized by her. Even through the confusion and the terror, she wanted to reach for her. Her blood sang out to embrace her.

There was a sound of shattering glass from the terrace and the garden rushed in, spilling over and crashing like a tidal wave, flooding every room it entered with rapidly growing roots and bright green vines. The onslaught of green grew and morphed and stretched and with every pulse of its new buds and branches there was a noise like a muffled human scream.

The slithering stems ignored Gianna, skated right past Beatrice unbothered, and latched onto the form of Dr Rappaccini, pulling taught as they snared him.

“Beatrice!” he cried out, but not in horror or in rage. Oddly enough, though he was alarmed, when he looked into the face of his creation, the creation who would destroy him, his expression was one of absolute wonder.

“How are you doing this, Beatrice? How?”

She looked at him, with her eyes still clouded and the nectar of her ire dripping freely from her lips, and she said, “No.”

Only then did true panic set in for the scientist, for he understood exactly what that no meant. 

Vines began to encircle his torso and pour into his open mouth, choking him, soaking up the living wet warmth of him and pouring in their poisons. They dragged his limp body, barely recognizable now, back out into the garden. They raked him over the shattered remains of the glass door and took him into their soil until no bit of him could be seen under the still earth.

The renowned genius Dr Giacoma Rappaccini died without ever knowing the whole truth of what he had created, without even the parting gift of that understanding, that knowledge he had so fervently sought after. That right had been revoked from him. Even so it could be said that Dr Rappaccini died with some sense of satisfaction. After all, what parent isn’t joyed to see their child finally surpass them?

As the flood of plants retreated so too did the murky discoloration of Beatrice’s eyes and skin, leaving only a faint sheen of laboured sweat. Unthinking Gianna moved towards her but her legs buckled halfway there. Her eyes rolled back and for a moment all the universe narrowed to the feeling of hands carefully lowering her to the floor.

“Oh God, Gianna.”

She blinked and saw Beatrice kneeling over her, felt the warmth of her breath. It occurred to her suddenly that she could very well be about to die. She wasn’t in any pain though. Even the ache from her twisted ankle was gone. If anything, she felt extraordinarily well, for a paralyzed person. The only improvement, she thought foggily, would be if she were able to just move. If she could move it all, if she could speak, then there would be nothing that she couldn’t say, not ever again.

“Gianna, I’m so sorry.” She leaned her head against Gianna’s breastbone and sobbed. “I love you. I love you.”

Gianna’s heart fluttered. In fact, it pounded so hard and so loud that Beatrice head shot back up with surprise. She sniffled and blinked back tears.

“Gi-Gianna? Are you still in there?”

Obviously Gianna couldn’t respond, but she searched her face and must have found an answer in it regardless. 

“If you can hear me… I’m going to try something. It- it might… I don’t want to hurt you. That’s what I was trying to… I don’t, I’ve never been able to control it before, but every time you looked at me I just, just tried to focus on that, on how much I wanted…” She swallowed thickly. “So I’m going to try one more time. One more time, okay? I’ll think about how much I love you, and you think about… well you just think about staying alive and maybe… maybe this time. Maybe it’ll turn out alright this time.”

With that, she closed her eyes and kissed her. It was everything Gianna had dreamed and nothing she had expected. Clumsy and inexperienced, gentle and sweet, and something sort of tingly she had a feeling wasn’t entirely due to attraction or apprehension or any mix thereof. She felt her eyes fall closed and her own lips part slightly to let her in. Too late she registered the sensation of something liquid pooling on her tongue, falling down her throat. She choked, briefly, then reflex kicked in and she swallowed. 

“Gianna?” Beatrice asked nervously.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “You too,” she croaked. “I love you too. I would’ve told you sooner if I knew.”

“If you knew what?”

“That, that you needed to hear it. Someone should’ve told you sooner. Someone should’ve told you a long time ago how lovable you are.”

As she recovered Gianna touched a finger to her lips and it came away sticky. She sucked on her lower lip and it tasted sweet. Bittersweet really, but any amount of sweetness was good enough for her.

“Not to be the nosy overbearing girlfriend or anything, but what just happened exactly?”

Beatrice sat back on her heels. “I’m not really sure where to start. You’ve probably already figured out that I’m… not entirely human.”

“And all that talk about you being a hybrid and like a poisonous plant wasn’t entirely metaphorical, huh?”

She smiled sadly. “Father was always open with me about what I am. I wanted to be open with you too but part of me was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. The other part was afraid you would.”

A fair assumption. Even having witnessed the ultimate show of her power firsthand, she still had a hard time internalizing it.

The conflict must have been apparent on her face; Beatrice pulled away from her, folding her hands over her lap.

“I’m dangerous, I know. Nothing my father said was a lie, but there were things even he didn’t know about me. When you told me we could run away… you made it sound so simple, you know? It really made me believe I could do it. I really thought I could change. I thought I could be more like you, but instead I think I made you more like me.”

Gianna looked down at her hands. The cuts from earlier had sealed themselves closed, not so much as a scratch remaining.

“I’ve never tried to do that before. I don’t know exactly how it’ll affect you, or how much. You might live to be two hundred now. Or you might start to kill everything you touch.” A noise escaped her that was half laugh, half sob. “But I do know what would’ve happened if I left you like that, in that in-between state. Maybe it’s selfish of me. Father said it was. He told me if I cared for you at all I should send you away before it was too late, but I just…”

Gianna touched her. She shivered. “You never would’ve been able to scare me off anyway. I’m too stubborn for that.”

Beatrice sighed, sinking into her touch like she was a warm bed on a freezing cold night.

“So, what now?” Gianna asked at length, though she was reluctant to think of anything beyond this moment. This, all that she’d discovered, it did change things. Just not the things that mattered. Not as far as she was concerned, at least. “I mean, I guess we don’t have to leave now, but you do have a body in your garden so…”

“No. I want to. I want to leave.”

“Then we will,” said Gianna. “I just need to make a call first.”

-----

Petra pulled up to the curb outside a street she had intended never to visit again and opened the door with a glare.

“Gianna. I see you’re still alive despite ignoring every single warning I tried to give you.”

Before Gianna could respond she got up and pulled her into a clumsy hug.

“Crazy girl,” she muttered affectionately.

For half a second Gianna relaxed into the hug, before she remembered herself and pulled back with a gasp.

“What’s wrong?”

No blisters or rashes forming spontaneously on her skin. No sign of any adverse reaction at all. Her shoulders sagged with relief. It seemed she hadn’t absorbed Beatrice’s more overtly toxic qualities along with her immunity. Or, not yet at least.

The thought had been nagging at the back of her mind, that more traits might yet blossom down the line. Even Beatrice, by her own account, hadn’t been born with many of her abilities but rather had grown into them throughout her childhood and into the early years of adolescence. 

And I thought puberty was bad enough as it is.

“Nothing,” she replied at length. “I’m just a little sore.”

She had explained the situation to the best of her ability over the phone, but had omitted more a number of key details. Some things she withheld with purpose, some because she felt it wasn’t her story to tell, some simply because she couldn’t find the words. 

To Petra’s knowledge, Gianna had made plans to run away with Rappaccini’s daughter and when the man refused her, had broken into his apartment. This led to a struggle which resulted in his accidental death. All technically true. The details she chose to keep vague for the time being, until she could be certain the professor was on their side, although she had a sneaking suspicion she knew more than she let on anyway.

Petra looked from Gianna to the visibly shaken young woman who was clinging to her side. “Who did him in?”

“I did,” said Gianna without a thought. She’d been mentally rehearsing her story while they waited. “He found out about me and Bea and made it very clear that he was willing to kill us both to stop it from happening. I freaked out and pushed him, and he fell. He was old and frail. It was an accident.”

She nodded along with the tale but her thoughts were plainly elsewhere. Gianna got the impression she didn’t entirely believe her. That was fine, as long as she didn’t press.

“Where is he?”

She let go of the breath she’d been holding. That, she could answer definitively. “In the garden. Under it, I guess.”

Another nod. “It’ll do. He was a shut-in; I doubt anyone will come looking for him. I assume anyone who knew him well enough also would know better than to investigate his disappearance too closely. I’ll keep an eye on things, just in case.”

It probably should’ve bothered Gianna how nonchalant she appeared about a former colleague’s murder, even one she had a bad history with. But truthfully she was just grateful Petra had agreed to all of this so easily. She had no desire to look too closely at her motivations.

Petra reached into her pocket and handed Gianna a slip of paper with an address written on it.

“My summer home,” she explained. “You can lay low there for a while.”

“Petra… thank you.”

“Thank you. You’ve done me the service of taking care of something I should have a long time ago. Maybe once the good doctor’s research is in ashes I’ll finally be able to sleep through the night.”

She said it lightly, but there was a grave seriousness in her eyes.

“Please, not the garden,” Beatrice said softly. She’d spoken little since they’d left the apartment and it was no wonder why. The gravity of her actions was now beginning to sink in, and that combined with leaving the safety and familiarity of her home for the first time in her life had put her in a state of shock. 

She never would truly regret laying Dr Rappaccini to rest, but the world did feel like a very different place without him in it.

“Is there any way you could get the plants to us once we’re there?”

“I’ll do my best, I can promise you that much.” She looked Beatrice up and down, really taking her in for the first time. “So you’re the ‘daughter.’”

“I am. I was.”

Dr Bagnol flexed her fingers around the handle of her cane, quietly contemplative. For the first time that Gianna had ever seen, she was unsure of what to say. “Did you ever… The other experiments, did they…?”

Beatrice inclined her head. Thankfully she needed no elaboration. “My father told me some. He said there were others before me, my sisters, but that they were imperfect and didn’t survive more than a few weeks. Your name’s Dr Bagnol, isn’t it? He spoke about you too, once or twice I think. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time.” She hesitated. “They’re happy now, if it helps. I never met them while they were alive but they talk to me through the flowers, though I can’t always understand them. My father didn’t believe me when I told him. There were a lot of things he didn’t believe in.”

The woman hummed in acknowledgment. “It’s a pretty unbelievable story. But I’ve dared to put my faith in plenty of strange ideas and often I’ve been right. For better or for worse.”

Petra gestured to the open car door and handed Gianna the keys. 

“You’d better get moving.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I’ve got things to take care of here, the sooner the better. Don’t worry about the car. It’s the least I can do.” Her gaze lingered on Beatrice. “I’ve missed a lot of birthdays.”

They packed their bags into the trunk and Gianna settled into the driver’s seat. Catching the other’s anxious look she assured her, “We’ll go slow.”

“You may not have that luxury,” Petra said with the certainty of someone who had made her own share of narrow escapes. She rapped her knuckles on the hood of the car. “Go now and don’t stop until you’re across the state line.”

Nodding grimly Gianna spared one last look to the older woman: her co-conspirator, her mentor, her friend. “Thank you.”

They drove, and little by little New York retreated in the rear view until it blipped out of existence, a vanishing dream. Gianna would’ve liked to say she was sorry to leave it behind but in reality, the city wasn’t her home. It wasn’t her tiny apartment with the glitchy kitchen light and plastered over vintage moulding, nor even the house in the suburbs where her parents still lived, blissfully unaware of their daughter’s doings. 

To her, home was an ephemeral thing, the stops on the way to a destination that was always changing. Beatrice on the other hand had only known one home all her life, one which may never exist for her again, at least not in the same way it had. 

Yet when Gianna dropped one hand from the wheel and reached for her, she slotted her fingers between hers with no hesitation, only a trembling sigh as she continued to familiarize herself with the skin-to-skin contact. That too, Gianna thought, could be home. If nothing else, she could try and make it one for her.

A few hours passed with fewer words spoken between them. Sometimes she would ask Beatrice if she was hungry or feeling motion sick or if she wanted to try lying down in the back to get some rest, and each time she would answer with a polite shake of the head. The night settled over them like a deep blue linen, too gentle and frail to risk tearing with clumsy words.

The quiet wasn’t a bother to either of them. If talk is cheap then the clasping of hands and the soft kisses pressed to wrists and knuckles was a language that had cost them dearly.

Nearing their destination, Gianna pulled onto a sideroad that took them from asphalt to dirt and gravel to nothing as it came to an abrupt dead end. There was no house or even any helpful landmarks to be found, just grass and trees, so they parked the car to have a look around while Gianna fiddled with the GPS.

Beatrice stepped out into the field and filled her lungs, cautiously at first, and then in deep lusty breaths like a drowning body coming up for air. She shucked off her shoes and hiked up her dress to let the wild grass brush against her legs. The new plantlife turned brittle and curled away from her touch but she didn’t mind.

Gianna turned to find her partner lying in the middle of the field, heels digging into the dirt like she was trying to put down roots, and laughing giddily. The unrestrained, childlike joy on her face was contagious and Gianna soon found herself giggling as well.

“Having fun?” 

“Oh it’s so weird,” she hiccuped. “There aren’t any walls. There aren’t even any buildings. It just goes on and on forever.”

She sat down in the grass next to her. “It’s not too overwhelming?”

“It is, but in a good way. It’s so… so much more than I thought it would be from books and pictures. It feels like a dream.”

“Describe it to me,” she said.

Beatrice sat herself upright and curled into Gianna’s embrace.

“It’s not the same as being in my garden. These plants don’t speak to me, and I can feel them but I don’t know them, if that makes any sense. You can’t feel them at all, can you?”

“No. Whatever you gave me… I don’t know, maybe it just doesn’t work that way.”

She tried not to look disappointed. Being able to touch, to be beside one another like this and not have to worry should have been enough. It was enough. But Gianna was beginning to understand that Beatrice’s loneliness was a vein that ran deeper than the more obvious isolation she experienced. 

As Dr Rappaccini himself had alluded to, she was one of a kind. To Gianna, that just made her all the more amazing, but to Beatrice it was a curse. More than anything, maybe more than to be loved, she longed to be understood. 

“Wish your superpowers could help us find this stupid house,” Gianna remarked.

Beatrice perked up. “Actually, I think it’s just on the other side of those trees.”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t really know how to explain it but there’s this absence. Like, a blank space. Things are growing around it but in that space,” She made the shape of a square with her hands. “Nothing.”

Gianna stood up and brushed herself off. “Well let’s take a look then.”

Sure enough, the path picked up again on the other side of a small thicket and led them to the house-- more of a cabin really. Although the outside was just as overgrown from the years of neglect, aside from some dust and cobwebs the interior was remarkably well preserved. In a closet they found a broom and dustpan, some rags, and a bottle with an inch or so of cleaner still swishing around at the bottom. They also happened upon spare linens and an abandoned down comforter that had been tucked aside for a rare chilly day, blessedly free of grime. 

The weather was still plenty warm so they opened all the windows and aired out the rooms and when Gianna was confident no spiders would crawl into her mouth while they were sleeping, she bid Beatrice join her under the duvet. There they dreamed with nothing but that big comforter between them and the night air. That was how they stayed until the morning.

For weeks they lived like this, playacting the roles of the two happy honeymooners. They got up, worked on cleaning up the house, cooked, ate, went to bed, and occasionally slept. It was a strange dance, one whose steps they made up as they went along. And sometimes they fell out of step. 

Gianna had to go into town sometimes, to walk in the all too human places Beatrice still feared to tread and come back with supplies and dinner and a new book for her to read. It was nice, Beatrice thought, to be cared for in little ways like that, but though she gratefully accepted the gifts they also tended to remind her that when it came down to it, not very much had changed.

Her dictatorial father was gone, but so was her garden, her petaled elder sisters whom she cared for and cared for her in turn. The doors were all unlocked now, but many days she found herself lurking in the thresholds listening for the sound of tires crunching on leaflitter. In those interrums, she was as alone as she’d ever been.

When Gianna was there though, all was lovely. She gave her things she never imagined she would have-- at least not so freely, certainly not multiple times in one night. But in the wake of her affection a sick fretful feeling would open up like a chasm in her chest, taunting her as it ripped her in two, “Don’t you know how to be alive without trailing at someone’s heel?”

Its presence, this nebulous worry, dogged her day by day. In the small hours, while her girlfriend slept, Beatrice lay awake trying to trace the shape of this shadow that darkened the edges of her newfound happiness. 

“Bea? You okay?”

She was standing outside in the grass, near the woods that surrounded the cabin. She liked to be here. Wandering too far made her nervous so she had to devise more creative ways to explore the world that was now open to her. Often she came here to test the reach of her awareness, feeling her way through the landscape as if with a phantom limb. 

However Gianna found it a little unnerving to watch her girlfriend standing and staring into space for hours on end and typically only joined her when it had been long enough for her to get worried.

Beatrice blinked and rolled her neck experimentally. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She put a hand on her shoulder. “Dinner’s ready.”

They twined their arms together as they walked the beaten path back to the house. It was times like this that she felt she could forget her concerns and just enjoy the present moment. Whatever came next, she wanted to have as many moments like that as she could.

--

next chapter

[whumpinggrounds]

Febuwhump Day 6: Insomnia

notes that probably no one is reading but i am putting in anyway:

- this little drabble thingy takes place before all of my other febuwhump writing, so Mara is telling the truth about not having seen Jude.

-Jamie is very important and also i love her :)

CW: nothing i can think of!

Jamie’s not exactly beautiful. It takes a long time for most people to figure that out, because she’s so striking, but Mara was with Jamie long enough to know. It’s not the nicest train of thought, and Mara knows she should be better than this, but when she’s feeling small and mean, she can’t resist. And now that Jamie’s texting her for the first time in months, Mara gives in to her bitchy little worst impulse, pulls up the contact photo, and looks with critical eyes.

It’s the hair that does most of the work. Jamie’s hair is red, red, red. Not orange or strawberry blonde or even auburn; Jamie’s hair is red like no one’s ever seen. The color is true and deep and absolutely natural, and the long wavy locks are so long they almost reach her waist. Jamie looks like the photo on a box of dye at a CVS. People stop her on the street sometimes to ask what she does to it. Poor shy Jamie hates that, keeps her hair tied up in a bun or a braid almost always. It’s still impossible to ignore. It still makes people turn their heads when Jamie walks by; it’s the kind of thing that convinces strangers she’s absolutely stunning. They’re not wrong, because the hair itself is stunning, it’s just that once you get past the hair, Mara knows, Jamie is just sort of…plain. Nothing hideous, but nothing special either. Her eyes are nice enough. Blue. But her nose is kind of hooked at the end, and her skin is sort of sallow. She’s skinny. Not much else to her.

And, and, and there’s nothing wrong with her, of course, but she’s not as pretty as everyone thinks. Mara concludes it all over again after staring into the familiar smiling face on her screen, and the knowing soothes some bitterness deep in her chest. It’s not nice, thinking these things. It’s not right. But it brings Mara some small, vicious satisfaction, which she tells herself she’s earned.

It also takes her mind off the contents of Jamie’s text, if only for a little while.

Hey, have you heard from Jude at all lately?

There are a thousand different replies itching in Mara’s fingers. No, I haven’t fucking heard from Jude. You know we haven’t spoken in months. I kind of think you know why, too, and if you cared about me at all you would tell me what’s going ON.

That’s when Mara’s thoughts turn pathetic, as they always do. Something. Anything. Please god just tell me anything. If it got her some answers, she wouldn’t even care about how pitiful she sounded.

Mara growls, throws her phone at the couch.

Okay, so maybe she’d care.

Okay, so maybe what’s most tempting of all is a clean, simple, fuck off.

It takes a good few minutes of careful breathing before Mara is ready to let that one go.

All of that is anger, of course. Anger that would feel so, so good to express, to spit right out at Jamie – but beneath the anger there’s worry. A creeping fear. Why is Jamie asking her if she’s heard from Jude? Mara wants to believe that Jamie is insecure about Jude coming back to Mara, but…but what if it’s something worse? They’re in a dangerous line of work. Jude could be shortsighted, could be reckless. Anger is one thing, but the worry on its heels is a different monster altogether. It occupies Mara’s thoughts.

It’s not Mara’s business anymore, is it? She and Jude broke up. They haven’t spoken in months. If Jamie and Jude are so close now, then let Jamie worry about it. Let Jamie figure it out. It sounds great, in theory, just letting it go and moving on.

But Mara can’t. Letting go lasts as long as Mara can distract herself with cooking dinner and reviewing session notes and showering, but when she lies down to sleep, there’s no escape. When she lies down to sleep, Mara is left staring at the ceiling, obsessing over that text.

She’s had trouble sleeping since high school. Mara has a routine she sticks to religiously, one of those things that doctors swear will prevent this kind of night. Sometimes, though, even putting down her phone and reading a book and listening to soft music isn’t enough. Sometimes, Mara is left staring at the ceiling, well past midnight, thinking about Jamie, thinking about Jude.

Jamie thinks Jude might be with Mara, or at least talking to her. Does that mean something? Does that mean Mara might get an explanation, or to see Jude again? Is Jamie jealous? The bitter, mean part of Mara hopes so. The bigger part of Mara just wants to get some sleep, because her head is fuzzy and her eyes are stinging from continually swiping open to the white glare of her phone.

But no sleep comes.

It’s a little past 1 am when she finally can’t resist anymore, when she finally replies, and if Jamie reads something into Mara’s timing, well, fine.

No.

Jamie writes back within minutes, even though Mara knows she usually goes to sleep early. Nothing?

That’s what no means, Jamie.

Sorry.

The little gray dots pop up, disappear, pop up, disappear. Mara stares at them with morbid fascination. It just keeps getting later, and somehow, she’s never felt less tired. Her eyes burn from staring at the screen, but her mind is buzzing, buzzing. The text comes in. I’m just worried. We haven’t seen her around here for a while.

That makes Mara swallow hard. She flops back against her pillow, thoughts racing overtime. How long is a while? What kind of work do they have Jude doing, anyway? She’s supposed to be helping rescues in safehouses. That’s it. They all know she’s too impulsive for much else, likely to get caught in a fight or shoot her mouth off when she really shouldn’t. Goddamn stupid, impulsive, beautiful righteous Jude.

Mara finds herself on her feet pacing tight circles around her apartment. She’s been so good for so long, keeping all those stray thoughts of her ex out of her head. Now they overwhelm her – Jude’s eagerness, her bright eyes, her godawful sense of navigation, the dimple in her left cheek. Lib work is dangerous, no matter what way you spin it, so what does we haven’t seen her in a while fucking mean? Mara’s been angry and she’s been hurt, and it’s been brewing for months, but when she’s confronted with the idea of Jude in trouble, all that disappears. When she’s confronted with the thought of Jude in danger, all the fight drains out of her as neatly as a glass tipped on its side. Her knees feel weak, and she sits down on the bed again. Jude. If Mara was with her, things would be different. If Mara just knew where she was, could keep an eye on her…

Mara keeps staring at the unhelpful little words on the screen as if they’ll relent and change into something different, better, something that can give her peace of mind. Nothing changes, and she sets her jaw and forces a response, because she’s angry and afraid and she can’t just leave it there, not knowing.

Well, what happened? Aren’t you looking out for her?

I am.

Almost immediately afterwards, I mean, we are. Whatever. Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?

We are. Mara snorts darkly as she reads that, Jamie’s poor attempt at acting innocent. Sure, Jude has other friends, but Jamie is something else. Something more. Jamie is the reason Jude broke up with her. Mara knows it, even if no one will admit anything outright.

Hand coming up to scrub against her temple, Mara heaves out a sigh, and with it, forces down all the toxic, confused fury she wants to spit through the phone screen. When the anger abates, she feels suddenly exhausted, and more than a little afraid.

She reads the text again, focuses on the important part. Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?

Sighing, Mara taps out a response. Yeah. Try to keep her safe, okay?

Another almost instant response. I will.

Anger can’t be long denied, and upon seeing Jamie’s text, it bubbles back up under Mara’s skin. Really? Really, Jamie thinks that she can look after Jude? Mara and Jude dated for a year with no problem, and then as soon as Jamie entered the picture, things went south. Now that it’s just Jamie and Jude, things have gone to shit. So a promise from her doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot.

Mara taps out a message but never sends it, even though she hardly sleeps two hours that night. Time drags by, and she tries to distract herself on the Internet, but over and over she clicks back to her conversation with Jamie, to read the words she wants to send but knows she shouldn’t.

Really, Jamie? You’ll keep her safe? Because it doesn’t sound like you’re doing a very good job.

[harrowscore]

Mikasa Ackermann, Levi Ackermann, Amane Misa, Aeron Greyjoy for the charactet ask :3

SOMEONE HEARD MY PRAYERS AND NOW MY TIME HAS COME, tysm!!!!! <3

okay, let's start with levi (my beloved):

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life (THEE little feral anime man after my heart)

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang (Dark, Tall and Snarky + piercing grey-blue eyes and chronic insomnia? clearly my type ❤)

hogwarts house: gryffindor (maybe....?) | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

ugh, the hp sorting house system is way too reductive. he has qualities of gryffindor, slytherin, and hufflepuff - brave, astute, loyal to a fault, etc. so it's a hard choice. but if i really have to choose, i'd go for gryffindor. i know that his Bad Boy facade shouts slytherin, but while he has larger goals (killing all the titans, then saving the world etc.), he's got no actual ambition for himself. hufflepuff would also be a good option.

daemon (from the his dark materials series): (because i've just decided that's just way more accurate than the hp method) some kind of big feline. maybe a panther - a black panther would be the ideal - aloof, predatory, dangerous, fiercely independent.

best quality: besides his obvious strenghts as a leader and warrior, the way he cares for his comrades-in-arms. it's very hard to gain his trust and respect, but once you have it, it's forever. he's pragmatic and ruthless, yes, but he also has a huge capacity for compassion and friendship. not that he would be effusive about his affections, of course.

worst quality: none, he's absolutely perfect ❤ jklsdfhjk jokes aside, he really struggles to open up (a serious understatement), idt he ever talked about his traumatic past with anyone. i mean, maybe he mentioned it to hange and erwin (erwin knew him when he was still an undergound thug, so...), but... he's not great with feelings. despite his apathetic, intimidating mask, he feels and cares deeply, but he has a long history with losing the people he loves, so he tries to not personally care about his squadmates, which can be both a strenght and a weakness. of course, he spectacularly fails at this.

ship them with: well, it's not a secret that i'm a huge rivamika fan, this ship is almost literally consuming my waking thoughts lmao. imo they're perfectly compatible: very similar personalities (stoic, the strongest warriors, absolutely terrifying on the battlefield but with a soft underbelly), very similar pasts/experiences, so many parallels that it's actually ridiculous, etc. i love how they're both each other's equals and likeness (yes, i took it from jane eyre. no, i don't regret anything lmao). a lot of tropes i love, too: Terrible First Impression (the Pride and Prejudice vibes are so strong with these two, you have no idea), Kindred Spirits/Mirror Images, Veteran/Young Prodigy, The Last of Their Kind, even Height Difference lmao. i could write a whole rivamika manifesto, but this is already too long. (maybe for some other time 👀) i would've loved for their dynamic to be more explored in canon but alas, isayama clearly didn't give a shit about the ackerman legacy, he just used it as a plot shortcut to give them conveniently unique powers, since they never really talked about it 🙄 (and before some troll comes into my askbox shouting "you iNcEsT fReAk!!!!1!!", they're only very distantly related. we know shit about the ackermans but we know for sure that they've got at least several generations between them. biologically their shared DNA is 0%, obviously they don't see each other as family, all the eldians have a dead ass common ancestor from 2000 years ago so they're all basically ⁓related anyway. if you really wanna scream about i.ncest, go watch got/dark/the borgias and shut the fuck up please. or alternatively go outside and touch some grass) sorry for the rant, uh. anyway, i can also see levi/erwin. idk if i'd ever care enough to read a fic about them (i'm usually a huge multishipper, but for some weird reason not when it comes to rivamika? same with braime and kastle tbh), but still, i can see it.

brotp them with: hange and erwin, obv. veteran trio >>> ema trio, sorry not sorry (at least h. and e. died before yams had the chance to ruin their character arcs)

needs to stay away from: ...uh, filth, i guess? lmao

misc. thoughts: besides the stupid teenage fangirl crush i have on him, i'm genuinely fascinated by the man himself. he's a huge mess of a contradictions, and yet somehow it works: he's violent and brash and kind of an asshole, but also has a strong moral code and integrity; he's obv very skilled at all the killing/torturing stuff and yet he has a huge respect for life; he's got a potty mouth to say the least, and yet some very aristocratic manners/tastes (the way he sits, his preference for tea and usually refined clothes); he comes from what's supposed to be an illustrous bloodline, he's methodical and very precise, and yet he was born and raised in the underground, he's been used to filth and blood and poverty since he was a child, kenny of all people was his father figure, and probably has known no other life than a perennial survival mode existence. he's "humanity's strongest soldier", but while well-built he's also small, the david to the titans' goliah, and probably not what people would assume a born warrior looks like. he's also one of the few characters who stayed true to himself and his original characterization until the end, bless you smol king ❤

(okay, this is getting long!)

mikasa:

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them (so much. she deserved better ❤️) | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! (stunning lady ❤) | 10/10 would bang

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

this is actually easy: mikasa belongs to hufflepuff and no, i won't take criticism (just joking lol). enough with this "hufflepuffs are fluffy puppies/Cinnamon Rolls <3" thing: mikasa values loyalty and duty more than anything else. she's also hardworking... and fierce, strong, lethal. yes, hufflepuff and lethal are not mutually exclusive concepts.

daemon: (finally the better option) a she-wolf, fiercely protective of her pack.

best quality: loyal, brave, incredibly strong (alongside her more fragile qualities). practical and level-headed on the battlefield, at least when eren is not included in the picture.

worst quality: struggles to let go of the past (understandable, considering her trauma). tunnel-vision when it comes to eren, obv. extreme levels of delusions ("if only i spoke openly about my romantic feelings for him - as if i didn't made them abundantly clear in ⁓6 years - he wouldn't kill 80% of humanity :(((" lmao okay. just. okay), but that's more on the writing. she's sadly more static than any other main character throughtout the whole series.

ship them with: see above :) but recently i've also started to be intrigued by mikasa/annie and mikasa/sasha. also, i'm sympathetic to jeankasa fans, though i don't actually care for the ship.

brotp them with: EMA trio, especially armin+mikasa. their friendship is so beautiful and special. also sasha.

needs to stay away from: ...... eren, at least romantically. again, that's more on the writing than anything else, but e.remika unfortunately encompasses many tropes i loathe with all the strength of my old shriveled heart: childhood friends-to lovers where the (male) childhood friend doesn't acknolewdge/is completely indifferent to the other (female) friend's romantic feelings, she hopelessly pines for him for years without anything more than a cold shoulder... until in the last chapter it's revealed that he loved her all along and doesn't "want other men to have her!!! :((" (then why did you have no reaction whatsoever to jean's years-long crush on her while she was jealous of any vaguely female-shaped human being you were friendly to, including hange? are you that dumb, man?); the female character's development and entire arc 100% revolves around the male protagonist - she has no goals, no dreams of her own except staying with him forever and ever; the romance is based on an idealized childhood dream, therefore reaffirming those childish illusions would make the character regress, not actually grow up (and nope, epilogue!jk doesn’t count; that also lacks build-up - i would’ve said the same about rm as well, so it’s not about shipping, guys, it really isn’t - and mikasa needed an inner change; getting married to another man but still praying to eren’s shrine is not substitute to actual development lol). post-time skip she's never really frustrated/angry with him, they never get a confrontation about him becoming a, y'know, mass-murderer of gigantic (pun intended) proportions; she puts him on a pedestal, and never stops idealizing him/never sees him for what he actually is (the narrative framing him as some kind of tragic martyr/saint eren from paradis with zero agency and basically... no clear motivation for the abovementioned mass murder, and not the actual complex tragic anti-hero/villain motivated by revenge and righteous fury he deserved to be, does not help). it lacks a good or even decent build-up - it's basically all tell and not show. now, if they'd actually been childhood friends to enemies to lovers/mutually co-dependent... it could have been interesting. sadly, it's not my cup of tea. of course this is just my personal preference, no hard feelings to the shippers.

misc. thoughts: enormous potential. she's been my fav female character since s1 - and ah, i miss s1!mikasa, when she had actually other stuff to do besides mothering eren. i love that she's the strongest warrior (second only to levi, obv), that her skills are never called into questions despite her gender, i love how she stands up for herself and the people she loves, that she may seem cold and stoic and yet has a such a huge heart, that she's not perfect but also sometimes awe-inspiring. sadly, she never really gets out of eren's shadow; what she lacks is an arc focused on herself. that's why imo getting deeper into the ackerman lore would've helped (also, you cannot make the main female character and the most popular male character descend from the same Unique Bloodline or whatever, and never really make them acknowledge it out loud; as a writer, you just can't lol). my spite is so strong that i'm currently writing a ridiculously pretentious fic that's 70% development for her character, to give her a voice, and 30% ackerthirsting. (yes, that's the fic i'm always vagueblogging about lmao, rip @ my brain). if any other rivamika fan is interested… mind you, it’s in italian tho, and idt i have the skills to translate into english.

misa:

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

daemon: mmh, maybe some kind of butterfly? beautiful, colorful, and short-lived.

best quality: glorious fashion sense, more inventive and ingenious than fans actually give her credit for.

worst quality: shallow, impulsive, and obv her dependence on/obsession with light (which stems from trauma btw, but still… the very opposite of a relationship between equals).

ship them with: rem, kinda (monster/human ftw!). also weirdly enough mogi, a little bit? she deserves someone who actually respects her… though she’s far from being a perfect angel. she may actually be crazier than light on some aspects. but in this house we stan evil ladies anyway, so i have no problem with that <3

brotp them with: uh, idk, maybe matsuda?

needs to stay away from: obv light. also takada.

misc. thoughts: a tragic victim of sexist writing. she may be… unhinged to say the least, but she didn’t deserve the abuse she got from light (and from the fans). the female characters’ writing in dn is so bad that idk if it’s on purpose, to kinda mirror the reality of women in a patriarchal society (dependent on men, housewives whose life entirely revolves around their husband/boyfriend etc.), or just casual misogyny lol. it’s even more baffling since we don’t know the author’s gender (they may be a man, a woman, nb, anything really). i tend for the latter option tho.

aegon greyjoy (now, i wasn’t expecting him lol):

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

i’m so sorry, i haven’t the slightest idea lmao. maybe gryffindor? mind you, it’s been a long time since i’ve re-read the books, so i don’t have many thoughts about him.

daemon: maybe it’s cliché, but some kind of fish/squid lmao

best quality: ugh, i really can’t remember much from his chapters :(( he’s not a coward, i guess? (lame answer, sorry!)

worst quality: definitely his religious fanaticism.

ship them with: no one.

brotp them with: uh… his family, ig? except euron.

needs to stay away from: obv euron. brr ://

misc. thoughts: i genuinely like the greyjoys chapters, though i vastly prefer the martells (with the exception of theon and asha, bcs i love them). yes, they’re deranged. yes, victarion is… well, victarion lol. but the drowned god religion is actually interesting, grrm knows how to write trauma - every time aeron mentions euron and that freaking door i’m like… :// - and the tragedy of it all… just great writing all around.

okay, that’s the end lmao. thank you so much, love!!! ❤❤

[timotey]

Ficlet: Silhouettes

Dark Blue Kiss. PeteKao. For @inlovewithjdramas

What if that night, after the incident with Non, Kao came to Pete’s house instead of going home?

💘.💘.💘

When Pete opens the door, Kao’s standing there, looking a little forlorn with his head bent and his bag dangling from his hand, its bottom brushing against the ground. Pete feels a painful pang in his chest but he hardens his heart against anything but anger.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps at his ex-boyfriend, barring the doorway and not letting him in.

Kao looks up at him; his eyes are reddened and glassy. “Pete,” he says quietly. “Can I--”

But Pete doesn’t let him finish. “Wasn’t I clear enough? I’m not interested in hearing any more lies. We’re done!” His voice is harsh and unforgiving and he firmly pushes down any regret he might feel at hearing himself talk like that to Kao. Kao deserves it. He does!

“Pete,” Kao says pleadingly. “I’m sorry--”

Kao’s apologies - all of them empty, meaningless - make the rage simmering in Pete’s chest burn hotter. He’s so furious he could choke on his feelings. His throat thickens so much he can’t get a single word out. He’s never felt so angry before, so betrayed.

He slams the door shut in Kao’s face.

And then he stands there, leaning against the door with his hands and his forehead, just breathing deeply to get himself back under control. Breathing - and listening. Listening for retreating footsteps… or maybe for another knock. But he would never admit that to anyone. He hears nothing, though.

When he finally turns around, his father is standing in the open doorway leading deeper into the house. The expression on his face makes Pete’s chest clench a little. He hates seeing that look on his dad’s face. It’s been so long since the last time his father looked at him like that - with disappointment. 

“What?” Pete asks, probably with more belligerence than he should, considering.

Pon stares at him a moment longer, then he says softly, “Are you sure this is what you want, son? This is how you want it to end?”

“Yes!” Pete states without hesitating, without thinking, really. Because it is. This is what he wants. It is. 

Sighing, Pon shakes his head, then he grabs his wallet and his car keys and heads for the door.

“What are you doing?” Pete asks him, confused.

Pon stops with his hand on the door knob and looks at him. “I’m going to drive the boy home, at least. It’s late.”

Pete frowns, annoyed now. “I am your son, dad. Me, not him.” They used to joke about this. Before. Now, it’s not a joke to Pete anymore. His father should be on his side, always! Especially when Pete’s in the right.

Sighing again, Pon says, “I realize that, Pete. And I love you. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.” He pauses before continuing as if to make sure that Pete’s truly listening to him. “And that’s why I worry that one day, you will regret your decision to break up with Kao.”

I won’t, Pete wants to blurt out. But he doesn’t. He clenches his teeth hard to stop himself from saying anything. When he pushes his anger aside, which is not easy, he realizes that his father only wants what’s best for him. Always.

“You look the happiest I’ve ever seen you when you’re with him,” Pon continues in his kind voice. “And whatever that boy’s faults, whatever he did wrong, Kao loves you very much. And I think you do know that.”

Pete looks away. It’s not true. He doesn’t know that Kao loves him. If Kao loved him, he wouldn’t have lied to him. He would’ve responded to his messages. He wouldn’t have chosen that bastard Non over him. 

But he didn’t, did he? the tiny voice at the back of his mind whispers to him. Kao didn’t choose Non over Pete. The whole issue with Non’s never been about that. Not from Kao’s point of view, at least. Kao only wanted to help his family and at some point, everything just got out of hand, very much thanks to Non’s meddling. 

Damn it!

Taking a deep breath and then letting it out again, Pete reaches out and grabs the keys out of his dad’s hand. “I will drive him home,” he grumbles.

Pon just smiles at him in approval and steps aside.

When Pete walks out of the door, Kao’s nowhere to be seen. The driveway is very dark; the warm yellow light from the lamps by the door can’t reach past the bushes lining the way. The night is almost entirely silent, the hum of the traffic nearby is just a soft background noise.

Pete jogs towards his dad’s car, hoping to catch Kao before he reaches the bus stop down the street; there’s little chance he could catch a cab around here this late at night. He starts the car and the bright glare of the headlights floods the driveway. Then he reaches for the seat belt--

And he stops. 

Because there he is, Kao, sitting on the concrete edge of the raised flower bed just a few steps away. He’s sitting there with his shoulders slumped and his head down and his bag is lying on the ground between his feet, its strap dropped from his hand. And now he’s looking away, rubbing at his face with the back of his wrist, wiping away his…

Pete sits there and simply stares at Kao through the windshield, stunned. Kao is crying. In the three years that they’ve been together, Pete’s never seen Kao cry. Not once. He’s seen him sad when they fought and even slightly misty-eyed but he’s never seen him cry. He doesn’t know what to do, what to think, what… The only thing he does know is that it’s making his heart ache.

Pete lets go of the seat belt and turns off the car’s engine. Darkness replaces light, swallowing both the driveway and Kao. Slowly, Pete gets out of the car and shuts the door with a soft click. Then he walks up the paved way towards where Kao is sitting and stops only a few feet away. 

For a moment, Pete stands there awkwardly and listens to Kao’s hitching breath, staring at his silhouette in the darkness. Then, in a voice much less belligerent than before, he asks, “What are you doing here?” 

Now he truly means his question. Because Kao came to his house in the middle of the night, despite their apparent break-up earlier that evening, and he’s been crying. Because when Pete pushes aside his anger, resentment and frustration, he finds Kao’s late night visit odd and disconcerting. Worrying.

After a moment, Kao takes a raspy breath and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything, Pete. I’m sorry that I lied to you and I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you about Non. I made such a mess of things and I’m so very sorry…”

Pete isn’t sure how to react, what to say or do. He wants to dismiss Kao’s words as more lies and empty phrases - but what was so easy before has become very hard now with Kao looking so miserable and unhappy and hurt. Pete’s righteous anger simmers down to almost nothing.

“Why did you lie to me, earlier today? About not seeing Non anymore?” he asks, giving Kao one last chance to explain, after all. The very last one. 

Vaguely, he sees Kao raise his head. “I didn’t,” Kao replies.

Pete feels his anger flare up again but he curbs it firmly because Kao seems genuinely confused. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I went to your house the other day and he was there, having dinner with you and your mom!” He can’t help his voice rising sharply at the end, though.

“He-he stopped by with a thank you gift from his father,” Kao explains. “Mom invited him in for dinner before I could say anything. But that was all, he ate with us and then he left.” He pauses, then adds hopefully, “You… came to me?”

Pete frowns at his slip-up. He didn’t want Kao to know he was willing to forgive him. That was then. He isn’t anymore. Or, is he? Is he? He doesn’t know. 

But since he already said that. “Yes. And I sent you text messages. You didn’t reply.” That last part sounds way too hurt, way too revealing. Damn it!

A pause. “I didn’t get any,” Kao says carefully.

“Bullshit,” Pete can’t help but snap.

“I really didn’t,” Kao insists.

Impossible. Unless… “Did Non have any access to your phone?” Pete did send those messages that evening when Non was there, at Kao’s house. Non’s hand in all this would explain everything.

“No,” Kao replies. Then he pauses, though. “Well… he asked if he could use my charger. I told him it was with my phone. But my phone is password protected.”

Pete sighs and rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Kao, your password is all nines. Your frickin’ name means ‘nine’!” For crying out loud, for someone so smart Kao can be really stupid sometimes. 

“Oh,” Kao whispers, lowering his head again.

All of a sudden, though, Pete’s heart feels lighter and his chest loosens up a little. He still wants to strangle Non - or at the very least punch him hard - but Kao did not ignore him on purpose, he wasn’t trying to punish Pete or get back on him. He honestly didn’t know. It makes him wonder where else he might find Non’s dirty fingerprints!

“So… you haven’t seen him since that night? Non, I mean?” Pete asks harshly, hoping against hope. But when Kao doesn’t answer immediately, his heart sinks again.

“I… I did see him tonight,” Kao replies quietly and maybe Pete’s mistaken, it’s hard to tell in the darkness, but he seems to curl up on himself.

The fury that seemed almost gone a moment ago now flares up again in Pete. He clenches his hands into fists and he’s about to snap at Kao, tell him to go to hell, then, but before he can do that, Kao continues and his voice is so soft that even in the quiet of the night he can barely be heard.

“His friend called me, told me that Non got drunk in a bar and there was no one to drive him home. That if nobody did, his dad would find out and…” His voice trails off.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me, Pete thinks and he wants to grab Kao and shake him. 

Kao goes on. “I brought him home and put him to bed and…” His breath hitches in his throat again, making him pause. “And then he started telling me how much he liked me. And when I told him I didn’t feel the same way, he grabbed me and dragged me to bed with him…”

Suddenly, all of Pete’s annoyance and frustration and irritation is gone, replaced with an unpleasant, cold feeling around his heart and pressure at the base of his throat that’s making it hard to breathe. No. Not even a brat like Non would do this, surely.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when Kao continues and says, “And then Non’s father came in and Non let me go. I was so scared I ran away. I didn’t even try to explain anything, I just... I ran away. I was so afraid. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I didn’t want mom to see me like this.” He trails off, his voice breaking at the end, and rubs at his nose.

When Pete realizes that Kao’s crying again, he reaches out without thinking and rests his hand on Kao’s bent head, stroking his hair lightly. “So you came here.” To me, Pete adds quietly. Kao was afraid and he sought out safety with him. Despite their differences, despite all the bad blood between them in the past weeks, deep down he was convinced he would be safe here.

Pete steps up to Kao, so close that his toes brush against Kao’s bag lying forgotten on the ground, and pulls Kao to him. Kao goes willingly, he buries his face in Pete’s chest and wraps his arms around Pete’s waist, and then he cries, whispering, “How did everything go so wrong? I only wanted to help my mom, help… Non. I’ve never wanted any of this. I swear. I swear I didn’t want to hurt you, I love you, Pete. I love you so much…”

Hearing those words, listening to Kao, Pete feels that his heart might burst. He strokes the back of Kao’s head and he wants to curl up around him and hide him from the world and protect him from all the bad things out there. He’s still a little angry at Kao for lying but he feels more willing to accept now that not all of this mess was Kao’s fault, that Non also played his part - and, well, he too, actually, as much as it rankles him to admit it.

“Alright,” Pete says softly, pulling Kao even closer. His own eyes sting a little and he must clear his throat before continuing. “Just… don’t do it again, okay? Don’t lie to me ever again, Kao, I mean it. I get that I’m not always easy to talk to,” he allows a little grumpily, “but… don’t ever go behind my back again, okay? I can take many things... just not lies.”

Kao nods quietly, hugging Pete tighter and Pete feels like he needs it, like he needs to be held because his knees feel a little weak and his head a little light, his relief is so profound. He just got back what he feared lost forever. It doesn’t seem real. 

“I feel a little nervous about what Non or his dad might do next,” Kao admits after a while. His voice is a little muffled by Pete’s shirt and he’s leaning against Pete, letting Pete carry his weight the way Pete’s always wanted.

Pete wraps his arms around Kao and reassures him softly, “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together. I’ll be there for you, I promise.”

Kao lifts his head from Pete’s chest and even in the night darkness, his eyes still glitter a little when he looks up at Pete and says with a smile in his voice, “Then we’ll be just fine.”

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

spn 15.14

now this is the late-season spn content i’m craving: an absurdly cheerful and superficial veneer over dark and abyssal horror. and it’s not horror in the universe-is-ending sort of way (tho that’s happening too, but eh, whatever, the characters aren’t too cut-up over it) but in the insidious way the show both indulges in and explicitly acknowledges the toxicity of its main relationships. it’s just a very fitting tone for the show to take, given reality’s kinda been similar for the last several years: increasingly aware that it’s irredeemably fucked up, but (mostly) carrying on all the same. 

spoilers ahead.

1. i can’t believe this is one of the first episodes i see after the eldritch-bunker fic i wrote. spn has never been about that kind of horror, but it was cool to see a little more of the bunker’s secrets revealed (tho wasn’t there a lockdown-type situation in s12? i think? the reset button could’ve come in real handy then.)

1.25. it’s still remarkable to me, though, that despite living out of the bunker for nearly seven years, samndean are... strangely incurious about how it works. i would’ve thought at least sam would want to explore and figure things out, though maybe gaining knowledge for knowledge’s sake has dropped very low on his list of priorities in the last several years, and he’s busy trying to conserve what little physical/mental energy he has. ‘research’ has always meant either trying to deal with the aftermath of an apocalyptic disaster or trying frantically to prevent another one, and i don’t suppose ‘looking at more supernatural shit’ is something sam would associate with pleasure or positivity now.

1.5. which is why it’s kind of a stroke of genius to have mrs butters represent the spirit of the bunker: samndean’s complacency as long as she took care of their needs without seeming to want anything of her own is very reminiscent of how they treat their alleged home. 

2. cuthbert sinclair cameo! man, i miss s8....

3. it’s kind of darkly hilarious how many times mary’s death was brought up in an episode where mrs butters fulfilled a fantasy-mother’s role. she is the idealised mother-figure: always kind, nurturing, giving and giving and never taking--in sharp contrast to their actual mother, who turned out to be a far more complicated person than the ones her sons had idealised. (if anything mary’s second death has sort of resurrected her as a martyr figure in dean’s eyes: something on which to hang his righteous fury.) it was bizarre, yet entirely fitting, that both samndean went along with it after 2.5 seconds of vague misgivings. hell, dean was prepared to let mrs butters capturing and threatening to kill jack go if it meant that she could keep taking care of them!

3.5. of course mrs butters then turned out to be dangerous and twisted--but not because of any inherent nature but because she had been tortured and brainwashed into fulfilling a role ‘in the family’ by men whom she still pined after at the end of the episode. like. OH MY GOD.

if things couldn’t get more explicit, the episode had sam be the only one to acknowledge and empathise with mrs butters, yet accept her tragic and twisted devotion to the MOL as benign and even adorable at the end of episode anyway. why wouldn’t he? his own edges have been at first chiseled away, then inelegantly lopped off, to fit the Winchester Ideal--something that he’s learned not to get angry about, then to be grateful for. this episode even juxtaposes mrs butters talking about pain ‘being a wonderful teacher’ while torturing sam with dean going ‘pain is just weakness leaving your body’ to jack: these are lessons about needing to be in pain in the service of a higher, correct goal.

this is why late-season spn is both exciting and drives me up the fucking wall.

3.8. dean’s disappointment when he said ‘of course you had to pull a ratched’ gave me chills. there is not one iota of effort from him to acknowledge the atrocity that has been committed on mrs butters, one that he was more than happy to exploit. sam is a bit better, but only just. 

4. i haven’t even been watching the last few seasons regularly and i feel like this debate over jack being a ‘monster’ has been rehashed way too many times already. what would be more interesting to acknowledge is the way samndean treat him like a weapon rather than the kid they keep professing he is. even in that confrontation with mrs butters, while sam at least talked about jack being a kid who’s gone through too much already, dean could only come up with ‘he’s going to save the world’. mrs butters even leaves with a ‘you save the world’ to jack rather than anything more intimate/personal. what a terrible burden to leave on this kid! what a terrible way to re-enact the tragedies that shaped samndean into the twisted, fucked-up men that they are on this being that’s only ever existed to win their approval!

i really feel like sam had an opportunity to at least try and make things right at the end of the episode, when jack confesses his self-doubt to him. but he blew it: all he could say was, ‘you’re the only one who can do it’. sam, bless him, continues to fail to stand up for jack, which means, for all his good intentions and love, he continues to fail jack.

5. i’ve noticed that lately when i write these reviews, i write ‘samndean’ a lot--it’s because they often act as one entity, existing with seemingly no conflict between them. on one level, it’s boring and--no no. on the same level, it’s downright fucking chilling. dean makes the decisions, and sam makes a weak, token protest, but goes along with a shake of his head and a soft smile. he doesn’t get angry anymore. he hasn’t stood up for himself in a good long while. 

can they fight again, maybe? brotherly conflict doesn’t have to lead to a straight line to fratricide, but it would be nice to be reminded, before the end, that sam and dean have distinct personalities.

6. it’s just really hard to square the winchesters’ discomfort and then visceral opposition to the way the british men of letters operated with their casual acceptance of the exploitative, unethical and elitist legacy that the american men of letters left them. it’s hard to take any of their numerous. numerous conversations about how monsters are people too over the last decade and a half seriously when they’re happily taking advantage of a ‘monster radar’ to go and lop the heads of monsters who haven’t even done anything to deserve being hunted (that poor vampire kid was pouring a blood bag into his giant soda cup! he didn’t deserve to die like that!). the romanticisation of supernatural being about roadtripping across small-town america while hunting supernatural monsters is laughable when its heroes spend all their time holed up in a gigantic luxury bunker built centuries ago by a bunch of rich, secretive assholes. it’s baffling to be told that sam and dean can barely take care of themselves when they’ve spent all their lives taking care of themselves (with a bit of ‘oh boys will be boys’ casual sexism thrown in).

why would you undermine your legacy like this, show? is this how sam and dean are going to end? 

[charlieism]

The Horror Of Staying Alive

AU where Owen murders Curt in their final confrontation on that staircase.

Read on AO3!

Excerpt: This is the end result of all Owen's suffering, plotting and patience; this is the ideal outcome; this is the plan gone right. Owen should be celebrating, or fizzing with joy, or at the very least feeling vaguely relieved or successful.

So why does he feel numb, staring at the mess of splayed limbs and the steadily increasing puddle of blood on the floor at the bottom of the stairs?

It's an awfully familiar sight.

--

"Taking your advice," Curt says, and takes a step closer, the barrel of his gun lining up perfectly with the centre of Owen's forehead exactly the way Owen knows he was trained to do. Owen... Owen didn't expect that, actually. For a second he suddenly thinks that perhaps Curt has changed, in those four long, painful, bitter years apart. Owen, it appears, is no longer one step ahead. Curt has taken the lead; his grip is steady on the gun even as his hand trembles, his eyes are staring directly into Owen's as if he's trying to burn their exact shape into his memory (Owen never forgot what Curt's eyes looked like; they haven't changed at all, they're just shining with some unfamiliar emotion now) and Owen barely has time to tense as Curt's fingers tighten on the gun until his knuckles fade to white. Owen prepares himself for the pull of the trigger—for a scarlet flash of blood and brain he won't be alive long enough to see—and keeps his eyes open. He can't bring himself to look away from the American agent. He hates him so much, rage burns like molten rock behind his ribs just at the sight of the man, of the bastard who is responsible for all Owen's pain and suffering and agony these last four years. The scars of old injuries burn and the phantom ache of long-broken bones resurface, just from looking at the person who broke Owen's heart by leaving him equally as broken under that fucking staircase.

Owen thinks there's probably poetry in the fact that their final confrontation is also on a set of stairs. He's probably meant to see it as some grand metaphor, or whatever. Mostly he just hates it. Hates everything. Hates this entire shitty situation. Hates the fact that Curt's about to kill him—is this really how his story ends? He just hates Curt. Hates him more than he's ever hated anything in his soon-to-be-over life. Hates the fact that he can't tear his eyes away from Curt's gaze, even as he hears his shaky inhale, even as the gun trigger practically creaks. Hates the waiting, why the fuck is it taking so long? Owen doesn't want to die, but his brain should've been blown out seconds ago. Curt is hesitating, taking too long to act. Owen knows the other man is four years out of practice, but this is just sloppy.

His eyes flicker down to Curt's grip on the gun of their own accord. It's... shakier, than it was before. Less sure. He looks back up, and Curt's eyes are suddenly brimming with unshed tears.

"Damn it," the American grits out through clenched teeth, and... huh.

It seems that personal history truly does have its benefits.

 Owen's always been the better spy. He sees an opportunity, he snatches it without even having to think about it; that's what MI6 and Chimera have trained him to do. Moments before Curt's resolve can return and his handle on the gun can strengthen, before he can shoot the killing bullet, Owen darts forward. He grapples with the gun, twisting it from Curt's fingers with a cry of pain and shock from the other spy and yanking it towards himself, effortlessly spinning it and levelling it at Curt's head (not his heart, this time. If there was poetry in that one, Owen wants it ripped up, shredded, burned, and never ever read). Owen takes another step back, rising to a higher level than the other spy. There's probably also something metaphorically important there; he couldn't give less of a shit right now. He's too focused on Curt's reaction.

Curt's hand is still outstretched, but he pulls it back to cradle his fingers. He's still staring at Owen, those infuriatingly familiar eyes wide and swirling with emotion. Even after all these years Owen can read him like a book. Curt's surprised, angry, intensely sad (heartbroken, pipes up a little voice in Owen's head that he always ignores), and... something else. Something flat, and tired, and aching.

Acceptance, Owen realises.

Resignation.

"You almost got me, old boy," Owen automatically forces a cocky laugh, trying to recover the situation with blustery bravado and his confident persona. "But, alas, I'm still the better spy."

"You always were," Curt whispers softly, sadly, and— Owen's almost confused. The Curt Mega he knows would never have admitted that.

"Glad to see you finally realise it, at the end of your life," Owen spits. Curt just watches him. Owen frowns, shifts, tightens his grip on the gun. "What, no fancy last words? No last witty retort from the great Agent Curt Mega?" he sneers. He's not— unsettled, he's just... well, the plan is back on track, but the situation was derailed for a moment there and he just needs to get back to grips.

"I kind of already gave my heartfelt speech back there," Curt says, "and it did nothing. And you already got my gun back, so really, what else can I do? How can I convince you to stop?" he asks, and his tone turns pleading, begging. It's satisfying to hear. It's not enough.

"I'll never stop. I'm going to fix this corrupt shithole of a world, and I'm going to start with you." Owen hisses. Curt opens his mouth as if he's about to argue (typical, predictable), but then he just... stops. Closes his mouth. And then closes his eyes.

 Owen doesn't like that at all. It's the first time Curt's broken eye contact since he batted the British man's gun away. Owen doesn't know why but it irks him, tugs something sharp and vicious loose in his chest.

"Don't you get it, you idiot? I'm going to kill you!" he rampages, fury bracing his voice with steel. It works, though, as Curt's eyes flutter open.

Hazel. Tired, gleaming, grieving. Familiar. Owen knows the exact shade, hue, and shape of those old eyes.

"Better you than anybody else," Curt says quietly. Owen is too well-trained to let his grip loosen on the gun; not again. But...

"What?"

"With everything we've been through with one another, with how our history is weaved together... if anyone is going to kill me, Owen, it makes sense that it's you. You're the only person I can see doing it. And I... I don't win here. And it's not okay, but it's. It's how this ends. And it's my fault. And for what it's worth... I'm sorry," Curt says simply, and Owen—

Owen rages. His chest burns with fury, gut roils with disbelief, hand trembles with the amount of pure hatred rushing through his veins. How dare he. How fucking dare he! He's apologising?! After all this time, all this pain, all this— after every 'evil' thing Owen's done, Agent Curt Mega is apologising to him?! Curt Mega is a brash, self-centred brute and he never apologises, because he's never wrong even when he is, so what the hell is this?! Owen can't— Owen hates him.

He hates him, he hates him, he hates him.

Curt is staring at him, but it's not a hopeful look. He doesn't look like he's attempting one last-ditch effort to convince Owen to leave Chimera or, trying to lure him back to Curt's side. No, his gaze is just... wide-eyed and taking Owen in.

Owen is shaking.

This was not a part of the plan.

 Owen has been planning to kill Curt for so long now. He has the final words he'll say to Curt planned out, flowing scripts written in his head, a million options for a million different situations with a million different outcomes. He's learned all his lines over and over, has righteous speeches scratched into his very bones, vicious parting words scorched into what's left of his heart.

And yet, in this moment, he can remember none of them. Points and feelings and words he'd thought had become an essential part of his very being have disappeared, chased out of his head by the man they were planned for himself.

Owen doesn't know what to say, so he pulls the trigger instead.

It means he's watching as Curt's glittering eyes, still staring into his own, lose the vibrancy of life. He sees the spray of crimson blood, white bone, and grey matter explode outwards, watches Curt's corpse tumble backwards and down, rolling and knocking against each step until he's lying at the bottom of the staircase, crumpled and broken and very much dead.

Owen's been waiting four years for this moment. The picture of Curt's death was what he had lived for. His traitor ex-love, his mortal enemy, his arch nemesis, finally beaten and gone. This is the end result of all Owen's suffering, plotting and patience; this is the ideal outcome; this is the plan gone . Owen should be celebrating, or fizzing with joy, or at the very least feeling vaguely relieved or successful.

So why does he feel numb, staring at the mess of splayed limbs and the steadily increasing puddle of blood on the floor below him?

It's an awfully familiar sight.

He rips himself away from the scene and holsters his gun as he stumbles away. He doesn't vomit, but it's a shockingly near thing.

He should finally be happy.

So why does he feel as dead inside as Curt Mega finally truly is?

Chimera wins. They topple the spy agencies, and Owen feels nothing when he should feel elated. He thinks, deep down, that maybe if he gave himself the chance he would feel something, but he's afraid to linger on what those feelings might be. (They'd be the wrong ones.)

Everything is going according to plan, except for Owen.

Curt Mega haunts him, his presence lingering on just as strongly in death as it did in life. Owen can't stop thinking about their final encounter: about how Curt had acted; the things he'd said; the way he'd managed to surprise Owen again and again. There's a horrible, ever-present thought hovering in the furthest back corners of Owen's mind. Had Curt changed? If so, how? What was he truly like, after those four terrible years apart? Owen had thought he was still predictable, and in a way he was, but he'd also seemed... different, somehow.

Owen doesn't like to think too hard about it. He's afraid of the consequences of doing so.

He sees Curt's eyes in his final moments every time his own eyelids slide shut. The way they'd shone and stared and swirled with emotion was imprinted onto Owen's retinas. He tortured himself trying to decipher exactly what Curt had been thinking and feeling in those last moments; he could pick out most of Curt's emotions in those final few minutes, but there had been something strong in his eyes that eluded him, that Owen wasn't able to place. It was frustratingly, painfully, horribly familiar.

(Love, the tiny part of his brain screamed, and Owen screamed hoarsely back at it before boxing it up and forgetting it completely. He refused to think about... he refused.)

Owen followed Curt's lead and began to drink. He drank too much, too often, just because it meant he could forget. Forget that he'd seen Curt Mega die, watched the culmination of all his dreams for four long years come true and have it bring him no joy; forget the way that, despite the numbness, he was still feeling too much. He could forget how he was still hurting. He could forget everything.

In some sick, twisted way, he understands Curt better now.

He wonders what would've happened if Curt had done what he'd been about to and killed Owen right then and there. Wonders what might have happened if neither of them had stuck to the plan, and Curt had arrested Owen instead. He asks Cynthia Houston about it, once they've broken down the United States Secret Service. She spits at him and screams at him and cusses him out; her outrage almost manages to make him feel sad, surprisingly enough. He'd liked her, once.

She names him a traitor and evil and the scum of the earth, and right before he kills her she calls him out for what he did to Curt. Her whip-like tongue cuts into him for all the pain he caused, for how dirty and low-down what he did was, for how long her best agent mourned and ruined himself with grief. That punches through the nothingness encompassing Owen and hurts. It shouldn't, but it does.

Her death brings no satisfaction either.

He shouldn't care about what she says, anyway; she was the head of the United States’ Secret Service, was in control of the entire American spy agency, and Owen knows that the spy agencies are the real enemy.

That makes him wonder, though, on rare occasions, how much of the blame he pinned on the single American spy should've instead been thrown at the spy agencies. If his hate was directed to the wrong target the whole time, if that's why he feels like this. If what he felt had even been hatred.

He drinks so he doesn't have to think like that anymore.

It doesn't work.

Owen Carvour hates Curt Mega. That hatred was his entire existence for four long years, except it wasn't just hatred. Curt had made Owen feel so many different things, bad and good and somewhere in between, for so long that Owen doesn't think the words to describe those experiences even exist.

He hated Curt so violently. He did. But did he really? He was so angry and hurt and betrayed, what else could he have possibly felt towards the other man, after all that had happened?

(Love, the voice cries, and Owen cries with it.)

Owen watches the world burn in a fire his own hands helped spark, and feels tired. He's exhausted, and sad, and can't even dredge up the will to be angry anymore. That anger died with the other spy. After all this time, all this pain, he's been broken.

The realisation that it was Curt goddamn Mega's death that finally broke him is a hideous twist of cosmic irony that makes Owen laugh until he's crying and staring at the bottom of a bottle.

Owen looks at the new, open world; thinks about Curt Mega and their personal history; finally lets himself feel all the conflicted and complicated and strong feelings he has towards the other man; and wonders if Curt would've ever forgiven him.

Then he thinks about the look in Curt's eyes right before Owen shot him and knows, deep in his heart, that the other man already had.

Owen will never see those eyes again, and it's his own fault. He shouldn't crave forgiveness from a man he murdered. He shouldn't hate the world that is the result of his own plans coming to fruition. He shouldn't miss Curt. He should feel good.

But in the end, he just feels heartbroken.

There's probably something symbolic in that; Owen mainly just thinks it's cruel.

[geirskogull]

The Gods, However, Remain Silent.

+ Notes: A First Person Look at Alexois post Vault, That I started last year and finished uhhh today. Angst with some weird comfort because hes not good at being a person.

Archive Link

The Gods are silent today. They are silent as I watch them carry the body of a Good Man from the Vault. He’s still bleeding, just the smallest bit, as they try to cover his face. His arm falls limp off the edge of the stretcher they carry his shell in, and leave tiny droplets of blood upon the cold stone. They will wash that at dawn. None shall remember it having ever been there. Save perhaps me, and even it will fade from my mind given time. Hopefully. 

They are silent as I watch my Mirror walk from the Vaults Holy Halls, well worn spear in a white knuckled grip. Eyes glazed over and red with anguish. Hands coated in the same red essence of life that was slowly turning brown upon the cobbles. His perhaps? Was she so truly of House Dzemael that such an evil would befit her. 

No. For she is a Good Woman. Maybe not in the eyes of the Fury, whose cruel gaze was blind to so much, if she watched at all, but she was a Good Woman all the same. Better than I. Both of them far far better than I. She turns towards the Foundation, the body that was once a Good Man turns towards further in the Pillars, and her myriad of traveling companions go various ways that I quickly lose count of. And I too soon move from the spectacle that’s gathered a crowd of gossiping men and women towards what at first I think is home. 

My library would have been a keen comfort. None enter there unless they wish something of me, and its desk is situated just so that I can prepare for any request with an impassive face that displays nothing save that I am listening. Nothing that can be used against me. Nothing I can be blamed for. Nothing that my Father's constant hypocritical sermons upon the various tenants of the Halonic Orthodox Church can reach. But yet I do not find myself at its familiar door, with its faint light and warm carpets. I find myself at the far far too loud, far far too bright door of the Forgotten Knight.

It seems more silent than I remember it from my few times here with cousin Grinnaux.

I know that won’t last long. 

The doors are still the old splintered well worn wood that they were last time. The stairs still creaky with the years of usage they had seen. The murmur, muffled by the buffering winds of outside, grew louder as I descended them - almost of my legs' own volition - and took a seat at the bar.  

Danica was here. Had I followed her? I don’t know, even now. She sat far across the bar from me with a bottle of something left by her hand and eyes tracing the woodgrain upon the counter. She looked... hollow. The Bravado and brightness normally found in the mirror of my eyes was gone, and their luster dulled.  If anything, she’d become more of a mirror of myself and...

I sat next to her before I realized I had moved. She looked up at me, and where I expected to be admonished, to be yelled at and pushed away, instead I was greeted by a silence and a weak smile that brought a frown to my own face.

When we had first met in Coerthas, during that debacle with the imposter inquisitor, I treated her and her ilk with the disdain expected of me. I was cruel, and cold, the pointed politeness that tells people they are not wanted there. Yet despite that, still she and her compatriots fought forward. Cleared Francel, Found the truth. Brought the Heretic Inquisitor to justice.

“He brought so many Heretics to their rightful ends.” The Faithful had said at first. “He is a good and righteous man, blessed by Halone.” They praised him even as he sent innocent people, hells even innocent children to their death at witchdrop. To prove their innocence in death. 

How quickly they turned on each other, on their neighbor, at the simplest sign of “heresy” and then as soon as his farce was revealed, prayed for those lost like they hadn’t been cheering for their deaths. 

“Justice” was brought, yes, but Justice wouldn’t bring those sacrificed back. Won't mend their bones as they lay abandoned upon Witchdrops floor. 

And sitting there, in the Forgotten Knight, I was uniquely reminded of that. What would they say about him, Lord Haurchefant, in the days to come? How would he be remembered, in a land that hated him simply for the circumstances of his birth. Bastard. Greystone. 

Danica turned from me to her drink, and I felt a sadness well in me I thought I had long since learned to quell. The kind that Father would inspire when I was young. The Kind that on occasion, I could feel trying to tear to the surface of my heart when Father spoke, and then Trell spoke. But no, I would never allow it would I. One of House Dzemael does not concern themselves with the simple matter of Love. 

“Did you love him?” I ask before I even realize that I have spoken, and when she looked at me next at least her eyes were not empty. There was sadness, and rage, and something I think akin to shame. 

“Of course I do, He is my best friend.” She responded, words a hoarse whisper that betrayed that she must have been crying earlier. Present tense still soaking her words, as if he was merely sleeping. I barely knew this man, but I felt my heart break for her all the same. She really was my mirror after all. Where I barely reacted, I was a stone faced mirror of indifference. She felt everything with the intensity of a thousand calamities. It was a wonder, to me at least, that she was still standing.

“Then what do you plan to do about it?” I asked, leaning forward upon the uncomfortable bar stool that I never understood how Cousin Grinnaux could stand. Had he been here lately? He’d been so... different in his brutality of late. Focused. Unlike the wild storm that was himself. I shook my head, attempting to focus my thoughts but no doubt looking like a cruel judge upon her, or the Good Man’s character.

“The one thing I’m good at.” She hissed, a hollow laugh following, echoing through the Knight like she was screaming into the void. Lunging forward on her own stool, near falling off of it onto the ground she grabbed my collar and I full expected for her to slam my head upon the table. I’d have deserved it with my inconsiderate questions, as I always do, but she didn’t. Merely dropping her hands and head to the table and letting out a strangled cry. 

“Rhaglr please, wake me up from this nightmare.”

A plea to an unfamiliar god, but one I was sure would remain as unanswered as all of mine were. Bile rose at the back of my throat and rage sang in my gut. How dare they? How dare they remain silent over this cruelty spilled from by others in their name. In the name of a stupid holy war. In spite of this suffering, or perhaps because of it. Their silence rang loud like screams of the damned.

But I decided then, as my mirror, my cousin, the family my father would have me forget, sat in the Forgotten Knight staining the wood with her tears, that I would not do the same. I would remain silent no longer as these fools I called country men slew the few damn Good Men we have, and break the hearts of those who try to save us. I would be the prayers that were not answered for me, or for her, or for that Good Man whose body I watched be carried away to where most would never recall his name. 

I gingerly put my hand upon her shoulder, fearful of what angry reaction I might provoke from my cruel question. But my worry was for naught, save that she continued to mourn. Perhaps I would have preferred she got angry at me. I at least know how to handle that.

“When you’ve decided, let me know.” I started, causing her to slowly turn her head and raise a brow at me, confusion joining the tears in her eyes. “Because I’m going with you, I may not be an Azure Dragoon or an acclaimed scion and God Killer but I fought in this war all the same. I know how to handle myself and my magic is at your disposal.”

For once, I found I didn’t mind the idea of my skills being at someone else’s command. My Mirror, she is a Good Woman, she will... she won’t ask what they asked of me. 

“I’ve decided I need a hug.” Her words, a whisper, snapped me from my thoughts of my blood stained, terribly burnt hands to confirm I was right. A small smile cracked upon my face without a seconds restraint, no worry about who of my fathers men might see me. 

I held my Dear Cousin close and let her cry. 

[artificialqueens]

In Sickness and In Health Ch7 - shalaska - pureCAMP

A/N - It’s been a looong day without you my friend…

Oops. I’m sorry. I am a busy busy bee and I love you all!!

Last time: Under Yvie’s control, Alaska forced Sharon to leave without her. She starts an ill-advised plot to feed her a taste of her own medicine.

This time: That won’t happen (CEO of changing ur mind xo)

“I need your help, urgently. I cannot do this alone.”

Three pairs of eyes. One narrowed slightly, almost squinting, silver-blue and filled with desperation. The other two curious, eyebrows furrowed, calm and yet intrigued.

“What an odd greeting. I’ve never seen you like this.”

“No one has. But I need you, both of you. Please.”

A pause. Two pairs of eyes regarded the first, each watching for something different. Nothing but sincerity lay within them, the pain and honesty laced within her voice.

“I had heard you were unwell, is it true? You seem to be in good health now.”

“It’s true. I’m well again, at a terrible price. I have lost something dear to me, and I have every intention of getting it back, but I can’t do it alone. I have a feeling I’m not the only one to have suffered this fate.”

Sharon sat rigidly straight as she spoke with the other two women, her hands folded in her lap to keep them from shaking. Ever since she was a little girl, she had been taught not to express emotional extremes to anyone outside of the palace, just in case they should turn against her. Even some of the palace staff should be spared from such moods, she was told, in case they might gossip. Only Miss Michaels knew the true extent of her temper. The thought of bearing her heart in front of two different kingdoms - it was scandalous. Her father would’ve thrown a fit, ironically, if he could see her behaviour.

There was a certain level of respect that the other women needed, Sharon knew that. Their three kingdoms were not currently the greatest of allies, but Sharon was working on it and planned to even more once she had been crowned. An allyship would be greatly beneficial to all three of them, and Sharon saw no harm in starting early, even if she was still just a princess whilst they were queens. Never mind that it was highly unorthodox for Sharon to even ask two queens for a personal favour.

Queen Brooke was very charitable and a pleasure to talk to at a ball, but in the setting of a meeting between three royals in her own parlour, she was a little intimidating. Her blonde hair was swept into a neat bun, silver tiara resting atop, and her cold grey eyes stared impassively forwards. In front of her, an ornate teacup sat on a dish, undrunk. 

Queen Scarlet was a totally different story. Her coronation had been more recent than Brooke’s, and whether formal or informal, she was a calamity of a person. Sharon’s father had warned her that partnering with Scarlet’s kingdom was a no-go, given that they were ruled by a young woman who had once been incarcerated and treated for hysterical madness, but Sharon had always quite liked the strange queen. Having recovered from her insanity, she was a fairly successful and friendly ruler.

“Your letter was distressing. I thought perhaps our kingdoms were on the brink of war, and we needed to negotiate.” Brooke’s voice was level, measured. Sharon decided she would be a fantastic person to emulate once she was a leader.

“No, not at all. I’m here about something much more serious. Her name is Yvie.”

At once, the atmosphere shifted. Previously in control, Brooke’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly and she drew in a sharp intake of breath. Next to her, once carefree and kindly concerned, Scarlet looked as though she had seen a ghost.

Thank fuck, Sharon thought to herself. A reaction. If any of her research and guesswork had been incorrect, she might as well have kissed goodbye to her kingdom, her alliances, her family and her life.

“What… What about her?” Scarlet winced, the terror in her voice painfully evident. It was clear that she didn’t want to hear that name, or she hadn’t for a long time. Something about it arose memories that she had most likely tried to forget.

“She cured my sickness. She brought me back from the brink of death so that I can sit here before you now as healthy as I ever was. Not a single physician could cure me, but she did in an instant.”

Brooke’s eyes were glassy. “At a price.” The words left her lips without a thought, drawn out as though in a trance, or by force. She swallowed roughly and hardened her gaze.

“What price?”

Sharon closed her eyes, her mind filling with hazy memories. A sweet common girl with her hand stuck firmly in the air, stood up in front of everybody. Alaska, with her joyful laugh and fighting spirit. The feeling of safety as she slept in her lap, her arms, by her side, comforted with the knowledge that if she died, she would have died alongside somebody who really cared.

“The price of a loved one.” Sharon equalled Brooke’s stare, confident now that she was armed with facts that would ensure Brooke’s cooperation or the ruin of her kingdom. “I believe you wanted prosperity for your kingdom in the midst of a crisis. Your commerce and trade had dwindled to almost nothing. Your people were dying, it was necessary. You needed Yvie’s help and the price was Vanessa.”

There was no stopping her now. “Vanessa, a commoner who worked as a lady-in-waiting for you whilst you were a princess, and continued when you became queen. The two of you were in love and so she accompanied you on what appeared to be a perilous journey. Yvie demanded her as a commodity and you gave her up.”

Perhaps her attack was a little harsh, but Sharon had no time to worry about that. Brooke’s face was flushed crimson, though with anger or shame, she couldn’t be sure. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white, and it seemed the more stoic queen was losing her propriety with every word that came out of Sharon’s mouth.

“How do you- How do you know about that?” She demanded. “I never told a soul.”

Scarlet was watching the exchange with an expression of sheer melancholy, saying nothing. Sharon knew her turn would come, but she needed to focus her attention on Brooke, and it seemed that Scarlet was content to listen and say nothing for the time being.

“Gossip, rumours, and a little bit of research assistance from a kindly witch. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is, I can help you or hurt you. You can have your lover back, or have the reputation of your kingdom shattered. It seems like an easy choice.”

In hindsight, delivering such an outright threat to a powerful Queen when Sharon herself was still only a princess… was a little risky. But there was no time to back out, and judging by the way Brooke’s nostrils had flared, her face pinched in abject fury, the damage had already been done.

“I don’t know who you think you are, Princess, but I-”

Sharon prepared herself to be sentenced to execution, or to be exiled from her land, or to have a cup of hot tea thrown at her, but instead, Brooke was cut off by Scarlet, who placed a gentle hand on her leg and looked forlorn.

“Yvie… She didn’t want them to take me away. She wanted to help me herself.” Her gaze dropped into her lap. “I went crazy. It’s not fake, it’s not rumours. I was insane. The facility helped me. But Yvie…” Scarlet blinked, her eyes filling with tears. “She was so angry that I went with them. I wasn’t in control, but she felt so betrayed by it… Is this what she’s been doing? Taking people’s loved ones?”

The story started clicking into place, and Sharon’s heart sank. She had questioned Max within an inch of her life about everything relating to Yvie, naturally, but she hadn’t made the connection that Yvie’s hard bargains were inspired by her perceived betrayal.

“Yvie has been doing these kind of deals for years, that always come at a price. My sickness was my parents’ price. But it seems people are the currency now, since she lost you, Scarlet. We need to go to her, get them back, and… Scarlet, maybe you and Yvie can work something out.” She paused. “My family don’t know I’m here. They think I’m still on the journey to the witch who can heal me, or perhaps still with her being treated. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

Brooke frowned, her eyebrow furrowing. “Your kingdom?”

“It’s not mine yet.” She shrugged. “I don’t even want to rule it without Alaska there. I don’t think I can.”

A silence settled over them. There was nothing else to be said - three noblewomen having shared their sorrows in the unlikeliest of situations. After a moment, Sharon picked up her teacup and held it before her, offering a solemn, unspoken toast. Brooke and Scarlet joined her.

“Please.”

-

Alaska folded her arms and flopped back down onto the ground, where Vanessa lay beside her. They had schemed a million times by now, it seemed, and nothing would work.

“You were right. It’s not like we can trick her into drinking her own truth serum that she made us brew! She’s not that stupid.”

Vanessa puffed her cheeks out. “She’s fuckin’ smart, it’s the worst. I’m startin’ to think I’m never gettin’ outta here, and maybe I shoulda figured that out a while ago.”

Alaska shook her head. “Yeah. This might be it, for us. But at least we have each other, right?”

“Sure. You’re all I got, now.” She hummed. “Your princess seemed pretty set on coming back here, though. Must be nice.”

A grimace made its way onto Alaska’s face; it was the only thing that could hold her tears back. “I hope. I hope she’s fighting for us.”

In the beginning of her time with Yvie, Sharon had been all she’d thought about to get through the day. Those few minutes that she had been able to see her in full health and beauty again, when she had seen a flicker of the righteous anger of a queen instead of the feeble protestations of a princess. Even dwelling on the way her eyes had filled with furious tears and heartbreak was better than nothing at all, as something of a comfort to remind Alaska that once, she had known her.

Still, the memories got more painful as time went on, and she soon decided that perhaps it was best to not think about her. As much as she wished Sharon was out fighting for her, amassing an army to storm Yvie for her return or maybe bargaining and charming her way back, she doubted it. Princesses had to adhere to strict rules.

She missed Willam, and Courtney. It had been forever since she’d thought about them, and she wondered if they were anxiously waiting for her to come home. What she wouldn’t give to see their faces again.

“Let’s just get back to work.” Alaska sighed, feeling miserable. “If we haven’t cleaned up Yvie’s mess by the time she comes back, we’re done for.”

Vanessa nodded. “Alright, Blondie, let’s go. We got fuckin’… books to shelve, or whatever. I didn’t listen to what she asked.”

Reluctantly, Alaska pulled herself up and made her way into the centre of the cottage. The room was cluttered and messy from Yvie’s musings, and she had ventured out into the surrounding forest a short while ago, leaving her two servants to clean everything up. At least it was a distraction from the boredom, Alaska thought, even as the spilled potion she wiped up with a rag started to burn her hand. It was better than nothing.

Yvie returned with a bag slung over her shoulder and an irritated expression, meaning that no doubt, she would take out her anger on Vanessa and Alaska.

“That’s the last time I listen to Raven, stupid fucking creature.” She hissed, throwing her bag down upon the newly-swept floor. “And now this isn’t even done! Do I have to do everything myself, you imbeciles?”

Alaska bowed her head. “We’re working on it.”

“I’ve a half mind to-”

Yvie trailed off abruptly, freezing in place. Vanessa stared at Alaska in confusion, the both of them watching Yvie to see if there was a reason for her unusual behaviour.

“The wards.” Her voice came out hardly a whisper above silence. “She wouldn’t dare…”

She turned suddenly. “The two of you, out. Now.”

As before, they were all but shoved back into the small room they shared. Vanessa scrambled towards her small pile of belongings and produced two strange-looking opalescent lenses. She handed one to Alaska and pressed it against the wall.

“I took these fuckin’ forever ago because I thought they looked pretty, but you can see through shit with ‘em. I wanna know why she’s so fuckin’ rattled.”

Alaska did the same, shuffling as close as she could to look through the wall. The lens focused just in time, as Yvie graciously opened the front door and offered a chilling smile.

“Sister.”

Yvie laughed. “Ha! You have a lot of nerve to walk down my path, let alone to address me as your sister. Most inferior witches tend to avoid associating themselves with superior witches, do they not?”

Max stood, tall and unwavering in the doorway, her short silver hair moving in the wind. “Perhaps they do, sister. You know I care little for which of us is better or worse. But I have been incited to care about which of us is good or bad.”

“A truly wonderful philosophical concept. I’d invite you in to debate it over some tea, but I don’t trust myself not to poison yours with belladonna.” Yvie’s voice was dripping with sickly sweet venom. Alaska shuddered at the sound of it. “Why do you dare to come to my door?”

Max remained still. “See for yourself.”

Almost at the exact same time, Alaska and Vanessa sprung backwards from the wall and darted towards the door, seemingly sensing the same thing. Anticipation and fear wrestled angrily in the pit of Alaska’s stomach, but she had to see if her hunch was right. The two all but fell over each other as they stumbled into the centre of the cottage once again, gazing open-mouthed out of the front door.

The sight that met them could’ve been an illustration from the beautiful book Sharon had read to Alaska in the carriage. A few feet behind Max, two proud stallions pawed the ground, their riders equally as dignified and powerful. Alaska didn’t recognise one of them, a pale blonde wearing regal purple riding gear, but the other was a face she could never forget, even in the deepest of nightmares.

Sharon’s face was resolute, her body language firm and unmoving. Like the other rider, she wore jodhpurs and a shirt, an outfit unbefitting for a queen or a princess but perfectly suited to a courageous storybook heroine. The other woman held Sharon’s hand and lifted their arms into the air, at the same time as Vanessa and Alaska clung to each other in disbelief.

“Oh my god. That’s my Brooke.”

Alaska couldn’t muster speech, but she didn’t need to. Behind the two, cavalry reinforcements waited for their command, leaving Yvie well and truly outnumbered.

“Let them go.” Sharon climbed off her horse, Brooke doing the same. As they approached the door, where Yvie looked dumbfounded and furious, she shot Alaska a brief, reassuring gaze. “That’s an order.”

Yvie kept her cool in spite of the army facing her. “Oh dear… someone seems to have forgotten that we made a deal.”

Brooke smiled. “Do you have it in writing? What happens if we take them?”

“This.”

Yvie snapped her fingers, and in an instant, she and Vanessa were hoisted into the air, suspended by thorny vines. Alaska could feel that one of them had drawn blood, but regardless she strained and struggled against the bonds. They had to win this. Freedom was so close. 

“We thought you might do something like that.” Sharon crossed her arms. “Your Majesty?”

Brooke stepped closer. “Another deal, then. Make a new deal with us to overwrite these previous ones. We have something you won’t wanna miss out on, and your sister here as a witness in case you try to fuck us over. It’s that, or we take them by force and destroy our offer to you.”

Yvie snorted. “Sure. A failure of a Queen and what, some pathetic little Princess have something I would want? I have power, the more you’re indebted to me, the better. Why should I agree to this? Why shouldn’t I just…”

She snapped her fingers again. The vines tightened, smaller ones creeping their way around to Alaska and Vanessa’s throats. They choked and coughed, the vines only squeezing more as they tried to resist. Tears came to Alaska’s eyes, the pain and fear overwhelming her. Whatever this power play was, it needed to work.

Sharon’s glare was murderous, but her jaw was firm and resolute. “Fine.” She unsheathed the dagger hanging from her belt, which Alaska immediately recognised from their visit to the palace from what felt like years ago. “I was loaned this dagger by another kingdom. We could wage another several wars by me desecrating this blade with the blood of another royal, thus pitting kingdom against kingdom against kingdom, which surely means a lot of deals made in your favour…”

With a tiny nod, both Sharon and Brooke stepped aside at the same time, allowing a third woman to step forward between them. Her head was held high, regal, but her pretty face was marked with disgust.

“But that also means killing Queen Scarlet here. I’m sure you won’t have an issue with that if you get so much power from it, right?”

She levelled the dagger at Scarlet’s throat, just below her chin. All three royals stood defiant, while Yvie’s face went slack. Without warning, the vines receded and disappeared, and Alaska and Vanessa hit the ground with a thud. It hurt, and Alaska’s hands went straight to her neck as she tried to catch her breath, but her gaze remained firmly on the spectacle in front of her. It was unparalleled - Yvie, silent, dumbfounded.

“Sc… Scarlet?”

She nodded, and Sharon lowered the blade, sheathing it. “It’s me. But I’m not sure you’re you. I don’t remember the Yvie I knew being this cruel.”

Yvie swallowed thickly. “They took you away. I could’ve fixed you but they took you away and you let them!”

“I needed to go!” Scarlet grabbed Yvie’s shoulders, steadying her. “But I’m back, and I’m fine, and I’m successful. You don’t have to do this. The old you would never do this.”

“She wouldn’t?”

“She wouldn’t. Don’t forget how well we knew each other, Yves.”

“I couldn’t forget. You’re unforgettable.”

“Let them go.” Scarlet’s voice was gentle, but commanding. “You have to let them go.”

Yvie whirled around, her eyes landing on where Alaska and Vanessa were crumpled on the ground, recovering. They still clung to one another, and her eyes seemed to widen at their desperation, as though she had no idea that she had caused it.

“How can I? Give them over, face trial, go to the dungeons, lose everything?” She was growing frantic.

Scarlet held out her hand. “No trial. No dungeons. I’m taking you home. Let them go.”

There was an ever-so-slight inclination of Yvie’s head, but that was enough. Both girls got to their feet without wasting a second, and whilst Alaska was sure Vanessa had run straight into Brooke’s arms, she didn’t bother looking to check. Every fibre of her being was pulling her towards Sharon, some kind of invisible magnetic connection forcing them together. She gave in to the impulse, almost throwing herself into her lover’s waiting arms.

“I’m so sorry it took so long I’m so glad you’re safe,” Sharon rushed out in one breath, her lips pressed against the top of Alaska’s head as she buried her face in her blonde hair. Alaska could hardly breathe, pressing herself into the crook of Sharon’s neck, just letting the feel of her skin against her own say everything that she couldn’t articulate.

“You came back.” Alaska’s heart was pounding. “You really came back.”

Sharon clung to her. “Of course. I could never leave you behind. You risked everything for me.”

It felt like centuries ago that Alaska’s only motivation had been the money. The reward was still a tantalising offer in the back of her mind, but almost all of her other thoughts were consumed with nothing but bliss. She had taken on a seemingly impossible task to find a cure for a cursed princess who wanted nothing but to die, and would return with the princess alive and well, and madly in love.

Willam and Courtney were going to lose their minds.

“How do we proceed from here?” She asked, her voice muffled against Sharon’s skin. “What happens now?”

Sharon tensed for a moment, but she relaxed again so quickly that Alaska thought maybe she’d imagined it. “Well, Her Majesties Queen Brooke and Queen Scarlet will come to the kingdom with the two of us, as they deserve equal credit and respect for removing the witch problem. You’ll receive your reward. I’ll deal with some business and then… I don’t know what. But I want you to stay in the palace, if you accept. You don’t have to, if you’re more comfortable in your home with your friends, I just thought maybe-”

Alaska silenced her with a kiss, and then smiled. “I’ll think about it. Let’s get home, yeah?”

-

The journey back to Sharon’s kingdom was pleasant, and uneventful. Scarlet and Yvie left together in a carriage, already discussing plans for a formal pardon and perhaps even to instate her as an apothecary in Scarlet’s kingdom. Alaska wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea, but she knew better than to argue with a queen, and since it didn’t affect her own kingdom, she held her tongue. Brooke and Vanessa took a carriage together too, seemingly too wrapped up in each other to really notice anyone else. As Alaska helped Sharon into their carriage, she was pleased to find that the dread that previously filled her chest was gone. 

It was still awe-inspiring, how miraculous her recovery had been. Alaska swore her hair had never been so dark and glossy, her eyes so bright, her lips so pink. She could spend hours just looking, taking her in, if only she could resist the urge not to kiss her whenever the sunlight hit her face.

With Sharon’s life no longer hanging in the balance, the journey seemed to pass much faster than it had before, although the days and nights stopping and starting still grew a little bit tedious. By day, they did everything they could to distract one another - Sharon had been reading fairytales with her again, and Alaska felt shyly proud of being able to muddle her way through a couple of pages at a time. Sometimes they sang, Alaska showing off the lewd, patriotic, and always drunk songs that people sang in the tavern to make them both laugh. Or they would just talk; endlessly, for hours, with comparisons of their lives and general excitement for the future.

But at night, things were different. They would both curl up to sleep, often leaning against one another, but Alaska kept noticing how Sharon’s eyes would stay open long after she’d fallen silent, staring out as if in thought. She didn’t probe, but it concerned her. She sincerely hoped Sharon hadn’t sacrificed anything for her - she couldn’t think of anything worse than the whole cycle repeating again.

As they approached the edge of the kingdom, Sharon drew the curtains shut around the carriage to give them a little more privacy, and they made their way into the centre, towards the palace. Brooke and Scarlet had stopped for a few days in another kingdom, and would be following in a week or so once life had settled back into a normal pace with Sharon’s return. Excitement was starting to take hold; Alaska’s life was about to change forever.

She still hadn’t decided what she would do, yet. A life in the palace sounded tempting, but she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to get mixed up in all the politics of royal life. A part of her wondered about taking the money, buying a decent sized home somewhere nice in the kingdom, and living with Willam and Courtney, working only because they wanted to, not out of necessity. Sharon could visit anytime as an escape from the difficulties of being a leader, and they’d be in love just the same.

Alaska loved Sharon, but she didn’t know if the palace was somewhere she’d thrive. After all, she’d spent her entire life humble, or in other words, dirt poor. She wondered if it would be too big of a change.

When the carriage came to a stop, Sharon took a deep breath, and started to laugh.

“My god. I just realised I have so many apologies to give. I was such an asshole when I was sick.” She giggled nervously. “I hope Laila forgives me. Being her age is rough.”

Alaska nodded. “Honestly. I know they’ll all forgive you, though. It wasn’t like you could control it.”

It didn’t feel like Alaska’s place to intrude into the palace, or even to step out of the carriage first, so she smiled and waved her hand, allowing Sharon the first glimpse of her home since they’d left. For a moment, just briefly, Sharon hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure, and then drew the curtain back and moved to step down. It struck Alaska right in the chest - she hadn’t expected to be coming home. When they’d departed, seemingly forever ago, she had been on the very brink of death and expecting it to take her. 

A part of her wondered if the reason she had even agreed to go on a treacherous journey to find a witch had been solely to allow her family the privacy to mourn her without having to witness her death within the palace walls. It was a dark thought, and she shook it out of her mind. The what-ifs didn’t matter, not anymore. Sharon was safe and well, and she glowed with life.

The palace was much less intimidating without the entire royal family welcoming her into it. Around her, members of staff were busily cleaning and scurrying and working, almost paying no attention to their special arrival, although Alaska swore she could see a few nudges and smiles as they undoubtedly gossiped. Sharon made to start walking inside, only to stop in her tracks as a woman ahead of them did the same thing.

Miss Michaels was working by the palace gates, sweeping the leaves and dust from the ground, but the moment she locked eyes with Sharon, the broom fell from her grasp with a clatter. Her face twisted with a mixture of sorrow and relief, an expression that could only reflect a mother’s love. She all but ran towards them, enveloping Sharon in her arms.

“My girl… my sweet, gorgeous girl…” Alaska could hear the thickness in her voice, in turn making her well up at their reunion. She pulled back only to hold Sharon by the arms, taking in as much of her as she could before resuming the embrace. “Oh, look at you! You look like a summer’s day! Oh, darling girl…” 

Sharon sniffed, not too good to hide her tears. “Mother Dust… were you worried I wouldn’t come home?”

“Not at all,” Miss Michaels told her. “Just infinitely glad that you did. Come on, we have to get you inside this instant. Your family will be overjoyed, dear. And you too, Alaska! The hero of our story.”

Alaska blushed, pretending to herself that it was from the compliment, and not from how easily Sharon took her hand as they started walking. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit.”

“Yes she can,” Sharon butted in, “And she should. She gave me a reason to keep fighting.”

Miss Michaels raised her eyebrows, a small smile playing on her lips. Alaska felt as though her heart was going to beat right out of her chest.

“Oh, she did?”

Sharon laughed. “I didn’t say you could tease me.”

“My dear. I’ve changed you, bathed you and fed you. I don’t need permission to do a little light teasing.”

“I love you, Mother Dust. So… let’s go console my grieving family, right?”

Sharon’s hand slipped into Alaska’s so naturally as they made their way up the palace steps, and yet it almost took her breath away. She didn’t know what the royal family would make of this - hell, she didn’t know how Sharon was going to play it. They were in love, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a complicated situation. Future queens were rarely seen marrying commoners, let alone female commoners.

Once they were stood just outside of the doors into the throne room, they came to a stop. Miss Michaels had tears in her eyes.

“You’re crying?” Sharon sounded perplexed, but her expression was kind. She pulled her maid into a hug. “Why are you crying?”

“It’s - It’s a real life mir-miracle, seeing you walk so far without losing your str-strength.” She managed, her voice wobbling. “Standing upright… not coughing at all…”

Being back where it all began, Alaska wondered about who had been hit the hardest by the illness. Miss Michaels was doing everything she could to swallow back her tears, overcome by the sight of Sharon healthy and flushed with life. She had cared for the princess ever since the onset of her sickness; she had most likely watched her rapid deterioration with a heavy heart, and sent her away in a carriage feeling sure she would never see her alive again. Hell, beyond that, she had raised Sharon since she’d been born, and what a horrible way she’d been led to believe it would end.

“I’m not ready to do this.” Sharon faltered. “I don’t- I don’t know if I can go in there.”

Alaska squeezed her hand. “There’s nothing you can’t do.”

“You’re right. Especially when I have you by my side.”

tags - purecamp, in sickness and in health, shalaska, sharon needles, alaska thunderfuck, yvie oddly, brooke lynn hytes, vanessa vanjie mateo, scarlet envy, scyvie, branjie, chad michaels