#and yet her work is thankless and expected of her

[autumnhobbit]

please keep telling me how sexist tolkien was with lines like “All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.” hot DAMN.

bro

[atinylittlepain]

Chapter One

jackson!joel miller x witch!oc

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He thinks he might fall in love with her. She can't let him fall in love with her. Or: a reimagined take on an infamous Practical Magic au by yours truly.

wordcount | 6.1K

series content info | 18+ slowburn-ish, strangers to friends to lovers to estranged acquaintances to ???, discussions of death and grief, a little magic, just a little, jackson era joel and all that entails, eventual smut, angst obviously, and love that requires a little elbow grease.

a/n | yeeeehaw, here we go. I have to just say, it was so damn fun writing this, and while I haven't gotten started on chapter two quite yet (hello, finishing undergrad, you thankless wench) I'm real excited to get started soon. As always, I'd love to hear what you think, thank you for reading.

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He doesn’t understand this world of a town. Two months, maybe three, actually, and still not used to any of it. Not used to warm water and light switches that work. Not used to three whole meals, not used to whole anything. Tomatoes and peaches, sweet snap peas, the taste of summer. Not used to people living so closely and not trying to kill each other. He feels like a livewire strung taut, waiting for the shoe to drop, for the catch of it all. He’s starting to think there is no catch. And if there is no catch, he’s worried he’ll get too comfortable, too soft.

The people of Jackson live a different life. May as well be on a different planet. And as such, they treat him and the kid with a pitiful patience and a cautious distance. Careful, feral animals, still being housebroken, still learning not to eat with their hands and swear in the dining hall. Still learning not to flinch, or do much worse, when a friendly hand is placed on their shoulders. This strange world, strange life he’s walked into, and he’s pretty sure it’s not for him. But he wants it to be for Ellie, so he tries. 

In this world, help is expected, and given freely. White-knuckling isn’t requisite, there are things that can be done for a fever besides waiting it out, ways to relieve a little suffering. Time and space, a luxury, he thinks. And so when the kid came home with a bloom of welts on her palms and up her bare shins, unaware of how easily poison ivy can spread, there was, for once, something he could actually do about it. 

Tommy was the one who clued him in. The little shop that sits a few storefronts down from the Tipsy Bison which, in all honesty, he had never paid any mind to. He doesn’t get out much to begin with though, so that says very little. Unassuming, peeling blue paint and tall windows obscured by bursts and blooms of plants. A piece of smooth wood has been turned into a sign hanging above the door, letters seared into the grain. Apothecary.

He calls out, hesitant when he steps inside, unsure now if he came at the right time. No one in sight, the shop sits perfectly quiet, still, just the hum of a fan tucked into one of the windows, sending a faint shiver through the plants around it. He’s admittedly surprised by the sight, not that he had been expecting the clinical white of a pharmacy. Still, the shock of green all around him, warm clay pots on wooden benches, vines and leaves spilling over the edges like languid limbs in repose. Lush and strange, he steps further into the shop, foliage brushing against his shoulders, the cool, damp smell of earth. He calls out again, still silence.

There’s something that looks like an old checkout counter further back, a rusted-out cash register that now has thin vines growing along and in between the keyboard. The remnant stub of a receipt sits in its mouth, he thinks he can make out 2003, ink all but faded away. But the strangest of all things, as he’s studying the slumped machine. Someone else joins him. Or something else. 

“Well, look at you.” It doesn’t exactly startle him, more like a small kick in his chest at the intrusion. Like black ink, sleek and shine and slipping up onto the counter, all ease, perched and staring at him. He thinks a bit idly to himself that he hasn’t seen too many cats in the last two decades. And this cat looks well taken care of, maybe even a little prim, if a cat can look such a way, sitting on its haunches and looking at him, unblinking, unwavering, and a little unsettling. Little impulse, before he can think too hard about it, he holds his hand out, a scratch between the ears that’s rebuffed as soon as it’s accepted, little snit and swipe, the sharp pin prick sting of blood over his knuckles. He presses his other palm over the small throb, the cat long gone by the time he has half a mind to look for it. 

“Did she get you?” Now that does get a jolt out of him. Animals are easier. But people, well. He looks to his left, then to his right, deeper into the shop. He sees her hair before he really sees her. Piles of curls, gray starting to bleed through all that darkness. She’s standing in a doorway he hadn’t seen before, the cat rubbing its cheek against her shin. Somehow, he feels like he’s been told on, thick flood of something warming up the back of his neck.

“Just a scratch, think I deserved it though.” Somewhere around his age, he thinks, maybe a little younger. Her eyes do a lift and crinkle when she smiles, stepping closer to him. He sees the same years he recognizes in his own face, though she certainly wears it better, tempered smile, glasses getting pushed up into her hair, more mane now than anything else. What was he here for again?

“You’re Joel Miller.”

“I am, how did–”

“Tommy told me he was sending you my way. I didn’t know a person could come with a warning label.” Something southern in her voice, little twang, little twinge. Her words rasp just a bit, and it sounds like kindness, like a sharpness that could turn sour, though she keeps it sweet, tilt of her head, sweet. 

“I guess my reputation precedes me then.”

“It’s a small town.”

“I’m starting to catch onto that.” The cat has taken an insistent twine between his legs, chewing at his shoelaces, until she, still nameless to him, hooks her arm around its belly, easy as anything, and Stevie’s a little curious is all, sending the creature slinking off and away from them, disappearing between all the green. 

“I’m sorry, older I get the less I remember my manners. I’m Maggie.” Palm extended, and when he takes it, it’s like that thing he and Tommy used to do as kids, bored out of their minds and making a game of shuffling in their socks, fingertip shocks to the backs of each other’s necks, just a quick gasp of static, there and gone.

“Tommy said you could help me out with something for poison ivy?” Oh, she says, mostly pantomime when she takes her hand back and wipes it on the thigh of her jeans, is it for you? He’s surprised how easily that makes him laugh.

“No, it’s, well, it’s my kid, got it pretty bad.” 

“Your daughter is in luck then. I’m almost sure every kid in Jackson under the age of sixteen gets it at least once, and I treat every single one of them.” A slip, a stutter, because did she? Did he? He must have, right? Must have used that word, daughter, for her to say it. Even though he’s pretty sure he didn’t, pretty sure of his pause, but he can’t give it any more thought because she, Maggie, has already turned heel, a cursory look over her shoulder at him that tells him, yes, he should be following her further back into the shop. 

“So, witch hazel is going to be your daughter’s new best friend. Soak a little of this into a cloth or towel and dab it onto the rash a few times a day, you really can’t overdo it though.” He’s trying to keep up, really, nodding and mmhmming as she hands him a small bottle, already onto the next thing, her glasses now sliding down to the end of her nose as she looks through drawers and cabinets, plucking out things that look like old shoe polish tins, jars covered with cloth toppers. A mix of method and madness, a grace to her movements, though something skittish is threaded through. Bird of prey, he thinks, something of fierce and feather in all that motion.

A combination of workshop and kitchen makes up what he thinks is the backroom of the shop, large butcher block taking up most of the middle of the room, back door propped open with something that, frankly, looks like an urn. An impressive-looking range spans the back wall, and he thinks that, maybe, in the before, some kind of restaurant. But now, very different means to very different ends. 

“Alright, this’ll help most with the itching. It’s a bit potent, so just tell her to take a little bit, warm it up between her palms, and rub it over the worst spots.” Ultimately, he’s left with a bottle, a small tin, and a few sachets of oatmeal bath soak, only half sure he got all her directions, trying to balance listening to her, and letting his eyes wander over all the cabinets, dried plants and variously odd containers spilling out from everywhere. Head spinning, already spun out actually, and he can’t help but wonder how he’s just now meeting this woman, a strange sense that she’s important, though why, or to whom, he isn’t sure. 

“That should have Sarah all cleared up in about a week, but if it’s still persisting–” 

“I’m sorry–” Whatever he’s sorry about, it cracks and fails in his chest. Like he’s been winded, or maybe wounded, a sort of deep suckerpunch shock hearing that name come from a stranger’s mouth. He has to clear his throat before he speaks again, posing it like a question, you said Sarah? And there’s a peculiar thing that happens in the silence, the quick pass of her eyes over his face, pull of her brow like she’s the one that’s confused. But whatever it is, it’s gone just as quick, lines smoothing, a smile so small it can only be apologetic. That queasy twist in his gut has loosened, but there’s still something unsettled, that lingering static all over his skin. 

“I thought I heard that was your kid’s name, but judging by your reaction I  must be getting people mixed up again.” She says something else, something about taking care, a lot of folks around here pass through my hands, sometimes they blur together. He believes that well enough, still uncertain about the rest, though too skittish to do anything other than drop it. That name isn’t for anyone else, not even a bird of prey, so he keeps it folded up close and tight between his ribs and lets out a sigh to blow out all of his held breath, slumping civility.

“No, it’s alright, I’m not too good with names myself.”

“Well, there hasn’t been much need for that in this world, don’t you think?” 

“I guess not, though I’m getting the sense it’s a little different around here.” It seems like a nervous thing, a pulse point reassurance in the way she brushes a hand back through her hair, lets her palm curl at the nape of her neck for a moment, then hand to wrist. Never still, she’s done it a few times now just standing here talking to him, though her words come easy, if not a little sharp, a single, high note of a laugh.

“Oh yeah, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to work on that, unless you wanna hurt some poor bird’s feelings, you know.” Wave of her hand, you know, and the thought occurs to him, errant, that this is the most normal conversation he’s had with someone since deciding not to leave. And quickly after that, the thought that he doesn’t hate it, this, doesn’t hate normal, doesn’t want normal to stop. For once, he feels like he can do normal. For once, it feels easy.

“Any advice?”

“What, on assimilating?” That word rolls languid and loose off her tongue, making a joke out of it as she pronounces each syllable, that sour twang pitching up another key. He nods, try me.

“Give it time, the names that matter will shake out eventually. In the meantime, just avoid direct eye contact and the rumor mill will leave you alone, relatively speaking.” 

“That right?” Shrug, sigh, she tilts her head to the side, smile going slanted and shoulder hiked, it’s been working for me, kinda, sorta. His eyes trail the slope of her collar bone, bare now with how the sleeve of her shirt has slid a little askew. Sunspots, a silver knick of a scar, paper thin and fine.

“Ellie, that’s, um, well, my kid’s name.”

“Got it, and you’re Joel.”

“And you’re Maggie.”

“Look at you, already getting better at it.”

“Is that short for something?” 

“Unfortunately, my mother saddled me with Magdalene.”

“Don't hear that one often.”

“Nope, she was a little, well–”

“Eccentric?”

“I was going to say righteous, but that works too.” 

“Religious then?”

“In a way, yes, you could say that. You too? Joel sounds very bible-y.” 

“My folks were, I never really acquired a taste for it though.” 

“Hmm, amen.” Easy, easy, easy, until time does that thing it always does, starts to fissure beneath that delicate freeze. She glances at her watch, a polite sigh, and he notices the thin band on her finger, a foolish drop of disappointment souring his stomach, trying, and failing, to double check if it was her left, if it was her ring finger. Not that it matters though, not that it would, or could matter. Already on the move, something about a colicky baby I have to go check in on, leading him back out to the front of the shop, and he finally remembers the bottle and tins he’s holding, what he came here for in the first place. 

“I appreciate all this, really, just name your price and–”

“Oh, no, consider it a welcome gift. I hope Ellie starts feeling a little better.” And he wants to accept that, her kindness, and how easily she offers it. But there’s no muscle left in him for that, weak and wilted and wary of shoes dropping, catches, and being caught. Whatever remains in its place, she notices it, that nervous hesitation, that one step back, that shifted glance toward the exit, softening some of her sharpness. And it’s not pity, because he knows pity, seen a lot of pity in these few months he’s been here. No, not that, something simpler and saner. Seeing and being seen, the cool slip of relief from it. 

“I might have an idea for a trade if you’re up for it.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Tommy said you’re handsy–” She stops herself with a gasp that sounds like a hiccup, seemingly just as stunned as he is by the word, hair falling in her face with the shake of her head, little laugh, little brightness. Handy, oh my god, I meant handy. 

“I’m sorry, clearly I don’t get out much, lord.” All hands, talking with her hands, palm to her forehead, then back through her hair, quick flickers, he tries to track that ring through its orbit, a dizzying  effort. Hummingbird hands, a woman who is all wings.

“It’s alright, reckon you’re still better at this than I am.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ve been the picture of civility.”

“Will you tell Tommy that?” 

“I’m sure I can put in a good word.”  He’s lingering, or maybe she is, or maybe they both are. Not used to this, taking time for time’s sake. 

“I am though. Handy, I mean, if you need help fixing something?” She does, she tells him, stair railing that’s come so loose she’s worried she’s going to go right through it one of these days. And it’s been twenty years since he’s been in a world in which people worry about the upkeep of their stair railing, but it’s an easy fix, he tells her, he can do that, he tells her. Sunday? Sunday works fine. They shake on it, stepping out of the shop into the mid-day glare of sun, her with a deep canvas bag hanging off her shoulder. She squints at him, it was nice meeting you, and he says the same, and finds himself actually meaning it. But there’s still something strange slicking up and down his spine, he’s reminded of it watching her walk off in the other direction, though he’s not really watching her any more, but the people she passes by.

Small town, close town, everyone knowing everyone else, names pinned down under thumbs. Ellie had let out a loud what the fuck when a stranger greeted them, by name, the first time they went to the dining hall for dinner. He’s been feeling a similar way about all the greetings, all the good neighbors doing what good neighbors do. But Maggie gets none of that walking down the block. No smiles, no tipped chins, no knowing and being known. He swears he even sees a few swept away glances, a few steps back the closer she gets. If it bothers her, she doesn’t show it, a sort of easy sway to her gait, walking hips-first, there, and there, and then gone when she turns a corner. Strange, and stranger even, when he looks down and notices that the puddle of black ink is chewing on his shoelaces again. 

Little trouble, yellow eyes that round and narrow on him, he takes one step, and little trouble follows him, close on his heels. He imagines that they’re putting on an absurd show walking down the main drag of town, him stopping every few steps to turn around and see that yes, little trouble is still following him, though at an admittedly respectable distance, settling back on its haunches and staring him down every time he glances back over his shoulder. Little trouble follows him all the way to the front steps of his house, seeming to finally lose interest in favor of a bee humming lazy around a patch of weeds. The last thing he sees of little trouble is pink-padded paws batting at dandelions, curled-lip grin and white fang chewing on stems, beheading thick yellow manes. 

… 

She lives on the other side of town. Older builds, he thinks, been here longer, windows with glass that warbles a little in its age like melted sugar, and deep-set porches washed with dark blue shadows in the early morning light. Cottonwood trees sway and dip, old limbs that arc and curl over the cracked-up sidewalk, slumbering giants making the sounds of all the small life it hosts. It’s a side of Jackson he hasn’t seen until now and it reminds him of a younger, simpler time. 

The town follows an old rhythm, late starts on Sunday. There’s even a church somewhere, though he’s not particularly concerned with finding it anytime soon. It’s still early enough, however, that he’s one of the few people already up and out. She told him to come as early as he wanted, really, I’ll be up. And he sees for himself that she was being honest, because when he walks up to the house she told him to look for, he finds her waging a zealous war with a rose bush in her front yard, and it doesn’t seem like she’s winning. 

When he told his brother he had taken his advice, he was met with a surprising amount of interest, talking quietly over a shared drink and well, what did you think?

I didn’t realize you were waiting for my report.

She’s a little different is all, does things her own way.

Well, she got the kid fixed up. 

I had no doubt she would.

I’m helping her on Sunday with something, as a trade.

Oh?

Stair railing in her house is loose. Been a long time since I thought about stair railing.

Wait, you’re going to her house?

Yes.

Into her house?

I’d presume so. Is that a problem?

No, just surprising. 

Why’s that?

She keeps to herself, not exactly one to make friends, though I don’t blame her with the way– well, people can be cruel, I guess.

What’s that supposed to mean? 

There’s talk, stupid stuff really. For what it’s worth I like her just fine.

Talk, his brother said. People spinning stories out of fear, or maybe something weaker than that. He’s been gathering up some of that talk all week, enough of it to make his head spin. The only thing he’s sure is truth, Maggie was here before Jackson was even called Jackson, just a nameless group of people that somehow managed to survive, until it became something else entirely. The rest, however, weft and warp of fact and fiction. Plenty of good words, broken bones set back in place and flu seasons weathered, babies born and grown, though the praise seems to be given with a reluctant respect, skittishly, but, well. But, well, something strange about her, isn’t there? He’s heard plenty of strange too. Strange, the way she talks to the wind, and the way it seems to listen. Strange, that cat of hers, with lingering eyes that watch and watch and watch, a shadow showing up in all the close, quiet places. Strange, whatever it is she keeps on the stove in the back of her shop. He asked Ellie if she’s heard anything, and she, pleased with herself, offered up a fantastical report of flight and dancing naked under the full moon, a perfectly tall tale he could imagine the children of Jackson passing around a classroom. 

One thing he hasn’t heard anything about, the ring and whichever finger she wears it on. His right, her left, she’s still wearing it this morning, simple silver glinting and a pair of garden shears aloft in her hand. She smiles sheepish when she sees him, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be. 

“Those are pretty.” She doesn’t seem to realize he’s talking about the roses, big white blooms that she absently looks at over her shoulder, scoffing, her mouth screwed to the side. 

“They’re useless is what they are, taking up too much space and overcrowding the rest of my plants.” As he gets closer, stepping beyond the gate and into the front yard, he sees the errant chaos of her work, stray petals and entire threads of flowers lopped off around her feet. She’s a little breathless as she speaks, back of her hand to her forehead to wipe stray salt, and he wonders how long she’s been out here at this.

“Not a fan of roses then?” 

“To be honest with you, I don’t know where these are coming from. It seems like I cut them back and by the next morning they’ve taken over even more.” She gives a weak stab to the flowers that remain intact, a shake of her head as she abandons her work, and he shouldn’t, just here to fix her stair railing, he shouldn’t, but he already is, already saying the words before he can think about keeping his mouth shut, you’re bleeding.

“What?” He gestures, at least having half a mind not to touch, his hand hovering somewhere in the vicinity of her forearms. Long, thin welts where he’s sure the thorns got her, and maybe he’s a little startled by her breathing out oh, those fuckers, and this again, on the move again, and expecting him to follow her up the porchsteps and in through the screen door and just let it slam or it won’t close all the way. She’s already tramped further into the house and he finds himself utterly unsure of what comes next, shuffling a little in the hallway she left him in, head tilting with the sound of a faucet turning on somewhere, pipes groaning. 

Another truth he gets to see for himself, Maggie has lived here a long time, all the acquired detritus of life that only time can allow, that leaving washes away. Paintings dripping off the walls, a craned-neck glance into the rooms around him revealing worn-looking furniture, shelves of books and little nothing things, trinkets and half-melted candles. And more plants, more plants everywhere. 

“So, the stairs.” The stairs, in question, are an easy enough fix. How nice, he thinks, to know what is needed, and to know exactly where to go to get it, a few tools and materials only a ten minute walk away. She tells him to make himself at home, let yourself in, I’ll be in the back, I’d warn you about my guard dog but she’s not very good at her job. The guard dog in question is rubbing its whiskered cheek against the leg of her jeans, thrumming a purr so loud he thinks it’s at least partial performance, yellow eyes skewing up at him every now and again. 

The work itself makes up the morning. Methodical, monotonous work that allows his mind, and his eyes, to wander. Whatever that ring on her finger means, he’s nearly certain that nobody else lives here with her, except for the cat who spends the first few hours sitting on the bottom step, watching him. As for Maggie, he catches glimpses of her, in and out all morning between what looks like a sunroom and the backyard, never still, always something in her hands, always moving like she’s got an important destination to get to. She comes back inside just as he’s finishing his work, dressed down in a tank top now, all her hair pulled into a precarious knot at the nape of her neck. His eyes linger on bare collar bone, sun high in her cheeks, even though he tries not to. 

“I completely forgot to ask if your kid is feeling better.” He tells her that she is, tries for a joke about teenagers and all their drama that just feels weird in his mouth, though she still smiles at it. And he feels it again, just the same as when he met her, that tug, that want to linger, even though the work is done, and she’s thanking him for it, and even he, and all his dormant manners, knows that’s his cue to leave. 

“I was about to make some lunch if you wanted to stick around?” He shouldn’t.

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” And so he stays for lunch, and so there’s tomato sandwiches, thick and bursting, summer sweet and savor on her back porch, wiping dripping ripeness off on the thigh of his pants, a hum in his throat to be enjoying something like this. 

“How’s another week of domesticity suiting you?” Words that crackle with a half-grin, her cheek cupped in her palm, a picture of afternoon haze, sleep and sate, and he finds himself being lulled by the sight, little slump back in his chair.

“Don’t think it’s something I’ll get used to anytime soon.”

“That’s to be expected, I don’t think anyone ever fully gets used to it though. Not unless this is all they’ve known.”

“Where were you before you came here?” It’s a question that borders on prying, he apologizes and you don't have to almost as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but she waves the apology off, it’s a little complicated. And she tells him that this is where she lived in the before, right up until the after, and that she, like so many others, got funneled into a quarantine zone in the earliest years. 

“Were you ever in one?”

“Boston, for a while.”

“Then you know how maddening those places are.” Bird of prey, trapped in a cage. Bird of prey, who flew back home. Bird of prey, who found that a few other people had the same idea.

“It wasn’t called Jackson back then, wasn’t called anything, just people, you know.” Until it became something else, something bigger, and a little more serious, and if that bothers her, she doesn’t show it. And now he really is prying, asking after her accent that surely doesn’t come from the mountains. He’s not wrong, she tells him.

“I moved here when I was, oh, maybe nine? My parents, we lived in Mississippi before they passed, and when they did I was sent up north to live with my aunt.” It’s an old wound, whatever pain that remains from it has been transfigured into a sort of tired nostalgia around her eyes, the tempering of her smile. She’s quick to brush it away, a bright laugh and a shake of her head, I think I just told you all my secrets. He knows that isn’t true, though warmth still starts to unfurl in his chest. And when she asks him the same questions, he offers the same piecemeal parts of the whole truth. Offers Texas, and his brother, and a halfway truth about Ellie. Shards and fragments passed between each other’s hands, it surprises him how easily he has given his to her. 

“I guess we’re not strangers anymore then.” 

“No, I guess not.”

“I should– I feel the need to warn you.” Like she’s not sure how to put these words together right, brow pinched low and smile slanted nervous, you might not want to spend too much time around me.

“Why’s that?”

“People around here like to talk.”

“Right.”

“And they like talking about me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And I don’t want– you seem like the kind of guy who just wants to keep his head down and get by.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I’d like to be friendly, but I don’t want to take that from you.” The word friendly does something unpleasant in his chest. He does his best to ignore it.

“Why’d you invite me to stay?”

“Because I like talking to you and because I’m selfish. Because I wanted to.” And there’s something else, he thinks, something else unspoken behind her grin. Because he hasn’t made up his mind about her in the same way everyone else has, at least not yet. 

“I have heard things, about you, I mean.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“And I have questions.” She sits back in her chair, an edge of a challenge in her jutted chin, palms turned up and open, try me. But given the chance, he doesn’t know where to begin, which thread to pull first. What comes out, ultimately, isn’t even a question, but plain and blunt observation. This is a big house.

“It’s just me, and Stevie. I’ve offered up rooms to folks around here, haven’t gotten any bites so far.”

“But it wasn’t always, just you.” Absent-minded, she spins that silver band with her thumb, another wound revealed. 

“I was married until I wasn’t.”

“Before or after?” He doesn’t know where this is coming from, this plainly brash openness, though she doesn’t wince, doesn’t recoil from it, just as steady as he is.

“After, about a decade after. You think you’re in the clear and then, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for now. Ask me something else, why don’t you? Something more interesting.” Wave of her hand and a clipped laugh that’s more like a sniff, tender, don’t touch, don’t dig into that wound any deeper. 

“People say you’re strange.”

“Strange.” Dragging out the word, letting it crackle with a grin that’s all teeth, little laugh on the end, picture perfect amusement in how she tilts her head at him.

“That you can do strange things.” 

“That’s kind of a nothing word, isn’t it? Strange?”

“I thought you were gonna answer my questions.”

“Oh, I will. You’re gonna have to be a little more precise in your language though.” Back and forth, back and forth, why does he like this so much? Dragging his palm down his jaw to stop the spread of anticipation, heat-hazy in the mid-afternoon sun.

“That cat of yours, for starters.”

“Mmhmm?” Raise of her brows, voice high in her throat, and he has to huff, do I really have to say it?

“Are you referring to the rumor that my cat spies on people and reports back to me all their wicked, little secrets?” 

“Sure, yes.”

“That cat right there?” His eyes follow her pointed finger out into the tall grass of the backyard, where the cat in question seems to have contented itself with tangling its paws in a loose length of twine, belly-up, writhing around in all that green. Maggie snorts.

“Oh yeah, she’s a real mastermind, you better watch out, she’ll be visiting your bedroom window next.” 

“Then what about the rest of it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“I’m glad you’re finding this so amusing.”

“Mmhmm, I really am.”

“I feel foolish even saying it.”

“If there’s a word you’re skirting around, and I think there is, it’d be better if you just come out with it.”

“This really is a nothing word though.”

“Oh?”

“Made up, make-believe.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Frankly, I’m not sure of anything about you.” She hums, chin cupped in her hand and her elbow propped on the small table between them, her brow dipping in mock consideration of his words. He can see that she really is finding all of this entertaining, something in her eyes like a squinted challenge, ghost of a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth.

“How about I say the word I think you’re thinking of?” Spiraling words, circling each other, he nods, and she purses her lips, getting ready for some kind of lift off. 

“People have told you my cat is strange.”

“People have told you I’m strange.”

“People have told you I do strange things.” Yes, yes, yes, he nods with each statement, and her smile only seems to brighten.

“Joel, have people been telling you I’m a witch?” And that’s it, isn’t it? Foolish, and he doesn’t know why that word has seemed to stick in his mind. Maybe just because he’s heard it from enough mouths in the last few days that it almost makes it seem plausible. Maybe he’s lived in a world turned inside out on itself long enough that there is very little imagination that hasn’t been eaten away by reality. Maybe he’s just like the rest of them, looking for any way to explain someone who doesn’t do things the capital-w Way they are supposed to be done. Maybe he’s still thinking about Sarah, and where Maggie could have possibly plucked that name from. And maybe that word is just holding the place of something else, an uneasiness he feels around her, though not unpleasant, just other, and so very unlike any other. He opens his mouth to speak, but decides against it, and this seems to amuse her most of all, sharp smile now softening, no longer playing at a game because they’ve both caught each other now, haven’t they? 

“That’s what people say.” 

“And you? What do you say?” 

“Does it matter?”

“If we’re going to be friends, yes, I’d like to know what you think.” Friends, they’re going to be friends. When did that happen? He thinks that may be the strangest thing of all. 

“I think I don’t know enough yet to tell you what I think.”

“How judicious of you.”

“I think you’re different though.”

“Well, I think you’re different too.”

“Why?”

“Most people wouldn’t have gone past the front porch, and here you are staying for lunch.”

“I don’t mean to impose or–”

“That’s not what I meant.” The words are kind, but they’re also a conclusion, enough, for now, enough. He watches her get up and collect both their plates before he can think to move, and then another kindness, touch, her palm on his shoulder as she passes behind him, there and gone. He’s a stranger to touch that isn’t economical, or clinical, or plainly violent, and he finds himself unsure what to do with that, though inexplicably wanting more of it. 

She thanks him again for the fix to the railing, and he thanks her for lunch. He lingers, and she lets him, helps with the dishes, checks the railing one more time. I’ll see you, she says, walking him out onto the front porch, and she does it again, touch again, somewhere at his elbow, as simple as anything. The roses are still raging in her front yard, a whole wave of them. 

Somewhere in the middle of his walk home, he realizes the cat is following him, second shadow slinking low to the ground, dipping her head when he turns around, pretending at predator. He keeps walking, pays little attention to her pursuit. He’ll get used to it eventually. He thinks he already is.

...........................

taglist: @suzmagine @joelsgreys @vee-bees-blog @noisynightmarepoetry @kungfucapslock @iloveenya @evolnoomym @wannab-urs @survivingandenduring @thereaperisabitch @schnarfer @jessthebaker @tobethlehem

[mylordshesacactus]

She’d thought herself too numb for surprise, but something must have changed on her face. Gu’rol raised a wryly klingon eyebrow as the doors slid shut behind her. “You were expecting someone else.” It wasn’t really a question. “Mmm. I understand. Ours is the bond of a warrior to her captain; you are neither sister nor mother to me, nor lover, nor savior, nor the head of my House. Yet I think I am not less to you because of it.” Or: Klingon and Romulan ideas of honor are not always compatible--but they are far more alike than different. And there is no shame, alone in the dark and cold of space, in needing a friend.

Y'all made the TERRIBLE decision to reward me for the last little star trek fic I posted and now I am going to continue doing it lmao

[maryonmega]

Twin Stars - Chapter 13

Choices (instinct?)

You slip back into your altered hat and cloak before thanking the housemaidens and leaving the House. They're quite unique still, you didn't have them too altered. The others will know that it's you under them. If they chose to wait.

 

In, out. They did. You're sure of that. You all but begged on your note. You might still have the Stranger mask half on, but they know Stardust likes you. They wouldn't take you away from them.

 

In, out. 

 

You check the inn. The keeper confirms that your group is still on it, but Mira moved to an one bed room. Makes sense.

 

You stay, and wait. And by the time the sun starts to set, you hear them come. You lean on the wall of the corridor and pull your hat over your face. You're giggly like a child that just got a face paint.

 

You hear a couple of surprised noises, then Stardust's voice.

 

"Sisyphus?"

 

You grin and lift your hat.

 

"Hey, Stardust."

 

~★~

 

Loop is smiling at you.

 

They did tell they left to Change. You expected them to look different, and still need a moment to process what you're seeing. You two are still similar enough to pass as siblings, but couldn't pass as each other with a bit of makeup. They did stuff to their hair, too. Not much, but you don't think a dye job could reproduce it.

 

Yet, the diffrence that stood up most was how real their smile looked.

 

You want to express your relief, but Mira takes the first reaction role. With a healthy dose of irritation.

 

"That wasn't funny. You gave me a scare, you know?"

 

Loop looks at her like her voice was a jumpscare, then almost ashamed. They're still easy to read, it seens.

 

"I know it wasn't funny. I'm sorry about that. I didn't want to wake you up."

 

Mira scoffed.

 

"Don't you dare do that again."

 

You hear Odile's voice next. You can't quite read her face and you don't like that.

 

"Can you show us that you're really Sisyphus?"

 

"M'dame! They just Changed."

 

"And you, of all people, should know that body craft does not affect memories. Or that a bit of precaution does not hurt."

 

"And you're right, Madame." Loop responds. They looked unbothered before, but now a little sad. Their eyes (not mismatched anymore) go to you and they start smirking, then get serious again "You meeeh and piou back at sheep and birds."

 

Your blood turns into ice. So does your brain and bones when she turns to glare.

 

"That's one thing to know."

 

"It felt harmless..." You didn't have a choice on her knowing, but you can't use this defense.

 

"So you do?" Another voice. Pétronille. And she sounds smug. Oh, no, you have to avoid a bloodshed!

 

"We-well what matters is that we know it's really them! So, we can proceed!"

 

"Yes, we can." She says, still looking at you like she did in the loop she figured you out "When we have sunlight again. Five of us still suffer with cold."

 

"Of course." Loop nods, then turn to Mira "Did you get into an one bed room?"

 

"I did. Are you fine with sharing?"

 

"Don't worry about that. I did this without warning, only fair that I sleep on the floor."

 

"What? No, not with a perfectly comfy bed on the room!"

 

"You don't have to-"

 

"I'm offering because I'm fine with this. I shared a bed before."

 

You zone out for the rest of the verbal tennis but does catch on the agreement to share the bed.

 

Even if they look a little lighter, that sadness came back as soon as they had to acknowlege the others, didn't it?

 

Curious. Talking can be such a chore often, yet right now your tongue itches to tell the truth. That you know why Loop is so sad around them. But you can't. You don't think they will forgive you if you do. 

 

You don't want to make them suffer. You want to help. But, helping someone who doesn't want to be helped is rather thankless labor. And you don't think forcing untill they break and have no choice will work in this case. You don't think Loop will forgive you if that happens, either. 

 

So, you just tell the half truth of being worried about your "sibling" when your own sadness is noticed. 

 

~~~

 

You're on an actual road. Cobblestones make a soothing clicking under the heels of your boots. Mirabelle and you are on the front, an open map in your hands. Your hushed discussion is the sound one can hear under the soft wind that makes you once again grateful for your cloak. Finding a path that won't force you to camp for very long wasn't a big work, but for whatever reason Mira can't seen to go ahead and tell why she doesn't like the one you picked. Usually that would mean a big no-no, but, well, weeks of others talking behind a fella's back can make them get new pet peevees.

 

Your half forced focus is broken by the sound of hooves, then a multi-car caravan comes close and to a stop before the front horse bumps into Pétronille. 

 

"Hey! Hello there!" A cheery voice calls, and you turn to see a woman around Odile's age waving at the group "Remember me? Probably not but it's fine! When it comes to needy people I'm sure you've seen plenties."

 

She sounds cheery even saying that. That gives you a wave of relief. Untill Bonbon's face light up and they open their mouth. You know you're screwed before the sound comes out.

 

"You're the lady that had Dile's orb!"

 

"That I am. Small world, eh?" The Cheery One deflates a little. You can tell she looks embarrassed. Or ashamed "Now that we remeet, I'm really sorry about that. It's easy to blame Alain, but I still did his bidding when I could have said no."

 

"Hey, don't say that." To your shock, it's was Nille who said something "I know I'm missing context, but I also know saying no can be hard in some situations."

 

You... don't want to think too much about that. Cheery One gives Nille a small smile, so it must have touched something.

 

"Well, going south, too?" You nod "Want a ride? As a thanks?"

 

"M'dame, the King has been beaten for some time already." Isa, this time. He gets a playful eye roll in response. 

 

"Not a thanks to the Saviors of Vaugard. A thanks to the people who gave me the courage to get divorced." She winks, and pats the closest horse "I'd rather have someone in the lookout for sadnesses while at that cursed bridge, too, so you all can think of it as a favor exchange, if you want."

 

You don't quite get why she called the long bridge "cursed". You do feel bad for having forgotten her. How much from before did you forget, if the others seen to remember clearly?

 

"What happened to Alain, anyway?" Bonbon asks, and Cheery One giggles when Nille hushes them. 

 

"Under Defender's costudy. The city froze just a few hours after that, so they were still deciding what to do with him when I left. Honestly, I'm not coming back regardless, but I hope he sees the error of his ways. Everyone can change, after all. Even King sympathizers."

 

~★~

 

You're on the very back of the caravan. The siblings are beside you, Mirabelle and the couple in front of you. You can't see the two older ladies where you are and part of you thinks it might be a good thing. 

 

"So... Divorced from a King sympathizer?" You hear Pétronille ask her sibling. When you look, their face had turned into the definition of irritation. 

 

"A dumb idiot, that's what he was!"

 

You consider disguising, but remember you don't have to. You're Sisyphus, you're new too, you can't remember things you didn't live. 

 

(Not a dumb crab? Is it because big sis is here?)

 

"How dumb?"

 

They crossed their arms and pouted. 

 

"Kept saying dumb stuff, like that everything would be ugly if they didn't freeze. Like, so what if it's ugly? You can't think something is pretty if you're frozen!"

 

"Can confirm." 

 

... You avoid looking at her.

 

"So he hid an orb! Everyone was looking for the orbs like crazy and he went and hid one! And not even like normal people hide things. He hid in the middle of a forest!"

 

You lean in and listen to their ramble. About how he ordered his wife, the woman giving you all a ride, around and insulted her. How they had to solve puzzles and play detective to find the key and the box. Then beat up the man himself when he snatched the orb again and started monologuing about giving a second shot to destroying it instead. And to no tell Za that he was actually cool knocking the box off the "dumb idiot" hands with KABOOM!!! to avoid it happening in the cross fire. 

 

It's nice. Makes it feel like it took little time to get to the bridge. The view is actually nice. You can see the lake expand in all directions. Must be breathtaking during dusk. From the map read, it's about fourteen miles of bridge where you're crossing. You're not a building nerd, but you can regornize good work. 

 

"Well, no wonder she walked away. He really was nasty." You hear Nille say. 

 

"He was a big crab." You say softly, close to her ear. You know the kid will hear. What matters is that she thinks it's not your intent. Must have worked, because she nods.

 

You see them smirk with mischief.

 

"I wish I could have seen his face when he unfroze."

 

You hear a loud neigh and feel the cart come to an abrupt stop. Soon enough, you can also distinguish the Lady's voice trying to calm the animals, and... 

 

An uncannily human-like wail.

 

You stand up, and see it. A sadness had climbed up the bridge, and was beside them. A large, humanoid one, with no legs and moss-like things simulating hair and a torn shirt, arms twice as long as the rest of the body. You can see in Nille's face when she enters uncanny valley herself. 

 

You could feel in your very bones. A sensation you thought you left behind because was yet to awake again. It was strong. Maybe stronger than a big ball head. You look at it's hands. One clenched in a fist, one with an open palm. 

 

You can hear the others get ready to fight. Even Nille, whose level you don't even know. The sadness wails and lunges to the closest cart, yours, faster than a rock/paper should able to. Palmed hand out. 

 

You pull a sibling with each hand, getting them out of it's reach, and snap your fingers. 

 

Nille is keeping herself in front of her sibling, in a protective stand. You see the sadness' single eye focus behind her, at the child that looks like they'll scream at any second but no sound comes out. 

 

You only saw that shade a couple of times. When you realise what the sadness wants, it is all that you see. 

 

~★~

 

You're in the middle of hopping from the cart to the ground when you see Loop charge at the sadness, dagger first. 

 

(just attack?)

 

It gets thrown off the cart with a loud wail, and Loop pounces, craft ready. Sadness goo oozes out from where it got slashed. 

 

It swings the fisted hand, and you push them out of it's reach. You feel the strayed craft vibrate under your feet. And the familiar sensation of a buff. Twice. You give a quick look, and see that Mira and Isa already joined. Odile is barely within reach when you see her slow down the sadness. It's still thrashing around quite a bit, no surprise given how fast it was at first, but you know for sure the carts won't get any more collateral damage.

 

There's barely time to register it when Loop lunges again, palm open. You regornize the attack. You follow with your own paper attack - Tear You Apart.

 

It does something you didn't see coming. it hits you upside the chest with the fisted hand - painful like a bitch but you've had worse - and uses your body to throw itself at Isabeau, with the open hand. Even with a shield, you watch him stumble and, for a second, you fear he might fall off. Thank stars, it doesn't happen.

 

Mirabelle comes next with a Silent Artsy Burst. The air lingers with paper craft, and the six of you unleash it in a jackpot attack.

 

What remains of the sadness fall back into the water.

 

You breath in, and out. It was... quite spooky. You look at your partners. Four are also coming back from the scare. Loop...

 

Loop has a far off on their eyes, looking at the spot the sadness was before falling. They don't move their neck, but take steps to turn and look at where the siblings are. When they speak, they voice expresses nothing.

 

"Bonbon, are you alright?"

 

Bonnie is still in the back cart, clinging to their sister's shirt. Said sister is still in front of them, meat shield style.

 

They nod and Loop smiles. You hear a "good" under the relieved sigh before they put the dagger away and climb back into the caravan.

 

"Malheur." You hear Odile say, softly. You doubt those three will hear, with the safe distance you put between the carts and the sadness "Can form from people that decide to die then regret it."

 

...

 

... Oh.

 

So this is why Mira didn't want to tell you?

 

"M'dame Aimée is lucky we crossed." You hear Isa comment. Nobody has it to tell say another thing. 

 

You go back to where you were before, between Mira and Isa. The mood is tense. Part is because of the sudden attack, but you know part is also because of you. 

 

Your heart is also tense with worry for Loop. You look at them. You see them and Nille speaking, but can't figure out the words. You do see them hold out their hands, and each sibling takes one. You see Bonbon smile at them. You see them sloch in a way too familiar way. 

 

Not because you saw. Because you've been like that. 

 

You don't think Loop will freak out and turn into a human tower, but you still don't like the sight. 

[luminescentlyricist]

🎠 Petals, Sticks And Stones 🎠

While the idea for the Sparkslide Circus troupe, Carrie and Homura belong to me, Kazuki and Dahlia actually belong to @c4ndystarz and @maimai020104 respectively! Go give them the incredible amount of love they deserve.

~~

The pounding in Carrie Astor’s chest was unavoidable. She’d awoken with that pain for many nights in a row, gasping for air like she’d been choking. But there were things to do as morning broke, so it usually culminated in her simply rolling back over in her bed to get what little rest she could. This time, though, she sat up. Fingers curling loosely to grip the sheets, she hauled her tired body further upwards to rest against the headboard. A groan of protest parted her lips, as was normal for that early in the morning, but she doubted the show would wait for her to get her beauty sleep. And even if it did, on a rare occasion indeed, there were people who expected more from her than laziness. Although she hadn’t been assigned a specific role in the Sparkslide Circus’ troupe, doing whatever was needed to fill in the gaps between all manner of excuses, the variety instilled in her a hunger to continue moving forward.

It was this hunger that kept her awake at all hours of the night, tossing and turning until the sheets tangled around her legs and she had to sit up to fix them. She craned her head to look out the window, crinkling her nose in distaste at the thin beam of morning light beginning to invade her peaceful darkness. Still eager to avoid whatever laborious tasks Homura - the troupe’s Ringmaster and her father, no less - had in store, the young woman groaned louder. Her throat was sore from the last night’s performances, as she’d been kept up talking with a few of the other members before being taken aside by him and given an earful of additional tasks.

The work wasn’t thankless.

Her thoughts shifted towards her friends in the troupe as she fumbled about for a stray glass of water on her nightstand, narrowly avoiding knocking it over a small music box she kept there. Taking a long and grateful sip, the performer found herself reminiscing about the origins of the trinket. It had been a gift from one Kazuki Rosario, the troupe’s own self-professed ‘master’ aerialist and first companion to Carrie when she’d begun her own forays into the world beneath the stage-lights. She’d had to patch it up many a time, of course, owing to her disastrous strokes of misfortune, but they never seemed to mind when she repetitively apologised. If anything, the meetings were only an excuse for them to bond in what little leisure time they were given. No matter what, he seemed to tease a smile out of her.

She would’ve wished to meet with him, then, but looking at the sorry state of the music box reminded her of just how irritable he could get early in the day. It wasn’t their fault. Nobody truly got enough sleep in the troupe, and that wasn’t even on her father’s list of concerns. He only wanted to present something good to the people, no matter what expenses and stresses were piled onto his loyal performers. Kaz had been an active member in shows for as long as Carrie’s memory stretched, however poor, though they were both similar in age to one another. Neither of them got any special treatment, despite the many years they’d worked together - and Carrie’s inevitable closeness to the forefront of the show.

Swinging her legs a few more times, the only thing left to do was greet the day that hadn’t yet arrived. Now, with mind racing, she looked at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock was definitely earlier than she would’ve liked to be up and moving, but was just late enough to leave little room for boredom. If she wasn’t already planning something, people could tell her things to be done. Or, of course, she could invade any number of the other tents that she’d been given a key to. Supplies always needed replenishing in the communal prop tent, no matter the number of resourceful clowns who only worried about their own. Thus, she stood up, immediately swaying in protest.

“Good grief. You’re not going to die from a few chores, Miss Carrie.”

With a croaking voice the woman scolded herself, turning back to neaten the sheets of the bed and grimacing at the comparatively loud shifting of the mattress. Everything was grating for a time, just until she could put the music box on and soothe herself with the melody. Though it often stuttered and the handle was nearly falling off, a touch of paint (on top of some luck with tinkering) would do its job. The tune it produced was akin to a lullaby, something soft that urged one almost to sleep. For Carrie, it was a reminder of the shows that Kaz was in. The ways the silk and hoops moved in synchrony with her friend’s body was just as captivating, and she recognised it as one of their own tracks. Usually, there were musical sets already in place, but rules never mattered too much to Kaz. 

Boy, they’d had to fight her father to get that permission…

A small smile rested on her face as she worked, deciding not to touch the box for the time being. Things that were precious were few and far between, and she feared each handle-crank would be the one to stop the music for good. Instead, Carrie pulled on her shoes and fumbled tying the laces in the dark, guided only by the mocking sliver of light from her stubborn curtains. It wasn’t easy in the best days, due to certain dexterity issues she’d always had. Far more humiliating, however, would be anything falling off in the middle of a show. The thought alone made her shudder as she straightened, swinging her right leg a few times and sighing in relief. That one was a prosthetic, owing to an accident in her early childhood that remained in her mind as little more than a blur of pain and darkness.

Though they were sure their parents wouldn’t refuse to tell them if they asked for clarification on the subject, it made her nervous anyway. Happiness was preferable in their family, in their lives, and to jeopardise that would only consume Carrie with gnawing guilt. It was just one of many things she’d learnt to make herself blend in. No privileges were consciously given to her as an Astor, and she intended to keep it that way. Her dear friend would have even less time to stay and talk, to brighten the skies when her muscles ached, and that wasn’t something she was willing to trade away for a ripple of hope on the horizon.

She opened the curtains for later, hoping that the weather would hold and not present too much of a damper on the mood. It was harder for her to bring people happiness when it didn’t have a reason to personally exist. No matter how many tricks she employed, sadness was the easiest thing for an audience to spot under the glaring lights. The various friends that she walked alongside helped fend back the misery, and it was more than she could ever ask for.

Shaking herself back to reality, the performer busied herself with leaving the tent that served as her lodgings. Though each appeared to be a miniaturised red-and-white circus tent, the walls were solid and structure akin to any other room. Her eyes continued to sweep around anxiously like she hadn’t seen the interior a million times over. A small vase sat on the desk, housing three small blooms. One was a spider-lily that she’d plucked from a miscellaneous show’s congratulatory gifts, finding the colour and design striking. The last two were given to her on seperate occasions. Homura had handed her the strangely wilting dahlia just the day prior, an infuriatingly sly expression that she’d wanted to slap off his face along with it. He’d mentioned that there was a new arrival coming soon, and she’d need the reminder. Of course he had to be cryptic and obnoxious, despite a genuine attempt to do something nice for her.

The other was a rose.

Kazuki had given her many roses, and it’d become a lasting symbol of their bond. It was a shame that Carrie didn’t have a green thumb, but she did the best she could remembering to water them. Many were even de-thorned, to the best of the aerialist’s ability, and he’d announce his arrival with a string of muttered curses more often than not. The oft-necessary first-aid kit in one’s cupboard was an asset to both performers. Her fingers paused in the air reaching for the flower, and she had to remind herself that time wouldn’t pause for her silly whims. It would be safer to leave it out of the buzz and rush of preparations. So she exited the tent with a notable drag in her step, leaving soothing thoughts of rosy fields and sunlight behind along with it.

Of course it was beginning to rain. The light that streamed into her tent had been cold and grey, though she’d not taken any notice of it because of her prior squinting protest. She’d forgotten to bring an umbrella, but that was something trivial. Judging by the steady emergence of people into the main area, it was time to work, and preparations for shows didn’t stop because of the sun’s refusal to shine. It was a pain, seeing as Carrie herself had reservations about being vulnerable in bad weather, but she was only a cog in the entertainment machine. Things wouldn’t work as smoothly without her. With this in mind, she looked toward the only different tent in the vicinity (save for the titular Big Top) and made a note to avoid it for the time being.

Homura insisted on being the centre of everything whenever possible, sly and ‘quiet’ though he was, and it really got on her nerves. Of course he worked in the shadows, puppeteering the lives of the people he claimed to love, but the spotlight was ultimately his - not even his family’s. For this reason, his tent was a measure bigger than the others, draped in navy and gold to contrast those around it. Carrie didn’t want to disturb him when she could continue silently, as she was his personal favourite errand-runner. It was as if she had no more purpose to him than another prop, and fitted well with his hobbies in the art of hypnotism. Unlike other shows, Carrie’d always thought that her father’s participants weren’t quite as willing.

It meant that not even she was safe, and his influences reached farther than the stage. He was never bragging outwardly, no, though the possibility of having her agency taken with a moment’s notice made a shiver course through her body. So she kept her head down and ran herself ragged to make things as perfect as possible, if only to avoid whatever was in store if she stepped out of line. He forced himself to be calm and collected, but those closest to him knew it was just one of many masks he put on for the public. The ruse could drop when the curtains fell.

The young woman continued toward the Big Top, trying her best to convince herself that the shaking of her legs was only due to the cold. There was a commotion there, with many performers beginning to congregate around the fabric entranceway. Her walking then faltered. It was far too early to deal with such a thing when her voice wasn’t even cooperating. So she changed course, deciding to take her time getting to the supply tent. Though her right hand was uncooperative most days, she wanted to try juggling more. However backwards it seemed, she was sure that training herself to her limits would help new horizons open. She denied the foolishness of these thoughts, especially because her father was happy enough to encourage anything that would make ‘his’ shows more interesting.

Setting down the bag she’d grabbed prior, Carrie begun taking stock of items available. There were walls stacked with teetering piles, some housing equipment she found comfortable and others far beyond her reach. There were more people crowded into the tent, but she paid them no mind. Even after years of being around the circus, the sheer magnitude of tricks and toys they had available tended to make her tune out everything else in captivation. Smoothing her hands over a layered mass of aerial silks, she debated taking some of them and meeting Kazuki for practice. 

The thought was comforting, but she needed to start pushing herself if she was going to make her father happy. He’d told her she wasn’t up to par, and the only way to fix that… He left it to her imagination, which was an unkind thing to do. She thought badly of herself more often than not. After choosing a set of juggling balls emblazoned with various insect shapes and putting them into her bag, she barely had enough time to turn around before a figure called out to her. She was too engrossed to hear what they’d said, nor decipher who it’d been until a hand grabbed her shoulder to shake her away. Strands of pink and blue dyed hair framed the aerialist’s perpetually smiling face as Carrie faced them, though the expression fell into concern seeing her irritated.

“Carrie-“

She shook Kazuki’s touch and attention both away, wordless in her rejection, continuing to walk out of the tent with not a single thought in mind until it finally dawned on her just how rude she’d been. Beginning to turn around to seek his familiar fairy-floss hair in the crowd, she instead stepped on a crag of the pavement before she could find her footing. Roughly falling down, she exclaimed, attempting to brace herself and having one of her habitually-worn gloves slip off. Before she could right herself and begin gathering the juggling balls, an unfamiliar pair of hands stretched down into her vision.

Grateful for the help, Carrie took the performer’s hands into her own and hauled herself upright, bending over to pick up some of the supplies before they escaped her grasp in the increasing throng of people. She paused upon seeing the blades on their belt, however, and the grateful smile that’d bent her lips upward prior wavered. Great. Just what we need - more people doing dangerous acts. Straightening, it came to mind that the figure before her must have been Sparkslide Circus’ new arrival. Before she could speak, however, she was caught up in the subject of her wonder again. Judging by the handles’ sculpt, the knives were crafted specifically for throwing. Carrie was tempted to ask the new arrival whether she could handle the skill, too, but caught her shaking hands in her field of vision too soon.

Absolutely not.

In the suspended moment, Dahlia - the knife-thrower - had taken note of the missing glove, holding it out to Carrie. The other used it to hide a variety of cuts and wounds, the most interesting of which was a still-healing scar running the length of her palm. This was nothing of concern, being one of many such injuries owing to a life of performance coupled with horrendous bad luck. But it managed to capture Dahlia’s attention, for better or worse. While they didn’t want to invade and ask Carrie where they’d sustained the injury, they walked silently alongside the girl as she’d begun to leave. After a moment, Carrie turned toward Dahlia, gesturing vaguely to the Big Top gleaming behind them.

“Sorry about that. The name’s Carrie. The Ringmaster let me know yesterday that there was a new arrival coming to the troupe, but didn’t bother specifying when. He never gives enough attention to the things that actually matter. Thank you for your help.”

Dahlia’s expression was far more gentle than expected, seeing how sharp her skills were bound to be. While Homura didn’t shy away from training those he thought were worth the time, it was oddly rarer still for him to take already-trained members into the ranks. It was riskier, too, being a hypnotist, for him to let anyone slip from his grasp. But he was overconfident. He believed he could pick apart the mind of anyone who came his way, and Carrie only hoped that was a lie. Dahlia only smiled, hesitating before speaking as if planning her words. The other hadn’t wanted to be overwhelming, but their awkward first meeting had thrown a curveball into the typical conversational process.

“Dahlia. You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

Carrie’d chosen to simply nod, the performer’s name ringing in their ears for a moment longer. So that was why their father had given them the flower… though she didn’t think of it as a simply nice gesture in the first place, it would’ve been better for her to be told directly.

“Of course. I’m more used to falling over than your usual person, if anything needs to be said. Do you know why the Big Top is so crowded?”

There was another pause, during which Dahlia’s eyes swept across the girl in front of them and fully took in who she was seeing. She’d not been informed that the Ringmaster of the troupe had any family, but was able to tell there was something odd going on with her. Someone with so many careless injuries didn’t meet the expectations she’d seen from the imposing man, so the only avenue she could reason with was that Carrie had obtained some sort of special permission to be there. It was obvious from their earlier words they were part of the performing members, after all, and not just any member of the crowd.

This didn’t culminate in any judgement - just simple curiosity, the likes of which made their eyes light up as she responded.

“The Ringmaster told me, yesterday upon my arrival on the grounds, that there was going to be a sort of introductory gathering in the Big Top some time the next morning. No other details, as you might guess, but I can’t say I’m surprised that he would want to make a spectacle out of everything possible. As much as I can’t say it within earshot, he seems terribly self-absorbed.”

There was laughter in Dahlia’s words, posing a comfort to Carrie although she didn’t have the courage to mention it. Some of the tension that’d been in her shoulders from the fall (and meeting a stranger in such an embarrassing state) melted away as she took a moment to talk and gain her bearings. Luckily, none of the juggling balls had strayed too far, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to risk using them again.

“He hasn’t shown himself in the Big Top yet, as far as I can tell, so I was going to check if one of the practice tents were set up and keep myself occupied. I’m sure you have your own things to do, Carrie, so I’ll-”

I’ll leave you to it.

The knife-thrower’s words were interrupted by the sound of an exclamation, then a loud and very familiar voice swearing. This made Carrie’s attention pull away from Dahlia, if momentarily, and she frowned deeply.

“On the other hand, I might accompany you. Nothing good can come from someone that raucous.”

Dahlia noted, more than willing to follow her new acquaintance if it meant getting to the source of the fun. She matched Carrie’s pace as they begun to run toward the prop tent, appearing to seek out who exactly had sworn. 

The performer’s eyes were wide, panicked, footfalls heavy against the uneven grass where the tents were pitched. There was no time. She needed to find Kaz before they got hurt, and she had a feeling they already would be. But the tent was silent. Too silent. She glanced back to the knife-thrower, instinctively grabbing their hand for support, one gloved finger coming up to make a shushing motion against her own lips. She couldn’t risk their being found, but she knew better than to take a single step further into the entrance of the tent. It was something of a protective instinct, stemming from all the times she’d been in front of her father’s wrath. 

Evidently, Homura’s plans had changed and he saw no need to notify anyone of the shift. What he said went, and the same rung true if he never talked at all. All the world was his stage, and his alone. He had one hand clamped over his eye, tight enough so that none of the storage tent’s dim illumination was reaching through it. Though Kaz stood back from the Ringmaster, Homura's commanding presence seemed to darken the whole room. On his face there usually sat a large medical eyepatch, strings fraying but otherwise well-kept. This was the only exception to formality he’d ever make in appearance, preferring the large patch over something more stereotypical and pirate-like. It did nothing to lessen how intimidating he was.

Carrie, meanwhile, had wrestled her attention away from the admittedly disturbing scene enough to debate asking Dahlia for a favour. Though it was far too soon for her to be in debt to a fellow performer - someone she couldn’t really escape from - she saw no other option. Maybe, if they could create a diversion, she could free Kaz from whatever conflict they’d unwillingly stepped into. Maybe it would just be safer for her to back out and away, running before the altercation even concerned her. She’d be branded a fool to desert the two, even if it were the better personal choice. She was making the situation much bigger in her head than it had any right to be, yet it was driven by the need to protect someone dear to her.

So she turned to Dahlia, voice little more than a harsh whisper, before loosening her hold. She didn’t want to let go just yet, however, breathing becoming ragged and nervous. They were aiming to be a comfort to the knife-thrower, yes, but to glean comfort in return as well. She took one more step past the doorway, leaving Dahlia standing behind as if guarding her. But there wasn’t time.

Before Carrie could act, there was a flash. Bright. Blinding.

Yes, Rosario, blinding.

The movements of the once-fluid aerialist became staggered. Stiff, inorganic and conveying none of their usual personality. Not suspended, as any dancer would be through the air, but frozen. Trapped.

This sight was something familiar to Carrie, and the young woman’s breath caught in her throat. Why? Why would her father risk it? For something so petty, so inconsequential, he’d become unforgivable. It was not the first time that he’d used his hypnotism in such a way, leaving performers vulnerable and empty-minded, but the fear never ceased to grip his daughter every time she saw it. Her hands became clammy with sweat as she stood numbly, eyes darting around to find any reason for the outburst. And it was there, simply, lying on the floor.

Kazuki had made a fatal mistake.

He wasn’t dead, but might as well have been. The medical patch that the Ringmaster wore had fallen during the two's scuffle earlier, which Carrie hadn’t been around to witness, and she guessed that Kaz had taken it off or caused the bands to somehow snap. She held faith in her friend that he wouldn’t have done something to spite his superior willingly, though Homura’s thinly-veiled insecurities were as fragile as the metaphorical strings now lodged in Kazuki’s shoulders. So he struck out before he thought, more often than not, and it cost him relationships forged organically.

He’d just smile and bear it. So long as people agreed with him, there was no point in having ‘companions’ for any other purpose. ‘Puppets’ were enough.

Feeling Dahlia’s grip loosen around her left hand, Carrie only held it tighter. It took her a precious few seconds more to react properly, but she attempted to pull the knife-thrower away from the prop tent’s opening. They were transfixed, smile left upon their lips, and so she tried again - an anxious tug from the wrist, expression warping into worry as they resisted without response. Even this refused to work, but if there was one thing Homura agreed upon it was that his daughter was stubborn. So he watched her tap the performer’s shoulders, urgency surely almost leaving bruises, but it was all futile. She held tighter to their hand, hoping the warmth would do something. Anything. 

Focus had shifted, and he was simply waiting for her to realise.

The Big Top had fallen silent.

Heads began to crane in the other direction. A million eyes, crowd and performer alike, all glaring straight toward Carrie. She couldn’t see the majority of their faces, but the ones she did know were making her nervous. Even Dahlia’s ice-blue gaze was harder than before. Vacant and unyielding to the effort she’d put into trying to save them. Just how much time Homura had spent under the guise of preparation accomplishing something so terrifying was beyond her, but she could barely think. Twisting her wrist to break her hold on Dahlia, she winced as a crack rung out. Though she hoped nothing was broken, the all-consuming stiffness in the knife-thrower’s body wasn’t natural.

Homura watched this all transpire with a sly smile, knowing well that the stage would be his once more. He bent over at the waist and swiped the medical patch off the floor, deftly tying it to his face and sighing in relief. The darkness comforted him, even if it made his depth perception a lot worse. Craning his neck to look at the motionless aerialist, the soft expression he wore hardened into something more menacing. Sure, he was smiling, but he may as well have had shark teeth. There was nothing genuine about the expression. Kazuki remained still, the only indication of their being awake lying in the steady rise and fall of their chest.

With a wave of Homura’s hand, a nonchalant forward motion, Kazuki fell into step behind the hypnotist. The two left the prop tent, with the smaller swamped in his superior’s shadow. As the man approached his daughter, the greeting was interrupted by Dahlia’s own movement. This too was stilted, nearly stumbling forward, but the ground was smooth enough so that she didn’t fall. Before joining Kaz behind their Ringmaster, she shot Carrie a smile. It was no comfort to the girl, suspended in disbelief and fear as she was. The blades were dull compared to the intimidation hidden in their expression. Still, they took two knives out of their belt and twirled them around in gloved fingers, carelessness shown like they were no more than toys.

But Dahlia and Homura both knew the damage they could do.

“Well… look what a predicament we’re in, Carrie.”

Homura taunted his daughter openly, spreading his arms wide to frame the emerging crowds that had gathered behind him. His tone was soft and alluring to any other, but she knew what it hid. Venom, spat, and harshness beyond measure. It’d hurt his public image, yes, but he’d never been so kind behind the curtains drawn. Control was the only thing he desired. She was his child above anything else, and held that position of influence regardless of any petty trickery.

“Will you join the show?”

In reality, Carrie knew she had no choice. The crowds loomed forward behind her, closing in and pushing her further toward the Ringmaster. A mass of bodies, unidentifiable but brought together by a singular goal.

One mind.

The girl couldn’t muster the courage to respond, even though keeping silent often did more harm than good around him. Instead, she tried to reach out toward where she thought her companions were waiting, however hard it became to see individuals in the swarm of crowd and performer alike. When Homura raised an eyebrow in silent judgement of this action, she faltered, cringing habitually away from the criticism and withdrawing her reach. He took a singular step further toward his daughter, breaking the line of tension between them.

It was in this moment of fearful instinct and clarity that her resolve gave out, and she turned tail. Running through the oppressive crush of bodies, there was nothing she could think about other than finding relief from the hammering in her chest. Usually, Carrie would’ve been able to talk to him at the very least, but she was one performer against the whole circus. The fact that their blank stares were all seeming to judge her was bad enough, and that was something she was sure he knew well. She raised her left arm to shield her eyes from the lashing arms all fighting to grab her, caring little for the injuries that she’d have to deal with later. There wouldn’t be a later if her father got his way.

The crowd never stopped their pursuit, but the only other way to make them stop was to face their Ringmaster. 

She wasn’t about to do that.

Two sets of hands grabbed at her shoulders as she ran toward her tent, one’s scarring familiar and one cloaked in gloves. They didn’t even try to pull her back, even as her pounding steps reached the border of her tent. Twisting to release the harsh grips, she staggered into her room and slid the door closed behind her, falling finally onto the floor and heaving in a choking sob. For a second or two, she debated locking the door, but the howling of noise began to fade away. Whether it was because she was falling asleep or unconscious, she couldn’t tell, but she didn’t particularly care. All that mattered was that the Ringmaster had left her alone.

She wanted badly to crawl into her bed right then and there, but with lucidity came overwhelming pain. Wearily, just as she had that morning, she thought to check the clock. 

Half-lidded and tear-filled eyes swept up towards her desk again, just in time to see the petals fall.

[compassionatereminders]

What we think happened in my ex boyfriends head up to this is that he has, for a long while, not been there for me because he wanted to. He has been there for me because he felt like I needed him and he has been using the fact that he was willing to make this giant sacrifice for me despite getting nothing valuable out of it as proof that he is a good person. And when I kept having needs and anxieties and insecurities that I expected him, as my partner, to value and reassure and meet, the bitterness in his head escalated to the point of no return where he went "I am literally sacrificing so much to be there for this weak broken person who I don't genuinely care about anymore, and yet she is not even grateful. Yet she thinks she gets to have insecurities and anxieties and needs that she expects me to deal with even though I am already doing so much thankless work. I am being the good person and she just keeps doubting me and this means that she is so toxic I literally have to run and never look back cause god forbid I even consider that I am not the infallible hero I need to believe that I am!" And that's how you justify dumping a partner of 5 years in a text and then ghosting her indefinitely. Or at least this is our current theory.

[vidreview]

VIDREV: "Why Did Link's Cel Shading Disappear?" by Jasper

[originally posted december 2nd 2022]

when i was in college, i worked in the oklahoma film industry for a few years as a grip-electric swing. in simplest terms, an electrician sets up the lights and a grip shapes the light. the swing's job is to, naturally, swing between both departments depending on what they need. this gave me an intimate understanding of all the ways a set is fictionalized by skilled workers so that it might appear real on screen. that experience colors much of how i approach creative work both practically and critically, because i very much dislike how the labors of so many talented technicians are conglomerated to one of a handful of names on the poster. there is an art to carving light into a proper shape. you can spend hours lighting a room just to make it look like night. it's not easy and it's not automatic. it is exactingly technical work that requires measurement and precision (if you want to do it right).

i say all this to say that video games are impossible. you can't just write some random symbols and numbers and then seriously expect me to believe that creates an immersive triple-a gaming experience. how do they do that? how does a horizon zero dawn exist? math is the devil's playground. my nvidia gtx 3070ti is the apple of eve, and i partake with reckless abandon on a daily basis (especially now that the associated credit card debt is almost paid off). it's sorcery is what it is, and i will never understand it. those wizards whose tongues have been trained to fork in C++, fingers long and spindly with wretched computational vigor, are sinners in the eyes of god, and i have nothing but respect for the thankless work they do to create the vile abominations we all know and love.

this video, nominally about an obscure graphical glitch in the legend of zelda: breath of the wild, did not convince me that video games are "real" as such. but it did give me a momentary glimpse of what it would be like to be a me who, instead of working in film, had worked in video games. i felt for a second like i had a real appreciation for the kind of labor that goes into making a game, beyond the popular imaginary of "some folks sit at computers and type." i don't think i've ever appreciated just how ruinously complex even the simplest of digital visual expressions can be to produce in real-time, and i appreciate how patiently Jasper lays it all out. i may be a digital native of the world wide web from the age of aol instant messenger, but i'm still a poetry animal who has to do basic math on her cloven hooves. talk slow and i'll get it, but you gotta talk slow.

i understand some things about how various mediums treat the film frame. celluloid is a physical surface with depth, a lumaphilic topography of the universe as visible to a piece of glass. digital sensors, however, capture raw signal data and either store it in RAW files or process it through the manufacturer's proprietary algorithm to create a suitable recreation of the universe as visible to a piece of glass. i just think it's interesting. i like to understand the rote physical processes which produce the raw materials of art, and i find it endlessly fascinating that the constituent parts of a medium are so often the realm of highly skilled technicians, and yet the final product is somehow produced by an artist who is not necessarily expected to know a single solitary thing about those processes. think of taika waititi just sorta casually throwing cgi effects artists under the bus in a press video for the bad thor sequel he didn't want to make. i know he knows a lot about the technical production of cinema because he's been a hands-on guy his whole career, and by all accounts he seems to care a lot about his crew (often making sure maori and indigenous film workers are on set and getting real experience). alas, solidarity is an elusive quality even among the decent ones.

besides having an interesting premise with a surprising amount of depth, this video reminded me that in games as well as movies, nothing you see is an accident. also light is magic no matter what medium it's captured in. anyway it's a good video and you should watch it

[bakuliwrites]

Sneak peek of a Gwyndolin x Chosen Undead fic I'm working on. It will be 18+, but this excerpt is not. As per usual, it's taking me longer than expected and it's going to be (surprise surprise) longer in length than I intended.

“You are a loyal child, my Lord,” she breathes, her brows knit with sorrow, “It is thankless work, is it not?”

Gwyndolin feels something shatter inside him, fragile glass embedding in his heart with the mirroring of her words. Was it not long ago that he asked if her work was thankless? Perhaps they are not all that different, gods and men. Gwyndolin has never questioned his duty. Never wondered if the work he does is worth it or not. Not receiving any recognition for his loyalty is something Gwyndolin has gotten used to. It is not his place to receive praise or acknowledgement for doing what he is supposed to be doing. For maintaining his birthright. He’s never thought about his position as a thankless one. And yet…

“It is, I suppose,” he admits, voice quiet, just barely above a whisper, as if the ghost of his Father were lingering nearby, ready to punish him for such slander. Furtively, he whispers this next secret, a secret he has never shared with anyone before, “I am consigned to obscurity for the sake of image. To uphold an ancient ruling. A dynasty built on the gilded rays of the sun. I was a terrible disappointment to my Father. The light of the moon dims in comparison to the incandescent sun.”

He trails off, not sure where he is going with this. Not sure he should be speaking in such a manner, and to a human, no less. He mentally flogs himself for such treasonous words about his family, for speaking a truth that has no place in this world. A truth that should never have been spoken, that should have been buried in the cold earth and left to rot for all eternity.

“I have always favored the moon,” his Blade speaks, her eyes gazing into a distant past, “Her light is softer. More benevolent. Her rays do not blind or scorch or wither. She is a gentle body who rules the Heavens with grace.” 

She passes a knowing glance his way, smiling softly to herself. Gwyndolin is speechless, breath caught in his throat. How is he to respond to such a thing? To such a kind notion that he hardly feels deserving of? 

“My Gentle Lord,” she goes on, pressing her hand lightly to the fog barrier, but not daring to breach it, “I thank thee for thy stories. For bearing thy heart to me. I will not tarnish nor disrespect the honor I have had, today, of listening to you speak.”

 Gwyndolin stares at her hand for a moment, mind blank, before he slowly reaches out. He presses his hand to hers, lets her briefly feel the warmth of his palm against her skin. She lets her eyelids fall shut, eyelashes gracing her cheeks with spider-web shadows. 

“And I thank thee,” Gwyndolin finally manages, nearly choking on his own emotion, one he has yet to identify, “I await your return, your conversation. Blessing of the benevolent moon upon thy journey.”

[wangsejabin]

Chapter 93

The matter of the Prince's falling out with the one from the Spring Couple's Cottage had long been noticed by the Crown Princess.

   In fact, not only her, but also Hu Liangdi knew about it.

   The Crown Prince had moved from the Spring Couple's House to the small room in the Jade Bamboo Forest, wasn't it obvious?

   Hu Liangdi couldn't help but gloat and wonder what it was that had made the crown prince angry with her, and it was certainly nothing trivial.

   Ruohua said, "Let me tell you, there must be many people who want her to fall out of favour, and maybe there will be others who will step on her."

   This person, naturally, referred to the Crown Princess.

   "Come on, our Crown Princess is not that shallow, she is so intent on raising the Grand Duke right now, so she won't do such a thankless task." Hu Liangdi ate her grapes and glared at her.

   "If she really annoys the prince and loses favour since then, master, you say-"

   "What are you thinking, whose turn it is, it's not your master's turn either." Hu Liangdi looked like she was smiling and chiding, but her eyes darkened.

   It would be false to say that she did not want favour, but Hu Liangdi knew in her heart that this was all she could do.

She had already had three children, and was the only one who could compete with her, she had the family, the status and the position, if she had more children, the Crown Princess would have been squeezed out by her.

   At first, even she did not expect that the Prince would give her another child. Since she gave birth to Zong Xuan, she doesn't want anything else. Don't look at her and say that about the Crown Princess, but in fact she is not like that.

In fact, Hu Liangdi was not surprised that Pan'er was in favour, as she was the most suitable from her status, being from a lowly background, yet being the Crown Princess's person, without a maternal family, equated to having to rely on the Crown Prince. In a situation where she and the Crown Princess were at odds, it was best for her to step up.

   In the end, it was really her who came out on top.

So it's true that sometimes people's lives are predestined by God and you can't demand it, but what's yours is yours.

   But deep down, Hu still wanted to see Su Liangdi take a hard fall, because that would be in line with the common sense of the palace.

   It was only four days.

   Four days later, Hu Liangdi snorted, unable to say whether she was laughing at others or at herself.

   "All be honest, don't get yourself into trouble for nothing."

   --

   In Pure Yi Zhai, the Crown Princess received the news that the Crown Prince had gone to Spring Coupling Zhai.

   "My lord." Fu Chun hesitantly said.

   The Crown Princess' brows lowered as she sipped her tea, "I've told you to stop prying into these matters, there's no need to get upset, it's only right to think more about what to give the Queen Mother for her birthday."

   Seeing that the Crown Princess was reluctant to talk about it, Fu Chun said, "I think the embroidery with a thousand longevity characters is good, you have already prepared it and it suits Jing'er."

   "It's good for the scenery, but it's a bit too plain."

   At that moment, Fu Qiu came in and reported that the Grand Duke and the Second Prefect had arrived.

   In a short time, the two entered.

   "Mother."

   The Crown Princess put down her tea and smiled, "Why have you come over at this time?"

Wanshu and Zong Duo exchanged glances unobtrusively before smiling and saying, " Daughter has made a pair of shoes for Imperial Grandmother and brought them to Mother for her to see, just that daughters' craftsmanship is poor in shoes, and I don't know if it will work as a birthday gift to Imperial Grandmother."

   The Crown Princess took them and looked at them very carefully, saying as she did so, "Not bad, you're only old enough to make shoes for your grandmother, it's not the craftsmanship that matters, it's the thought.

   Wanshu sighed with relief and said with a smile, "Since Mother says so, my daughter will be relieved."

   A few more words were exchanged between mother and daughter, during which the Crown Princess did not forget to ask Zong Duo about his homework and urged him not to miss his homework even if he came to the Western Garden.

   "You can't miss your homework, and you must also take care of your health. Mother has asked the grandmother to make a tonic soup for you, so you must remember to drink it every day."

"Mother, don't worry, son remembered everything."

   The Crown Princess looked him up and down with great relief and patted him on the shoulder again, "Just remember, and know that if you are well, your sister and I will be well too."

   Zong Duo was a bit on the verge of saying something, but in the end he didn't say anything as Wanshu interrupted him.

   "Mother, don't worry, my brother is fine."

   When the two came out of the main room, they looked at each other helplessly.

   "I just saw that Mother is quite well, she doesn't seem to care about how things are going over at the Spring Couple's Cottage." Zong Duo hesitated for a moment and said.

   "Can it be bad? Even if it's not good, it won't be for us to see." Wanshu whispered.

   "Sister, don't worry, I'll definitely do my homework properly."

   Wanshu put away her low mood and revealed a smile as she looked at her brother, "Sister knows you will do your homework well, Mother is right, as long as you are well, Mother and I will both be well, as long as you are well, no one can get past you."

   As she said this, her eyes looked in the direction of the Spring Couple's Cottage.

   --

Zong Lin was so precious about his little fish that he had to put the little bucket aside when he took his meal.

   Usually he was always idle, but today he was fine, hovering around his little bucket with nothing to do. Seeing that he liked it, Pan'er thought that the fish could not just be kept in the bucket, so he asked someone to find a large blue and white bowl, put water in it, put a few pebbles in the bottom, and put the fish in it.

   Now he was not hovering around the bucket, but around the blue and white bowl.

   Aunt Qing said that the bowl would not be able to keep the fish, as the water was stagnant and too shallow. Having grown up around water, Pan'er naturally understood this, but for the moment it would have to do.

   She intended to make an artificial fish pond for her son, not too big, so that when she returned to the Forbidden City she would have a place to put it, and even if she did not come to the Western Garden, she would still have fish to look at.

In fact, there are not many people who keep fish in the palace, most of them use big tanks to keep them, but Pan'er disliked the rigidity of big tanks, there is only a little space, the key is always to change the water, one improper service will kill the fish. She used to keep them for a while, but she saw that they died three days a week. Although the fish were not worth much, she grew up in the waterfront of the South China Sea and did not like this kind of scene, so she did not keep them anymore.

   She concluded that fish die easily because the water is stagnant. If she wanted to have more fun, she had to borrow from the garden rocks in Jiangnan.

   As she thought about it, many ideas came to her, and she asked Xiang Pu and the girls to help her lay out paper and make ink.

   The rocky hill should be covered with moss, and a small stone bridge should be made to fit the idea of a small bridge and a rocky hill.

The mood of the rockery. The vase below is, of course, a vat of blue and white, too fancy to be carved out of stone.

After scrapping several sheets of paper, Pan finally drew up a rough design.

   But what about the water? How could the water be circulated so that it would be living water?

   When the prince walked in, he saw this image - she was wearing a low butterfly bun, with a few strands of hair hanging down at her temples, her black hair, snowy skin and red lips, and the light coming in from the window seemed to give her a golden edge. She was wearing a lotus green shirt, which made her complexion even more crystal clear, and she was not wearing much jewellery, only a green jade bangle on her wrist.

   "What are you doing?"

   Pan'er was lost in thought, so she said what was on her mind.

The prince looked at her and said to himself, "She is not a good writer, but she is a good painter. This was only good in the sense that it was a drawing of something in its original state, not so good that the Prince did not recognise it.

   "Why do you want to make this?"

"Lin'er likes it. It's rare that he likes them so much, and he won't be naughty when he has a fish to look at, so he'll have something to occupy his time when he returns to the palace."

   It was well thought out. And she paid a lot of attention to the children, an attention that was a little surprising to the Prince. For example, the women in the palace never fed the children themselves, but she did; for example, the children in the palace were brought up by the nursemaids and eunuchs, but she always liked to do it herself.

Although she didn't do everything herself, she would always ask about everything, including what they had eaten and what they were wearing for the day.

   When the children were a little older, she would take them to bed with her and tell them strange and unusual stories about the countryside. The two older ones were not so bad, but Zong Lin was particularly clingy, especially when he could talk and walk, and would often go to his mother's bed at night and not come down.

For this reason, the prince often told Zong Lin, behind Pan'er's back, some specious things, such as that a man should not always sleep with his mother and that a man should sleep alone. This was the reason why Pan'er could not understand why his youngest son always talked about being a man.

   "You can add a waterwheel here." The prince said as he took the brush from Pan'er's hand, and with just a few strokes, a small, lifelike waterwheel appeared on one side of the rockery in the painting.

   "A waterwheel needs flowing water to move, but this one needs exactly that." Pan objected.

   "If you make the waterwheel move, you can use the buckets on the waterwheel to carry the water into the air and down the rockery. This one should be able to be made by the Inner Creation Bureau, and I'm afraid the big ones are still a bit difficult, but yours is so small."

   To put it bluntly, it was just a gadget to coax children, not a problem at all, and the prince had seen it before before, which was why he spoke with such certainty.

   Since the Prince said it would work, it would work.

   Afterwards, the Prince said that he would have the drawing sent to the Bureau of Internal Affairs, but Pan'er thought that the paper was not very good because she had stained it with ink and said that she would draw a new one, but she had some difficulty when it came to the waterwheel.

   Although she had seen the waterwheel, she had not looked at it in detail and had only a general impression of it in her head.

   She didn't say anything, she just held her brush still.

   The Prince sighed and walked over to her, squeezed her hand from behind and drew on the paper with his brush.

   The faint fragrance of Canaan enveloped her, and Pan'er, being so perceptive, naturally noticed the sigh he sighed and the uncharacteristic stiffness of the last few days when they were together, at least not as cordially as before.

   It was because he hadn't asked the question, and she hadn't given an explanation, had she?

   But how? She didn't know, so she had to pretend she didn't.

   As she drifted off, the painting was finished.

   Although he had squeezed her hand, it was clear that two people had drawn it, one an adult and the other a child.

   She was the child.

   This was going to humiliate her to the Bureau of Internal Affairs!

   "What are you drawing so well for?" She grumbled.

The Prince was stunned and laughed again, "It's not that I'm good at drawing, it's that you're so bad."

   His breath sprayed against her ear, making her ear hot for no reason, and gradually burning.

   "Why are your ears red?" The Prince's eyes were extremely keen and he soon saw it.

   "You're standing too close and it's heating me up." She snapped, going to push the Prince again.

   The prince reached out and scratched at her ear, and she was busy covering it again. Like children, the two of them were just messing around, and an unintentional glance met, and they both froze for a moment.

   It was Pan'er who broke the silence, "Now that the painting is done, hurry up and take it to the Bureau of Internal Fabrication."

   The Prince nodded his head and called out to Fulu.

   --.

   The Empress Fu's birthday banquet was arranged on Qionghua Island.

This Qionghua Island is not in the Southern Sea, but in the Northern Sea.

   Qionghua Island is in the north and Yingtai is in the south, and the two places are exactly opposite each other across the Golden Ao Yu rainbow Bridge and the Centipede Bridge. Qionghua Island is made of mountainous soil and has the Guanghan Hall, the Renzhi Hall and the Yuexin Hall, where large banquets are usually held in the Western Garden.

   The island's rocky outcrops and caves form a kind of pavilions and pavilions among the rocks, and the palaces are stacked with rocks, making them as beautiful as the sky. On the north side of the island, an arc-shaped corridor has been built along the water, with many pavilions and water pavilions, making it a good place to enjoy the scenery.

   So the view from Qionghua Island is no less beautiful than that from Yingtai, if not more so.

   On the first day, Qionghua Island was very busy, and all the people of the Eastern Palace were present.

The Prince naturally stayed put, and after congratulating Empress Fu on her birthday, he went to Emperor Cheng'an's side, while the ladies of the Eastern Palace accompanied Empress Fu and presented her with birthday gifts.

The Crown Princess presented a set of 1,000 different shapes of birthday characters embroidered in gold thread on a black satin background, and lined with a rosewood screen. It was a magnificent and elegant gift, and most importantly, the embroidery was said to have been done by the Crown Princess herself, so it was an extra special token of appreciation.

   Empress Fu accepted it with a smile on her face.

   At first glance, the white jade Goddess of Mercy was not very attractive, but when Empress Fu held it in her hands, she realised that it was made of warm jade.

   Pan'er's gift was an ancient zither called Hai Yue Qing Hui, which was not a particularly famous zither, so outsiders were surprised to see it and wondered if Su Liang Di had given her a gift too casually.

But Empress Fu gave Pan'er a meaningful glance, knowing that it was her son, the Crown Prince, who had suggested it, and that very few outsiders knew that she liked the guqin.

   So when the three birthday gifts were compared, it was clear which was more important and which was less important.

[draconscious]

Blackthorn's winters seem to mirror the secluded city itself, the inhospitable mountain climate baring frosty fangs. Blustery. Bitterly cold. Brutal.

The chill signifies a perilous moment in time for the native dragons of the area, especially the vulnerable Dratini stranded throughout the sprawling range. For every hibernating youngling who manages to find solace in a cave or sheltered pond, another freezes to death. It's survival of the fittest in its most inglorious form, but increased poaching activity has upset the balance as of late, disrupted the vicious cycle.

After all, it's so much harder to find safe harbor without a friend by your side.

Clair's boots crunch through the snow as she leads her patrol on its latest Dratini recovery round. Some little dragons are caught, destined for a new life-lease from the Den or local Center. Some are past saving. The work is exhausting, thankless, heartbreaking. And yet, Clair can only scowl when someone dares to suggest that she's working too hard, pushing herself too much, shackled to the city limits. Despite everything, Blackthorn is hers, an eternal source of ferocious pride roaring within the Gym Leader's chest. (If she can't take care of things, who will?)

A wild Skarmory (helpful as ever) lets out a ringing screech in the distance, immediately jolting the tamers back to high alert. Target located.

Clair blinks away the frost from her eyelashes, huffing through frostbitten cheeks as she shoulders her pack and continues her ascent up the snowy crag towards the Dratini's location. After everything she's been through, this is merely light work, part of the job, an expected responsibility.

She's built for this.

Built to rise.

[that-thing-that-feeling]

Joyce isn’t a bad mother to Jonathan, I’ve seen this take a bit too much recently as someone who love both and the Byers in general. He clearly had a difficult childhood but it would have been much worse if Joyce didn’t leave Lonnie and try to build a life away from him for her two sons, taking a thankless job and working constantly, and yet she’s there to celebrate Christmas with them, knows their hobbies, etc. I feel like some fans (who are teens themselves I assume) just have impossible expectations for parents. Jonathan and Joyce need to talk but why frame it morally as Joyce needing to redeem herself? It’s also about Jonathan needing to open himself to others a bit more, and it isn’t his fault either if he’s like that. They can do better but it doesn’t mean that one is at fault, like in every loving relationship. I hope you agree with me :)

I’m not seeing this take a lot; like where even is an example? I don’t think Joyce is a very loving parent while he’s also been parentified thanks to circumstances and Lonnie. I don’t get why people keep thinking those of us hoping Joyce and Jonathan have scenes in which they talk is blaming Joyce/hoping she “redeems” herself? Like they just need to talk because 1) they haven’t forever and there’s a lot they can talk about and 2) he’s kinda not okay right now and there is some kind of talk about his dreams and fear over leaving his family and other things going on with him that would make sense for them to have. Also though your comment that it’s basically his fault they haven’t talked…I’m not sure I get that.

Anyway, it’s the writers fault they took away those great, complicated scenes between them in s1. But people pitting Joyce and Jonathan agst each other…yikes why lol

[aimfor-theheart]

hello, again Cielo♡ I'm back after reading the latest chapter to god maker, and im honestly not ready for it to be over! It's truly a work of art, and I find myself thinking about it so often. But I digress, first i have some questions; one, would mc really have gone with Getou had she not been cursed by Gojo? I feel like they would've been more compatible, perhaps enough, so as to keep Getou from diverging from the path where he walked alongside Gojo. At least it read that way to me, I also never doubted her love for her friends, but I do think she would've been less manic about keeping/controlling the timeline had she ended up with Getou. Getou to me seems like a realist, where he understood that being a sorcerer was a thankless job, and just came to expect too much from it and humans. Idk if I'm making any sense, but either way, im super excited to see where you take the rest of this fic. I really can't even think of what you'll show us in the next part, but i look forward to it, and I'm absolutely sure I will keep this one close as a personal favorite because its just that good. Take care of yourself, sending nothing but love and admiration 💖

omg well good news...i am running very late on the last bit of godmaker so won't be over yet LMAO. but thank you so much for reading and then coming into my inbox to give me your own thoughts and some questions 😩💗 this is so kind, thank you!!

for the first question. i don't really think the reader would leave gojo? even if not cursed? i do think her and getou are compatible in many ways but. almost too similar? and they kinda acknowledge that in each other. i think its also hard to separate her and gojo when they sort of have similar lives growing up within the clans, being treated differently, having all that pressure put on them, etc. i think her and gojo are kinda tethered to each other in a way that getou might never understand....or even come to resent? on the other hand, i think getou and the reader understand each other better. and they have a different sort of love for each other.

regardless, i really appreciate your thoughts!! and this is MUCH to think about!! thank you so much for the kind words and your opinions and well wishes!! it means a lot to me 💕💕

i hope you're doing well!! take care friend!!

[thetrashbagswasteland]

NG+ wrapped!! Hmmm 25, 75, 100 peas

FAIR WARNING THIS IS LONG and therefore...

25 - Love To Go - Lost Frequencies

Muahahaha so we're gonna start with something familiar - and why yes it is Project Sunseeker's two prime roastable idiots deciding to be fucking dramatic in chapter 53: Too Stupid To Leave Now. Idk man this song has such an upeat, peppy beat but the feeling of impending loss just gets me throughout it.

A hand caught her own and it was only then that she became aware that Garrus had found his way to her side. “So… that’s Earth.” He said, eyes also fixed on the blue planet as it grew to encompass most of the viewscreen. “That’s home to you.” “It’s my homeworld.” She agreed, uncertain that she could still consider the planet itself to feel like home after so long away. “It sure is blue.” He commented, bringing back the time she’d discussed the planet with him and Tali. That was the only time, as far as she could remember, that she had talked about it and at the time she’d been utterly certain that she would never see it again. And now, here they were. “This is our last chance to back out.” She admitted, surprised that the thought would come to her, even now. “Would you do that, though?” He asked softly, fingers tightening around hers for a moment. No, she thought. No she wouldn’t. But instead, she tore her eyes away from the viewscreen to look up at him. “Would you ask me to, now?” Garrus had many times now called her out for her inability to put herself first, so he had to understand the unsaid question in there. “Will you still call me self sacrificing, knowing now what I’m fighting for?” Earth was a plain little ball of blue, sure, but could he look at it and all it represented and still think she was giving herself up for a thankless cause? “No.” He murmured. “I know you won’t back out, even if I begged you to. You're too damned stubborn to take that.” She ran her thumb over his forefinger and dared to lean into his side, desperately needing the comfort that that simple gesture would bring. “If I said I think we’re unlikely to make it off the planet again, would that change your mind?”  “Will you die with me? For me?” “No.” He agreed with a soft thrum in his chest. “I think we’re both too stupid to leave now, aren’t we?” Well, there it was. And really, what could she say to that? 75 - Scared of the Dark - BoyWithUke

Is it Barrix? Yeah, it's Barrix, but not in the direction we're probably expecting. No i shall not be explaining further. This is actually from the next chapter of Wipe My Hands Clean (chapter 5: Exaggerated Claims)

The entrance was cramped, half hidden behind a potted bit of foliage which looked to be a stunted form of a palaveni tree native to the equator. Macen had to stow his shotgun, much to his discomfort, in order to crawl inside. From there… it didn’t really improve. Even on his hands and knees, the back of his helmet and top of his cowl scraped the ceiling with every movement he took. And spirits was it dark. Only the light of his omni-tool allowed him to see a few arm-lengths in front of him and this he had to remove whenever he came to a junction and needed to check which way to turn. Tedious, terrifying work. Unable to keep his thoughts from wandering, he wondered just how Avi would have dealt with this. Nothing had ever seemed to scare him on the surface, after all. When they’d first met, he’d been impressed by that. How fearless he’d been. Over time though, he’d come to realise that nothing could be further from the truth… No, Avitus had been terrified of a lot of things, yet a fight had never been one of those them, not really.  He’d have taken this as a challenge. Yeah… Macen allowed himself a small moment of levity as the tunnel sloped downwards sharply and he had to brace against the ceiling to avoid slipping. Avi’d have stuck a knife between his teeth and jumped headfirst into this, ready to gut the first thing that jumped out at him in the dark. After all, he’d thrown himself headfirst into one of the reservoirs last year to catch a wanted suspect they had spotted purely by chance - not even a moment's consideration that he couldn’t swim like the little salarian he’d been after. “Needed doing.” He’d answered smugly once he’d hauled himself out using a maintenance ladder, grinning. “Don’t think, just do. Besides, I knew it'd make me look tough.” He wished he had a fraction of his ability to compartmentalise biological fear. More than that, though, he wished he had him. It’d been two days since he’d received that message from him and… not hide nor talon had been seen of him since. Even the ship he’d been on had stopped pinging, having gone out of range presumably. Or having been destroyed. The councillor had had very little in terms of sympathy to offer at the news that he and Saren were presumably dead. Simply stating that perhaps it was easier this way. Macen didn’t agree with that, not one bit. Perhaps it was easier for them if they could wipe off everything that had happened as some great tragic accident but it wasn’t easier for him. The tunnel opened up, up ahead, into a massive room. Pitch dark, and if anything the sense of uneasy claustrophobia only worsened as Macen unfolded his sore limbs and carefully stood. When he still didn’t feel his head scrape against the roof, he felt instantly dizzy. Spirits. Channel Avi. Don’t think, do.

100 - Saviour (ft. First Aid Kit) - George Ezra

So... AviTis is what you're getting and boy howdy this one's painful. And why yes we ARE going to be romanticising loving someone who's a piping hot garbage fire of a person, knowing they can't be fixed or truly helped and still wanting to be with them anyways. This bit's actually from Follow My Lead (chapter as of yet undecided however) and is part of the second scene I wrote for it lmao.

A wildfire. That’s how he’d have once described him, if pushed. To stand close to the leading edge and enjoy the power of his destruction was a thrill but it had to come with the acceptance that at some point, the flames would turn and that the spectator would be burnt. When and with what severity his course would change was part of the excitement - part of what had drawn him in and part of why he’d first realised he loved him whilst watching him dance through the battlefield to the tempo of a bombardment - but the eventuality was that he would end up turning on him eventually. But the truth was that being around Avitus was a lot more like being on the grip of a tornado. He too was powerless against his own impulsion, dragged along with little control over the direction and no ability to halt the destruction. Avitus didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but it happened with the battering debris of his decisions, simply could not be avoided as people were sucked in. There was no avoiding it, no predicting the path he’d take, just blind luck involved in surviving until he set down once more. With either though, the thing that could not be denied was that he was too much to live with forever and for one person. There was not one singular person who could manage both their own lives and being everything that Avitus needed to tame the force of nature he ended up being. But being caught in the grip of his savagery was exhilarating enough to tempt him want to it all over again. The other thing was that tornadoes never lasted long. He’d never really considered that part before. Never considered how apt that was for the man who'd declared he'd die whilst he was young and pretty but who this far had failed to do either.   Castis tried not to pity him, for that was something he’d have railed against, snarled and spat and fought, just to avoid hearing. The last thing Avitus Rix said he wanted, and yet it was what he deserved most. Spectacularly unlucky, he’d once thought him. His luck had yet to improve.

[acapellapotato]

There is the earth beneath our feet. Stable, constant as anything in this mortal realm can be, yet it can also rise up when least expected. This is domain of Evera. Twin to Sleria whose golden rays light the ground the mightiest forests spring from. She is who we turn to when the cold of winter begins to loosen its grasp. It is she who coaxes the shyest seedless to finally push through the soil; to bloom for all to see. It is Evera we turn to when we must find that seedling within ourselves. When we are called to tend the fragile though our own strength seems depleted. And when there is no other option but to rise up against those who see our kindness as weakness. The goddess of earth calls to those who are as steady as she. Who do the work that needs doing until it's done. Evera's path is one that stays straight through the clashing of empires, down to petty feuds between neighbors. It is not lightly that the voice of her children will shake. It is dire news indeed if one of them may roar. 

All lands are her body, the erupting volcano her heart, the rippling brook and storming seas her emotions manifest. Where she weeps for us mortals as her sister, Sleria, does her gifts are not made for war. They are meant to carry us through. So that we may withstand, as the earth does, all who try to lay claim on our lives. We are defenders. Our lady of the plains, of mountains, does not quickly forgive those who misuse her gifts. There is no sanctuary we can give that is safe from her sight. Remember this. We witches of the earth do not seek to forsake one who learned beside us. A fellow who, in the worst of days, may have even fought beside us. But if you stand against the six be sure you are in the right. Let no dark manipulations pull you into the schemes of either lowly men or haughty nobles, unless the shadows you court are for the greater good. 

It is a heavy burden when one finds themselves called to a path. Heavier still when it falls through circumstance on unwilling shoulders. Some will break. Some will quietly fade out like a candle as the dawn approaches. They are still our fellows. We will plant them somewhere new. We will seek the children of the sun to guide its healing rays where they need it most. This is as much our duty as any other that would gain us glory. There will be many who view the path of Evera as one of inaction, of apathy when we swear no fealty to one banner or another. This too you must withstand. It's not a choice that's asked with no acknowledgement of the loss one will face. To stand with your school, yourself, before family expectation and the blare of war trumpets. Here is where the test lies. Not in the years of study, but in action. When the option to step away from yourself appears one must decide if they will take it. There will be sorrow for each loss. Paths may cross again. They may circle through the years to bring one back where they began. And still our hearts will ache. To endure is not to be immune to pain. 

When we move, it may be slow but it is also purposeful. For our actions to follow only those our Lady would take. Though Evera can be as frightening as any goddess, it is not fear she hopes to inspire. We must encourage growth and renewal. When the ground has been scorched by flame, drenched by blood indistinguishable from one man to another, it is our duty to assure the earth that it's safe again to bloom. We are the voice that seeks to bridge the gap between all mortal life. It is tenuous. It is thankless more often than not. In moments where one feels most alone it will seem we are hated. Yet it's to be expected that the same walls which are ignored day to day, are the same ones that soldier and peasant alike pray will hold. This is the role we take on. Each elder passes this responsibility to a student only when they've made their choice. Evera moves our hands to nurture what may not grow in full during our lifetime.  We cannot let impatience hinder our responsibility to guide. 

- Teachings of the Earth Schools

[chimeras-love]

the awful rusted machines

Pairing: Tim McIlrath/GN!Reader

Summary: a workaholic reader, crushed by capitalism, is hounded with more work than they can handle, until their savior in sweatpants comes to knock some sense into you (metaphorically, of course)

Tags: Established Relationship, (Tooth Rotting) Fluff, Cuddling, Kissing, No Use of [Y/N], Gender Neutral Reader (No Pronouns + Readers Appearance is Not Mentioned), Drabble, One-Shot

Warnings: None

A/N: the time is left ambiguous, although you can take that AOL instant messenger notification as a sign if you'd like :) i also left Tims appearance vague so you can imagine whatever Rise Against era you'd like

Word Count: 1.2k

You’ve got mail!

“Fuck you,” you snapped.

The notification rang through the still air on a particularly muggy evening. You sat, shirt stuck to your skin with sweat, despite an open window and the direct blow of an electric fan. The papers that scattered your desk would have flown away had it not been for the assorted office supplies anchoring them. A stapler here, some scissors there, and coffee cups with a little coffee still left in them. All together, making your work conditions a bit more bearable.

'Some conditions,' you thought. Bringing your work back home like you were some high school kid all over again, scrambling together the shambles of an essay all in one night. Sticky notes stuck onto any surface available with the unintelligible scribblings of an over-caffeinated workaholic. Grueling, unending, thankless work.

Oh well, at least you got paid. 

Was it worth it?

Eh, probably not.

You hovered your cursor over the email tab and watched the tiny envelope icon open up to reveal an even tinier paper.

‘Cute,’ you thought, ‘and deceptive.’

You did it a few more times, with a blank expression plastered on your face, as the paper went in.

Then out.

Then in.

Then out.

Then in again.

Postponing the inevitability of what would, undoubtedly, lead to more work; all of the others had. “Finish this, fax that,” the sort of monotony you’d only expect in the most satirical of black comedies. Clicking that unassuming little envelope icon would be metaphorical suicide.

You glanced at the corner of the screen.

3:27 AM.

“Fuck,” you cursed, letting your body relax, as much as you could, into the ratty black office chair. The one you still hadn’t gotten around to replacing.

‘Maybe,’ you thought, ‘ I can give my boss some bullshit excuse. A powerline fell on my car and my computer shut down and I lost all my progress! My grandmother fell terribly ill and I had to nurse her back to health! Hell, maybe something as lazy as a dog eating it.’

‘Just fucking anything.’

“Ugh,” you let your head hit the desk with a thud.

“Pretty late, hm?”

You spun your chair around, recognizing the voice almost immediately. Your boyfriend leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded, in a gray long-sleeve that was just tight enough to outline his arm muscles— the top button, left undone. Donning black sweats, and white socks.

“Tim?” You asked, taken aback, “what’re you doing up?”

He shrugged. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I…” you paused. “I’m still working.”

“Still? It’s three in the morning, you know.”

“I, uh, do know,” you admitted.

He narrowed his eyes.

“What’re you working on?”

“More of the most boring work in the world,” you replied “same shit, different day.”

Tim hummed in agreement. Although, truthfully, you didn’t think he was agreeing with you. After all, he was a musician. A popular one at that. Jealousy wasn’t exactly the right word to describe how you felt. Coveted, or desired fit a lot better. Mostly, you wanted a job that didn’t want to make you kill yourself.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” Tim asked.

“I can’t, not yet at least.”

“Why not?”

“I still have work to do.”

Tim walked up behind you, his presence by your left shoulder. Even if you couldn’t see him, you could already tell exactly what he was doing. You imagined his eyes scanning over the dozens of open tabs and the abysmal state of your work station. You kept your eyes on the screen.

“You always say that.” He finally said.

“It’s always true.” 

“At this rate, I don’t think you’re gonna survive if you keep this up,” he half-joked.

“Not all of us get to just ‘put off our work’ when we feel like it,” you half-joked.

“Ouch.” 

Maybe jealousy was the right word.

The way he said it, like trying to actively pass it off as a joke (even though it clearly must’ve stung a bit). Now that hurt.

You sighed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” you trailed.

“It’s fine.” His touch startled you, hand starting to rub your back. “You’re not wrong, exactly.”

“Don’t say that, you work really hard. I’ve seen it firsthand, it’s just a… different type of work.”

“Maybe,” he kissed you on the cheek, “but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone work as hard as you. I mean, fuck— you’re clearly exhausted, and yet you’re still working.”

“I know it’s bad, I just… if I don’t finish this tonight it’ll just make it a bigger problem tomorrow.” You confided.

“It’s already a pretty big problem now,” he emphasized.

You bit the inside of your cheek. He was right. You hated when he was right.

You looked back at the screen one more time, then back to your boyfriend, and sighed. You closed your laptop.

Tim smiled. The bastard won.

‘I’ll simply get back to it early in the morning,’ you rationalized, as you walked back to the bedroom with Tim. Was that any better than staying up longer? Probably not, although it would put your boyfriend at peace at the very least. You'd deal with the inevitable badgering tomorrow, er, rather later today.

Tim climbed all the way in the bed, and you followed suit. He pulled you into his side, while you draped yourself lazily over him. Your chests rose and fell rhythmically. He turned his head to kiss you; slow, but tender, lips tasting faintly of coffee (which you only gathered after noticing the empty mug beside him). You pulled away, still only inches from his face.

“You were waiting for me to go to bed, weren’t you?”

He shrugged, “yeah.”

“Yeah?” You asked, wondering if he was going to say anything else.

"Yeah,” he reiterated, ”I don’t think you’d believe me if I said no, anyways.”

You laughed, and kissed him again. Lazily, simply enjoying his taste as he did yours (which, now that you mention it, was probably very similar given that you’d both been hyping yourself up on coffee). You pulled away, and found yourself lost in his eyes, as you often did. Each color was mesmerizing in their own right. His left, a piercing icy blue. His right, a deep nearly-brown hazel—and the contrast between them? 

Intoxicating.

"What're you staring at?" He chuckled.

You shrugged. It was your turn for the simple one word answers, the only thing you said being "you."

He rolled his eyes, the faintest dust of pink taking to his cheeks. He always acted embarrassed by your fawning, and maybe he was, but he still loved the attention... even if he wouldn't admit it.

"What for?"

"I don't know," you took a deep breath, "I guess I just realized how lucky I was to have you."

"Oh, you just realized that?" He narrowed his eyes, playfully.

"Shut up," you hit his shoulder, "you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do."

"I love you."

"I love you too," he replied.

Tim reached over to turn off the lamp beside him, and the room was entrenched in near total darkness, save the neon city lights that cast through the curtains.

You lifted your head up just enough to glance at the bedside clock.

4:03 AM.

"Little past my bedtime, isn't it?"

"Eh, maybe Just a bit."

it's a lot shorter than my last one, so apologies if you were looking for anything more dense, im terrible at writing consistently. i definitely beta read, but im also known for wanting to change literally everything once i actually post it so dont be surprised if i reupload this later on w better writing.

(p.s. if you like the tim fic, you're gonna love the long-fic i have planned in the future hehe :P)

[fshguro]

she contemplated on how she’d wanted to exactly play this, seeing as how — well …. fushiguro was fushiguro …. and she was still getting to know him ( although, she’d like to think they were close enough : had gotten close enough when they both confided in each other when they’d thought itadori had — ) and this had to count for something, right? otherwise, she’d have wasted her time. yet, she still wanted to make a concentrated effort to befriend him ( he certainly wouldn’t have made the first move, the recluse he was, but she could tell he was open ) and whilst out shopping in the city one day : she happened upon a nondescript book shop nestled in between a series of other places of business, not too far from one of her favorite boutiques. investigative, she stepped inside to the smell of what’d one would expect : books, parchment paper, and the lingering scent of coffee — because a coffee shop was tucked neatly within it — and a setting like this would be perfect for a guy like him.

and so, she took great care in scribbling out the exact address and location of this cozy little book slash coffee shop, because it was exactly the type of thing he’d be into. knowing him and the pragmatism he embodied so thoroughly, he’d more than likely be more privy to non-fiction works more than anything. a hand gently knocks at his dorm room’s door and when he finally answers, she’s quick to lightly shove said address, which she presented to him in a neatly arranged envelope ( a letter, too, had been delicately handwritten — pictures taken of each other pinned to it gingerly ) into his chest and she doesn’t dare fidget under the weight of his gaze, nor his surprise, because he wasn’t expecting her — perhaps wasn’t expecting anything, either — and she could be sentimental. “ happy new year, fushiguro. ”

little glamour is in sending off the old: father teacher away on a mission, sister still a shell of herself, the coming of the new year feels more the obligation of approaching the solitude of adulthood than a celebration. a cynical mindset, perhaps, disguised as something pragmatic. ingrained in bone is his inevitable retreat into himself, hiding away behind closed doors. he is still a child.

nose is tucked away into a book ( a manga, this time. dog - eared, well loved from boyhood. ) long before lights out. a shallow shadow of comfort, a desperate attempt at clinging to something slipping between his searching fingers. a stark contrast to his usual indulgences in memoirs and histories. he tears himself from the parchment to peer from the safety of its spine to his guest ( an unexpected visitor — not to say unwanted ) with poorly veiled surprise, his head cotton stuffed. " oh. i thought you might be ... " gojo - sensei. the first new years spent alone since he was taken under that man's wing. pathetic, he searches for an escape and is saved only by her.

kugisaki is something of a mystery to him: the town mouse, hawkish and fierce. she fights with a predator's persistence where megumi has always been content to keel over and show his belly, as impressive a feat as it is terrifying. not for her prey, but for that vulnerable child every sorcerer must nurture within: deified from birth, their fates hammered into their bones. thankless work until they burn with it. for a moment, he sees that girl leaving the countryside with her head held high ... and that consuming loneliness which plagues all big cities with neon signage so bright you squint to see past it, a perpetual motion of the same exhausted faces knowing little more to life than work and death. is she not just as alone as he is, taking her first step into that world of independence ? does that then not make them in company ?

the book finds a home tucked away against his hand, and megumi moves to coax the gentle seal of the flap from where it sits against the body of the envelope. " happy new year, " he echoes, words still hollow with confusion. lettering is a lengthwise reflection of their time spent together, which finds the thin line of his usual scowl softening into something of a smile. a celebration not decorated by the old, but happily punctuated by the new. " thanks. we should go together, some time. "