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superblysubpar · 2 years

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leather and lace masterlist | leather and lace playlist

Chapter Summary: Your first day back in Hawkins is interesting to say the least, involving several unexpected reunions - good and bad.

8.1k words

Warnings: we'll be kicking up the angst from here on for a bit, but with plenty of fluff in between I promise (but I won't mention this necessarily after this as a heads up), mentions of reader celebrating Christmas, weed mentions/use, police/ "arrest" mentions | please see masterlist for overall warnings.

A/N: Thanks for your patience as I worked through mega writer's block in getting this out friends. I'm *extremely* excited to keep going with this series and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Endless thanks to my hive mind and @boomhauer for beta'ing.

Side A | Track 02: "Escape" by Metallica

“Yes, well, I don’t know Margaret, she said she got laid off and now she’s home.”

Your body tenses at the sound of your mother’s hushed voice drifting lazily past the living room entryway. Sure that if you opened your eyes, you’d find her with the phone cord and receiver in her hands, pacing, just like a gossiping high schooler.

Counting to five to make sure she’s passed completely, you roll over on the scratchy living room carpet, ending up face to face with your drooling and snoring little brother.

Late last night as you blinked sleep heavy eyes, you had hoped to sneak into your childhood home unannounced and avoid any confrontation with the family until morning, but you should have known your brother wouldn’t let you slip in quietly. He was out the door and running barefoot through the snow before you could even take the keys out of the ignition.

It’s interesting how easily you were able to fall back into old habits as he flung himself into your arms and you ruffled his too long hair. Hip checking and semi-wrestling with each other, whispering ‘you look like hell’ and ‘what took you so long’, when you really meant ‘I love you' to each other. And then you entered the living room to find a pizza and several VHS tapes already laid out on the coffee table. He turned to you looking far too old and yet younger than he ever had as he pointed and in a stern whisper accused, “You promised.”

And you had, so you stayed up too late, catching up, eating food that was bad for you both and watching terrible movies—ending with both of you passing out right there on the floor just like old times.

Glancing around your family living room, it truly was like nothing had changed. Aside from a few updated decorations that you’re sure your mother was pressured into buying by other moms in the neighborhood, it was all the same.

"Maybe she could get a job here. She's just so stubborn..."

Exactly the same.

Suppressing your sigh, your eyes land on your brother’s now open ones and that terrible pitying look that you wanted to avoid at all costs is plastered across his face as he whispers, “She means well, you know that.”

He isn’t wrong, you do know that deep down. But just because someone is your family, and you love them, it doesn’t mean you have to like them all the time. Even if you were able to choose them, you use that magical word ‘family’ to describe them even once and you’re stuck with them. The word, and by definition who you’re describing when using it, is a funny thing. Family is a core value for many, a word to summarize people - and almost a feeling that can't be described. Sayings like 'Home is where the heart is' and 'We don't have much but at least we have each other' on pillows like the one behind your brother’s head or embroidered hangings on the wall come to mind. A group of people that get you in a way no one else ever will because they lived the same places with the same people, experienced the same or similar things. Their life is not yours nor yours theirs, but that connection will always be there. Not a choice for most, and if you're lucky, you may end up with a pretty great one. Which, even the most blessed people will forget every once in a while. Forgetting how lucky you are to have them, guilty when you remember how quickly it could all be different - how it could all change. Sometimes it's tough, and you really have to work to remind yourself that they're your family and you do love them.

Which is perhaps why you choose to ignore your mother’s penchant for gossip and neither confirm nor deny his statement and instead poke his side and whisper, “Your breath is absolutely horrendous.”

He grunts in protest at that, whacking the back of your hand in sibling code for ‘get away from me or else’ as he hisses, “Your face is horrendous.”

You poke him again and roll away from his retaliating kick as you pout, “Wow, pretty rude to say to someone who will get you a donut for breakfast and a ride to school…”

He grins, knowing you’ll still do both of those things even if he kicks you and is about to say so when your mother’s voice is loud above your heads, “Oh good! You’re both up!”

Though upside down, you can see your mother dressed in her morning work out clothes from the electric blue leg warmers to the lime green sweatband simply used for poofing up her already styled curls, telephone pressed to her neck to avoid the speaker and a bright smile on her bubble gum pink lips. It only makes sense to the people of Hawkins to wear a full face of makeup to exercise. God forbid you look like a normal human being while working up a sweat.

Despite her early morning gossiping centered around your predicament, you are happy to see her and you jump up to hug her, though she tries to push you away. “Oh no, honey, I’m all sweaty! Let me hug you hello when I’m- oof!” breath knocked out of her as you push past her protests, she laughs into the phone, “Margaret let me call you back!”

A little bit of the mother that didn’t revolve around the other moms, the town or its gossip and pecking order - the mom who lounged in her sweats and drank coffee all day makes a resurgence as she clicks the phone off before Margaret can even reply. She hugs you back tightly, whispering, “Welcome home, kiddo.”

It is easy to forget, if only for a few seconds, why you were home when you’re in your mother’s embrace. Easy to pretend it’s all okay while she runs her hands through your hair three times before she kisses the top of your head, just like she had always done.

But as she takes in a deep inhale, signaling the onslaught of questions and pity that she is about to bombard you with, you remove yourself from her grasp, spinning towards the stairs. “Glad to be back. I’m gonna take the dweeb to school, so I’ll see you later?”

She frowns, arms still outstretched like you were still in front of her but she nods, recovering quickly and smiles as you disappear up the stairs two at a time.

Escaping into your room, you fall against the door, closing it with a soft click, and let yourself exhale as you look around the space that feels a little like stepping into a time machine.

Your posters of bands you loved in high school line the walls, bedspread still the bright yellow covered in daisies, polaroids pinned around movie tickets and a dried corsage from prom that you swore you threw in the trash. Even your cassettes are littered across your desk, like your family couldn’t bear to change a single thing about the space in your absence.

Fingertips brushing over the stack of them, you smile as you find one of your favorites. Easily slipping back into old habits, you pop it into your stereo. Blasting it loud enough while you get ready for the day that your brother has to bang on your door to get your attention several minutes later, “Y/N! Jesus! Let’s go!”

Smiling as you swing your door open, he rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head. You race him down the stairs, ignoring his protests about cheating and head starts. You argue the whole way to get donuts about the best kinds of frostings and sprinkles or no sprinkles, filled or not filled, new music and movie opinions making cameos in between. You’re happy to pretend everything is okay, but you know it’s not and it all starts to sink in as you get closer and closer to Hawkins High.

While your brother babbles on about Dungeons and Dragons, driving down the familiar streets to that school, it’s like your failure is blinking in a flashing sign above your car. Stomach twisting in knots as you recognize spots that once held happy memories, now just reminders of what you left behind willingly because you believed you were above it all - better than the town and the people in it.

Pulling into the parking lot, you blow out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “What time is your game over? I can pick you up.”

“Um, it’s not just a game and -” he turns to hold a one second symbol out to the group of familiar friends. Their hats pulled down over hair too long just like your brother’s, hands shoved in puffy winter coats and scowls across their faces until you’re grinning widely at them and waving. Slight nods from all of them and half-hearted waves back. Some of the boys turn bright red, ducking their faces down as two girls shove elbows into them all, shaking their heads. Your brother groans and mumbles, “Idiots.”

Ruffling the top of his head as you laugh, "Relax dude. Whatever it is, I'll be here. So again...what time does it get over?"

He's digging in his bag, opening the door halfway, the chill from outside swirling around the car and making you shiver as he mumbles, "No, I don't need a ride, Steve usually gives the few of us without cars all one home. Speaking of which," he dumps five VHS tapes into your lap, "Can you return these for me today? Steve and Robs will pluck Mike's eyeballs out if they’re any later. He took the - Hold on!” he shrieks out the door at the grumbling from a few feet away before continuing, “Anyways, Wheeler said he forgot but really it was my fault and…”

So lost in so many different questions, you don’t hear the end of his sentence as you blurt out the first thing you can think of, "Steve? Who's this Steve that gives you rides?"

He blinks at you like it's obvious, his tone even and slowed down as if he's sounding it out for you as he replies, "Hair - ing - ton."

"Steve Harrington gives you rides home from your Dungeons and Dragons game?"

He rolls his eyes but nods, half out the door as he zips his bag back up, "Yes he does and -"

"The Hair? King Steve?"

He huffs, “He doesn’t really go by that-” the school bell's shrill ring sounds out and he groans, jumping out of the car fully.

You shout an apology behind his body and the closing door and then, “Wait! Harrington works at Family Video?!”

He waves you off as the door slams and he’s racing past the group that’s all shouting at him as they all scurry into the building, shoving each other as they go. Somehow, despite their broader shoulders, longer hair, and taller bodies, they were still that group of awkward misfit kids to you.

Glancing down at the tapes in your lap, you can’t help but wonder how the hell your little brother got wrapped up with Steve Harrington. You push your car into drive, ready to find out.

The trilling chime you’re expecting as you step inside Family Video halts after one ring and you glance up to see a tiny piece of string pulling the bell back - just enough to stop it from hitting the door hard enough to ring out repeatedly.

Glancing around the familiar rental store, you see no customers and more importantly, no Steve Harrington.

As ‘Temple of Doom’ blasts from the TV’s hoisted in the corners, you make your way towards the counter and set down the stack of tapes your brother dropped on you. A shiny bell sitting on the counter with a post-it attached that reads ‘ring me and you die’ crossed out with harried and blocky writing that says ‘she’s kidding’ and another note below it saying ‘no I’m not’ piques your interest and you tap your finger on it despite the warnings.

Pausing for several seconds, but when nobody appears you tap it again, and for good measure a third time right in a row, causing a loud groan to echo from the ajar door leading to the back. Shuffling feet and a high pitched and irritated voice calling out, “Steve, I swear to god, if you ring that bell to get my attention one more time-”

A girl about your age, maybe a little younger, stops dead in her tracks as she rounds the corner. Bright red and scuffed chucks knocking into a cart as she flails, trying to catch herself. At about the same time you go to help her, the door lets out the pathetic singular ding and a deeper voice yells out, “Oh shit!”

The girl has toppled over the cart and is blowing her bangs out of her eyes as she hisses up at the boy, “Yeah ‘oh shit’ Steve! Can you-” she gestures to you, picking up the jumbled tapes, voice dripping with fake polite sweetness, “just help the customer please.”

He nods and finally turns in your direction. He’s got a giant soft pretzel in his hand, a dab of mustard on the corner of his lips, and the famous brown locks atop his head. Steve blinks at you, clearing his throat before squinting and asking, “Y/N?”

Nodding as well, you take in his appearance further. He’s different and yet the same as you remember him. A small amount of stubble around his jaw and upper lip that he quickly wipes at the corner of with the sleeve of his deep green sweatshirt - but you can see the collar of one of his familiar polos peeking out underneath. He’s taller, taller than you now, and his hair - he’s learned how to steer into the mess of it, it seems. It flops in all the right ways. It's not stiff from product and he runs his free hand through it in a way that tells you he does it all the time and makes you a little envious of the hand. He still seems to very much be the King Steve you recall from high school - the one who was popular enough to have seniors over at his house. The one you and your friends included in hot or not lists and flirted with constantly, the one girls bought bikinis strictly for pool parties hosted by him for. The one who still drives a maroon BMW that makes your little rusting bucket currently sitting out next to it look like a piece of shit.

How did that Steve turn into a guy who gives your brother rides?

He’s still holding the pretzel and his mouth opens to speak again when the girl stands from her stack of tapes on the floor, cheeks blushed pink and a scowl on her face, “Oh good. You know each other, I’m going back to finishing my essay and you,” she shoves the stack into his chest and he cradles it between his one free arm and chin. She snatches the pretzel and takes a bite before speaking around it, “can finish putting these away.”

She seems to have a lighter skip in her step as she takes another bite of the pretzel and he shakes his head at her retreating back before dumping the perfect stack onto the counter behind him, all of them toppling over and out of order again. He turns back to face you and extends his arms towards the now fully open door, “Don’t mind her, she’s dealing with finals and super cranky and-”

“I heard that, Dingus!” echoes from the room.

“You were supposed to!” he shouts back before turning to face you, rubbing the back of his neck, “Um, so, what…how…you’re…”

He starts too many questions for you to even attempt to answer when the door chimes again and you feel all the color drain from your face. Fingers and toes becoming numb as you see the hoard of bright fuschia, patterns, teased and poofed hair, and denim jacket clad women coming towards you. You were not prepared for all of these reunions on your first day back.

“Y/N?!” one of them shrieks and then the whole crowd descends, shouting out squeals of ‘I can’t believe you’re here’, ‘what are you doing here’s’, ‘oh my god we miss you’, ‘did you do something different with your hair?’

Overwhelmed does not even touch the tip of how you’re feeling and you blink at Steve, who none of the girls have even spared a glance towards. He’s quietly opening the tapes you brought back, cheek pulled in as he bites at it.

One girl steps forward from the pack and your stomach rolls. Brittany Hartman, your best friend growing up, laughs and waves her hands down at the others. “Oh my god, ladies, let her breathe!” She turns to you, a full wattage smile poised on her face, tossing her perfectly curled blonde hair before her arms extend and pull you into a suffocating hug, hairspray filling your nostrils and something overtly peachy as she squeezes you and squeals, “It’s been so long! How are you? Are you home for Christmas? How long are you staying? How’s your mom?”

A snort to your left and you see the girl from earlier is now next to Steve and she covers her mouth and turns quickly to face the back counter, ears turning red and Steve bites his lip trying to hide a smirk.

Brittany rolls her eyes before turning back to you, her fingers running through your hair absentmindedly with a slight look of judgment as you stumble through all of the responses to her questions, “It has been a long time, yeah, um…” you pull your sleeves over your fists at your side, “Home for Christmas, she’s good, thanks for asking.”

Some of the girls have dissipated between the shelves, twittering amongst themselves about Tom Cruise and what movie to pick. Brittany leans against the counter, elbow knocking over some of the tapes. Steve’s jaw clenches as he catches it and turns to the computer, typing in something. She twirls her hair and nods, her smile stiff as she asks, “How’s the big city? Still living the dream? How long do we get you for?”

Unsure why you didn’t prepare some sort of response before going out in public in this town, you’re kicking yourself for not realizing you’d have to answer this question eventually. Shrugging as you reply, “It’s great, I love it there. I…um…well,” you can feel your throat tightening, the pit in your stomach only growing as you look anywhere but at her as you spit out a half truth, “I’m actually gonna be home for the rest of the school year…”

Her eyes go wide at that, her head tilting to the side, “You can take that much time off?”

The familiar prick of tears you’ve been avoiding is hitting behind your eyes, body suddenly feeling hot in all your layers and then you catch Steve’s eyes. He offers a small smile and you know he knows and you’ll kill your brother if you make it out of this situation alive. Your eyes land on the counter as you blink them repeatedly and mumble, “Actually, I don’t have a job right now?”

Cursing to yourself that it comes out like a question, you swallow harshly and tighten your fists as Brittany gasps, some of the other girls letting out quiet ‘oh no’s’ and ‘that’s terrible’. Brittany’s fingers tap on the counter as her voice drips with fake disdain, “Oh my god, that sucks! What happened? Was teaching really hard?”

Her tone, the situation, some of the girls hiding their smiles behind their hands has your blood boiling over as your head snaps up, trying to control the shake in your voice, “Excuse me?”

She laughs, cold and a little heartless as she waves her hand, “Oh I just, I remember your mom telling my mom that you were teaching? So if you’re not, it must have been hard? Or did something happen?” she gasps again, eyes wide, “Oh my god, did you get fired?”

Words fail you, you’re trying, you really are, to tell her that she’s wrong. That you’re good at your job. That it wasn’t your fault. But she’s technically right, and as her eyes lock with yours, you both know it.

She frowns, mock pity that you’re familiar with from your years of friendship thick in her voice as her fake sincerity slips out of her lips, “I’m so sorry. Some people just aren’t cut out for city life, I guess.”

The girl behind the counter with Steve lets out a scoff and Brittany tilts her head again, bright blue fingernails tapping on the counter as she questions, “Something to say over there?”

The girl turns, honey with a hint of red small curls that fall from the bun atop her head swaying with the sharp movement as she mocks the tilt of Brittany’s head and shrugs, “Oh, just wondering how you would know that?”

Brittany sneers at the girl whose name tag says Robin before glancing at Steve and responding, “You’re so right. Silly me. It’s pathetic to stay in Hawkins and work here, huh Harrington?”

Unsure of how a dynamic this big could have shifted between a girl like Brittany and Steve in the years you’ve been away, you’re shocked when he stands, smiles and hands her a tape, “Pretty pathetic, Brit. I’ll see you next week, same time.”

The girls around the counter clear their throats and Brittany snatches the tape before turning to you. Her eyes soften, but you know the malice that lies behind them and she isn’t fooling anyone when she squeezes your wrist, “I really am sorry. Let’s catch up soon, okay? I wanna hear all about it and be there for you.”

Squeezing your fingers, but before you can even reply, she’s turning and the hoard of girls follows behind her, calling out their goodbyes.

The sound of the movie's credits is the only thing that fills the store for several minutes as you stare blankly out the glass front doors. Ashamed you couldn’t stick up for yourself. Embarrassed that you were once best friends with her. Gutted that somehow, still, after all of these years, a shallow level inside of yourself seeks and wants their approval.

Feeling the need to make your apologies - for freezing, for not defending Steve, for your past friend’s behavior, for your brother clearly not rewinding any of the tapes as you watch the girl named Robin plop one in the rewinder. She shakes her head, "Don't you even think about apologizing."

Blinking at her as she smiles and waggles a finger adorned with a ring attached with a small silver chain to a bracelet, "It's all over your face," she leans onto the counter, crossing her arms, "And you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about."

Steve nods once in agreement and flops down into the rolling chair, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling, "Except maybe not teaching your brother how to return things in a timely manner."

Robin kicks his shin and he doesn't even flinch, and your eyes bop between the two of them - curious who this girl is, why Steve and Brittany don't get along anymore, and how Steve is not doing any of the things you once imagined he would be and is instead, working here.

He rubs his temples and Robin extends her hand to you, "Robin Buckley."

Shaking it, you introduce yourself and she smiles widely, "Oh, I know who you are."

She must sense your embarrassment of not knowing who she is or trying to recall if you've met before and just forgot because her smile softens and she shrugs, "I was class of ‘86 and we didn't exactly run in the same circles. Besides," she shifts and jumps up to sit on the counter, "A senior hanging out with freshmen? Who'd do something so crazy?"

Steve pulls his head up and rolls his eyes at her which reminds you why you're in the store in the first place. Tapping your knuckles on the counter, ready to interrogate him, Steve replies before you even ask, "It's a very long story, one I'm surprised your brother hasn't told you already, but," he waves his hands and then leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, "Would you...we can...coffee?"

Robin rolls her eyes at him and you can't help but smile at the jumbled question. The smooth talking younger boy is not as full of confident charm as he once was as wide and hopeful hazel eyes stare up at you.

Shrugging, you reply, "Sure. Since I know the dweeb clearly told you, and you would've found out from that lovely encounter," you nod your head out towards the parking lot before letting your arms fall open at your sides, "I have plenty of free time on my hands."

Steve smiles and nods, "Cool, I'll call you."

"Cool."

Robin's eyebrows raise and she whispers, "Cool."

Biting the inside of your lip as you try to fight a smile, you start to head towards the door, and spin back to face them, "This is going to sound incredibly lame and you're going to think I'm a total loser who really doesn't have anything going for her anymore but um...do you...do either of you know..." you rub the back of your neck before finally spitting out, "Is Rick still..."

The pair share a glance and then Steve stands and nods, "Yeah, he's still at the same spot out by Lover’s Lake. He's more of a...supplier now though?"

Your eyebrows raise and Steve grins, "The town is booming, didn't you hear?"

Laughing as you back into the door, "Clearly I underestimated Hawkins potential should have never left," you push the door open and then turn to say sorry for what occurred with Brittany.

Robin holds up her finger, "Nu-uh! What'd I say!?"

Grinning at her, you nod and let a tiny, "Sorry," slip out before turning towards your car, as the door falls shut you hear her groan.

The parking lot covered in icy sludge makes you shuffle slowly to your car, wincing as the door hinges squeak, before settling into the front seat.

Determined to turn the day around and quell some of the anxiety from the interaction with Brittany, you turn the key in the ignition and make the trip out to the one person who supplied anyone in town for their parties with the good stuff you haven’t been able to afford for the last year - hoping your “friend” can cut you a deal for old time’s sake.

Making the familiar drive out to Rick’s house, you hate that your thoughts are still swirling around Brittany, the town, and how long it will take for her to tell everyone about what happened. What about if anyone sees you going into Rick’s and the assumptions they make?

Knuckles tightening their grip on the steering wheel until they’re drifting to your stereo, turning up the knob fully in hopes that the wailing guitar will drown out the anxiety that’s threatening to pull you under.

Pulling into his drive, you throw the car in park, pressing your forehead to the top of the steering wheel and take several deep breaths. Did it really matter what they thought of you anymore? Why do you care? Sick to your stomach that it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours back in this town and already you were falling back into their clutches of controlling stereotypes.

Thoughts continue to eat away at your nerves, you bite at your thumb as you pull the keys from the ignition and slam the door. Stepping up the front steps, your head ducks down to shield yourself from the biting wind now that you’re closer to the lake.

Pounding on the door a few times, you hear a muffled ‘one sec’ from somewhere deeper in the house and you mentally prepare yourself for the conversation with Rick - one that would be longer than necessary due to being interrupted by his large bong rips most likely. Hoping he was in a good enough mood to offer you some sort of deal and maybe, somehow, you could still escape with a little of your dignity.

When you don’t hear any further footsteps to signal he’s coming, your fist connects with the wood harshly again, worried he was too high and had already forgotten that someone was at the door.

A louder voice cries out, “I said I was come-” the door flies open and his sentence falters off much quieter, “-ing.”

As if the day could not get any worse, Eddie Munson stands before you, a bag of chips between his teeth that drops to the floor when his mouth falls open as he blinks at you.

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow into a glare as you stick your chin up, “What are you doing here?”

He rolls his eyes, bending down to pick up the chips as he sighs, “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He turns back into the house, leaving the door open but not telling you to follow him.

Debating if you really needed the weed that badly, your resolve is paper thin at this point and you step inside and close the door behind you. Eddie turns to look over his shoulder, eyebrows raising as he sees you standing in front of the now closed door.

He tosses the bag on the kitchen counter as he opens cabinets, “So, really, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Chicago?”

Curious how Eddie Munson knows you lived in Chicago - the town is small, but the people who knew where you lived definitely wouldn’t have been going around telling “the freak” about it. Scuffing your shoe against the floor, you go with a half truth again, “I’m home visiting for Christmas. Is Rick here?”

Eddie laughs as he closes the cabinet, “Really? Cause I heard you got canned and had to move back home,” he winces with fake apology, “Tough break, shortstack.”

How the hell did he know that? And how dare he use that nickname now, after all of these years.

Seething at the thought of the one person you couldn’t stand almost as much as the town knowing your failure, your voice is cold and sharp, “Well if you knew that, then why the fuck did you ask?”

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his black denim jeans, tapping it on the counter as he squints at you, “Someone is bitter…” he drags out the last word as he pulls a cigarette from the pack and lets it dangle between his lips.

Eddie is similar to Steve in regards to not having changed much - appearance wise. Still long and unruly dark curls cascading over an old band t-shirt, a band you hated to admit you liked too. His jeans have the same holes in the knees, he’s got a little stubble on his jaw, just like Steve had, a reminder that you’re all a little older. The difference between Eddie and Steve is that Eddie seems to not have changed his personality at all.

“Glad to see you haven’t changed - still an asshole. Again, is Rick here?”

Eddie pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips and places it behind his ear as he shakes his head, crossing his arms and leaning up against the counter, “So what happened, shortstack? All those book smarts didn’t give you enough street smarts for the big ol’ city?” He pouts his lips and blinks his eyes in false pity.

Picking at the skin on your thumbs with your forefingers, you try to keep your voice level as you retort, “At least I got out of this town and did something, Munson. What’s your excuse for doing absolutely nothing with your life?”

Eddie tucks his tongue into his cheek, big brown eyes hardening into a deeper shade, almost black, as he practically growls through a clenched jaw, “Says the girl who failed and had to move back in with mommy and daddy.”

“What the fuck is your problem Eddie?” you shriek at him.

He stands taller, fingers pointing into his chest, taking a step closer and towering over you like he always has, voice ringing out through the house, “What’s my problem?! I’m not the one who’s had a stick up their ass since we were twelve, sweetheart!”

Shoving a finger into his chest as you take a step closer, “You’re the one who humiliated me in front of the entire tow-”

“You are un - fucking - believable! Are you kidding me?” he interrupts, whacking your finger from his chest with wide hands.

“Woah, woah, woah, dudes - your volume is not appreciated right now.”

At the sound of Rick’s voice and cough, you physically jump back from Eddie like he shocked you. Feeling the muscles that had tightened and coiled in your body at the growing tension with him start to untangle themselves. Rick looks between the two of you, holding a finger up, and a small, “Ah, yeah, I forget, what happened here?”

Eddie and you glare at each other, both of you mumbling and turning from the other. Eddie a quiet, “I don’t know,” and you an even quieter, “Nothing.”

Rick shrugs like he couldn’t be bothered to know or not and he falls into the plush couch, kicking his dirty barefeet up on the coffee table littered with rolling papers, and baggies full of bud and nods towards you, “What do I owe the pleasure of this house call, former princess of Hawkins?”

Recoiling at the nickname and everything that goes along with it - you hate that that’s how people can still think of you. You were never the queen, or as popular as someone like Steve, but you did run with that crowd. A princess and a pawn in their kingdom you begrudgingly have to admit. You risk a glance at Eddie who immediately looks at the floor, pretending you didn’t just catch him staring.

“Well, I’m in need of a couple of those bad boys,” you gesture to some of the rolled joints resting in a tin and flash him a smile that always used to work wonders, “Had to come see my favorite guy for them.”

Rick laughs, flicking a lighter in his hand, “Well, I don’t really do that anymore,” he nods his head backwards to where Eddie is filling his old metal lunchbox with baggies on the counter, “My guy took over a few years ago so I could wash my hands of all the messy sales stuff. Gave away too many free joints to the pretty ones,” Rick winks at you.

Disgusted with yourself, you pull out the old charm for the man four years your senior and flirt like your life depends on it, “Oh really? I thought that was something you only did for me, Ricky?” you pout your lips, clasping your hands in front of you.

Eddie makes a choking sound and you ignore him, gesturing to the door, “But that’s okay, I understand. I’ll just tell my friends we can’t get the good stuff tonight and -”

Rick holds out his hand stopping your retreating, “Wait!”

Eddie groans, “No. You seriously did not fall for that pathetic excuse of-”

Rick picks up the tin and shoots Eddie a glare before turning back to you, dopey smile on his lips, “Alright, one free joint for the once upon a time princess who’s always been too sweet to me,” he hands you a joint and you smile at him, batting your eyelashes.

He pulls another one out, “A second free one for the inconvenience of driving all the way out here and not knowing your old buddy took my gig and his mean yelling earlier-”

Eddie cries out, “Oh my god! Come on, man!”

Rick holds up a third one, “A third and final free joint to save for a special occasion - for old times sake,” he winks at you as you steal it, backing away before Eddie can convince him to change his mind.

“Thank you Rick! It’ll be our little secret that they were free, and I’ll spread the word that you still have the best stuff in town!” blowing him a kiss that he pretends to grab and slap his cheek with as you laugh.

Eddie stands behind him shaking his head, hissing as you turn your back on the pair of boys, “Rick, this is exactly why you hired me to sell. What the fuck was-”

Rick’s voice follows you out and you wish you were quicker to close the door before hearing, “My man, you of all people should know the power that girl’s smile has on a guy.”

“I thought you didn’t remember-”

“Dude. Everyone remembers.”

Upon returning home, you quickly shuffle up to your room, and click the lock before heading over to your closet. Digging around on the top shelf for the old shoebox covered in collaged pictures and magazine cut outs to hide your newly acquired contraband like you used to in high school. Opening the lid, your stomach churns at the contents of the box you forgot you had kept and hidden away. You dump all of it out and onto the floor and slip the three joints inside, placing one of your old t-shirts atop them. Deciding you’ll smoke the last bit of flower you had been saving first and ignore the pile of tainted memories.

Placing an old cassette tape into your stereo, and turning the volume up, you blow the smoke out your window and let the high take over, everything that’s gone wrong that day melting away as your muscles relax fully.

Body and mind lulled into a blissfully unaware and relaxed state, you slowly unpack the things you brought back home. As you take down posters and hang new ones up, replacing framed photos of you and the girls from Hawkins with your polaroids and frames of Chicago, you don’t notice the sun shifting squares across your floor throughout the day or the number of tapes you replace as the songs click to their end. Pausing in between your slow unpacking and decorating to light up the last little bit in your bowl, hollowing your cheeks and sucking in the definitely burnt and past its prime drug.

After the last suitcase is emptied and shoved under your bed, you turn to the pile full of tokens from memory lane hell you had dumped on the floor. Photobooth pictures of you and Brittany where he enters the last frame kissing your cheek. Lace from the bottom of your prom dress that was tailored. Ticket stubs from date nights. A small box that you knew if you opened would be a necklace with his initial dangling on the gold chain. Slowly dropping items into your wastebasket, you pause at a few of them. A pop bottle cap necklace you allow to return to the box. A polaroid of your brother and Dustin Henderson shoving ice cream cones in your face, a handmade card full of drawings your brother made, and a ticket stub to The Breakfast Club all make the cut too. Folded pieces of notebook paper are all that’s left. Several have tiny hearts and your name on them that you quickly shove into the trash, but most of them have striking doodles of dragons and knights, a crown, frogs and various favorite animals from over the years on them made in black sharpie that disappear into the creases of the strategically folded paper. Those you return to the box as well with a lump in your throat and pull out one of the new joints.

The items sobering any sort of high you had been feeling, you notice the sky darkening, the once gray and bright day fading into a hazy blue twilight as the front door thudding closed and echoes of boys filter up the stairs.

Excited to greet all of your brother’s best friends with more than a wave from the car, you stick the joint in your pocket and race down the stairs, jumping down the last two and practically falling over at what waits for you in the entryway.

Your brother grins, “Hey! We brought home pizza!”

Lucas Sinclair holds up the box and grins at you as well and you gulp as you wave at the young boys, greeting them as your eyes remain on Steve’s and then Eddie’s, “Hey guys, long time no see.”

Dustin Henderson, the closest of your brother’s friends races forward to give you a hug, practically your little brother too and you laugh as you hug him back, “Holy cow, you all got so tall!” You ruffle the top of his head as he pulls away and frown, looking around, “What’s with all this long hair though?”

Eddie narrows his eyes at you and leans a shoulder against the wall and you fold your arms, glaring back at him.

Steve looks between the two of you and then at your little brother who looks like he’s in pain when Mike Wheeler hitches his thumb at Eddie, “He thinks it’s because of him.”

“Yeah, he’s always been pretty full of himself,” you reply without looking away from Eddie.

Eddie opens his mouth to respond and maybe it’s some lingering effects of the weed, but you beat him to it, not caring about the audience you have, “Why are you here?”

Lucas speaks around a bite of a slice he slipped out of the box that Dustin snatches from him and closes, “Eddie runs Hellfire.”

Will Byers pipes up at your blinking when Lucas’ mouth remains full, “Our DND Club? He’s the best Dungeon Master Hawkins has ever seen.”

Turning your gaze to your brother, he rubs the back of his neck and whispers, “Did I not mention that Eddie still ran DND?”

Shaking your head at him, it’s all the final cherry on top to your massively awful first day back in Hawkins, “Nope, must have slipped your mind when you were too busy telling everyone about my mistakes and failures instead.”

Steve clears his throat and nods at the younger boys and the kitchen, slowly shoving them out of the entryway as your brother starts to apologize, “I didn’t mean to tell them all, I was just happy to have you back home and-”

“Whatever, it’s too late now, but,” you point at Eddie who hasn’t moved from his spot leaning, “You’re not hanging out with him anymore.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight you on your order, surprisingly, it’s your brother who does, “Excuse me?”

Shoving past Eddie, you start to pull on your shoes and coat, “You heard me.”

He scoffs, “Hate to break it to ya sis, but you’re not my mother. Why can’t I hang out with Eddie? Just because you don’t like him? He didn’t live up to the Hawkins princess’ standards, right? Cause it sure as shit can’t be because of the pot like you used to claim since we can all smell how you’ve been spending your day without a job.”

The words land across your skin in a harsh slap, cold and biting, just how they were intended and you see his shoulders fall and the immediate regret on his face, but it’s too late, and he can’t take them back.

The kitchen turns silent, Steve closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck and Eddie stands up straighter, all three of them opening their mouths.

Shaking your head as you open the door you mutter, “Save it,” and slam it behind you.

Fingers fumbling with your keys, you hold in the tears until you’re in your car and down the block, letting them fall silently. Aimlessly driving around, desperate to escape the town you had worked so hard to get out of already, until you end up at a diner along the highway just outside of Hawkins.

Opening the center console, you rifle through your tapes until you find your favorite Metallica one. You turn the knob so the opening soft chords of ‘Fight Fire With Fire’ fill your car. The cold pads of your fingertips swipe at your tear stained cheeks and you let the metal music fill your brain, trying to let it take over the thoughts sending you into a spiral of self loathing and pity.

The joint sitting in your pocket seems to be burning a hole there as the lyric, ‘the gods are laughing’ cuts through your wallowing. Pulling it out, you place the joint between chapped lips as you search for your lucky bright yellow lighter. You can’t help but think about how different this scenario is from your previous smoke sessions in Hawkins. Boys always lighting them for you before Chicago, only daring to have a few passes from fear of being labeled a stoner like classmates around you. Now, your hands work with a mind of their own, the steps to smoking alone are second nature, twirling it to get an even burn and as the paper catches the flame, you hollow your cheeks and let yourself become numb.

The smoke leaves your parted lips as ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ starts and you adjust the volume a little louder, letting your body relax into the smoke and sounds filling the car. The events of day replay in your mind like some private showing of a sick and twisted horror movie starring yourself as the paper slowly burns down and the album continues on. As you hear, ‘no one but me can save myself, but it’s too late’ you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a colossal mistake in coming back and a fresh wave of tears starts to gather on your lashes.

Reminding yourself it wasn’t exactly by choice, but you’re sure if you would have picked up a third job, found roommates, something, you could have made Chicago work. But you gave up, your expectations and the bar you set for yourself lower than they ever had been. The fact of the matter is, your entire confidence was shattered as the dream you’d always reached for, the perfect life in the perfect city, came tumbling down around you after one setback. You’d had it extremely easy for most of your life and though you worked hard in school to get a scholarship, worked a job throughout high school to save up for the same brands other’s simply purchased with family credit cards, you were doused in privilege and naivety. Somewhere along the way you let yourself feel unstoppable until the universe reminded you that you’re nothing special and the world is not always going to be fair.

Maybe everyone was right. You were a princess of Hawkins, a part of a crowd that had life handed to them and you were no better than anyone else. A hypocrite. A failure. And certainly no role model for your brother.

The tears finally fall and you quickly wipe at them and snuff out the butt of your joint. You’re not sure how this day can get worse, and you’re wondering if this is your rock bottom. Surely you can turn it all around, climb your way back up. Nudging the volume up again, you’re determined to not continue to wallow once your favorite song comes on and you sing out “Out for my own, out to be free…” closing your eyes and headbanging along to the fast guitar as you remember the girl you were when the album came out. First year in the city and full of drive and ambition - full of hope.

Three quick, loud raps on your passenger door window snap your eyes open. A man with a large mustache and decked out in a uniform doting big blocky letters spelling out the word ‘Police’ is glaring at you and you now notice the swirling red and blue lights in your windshield through the lingering hazy smoke.

As the diner full of families glare out through frosted windows as you’re escorted into the back of the cop car, you let your head fall forward, fighting off the laugh that was threatening to escape your chest at the universe’s cruel sense of humor.

Correction.

Maybe this was your rock bottom.

🖤 Thanks again for being here - any interaction is so appreciated & I’d love to know what you thought about it! If you’re able, please consider reblogging to help get my work seen.

tag list: @boomhauer @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @christalcake @marymunsonloves @big-ope-vibes @hellkaisersangel @aysheashea @aftermidnightwriting @idkidknemore

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson series #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #enemies to lovers

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captaincravatthecapricious · 8 months

Text

20 questions for fic writers

Thanks @bluejayblueskies for the tag!

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

58!

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

463,287

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Malevolent! But I do have a tma long fic going on that I am still working on and updating regularly.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

After the Circus (tma)

Can't Get Up (tma)

Broken Ribs (tma)

Things You Said When You Were Scared (tma)

Cold as the Rain that Falls in December (Malevolent)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! Comments mean a ton to me so I try to respond to them!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh man either Things You Said Through Your Teeth (tma, a little study on Martin grieving everyone throughout the seasons, ending with him pushing Jon away) OR I Don't Want to be So Sober So (Malevolent, that ended up with Arthur possibly drinking himself to death. I mean you could chose to believe that John got him back home. I don't think I've actually decided, even when I wrote it).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I mean... all the rest of them, probably. I write happy endings. Angst with happy endings. Maybe the Jumanji fic? The first one ends up pretty happy.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not that I know of? Am I popular enough to get hate?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Nope.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

GODS, okay so this isn't published. Hell it's in an old NOTEBOOK, but once I wrote a crossover between Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog and Bones.

Of the things published, I do have a tma Jumanji au, but I wouldn't call that a crossover.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I was going to, once upon a time, but it fell through. That was a very long time ago.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I'm not sure. I like queerplatonic ships over anything else. I really like playing around with the inbetween relationships of Jon and Tim (tma) and Arthur and Parker and John (Malevolent). But I'm not sure if I really write or ship any of them romantically. I like the messy inbetweens. And being aro ace, I kind of explore the plasticity of relationships through that lens.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I'm pretty methodical with things so I don't have a lot of projects left undone. I would like to write a third chapter for my oneshot fic called Coffee. And I would like to fix up the second chapter enough that I can actually post it.

In a wider sense. I have so much more I want to do in the Parker Lives AU, but I have no idea what I'll be able to do with time/work/mental health constraints. I'm certainly not done with the AU. But will it ever be truly finished?

16. What are your writing strengths?

rambling. Endlessly. Which is also a weakness. But I sure can do whump and stream of consciousness.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I haven't the foggiest idea how video games work and I am writing a video game au.

In a more serious sense. I have a lot of trouble with pacing. I fill everything up with my rambling and I have no idea if I am getting the original point across or if it's gotten lost along the way. It also tends to make it hard to stick in important details in a longer form work. I get too busy with tangents.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I don't think I know other languages well enough.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ice Age 3, Dawn of the Dinosaurs. And it was written in marker in a plastic spiral bound notebook. And it will never see the light of day.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

For tma, probably If That's What it is

For Malevolent... I'm not sure. I love of Cold as the Rain (and that might be my top pick overall) but I am also really proud of myself for finishing Phosphenes and Pasts. I guess my readers will have to be the judge of that once I finish posting it!

Tagging @genderfluid-druid @thisstableground @cannibalthoughts @cappurrccino @sokkas-first-fangirl @breannasfluff @acewithapaintbrush @late-to-the-magnus-archives

#malevolent #tma #jasp facts #capt speaks #long post #tag game #THIS WAS FUN #I am also procrastinating

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simshousewindsor · 1 year

Text

GRIFFIN PARK GRANNY

[Buckingsim Palace, Buckingsimshire 12:23 PM WST]

Rowena, Queen Mother: Are you sure they said the Yellow Drawing Room? It looks dark down there?

Alfred Culpepper [Estate Manager]: That's what Her Majesty said, ma'am.

Alfred [E.M.]: I'll check to make sure this is the correct location.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Thank you, Alfred. I'll just turn the lights on and wait in here.

[ALL]: (excited) Surprise!!

Rowena, Queen Mother: (gasps) Oh my goodness! What are you all doing in here? (laughs)

Queen Katherine: We know how tough things have been for you the last few weeks so the kids wanted to surprise you with a 'Grandma Appreciation Day'.

Rowena, Queen Mother: What a lovely surprise!

Queen Katherine: Phillip desperately wanted to see again you before going back to Cheaves.

Princess Grace: Welcome to our party, grandma!

Prince Phillip: (scoffs) It's not our party, Grace. It's grandma's party.

Queen Katherine: Phillip, don't be mean to your sister.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Samuel! Look how big you've gotten in two weeks! Oh, Kate, this is just what I needed. We didn't get to spend much time together in Henford for the memorial.

Queen Katherine: I'm so glad Granny Niema is finally at rest, and that you were able to be with her.

Rowena, Queen Mother: So do I.

Queen Katherine: I can't believe they're already five months old.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Time flies, darling.

Rainier, Prince consort: Michael said he wants a kiss from grandma too!

Rowena, Queen Mother: [to Michael] Hi, sweet face! Grandma's big boy!

Rainier, Prince consort: They both have a busy schedule of eating, napping and pooping.

Rowena, Queen Mother: Twins! It still blows my mind. George would be so tickled. (sighs) So much has changed over the past year.

Prince Phillip: This was my idea, grandma! I want you to be happy.

Rowena, Queen Mother: You've made me very happy. I bet that big slice of cake is about to make you happy also!

Queen Katherine: He wanted to do something to cheer you up. Babies always put a smile on my face. I knew grand babies would do the same for you!

Rowena, Queen Mother: It truly did!

Queen Katherine: There is something I'd like to talk with you about, though. Let's take a walk.

Queen Katherine: Royal Lodge needs more repairs than expected. I know you feel displaced right now but I have a solution.

Rowena, Queen Mother: What is that?

Queen Katherine: Granny has chosen not to move to Griffin Park. She'd like to remain here at the palace, and I agree. She'd be more comfortable staying here. As such, Griffin Park is now an option for you!

Rowena, Queen Mother: Being on the mall, it's closer to the palace also!

Queen Katherine: It makes more sense. Griffin's been vacant for quite some time, but I'm sure it requires far less updating than Hardy Manor would have. Being a royal property, the duchy will cover repairs and updates.

Rowena, Queen Mother: (gasp) This is the best news ever! Now, I can keep the money your father left me!

Rowena, Queen Mother: (hug) You're my favorite granddaughter, you know that?

Princess Grace: (laughs) I'm your only granddaughter!

Rowena, Queen Mother: I'm so glad you're enjoying Cheaves.

Prince Phillip: Yes. Mommy said it's the same school grandpa went to.

Rowena, Queen Mother: It sure is!

Rowena, Queen Mother: (hug) You be a good boy, now. Grandma will try to visit you at Cheaves in a few weeks, okay?

Prince Phillip: Okay.

Rowena, Queen Mother: When you're home for the summer, I'll take you to Brindleton Bay. I know how much you love the boat shows there.

Previous | Beginning | Next

#simshousewindsor #simshousewindsor ts4 #simshousewindsor simblr #simshousewindsor story #simshousewindsor monarchy #simshousewindsor royalty #simshousewindsor royal residence #ts4 simblr #simblr #ts4 story #ts4 royalty #the sims 4 royalty #sims 4 monarchy #SNN has the tea #SNN on ts4 #simshousewindsor SNN #ts4 #ts4 royal simblr

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literaticat · 6 months

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Hi Jenn! For books that change titles after publication, who makes the decision? Is it solely up to the publisher, or does the author have a say, 1) that it should happen (like if a title becomes problematic) and 2) what the new title should be? Or will the book just not get another printing? How would a change affect book sales, would it be treated as a brand new book, does anything special need to be done like with ISBNs or catalogs? Example: Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.

First of all, this doesn't happen often at all, so it's probably not something that will ever come up, if you are reading this like !!! -- pls, calm down, you don't need to add this to your brimming catalogue of concerns.

Occasionally -- RARELY!!! -- a title will change after the book is already published. It's rare because it's a bit of a pain in the ass. IF this were to happen, it would most likely be at one of two times, for one of two reasons:

First: IF the book truly did NOT do well in hardcover, but they still believe in it and want to publish it in paperback but totally reimagine the packaging and "rebrand" to get a fresh start. (It does OFTEN happen that a paperback will get a new cover look from the hardcover -- but that rarely extends to the title itself. As in, over 500+ books I've had published, this has happened to me once.) In that case, the publisher said, hey, we want to rebrand this and give it a new title what do you think? And we brainstormed new titles and cover directions together. It was a good thing, because whatever confusion that might have happened in the marketplace (wait -- did I read this book already? Is this the same book or...??) was fleeting -- after all, hardly anyone DID notice the book the first time around, so there weren't very many people to confuse, that was the whole point! And it did say on the book "previously published as [former title]" so people could figure it out. And there was no issue with ISBN, because the paperback had a new ISBN anyway.

Second: If the book has done very well over the course of years, but for some reason the title has become A Problem. The case you mention, AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, is an example of this; the original UK title was offensive even for the US in the 1930's and I'm certainly not typing it, click the link if you don't know. We published it under another name here, and it has changed to be more offensive and then less offensive and changed back a couple more times over the course of decades. Obviously they didn't want to put a popular book by an extremely famous author out of print, so different publishers over the years have opted to tackle this in different ways, and Agatha is famous enough and the book popular enough that everyone just rolled with it. (I think everyone has finally settled on AND THEN THERE WERE NONE for the book, play, and new adaptations!) These changes might have been the idea of the estate itself, or might have come from the publisher, but either way, they'd both have to agree. Yes, a new edition with a new title would have a new ISBN and the updated version would be in catalogues and able to be ordered, the old version would just go out of print.

This has also happened to me once over the years with a book I repped, MELISSA by Alex Gino. It was originally published under a different title and won many awards and I don't think it's a stretch to call it a Modern Classic of MG fiction. It's about a trans kid (the titular MELISSA!) -- but the title of the first version was her "boy name." This made sense back in 2010 or whenever the author first conceived of writing the book, and we (author, agent, editor, publisher) didn't think much of it even when the book was published in 2015; that was what everyone called the protagonist, so it didn't feel weird at the time -- but after a while, Alex came to feel that this title felt inappropriate since Melissa IS Melissa throughout the whole book, even if other people call her by a different name; they wanted to change it. And times by then had changed quite a bit, people's understanding of how to talk about gender and such was just different, so while the publisher did balk at first (after all, changing that book meant potentially confusing A LOT of people, as well as changing the covers of ALL Alex's books that mentioned this award-winning first book), eventually the publisher decided that the benefits outweighed the risks and did change it. So a bunch of things happened: All Alex's other books had their covers changed in reprints, MELISSA's cover and ISBN changed and the old version went out of print, and new jackets that said MELISSA were created so people who already had the hardcover with the old title could swap it out if they wanted, and they did a lot of PR around the name change so people would hopefully understand why and what was happening and be excited about it rather than potentially annoyed.

As you can see, doing this with a popular book is quite an undertaking and not something a publisher would take lightly -- and while the decision might come from the author OR the publisher, at the end of the day, EVERYONE would have to be on board.

I strongly suspect that a book that had a "huh, is that kosher these days?" title that was NOT popular would just end up going out of print and fading into memory.

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your-local-grubdog · 1 year

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Together in the Storm Chapter 13: What Cetacea Saw

Story Summary: Olimar is back home once again, ready to rest and recuperate from everything that had happened. Yet the universe keeps throwing unwanted surprises his way, making rest difficult. He just wants to make his (now rather large) family believe that he’ll be okay. Because he is, for he has to be.

Story ratings: No archive warnings apply, Teen and Up Audiences, and General/Non-Ship Focused

Chapter Summary: Cetacea tells Olimar about some data that it has been decoding.

Sorry for another short chapter, I just didn't need something longer to get this idea across. The next few chapters are also shorter for similar reasons, but the end is also coming up so they should lengthen out again for it!

Read on Ao3 here!

===

"Captain Olimar?"

"Yes, Cetacea?"

"... I don't mean to alarm you but, uh, could you perhaps close the door...?"

Olimar was sitting in his office at home, getting ready for when he would soon have to return to work. He wasn't... Thrilled by the update, to say the least, but he had no choice in the matter unfortunately. He'd still have to go back to work despite the aching protests of his still healing body. He was uncertain about why Cetacea would want the office door shut, but he nervously stood and closed it as requested. He then turned to the little hub on his desk.

"Okay, what is it?"

"It's about when I was offline. See, we ships have a feature meant to help us still collect data even when ruined as my hull was. It's intended to catch acts of vandalism and space pirates."

That made Olimar raise an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall. "So, you could still "see" and "hear" even then? Were you still... a-aware?"

"To answer your second question: no. These emergency systems run on the bare minimum necessities. So I was not aware that I was off until I was turned back on again. Though, even if I was, I wouldn't be in any sort of pain."

Olimar looked away then. "I - I know but... s-still."

"Sir, please do not worry. We cannot feel pain, or abandonment, or anything else for that matter. We are merely complex AI, not truly self-aware people."

The captain only made a weird sound of discontent at that.

With a sigh, the ship's AI continued; "The catch to this system is that the data takes a while to decode. I've been back online for twelve days already, and have only now been able to access this information. And what I saw was..." it then trailed off, pausing for a few moments, before finishing with "You may want to sit down for this."

That made Olimar's ears pin back as he slowly walked around his desk and sat back in his chair. "W-What happened, was it bad?"

Cetacea remained quiet for perhaps too long before responding with "I think so, but I'm uncertain."

Olimar took in a shaky breath, willing himself calm. "O-Okay. What is it?"

"Well..."

===

It was a rainy day in the Garden of Hope, Cetacea's old hull laying broken in the mud, its parts whirling away weakly. The area had recently been picked clean of fruits by the Koppaite crew, and as such neither they nor the pikmin were to be found here.

Something else, however, was here, picking over the ruins of its old home.

The wraith was fairly small, actually, and dusty purple in color. A long hole stretched down its back, not unlike the one the Plasm Wraith had. It seemed to sing to itself as it looked over the remains of the mireclops, soon plucking the various flowers growing on its corpse. It seemed at peace, almost enjoying itself as it continued to cradle flowers in one of its four arms.

The peace wasn't to last for long, however.

A second wraith soon slithered in, a long snake-like tail present where its legs should have been. It was larger, clear crystal in color, and had horn-like protrusions on its head. Upon seeing the smaller wraith, it let out a loud screech, an indescribable yet distinctly unholy sound. The purple one dropped its flowers, soon screeching in return. The two wraiths slowly circled each other, a low rumble emitting from each. They seemed to just stare and growl at each other for the longest time.

Then, in a swift move, one of the clear wraith's arms crystalized as it dashed towards the other. The small purple one dodged with ease, a cloud of spores soon surrounding it. The clear one, however, was unaffected by it. As it began to seemingly laugh, the purple one turned to flee. The clear one grabbed it, crystalizing its arms again to gain a better grip, before slamming it against the ground. Before the purple wraith could recover, the clear one morphed its crystal arm to have a clawed hand with which it stabbed into the purple one with. The smaller wraith let out an agonized screech as the horned one ripped out a dusty purple cube from within it. It then used its new claws to penetrate the cube, black goop spilling out of the fresh wounds. Soon after that, the purple wraith went still, then melted into a small puddle on the ground.

The crystal casing around the clear wraith's arm vanished then, a tendril wrapped around the purple cube. The wraith then absorbed the cube, which slowly dissolved away within the wraith. After a few moments, the clear wraith let out a cloud of spores for no discernible reason.

Seemingly happy with itself now, the wraith left.

===

Olimar was left frozen after Cetacea finished its story. It took the captain a long time to say anything at all as he stared blankly at the wall. Eventually, he shakily started with "S-S-So there... There's more wr... W-wraiths..."

"Affirmative, captain."

"And they... They kill each other."

"I am not sure what the motivation was. If it was predation, or a territorial dispute, or something else. But yes, they can and do seem to kill each other."

Olimar was quiet for a few more moments before shakily asking "And when they do, they.... They gain the others' powers."

"That appears to be the case. The spores were identical to each other as far as I could tell."

"Is that why they kill, then? For power?" He asked. The wraiths were, as far as he could tell, just like people. But they also weren't, they didn't act quite right. Like a Hocotation infected with rabies. Even that, however, didn't feel like an apt description. Regardless, killing for the sake of power sounded like something they were capable of.

"... I can add that to the list of theories." Was Cetacea's eventual reply. "We have no proof of anything thus far."

Olimar merely nodded in response, lost in his own thoughts. Then, in a quiet voice, he asked "So how many wraiths did the Plasm Wraith kill?"

Cetacea didn't answer that question.

"It had so many abilities. Fire, water, crystal, electricity, illusions... At least four others killed, then, more if I'm unaware of other abilities it may have..."

And it has captured him. Kept him. Cared for him. Hurt him. Worried over him. Nearly killed him.

The two didn't exchange any more words, both merely silent as Olimar's head reeled with countless possibilities and worries.

But now, he found himself hung up on one question.

What was the Plasm Wraith's original ability?

#pikmin #fan fiction #pikmin fan fiction #star touched au #pikmin star touched #captain olimar #borb writes #borb draws

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askfpslol · 11 months

Text

RULES AND ABT SECTION

I will add to this periodically when needed <3

This blog currently updates whenever I am able to do so. Sometimes I am not able to for a while, or I just flat out forget, so please be patient with me. Apologies in advance for unannounced hiatuses :(

I don't know if this is normal for ask blogs? But I'm not necessarily roleplaying as any of the characters. If you send in an ask, I'll have the characters replying thru comic form lol. Sometimes I'll also just post random comics I make.

All asks must be legitimate and not things such as harassment or spam. thank you in advance for following this guideline. If you disobey this, you will be blocked. No warning, just a block.

~FAQ~

What games does this blog contain?

For now, it contains Doom, Metroid, Halo, Half Life, Dead Space, Atomic Heart, Postal, Duke Nukem, and Wolfenstein. Depending on how I feel/my ever-expanding, autistic interests, this list will expand accordingly.

Do you ship any characters?

Yes, as of this time solely Samus and Doomguy. If you dont like it you can block the tag, as I'll tag them accordingly.

But Master Chief isn't transfem! Gordon Freeman isn't Black! etc.

Yes, in canon this is true. Media is meant to be interpreted though and I have fun with it on my end. If you dont like things like that, this blog isn't for you. Sorry bud.

Don't you know Atomic Heart is Anti-Ukraine Propaganda?

From where I stand, I don't think it is. I say first and foremost, I 100% support Ukraine and I havn't actually bought the game, I got it off of gamepass. But due to the concepts and actual development of the game starting years ago (concepts go back to as far as 2008 if you look hard enough), from my opinion I don't believe the game has Communist propaganda. I do not support Russia in any way right now, I just want to like my silly, stupid game. I want to get that out of the way in case I get any asks about it, although I don't know if that controversy is still on-going.

I can't think of many other rules, so a proper introduction to the admin, yours truly!

My name is Flynn, and I'm a 17yrold transmasc autistic dude lol. I have a great fondness for old games, particularly FPS boomer-shooters, and I'm fuckeng insane lol. I like making shitty (or sometimes not so shitty) forms of art to express this fondness. Outside of making comics for this blog, I occasionally do serious art I might post here, along with 3d modeling, being a part-time game dev, and I love collecting things, naturally games and old mlp toys from the 80's. Also if you couldn't tell by the PFP and straight up what my name is, I project HARD onto Doomguy I am so sorry about this guys. Anyways,

#rules #about #Q&A #FAQ

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grasslandgirl · 1 year

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What’s your plan when you finish noble pining au? Is it going to be like a chapter a week situation? Are you even a no wips published person or is noble pining getting special treatment? Is it even going to be called noble pining or are you going to come up with a different title?👀

so genuinely anon, getting asks about noble pining makes my day SO bright it brings me joy unlike anything else <33 so thank you thank you thank you

What’s your plan when you finish noble pining au? Is it going to be like a chapter a week situation?

yes! currently the plan for when i finish writing noble pining is to try and post a chapter a week! which will take. a very long time lmao bc im currently at 18 chapters with at least a few more to go after the one im writing rn jskfbvkfb but yeah you'll definitely hear about it when i finish and start posting because the plan is to post a chap every week !!

Are you even a no wips published person or is noble pining getting special treatment?

i actually do try to finish wips before posting as a general rule- there are a couple exceptions ive posted as i've written, but more often than not when i post chaps on a wip before ive finished the whole thing i tend not to finish writing or posting it at all, which i don't love bc then i have unfinished wips hanging out on my ao3 </3 having the promise of getting to post my work and getting to share it and get feedback about it is a big motivator for me, so even when i know a wip is gonna be a multichap, i usually wait until the whole thing is done before posting

and especially with noble pining, because it's so long and involved, a large part of my process especially when i'm blocked is to go back and edit and read back through old chapters- updating and changing things that warrant it and getting inspo for later chapters, and i like having the freedom of being able to do that without having to worry about updating already posted chapters!

Is it even going to be called noble pining or are you going to come up with a different title?👀

the plan was always for "noble pining" to be a working title for the fic lmao, it was something i came up with ages ago when i was first talking about the idea with casey and got tired of typing out "the princess adaine guards fabian and gorgug fic" and came up with noble pining as a stopgap working title until i came up with something more formal lmao, and that's still the plan- i'm considering between a couple formal titles right now, but when i eventually do post it ill probably still call it noble pining as well as the actual title i decide on, because i recognize it'll probably be a little confusing to refer to it solely by another name when ive been blogging about it as noble pining for so long (honestly i never expected to get back so much interest and so many asks about noble pining! i always thought of it as my silly little niche passion project, and so to receive so much interest and excitement about it is truly so lovely and heartening to hear!)

anon again thank you so much for sending in this ask !!!!!!! it's so exciting and lovely and heartwarming to know that there is interest about noble pining out there from people other than y handful of friends i've bullied into letting me talk about it, and i'm thrilled to answer any asks or questions you guys have about it while i work on it !!!

#noble pining au #<< this is the tag i use to organize posts about noble pining #so feel free to backread through that if you're curious !!#asks

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heromaker-if · 2 years

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Thanks for the kind words and quick reply, I slept for 4 hours or so with a heartbreak, thanks to someone :3 Now for the first part *cough*, firstly, I don't mind how long the demo was, it was actually great that it was that long, I love to read such a masterpiece :3 Secondly, I have scroll through your tumblr update and I am amazed by how fast you were writing the story, great work there, you are really amazing!!!! (●'◡'●) So with that, I want to ask about your upcoming dev plan, like how many book are you intending to write and how many chapters intended for the Book One? And do you have a plan to when you are going to finish this project?

Now for the other second part *look at my prepared list*, well, for once I finally understand why so many risk and do stupid things to bring back their loved one ಥ_ಥ Great, you have helped me realize my irrational and emotion-drived part .-. (Though if there had been a choice to kill my child along with myself there with Frey, I would say bye to the whole world future and die with him there, extreme yes but my best choice :) )

Next, can we have revenge against the Demon Lord please, pretty please 🥺Offff courseeee not the "kill in the most brutal way possible", pffft, I want to make him fall in love with me and then trample upon his love, in the most cruelest way possible. I will make him to bowl down to my spouse grave for what he has done, make him cry out of despair and guilt every single night, wow that would be great as hell. Hmm, I will curse him even in your epilogue haha, with the scene of me in the bed, dying of old age, whispering of hurtful words in his ears, how I will never forgive him and curse that he will be alone forever, yes I will spend all of my life hate him :)

Phew, sorry, that was longer than I expected, sorry XD But I just love the game so much there are so many things I want to talk about it!! Thank you for having read all of this, truly XD

PS: If we can meet Yennefer again, can we keep both her and Arthur? 🥺

Love this long ask! Thank you. I will put the rest below so I don't clutter people's feed.

I hope you get better sleep next time! But thank you. I hadn't realised the Demo was so long because I just get lost in it LOL

Glad you enjoyed it though.

And thank you! I am indeed a fast writer because I have an obsession with it 🧍‍♀️

Regarding my dev plan... it's very vague. But I'll let you know of what I have planned. I have two books planned, this one and the next one. And between 5-10 chapters. I don't know yet, I always end chapters when it feels right! So there could be more chapters than I predict, or less.

No idea when I'm going to finish though. I'm currently studying auto mechanics, and learning how to drive (aside from having a job as well), so I'm busy all the dang time 🙃

But I'll always have time for this story!

I am glad I managed to touch on the sheer desperation to bring someone back from the dead. Grief can be scary, and drive us to do crazy things. Whenever a piece of media gets me to feel like that, I always get so immersed, so I'm glad I was able to reproduce that!

Although your rendition of what would happen if you seduced the Demon Lord is amazing to read, things will definitely be far harder and less black and white than they seem, especially if we go down that route. I will say, I will add a way for you to gain the Demon Lord's trust, but he is also a manipulative and tricky demon, so... the MC might be betrayed before they can betray.

Don't worry about the long ask! I loved it and I love how interactive you are with the blog. I crave to form a community here so feel free.

And yes! I don't consider this massive spoilers so I will say, there are two ways to keep Yennefer, one of them you will have Arthur as well. 🥰

Thank you!!!!

#ask #morninglilyofthenile #hmif spoilers #info

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gentil-minou · 3 years

Note

do u have any atla fic recs 🥺👉👈 pls i am begging

Okay so it's been quite a bit since I read atla fics and I'm a hardwired Zutara shipper so if that's your jam I got some stuff I super recommend! But because it's been so long and I can't remember them all I would say go through my Ao3 bookmarks here for a better list and my fanfiction.net account that has another list with old fics too I think (just remember that this account is from 2008 and will be cringe sdhgs)

Though I will plug a couple of my faves (though some of these are ancient in fandom years dsfjkshd):

Tempest in a Teacup by akaVertigo (T, complete with a sequel WIP)

Fate puts Katara in the Fire Nation to grow up in the company of a Dragon, a prince, and a lot of good tea. AU Zutara...of a sort.

BABY ZUTARA. They are everything to me and this fic is a staple of early zutara fandom I think. Also the writer reemerged last year after a decade and I almost cried I was so happy dsjfhds

Finding You by PearLynn (AU, complete, M)

"For each life you live, you shall suffer. This is your punishment: never to die, never to settle. Never able to love nor truly live, cursed to jump back and forth through time. You will spend the rest of eternity repenting for your actions, living a half life with no purpose."

No matter where, no matter when, he always found her. A Zutara story.

I think about this fic a lot. So much. All the time. Just read it. It's beautiful.

Moonlight and Sunshadow by GrapefruitTwostep (M, AU, Complete)

The dragon offered Katara a deal: protection for her family and tribe if she lived with it for a year and a day. And she said yes. Because what other way was there to save her people?

But there was more to the dragon than Katara bargined for.

An "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" retelling.

I love everything this author writes but this one was just...it was incredible. A literal epic with a wonderful story of romance and adventure and ahhhh I love it so much. Also Zuko is a cuddly dorky dragon and that's great I think

Enslaved by sharkflip (on ff.net) (T, incomplete but ends in a good place)

A triumphant war party returns with an exotic slave, a gift for the ruling house. Katara and Zuko AU

A common trope was capture fics but this one was Zuko getting captured and I LOVED it. It explores an interesting dynamic where he has no idea how to communicate with his capteurs and it's fascinating as a reader because the writer has us learn about Katara's culture along with him. I consider this a must read because it's just incredible.

Acquiescence by Ladyflick (ff.net) (T, complete)

Zuko, Katara and Sokka go under cover into the Fire Nation.

This is also super old but I remember loving it so much.

The Sparrowkeet Series by audreyii_fic (E, canon divergence, series)

Ba Sing Se has fallen and Katara has been captured by the Fire Nation; a more adult take on the potential progression of S3. AU series of interconnected one-shots. Zutara.

What kind of person would I be if not for Sparrowkeet? I don't know but I think I read this wayyyyyy back over ten years ago when it was on ff.net and I still love it man.

didn't know my heart by babyfairy (E, canon divergence, complete)

And yet, in a matter of days, she has managed to worm her way under his skin, has cracked open his rib cage and has begun to patch up the endless amount of wounds on his heart.

A retelling of the show but with added Zutara. I don't remember much of it as it's been a few years but I remember loving it! (EXPLICIT CONTENT)

Anything by damagectrl and brotherkupo, who also write for ML! (seeing their stuff when I started reading ML was so lovely ahhh)

Honestly I have so many recs now that i started sgkhfdjk but I really recommend checking out some blogs on tumblr for a better more updated list. I know there was also a Zutara Mini Big Bang that you can check out here, but I am grossly behind on the fics there but they look so good!

And if you're not a zutara fan then rip i guess i read them pretty much exclusively jfhsdjk

#me: i will just link my bookmarks and accounts and let anon sort it out #me five minutes later: oooh this fic i have to shout out and omg this fic too. gosh i HAVE to mention this one #jdkhdsjfsdh i could have gone on and one tbh #my issue is i like all my bookmarks so i am so bad at recommending cause i inevitably just give all of my faves sdkjfhs #anyways #asked and answered #atla #fic recs #zutara #bushy rambles

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alottanothing · 3 years

Text

Kismet

Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.

Previous Part: Hope

Word Count: 5707

Warnings: Language

Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.

Jonny did not know how to keep a house.

In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.

Oh, how she wished she had.

Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.

If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.

Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.

For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.

Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.

With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.

"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."

Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.

"I didn't even say yes."

"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.

"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.

"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.

"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.

"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"

"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.

As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.

"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.

Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.

"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."

"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."

"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.

A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.

"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.

The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.

"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.

Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.

“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”

A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.

“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.

“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”

Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.

With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.

“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”

For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.

Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.

“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.

With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.

With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.

Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.

Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.

Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.

Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."

Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.

"Come in."

Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."

He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.

"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."

"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."

There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.

"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."

His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.

"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.

She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.

"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.

"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."

The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.

"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.

"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.

Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.

"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.

"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.

He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.

"How much pasta would you like?"

Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.

"Enough," he grinned.

The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.

Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.

"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"

Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.

"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."

Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.

"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.

He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.

"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.

"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"

All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.

"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."

Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"

"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.

"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."

"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.

"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"

"Does she still work there?"

Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.

"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."

Shit!

Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.

"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"

He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."

"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.

For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.

He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.

A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.

"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.

Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.

"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.

When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.

“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.

When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.

The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.

“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”

A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.

“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”

“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.

“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”

“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”

Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.

“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”

That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.

For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?

No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.

When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.

“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”

Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”

When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.

“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”

Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.

“Alright,“ he smirked.

She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.

Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.

When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.

Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”

Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.

“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”

A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.

She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.

Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.

It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.

She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.

The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.

“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”

Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.

Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”

Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.

"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."

Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.

"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.

Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.

"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."

"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."

Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"

Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.

"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."

"Me too," she murmured.

Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.

#Beautiful Stranger Series #Merriell Shelton x Original Character #Merriell Shelton #Snafu Shelton #HBO War #The Pacific #The Pacific Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction

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wistfulrat · 4 years

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this week’s fics! feat. bakeries, bookshops, bisexual awakenings of the angsty and fluffy sort, wolfstar goddads being tender as hell, desi harry reconnecting with his culture, domestic drarry, a lap dance set to akon’s smack that, and more!

But That’s History by @ebbet - 54k - T Harry Potter starts his first year as Muggle Studies Professor only to find that Draco Malfoy has been hired to teach History of Magic.

listen to me. this is one of the funniest drarry fics i've ever read. i was cackling in my bed at 2am because harry’s internal monologues throughout this fic are unhinged. insanely quotable. “what was he, a lothario” and “you were crushing me with your muscular thighs!” are lines that live rent free in my empty head. harry has never played anything cool a day in his life. there’s a faculty meeting where the teachers are planning the yule ball and debating the merits of a DJ when harry decides he must defend his muggle-music-loving honor by dancing seductively to akon’s smack that while a blushing draco loses his mind. i fucking screamed. and the best part is that in between the comedic scenes threading the overall story, you have extremely tender moments of like, padma patil helping harry become a more rooted desi by sharing their cultural traditions, harry proudly donning his sherwani. draco wrestling with his past, going to harry’s lgbtq+ club for students, being sheepish with ron and hermione. ugh, comedic writers with emotional depth are clever and talented as hell!!

Realities, Unfurling by @ebbet - 45k - M Draco Malfoy is released from Azkaban into a changed world.

incredible collage-fic told from multiple povs. 8yrs post-war and everything’s changed. the current state of the magical world unfolds via slice-of-life snapshots from a truly stunning cast. non-binary harry whom is running a non-prof org dedicated to building tolerance and establishing equality for marginalized identities. post-prison-release draco whose life will be changed by the internet. neville’s tender relationship with blaise. andromeda’s fiercely protective mothering. remus and sirius being alive and very hot and just, the tender goddads harry deserved. cho chang being brilliant. baker pansy’s softened edges. found families abound. harry being flustered by their crush on draco and making personalized playlists on an iPod nano.

that all might sound narratively cluttered but the author more than pulls this off. glorious, start to finish.

Knead by @jovialobservationanchor (an @hd-erised fic) - 83k - E This is not a story about Harry renovating Grimmauld Place. This is a story about coffee shops and brewpubs, about Ginny and Luna on a farm with creatures, about magical Oregon, coastal road trips, flying, friendship, and Draco Malfoy's lean arms.

cinematic. a love letter to oregon’s expansive landscapes and lively cities. it’s harry finding home in unexpected places and people. in the vast silence of rolling fields, endless coasts, and starry night skies big enough to feel like you’re adrift in space. and it’s also the lingering, intimate quiet of early mornings in a bakery, sitting on a park bench overlooking the city as you eat ice cream next to your crush. it’s harry watching ginny and luna dance and work around each other like bees. it’s the slow unfolding of harry and draco’s relationship as they fill each other’s quiet. finishing this fic is like waking from a good dream. transporting, immersive, lovely.

Harry Potter and the Bisexual Awakening by @writcraft - 20k - E Harry is perfectly content being single, heterosexual and living in Godric's Hollow with his very clingy rescue dog, Snitch. When Draco Malfoy turns up on Harry's doorstep demanding that Harry teach him how to drive, things quickly become a lot more complicated.

first of all, i feel very seen by draco being a gay-who-can’t-drive. it’s called representation. but mostly i love the ease of harry and draco’s banter, a flustered harry discovering his sexuality, and the way this fic addresses biphobia. also very emo over this exchange: “I think I might be scared of you, but probably not for the reasons you think.” “Yes.” Draco stares at Harry. “I think I might be scared of you too.”

Forged through flowing water by @tedahfromtayla (an @hd-erised fic) - 40k - E When Hermione sets up a diplomatic mission to begin repairing the damage British colonisation did to Indian magical communities Harry isn’t going to pass on the opportunity to visit and help his family’s home country. Maybe he should have asked a few more questions about the personnel she had recruited for it before signing on because Malfoy surely has an ulterior motive to be there.

so much to love about this fic. the beautiful settings, from kolkata to mumbai, to the holi festival and colorful lively streets, to remote cave settlements and old intricate temples. it’s harry in the homeland, reconnecting to his family’s heritage and confronting the weight of imperialism in his history. it’s nipping the white savior complex in the bud. this part: That is what England left behind. That is what it still stands for, despite whatever mask of respectability and honour it presents. . .You don't get to step aside and let someone else deal with the mess. You have to listen and learn and then act, Malfoy, you need to learn how to fix your own mess. This is why we're here. my indigenous ass cheered. HP certainly sells the british fantasy but HP fanfic?? fuck jkr, fuck the crown. i love that this fic doesn’t romanticize england’s history. i love that we get to see the vast resilience and beauty of post-colonial india.

Purity Control by yrfrndfrnkly - 28k - T In which Harry tries to ignore his trauma with fantasy Quidditch but Malfoy's Thereness™ is distracting and all his classmates want to talk about are unicorns, virginity, and Muggle music.

tender 8th year fics where they go from bristly as fuck to understanding and soft 100% guaranteed to make me emo as hell. all the teens have traumas and no one wants to talk about it but eventually Things are Talked About. it’s good of the adults to finally notice. everyone just wants someone to hold their hand. and this part: “You’re the only person around here who’s a bigger mess than I am.” “I thought maybe we could be a mess together,” pls don’t look at me as i weep over their gentle empathy.

Advent, a comic by dustmouth - WIP - T It's Harry and Draco's first Christmas together and Draco is determined to live his full yuletide fantasy, come hell or high water.

dustmouth, patron saint of whimsical drarry. whose illustrations singlehandedly reinvented wizarding fashion. whose cheeky and tender comics are like a soothing balm to the utter depravity of this carnal world. harry and draco being domestic, draco’s xmas spirit brand being “traditional unhinged”!! extremely my shit. we’ll absolutely be reading this all december.

Little Spaces by @dracoladon and @lazywonderlvnd - WIP - E Draco's back from France and working on the spell damage ward at St Mungo's with Hermione, who invites him over for dinner. Without telling Harry. This is a roleplay, which means Harry is written by one author (lazywonderland) and Draco by another (dracoladon).

the switch in distinct character voices works so well for this fic!! tonally i feel like i'm watching an episode of the office. i personally love harry and draco being Pissed Off at how much they want to bone each other. the battle of the tapenade was the most riveting dinner scene i've read in a minute. clever, hilarious, emotionally tense. can’t wait until that inevitable moment post hate-sex when they’re gonna be like “oh noooo it’s a Heart Boner as well!! >:((” hell ya we’re subscribing for chapter updates.

Dragons Don’t Know Paradise by @teacup-tai - WIP - E In 2004, when Remus spends two scary weeks in the ITU due to complications of pneumonia and his HIV condition, Sirius walks around the house like a ghost and Harry finds comfort and strength in Draco through a chat in an online LGBT forum. Harry falls for him, but Draco has a lot of secrets and, before long, will need to come clean—even if he believes that no one is able to understand a dragon.

non-magical bookshop AU. remus and sirius’ relationship is a marvel. the ease of their affection with harry makes me so emo. draco’s friends being insistently present even as he tries to isolate himself. this is a story about acceptance, found families, and falling in love at a distance. the intimacy, the longing, the tenderness. what a fic!! i keep coming back to this part:...he looks at ease, inside his body, a body he needed to fight for. He’d made peace with his struggles and his scars. And Draco realises he wants that. He wants to be at ease inside his body, the body that now carries a virus. He wants to be at peace with his own existence. you hurt for draco so deeply but you get moments like these where he affords himself a kindness that feels foreign and it’s just!! the boys navigating grief and learning to be vulnerable. so good.

#drarry fic rec #drarry #we live and die for desi harry aka hari poddar bc fuq jkr #a lot of soft drarrys this week but in my defense ive been reading hella angst and my depression was not finding that cute #weekly drarrys

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