#birthday fave fics

[snowbellewells]

Fandom Birthday Rec List for @jrob64

Happy Birthday, dear Joni! Happy Birthday to You!!!

Okay, when I set out to make this list of my favorites of your works, I had a couple in mind right off the top of my head, and thought "This is a no-brainer! It'll be easy!" You would think I'd have known better after the massive list I created when Krystal asked for our favorite fics overall a couple years ago and I ended up making a Sweet 16 style bracket to even narrow mine down. Needless to say, I ended up with a solid dozen stories on my paper, instead of the five or six I needed, and discovered a few hidden gems from way back before I knew you that I hadn't even read!! However, my very, VERY favorite has never wavered and is still exactly the same - you'll see! ;)

Anyway, I am so glad I found your wonderful writings, have gotten to know you in person, text with you, travel with you, and become genuinely good friends. Your are a blessing in my life, and I hope this gift brings a bit of a smile to your face as I try to celebrate the joy you've shared with us all in creating further adventures for our pirate and princess. Happy Birthday!!!

**Top 6 Favorite @jrob64 Fics (in descending order)**

#6 - "One Thrill Ride Leads to Another" (my own birthday fic! ;p )

This five part (six, with the epilogue) story is pure fun and chemistry and sweetness overload. I adore it more than I can really say, and am beyond flattered that a handsome sight and chance comment of mine helped to birth the original idea. And no, it isn't even just because this one include an alive and happy Graham as supporting character and a hilariously hot secondary Red Huntsman plot line -- though it certainly doesn't hurt!! ;) My rambling can't really do this one justice, so if anyone reading this has missed it, I beg of you: Check it out for yourself! It's a perfect summer treat!

#5 - "Silly Songs With Killian" (Modern AU one shot - adorable!)

Okay, I realize that I am using a valuable spot on this list for a fluffy little one shot, but it's just that much fun and has that much heartwarming power. I dare you to get the image of Killian playing VeggieTales on the guitar for a wildly enthusiastic audience of one small boy who is madly excited by the effort out of your head! You won't be able to - it's gonna stick with you and make you smile every time it floats back in!! If you've had a bad day and need a pick me up, this is your fic right here!

#4 - "Taking on Mrs. Jones" (hilariously hot silver fox one shot)

This is another more comic/lighthearted one shot, but I just can't resist it. In fact, I re-read it in making certain of my list, and I love it all the more. This one features a slightly older, professor Killian (one of my serious weaknesses) and a married version of CS. Plus, when he gets an overly flirtatious new co-worker who makes him uncomfortable - Emma comes perfectly to the defense of her man and teaches that girl a lesson.

#3 - "Ghosted" (a WIP supernatural modern AU MC for @cssns24)

This story is still in progress, but it has very quickly jumped the list to become one of Joni's best, best offerings (in my humble opinion)! I love the unusual and intriguing plot and can't wait to see how it will turn out. The inclusion of Will and Belle as secondary characters (and a secondary love story) is wonderful👩🏻‍🍳 *chef's kiss!* And a ghostly version of Liam absolutely tugs on my heart. Definitely check this one out if you haven't yet.

#2 - "Always in my Heart" (5 Part Modern AU, so feelsy and angsty and deep)

This one moved me to tears in the process, way more than once. I loved the long lost friends reunited aspect of this story, right from the start. I loved the sense of adopted family Emma has with David and MM, and most especially Ruth. (I always loved David's mom in canon, and the chance to see a lot more of her in this fic, and to see what this version of her means to Emma was priceless, even if heart wrenching too.)

#1 - "Sowing Seeds of Trust" (and its extra chapter "Marco's Legacy")

This story was the first one of yours I discovered, Joni, and I was completely captured! It was wrapped around my heart from the very first chapter. I loved the vulnerability and need, but also strength and resilience, in this version of Emma. I loved Killian's support, understanding and love in how he reached out to her. I love the friendships with David, MM, Ruby, and of course MARCO!! (He steals the whole show here, honestly!) The faith and restoration and perfect "happy beginning" after trials in this story are original, unique, and unforgettable. It's always going to be my favorite, I think, as it lead me to your writing to begin with, and it touched me deeply.

*Honorable mentions - if anyone is curious - also not to be missed:

"Snowstorm Confessions"

"Lonely No More"

"Faultline"/"Seismic Waves" (Liam x Elsa)

"Where Her Heart Belongs"/"Her Heart's Home"

"For the Sake of Henry"

Hope you enjoy your little list - and an absolutely wonderful day!!! Very Best Birthday Wishes to You!!!

[purpleneutrino]

Like An Ocean | Oneshot Fic | Gen | 8k

"An unexpected find at a marketplace has Sanji lost in the depths of his memories. Nami is there to help bring him back."

[Sanji Week, Day 5: Family]

Emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

Sanji POV

Sanji & Nami friendship

Here on AO3 💛 Bonus Illustration

[pretentiouswreckingball]

✯my entry for the @croptopjames fest✯

jegulus | 1.3k | non-canon/magical au

summary:

It was revenge, they say, for a prank they played on the other houses. So if Lupin and Pettigrew got their trousers turn into shorts, and Black got his shirt turn into a crop top, then that means Potter—

“Did you hear what happened?”

“They say it was revenge for a prank on the other houses,”

“Seems like a weird way to take revenge,”

“Someone said it was a new statement for the dress code,”

“Of course those Gryffindors would come up with something like that,”

“Mila from my transfiguration class says someone charmed their clothes to transform into something else whenever they wear it. You know, trousers turn into shorts and—”

“Oh, so that’s why Lupin and Pettigrew were wearing shorts! But why was Black’s shirt cropped? Not that I mind the view but—”

“Maybe the spell worked in pairs? If Lupin and Pettigrew got shorts, and Black’s shirt was cropped, then maybe Potter got—”

But Regulus had heard enough.

He should’ve known something was off the moment he crossed Lupin and Pettigrew earlier that day wearing shorts of all things, but if he was completely honest with himself, his mind was somewhere else and didn’t even think twice about it. But now, after eavesdropping on a conversation of some sixth years, maybe he shouldn’t have been so dismissive.

Entering the Great Hall for lunch, Regulus makes a b-line for his seat at the end of the Slytherin table and starts filling his plate absentmindedly, trying to ignore the sight of his brother at the Gryffindor table, talking animatedly to Lupin and Pettigrew, still in those ridiculous clothes. His mind inevitably going to the person who’s conveniently, not among them.

The thing is, Regulus isn’t capable of thinking of a piece of clothing that would look bad on James Potter.

He has seen the guy practising on the Quidditch pitch for Salazar’s sake. He has had a front row of what James’ body looks like when he leans on his broom, quaffle in hand, gaining some speed over his fellow teammates. He has seen how his forearms look when he grips the handle hard and how his thighs squeeze the rear of the broom when he’s doing a particularly hard move so he doesn’t fall.

So no, he doesn't think there’s a piece of clothing that would look bad on him, he could pull any look, especially a crop top, and that is the problem, isn’t it?

Regulus could feel his cheeks warming at the thought. Oh no this is bad, what he’s going to do if he sees him wearing that? He’s going to make a fool of himself and he can’t afford that. No, Regulus needs to get the fuck out of there if he wants to make it with his dignity intact.

Practically stuffing his face, Regulus tries to be as quick as possible, cursing in his mind at the idiot who hexed James Potter to be stuck with that particular piece of clothing, or lack thereof, more like.

“Let it not be said that we don’t do anything nice for you, Regulus,” a voice comes from behind and Regulus freezes and then groans.

Looking up from his plate, he eyes the pair who has taken the seats in front of him, both looking smug as fuck, “You guys are unbelievable,”

Evan hums in agreement, “Aren’t we just?”

“Wasn’t a compliment,”

Barty tuts disapprovingly, stealing a piece of food from Regulus' plate and popping it in his mouth, “Why Regulus, we thought you would be thrilled by this, can’t believe you’re this ungrateful.”

“Crop tops, really?” He huffs, stabbing whatever is left of his chicken, “And don’t get me started on the shorts.”

“Those were my idea,” Evan mentions.

Regulus doesn’t get it, “Why though?”

“We couldn’t be so obvious and only hex Potter, we had to cover our traces,” Barty says, turning his head slightly to look at the Gryffindor table. “Besides, the others look ridiculous, minus your brother of course, the bastard is fit as fuck.”

“Why though?” Regulus repeats, this time even more aggravated at the notion of Barty ogling his brother.

Evan gives him a pointed look, “You know why,”

Regulus drop his gaze, sniffing lightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Barty smirks at him, “You will,”

There’s a sudden ruckus at the entrance. The voices grow loud and you could hear some whistles here and there but what actually catches Regulus’ eyes when he looks up, is the man at the doors.

Something inside him is pleased to notice he was right about James looking good in any piece of clothing, especially something that would show his really fit body. James is looking a little dishevelled, but that only makes him look even prettier. Still enthralled by the sight of James Potter wearing something this sinful, Regulus notices a little too late a voice shouting really close to him, efficiently taking him out of his rivery.

“Looking good, Potter!”

“Barty!” Regulus hisses in embarrassment as James looks in his direction. And oh, the way he smiles at Regulus as soon as their eyes connect.

Regulus is incapable of doing much else under the intensity of that look, he wants to run like he had planned before. He wants to hide, not only from James but from the way he feels when he’s near. Pathetic as it is, the only thing Regulus is capable of doing is following James as he makes his way to the Slytherin table.

Regulus blinks hard at that. Wait, Slytherin table?

Before Regulus can process that, James is already standing right in front of him.

“Rosier, Crouch,” he greets them, still not taking his eyes off Regulus.

“Potter,” Barty nods in his direction. “Nice shirt, does it come in men’s?”

James grin turns sharp, “You don’t want me to answer that, Crouch,”

“Okay, time to go, have a great one!” Evan practically drags Barty aways as the latter cackles like a madman all the way out of the Great Hall.

When his laugh fades, James is still in front of Regulus and Regulus is purposefully looking at anything but his face, so his gaze inevitably fall at the only thing at his eye-level, James’ stomach.

There are beads of sweet running down over that beautiful golden skin and all Regulus wants, is to touch it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Wondering how it would feel under his teeth.

James clears his throat to catch Regulus' attention. Unnecessary, since he hasn’t lost it the moment he entered the Great Hall.

“So, Regulus,” he starts.

“Yes?” He can see the trail of hair disappearing under the navy trousers. He’s having a hard time not to reach out and touch it.

He’s being so brave about this whole thing, someone should notified his mind-healer.

A beat of silence and then a hand, reaching for his chin and turning his face up, callous fingers against his soft skin. The sight of James’ playful smile makes something inside him melt.

“My eyes are up here, love.”

His cheeks get warmer out of the embarrassment of being caught. Not that he was subtle in the least but still, embarrassing.

James doesn’t seem to mind in the least.

“You’re blushing,” he notices.

Regulus' face is practically red at this point.

“Shut up,” he grumbles and James chuckles.

“No, no, I like it,” he says, voice soft. “Red looks good on you,” and then he proceed to fucking caressing his cheek.

It’s settled then, Regulus is living inside a romantic novel where making a fool out of yourself in front of someone you fancy is necessary and crop tops are a thing.

“What do you want?”

“Just wanting to say hello,” James says, eyes softening. “Hello,”

“Hi,” Regulus says, like an idiot.

“Fancy a Quidditch game with me?”

Regulus frowns. “Right now?”

“Why not?”

“You’re not wearing the proper gear,”

James smirks, “I think I will manage,”

This is a bad idea, a terrible one and Regulus knows it, everyone knows it and yet— “Lead the way then,”

James lets his hand drop from his face, and it takes all of Regulus not to chase the touch, but the feeling of loss is quickly replaced with excitement when he sees James holding his hand up for Regulus to take.

Regulus does, of course he does.

Hand in hand, they make it to the Quidditch pitch.

Together.

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

just think itd be funny if they met irl

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 10: Human Shield

Ao3

CW for blood and injury

————————————-

It is raining. A torrent of water cascades down from the sky, soaking Warriors and plastering his tunic to his skin. The fierce winds whip his hair into his eyes, washes the ground out from beneath his feet. Fighting in such conditions is…less than enjoyable to be certain.

But such is the way of heroism, he supposes. If you come across a heavily populated monster camp, you can’t very well just turn around and walk away. Even if it is raining bokos and keese.

“I’m gonna assume,” he remarks, as he drives his sword into a nearby moblin and almost slips in the mud, “that this isn’t your doing Sprite.”

He can’t see Time’s expression — the old man is busy slashing at the handful of beasts currently trying to cage him in — but he can tell that he’s grinning anyway.

“Not this time, no.” Time whirls in a spin attack, sending monsters and mud and water flying in all directions. “Believe me, if the Song of Storms had the power to end this downpour, then I wouldn’t hesitate to play it.”

Warriors chuckles. “And here I was thinking you liked the rain.”

“I do when I don’t have to fight an entire camp of monsters in it.”

Warriors laughs again, bringing his sword in a harsh, upward stroke. Black blood flies, splattering into the makeshift river sprouting into being beneath his feet. Quick as a flash, it is washed away.

The feeling of victory is short-lived. Several more monsters jog up to take their fallen companion’s place. Warriors steps back, shifting his feet to get a better grip on the ground. They come at him and he whirls in his own imitation of Time’s move mere seconds before.

“Well, if this is what it takes to get you back for all those times you drenched me for no reason besides your own gremlin joy…then I’ll deal.”

Time faces him from across the space that separates them. Raindrops drip from his hair and run in rivulets down his face. They wash away the blood dribbling sluggishly from a cut across his forehead. They can do little, however, for that which stains his trousers right above his boot. Nor can they rinse off the mud that sullies his usually spotless armor.

But he smiles as though none of that matters. And for a moment Warriors sees a mischievous little forest child, grinning up at him as he complains about his latest prank.

“Truly?” He cocks his head, brings his claymore down with hardly any effort, and sends ten monsters soaring. “You would endure this just to get back at me? And for something that I allegedly did years ago? I never took you for a petty person, captain.”

Warriors rolls his eyes. He is traveling even deeper into the camp now, cutting down the monsters that try to get in his way. There is a cluster of them in the middle of the encampment, gathered around a skeletal treasure chest. He’s willing to bet that killing them will make the largest impact.

“I’m not being petty, Sprite. I’m defending my honor.”

“Ah. My bad.”

Time’s voice has a lilting tone, mischievous and slightly mocking. It has been too long since Warriors heard it. Too long since he has seen the child hidden deep within the man trying to be the responsible one in their little group. The leader.

“Well, is your honor suitably — ”

He cuts off abruptly and Warriors cranes his neck in an attempt to ascertain the disturbance. It’s difficult to see over the many heads of his opponents, however, and even more so through the torrent of murky water.

In the end, he doesn’t have to see a thing to realize something is coming. Something large and metallic and decidedly different from the beasts they have battled thus far.

A fast, panicked tune sounds in Warriors’ ears, alarm bells jingling like the notes on a piano.

The monsters surrounding him skitter out of the way, shrieking in fear. In the space that they have left shines a blurry, crimson light. It emanates from a single eye of purest blue, situated in the cylinder-shaped head of a skulltula-like monstrosity.

And it is pointed straight at him.

The air itself begins to heat, turning cool rain lukewarm. Warriors’ eyes go wide.

There isn’t time to run, there isn’t room to run, but he needs to try anyway, he needs to get away…

Arms working without conscious effort, he lifts his shield and prays that it will be enough.

“Captain!”

Firm hands connect with his shoulder. Warriors stumbles sideways, slips, and splashes down into the mud. Heart in his throat, thoughts a jumbled mess of adrenaline and panic signals, he scrambles to all fours.

Only to collapse again mere seconds later when the world erupts.

Crimson light blinds him, molten heat smothers him. The air is thick with it, screaming with the agony of it.

Or maybe someone else is screaming. He can’t tell. All he knows is that he can’t breathe, can’t hear, can’t see anything save for the cries of destruction.

Again and again, the monstrosity fires. Again and again, heat batters at all sides, yet somehow doesn’t touch him.

And then, it’s over.

Warriors can only lie there for a moment, ears ringing, breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, painstakingly, the world crawls back into focus.

Carnage lies everywhere. Every monster has disappeared, either escaped into the forest or lying in the dirt. The gore that they have left behind peppers the area. Trees and bits of rock are strewn about, shedding leaves, branches, and pebbles into the rivers of mud. The towers that the beasts had stood upon are no longer the stalwart things they once were. Some are only half standing, others little more than shattered pieces of wood.

And in the midst of it all crouches the smoldering form of the mechanical skulltula that had borne down upon them so quickly. Beside it, lies another of the same build and same size. The lights on that one have just begun to flicker out.

Dazedly, Warriors stares at them from within a strange veil of blue. Then, slowly his gaze drifts to the hero that rises before them.

Time stands straight and tall amongst a river of mud and gore. In one hand he clutches his gilded sword in a white-knuckled grip; in the other his shield. Cracks snake along the pearly silver surface.

Water runs off of what is left of his armor, soaking into his tunic and trousers where the plates have been blown away. Blood oozes from a cluster of deep cuts speckling his upper back. More of the same type mar his left leg and hip.

His shoulders rise and fall with every haggard, gasping breath.

“Sprite?” Warriors croaks and Time turns to him.

He smiles, even as blood trickles from his nostrils and mouth and the gash on his cheek. Even as he wavers.

“Alright, captain?” He croaks, right before his legs give way beneath him.

Instantly, Warriors is on his feet. The haze of shimmering cerulean fades as he stumbles up, leaving behind remnants of an oddly familiar magic.

But he doesn’t have time to ponder that mystery.

He slides to his knees in the mud and pulls Time into his arms. The hero slumps against him. Quickly, Warriors looks over him, assessing the wounds that he can see.

The gashes he had seen before are claw marks, he realizes now, as though a giant beast had tried to pin him to the ground. And the burns searing his arm and side look disturbingly similar to Wild’s scars.

Warriors drags in a steadying breath. Time needs a potion at the very least. Preferably a fairy.

They have neither.

“Sprite.” His voice is oddly detached. To his ears, it sounds as though it is traveling from very far away. “What was that?”

Time’s eyelid flutters, showing a slit of blue. Raindrops roll down his cheeks like tears.

“Nayru’s love,” he croaks, and a smile quirks his lips. “Takes an a-awful lot of damage.”

Warriors’ eyes widen slightly as it hits him.

A spell. That blue haze that had shielded him from the onslaught of fire was a spell. One that Time had cast on him and not himself.

“Someone had to kill them,” comes Time’s quiet voice, raspy with pain. “And I didn’t have enough magic to cover the both of us.”

Warriors looks back down at him and there is no remorse in his gaze. Only calm acceptance.

The captain wants nothing to do with it.

“Well, I’m not losing you,” he grits out. “You deserve to go out in a warm bed, in a warm house, when you’re ancient and insufferable. Not like this. Not here.”

Not because you sacrificed yourself for me.

Time’s hand finds his and squeezes. His fingers are frigid, wet with water and blood. But his touch is firm despite the weakness caging him in. Firm and reassuring.

“You s-sure you can handle me when I’m ancient and insufferable?” He murmurs and Warriors chokes out a chuckle.

“You can bet on it, Sprite.”

He drags himself up, slipping in the cursed sludge that the ground has become. But he manages to gain a steady enough footing. And when he drapes Time’s arm over his shoulders, he is able to take the older man’s weight without losing his balance.

“I’m going to get you back to camp,” he assures him, as Time lets out a low groan, eye slipping closed once more. “My medical supplies are there and I’ve got a few potions. Hyrule can heal you if we need him to, as well.”

Time nods. Warriors tightens his grip. And slowly, arduously, they begin their journey.

[gingerjolover]

happy not birthday - katie gavin (muna) x fem!reader

Synopsis: katie's gf hates her bday but loves katie <3

G's notes: i'm baaaaaaack, also its babygirl's bday everyone say hbd babygirl!!!! (y'all this isn't edited don't come for me ok?)

WC: somewhere around like 1.1k (hehe)

Warnings: RPF, negative bday talk, crying, hot girls cry on their bday, reader is afab, soft!gf coded, kissin', light touchin', no fundamental physical descriptors except hair that fingers can run thru??

It feels like a feather, soft touches moving over your neck and shoulder. Rousing you from your sleep, the touches tickle, and you hear a chuckle against your skin. Suddenly awake, eyes half opened, fingers resting on your forehead to block the sun, you only see the cracked window before turning your head and seeing your girlfriend's jawline. Katie's face in tucked into your neck, pressing small kisses and nibbles along your skin.

"G'mornin'," Katie says softly, her lips pressing to your cheek, turning your head towards her as she backs away and off the bed. From the nightstand, she grabs a chocolate cupcake, with pink and yellow sprinkles covering the mountain of frosting on top. She pulls out a lighter and lights a sparkly candle before starting to sing "happy birthday".

You groan, momentarily forgetting what day it was when she was kissing your neck to wake you up. "Katie..." you mumble, rubbing your face. You can hear them smiling as she sings, crawling onto the bed, and sitting on her knees. You sit up, your girlfriend's excitement enough to indulge her despite your feelings about your birthday. You smile softly as she finishes the song with an over-the-top elongated note. "Okay, okay, enough," you mutter, the smile widening on your face as she presses her knees to your legs.

"Thank you for indulging me, sunshine," she says as you blow out the candle, hands rubbing your eyes gently.

"You gonna take a bite?" "Now?" "Why not?"

"It's...7:30? Kay, why would you wake me up at the ass crack of dawn?" you ask incredulously, taking the cupcake from your girlfriend.

"We have plans today...don't be mad..." Katie says sheepishly, kissing your cheek and standing up from the bed.

"I don't want to do anything, baby, it's just Wednesday-" you start.

"No, it's not just Wednesday; it's your birthday, and I know how you feel about it, but I want to celebrate you. Please let me, just for today?" Katie asks, her voice almost pleading as she rifles through your shared dresser. If you weren't so annoyed by the prospect of plans, you would've commented on how pretty she sounds begging.

"Katie."

"Yes, peach?" she smirks, grabbing some jeans and a shirt and laying them on the bed before crawling over you. She takes her thumb, wiping some of the icing off your bottom lip before sucking the tip of her thumb and then kissing you softly. Your eyes struggle to open as she pulls away from your lips, lost in the taste of her.

"Don't start with that," you groan softly, finally opening your eyes and staring into her own. She chuckles softly, knowing how the nickname gets you riled up.

"I just don't get what the big deal is; it's just a birthday..." you start again, causing Katie to roll her eyes. "Fine, fine, it's not your birthday, it's just- it's just "you day," okay? So I'm gonna celebrate you, that okay with you?" they say softly, rubbing your cheeks cockily.

"Whatever," you mumble, fighting a smile as her lips move down your neck.

An hour later, you're both dressed heading out to breakfast. Katie's hand rests on your thigh as she drives to breakfast, the weather warm and sunny. You listen to the new gayotic episode while stuck in LA traffic that they recorded with Julien, turning to Katie every time you laugh at something your girlfriend or friends say. After parking, you walk into the restaurant hand in hand, your eyes immediately drawn to a large table; your friends and their partners sit, yelling, "surprise."

Your jaw drops, Kelli the first to greet you with a sneaky smile, holding a sash and a birthday headband. "Don't be mad at meeeee," she whispers before putting them on you and squeezing you tightly. Katie smiles at you, eyes shining with gratefulness as she greets Phoebe, before pulling your chair out for you. You sit across from Naomi and Lucy, Julien to the right of Lucy. You're squished between Kelli and Katie, Jo next to her girlfriend, Phoebe next to Katie, as your other friends and their partners are sitting sporadically in no real order. You fight back tears, overwhelmed but grateful. Ally squeezes your shoulders gently, kissing your cheek sweetly before putting a bag of cards and small gifts on your chair. "Happy not birthday," she says cheesily before returning to her seat next to Naomi.

After breakfast and many pictures, you and Katie head to the beach. Taking the long way, she holds your hand as she takes you the scenic route, letting you lean against the window, the breeze and sunlight hitting your face. You moved in with her several months ago and she'd been meaning to take you on a drive but with tour and the podcast, she's thankful she got you out on your birthday.

Katie sets out a blanket, leaning back against her tote bag, your head laying in her lap as you rest your eyes, her hands running through your hair gently, fingertips tracing the curves of your face. She lets you nap for a while before you both grab dinner and then head home.

You lay on the couch, your cat napping in your neck while Katie plates up your takeout. You think over today, how resistant you were to Katies eagerness to spoil you and celebrate you. The waterworks come before you can stop them. The anxiousness creeps in, getting older, the pressure of a perfect day, and unwavering attention are all things that overwhelm you. Or maybe its the opposite, it's knowing you oppose your birthday so you can't be let down. If your expectations are low enough, when people inevitably forget or plans change you can't be disappointed...right?

"Hey, hey," Katie says, crouching down next to the couch. You hadn't even noticed that she entered the room, the tears falling fast and heavy. "What's wrong, angel?" Katie asked, instantly nervous. You seemed to have a good day. They're mulling over everything they've said, thinking about where she went wrong with the minimal activities, the ones she knew you'd enjoy.

"I'm fine," you try to reassure, wiping your eyes quickly, brushing your cat's wet fur as you stare at her, giggling softly to try and wipe the concerned look off her face. "Really Katie, I'm- I'm good," you say, trying to sit up.

"Baby, don't lie. Was today too much?" Katie asks, sitting on the edge of the couch.

"No, no, I swear it was perfect I just- I'm overwhelmed, I had the best birthday that I've ever had I just don't know why I'm crying," you laugh, wiping more tears away.

Katie smiles sadly, giggling with you as she rubs your cheeks. "I'd like to make every birthday like today if you'd let me, darling,'' they say sweetly.

"Really?"

"For sure, if you'd let me," she says, her hand sliding down to interlock with yours.

"I'd like that... can we- do the beach again next year?" you ask softly,

"Yeah, baby, we can do it every year if you want," she laughs gently. "Now scooch, wanna eat and then hold you, that okay?"

"Mhm".

G's notes (again): guys im rusty lol

[i44rise]

I CELEBRATED MY BIRTHDAY TODAY!!!!

mini lewis approves!!! 🥰🥰🥰

[missecharlotte]

“Everyone wants me to pick a side –bow to either the sinner or the saint, but never both. But that’s exactly who I am and I’ve made peace with that.”

We Were Born Sick Series » Bird Wayne; @twofacedharveydent

[cuz-reasons]

Summary: A series of birthdays spent apart. And one together.

Welcome to my birthday party, there will be a chapter posted everyday until my birthday on Tuesday.

[starlooove]

read a Damian angst fic where Dick does anything wrong ever challenge (impossible)

[euhemeria]

Water (Is All Around)

Beneath the open sky, there is little risk of the suffocating feeling that sometimes accompanies trying to speak to one another without stumbling over the past.  Here there is sun, and clean air, and the beauty of the garden.  This is not a tomb.

Fandom: Overwatch Rating: T Category: Gen Characters: Ana, Fareeha Warnings: N/A A fic in which Ana struggles to understand that, although Fareeha does not need her like she used to, she still wants to have a mother. Also on ao3

Some people are uniquely nurturing, know from childhood that they want to be a parent, feel an innate desire to care for others, to cradle their younger siblings and rock to sleep their dolls. 

Ana was not one of those children. 

She had no interest in her brother until he was old enough to climb trees with her, and while her sisters imagined they were mothers when they played house, she used a toy purse as a briefcase and declared she was going off to work.  It was not that she had no interest in traditionally feminine play—she was happy to be a princess with her friends, hosted tea parties for her teddy bears, and never was so still and quiet as when her grandmother taught her to braid and, later, embroider—but she never enjoyed taking care of babies, traded her realistic crying doll to her brother for his building blocks as soon as her mother’s back was turned.

She never imagined she would be a parent, and certainly never thought that she might enjoy it.  She had to grow into thinking of herself as a mother, as a person capable of nurturing.

But, much to her surprise, she did.  She never liked the swaddling, or the nursing, or even the new baby smell, but she loved the weight of Fareeha falling asleep on her chest, knowing that her daughter felt safest with her, felt immense pride with each new milestone her daughter hit, watching her crawl, and walk, and eventually run, and felt privileged to be able to see the world in a whole new way, experiencing Fareeha’s wonder at each new thing, having her view reframed by a thousand different questions.  Motherhood was not what she thought it would be, was not just caretaking, but was the shaping of a new person, the hope of a better future with people like her daughter, curious and compassionate and capable at the helm.  It was a chance to build a more peaceful world, and to get to know and to shape a marvelous human being, one that she imagined she would be happy to know even if Fareeha was not her daughter.  It was wonderful.

(Yet it did not feel natural, being a mother.  For a time, she did not even think of motherhood as something she chose, merely as something that happened to her.  She got pregnant, so she got married and had the baby.  That was just what one did, what she had been raised to think of as the only option.  It was not until her second pregnancy that she realized that she had always thought of Fareeha as her baby, even before the test was confirmed positive, that she had been a source of some anxiety, yes, but never distress.  The second pregnancy was only ever a fetus, a headache, a problem for her to solve, but through it she realized she had the ability to choose differently, that keeping her first pregnancy had seemed like a foregone conclusion not because it was what she was programmed to think, but because she had accepted Fareeha as her baby so quickly that it seemed inevitable that she would have her.  If she had wanted not to be pregnant then, she could have, would have, chosen differently—because the second time, the second pregnancy, she did.)

It was also difficult, in a way she could not have anticipated.

When Ana had rebelled, as a teenager, cutting her hair short and dressing in men’s clothes, going out with the ‘wrong kind’ of boys and declaring that she did not want to ever get married, her mother had wished that she would raise a daughter like herself, outspoken and all too quick to question authority, eager to go down a different path than the one her parents set before her; at the time, Ana thought such a thing would never happen.  She did not believe she wanted children, for one, and knew, too, that she would not place such rigid expectations on them, would not ask a daughter to be quiet and polite, to wear her hair long and be interested in boys, but not too interested, would not think that her baby’s sex determined their future or their interests, would let any child of hers be whom they wished to be.  She thought—she knew—she would be different.

In many ways, she was.  When Fareeha told her, at twelve years old, that she did not like wearing dresses, wanted to be able to wear dress pants and a nice shirt for a family photo instead, Ana never objected, told her she could wear whatever she liked as long as she at least made herself presentable.  When one of Ana’s sisters observed that Fareeha might be going down the wrong path by showing too much interest in other girls, Ana defended her, said that Fareeha was welcome to love whom she chose, and was no less a good daughter because of it—and she was careful to avoid Fareeha being alone with certain parts of their extended family ever again, was always in the room to ensure she could shut down those conversations before they began.  When Fareeha wanted to try rock climbing, Ana told her it was dangerous and to be careful, but let her do it, because she knew she could not shield her daughter from every risk, knew what it was to feel smothered by a mother’s overprotectiveness.

And yet, when Fareeha told her she wanted to be a soldier, Ana did not for a second entertain the notion.

She knew, of course, that she should allow her daughter to choose her future for herself, knew well the consequences of doing otherwise, experienced them firsthand in her own relationship with her mother, the distance that grew between them when she was told whom and how to be—but she felt that to let Fareeha go to war was even worse a fate.  It would hurt Fareeha, yes, to not be allowed to live out her dreams, but it would surely be worse for her to die.  One day, she would come to understand it, would be grateful that her her mother did not allow her to experience war.

(That Fareeha had already experienced war, Ana did not consider.  Yes, she was not on the frontlines, but she grew up never knowing when, and if, Ana would return, knew already that fear, and had seen the damage it did to Ana, had felt it in the way she returned a different woman, her mother made a stranger.  Fareeha’s choice was more informed than Ana gave her credit for, and Ana had inadvertently already exposed her to the same things she then attempted to shield Fareeha from—or, so Fareeha would later explain was her thinking, at the time.  The truth, as they would eventually come to agree upon it, was somewhere in between, that there was a unique damage to the soul that killing would bring her, and Ana had kept her from that, but she was not so shielded from the Crisis and its fallout that she was the innocent Ana believed her to be.  She was idealistic, but not entirely naïve.)

In hindsight, it is easy for Ana to see that she should have known better.  Faced with the same choice she set before her daughter, to obey or to leave, she defied her mother’s wishes, so it seems obvious, now, that Fareeha would have done the same—they are not so different, after all—but their relationship preceding Ana’s ultimatum was far better, and so she thought, hoped, that it would make the difference, that Fareeha would choose her approval, their bond, over her own wishes. 

She did not.

Ana understands why that was, has come to see the ways in which in her absence, gone as she was so long at war, Fareeha came to idolize a fictional version of her, to buy into the myth that so many repeated—that Ana was a hero—and so to believe that in enlisting too someday, she would be honoring a legacy.  That idealized Ana, the one who only ever existed in other people’s accounts of her, was in some ways more present in Fareeha’s day to day life than Ana, the mother, flawed and wounded by war.  It is only natural that Fareeha would choose to honor the Ana that she knew best.

Natural, too, Ana thinks, that Fareeha would have chosen a legacy over a mother, because she must have known, already, that she did not need Ana anymore.  When Ana returned from the Crisis, after so long away, they were virtually strangers to one another; even if Fareeha was always at the forefront of her mind, Ana can acknowledge, now, that Fareeha largely grew up without her present.  She feels foolish for ever having thought that loving one another would have been enough to preserve their relationship, when they were both so changed.  How hopelessly naïve she must have been, then, to think that Fareeha was not capable of the same stubbornness as she, and to not see that she herself could be equally as cruel as her mother—she cannot believe she allowed things to unfold the way that she did.

But she did.

She did, and now she lives with the consequences of that, of thinking that loving Fareeha was enough to excuse trying to control her, that being family guaranteed her eventual forgiveness.

(That she has never fully forgiven her own mother is neither here nor there.)

For years, they did not speak.  In the beginning, it was a mutual decision—they had nothing to say to one another, after that last argument, needed a good cooling off before either of them could begin to forgive the things that were said enough to consider an apology of her own.  And then, Ana thought that withholding affection would bring Fareeha around, that she would realize soon enough that being a soldier was not so glorious as she had hoped, and that she would rather have their relationship, after all.  Then, when it became clear that she had made the wrong choice, had hurt Fareeha more by not trying to make amends or at least reach out, Ana regretted it, but felt that already too much time had gone by to reverse course.  She worried that by that point, Fareeha would not welcome an apology, no matter how sincere.  Gradually, that feeling faded, too, consumed as she was by Overwatch’s downfall, everything unraveling around her so quickly she could think of nothing else.  After this is over, she told herself, I’ll try to mend things with Fareeha.  I just have to fix this, first.

It took her dying—legally, at least—for her to realize that there was no after, for her, that there was always going to be something to take up her time, and nothing, not even her death, would dissuade Fareeha from molding herself in what she believed to be her mother’s image.  If anything, it seemed that Ana being declared KIA strengthened her resolve, made her even more determined, at least publicly, to carry on what she saw as the family legacy, with a new tattoo on her face to prove it.

Then, and only then, did Ana come to accept that, even if she did feel she was right about war, and its effect on people, even if she did believe that Fareeha deserved better, there was no sense in trying to dissuade her daughter, and no benefit in not admitting she handled the situation incorrectly.  She knew she had to apologize, knew she wanted, more than to be right, to have a relationship with her daughter again.

Still, it did not occur to her that Fareeha would not feel the same way.  A letter, an admission of fault, she believed would be enough—and then when that letter failed, another, and another.

It was more than her own mother ever gave her, an admission of guilt.

And it was still not enough.  It was still not what Fareeha deserved.

What she deserved was, of course, impossible, was for Ana to have never tried to stop her at all—not in the way that she did, at least—and on some level, Ana came to accept that.  She did not forgive herself for what she had done to Fareeha, for creating the rift between them, but she would have been able to live out her life knowing that she was not owed forgiveness, accepting that this was one more regret to add to the list, even if it weighed on her most heavily, had the state of the world not forced the two of them back into contact.

But it did.  It did, and she apologized, and much to her shock, the second time, Fareeha accepted her apology.

She has not been forgiven; on that point Fareeha is extremely clear.  Forgiveness is a difficult thing, and it will take a long time for her to earn that, to show Fareeha that she deserves it, and for Fareeha to heal enough to offer it to her, but they have come to an understanding that their past cannot be changed, even if they wish it to, and agreed to move forward.  For Ana, that is enough.

In fact, it is more than she would have asked for.  By the time Fareeha and she were reunited, she had long since given up hope that her relationship with Fareeha would ever be the same, would be truly one of mother and daughter, and so it feels, sometimes, like a dream still, feels like something unearned, something that if she does not hold tightly enough to it, might slip away at any moment.

But she cannot hold on too tightly, for Fareeha resists that still.  After so much time apart, it must feel strange to her, to have a mother, and it is only natural that it would chafe, sometimes.  She did well enough without Ana, has proven herself to be a fine soldier, and finer woman.

(It used to hurt, that Fareeha did not need her, but now she is glad for it, is glad that she raised her daughter to be strong enough to withstand her disapproval, and her death.  One day, she will truly die, and she knows that Fareeha will still be okay, will be able to survive just fine.  She has raised a woman who can stand on her own.)

Yet—here she is.  Here they both are, standing by a salsabil in the courtyard.

It is out of place, at odds with the modern architecture around it and disconnected from anything that might make it useful, but the sound of the water is soothing, familiar, and just loud enough to obscure a quiet conversation, should someone chance upon them here.

There are more secluded places, of course.  If not Fareeha’s living quarters, shared, then Ana’s own, but their private spaces have been the location of so many difficult conversations, of late, that they feel unsuited to the delicate work of grieving.  How could Fareeha feel truly comfortable, in a room belonging to Ana?  How could Ana dare intrude where Fareeha should have peace?

Safer to be elsewhere.  Beneath the open sky, there is little risk of the suffocating feeling that sometimes accompanies trying to speak to one another without stumbling over the past.  Here there is sun, and clean air, and the beauty of the garden.  This is not a tomb.

And still, bad news.  A death, a soldier Fareeha knew, served with, cared for.  She does not use the word suicide, when she tells Ana, looks towards the water, weaving its way around the pattern etched in stone.

Once, Ana might have pointed that out, would have told her to say what it was she meant; she has never found it helpful to avoid naming such things, thinks it may ultimately be harmful.  Now, however, she reminds herself that it is not her place to say such things.  Fareeha is a woman grown, can decide for herself how she prefers to have these conversations, neither needs nor likely wants Ana’s input on that matter.

(It might be hurtful, too, to say it now—Ana knows that.  She spent so long thinking that it was an inevitability, being hurt by the world, that the way she felt in the years leading up to Overwatch’s collapse and her time as the Shrike was normal, that she still has to remind herself, in circumstances such as this, that comfort has its place too.  There will be time enough later for Fareeha to confront it, when the wound is less fresh, when she feels more able.  There is value, in waiting, in allowing oneself to take on one pain at a time.  It is not denial, as Ana might once have seen it, is just as much a form of self-preservation as anything.  If Fareeha does not yet want to name it, does not feel ready to, it is not Ana’s place to push.)

What Fareeha does want, in telling her this, is a mystery to Ana.  Once, she could read her daughter easily, but the woman she has become is not the child Ana knew, no matter how familiar the planes of her face are in the morning sun.  It is a terrible thing, too, indecision, alien to Ana in her work and personal life both, but it strikes her just how little she knows of what her daughter needs.

For a few moments, when Fareeha stops speaking, there is only the sound of the water between them, Fareeha’s thoughts concluded and Ana unsure, yet, what she ought to say in response.  She thinks this would be easier, if her daughter were truly a stranger, because then she would not need to worry about whether or not to heed the urge to comfort Fareeha, to reach out to her, to say with her touch what she cannot find words for.  To a stranger, she would not have the desire to communicate the grief she herself feels, knowing that this is the life her daughter chose, the path she led Fareeha down.  If this were not Fareeha, she could just say that she is sorry, and it would be enough.

But this is her daughter, not a stranger.  She should say something more personal—do something.  She knows it, knows that I’m sorry never helped her in a situation like this, was only a platitude.

Yet she can think of nothing better.  To say anything else risks broaching, no matter how unintentionally, that this is what Ana feared Fareeha’s life might be, when she bade her not to enlist.  With how aware Fareeha is of that—how painfully so, given their recent conversations—she does not want to risk a misunderstanding, risk her daughter thinking that anything she says is a judgment, an implication, an I told you so couched in different phrasing.  That is beyond the point, now.  The damage is done.  What matters is that she not add to the hurt Fareeha feels already.

Best, then, to keep things simple.  “I’m sorry,” says she, from her side of the salsabil.

“I am, too.”  There is a tiredness in Fareeha’s voice that ages her, all too familiar.

“Are you going to the funeral?”  It feels like small talk, but what else can she say?  I wish you didn’t know this pain?  I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you?  I know how hard it is?  No, no, and no, all too close to the arguments of the past, and worse, all things that risk centering herself, here, her wants again, her needs, her feelings.  Fareeha does not deserve that. 

A small blessing, if one can call it that, Fareeha seems far too consumed by her own thoughts to notice how difficult navigating this conversation is for Ana.  “His parents won’t want people to—.”  She stops abruptly, shakes her head.  “There won’t be a public funeral.”  Her voice is harder, there.

“I see.”  She does not hide her displeasure.  Shame does not help anyone, not with things like this.

“Yes.  It’s shit.”  Fareeha says it with the sort of anger only grief can bring.

“It is.”  Were she speaking to anyone else, she might venture to say something more, but to Fareeha?  To Fareeha, it would feel wrong, to comment on the ways in which it astonishes her, the things families feel ashamed of their children for, the lengths they will go to in response to that feeling; her own responses to Fareeha’s choices are surely equally worthy of criticism.

Again, nothing but the sound of the water, the rustling of leaves as a slight breeze finds its way to the courtyard.

She feels it incumbent upon her to say something else.  Anger seems a bad note to leave things on—and she is worried for Fareeha, even if she feels she has no right to say as much, given all the pain she has caused her daughter.  “Have you reached out to any of his other friends?”

Another shake of the head.  “Not yet.”

“It can help.”  There was a time, in the Army, and before things with Overwatch really started to go bad, that she could rely on her fellow soldiers to help her through these things; even when it felt like no one else in the world would understand her, they were safe because they knew, too, what it was she was experiencing, and she hopes Fareeha has the same.

(Her own rank eventually robbed her of that, left her with fewer and fewer people to whom she could speak as an equal, until at the end it was only Jack—and he, absorbed as he was in his own problems, was in no place to help her at all.  She hopes that Fareeha’s friendships outside her work are stronger, hopes Fareeha’s relationship is better than her own and Sam’s was, hopes Fareeha never, ever knows how that isolation feels.)

“I know,” Fareeha says, perhaps a bit shorter.

She must not want Ana to address her feelings; that is fair.  Distant as they are, now, that might sound like an accusation of weakness.  Better to stick to other advice, then, “And you’ll want to send your condolences.”

Fareeha’s voice is truly sharp, now.  “I’m very aware of how funerals work, Mum.”

Her breath hitches.  “You are.”  Of course Fareeha is.  She had to handle Ana’s own funeral, and Ana cannot believe that she could even for a moment forget that.  Fareeha experienced her not-death too, is just as shaped by that time.  “I’m sorry,” says she again—as if saying it a thousand times over would be enough.  In her previous life, she never apologized, if she could avoid it; now it feels like all she can do.  “I’m trying,” She admits, “But I… I don’t know, anymore, what you need from me.”

“Nothing.”  Of all the things Fareeha might have said, Ana would not have imagined that, particularly not said so matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“I don’t—I don’t need anything from you.”  Fareeha actually faces her now.  “I haven’t for years.  I just thought…”  She trails off.

They are getting somewhere, now, if only Ana can encourage Fareeha to speak.  “Thought what?” 

Her words have the opposite of their intended effect.  “Forget it.”  Fareeha makes to leave.  “This was a mistake.”

“Fareeha—”  Her reflexes are not so dulled by time that she cannot reach across the salsabil to catch Fareeha’s wrist as she goes.

Easily, Fareeha pulls free.  “No, Mum,” says she, but at least they are facing one another again.  At least she can look Fareeha in the eye.

“Wait.”  Ana leaves her arm out, feels on the skin of her wrist the cooler air above the water.  “Please.”  It is not in her nature to beg, but she does so now.  “What should I do?”  Her voice breaks with it.  She should know.  She should know, she should know, she should know but she does not, and it is killing her, is more painful than any wound she has ever had. 

Even close enough to touch, Fareeha feels as far away as ever.

“I don’t know.”  Fareeha’s cheeks scrunch upwards in a way that Ana recognizes as often a prelude to tears.  “You can’t even—you can’t even comfort me anymore.”  Once, that might have been an accusation, but now, there is only sadness.

She draws back her hand, puts it over her heart, “I’m trying, Fareeha.”  If she knew better how to help, she would, but if this ever came naturally to her, it does not now. 

Now, an accusation in full: “You won’t even touch me except to stop me from leaving.”

“I didn’t think you would want me to.”  With how far from her Fareeha stood, the salsabil between them, she thought the distance intentional, a barrier to prevent such.

“You didn’t—of course I do!”  Now, Fareeha sounds more desperate than angry.  Somehow, that is worse.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I hurt you, Ana wants to say.  That’s all I ever do.  To do so would be unhelpful, though, is the sort of self-flagellation that would put the focus on herself, when she wants, more than anything, to be helping Fareeha.  “Surely there’s someone better suited,” says she instead.

“You’re my mother.”  As if it were so simple.

“That doesn’t make me good at this.”  They both know that already; if she were, they would never have gotten to this point in the first place.  Even the parts of parenthood Ana most enjoyed never came as easily to her as they did to her husband. “Your father would know what to say.”

“But I don’t want him.”

“And you want me?”  After everything that has happened, it is hard to imagine why Fareeha would.

“Yes, Mum!  I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t—wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Fareeha makes a sharp gesture with her hands, bringing them into the space between them, “With pulling fucking teeth trying to get anything from you.”

(For a long time, Ana thought that Fareeha switched to English idioms—if not English entirely—during their arguments because it put Ana on the back foot, was a language she was not as good at expressing herself in as her daughter; now she realizes that as much distance as there was between them, as much time as Fareeha spent with her father while Ana was away, it is possible that this is just the only way Fareeha can say what it is she feels.  Certainly, Ana did not teach her the words to discuss such difficult things, not when she herself cannot start a conversation like this in any language.)

“I’m not trying to make this difficult.”  She hopes her tone is enough that Fareeha sees that for the apology it is.  If she knew the words to say to make this better, she would.

“But you do!  You do, and it’s exhausting, and I’m trying because I still care about you—because I can’t not—but you have to try too.”  Fareeha starts off strong, but gradually the energy behind her words dissipates, desperation settling into a kind of quiet pleading, and then resignation.  “Please.  Because I can’t—I can’t keep begging you to try to be my mother again.  I can’t.”

It hits her like a blow.  “I didn’t realize.”  If she were a better mother, maybe, she would have, if she knew Fareeha and not just a memory of her, if she were strong enough—no, humble enough—to ask what Fareeha needs from her.  “I thought I was giving you space, that you would want me to.”

As it is, she finds it hard to believe that Fareeha wants her back at all, after so long, even if this conversation has made it abundantly clear that she does.  Ana truly does not feel that she deserves to ask for any time with her daughter, now that she understands what it did to Fareeha, her disapproval, her absence, her dying.

“Running away is how you solve things.”

(Perhaps it is a bad sign that Ana finds it heartening that Fareeha has the energy left for that anger, but she does.  Resignation is worse than resentment; at least to feel that hurt, still, Fareeha must care.)

But what can she say to that?

“I’m sorry,” says Fareeha, when Ana takes too long to find a response.  “That was unfair of me.”

“No.”  Once, Ana might have been all too happy to let Fareeha apologize to her for such a statement, to take those words as proof that she was the one in the right after all, but she is not, she knows that now—might, in truth, have known it all along.  “You’re right,” and there is no use hiding from it.  And another admission, too, equally as hard: “I’m terrified of saying something to hurt you, or pushing you away.  I know how to fight, Fareeha.  I don’t know what to do with peace.  Saying nothing feels safer.” 

(She never wanted her daughter to know she was afraid.)

“That’s distance, too.”

“I know now.”  She should have seen it before, but it is too late for that.  The past cannot be changed; the future, at least, is more malleable.  She moves around the water, so she is beside her daughter at last, “Forgive me.  Please.”

After everything, it is terrifying to ask for that.  Fareeha has made it clear that she is not ready, yet, to forgive the past, even if she wants to move forward—and Ana can understand as much, but this?  The present?  She hopes that at least they have enough common ground that Fareeha can see that at least now, Ana’s intentions are good, even if they play out badly.  If Ana has made it impossible for Fareeha to at least acknowledge that much, she is not certain there is any bridging the gap between them.

“Just—be here.  Now.  Because I need my mom.”  That is enough.

“I am here.  I am.”  A statement, and a promise.  She reaches out, finally, to hold her daughter, feels the way Fareeha practically collapses into it, heavier than Ana remembers, but so, so familiar.  “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, the same way she did when Fareeha was young, as if she were comforting her daughter after a nightmare all over again.  “I’m right here.”

The sound of the water runs over the shuddering breath she takes in as she finally lets herself cry.

Some people are uniquely nurturing, know from childhood that they want to be a parent, feel an innate desire to care for others, to cradle their younger siblings and rock to sleep their dolls. 

Ana was not one of those children.  She had no interest in her brother until he was old enough to climb trees with her, and while her sisters imagined they were mothers when they played house, she used a toy purse as a briefcase and declared she was going off to work.  It was not that she had no interest in traditionally feminine play—she was happy to be a princess with her friends, hosted tea parties for her teddy bears, and never was so still and quiet as when her grandmother taught her to braid and, later, embroider—but she never enjoyed taking care of babies, traded her realistic crying doll to her brother for his building blocks as soon as her mother’s back was turned.

She never imagined she would be a parent, and certainly never thought that she might enjoy it.  She had to grow into thinking of herself as a mother, as a person capable of nurturing.

But, much to her surprise, she did.  She never liked the swaddling, or the nursing, or even the new baby smell, but she loved the weight of Fareeha falling asleep on her chest, knowing that her daughter felt safest with her, felt immense pride with each new milestone her daughter hit, watching her crawl, and walk, and eventually run, and felt privileged to be able to see the world in a whole new way, experiencing Fareeha’s wonder at each new thing, having her view reframed by a thousand different questions.  Motherhood was not what she thought it would be, was not just caretaking, but was the shaping of a new person, the hope of a better future with people like her daughter, curious and compassionate and capable at the helm.  It was a chance to build a more peaceful world, and to get to know and to shape a marvelous human being, one that she imagined she would be happy to know even if Fareeha was not her daughter.  It was wonderful.

(Yet it did not feel natural, being a mother.  For a time, she did not even think of motherhood as something she chose, merely as something that happened to her.  She got pregnant, so she got married and had the baby.  That was just what one did, what she had been raised to think of as the only option.  It was not until her second pregnancy that she realized that she had always thought of Fareeha as her baby, even before the test was confirmed positive, that she had been a source of some anxiety, yes, but never distress.  The second pregnancy was only ever a fetus, a headache, a problem for her to solve, but through it she realized she had the ability to choose differently, that keeping her first pregnancy had seemed like a foregone conclusion not because it was what she was programmed to think, but because she had accepted Fareeha as her baby so quickly that it seemed inevitable that she would have her.  If she had wanted not to be pregnant then, she could have, would have, chosen differently—because the second time, the second pregnancy, she did.)

It was also difficult, in a way she could not have anticipated.

When Ana had rebelled, as a teenager, cutting her hair short and dressing in men’s clothes, going out with the ‘wrong kind’ of boys and declaring that she did not want to ever get married, her mother had wished that she would raise a daughter like herself, outspoken and all too quick to question authority, eager to go down a different path than the one her parents set before her; at the time, Ana thought such a thing would never happen.  She did not believe she wanted children, for one, and knew, too, that she would not place such rigid expectations on them, would not ask a daughter to be quiet and polite, to wear her hair long and be interested in boys, but not too interested, would not think that her baby’s sex determined their future or their interests, would let any child of hers be whom they wished to be.  She thought—she knew—she would be different.

In many ways, she was.  When Fareeha told her, at twelve years old, that she did not like wearing dresses, wanted to be able to wear dress pants and a nice shirt for a family photo instead, Ana never objected, told her she could wear whatever she liked as long as she at least made herself presentable.  When one of Ana’s sisters observed that Fareeha might be going down the wrong path by showing too much interest in other girls, Ana defended her, said that Fareeha was welcome to love whom she chose, and was no less a good daughter because of it—and she was careful to avoid Fareeha being alone with certain parts of their extended family ever again, was always in the room to ensure she could shut down those conversations before they began.  When Fareeha wanted to try rock climbing, Ana told her it was dangerous and to be careful, but let her do it, because she knew she could not shield her daughter from every risk, knew what it was to feel smothered by a mother’s overprotectiveness.

And yet, when Fareeha told her she wanted to be a soldier, Ana did not for a second entertain the notion.

She knew, of course, that she should allow her daughter to choose her future for herself, knew well the consequences of doing otherwise, experienced them firsthand in her own relationship with her mother, the distance that grew between them when she was told whom and how to be—but she felt that to let Fareeha go to war was even worse a fate.  It would hurt Fareeha, yes, to not be allowed to live out her dreams, but it would surely be worse for her to die.  One day, she would come to understand it, would be grateful that her her mother did not allow her to experience war.

(That Fareeha had already experienced war, Ana did not consider.  Yes, she was not on the frontlines, but she grew up never knowing when, and if, Ana would return, knew already that fear, and had seen the damage it did to Ana, had felt it in the way she returned a different woman, her mother made a stranger.  Fareeha’s choice was more informed than Ana gave her credit for, and Ana had inadvertently already exposed her to the same things she then attempted to shield Fareeha from—or, so Fareeha would later explain was her thinking, at the time.  The truth, as they would eventually come to agree upon it, was somewhere in between, that there was a unique damage to the soul that killing would bring her, and Ana had kept her from that, but she was not so shielded from the Crisis and its fallout that she was the innocent Ana believed her to be.  She was idealistic, but not entirely naïve.)

In hindsight, it is easy for Ana to see that she should have known better.  Faced with the same choice she set before her daughter, to obey or to leave, she defied her mother’s wishes, so it seems obvious, now, that Fareeha would have done the same—they are not so different, after all—but their relationship preceding Ana’s ultimatum was far better, and so she thought, hoped, that it would make the difference, that Fareeha would choose her approval, their bond, over her own wishes. 

She did not.

Ana understands why that was, has come to see the ways in which in her absence, gone as she was so long at war, Fareeha came to idolize a fictional version of her, to buy into the myth that so many repeated—that Ana was a hero—and so to believe that in enlisting too someday, she would be honoring a legacy.  That idealized Ana, the one who only ever existed in other people’s accounts of her, was in some ways more present in Fareeha’s day to day life than Ana, the mother, flawed and wounded by war.  It is only natural that Fareeha would choose to honor the Ana that she knew best.

Natural, too, Ana thinks, that Fareeha would have chosen a legacy over a mother, because she must have known, already, that she did not need Ana anymore.  When Ana returned from the Crisis, after so long away, they were virtually strangers to one another; even if Fareeha was always at the forefront of her mind, Ana can acknowledge, now, that Fareeha largely grew up without her present.  She feels foolish for ever having thought that loving one another would have been enough to preserve their relationship, when they were both so changed.  How hopelessly naïve she must have been, then, to think that Fareeha was not capable of the same stubbornness as she, and to not see that she herself could be equally as cruel as her mother—she cannot believe she allowed things to unfold the way that she did.

But she did.

She did, and now she lives with the consequences of that, of thinking that loving Fareeha was enough to excuse trying to control her, that being family guaranteed her eventual forgiveness.

(That she has never fully forgiven her own mother is neither here nor there.)

For years, they did not speak.  In the beginning, it was a mutual decision—they had nothing to say to one another, after that last argument, needed a good cooling off before either of them could begin to forgive the things that were said enough to consider an apology of her own.  And then, Ana thought that withholding affection would bring Fareeha around, that she would realize soon enough that being a soldier was not so glorious as she had hoped, and that she would rather have their relationship, after all.  Then, when it became clear that she had made the wrong choice, had hurt Fareeha more by not trying to make amends or at least reach out, Ana regretted it, but felt that already too much time had gone by to reverse course.  She worried that by that point, Fareeha would not welcome an apology, no matter how sincere.  Gradually, that feeling faded, too, consumed as she was by Overwatch’s downfall, everything unraveling around her so quickly she could think of nothing else.  After this is over, she told herself, I’ll try to mend things with Fareeha.  I just have to fix this, first.

It took her dying—legally, at least—for her to realize that there was no after, for her, that there was always going to be something to take up her time, and nothing, not even her death, would dissuade Fareeha from molding herself in what she believed to be her mother’s image.  If anything, it seemed that Ana being declared KIA strengthened her resolve, made her even more determined, at least publicly, to carry on what she saw as the family legacy, with a new tattoo on her face to prove it.

Then, and only then, did Ana come to accept that, even if she did feel she was right about war, and its effect on people, even if she did believe that Fareeha deserved better, there was no sense in trying to dissuade her daughter, and no benefit in not admitting she handled the situation incorrectly.  She knew she had to apologize, knew she wanted, more than to be right, to have a relationship with her daughter again.

Still, it did not occur to her that Fareeha would not feel the same way.  A letter, an admission of fault, she believed would be enough—and then when that letter failed, another, and another.

It was more than her own mother ever gave her, an admission of guilt.

And it was still not enough.  It was still not what Fareeha deserved.

What she deserved was, of course, impossible, was for Ana to have never tried to stop her at all—not in the way that she did, at least—and on some level, Ana came to accept that.  She did not forgive herself for what she had done to Fareeha, for creating the rift between them, but she would have been able to live out her life knowing that she was not owed forgiveness, accepting that this was one more regret to add to the list, even if it weighed on her most heavily, had the state of the world not forced the two of them back into contact.

But it did.  It did, and she apologized, and much to her shock, the second time, Fareeha accepted her apology.

She has not been forgiven; on that point Fareeha is extremely clear.  Forgiveness is a difficult thing, and it will take a long time for her to earn that, to show Fareeha that she deserves it, and for Fareeha to heal enough to offer it to her, but they have come to an understanding that their past cannot be changed, even if they wish it to, and agreed to move forward.  For Ana, that is enough.

In fact, it is more than she would have asked for.  By the time Fareeha and she were reunited, she had long since given up hope that her relationship with Fareeha would ever be the same, would be truly one of mother and daughter, and so it feels, sometimes, like a dream still, feels like something unearned, something that if she does not hold tightly enough to it, might slip away at any moment.

But she cannot hold on too tightly, for Fareeha resists that still.  After so much time apart, it must feel strange to her, to have a mother, and it is only natural that it would chafe, sometimes.  She did well enough without Ana, has proven herself to be a fine soldier, and finer woman.

(It used to hurt, that Fareeha did not need her, but now she is glad for it, is glad that she raised her daughter to be strong enough to withstand her disapproval, and her death.  One day, she will truly die, and she knows that Fareeha will still be okay, will be able to survive just fine.  She has raised a woman who can stand on her own.)

Yet—here she is.  Here they both are, standing by a salsabil in the courtyard.

It is out of place, at odds with the modern architecture around it and disconnected from anything that might make it useful, but the sound of the water is soothing, familiar, and just loud enough to obscure a quiet conversation, should someone chance upon them here.

There are more secluded places, of course.  If not Fareeha’s living quarters, shared, then Ana’s own, but their private spaces have been the location of so many difficult conversations, of late, that they feel unsuited to the delicate work of grieving.  How could Fareeha feel truly comfortable, in a room belonging to Ana?  How could Ana dare intrude where Fareeha should have peace?

Safer to be elsewhere.  Beneath the open sky, there is little risk of the suffocating feeling that sometimes accompanies trying to speak to one another without stumbling over the past.  Here there is sun, and clean air, and the beauty of the garden.  This is not a tomb.

And still, bad news.  A death, a soldier Fareeha knew, served with, cared for.  She does not use word suicide, when she tells Ana, looks towards the water, weaving its way around the pattern etched in stone.

Once, Ana might have pointed that out, would have told her to say what it was she meant; she has never found it helpful to avoid naming such things, thinks it may ultimately be harmful.  Now, however, she reminds herself that it is not her place to say such things.  Fareeha is a woman grown, can decide for herself how she prefers to have these conversations, neither needs nor likely wants Ana’s input on that matter.

(It might be hurtful, too, to say it now—Ana knows that.  She spent so long thinking that it was an inevitability, being hurt by the world, that the way she felt in the years leading up to Overwatch’s collapse and her time as the Shrike was normal, that she still has to remind herself, in circumstances such as this, that comfort has its place too.  There will be time enough later for Fareeha to confront it, when the wound is less fresh, when she feels more able.  There is value, in waiting, in allowing oneself to take on one pain at a time.  It is not denial, as Ana might once have seen it, is just as much a form of self-preservation as anything.  If Fareeha does not yet want to name it, does not feel ready to, it is not Ana’s place to push.)

What Fareeha does want, in telling her this, is a mystery to Ana.  Once, she could read her daughter easily, but the woman she has become is not the child Ana knew, no matter how familiar the planes of her face are in the morning sun.  It is a terrible thing, too, indecision, alien to Ana in her work and personal life both, but it strikes her just how little she knows of what her daughter needs.

For a few moments, when Fareeha stops speaking, there is only the sound of the water between them, Fareeha’s thoughts concluded and Ana unsure, yet, what she ought to say in response.  She thinks this would be easier, if her daughter were truly a stranger, because then she would not need to worry about whether or not to heed the urge to comfort Fareeha, to reach out to her, to say with her touch what she cannot find words for.  To a stranger, she would not have the desire to communicate the grief she herself feels, knowing that this is the life her daughter chose, the path she led Fareeha down.  If this were not Fareeha, she could just say that she is sorry, and it would be enough.

But this is her daughter, not a stranger.  She should say something more personal—do something.  She knows it, knows that I’m sorry never helped her in a situation like this, was only a platitude.

Yet she can think of nothing better.  To say anything else risks broaching, no matter how unintentionally, that this is what Ana feared Fareeha’s life might be, when she bade her not to enlist.  With how aware Fareeha is of that—how painfully so, given their recent conversations—she does not want to risk a misunderstanding, risk her daughter thinking that anything she says is a judgment, an implication, an I told you so couched in different phrasing.  That is beyond the point, now.  The damage is done.  What matters is that she not add to the hurt Fareeha feels already.

Best, then, to keep things simple.  “I’m sorry,” says she, from her side of the salsabil.

“I am, too.”  There is a tiredness in Fareeha’s voice that ages her, all too familiar.

“Are you going to the funeral?”  It feels like small talk, but what else can she say?  I wish you didn’t know this pain?  I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you?  I know how hard it is?  No, no, and no, all too close to the arguments of the past, and worse, all things that risk centering herself, here, her wants again, her needs, her feelings.  Fareeha does not deserve that. 

A small blessing, if one can call it that, Fareeha seems far too consumed by her own thoughts to notice how difficult navigating this conversation is for Ana.  “His parents won’t want people to—.”  She stops abruptly, shakes her head.  “There won’t be a public funeral.”  Her voice is harder, there.

“I see.”  She does not hide her displeasure.  Shame does not help anyone, not with things like this.

“Yes.  It’s shit.”  Fareeha says it with the sort of anger only grief can bring.

“It is.”  Were she speaking to anyone else, she might venture to say something more, but to Fareeha?  To Fareeha, it would feel wrong, to comment on the ways in which it astonishes her, the things families feel ashamed of their children for, the lengths they will go to in response to that feeling; her own responses to Fareeha’s choices are surely equally worthy of criticism.

Again, nothing but the sound of the water, the rustling of leaves as a slight breeze finds its way to the courtyard.

She feels it incumbent upon her to say something else.  Anger seems a bad note to leave things on—and she is worried for Fareeha, even if she feels she has no right to say as much, given all the pain she has caused her daughter.  “Have you reached out to any of his other friends?”

Another shake of the head.  “Not yet.”

“It can help.”  There was a time, in the Army, and before things with Overwatch really started to go bad, that she could rely on her fellow soldiers to help her through these things; even when it felt like no one else in the world would understand her, they were safe because they knew, too, what it was she was experiencing, and she hopes Fareeha has the same.

(Her own rank eventually robbed her of that, left her with fewer and fewer people to whom she could speak as an equal, until at the end it was only Jack—and he, absorbed as he was in his own problems, was in no place to help her at all.  She hopes that Fareeha’s friendships outside her work are stronger, hopes Fareeha’s relationship is better than her own and Sam’s was, hopes Fareeha never, ever knows how that isolation feels.)

“I know,” Fareeha says, perhaps a bit shorter.

She must not want Ana to address her feelings; that is fair.  Distant as they are, now, that might sound like an accusation of weakness.  Better to stick to other advice, then, “And you’ll want to send your condolences.”

Fareeha’s voice is truly sharp, now.  “I’m very aware of how funerals work, Mum.”

Her breath hitches.  “You are.”  Of course Fareeha is.  She had to handle Ana’s own funeral, and Ana cannot believe that she could even for a moment forget that.  Fareeha experienced her not-death too, is just as shaped by that time.  “I’m sorry,” says she again—as if saying it a thousand times over would be enough.  In her previous life, she never apologized, if she could avoid it; now it feels like all she can do.  “I’m trying,” She admits, “But I… I don’t know, anymore, what you need from me.”

“Nothing.”  Of all the things Fareeha might have said, Ana would not have imagined that, particularly not said so matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“I don’t—I don’t need anything from you.”  Fareeha actually faces her now.  “I haven’t for years.  I just thought…”  She trails off.

They are getting somewhere, now, if only Ana can encourage Fareeha to speak.  “Thought what?” 

Her words have the opposite of their intended effect.  “Forget it.”  Fareeha makes to leave.  “This was a mistake.”

“Fareeha—”  Her reflexes are not so dulled by time that she cannot reach across the salsabil to catch Fareeha’s wrist as she goes.

Easily, Fareeha pulls free.  “No, Mum,” says she, but at least they are facing one another again.  At least she can look Fareeha in the eye.

“Wait.”  Ana leaves her arm out, feels on the skin of her wrist the cooler air above the water.  “Please.”  It is not in her nature to beg, but she does so now.  “What should I do?”  Her voice breaks with it.  She should know.  She should know, she should know, she should know but she does not, and it is killing her, is more painful than any wound she has ever had. 

Even close enough to touch, Fareeha feels as far away as ever.

“I don’t know.”  Fareeha’s cheeks scrunch upwards in a way that Ana recognizes as often a prelude to tears.  “You can’t even—you can’t even comfort me anymore.”  Once, that might have been an accusation, but now, there is only sadness.

She draws back her hand, puts it over her heart, “I’m trying, Fareeha.”  If she knew better how to help, she would, but if this ever came naturally to her, it does not now. 

Now, an accusation in full: “You won’t even touch me except to stop me from leaving.”

“I didn’t think you would want me to.”  With how far from her Fareeha stood, the salsabil between them, she thought the distance intentional, a barrier to prevent such.

“You didn’t—of course I do!”  Now, Fareeha sounds more desperate than angry.  Somehow, that is worse.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I hurt you, Ana wants to say.  That’s all I ever do.  To do so would be unhelpful, though, is the sort of self-flagellation that would put the focus on herself, when she wants, more than anything, to be helping Fareeha.  “Surely there’s someone better suited,” says she instead.

“You’re my mother.”  As if it were so simple.

“That doesn’t make me good at this.”  They both know that already; if she were, they would never have gotten to this point in the first place.  Even the parts of parenthood Ana most enjoyed never came as easily to her as they did to her husband. “Your father would know what to say.”

“But I don’t want him.”

“And you want me?”  After everything that has happened, it is hard to imagine why Fareeha would.

“Yes, Mum!  I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t—wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Fareeha makes a sharp gesture with her hands, bringing them into the space between them, “With pulling fucking teeth trying to get anything from you.”

(For a long time, Ana thought that Fareeha switched to English idioms—if not English entirely—during their arguments because it put Ana on the back foot, was a language she was not as good at expressing herself in as her daughter; now she realizes that as much distance as there was between them, as much time as Fareeha spent with her father while Ana was away, it is possible that this is just the only way Fareeha can say what it is she feels.  Certainly, Ana did not teach her the words to discuss such difficult things, not when she herself cannot start a conversation like this in any language.)

“I’m not trying to make this difficult.”  She hopes her tone is enough that Fareeha sees that for the apology it is.  If she knew the words to say to make this better, she would.

“But you do!  You do, and it’s exhausting, and I’m trying because I still care about you—because I can’t not—but you have to try too.”  Fareeha starts off strong, but gradually the energy behind her words dissipates, desperation settling into a kind of quiet pleading, and then resignation.  “Please.  Because I can’t—I can’t keep begging you to try to be my mother again.  I can’t.”

It hits her like a blow.  “I didn’t realize.”  If she were a better mother, maybe, she would have, if she knew Fareeha and not just a memory of her, if she were strong enough—no, humble enough—to ask what Fareeha needs from her.  “I thought I was giving you space, that you would want me to.”

As it is, she finds it hard to believe that Fareeha wants her back at all, after so long, even if this conversation has made it abundantly clear that she does.  Ana truly does not feel that she deserves to ask for any time with her daughter, now that she understands what it did to Fareeha, her disapproval, her absence, her dying.

“Running away is how you solve things.”

(Perhaps it is a bad sign that Ana finds it heartening that Fareeha has the energy left for that anger, but she does.  Resignation is worse than resentment; at least to feel that hurt, still, Fareeha must care.)

But what can she say to that?

“I’m sorry,” says Fareeha, when Ana takes too long to find a response.  “That was unfair of me.”

“No.”  Once, Ana might have been all too happy to let Fareeha apologize to her for such a statement, to take those words as proof that she was the one in the right after all, but she is not, she knows that now—might, in truth, have known it all along.  “You’re right,” and there is no use hiding from it.  And another admission, too, equally as hard: “I’m terrified of saying something to hurt you, or pushing you away.  I know how to fight, Fareeha.  I don’t know what to do with peace.  Saying nothing feels safer.” 

(She never wanted her daughter to know she was afraid.)

“That’s distance, too.”

“I know now.”  She should have seen it before, but it is too late for that.  The past cannot be changed; the future, at least, is more malleable.  She moves around the water, so she is beside her daughter at last, “Forgive me.  Please.”

After everything, it is terrifying to ask for that.  Fareeha has made it clear that she is not ready, yet, to forgive the past, even if she wants to move forward—and Ana can understand as much, but this?  The present?  She hopes that at least they have enough common ground that Fareeha can see that at least now, Ana’s intentions are good, even if they play out badly.  If Ana has made it impossible for Fareeha to at least acknowledge that much, she is not certain there is any bridging the gap between them.

“Just—be here.  Now.  Because I need my mom.”  That is enough.

“I am here.  I am.”  A statement, and a promise.  She reaches out, finally, to hold her daughter, feels the way Fareeha practically collapses into it, heavier than Ana remembers, but so, so familiar.  “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, the same way she did when Fareeha was young, as if she were comforting her daughter after a nightmare all over again.  “I’m right here.”

The sound of the water runs over the shuddering breath she takes in as she finally lets herself cry.

[daydadahlias]

what ship do you want your birthday fic to be?? ot4 or ot3 is an option too btw

as long as Ashton’s getting attention, any other member is allowed to be the one to give it 💙

[fbfh]

OMG HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAY TO THE BEST PERSON ON THIS APP!!!! LOVE YOU <3

WAILING WEEPING SOBBING THANK YOU BABES <333 LOVE YOU TOO!!!!! <333

HAVE SOME CAKE

[xoxoemynn]

I'm doing final edits on chapter 5 of Where the Daylight Begins and it feels like it's been so long since I wrote it that I actually forgot some bits and it's been really fun. Actually had some "oooh, nice! Good thinking, past self" moments and it is fab.

Anyway I know I'm late so here's a little sneak peak as an apology. It makes me giggle. Stede Bonnet's a bitch and I love him so much.

"Right, okay," said Lucius. He finished tying his end of the banner to the branch. "Well, my muse and l will miss having Ed around here. The man sure looked like a snack today on that horse."

Stede turned toward Lucius, and Ed could see he had a perturbed frown on his face. "I told Roach to give him a snack first thing today. I'm telling you, that man's listening comprehension skills have gone way downhill ever since he started wearing the ferret around his neck, I'm beginning to have concerns. Can't believe on Ed's last morning here he was going hungry. What a terrible final impression."

[hismourningflower]

a very very happy birthday kai !!!!!!!!!!!! i hope you have a wonderful wonderful day and i hope you have lots of cake and joy on your special day !! <3

zee !! thank you so much dear waaaahh <3

[venusacrossthestars]

I <3 Australians

pairing- Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

summary: You had an obsession with Australians, your boyfriend and love for the Australian band 5 Seconds of Summer proved as much. So what better way to show your girlfriend you love her than take her to see her other fave Australians?

wc- 2.4k

a/n- HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE LOML OSCAR PIASTRI this is the self-indulgent fic I have been talking about. I am a 5SOS stan and idc if this flops or not because I truly only wrote this for me. also this isn't edited bc I could not be bothered to do so

f1 masterlist

You had a thing for Australians, your boyfriend was proof of that. But even before you met Oscar, you had been a fan of the Australian band- 5 Seconds of Summer. While other girls were in their One Direction phase, you were busy fawning over the 4 Australians. You were one of lucky few that were able to see both when 5SOS opened for One Direction. You were a stan, all of your family and friends knew it. But most importantly Oscar knew it as well. 

He was familiar with the band, they were after all from the same country. He became even more familiar with them after the two of you got to together. Anytime he picked you up and graced you with the aux cord, chances were that 5 Seconds of Summer was blasting through the speakers. Oscar didn’t mind, the music was half bad either, not that he would ever say anything negative about it to you. 

So when he saw that tickets were on sale for there newest tour and that one of the UK dates just happened to line up with a non-race weekend, he was quick to purchase tickets. The hardest part of this whole ordeal was keeping it quiet from you. Which is exactly why Oscar only lasted 24 hours before spilling the beans. 

Today was Oscar and yours designated ‘lazy day’, no responsibilities, no worries, a day filled with absolutely nothing. Oscar had gone into your shared office about 20 minutes ago, what he was doing, you had no clue and frankly you were too busy watching Bones to really care. 

You watch as Oscar appears from his office, hands behind his back hiding something from your view, “I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes.” 

You quirk an eyebrow at Oscar’s sudden exclamation. “Should I be scared?” You ask, as you sit up on the couch.

“No. Just close your eyes.” 

You do as he ask, trusting him fully. You feel him place something in your lap, however, it was too light to for you to fully make out what it was. 

“Ok, you can open them.” 

As you open your eyes you look down at your lap. You weren’t sure what to expect but it surely wasn’t a folded piece of paper. “A piece of paper?” 

Oscar rolls his eyes at your comment, “Look what’s written on it.” 

You unfold the paper and it takes a few seconds for to comprehend what is on it. You look at Oscar then back down at the paper, back to Oscar, back to the piece of paper and finally back to Oscar. “You didn’t,” is all you can say. 

“I did.” 

“Oscar this isn’t funny. I swear to God if you are joking  you are sleeping on this couch.” On that little folded piece of paper is written confirmation for 2 VIP pit tickets for the 5 Seconds of Summer Show. 

“Surprise!” Oscar shouts, face scrunched up from smiling so hard. 

You launch yourself from the couch and into his awaiting arms. You pepper his face with kisses. “Thank you- Thank you-Thank you. You are literally the best boyfriend ever.” 

“You don’t need to thank me baby. I know how much you love them.” 

Your smile widens into a grin. You reach up to pinch his cheeks, “Don’t worry you’ll always be my favorite Australian.” 

“I better be.” 

The weeks leading up to the concert were difficult for you. You were torn in between wanting to know the setlist and not. You had done your best to stay in the dark with majority of the songs you did however know one thing they were going to be doing. 

“Osc, they throw a giant inflatable dice into the crowd and whatever song it lands on when it’s back up on stage is the surprise song they play!” 

Oscar shoots you a confused look. The two of you were on your way to the venue and you couldn’t stop talking off Oscar’s poor ear about the concert. You tired to reel in your excitement and everytime you apologized for being so excited, Oscar, like the good boyfriend he is, would tell you not to worry and that he loved seeing you so excited. 

“And,” you begin again, “one of my favorite songs is on the dice!” 

“Which one?” 

“English Love Affair!” 

Oscar nods, “Isn’t that the one about Harry Styles’ sister?” 

“Yes! I can’t believe you remembered.” 

“See I know a thing or two.” 

“So proud of you baby,” you lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. 

You managed to convince Oscar to dress the part of 2014 grunge 5SOS, not that it was a challenge considering majority of pants this man owned were skinny jeans. You had your own get-up, black skinny jeans (that you had to dig out for your side of the closet), black converse, a white baby tee with a graphic that read ‘I <3 Australians’ and a red flannel tied around your waist. Adorning your wrist were the multiple friendship bracelets you had made. 

You could only be described as Wattpad Y/N. When Oscar had seen your shirt he had raised a questioning brow and had asked “I hope that shirt only means me.” 

After going through security you and Oscar were officially in the venue. Oscar was in search of something to eat and you were on the hunt for the merch stand. 

“What do you want to eat?” Oscar asks you as you stand in concession line. 

“Hmmm,” you take a peek at the menu, “I’ll have a pretzel.” 

Oscar, ever the gentleman, pay for both of your snacks and drinks. You barely have your food in hand before you are dragging Oscar to the merch stand. 

The line was long enough that the two of you could eat and silently debate with yourself what you wanted to get. 

Oscar leans his head on your shoulder, “You have to get the papaya hoodie.” 

You roll your eyes, “You’re so pretentious, it’s literally orange.” 

“Still you look good in orange.” 

“I better considering I wear it nearly every weekend.” 

While in line you chat with a few other fans, exchanging bracelets, predictions and hopes of what the dice song will be. You are interrupted by the feeling of eyes on you and Oscar, you glance over your shoulder to see a group of girls huddled in a circle. One of them is pointing to Oscar and yourself. 

You eventually get your merch, Oscar insisting on getting the ‘papaya’ hoodie for you. As the two of you were walking to the wristband station, you one of the girls from the group from earlier approaching. 

“Excuse me,” one of them asks timidly, “you’re Oscar Piastri, right?” 

Oscar nods his head, “That’s me.” 

“Okay, that’s what my friend thought,” she points over to where her other friends are standing, all now much more interested in their shoes, “I’m really sorry to interrupt your date but I wanted to ask if it’s okay if we could take a picture with you.” 

Oscar looks at you and you nod your head. He knows he doesn’t need permission, but today was supposed to be a day for the two you. “Sure, we can take some pictures.” 

After your run in with Oscar’s fans the rest of night moves in a blur and before you know it the lights dim and the crowd starts to grow crazier, yourself included. 

You grab Oscars arm, “It’s starting oh my god, oh my god.” 

Oscar rubs your hair, “Are you excited?” 

“Is the sky blue?” 

The overtune starts and you can see Ashton, Micheal, Luke, and Calum take their places on stage. The familiar instrumental beginning of ‘Bad Omens’ fills your ears and you can hardly contain your scream. 

Oscar watches in adoration as you sing along, knowing every word. He can’t help but join in. You might’ve not known the setlist, but Oscar did. He added it to his Spotify the night he bough tickets and listened to it when he could. He wanted to make sure that he could sing along with you. 

The first 3 songs pass in a blur- Bad Omens, 2011, Caramel- and not knowing the setlist proved to be the right choice on your part because when Blender starts you nearly make Oscar deaf with your scream. 

“I’d die for you, I’d die for you, I’d die for you,” you sing looking Oscar directly in the eye. He only shakes his head at you antics. You bop and dance around to the chorus, grabbing Oscar to join in on your chaos and by the second verse he is fully dancing along with you. 

Everyone is bumping into each other having a blast, personal space be damned. You were to high on life to care about the repercussion that you would be facing tomorrow-bruised feet and a sore throat. 

More songs play and the boys interact with fans, your screaming and hollering along with them. Oscar’s face lights up at the beginning of ‘She’s Kinda Hot’ and he turns to you with a grin on his face, “I know this one!” 

“My girlfriends bitchin’ cause I always sleep in. She’s always screaming when she’s callin’ her friend. She’s kinda hot though!” Oscar sings along, wiggling his eyebrows at you when he sings the last line. 

Rolling your eyes you give him a light shove away from you. You take a moment to admire Oscar, thankfully that you have a loving boyfriend that would take you to see your other favorite Australians. 

The mood takes a 180 when the chords of ‘Amnesia’ fill the venue. You can’t help the tears that line your eyes and the shakiness of your voice when you sing along. Oscar looks at you, concern etched on his face, you wave him off. It was just a sad song, that’s all. 

The lights dim and on the big screen you see Ashton, Luke, Micheal and Calum in there suit get up. You know what time it was- Dice time. They explain the rules, if the dice isn’t back on stage within a minute then they’ll be picking the song instead. 

Luke hurls the dice into the crowd and the timer begins. Hands are flying up as the dice moves across the pit, you and Oscar watch and before you know it the dice is coming towards the two of you. You stand on your tippy toes to help Oscar, and the other around you, push it back towards the stage. 

“That was strangely horrifying,” Oscar tells you. 

“Not something I would want to see coming towards me again.” 

The dice lands on stage and you have both your fingers crossed, praying that it’s English Love Affair. You look at the screen to see the graphic stop on English Love Affair, and the noise that escapes you is hardly human. All Oscar can do it laugh at your reaction. 

Just like with the rest of the songs, you sing along, there is however a little more passion when you sing along to this one. “The picture burning in my brain, kissing in the rain. No, I can't forget my English love affair.” 

Oscar wraps his arms around your middle and rest his head on your shoulder, he still couldn’t believe that this song was about Harry Styles’ sister. Oscar may not admit it but every time you told him about any celebrity tea, he always listened. And granted this was old news, but it was new to him the first time he heard this song. 

You were panting at the end of the song. “Having fun babe?” You ask Oscar, hoping that your little performance didn’t scare him off. 

“I am. I thought you had some performances in the car, but those are nothing compared to what I just watched.” 

Before you know it, ‘She Looks So Perfect’ is playing, signaling that the end of the concert is near. You know that the post concert depression would be hitting extra hard the next morning. As the final chord plays and the boys bow off stage you turn to Oscar, asking him if he is ready to go. 

“There are two more songs left, for the encore.” He tells you, still planted in his spot. 

You shoot him a look, “How do you know that?” 

You watch as Oscar’s cheeks grow red, “I might’ve learned the setlist so I could sing along with you. And trust me, you don’t want to miss these ones.” 

You knew that they would probably come back out to play ‘Youngblood’ it was their most popular song, however you weren’t sure why Oscar was so insistent that you wanted to hear the other one. 

So when they came back on stage and the familiar ‘Oh-whoa’s’ graced your ears you nearly burst into tear. You weren’t expecting to hear ‘Outer Space’ live, ever. You had made peace with this fact so you really couldn’t help it when tears started streaming down your face. 

Oscar knew of your history with the Sounds Good Feels Good album, that was an album that you related to so closely, he also knew how much Outer Space/Carry on meant to you. 

Oscars hand, now wrapped around your shoulders, brought you closer into his chest as you sang along, softer than you had been singing the entire night, “ I will wait for you, to love me again… I guess I was running, from something. I was running back to you.” 

Oscar leans his head in closer and presses a soft kiss into your cheek. Oscar reaches into his back pocket and hands you his phone, flashlight already on, so you could join in with everyone else. 

“The darkest night never felt so bright with you by my side,” Oscar sings along. And while you couldn’t see him, you knew that he was looking at you with nothing but love his eyes. 

The two of you sway in each others embrace, singing along to the ending- 

Nothing like the rain, nothing like the rain

When you're in outer space, when you're in outer space

Nothing like the rain,  nothing like the rain 

When you're in outer space , when you're in outer space 

Love me like you did, love me like you did

I'll give you anything, I'll give you anything 

Love me like you did, love me like you did

I'll give you anything, I'll give you anything

You turn in Oscars arms, you bring your hands up to cup his face and pull him in for a sweet kiss. It wasn’t the most romantic kiss the two of you have shares, you were both sweaty, tired, you definitely had tears running down your face, and there was probably some snot in the mix. It might’ve not been the most romantic, but it was something so personal and that’s all that you needed.

a/n: also as I said this was extremely self-indulgent and ik you can def tell. but in all seriousness 5SOS is my favorite band and their album- Sounds Good Feels Good is the album to listen to if you need to get some feels out. I cry every time I listen to Outer Space/Carry on.

I was lucky enough to see them last year at the '5 Seconds of Summer Show' and hearing Outer Space live was an out of body experience. If you ever need some song recommendations for a certain mood, they have a song for nearly everything.

taglist- crossed out names mean I couldn't tag you

@arieslost @customsbyjcg-blog @gr1mes-cc @styl1shl1v @landoscardotcom @poppyflower-22 @blancastans @katiezdiarysblog @mrsstylez @jamieeboulos @tpwkstiles @peanutaj @hiireadstuff @hwalllllllelujah @purple9950 @chaoticpenguindetective @crazymofo-96 @harriesnuggets @inlovewithsierrasix @luckyladycreator2 @luanasrta @inejghafawifesblog @ineedmoremilkk @swiftpiastri@virgo-wonder @faith-f1 @lily1sposts @animetiddies-21 @melissaw1202 @hauntedphotographybookstaco @livelovesports @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @slaygirlbossworld @pastryboyyy @pookiesnukoms @minkyungseokie @f1enthusiastsstuff @mirrorballpulisic @notturlover @notso-sweetcaroline @verspia @mk-wrote @whentheautumnleavesfall @trywhisperingtotheocean @sadbut-true0 @akiraquote @hockeylover4ever @imaginedworldsstuff @sassyangel16 @motkanykodas @foulsongfest @bingewatche @lonely92world @flonaschicken @cvnts3rver @cayls33 @grungy-blue-hipster @kikinuke2 @slupin333