#i am NOT going to write fic for this however

[swanhild]

I agree with the person who said that Curufin had the exact same potential to do great things as his father and his son, but at first he was too wrapped up in Feanor/too focused on pleasing him to really branch out on his own and then the oath and subsequent war against Morgoth happened and he shifted all his mental focus and energy towards developing weaponry and armor and so on. Something he was good at, but didn't find particularly mentally stimulating or enjoyable. In my post-canon headcanons/fic that I dream of writing one day Curufin will be the one to eventually invent photography, however. A huge hit with the wider populace of Valinor who don't necessarily have Finwean-style money to have portraits of their babies or weddings done by a professional painter.

He also learns to detangle his existence from Feanor's post-canon (I headcanon he gets released from the Halls before Feanor does) and goes through some personal growth. He also manages to repair his relationships with Celebrimbor and Finrod during that time and grows closer to Nerdanel. He and Celebrimbor actually start collaborating on a whole bunch of projects together and the two of them are directly or partly responsibly for a lot of technologial innovations and revolutions in post-canon Valinor (I mean sure, Curufin is #problematic, but the things he comes up with are just too good/tempting to ignore. And Celebrimbor is okay in most people's books anyway, so...)

I personally am a Curufinrod shipper, but whether platonically or romantically, I think Curufin has a lot of strong feelings about Finrod, most of them quite overwhelming and difficult to deal with for him. And his tried and true method for dealing with such feelings is repressing them. Until he can't anymore and things get crazy. But anyway, one of the more straightforward and normal feelings he has towards Finrod is gratefulness for taking care of Tyelpe after he was re-embodied. I headcanon that Celebrimbor was re-embodied before Curufin and was and still rather unwell by that point, which caused Curufin a lot of worry. Celebrimbor canonically loves Finrod and I think the feeling is mutual (Finrod thinks of him as a son, in a way), so I feel it makes sense for Finrod to be there for Celebrimbor during that time period.

He's a disaster bisexual with internalised homophobia and everything else @gardensofthemoon mentioned on that subject.

He used to have a crush on Aredhel when he was a kid/teen and is still very fond of her.

He secretly craves affection and attention though under normal cicumstances he'd rather bite off his tongue than admit that out loud (or even to himself most of the time). Luckily for him, I headcanon Celegorm as being quite affectionate with the people he loves (in a very casual, easy-going, dude bro-y sort of way: he will slap people on the back, casually drop his arm around them and/or pull them into hugs, ruffle his younger brothers' hair etc.) Curufin will act annoyed with Celegorm when he does these kinds of things, but really, he doesn't mind at all. (In time, Curufin does get better at expressing his wants and needs though, and other people, like Finrod, also begin to understand this about him, so it all works out in the end.)

He's actually rather conflict-averse and tends to avoid direct confrontation in favor of scheming and manipulating his way through life. Direct confrontation rarely goes well for him when he does try, so he leaves that kind of thing Celegorm for the most part. (Another avantage of having Celegorm around. And Celegorm doesn't mind fighting some of Curufin's battles for him).

The siblings he has the most difficult relationships with are Maedhros and Caranthir: When he was younger Curufin felt somewhat resentful and jealous towards Maedhros for being the firstborn son (it should have been him, obviously). He claims Maedhros is doing a terrible job of being their father's heir by frequently going against Feanor or what Feanor would have wanted. A part of him admires Maedhros for being able to stand up to their father and following his own mind, but another part of him is just about self-aware enough to realize that this makes Maedhros more similar to Feanor than Curufin could ever be and resents Maedhros even more for it. He also can't help but feel that Maedhros can read him like an open book (which is true) and in his most paranoid moments Curufin is convinced that Maedhros thinks him pathetic and all kinds of other things he secretly fears about himself. Caranthir can also see right through Curufin, but unlike Maedhros, he doesn't mince his words and very bluntly says what he thinks of Curufin or his actions right to his face. Caranthir is also very close in age to Curufin and doesn't really have Maedhros' older brother instinct of "must protect my little sibling and be nice to him even when he's being a terrible brat". This means that Caranthir can and will say things that cut Curufin right to the core (and which will keep him awake at night because he can't stop thinking about them.)

He is what would nowadays be called neurodivergent (like most of his family) and has a bunch of very specific hyperfixations and interests that only very few people can relate to.

He also suffers from anxiety (something he has in common with Maedhros) and used to bite his nails when he was younger. He still does it sometimes, but he thinks it's a shameful habit and tries very hard not to.

He loves Celebrimbor above all else and genuinely tried his best as a parent (although he didn't always succeed and failed quite badly a couple of times). But particularly when Celebrimbor was younger? I really think he was a pretty involved and good father to him. Also is super proud of Celebrimbor (and Celebrimbor outdoing him bothers him much less than he himself being unable to live up to Feanor).

He usually calls people he loves by their mother names (incl. Celegorm, Celebrimbor and Finrod), but he himself doesn't like being called Atarinke. Most people he's close with just call him Curvo.

He's quite a picky eater and somewhat embarrassed by that as well (it's immature and childish in his mind), but he just can't bring himself to eat certain things.

I also agree with the people who mentioned him enjoying mathematics (he and Celebrimbor like poring over difficult math problems together in my mind), that dark blues and greens look much better on him than Feanorian red, that he's deeply insecure, that he's a night owl (he'll often stay up all night and sleep during the most random hours of the day) and that he speaks in a soft tone of voice.

Hey fellow people who presumably enjoy curufin. Can you reblog with some curufin hcs? I think we truly need more Curufin Attention (either positive or negative but if you hate him why are you even here) in this fandom and I will be the change the world desperately needs. Cheers

[morallysuperiorlips]

Fanfiction Taught Me 90% of What I Know About Writing

That’s the gods honest truth. And I’m saying that as someone who has a literal college degree in writing.

I took SO MANY writing classes in college. All genres. Creative. Playwriting. Screenwriting. Editorial. Journalistic. Business. Technical. I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil correctly, and really started to pursue it in 2nd grade when every teacher following gushed about my writing skills. I can confidently say I’ve been honing my craft for over two decades.

However, I didn’t really git gud at writing until I started really writing fanfiction. Like, joining a fandom and actively writing an ongoing fic for it.

Again, I’d taken years upon years of writing classes. I learned story structure, grammar, theming, POVs, tone, etc. all throughout school. I learned how to receive feedback and edit my work a little more down the road. I learned from professionals in the field. I worked with mentors.

However, none of that helped my skyrocket my skills like writing fanfiction did.

Fanfiction taught me how to actually write deep, nuanced, and compelling characters. I never once filled out a 200-question character sheet for any character I wrote on some silly school assignment. I never knew how to really know my characters until I was writing OCs for a fandom.

Fanfiction taught me the value of being concise. My schooling had drilled the concept of long, purple prose into me over time and in writing for a fandom for a children’s game, I unlearned that real quick.

Fanfiction really taught me the concept of “show, don’t tell.” I never really knew what a penchant I had for info dumping until somebody pointed out to me most of my headcanon’d lore drops happened in exposition and not in action.

Fanfiction taught me how to worldbuild. Eating the canon of my preferred fandom gave me a lot of time to strengthen my chops while I came up with my own answers to canon lore I hated.

Fanfiction taught me consistency. In school, I mostly wrote short stories. I hadn’t really bitten off a longer project until I started writing a longfic, and in doing so, I learned how to keep my characters, plot, and world consistent for a prolonged period of chapters.

Fanfiction gave me a close-knit community to consistently bounce my ideas off of, and give me feedback that actually served me in terms of bettering my skills and the story I was writing. Not just for the sake of meeting the measures of a grade or rubric given by a teacher.

I could go on and on, but tl;dr, I owe my current skillset and understanding of writing to writing fic. I wouldn’t be at the level I am without it. Honestly, I wouldn’t even be writing my current WIP without it.

So, to anyone who might have told you that fanfic is a waste of time, they are just objectively wrong. And if you’re reading this thinking for yourself that fanfic is a waste of time, well, you’re stupid and also objectively wrong :>

Fanfiction is valuable. Don’t underestimate it.

[whisperslystars]

one day I am going to write a ratiorine fiv where aventurine rots in his bedroom whenever he’s not doing anything work related and just goes “what the fuck is wrong with me” bc my favorite brand of depression (this is sarcasm I hate depression all my homies hate depression) is the kind where you don’t realize it and convince yourself that you’re just lazy!!! and boy oh boy do I love projecting onto my favorites

(did I already write a kavetham fic on this exact premise? yes, yes I did. however it’s probably a little less canon divergent with aventurine than with alhaitham)

[magpod-confessions]

alright got a new bone to pick with an anon who pulled up the tma transcripts as 'proof' Jon is completely celibate and said that people are 'trying to erase canon asexuality'

apologies for bringing up discourse but this person is just so. Noejvneojekjdcmekfv.

anon idk who you are but that. Is NOT the solid, concrete proof you think it is.

like.

out of context, yes, it means Jon doesn't have sex.

however IN context (and even a bit out of, bc of 'according to Georgie') it. Only really serves to gently imply, yes, Jon is ace. And the writers did in fact clarify, yes, Jon is ace, and fans can do with that fact what they please.

And I would like to remind y'all:

Melanie fucking hates Jon around the time this line is said. And she is getting her information from Georgie, who is Jon's EX, who hadn't spoken to him in YEARS.

it's second hand information.

it's not concrete.

hell, if the writers didn't even clarify that Jon was ace people would've probably just. Ignored the line all together bc it's SECOND HAND INFORMATION.

I love the fact that Jon is ace. And I love how a good chunk of his asexuality isn't really explain. Bc then we get to interpret things, and project.

no one is trying to say he's not actually ace. Especially not fic writers. Most smut writers who have Jon in their fics are themselves ace, and are projecting.

Anon, did we even listen to the same podcast? Bc I'm pretty sure a good chunk of it is understood from reading between the lines, and context clues, and understanding not every character knows everything at all times, and to take character accounts with a grain of salt especially when it comes to office gossip and that gossip ≠ gospel.

again, I am not trying to say "this is why Jon is allowed to fuck in fics" no im saying that to try and say these smut fics are erasing a sexuality that is hardly even mentioned and not at all really relavent to the whole story is just wrong. It's incorrect.

people are allowed to write what they write. You don't need a reason. And as readers it is NOT our place to go after creators who are writing what they please, especially when it isn't even in bad faith. It's also not our place to assume and "call out" people on baseless assumptions of them "trying to erase or explain away the TRUTH"

so yes, anon, it IS a vague and ambigouaous representation bc if you took even a moment to look back on s3 you'd realize that EVERYTHING IS VAGUE AND AMBIGUOUS BC WERE LISTENING TO THE VAGYE AND AMBIGUOUS PODCAST

Yes, Jon is ace.

yes, the writers said you can put any acespec label or hc on it, and that such is all valid.

yes, one character one time said Jon 'doesnt'

no, that doesn't mean that all writers or creators or artists or whatever have to abide by "doesn't."

again, mods, sorry to bring up discourse.

.

[alchemistc]

I’m so SAD. But the hardest part is everything is just boring now 😭.

I’m a multi shipper at heart, started watching 911 for buddie (I thought it was a cannon ship, turns out I’d gotten it confused with Tarlos). But was barely in fandom, and then when Bi buck happened I was so excited and spent that first week reading both types of fics loving the boost in content. But, I really really quickly realized I had to block a ton of negative Nancys and without really meaning too started following almost exclusively bucktommy blogs.

I’ve had to take a break from that content for a while to deal with the breakup - so I’ve temporarily unfollowed a lot of blogs while the initial shock and anger is going on. I know that eventually I’ll be able to enjoy it again, although this may be a show I stop watching I don’t plan on abandoning the fandom for now.

So now my dash is so blank, and I got rid of all my other social media after Tuesday. I literally have nothing to fill my time right now!!!! It’s so damn boring. I need another hyper-fixation quick before my mental health nose dives.

Hi!

I'm giving you a warm hug. We had the rug pulled out from under us and I'm positive I am getting the least of the bvddie heat out most of the people I follow.

It's sad. It sucks.

It was astronomically bad writing and did not fit with the entire rest of the arc they gave us in canon.

I'm sorry you're feeling like this. I will tell you that last night I finally started listening to Fourth Wing while I prepped food for my weekend getaway, because at least I know it's gonna emotionally destroy me. After that I read some comfort fic from another fandom from my bookmarks, pet my dogs, drank some water, and went to bed.

We all get emotionally invested in things that don't have an end date when we start. It's just a facet of humanity that is so hopeful and beautiful and often bites us in the ass. Don't feel badly for feeling upset today, tomorrow, or in the future, when you thought you'd moved past it but something pings a memory - but grieve it, remember it for the joy it brought you, and try to move past it.

Some people will probably stick around. Inevitably some people will decide it is best for them to fully disengage. I'll be here, somewhere in the middle. So what's best for you. Take comfort in knowing that however long we were in this we were here together.

Drink some water, watch a comfort movie, find a book or show or movie that catches your attention. Cry about it if you need to.

Curate your community in a way that makes sense for you.

I've genuinely enjoyed getting to talk to and create for and cheer for the fic and art bucktommys created. I have discovered old friends and new ones because of it. I'm excited to see where they go next.

But right now it really sucks and it's okay to sit in that for a bit. I hope you can find the right balance and that the boring shifts into something that sparks joy for you.

♥️

[coal15]

Well, if they confirm that Lou isn't in any more episodes, then yes obviously bucktommy is over in canon--but fanfic and fanart still exists so we can go right on enjoying them however we want.

As far as series canon goes if buddie is on the horizon so be it, but if Lou is still appearing in more episodes then this is just the "breakup" part of their story, rom-com style, before things work out in the end.

Either way I plan to keep going w/bucktommy fics, and if the fandom ever chills the fuck out about ship "membership" enough, I might feel safe to write another bvddie fic. I wouldn't feel comfortable doing it right now though because (in my experience) there's so much hostility toward multi-shipping among bvddies, I feel like anything I wrote would just get flamed to hell and back because I dared to root for something else--and will continue to enjoy bucktommy even if they are over in canon.

We'll see what happens. I am eager to get confirmation of whether or not Lou is off the show, but either way I've had so much fun. And I plan to keep having fun. I'd love for us all to keep hanging out, sharing art, fics, etc. Because we can.

[howdidthisevenhappenanyway]

yes! this is such a thing I think about a lot! on one hand I think there are going to be some weird things going on like the senators wanting them to have weapons that look good as opposed to what might work best, and them having to somehow keep their armour (the stuff that gets shot at) impeccably clean and shiny. and they are going to be so excited that the rations from kamino mean they don’t make any smells, so if the guard start eating off-regulation food there will be trouble…I do think that funding itself won’t be an issue

however I do see the corries and the logistic vod’e being like ‘obviously we need those rations with a far-off use by date to go to bacarra or whoever is furthest out so they have rations that last as long as possible. and the corries get the almost expired stuff because they can eat it today’

I can also see them having less to go around if they are doing that very illegal decommission fraud we all like to write about. If I’m writing them having the start of an illegal city within the city populated by injured vode who were supposed to be quietly decommissioned then they need to eat, and so now we need to think about how.

but yeah I don’t think that palps is going to be quite so obvious about making them suffer for his own entertainment, he’s gonna have to be sneakier than that.

at the same time, angst and whump are inherently a bit slapstick as genres. the point isn’t realism, so I certainly am not gonna be complaining.

that said, I would love to see some more fics addressing the senate as a ‘we have to have everything looking perfect you must be shiny, pristine meat droids for us!’ kind of nightmare esp as I think every senator would have a different idea of what that is supposed to look like

OK not to Foxpost on main but as much as I appreciate the trope of the coruscant guard being like woefully underfunded and undersupported by the senate because they’re “not front line troops” and therefore “don’t need things like bacta or rations etc” and like I get where you’re coming from, but like…. they may not be on the front line but they are the most significant and final line of defense for the capital of the republic and more specifically the senate, who — and I cannot stress this enough — are the people who decide whether or not the coruscant guard gets money. The corries do the work of cops AND the secret service, and maybe throw in the national guard — imagine if the united states defunded the cops (seriously, imagine…), specifically all the cops that work in DC, AND the secret service because oh they’re purely concerned with domestic affairs and the security of the most essential elements of our republic, they don’t need resources. You’re talking about fucking upside down banana world and certainly not about the political priorities of a fading republic succumbing to nationalism, militarism, and fascism.

If I were a late era galactic senator, I would have funding the coruscant guard as my top fucking priority. I’d be signing off on building fucking cop city overtop of coruscant’s last nature reserve, i’d be giving them experimental bazookas and tanks and shit up the wazoo. Twelve types of alien police dog and two models from Space Boston Dynamics. Horses. Fox keeps trying to find a weapon they won’t finance for him and it’s not working, at this point he’s considering asking for a lightsaber just to see what happens. I’m not saying the coruscant guard should live in the lap of luxury or anything but they should probably have ample if not excessive access to the military resources they need to do their jobs — medical supplies, armaments, armor, etc. Because if politicians are one thing, that thing is interested above all in their own security, and the coruscant guard is literally their personal protective army, why would they not want their personal protective army to be well funded. “I’m chancellor palpatine and I’m going to deprive my slave gestapo of medical supplies so that their limbs fall off when they try to murder my enemies” come on man be serious.

[brynnmclean]

Do I want to ship Adar/Galadriel? Not particularly! Is there still a corner of my mind that can't help thinking about how furious Galadriel would get if, in the middle of sex, Adar laughed and told her, you're just like him, you know-- yeah.

[billdenbrough]

@naturecalls111 prompted me kevaaron + massage when i needed a warmup prompt bc she is the best. waves hands this is a vague au and heads up for some suggestive content ahead but it's just prelude vibes lmao

The thing is. The thing is that Aaron’s hands, while smaller than Kevin’s, are firm. It was a fuck of a thing, coming onto this team after two years of Volshan’s huge, bone-cracking hands, and being told this small blond with sharp eyes and a clever, pretty mouth would be the one helping Kevin with keeping his body well-tuned.

He certainly feels like an instrument right now, strung too tight. Everything is taut. He’s only halfway sure it’s his muscles. The rest of it might just be him, here, right now, in this moment. 

“God, what have you been doing to yourself?” Aaron mutters. He digs his thumb in deep, and Kevin can’t help the low, guttural groan that rings through the air. Aaron pauses. Kevin buries his face in the bed.

“Well, clearly that needed some working out,” Aaron says. He resumes his motions, pausing only to re-lotion his hands, and it’s just - Kevin is just -

Kevin is a fucking professional, okay? You don’t get onto as many teams as he has—let alone at the international level—without going through the team PT’s hands a time or twenty. But it’s just.

Aaron’s kinda funny, see. He's got this dry, quiet humour, usually pretty cutting, and these blunt remarks that make Kevin snort even when the recipient of such a remark sends him an injured look. The breakdown in relations with his teammates is worth it when Aaron sends him that little smile. And Aaron is smart. Obviously, medical professional, but he likes trivia and has opinions on the best way to hide a body (“My something-in-law,” he says once, in the world’s vaguest lore drop. “He’s got a variety of skills.” Which, like, ominous? If Jean were here, he’d be telling Kevin that the fact that Aaron clearly being related to some sort of serial killer isn’t flagging his boner at all means Kevin truly has taken too many Exy balls to the head. It might be true. Doesn’t change the fact that his boner remains undaunted and his neck prickles whenever he hears Aaron enter a room, so aware of him) and confiscates Kevin’s Exy racquet when he catches him at the court too late, but doesn’t make him go home. 

Which is how they end up here, actually.

Aaron says, you’re going to injure yourself, don’t be a fucking idiot. Kevin says, I need to get better. Aaron says, you’re already the best person on that court, you perfectionistic fuck. Kevin grins at him, quick and fierce, then remembers himself, and says, I can always get better. Aaron arches an eyebrow and says, not if you blow out your knee trying to conquer the world. Kevin wants to argue, but Aaron reaches over and tugs his Exy racquet free, placing one hand on Kevin’s bicep as he does so. Kevin is so struck by it that he lets him. 

Aaron says, you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to go back home. Kevin doesn’t ask how he guessed or what he’s implying. Kevin asks, what are you doing here? And Aaron says, checking the office. Thought I could get some paperwork done.

And Kevin asks, do you want company? And Aaron looks at him, expression a little unreadable, then says, yeah, okay. Come on, Kevin Day.

And he goes. And Kevin follows. 

And now here’s Kevin, getting an impromptu massage because Aaron narrowed his eyes at the way he was moving his left leg. And now Aaron’s fingers are moving up the back of his thigh, digging in, and all Kevin can think about is how badly he wants those fingers to be digging in because he’s holding on. Because he’s pulling Kevin down on him, clutching at him because he doesn’t want to let go. Or because he’s clinging to Kevin’s shoulders for dear life while Kevin proves to him that all his chat about the stamina of champions isn’t just chat. Kevin’s not picky. He’s just losing his mind a little, maybe, with how it all feels right now.

“Did you want me to do the front?” Aaron asks. “I can check your knee.”

Kevin shakes his head quickly. “It’s fine,” he says, but Aaron is frowning at him. He moves around the bed to face Kevin, and Kevin can’t escape his gaze, lying down as he is.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He presses the back of his hand against Kevin’s forehead—if he thinks Kevin has a fever and benches him, Kevin is going to be absolutely insufferable, especially because he’s fine, he’s just horny. Then he does something so completely unforgivable, and flips his hand absentmindedly, cupping Kevin's jaw. 

Kevin lets out a low whine.

Aaron steps back, and Kevin goes, “Shit, sorry, it’s—Keegan bruised me there earlier.”

The look Aaron gives him is unconvinced, but he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I'll just do a warm down then, if you’re sure.”

Kevin swallows, nods.

But then Aaron's hands are back on him. Gentler this time, for the most part, but digging into softer flesh, more tender spaces, and then—

Kevin makes a kind of gasping noise as Aaron’s hand slips a little, a little too slick from the lotion. Aaron’s apology is swallowed up by the gasp, but then cut off completely as his hand brushes against Kevin’s hard dick.

“Oh,” Aaron says, and then, “Is this why you were being so—Kevin, it’s fine. This is really normal. I promise I've seen it before.”

Appallingly, Kevin’s first instinct is to indignantly ask “Who?!”; however, cooler heads prevail and he says, “Uh huh.”

“No, I promise,” Aaron says. His voice is a little strange, but there’s sincerity in it, Kevin can tell that much. “I know it’s just a reaction, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s natural.”

Kevin blames Jeremy, who is the least honest but most sincere person he knows, for what comes out of his mouth next. Jeremy, who never tells anyone shit but is always so encouraging for people to be open with their feelings. It’s his fault, Kevin decides, because Kevin’s stupid fucking mouth decides to say, “I wouldn’t say anything.”

Aaron goes really still for a moment. Kevin is still not looking at him, so he only knows this from the sudden lack of breathing. Then, finally, “What?”

Kevin huffs, then turns over. No point hiding it now that they both know he’s hard as a rock.

It's embarrassing, but he’s said it now. He can’t unfuck that. So he stands his ground instead. “I wouldn't say it’s entirely meaningless.”

Aaron’s looking at him. Mostly his face, but he glances down at his dick, and Kevin feels it stir with interest beneath the attention. He's about to feel embarrassed, but then Aaron tilts his head, and his eyes darken just a shade, and Kevin thinks—oh. Kevin thinks, maybe this isn’t such a lost cause after all.

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Parentalbond Horror

*grinning* I am baaaaaaaack!! @spotaus get over here :D

So. I had the difficult choice on which drabble i wanted to write so For now I settled on this one because I haven't had the chance to write a drabble with Horror's pov since a while and that is a crime.

First Drabble here Prev Drabble here Next Drabble here

As always we go in unbeta'ed and unedited.

*-----------------*

Horror checks the windows again before turning back to the couch and seeing Nightmare just staring at him.

Horror tils his skull "sleep will be easier if you actually lay down...." And he looks pointedly at the couch.

Nightmare gains that stubborn glint in his sockets again as he huffs "I am fine. Not tired at all." he looks at the pile of bags in the corner of the room wishfully.

Horror has to keep his chuckling inside as he answers "Shame then that it is bedtime for young skeletons." And adult skeletons. Horror glances at the other three. All KO on the other couch, all still dressed in their normal clothes and none of them actually finished their meals.

Horror will have to pack up the leftovers. Make sure nothing goes to waste. But he will let them sleep for now and just make them eat a big breakfast. But all three had been running themselves ragged lately. Especially after the last encounter they had had with the Stars.

It meant they have been making more jumps and teleports and not going out as much to collect things to make it easier for them.

Horror walks over to them and puts one of the blankets in this apartment over them, he doesn't bother to try and pull them away from one another. The four of them always had the habit of sleeping in a pile and that habit only got worse once they started searching for Nightmare and reclaimed him.

Horror checks Ngihtmare's plate and smiles "You finished it all today." No wonder he is grumpier and more active than usual.

Nightmare pulls a face and crosses his arms. Horror walks over and nudges him at his shoudler "Sleep time." and he waits.

Nightmare grumbles more as he pushes the blankets and pillows around. Horror just crosses his arms as he waits. Nightmare huffs but lays his skull down on the pillow and glares at him.

Horror knows he is grinning but he is proud to say he doesn't actually snort or laugh at the grumpy face Nightmare is pulling. instead he moves closer slowly, the first week of watching Nightmare flinch at every movement and sound had been horrible, and puts the blanket over him as well.

Nightmare doesnt complain about it. Most likely becuase he just saw Horror do the same for the other three.

Horror nods and sits by him "Time to sleep." it is his turn to keep watch and he plans on taking ti seriously.

Nightmare huffs but just turns his face further into the pillow. Tiny body starting to relax with the simple comforts.

Horror tries to not be obvious as he keeps an eye on Nightmare.

Horror knows of course what is going on and he is trying to not give in. At least one of them should not give into the adopting.

Horror can admit he had been surprised that Dust was the first one to actually soul adopt Nightmare. Especially after only a week. It had been so fast and the transition between the before and after state had been so smoothly that Horror had honestly thought that Dust had done it on purpose and planned.

It would have made sense. Dust had been the one to find the book first and been the one to actually manage to get Nightmare back to them.

Only for it to become obvious that Dust had no idea what he had just done.

Soul adoption is a rather normal thing for monsters to do. Though in most universes they rarely happened as monsters don't tend to abandon children.

But well, Horror's AU had been one with starvation and a lot of fighting. People lost their lives in multiple ways. That meant quite a few orphans.

Soul adoption happened when an adult monster willingly took the role as caretaker for a younger monster who doesn't have a caretaker. There are a few more factors obviously but Horror doesn't know all of them of the top of his skull, especially not now with that hole in it.

What it comes down to? Nightmare is an orphan and has no one he could go to that could take care of them, and all of them know this. Dust found out first and surprisingly his soul was open enough to the idea to accept Nightmare as... well... his.

There are more hurdles in this situation of course. The fact that they Nightmare they knew was an adult, which is what Horror thinks is tripping up Cross. But Dust had been very quick with accepting that Nightmare is now a child and so immediantly treated him as one.

Killer took a bit longer but quickly fell into step as well. Calling Nightmare tiny boss and going from his right-hand-man to his babysitter, Killer's words not Horror's.

Horror is however a bit surprised that Killer also soul adopted Nightmare. In theory it shouldn't have happened as Nightmare at this time already had Dust as his caretaker and so technically didn't need one anymore.

Seems like Killer's soul didn't agree with that.

Horror can't say a lot about it though, seeing as he can feel it happening with himself as well. And he has no doubt that Cross is very close to giving into his own instincts and feelings concerning this as well.

The whole thing with their last interaction with the Stars is a very big give away. Even if Cross felt very embarresed by his own reaction.

At least Nightmare is no truly convinced that they won't harm him and will help him. Horror is happy they managed to get there and with it having only been a month since they took him with them. Horror can say they did a good job.

Nightmare has falled asleep.

Horror move slowly and silently and puts two fingers to the the side of his small belly and feels.

Horror may not have a lot of magic himself but his AU was left him with a very useful skill. Wiht how little food there was available and how little magic there was there came issues. One of the issues was that after a while the magic monsters had wasn't strong enough anymore to digest the food that the mosnters did manage to eat. meaning that even if the monster ate food they would not get any energy or new magic from it.

Meaing that even if they ate they would continue to starve.

Wiht how difficult it had been for Nightmare at first to eat or even remember to eat Horror had worried something simular may have happened. That being in the goop form had caused his own magic to grow too weak to be able to function fully.

But all Horror feels is the soft and quiet purr of NIghtmare's magic working hard to use the offered food to rebuild the babybones' small reserves.

Horror sighs a sigh or relieve and just watches Nightmare for a moment. Nightmare, having noticed the pressure on him, makes an unhappy sound and his socket flutters open to give him a sour look.

Horror chuckles as he whispers "I apologise." Horror is unsure how clear his answer is as Horror himself is purring like a loud law mower at this point.

Nightmare blinks at him, still looking like the tiniest little grumpy skeleton this multiverse has ever known, before closing his sockets again and turning on his side. surprisingly not away from the touch and light hold.

Horror watches the other. It is strange. They are all different yet Nightmare still has them all completely under his control. Yet it is in a completely different way and Ngihtmare now doesn't even seem to realise it.

Horror leans on the couch and watches their tiny charge just sleep. Horror had managed to keep the need to complete an adoption at bay by reminding himself that Nightmare already had a caretaker- well two and a half now, Horror is sure that all Cross still needs to complete the soul adoption is a tiny nudge. Horror thinks that Cross is jsut thinking too much about it and doubting his own instincts and feelings.

But that still leaves Horror, and what he wants to do. He figured that it would be better to at least keep one of them unbiased in this nature, just in case that Nightmare suddenly turns into an adult again. But the longer this went on the less likely it seemed to Horror.

Not to forget. Horror doesn't even think Nightmare wants to be an adult again. Not now that he is a child but doens't have to vigilent every moment of every day.

Does he technically already have caretakers? Yes. Does Horror still want to count himself as one? Yes.

So. He just picks for himself.

Horror moves slowly and quietly as he picks Nightmare up. Nightmare grumbles in his sleep at being moved but calms when his magic recognises Horror.

Horror gets comfortable on the couch and lays Nightmare on his sternum. He can still feel the tiny soul beat and pulse fast even through two shirts.

Horror pulls the blanket back over Nightmare and waits.

It doesn't take long as Horror can feel the slight pull on his magic and energy. Hardly noticable and Horror doubts that if he wasn't so paranoid about his own levels he would have noticed.

It is something tiny monsters do. To help stabalise and sharp their own magic they try to take tiny bits of their parents, or caretakers in this case, to help guide them. It all happens naturally.

Horror just holds the tiny babybones closer and feesl Ngihtmare's soul slowly start to match Horror's own soulbeat and he feels all the calmer.

Now it is pretty much done. Horror will have to probably deal with this decision one day but for now he is happy. Their tiny babybones is comfortable and everyone is resting. Tomorrow they will have to worry about getting supplies and where they can go and eventually where they will sleep that night.

But right now? Right now he doesn't have to worry about that. and all he ahs to worry about is that their babybones is comfortable and healing.

*-----------------*

First Drabble here Prev Drabble here Next Drabble here

[someplace-darker]

In The Static | Ted Lasso

Pairing: Ted Lasso x reader (no y/n) Wordcount: 2.1k Warnings: panic attack/talks of panic attacks, vague mentions of trauma. That's about it I think, it's a touch angst and hurt/comfort I suppose. Fluff. Summary: Ted thought he was past his panic attacks until he encounters another, and you follow him to make sure he's okay. A/N: "now jay" you might be saying "wasn't the last thing you posted smut almost a year ago?" and the answer is yes. But i've recently become insanely attached to Ted Lasso, and I dipped my toe into writing more than a wip. SO here's my middle aged white man of the month. Enjoy :)

“REFEREE!!!” Keeley stands with a force that causes her to latch onto your arm to keep from falling forward. It continues to astound you that for such a tiny lady, she really contains an insane amount of spunk. One of the opposing team’s men had just slid Sam’s legs out from under himself, causing him to land hard on his shoulder. The game had been a rough one so far, more aggressive and bitter than most. Richmond had been respectful at first (as per usual) but the second their opponents had started playing violent and dirty, that changed.

Roy and Beard were obviously shouting and pointing angrily, though you couldn’t make out what they were saying from your seat in the box. Ted, however, was standing stiffly with his balled fists shoved into the pockets of his Richmond zip-up. You can feel that something is off. Even if you can’t see his face, you know him well enough to read his body language. There’s mere minutes left in the game and the teams are tied.

Rebecca is already standing and gathering her belongings to head back in, gesturing for the lot of you to follow. That’s exactly what you begin to do before the crowd goes ape-shit, jumping from their seats and screaming so loud it makes your head thrum. 

“ROJAS INTERCEPTS THE KICK AND PASSES TO TARTT AND JUST LIKE THAT-”

You turn just in time to watch Jamie kick the ball into the net, the stadium erupting in cheers that shake the ground.

“AFC RICHMOND TAKES ANOTHER VICTORY 2-1 IN A SHOCKING LAST SECOND SCORE”

Keeley, Higgins, and Rebecca rejoice, grabbing at each other in shock. Placing your fingers between your lips you let out a piercing whistle, jumping up and down as thousands of chants echo. You look down to your coaches, expecting to see all three soaking in the sweet relief of not gaining another loss. Instead, you see Ted darting for the locker room, head down with his phone held two inches from his face. It was obvious to you that he was trying to use it as a cover. 

“I’ll meet back with you guys later, I’ve gotta check something real quick.” 

They smile and wave you off, relishing in the buzzing excitement clearly felt throughout the facility. As much as you wish you could join them in celebration, you were pretty sure Ted needed you more. So you slip through the small crowds with ease, having much practice during your time with Richmond, taking the back staircase to the locker room hallway. 

At first you check his office, finding only his jacket laying on the floor. The second spot you search is the right one, opening the door to darkness. You almost turn and leave but a staggered breath gives him away. 

“Ted?” you whisper, stepping into the boot room and closing the door gently. He sniffles almost silently and hums in response, curling in on himself when the lights flicker on at your touch.. You’ve never seen him look so small before, his entire body condensed into half of his height in the corner of the room, the sight moving you to shut the lights back off for his sake.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, walking over to kneel in front of him. He has his head placed between his knees, hands on the back of head with his fingers intertwined tightly. As much as you know of his panic attacks, you’ve never been present for one. Something tells you he tends to keep it that way with everyone around him. 

However, you’re well versed with them yourself.

“I’m gonna sit beside you, but I won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay.”

You lower yourself onto the ground, the floor cold beneath your already freezing ass. England's weather was not kind to the warm blooded. Ted doesn’t lift his head all the way, simply angles it towards you just enough for an eye to peek out from behind his arm. He looks at you with the gaze of a wounded puppy, eyes red and wet, smeared with warm tears.

The silence that follows is deafening, a faint ringing the only thing you hear. Ted looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. It’s not like you can blame him. The last time he opened up to someone he considered close about his panic attacks, it ended up plastered on every magazine and tabloid across the country. Trust within himself and others had been fractured- not broken. No one could ever betray Coach Lasso enough to break that within him, it was fundamental to who he was as a person.

After a few more minutes of silence his foot slides over to yours, just barely nudging it. He lifts his head and sniffles, using his sleeve to wipe the mix of tears and snot off his face.

“I want to tell you about it, I do. I’m just… stuck. Feels like if I tell you, it’ll be too much,” he murmurs, keeping his foot pressed to yours.

“I understand, Ted,” you whisper. “I started having panic attacks before I was even a teenager. I’d been through things- rough things -and they plagued me for years.” He begins to unfurl himself, listening intently to every word you say, the blatant honesty and vulnerability easing his anxiety. “It took me a while to open up to anyone about them, let alone a therapist. I spent so long trying to hide them, that when I finally did get help I felt like a fake.” 

Ted adjusts himself to sit up straighter, shimmying closer so your shoulders touch. You can tell he’s trying to be inconspicuous about it, but the man is known to be anything but subtle.  Outside you can hear the boys begin filing into the hallway, headed for the locker room surely for some type of victory activity. Their shadows dance across the wall in the darkened boot room, slashed into segments by the blinds slanted slightly open. Both of you seemed to have held your breaths as they passed, because as soon as they’re gone there’s a simultaneous exhale of relief.

An amused breath comes from Ted, palm pressing from the corner of his eye to the tip of his cheekbone to wipe away the stray tears. He knocks his knee against yours and dares to glance at you, opening up enough to make eye contact. Here in this room, he looks more human than you think you’ve ever seen him. For the most part he keeps his mood insanely optimistic, tending to care more about others happiness than his own. It gave him an almost otherworldly bounce to his step and light to his eyes. 

But now that he’s sat no more than two inches in front of you with puffy eyes and a chewed lip, Ted is just… a broken man. 

“You’ll never be too much, Ted. It’s normal to feel stuck, and it’s okay to not be able to talk about it yet.” His eyes flick to your hand when you lift it towards him, a lifeline of trust, openness in the form of warm skin and an upward facing palm. Internal conflict tugs at his lungs, his breath hitching as he weighs his options for all of five seconds before taking your hand. You are someone Ted knows he can always find solace in. 

Someone who he could spot in a crowd of thousands, someone who he will always seek out. 

His other hand reaches to pat the top of yours, rubbing his thumb against your skin in soothing circles. A shuddered breath begins to pass his lips, but he smothers it to ashes with the cool press of a kiss to your wrist. 

Humming amusedly at the feeling of his mustache tickling your skin, you lean your head on his shoulder, moving slightly as they lift with the intake of air into his lungs. “I suppose you’re right. I just feel bad that I haven’t spoken to you ‘bout it,” he tsk’s softly to himself, carefully navigating his brain for the right words. 

“I was fine out there, y’know? I’ve been doin’ better, Sharon’s helped a lot. But it just got so loud, and everything felt out of my control- out of any of our boys’ control and I- I just couldn’t breathe. Tunnel vision, boom, just like that.”

You whisper encouragements softly under your breath, murmurs of ‘it’s okay’ and ‘you can keep going’ pushing him gently in the right direction. Voices can be heard from the locker room, loud cheering and chanting from the team acting as muffled background noise for Ted’s moment of vulnerability. 

“After everything that happened with Nate, I learned to mask it a bit better I guess. That’s the fancy word Doc told me about,” the corner of his lips quirks up “I figured I’d be okay in here for a bit anyway, then you walked in.” Your brows furrow and you pull away from his shoulder, opening your mouth to apologize for intruding but he beats you to it.

“No, no, that sounded different than I meant. I am very glad that you found me here. I needed you even if I didn’t know it,” he traces the details of your face with his eyes, not stopping you when you move your head back down to his shoulder. 

“I think you’ve worked on it so much quicker than you realize, Ted. It wasn’t that long ago, yeah? Healing and improving takes time, and it’s okay that it takes time. I certainly took my time,” you muse, channeling your own therapist’s word. “But I think it’s right on par with who you are, who I know you to be, that you got on it as fast as you did. Even if it was begrudgingly at first.”

“Yeah, Doc definitely had her work cut out.”

You laugh, normally at first but then Ted snorts and you both lose it, bodies bumping against each other with the shakes that come with post-meltdown laughs. Soon enough you’re both wiping away tears of a different variety, the air in the room much lighter than before. You take that moment to push yourself up and off the floor, lending a hand to Ted to pull him up.

“I am immensely proud of you, Coach Lasso. So is the team. You have a very large family backing you up, as unorthodox as said family is.” You take one step closer, hand still holding onto his, pressed between your bodies. Taking your free hand, you hold the side of his face and lean in to kiss his cheek, thumb stroking his jaw. 

Ted presses into your lips, chasing your touch even when you turn to the door. Twisting the knob open you find Will standing there, boots tied by their laces hanging over his shoulder, hand outreached to grab the now absent handle. 

He blinks at the two of you for a second, gaze one of vague shock, before curling his lips in an embarrassed smile and stepping out of the way.

“Not a word, Will,” you sing-song when he opens his mouth, pulling Ted down the hall to stand outside of the locker room door. 

You can hear Roy in the middle of a somehow happy/angry sounding congratulation speech that only he is capable of, grinning and turning to face your Coach once more. “Now, get your butt in there and relish in the sweet taste of winning.”

“I mean, relish is pretty tasty-”

“Ted.”

“Yep,” Ted takes a deep breath and nods, squeezing your hand “you coming in with me?” 

“I don’t want to intrude on your moment, Coach.”

He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and pushes the door open, dragging you with him. The boys’ faces light up, immediately rushing to storm him, all reaching to touch him and jumping up and down. Their team song buzzing and bouncing along with them.

“WE’RE RICHMOND TILL WE DIE, WE’RE RICHMOND TILL WE DIE, WE KNOW WE ARE, WE’RE SURE WE ARE, WE’RE RICHMOND TILL WE DIE”

You slide past the group, safely reaching Roy and Beard without your feet being stomped on. The smile on your face is one of pure joy and contentment, not faltering when Beard slides to your side, bumping your elbow. 

“Thanks,” he speaks, nodding towards Ted. It’s easy to know what he means immediately, always one to be of few words. 

“No need to thank me,” you reply easily, watching your family bond even more “it’s what we do.”

[fatuismooches]

EVEN MORE CUTE DOTTORE MOMENTS TO MAKE YOU SMILE 🙏 (because I am too tired to post anything of quality)

[its-actually-minicika]

I will be back soon guys

I'm being fr this time - this writing game can't escape me anymore

[spottedenchants]

sometimes you read a first person account of a writer a hundred years ago trying so very hard to finish a piece and suddenly time stops existing

[corpsentry]

ao3 mirror

fandom: your name engraved herein rating: t starring: birdy, a-han

It's three am and you’re barreling down a deserted road at the speed of fast. He’s gripping the handles for dear life; you’ve let go. You’re not wearing anything under your suspenders and your voice is hoarse from shouting. His shoulders are shaking with laughter. “DO YOU LIKE THE COLOR OF MY NEW BIKE?” What color was it again? “IF YOU LIKE IT I DO TOO."

Birdy, on flying.

11.

You stare at him the whole way to the beach. What else are you gonna look at? Any time the two of you go somewhere the whole world narrows down to just him and whatever else happens to be there. It’s always been that way. Him and the old lady snoring in the seat across the aisle. Him and the street papered with calligraphy and movie posters the size of airplanes. Or tonight, him and the cramped sleeping quarters on the overnight ferry, the plasticky curtains and the three-centimeter mattress.

It’s like— here’s the thing, right. The world’s always been plenty interesting to you. You like how it’s full of contradictions. You like the sting of knowing you’ve gotten under someone’s skin, the way anger slides off you like cold water. All your life you’ve lived like that, running backwards and laughing at the moon.

He was the first thing you didn’t have to put on goggles to look at and still found beautiful. When he showed up that day in the pool you forgot you were in a movie for a moment and tried, like a big fucking idiot, to live. God, shit, you could die in that light. But the laws of the world dictated your graduation, your marriage, your first kid. You couldn’t hang out forever between bus rides and train rides, sleep curled up in KTV rooms until you got kicked out by the waitstaff.

Well. You probably could. But he couldn’t. Even now, after everything (and by everything you mean everything, you mean the hell you’ve unleashed on this miserable fuck of a boy for no good reason at all), he’s still— you’re still— You follow him across the country like a damn hoot, buy whatever tickets he buys, yell at him in that voice that you know makes him self-conscious because it attracts too much attention, and he doesn’t do a thing.

He could tell you to fuck off. He could walk away from you, take a sharp turn and start running, though he’d have to really put his heart into it to lose you because you’re better than him at sprinting and long distance and worse than him at everything else (you get distracted by pigeons when you’re playing basketball). He could kill you, for all you care. Might as well. You’re basically asking for it.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t have it in him to be cruel, even now, pushed to the edge of the water.

That’s why you left. That’s why you’re leaving.

10.

“You see, I was the one who stole the balloon and strung it up,” you tell his parents, sitting on the lumpy green chair in their lumpy green living room. “But he said it was him.”

His mom is wounded. His dad is mega pissed off. You’re just there.

They do that for a while— his dad getting more and more mega pissed off at the table, his mom fretting her sleeves to pieces against the wall.

“Fuck. Piece of shit son. Fuck.”

You do not lift your gaze from your hands, which you hold unnaturally still under the table.

“Dear, let’s wait for him to tell us his side of the story…”

“What side of what story? Fuck. He’s not gonna have a damn mouth to talk with when I’m done with him. Goddamnit.”

The floor is tiled with medium-sized white squares. The ceiling light is a single bulb covered with a frosted panel of concave glass. Out of the corner of your eye, leaning against a cabinet, you see a potted plant with big scalloped leaves, mostly dead.

“Which girl was it? What class?” A pause. “Hell, who are you? What class?”

“Dear, we know Po Te, remember?” Muted shuffling. His mom is scuffing her slippers on the floor. You imagine her wringing her hands together the way her son does, bringing them to the back of her neck and looking away. “They’re friends.”

An irreverent amount of time later, he shows up with a bloodied collar and eyes like marbles with bits of gold in them and you have to fight all twelve apostles of god to stay angry. You think you might be one of the biggest pieces of shit the universe has ever produced. You think that your shitbag dad was right about one thing, just one, his whole life.

“What,” he says slowly, like it hurts him to speak, “do you want me to do?”

You rip your gaze away from the floor. “What do you want from me?” He takes one step forward. You take two back.

“What?” What. “What do you want?”

You want, um, let’s see. You want to watch a really good movie, one of those western ones, with violins and guns and lots of crying. You want to eat roasted peanuts out of a shallow dish. You want to go skinny dipping, to tear down the street on a 3 am motorbike, to climb out a broken window and keep going up, up, up, until you punch through the atmosphere and into the stars.

You want to cry.

“I want—” you spit, and you’re all fucked up now but because your throat is closing up the words come out cold and mean, which is exactly what you want and terribly unfortunate.

“—I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

One time when you were little your sisters took you to the public pool. You were something like seven; they were eight and nine and eleven. There was this giant slide, three storeys tall, that all the kids were lining up to go on. Your sisters wanted to go too but you were too young to follow so they took turns watching you in the kiddy pool. The kiddy pool had a mini slide which you slid down over and over again, pretending you were on the giant slide with everyone else. Your eldest sister was doing handstands in the water when you went down the slide wrong. You hit your head on the edge of the pool, right where the slide should have dumped you into the water. You floated aimlessly for a while before walking over to your sister to tell her what had happened but she ran over before you got there and asked, all panicky: what happened? Where does it hurt? She touched the side of your face, right below where the blood was starting to dry. Only then did you start to cry.

A-han looks you dead in the eye and it’s a little like falling off a motorbike.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

There’s some shouting from both sides. His mom pleads to the air to stop fighting, you’re the best of friends and you think here is someone who could have done something and then keep throwing punches because she should’ve but she didn’t and now it’s too late. His dad is so pissed it’s actually moved him to inaction, although he’s shaking hard enough that the ceiling light is doing a little jig. Or maybe it’s you that’s shaking, you can’t really tell. Your vision’s a little shot through right now. You’re a little in over your head.

A-han inhales and all the air in the room leaves with him.

“Mom, dad—”

Oh no, he’s actually stupid.

“The person I like is—”

You’re so choked up his name comes out more like a scream than a shout. But he hears it, and stops.

“Okay,” he repeats, dry as an Arizona summer. Something in him is giving but not in the direction you want. It is possible that you are crying. You’re a little in over your head. You’re a little in over your head.

You stand in the Chang family’s living room for a moment, counting the number of leaves on the dead plant.

Then you follow him out. There’s nowhere left for you to go, after all.

9.

It made you angrier that he came, actually. You didn’t want him to see you like this. You didn’t want him to see you at all. If he saw you then you might see him and then it would all come flying out of you like week-old chickenshit, miles and miles and miles of want pouring out of your eyes, ears, teeth. You’d made an art out of hiding the shiny thing in you. Worked yourself to death to make it happen. It’s like— say this whole thing was a movie, right. Then Taichung would be the stage and A-han’s eyes would be the camera. This being one of those sprawling epics, you couldn’t break the fourth wall and let the audience know you were in on the big secret so to prevent that from happening you decided to stop looking at him altogether. Easy. Just don’t look. Don’t look at him, Birdy. Don’t look.

But God is cruel and mysterious in his ways. By the time A-han wheels into the staff room, wild-eyed and frantic, you’ve already lost. And then your shitbag dad clocks him over the head with a chair and your vision flares red and— then, well, it’s really over.

8.

We can’t talk about this.

We can’t talk about what happens in the shower. What would we say?

Before: He hadn’t wanted to give you his motorbike (he never wanted to give you his motorbike) but you asked anyway. It had become a litmus test of sorts; how much could you take from him before he punched you in the face? You’d set this rule for yourself when the new school year began where you were only allowed to talk to him if it’d make things worse. So you asked again. And again. And again, but this last time, you didn’t do it for Ban Ban. It was a Tuesday. You’d dreamed about him the night before, which was the first mistake. Your limbs were heavy and disconnected and your head felt like a watermelon full of bits of other fruit but you wheeled the bike out anyway. The meaningless gray sky followed you around like a dog no matter how fast you went and it was so frustrating, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop even when the road started to spin— the second mistake. You saw it happen through a wide-lens shot like it was someone else who totaled the bike. Then there was noise, chatter, bright spots in your vision. The guy from the stall up ahead insisted on calling an ambulance though you cussed him out hard enough to make your shitbag dad flinch. Eventually they left you alone. You were angry and hurt and bleeding. The fruit cup of your brain was getting put through a blender, as was most of your left arm. In a moment of bottom-of-the-barrel despair, left with nothing but your body, which was ruined, and your heart, which you had yourself broken, you— the third mistake— reached for your phone.

After: You couldn’t stop crying for hours. At some point, he left.

7.

You have this theory that the bigger the gesture is the longer the feeling will last. You are telling yourself this as you haul ass towards the massive balloon that will surely fix everything. You’re not sure how exactly it will fix everything. All you know is that you’re playing an important role and you need as many people as possible to believe it. In that regard, the balloon makes sense. Once you’ve got it up at assembly no one’ll be able to look away even if they want to, although you frankly do not care what anyone wants. You care what Ban Ban wants in a faint, geographical way. You care a little what Father Oliver wants because he gives just half a shit less than all the other adults, which is impressive in a world this boring and dumb. As for the rest of them— whatever. Tomorrow is your confessional. All they have to do is watch.

A-han is here because someone needs to make sure you don’t get caught. That’s all.

“Hey, uh— are you done yet?”

He sounds far away and annoyed.

“Almost,” you reply, look down, and regret it instantly.

You’re grateful A-han’s such a caring and conscientious friend. He wouldn’t let you get caught because one, he’s a nice kid and two, he’s got common sense. If you got in trouble then he would, thus implicated, also be in trouble, which would be bad for him, so…

He wouldn’t do that to himself. He’s stupid, but not that stupid.

“Hey, you know, the thing I wanted to tell you—”

“Yeah?” you say, working your way through the river of knots. Your brain catches up a few moments later. You remember, suddenly, how you tricked him into coming out here in the first place.

There is a brief, meaty silence in which he works up the courage to keep talking while you rip your fingers to shreds getting the rope loose.

“Actually, I—“

You have not done it but you start whooping anyway. The sudden rush of oxygen leaving your lungs makes you light-headed. Five meters down, A-han is trying to tell you the words that will undo you. But all you can hear is the cicadas.

Now you’re tearing down the street on a 3 am motorbike, the helium balloon rippling behind you like a deep-sea jellyfish. Now you’re gripping the edge of the seat and howling at the moon. Now you’re sneaking off during morning assembly, crouching in the grass, setting it afloat.

It’s just a murmur at first but it quickly grows into a storm. Six hundred eyes go wide with wonder.

A-han can barely look at you. You see the emotions flit across his face from your place in line, the rest of your body turned towards Ban Ban, who is blushing like the sweetest dusk. Surprise, curiosity, confusion. Then the click of realization, the shuttering of the eyes.

As the crowd goes wild with the ecstasy of young love, you feel a sick thing surge through you. This must be what people feel like when they take home 100% on a test and their parents give them extra pocket money.

God, you’ve never tried so hard for anything in your life. He’d be so grateful, if only he knew.

6.

Here is the part of the story where you change your mind.

It wouldn’t have taken much to stop you. You wanted to be saved. You wanted to stay on the dark, uneven path that led into the woods. You were just waiting for someone to tell you it was okay to keep going like this, anyone at all, and then it would— it really would be— okay.

But no one did, no matter where you went and how far you wandered.

So it wasn’t okay. You had to go.

5.

If asked, years later, you’d probably say this moment was the worst.

Not the fighting. You’d been beaten up before and you’d get your ass beat again no matter how you tried to avoid it. Not the name-calling, either, though that did reach a new and unprecedented level once they realized no one was going to make them stop. You were just schoolboys being schoolboys, punching each other in the face, screaming each other’s ears off. Standard coming-of-age stuff.

It’s not that everyone within a fifty meter radius was watching. You don’t mind attention. You always liked the sound of your own voice more than anything. It’s not the way the metal grill of the gate dug into your hands and left them red and stinging. It wasn't the moment of free fall, or the impact, or the way you walked funny on your right side for two weeks after. You didn’t make it this far in life on faith alone.

When you were thirteen you decided your name was Birdy. After that, the world became way more interesting. You couldn’t leave it alone— you were always prodding at it or shoving it around, trying to find the limits. You were a one-man circus trying to redefine what it meant to be young and alive in a country that had almost, almost made it out of the dark. Only the rest of them were coming into an age of power, while you were slowly growing aware of a deficit in yours.

The other boys were wrong about one thing: You never wanted to fly. All the living things with wings had already been doing it for thousands and thousands of years; there was no point in starting now when you’d never be able to catch up. You didn’t need to fly, but you couldn’t break. Birdy was a prayer that had to hold no matter what came.

You considered your options. You could try to really do one of the guys in— but you were fast, not strong, and you were terribly distracted by all the noise. You could ask for help, but that would be humiliating. You could try to run, but the hallway was so narrow and there were so many of them and there was so little of you. You’d already gone for the grill once and that seemed to have only made things worse. A-han was this close to socking one of his thug friends in the face. You couldn’t drag this out any longer.

So you climbed onto the railing.

No, this isn’t the worst part.

All their anger liquefied into fear the moment you stood up. One of them, you forget his name, was pleading with you. Look, we’re sorry, come down, come down, please, or whatever. It was so abrupt it was almost funny. You wondered if anyone had ever been this afraid for you before, and concluded that they hadn’t. It occurred to you that maybe your humanity really was this thin, that they’d never regret it unless you died in the saddest, most miserable way possible. You thought: This is fucked as all hell, and I am quite sad.

Then you forgot all about this stuff, because you saw him.

“Birdy?”

Oh, how you hated that he saw you. It would’ve been shitty if he weren’t there but you’d dealt with shitty before and you’d deal with it again. It didn’t matter what happened to you as long as you got to keep Birdy. Birdy was fun and loud and a little crazy. Birdy could outrun the police and out-laugh the gods and got distracted by pigeons in basketball games. Birdy was untouchable.

You flapped your arms, just in case they turned into wings. What do you know, it was a lie all along.

Then you jumped.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they realize the limits of their own abilities and, simultaneously, the inherent cruelty of the universe.

It sucks that you found out so early. You should’ve stayed young for five, ten, a hundred more years. You deserved to grow up wild and carefree, ricocheting down empty streets and turning in absolutely none of your homework.

But you found out. Okay, now this is the worst part.

At no point did you betray each other. You loved that boy like nothing you had ever known. It lit you up from the inside like a goddamn firework.

You knew. You were aware of the beating of your own heart. It didn’t matter.

4.

Three times you pretend to be asleep.

One: The middle-aged women sitting both in front of and behind you on the bus to Taipei keep you awake for most of the ride. It’s not their fault, not really, and you don’t get mad; you’re just a light sleeper. Always have been. A-han is the opposite. He’s out like a rock the whole time, even when one of the women makes a particularly bad pun and her friend lets out a shriek of laughter just as the bus jolts to a stop at a red light and someone’s baby starts howling its toes off. Meanwhile you nod off a hundred times, tensing awake each time at the sudden warmth of his head, his shoulder, his neck. When the bus pulls into the station, he’s energetic and well-rested. You’re doing everything in your power to let go.

Two: The KTV is his suggestion. You were all like, let’s just get something from a street stall and squat on the stairs until dawn but he noticed you acting funny and correctly inferred your exhaustion. He pays for both of you at the counter. It agitates you a little, though you don’t know why. Later, halfway through your noodles you ask him what would you do if I died and he says don’t think about such dark shit and you think that’s a good answer. Then you lie down and close your eyes because you’re tired. You think maybe sleep will come for you this time but instead you just become deeply, frighteningly aware of his body in the room. He sits for a while in silence— probably thinking about french horns or something. You start to drift. The rustling of fabric jolts you awake. The sofa shudders where he presses his hand into it, centimeters from your neck. You feel him getting closer, a bright bloom of heat traveling through the dark. It dawns on you, suddenly, that he is going to kiss you. Then there’s a sharp knock on the door— just like that, he’s gone.

Three: You were cold, that's all.

You were cold even with your jacket and the half of his body pressed into your side and the jukebox at your back. He was like the first time you jumped into a pool and learned that you could float. The voice of a dead man was ringing in your ears like a hymn, saying our world isn’t as bad as you think, so why are you so sad, why are you so sad…

3.

“I glanced across the room,” Father Oliver is saying, his voice somber and low. Everyone in the room gawks at him without blinking like a bunch of damn ghosts, as if by watching him talk about love they will understand a little more of it themselves. Ha! If only it were that easy.

A-han’s fiddling with the mouthpiece of his trumpet, distracted. Your gaze travels from his hands to the sleeves of his uniform, his collar, his left ear.

“I was looking at him—”

His hands still. He lifts his gaze to the blackboard, eyes unfocused. Father Oliver’s voice fades into the static of the afternoon.

“—and he was, also, looking at—”

And there you are, and have been, all along.

2.

Your love language is gifts. You give him everything you have and then some. Steamed buns, peanuts, the physics exam sheet.

Your love language is acts of service. You feed him juice when he’s supposed to be standing to attention. Cut his hair on the basketball court.

Your love language is physical touch. You clap him on the shoulder, punch him in chest, flick him between the eyes, sling your arm around his neck, sidle up next to him at lunch, high five him for breathing, lie next to him on his tiny mattress eating snacks you stole from the superintendent’s office, clap him on the shoulder again, your hand lingering on his skin while you think about difficult questions like what happens when we die and where do we go after and it wouldn’t be that bad if this is all you ever had. You’d go like this willingly. A whole life pissing into the dorm head’s car while A-han cusses under his breath at silly, crazy Birdy, oh Birdy—

Is this the moment where it ends?

Or is it when the dorm head finds snack wrappers in your bag and he steps into the hallway while you’re down on your hands and feet, getting your ass whipped to pieces? Or is it the first time you show up in his room at night and you watch him give in to you in real time, his whole body deflating as he sigh-laughs and gestures for you to come up to his bunk?

1.

Or is it that day in the pool, when he tells you his name and his class and the whole world slides sideways to make way for him?

You’re seventeen and you know nothing. You know you hate your shitbag dad for raising you angry. You know you hate people who beat the shit out of others for no good reason. You have a lot of hate in you for someone so young, and very little else.

Well. You also have Birdy. And Birdy has A-han, but that’s later. Later you’ll run wild through the deserted streets of youth and laugh until you’re dead. Later you’ll grow up, and it’ll be the worst thing that’ll ever happen to you.

Nothing will hurt after that. Nothing will move you, either.

0.

One time when you were young you transferred schools. You were seventeen and full of anger and loneliness; he was seventeen and shimmered when he moved. There was this thing everyone was talking about back then, this feeling of being able to do anything you wanted. It was 1987 and the world was on its way out. The more the adults said they couldn’t have it the more all the young people obsessed over it. They hopped over gates and made out in cemeteries after midnight. They got in trouble like clockwork.

For what it’s worth, you didn’t give a shit. You were perfectly satisfied with your one-man circus, running around after dark and sneaking snacks out of the superintendent’s office when no one was looking. Sometimes someone was looking and you got caught and it was kind of shitty, but you’d dealt with shitty before and you’d deal with it again. You were the kind of reckless that invited trouble. You knew. You liked it.

One time when you were little your sisters took you to the public pool. It was the first day at your new school and your name was Birdy. When you saw him in the water it felt like you’d been swimming in the deep all your life and been dragged, abruptly, to the surface.

One time when you were little you hit your head. One time when you were young you broke your heart.

You floated aimlessly for a while before walking over to the phone. There were so many things you wanted to say to him but he started talking before you could find the words. He was always braver than you. He would have never jumped, but then and again, you would have never let him get there. Anyway, he said I— my senior wrote this song. I’m gonna play it for you, okay?

He touched your skin right below where you had fallen off the motorbike and cut yourself open, where the blood had begun to dry. He was so worried about you. The water in the shower was running, running, running.

What happened? Where does it hurt?

Only then did you start to cry.

999.

In which year do they fix the world?

In another universe someone sticks their neck out for you the way you did for that other kid. It’s messy, of course. He gets his ass beat for it right along with you but you guys get in a few more good hits too. It’s super worth it. Maybe he’s also— you know. Maybe he isn’t. Doesn’t matter.

Anyway, it’s in the small things. The small thing this random stranger does for you is enough to stop you from ruining the next three decades of your life. It’s absurd, looking back, how easy it was. All he did was say something.

This sets off a chain reaction of random strangers doing small and insignificant things for each other. Maybe five people’s lives are changed. It is revolutionary, though none of them know this. When the thing you are fighting against lives in people’s hearts and grows like a disease, anything you save is a triumph. If you can save anything at all, you celebrate.

In this other universe Zhang Jia Han dials W-A-N-A-N and you dial it back after a period of terrible, but necessary, contemplation. In this other universe you keep going to movie theaters and eating roasted peanuts out of shallow dishes. In this other universe you go back to Taipei.

You go to film school, both of you. You make movies, he writes the songs.

Someone has written this story, I’m sure. Someone fixed the damn motorbike. Maybe you did too, in your dreams, the only place where you could forgive yourself.

But we can’t.

We can write your story, but it has to stay the same.

—.

You’re barreling down a deserted road at the speed of fast. He’s gripping the handles for dear life; you’ve let go. You’re not wearing anything under your suspenders and your sling bag and your voice is hoarse from shouting. His shoulders are shaking with laughter.

“DO YOU LIKE THE COLOR OF MY NEW BIKE?” he shouts.

“IF YOU LIKE IT I DO TOO,” you shout back.

Remember this moment. Remember it when he calls you a year later and plays you the song that will undo you for the rest of your life. Remember it when you graduate, get married, file for divorce, get fired, move to a new city, lose everything.

Remember it when you see him for the first time in three decades and decide that this time you will do things right, because it’s not coming back and it’s not going anywhere: your wild, blemished youth. You were young once and you’ll never be young again. You can start living now, and god, you will But you died once when you were seventeen.

It wasn’t your fault. You searched under every fucking rock and paperweight; you looked for signs in the clouds. But the world failed you. At every juncture in the story, in every scene where someone other than you and A-han was standing there pointing and laughing, it failed you. They were always pointing and laughing at you.

It would have taken so little to change your mind. But even that small, pathetic amount of hope— they couldn’t give it up. You were young once, you were Birdy and A-han and A-han and Birdy, and they let you die.

You lived a subpar life until forty-seven, but at least you lived.

So remember this moment. Look for the laughter lines in his face, the crow’s feet. Notice his old habit of touching the back of his neck when he’s nervous and covering his mouth when he smiles. Remember the feeling of his warm breath on your face, the dim red lights of the KTV room. Remember how it felt when he pulled you out of the water and you emerged, spluttering and coughing into the back of your hand.

"Are you an idiot?" he said, incredulous.

"No," you grinned. "I'm Birdy."

It’s 1987, and you’re unstoppable.

[casiavium]

links meet but it's just my 600 AUs of skyward sword