#i am shoving every possible tw I can think of that applies to this

[raisans-art]

One more commission for @ingo-ingoing-ingone ! Again, from his fic Always by Your Side! Taking a stab at doing the scene where Cloud finds Emmet.

Which WOOSH LORD THIS WAS SO FUN TO DRAW! I am a sucker for angst and this scene is so visceral I love it.

What’s more, I was requested to do the Human Illusion comic colouring and shading style so that was nice as well =w=

The perspective and framing was oooosh real tough to get but overall I’m really happy with how this one churned out! Can’t wait to work on more commissions!

Enjoy!

[runningupthatvecna]

night drive | part 1

joseph quinn x fem!reader

masterlist

story summary: you're just out there working your job when you encounter a special (and very familiar) client that is going to change your life. for the better, obviously. but should you really entertain personal relations with a client of yours?

general tags/warnings: rpf (don't like, don't read), strangers to lovers, mutual pining, fluff and eventual spice, slow burn, this will be just a small fluffy happy story tbh :)

chapter summary: it's just another day at work. at least that's what you think to yourself when you leave your flat in berlin one morning, yet unknowing that this day – or more like the client you have to drive to his destination – is being surprisingly gentle and kind to you, his personal driver. and the best part about it? he doesn't seem too scared of you wanting to get your daily dose of adrenaline.

cw/tw: fluff! just the overwhelming smol bean sweetness that is joseph quinn really, mentions of driving at high speeds on a highway, very brief mention of throwing up and usage of drugs, y/n mentioned once (1) at the end

word count: 3,9k

a/n: this idea has been engraved in my brain for literal months and i'm being reminded of it every goddamn time i am at work. so i had to get it out, right? jesus, yeah this is gonna be incredibly self-indulgent since i am german (stereotypes apply), but i tried to keep this as non-german as possible so more of you can relate in some way. hope that's alright and not too underwhelming in general. also, please leave me feedback/reblogs if you've enjoyed this so far! thank you and i love you :)

-----

Let's see who's gonna be flying in today, you thought to yourself as you shoved the last bite of your toasted bread slice into your mouth. Always have to have some form of breakfast at least.

Early signs of sunrise were making an entrance across the sky as you downed the last sips of your orange juice, leaving a tickling sour-sweet taste on your tongue.

Thankfully, your work uniform could easily be changed into something lighter and more casual during the summer months, which is why you only had to throw on a linen blouse and a pair of pants of the same fabric, supporting the flow of air around your skin to help keep your body at a reasonable temperature.

Berlin summers could be brutal, mainly regarding temperature, which is why the air conditioned environment you found yourself working in was the main reason for you to feel grateful these days.

Earning the bread while driving people around? And not in a oh god this guy is so drunk he's going to spill the insides of his stomach in my uber kind of way, but being the exclusive chauffeur for important people? Yeah, it could definitely be worse.

Especially in Berlin, where you can be anything you want.

Most people here get lost in the consumption of intoxicating substances while spending their entire weekends at Sisyphos; they have epiphanies about starting a career in dj-ing, before abandoning that idea again two weeks later just to start a food blog or become a yoga teacher. Long forgotten be the actual reason they once moved here in the first place. For studying or something.

There was a time when you used to think that this specific culture was cool, the same thought a lot of countryside kids think before they wave goodbye to their boring stuck-in-1982 German village life, trying to escape the impending doom of getting tied down to the soils of their direct ancestors, and decide to move here.

But the years of seeing what you had seen here had changed your mindset. A lot.

You loved the morning. The peaceful silence and quietness, empty streets when you could still hear the chirping of the birds, before the rush and heat of the hectic city would cast its overlay over East and West, before most people would start their day, trying to make it to everlasting work, meetings, important business corporate tralala on time.

It was something you had learned to appreciate early on after moving here.

Lighter shades of blue creeped upon the sky now, a sign for you to get ready to leave for your first client of the day.

Airport runs, all day long.

The morning shift, yeah.

You wondered how many people with sticks up their ass you would encounter today, since Germans were usually more of the awkward silence type. Some proved themselves to be quite bearable though, engaging in friendly small talk you would always try to initiate, just to break the tension in the air which sitting in close proximity to total strangers could evoke.

Plus, you never knew who else you would have to transfer. Could it be some important sheikh from Dubai today? A South African basketball player? Maybe the ambassador of Canada, though that would require a police escort.

Ever since you got your license, you had always enjoyed driving. You kinda have to get one if you grow up in small town Germany, where there is a bus service going, but only once per decade or so. Driving had to essentially be part of your DNA at this point.

Grabbing your keys and handbag filled with a water bottle, tissues, really good smelling deodorant, some chocolate you hoped wouldn't melt in the heat of late-ish May, and other small and useful things, you headed outside.

A shiny pearly white Audi A6 was sitting in your street elegantly, a bit further down from your building. Not your own, sadly. It was owned by the agency you worked for; however, with the frequency you found yourself driving it, it could be considered your property anyway.

You really couldn't complain. It was the latest model, seat and steering wheel heating, Apple carplay, a grade A sound system, cruise control, lane assist and all sorts of other nice features a modern car had these days.

From time to time the astonishment about being trusted enough to steer this four-wheeled beast in Berlin traffic was getting to your head.

The click of the lock was like music to your ears and you threw your bag on the passenger seat, since the clients you were supposed to transfer usually sat in the back.

Like a cab, but more personal and exclusive.

The warmth of the previous day had stayed inside the car overnight, which made you lightly turn up the A/C.

You had driven the route to the airport enough times to have figured out alternatives when the main roads would be too full with traffic during rush hours, so you were never really late for work. A true German virtue.

The first client of the day was some journalist working for the German broadcasting service ARD and it was your job to deliver them to the headquarters.

As per usual you asked them a few questions, from where they were flying in, how long they'd be staying, if they'd been to the city or even the country before, etc.

Right after drop off in the center, waving the journalist goodbye and wishing them a great time, your work phone received the message with further info for your next commission.

It was always like this. You'd receive a text message with pick up and drop off address, name of the client and their time of arrival at the airport. Sometimes additional instructions.

And yes, you needed to hurry.

You needed to hurry so much in fact, that your brain completely overlooked the name of the client next on your agenda. Your sole focus was on the time, and it became clear to you that you only had thirty minutes to make the distance.

The time aspect was always but thankfully the only stressful part of your job, still you loved it nonetheless.

You could be on the road twentyfour-seven, if one would let you.

Exceeding the speed limit on the A113 only slightly by 19km/h, you made your way back out to the airport before sliding out of the driver's seat. And yes, you had to get into the building with one of those cringy signs that spelled out the name of the person you'd be awaiting.

As you locked the car out front, parked between two cabs not too far away from the huge sliding doors of the immense window front underneath the massive concrete roof of terminal 1, your entire system flooded with the tingling sensation of nervousness.

You felt your heart make five million jumps, heat rising to your cheeks, and it wasn't because the early morning sun was already casting its heat down onto earth.

It was because of the name next to the arrival time info that you only now had to pay attention to.

It was half past seven, ten minutes after his estimated landing time, and you wondered how long it would take for him to make his way through the maze that BER could be and waltz through those sliding doors in the arrival hall.

The thoughts in your head went faster than what you'd just been going on the highway to get here.

You were about to pick up Joseph Quinn.

British actor, one of your absolute favourites. You knew about all the roles he had been working on, before his international breakthrough on Stranger Things' latest season, which is exactly why now, internally, you were screaming.

Your nervousness only got worse with every opening slide of the doors, built into the wall that kept the arrival hall and baggage claim separate, revealing behind it another random person that wasn't him.

The feeling of impatience grew with each passing second, mixing into the blood you felt getting pumped through you at increasing intensity, mingling with the rushes of euphoria and thrill caused by the thoughts of meeting someone you had so much admiration for.

And yet, a yawn escaped you just in the right moment, just when the doors opened for what felt like the millionth time within the fifteen minutes of you waiting behind the little gate.

He was wearing a dark blue cap, flattening down his light brown curls and making them stick to his (fore)head, brown sunglasses sitting on the brim, a white button down with chest pockets paired with light blue jeans and two rather thin silver chains around his neck. The sleeves of the button down folded right below the elbows. A black leather jacket hung over his forearm, his phone in the hand. A small dark blue suitcase on wheels was following behind him pulled by his free hand, alongside a middle-aged woman you guessed was his manager, because she stuck by his side, holding onto her own phone and own suitcase for dear life.

Didn't seem too fond of airports, you guessed.

With the way he was dressing it almost looked like he was here for much more casual reasons, but you were mostly to never driving people around just for leisure.

You could see him scanning the gathering of people awaiting someone, in search for a sign with an all too familiar name on it.

When his eyes fell on you, he smiled, warmly. Approached you, in fact, and with the way this man maintained eye contact, you felt your knees go weaker with each step he took in your direction.

You now understood what everyone that had met him was going on about.

Your breath hitched in your throat, forcing you to clear it to avoid your voice coming out as a squeak.

While dragging in one long inhale, you tried to gather every last ounce of your confidence, praying to whatever higher power there was that neither of them would catch a whiff of your tense nerves.

Okay, okay. Oh god. Okay, be professional.

He's just another client.

"Good morning, welcome to Berlin!" A smile appeared on your lips as you were met with Joe's warm reaction before you went on with your usual routine as your brain defaulted to that, telling them your name, mentioning that you'd be here to drive them to their destination.

"Hey darling, pleasure to meet you", he shot you another warm smile, lightly touching your upper arm right above your elbow to emphasize what he had just said. You just couldn't help but chuckle lightly at his Britishness and his subtle yet intentional touch made your arm almost twitch. And the skin underneath your linen blouse warm up.

Darling.

You knew well enough that it was more of a casual thing for a British person to say and that there wasn't anything to read into, buuuuuut you just couldn't help the way you found yourself attracted to him. It was melting you. You felt warmth spread on your cheeks at his words.

All of a sudden, it became so much clearer as to why everyone's brain chemistry seemed to be altered in a good way after an encounter of this kind.

And to your surprise, your nervousness was slowly vanishing into thin air. His presence, the way he was looking at you all soft and gentle, his entire aura was calming you in a way you just didn't expect to happen at all while being around him for the first time.

The realisation that he was indeed real and just a human being was doing its part, you guessed.

As you lead them out of the building, straight to your car as discreetly as possible, trying not to evoke the attention of any potential fan, you felt his eyes on you.

Okay, let's stay professional.

Sure you had met all sorts of interesting people through your job, and yes, there also had been moments you had gotten a bit starstruck before. For example when you'd met Dave Grohl while driving him to an appointment at Universal the other day.

However, nothing you had experienced at your job had you feeling quite like Mr Joseph Quinn was making you feel.

You were internally dying to ask him a million questions. And you were going to be surprised at how many he was going to direct towards you.

"So, what brings you to Berlin?", you asked after the carry-on's got safely tucked away in the trunk and all of you had settled into your seats. His manager behind you, him behind the seat your handbag was still occupying.

From the address that was given to you, you could already tell what his answer was going to be, yet you wanted to hear it from him and avoid making assumptions.

You set the car into motion, leaving the parking bay to make your way towards the highway, and while you asked your question number one, you briefly stole a few glances at him through the rear view mirror, awaiting his response.

And yes, he noticed.

His smile appeared back on his face, before he started explaining how this trip was going to be the start of him being on the move back and forth between London and Berlin for the coming weeks since he got cast in something and was now set to film said something here.

"I am quite excited to be part of it, actually. It's gonna be directed by one of my favourite directors and I honestly have had my eyes on working with him ever since I went to drama school years ago", he explained further with a nod, another look at him through the rear revealing the small spark in his eye.

You were getting excited for him.

"You must be quite nervous then, meeting him and the cast and all for the first time?"

You were also almost stunned at yourself for how many words you were able to put into a cohesive sentence in his presence.

A light chuckle escaped his chest, "oh yeah definitely. It's always a bit nerve-wrecking meeting everyone. But the excitement about being somewhere new and being surrounded by new people and getting to experience new things kind of balances it out quite bearably."

His deep brown eyes found yours again through the mirror. The eye contact this man was able to hold, even without being face to face with his person opposite, was honestly impressive.

You wanted to tell him. About how you'd seen all of his previous work, how all of his performances always left you completely stunned out of your mind since you were unable to wrap your head around how anyone could be this good at acting and portraying characters the way he always managed to. About how proud you were of him, seeing him succeed and receive things he'd been dreaming of, getting the things in life he'd always seemed to want and work towards. About how you had nothing but utter admiration for him. But you couldn't, because that would mean overstepping your boundaries.

Maybe, just maybe you would say that at the end of the week, when you were scheduled to shuttle him back to the airport.

"That sounds .. bearable", you quipped before continuing on a more serious note, "is this your first time here then?"

"Yes and no, I think I was here one time with school, but that was ages ago. We went and saw a few places, as part of history class, but I didn't pay enough attention back then to remember details, if I'm honest."

He let out another one of his deep chuckles.

Delightful how he was elaborating on his answers instead of keeping them one or two-worded.

"Oh, that doesn't count then", you answered while putting the car in cruise control as you switched back onto the A113. Speed limit was at 120km/h and you intended to stay there this time.

"Yeah, I definitely need a refresher I think, maybe I'll have some time on my days off during the next weeks. What about you, are you from here?"

Why, need a tour guide, Mr Quinn?

Just now, the A/C brought a whiff of his scent around to you, which you hadn't really taken note of before when he had stood close enough while greeting you at the terminal. Sandalwood, bergamot, a slight note of lingering cigarette smoke.

Once again you shot him a little glance through the mirror, which is when you noticed that his manager had passed out with her head resting against the window.

Sleep deprived, aren't we all?

"Yes and no", you mirrored him, "I grew up the South, in an insignificantly small town somewhere between Stuttgart and Munich, if you happen to know where that is?"

Joseph nodded, still with a curious expression decorating his facial features.

A bit impressed at his geography knowledge, you continued.

"I was born in the West, my family's from there originally. But I've been living in Berlin for a solid five years now, so I do consider myself somewhat of a local."

"That sounds sweet. So you know all the good spots then, hm?"

"Oh, for sure", you replied quirking up an eyebrow and then paused when you took the exit onto the A10, just to ask him, "ever been on a German highway before?"

"Not that I can recall", his voice changed into one of a slightly worried tone and you had a feeling that he was raising an eyebrow at you, "um, why?"

"You're about to see, just let me know in case the speed is making you uncomfortable or anything, I can go slower."

You could tell from the expression on his face that he wasn't sure if he should laugh or be terrified about what you just said to him, but he ended up giving you the green light anyway.

You thanked him mentally for the trust he was instilling in you.

No speed limit for at least 12km, aka getting paid to play Formula 1 in real life. Unfortunately, morning traffic crossed your plans of mildly and humbly impressing him (and his still asleep manager), so the top speed for today stayed at a cozy 173km/h. And maybe it was a good thing, getting speedblocked by traffic and keeping you from exposing yourself as a douchey sucker for speeds above two hundred kilometers per hour.

"You must really enjoy driving", you heard him almost mumble, a smile playing on his plush pink lips, almost making the colour in them disappear as it grew wider. He looked as if something in his head just clicked into place and he had come to a realization.

"Oh, what gave me away?"

"I think it's the way you stay so calm and collected while switching lanes at light speed."

His conclusion made you snort a little, the way he said it with such British seriousness.

"It's actually my German genes, you know?", you quipped back at him, without taking your eyes off what was happening in front of you.

You figured Joe would be appreciative of that.

Throughout the whole rest of the thirty minute ride to Babelsberg, a part of the town of Potsdam, with Babelsberg itself being a prestigious area with all sorts of different film sets and a bunch of production companies located at, there was not a single second in which you felt uncomfortable. No awkward silence whatsoever. And you hadn't even have to be the one breaking the ice this time.

Because there wasn't any to break in the first place. It was almost like the two of you had met before.

However, you kept the topics of your conversation on a strict small talk level. Your own level of professionalism was nagging at your brain in the back of your head continuously. You shouldn't be engaging in sharing personal info. You weren't supposed to make and entertain any sort of deep(er) connection with clients.

They were just clients and you were just their designated driver.

So you kept the convo at a strictly friendly brief small talk level.

Eventually you reached the hotel your two passengers were going to be staying at for the time being, and after you had gotten their suitcases out of the trunk for them in the hotel entry way, you actually worked up the courage to ask Joseph for a picture.

You knew yourself well enough that if you didn't, you'd regret it for the rest of your time on earth. And surely this was a once in a time-on-earth encounter, right?

-----

Another few airport calls were awaiting you silently through single respective vibrations of your work phone.

The outlook on the rest of the day was making a rather dull impression on you, not surprising after the morning you just had.

Pick up a medium known German actress and transfer her to the set of a talk show. Some athlete needing to get to the olympic stadium for some training camp. Another journalist scheduled to attend a convention. Another random rich person able to afford private shuttle service asking you to drive them to some hotel in the center.

Your thoughts kept drifting to your (by far) favourite encounter of the day. Over and over and over again.

During your lonely lunch break on the parking lot of the airport's closest gas station, you couldn't stop yourself from grinning at your private phone screen, the few selfies Joseph had taken of the both of you being reproduced on the display and being swiped back and forth by your thumb.

He had swung an arm around your half a head smaller figure, pulled you surprisingly tight into his white button up covering his side, cap still forcing this light brown curls to stick to his forehead, the arm not surrounding you stretched out, holding your phone into the warm early summer air, spinning the both of you around to find the best angle and background with one of his silly little giggles filling your ears.

In one of the photos, a toothy smile spread across both of your faces; another was slightly blurred because his focus was lying on taking you in instead of bothering to hold the phone steady.

Yeah, just a client.

The rest of the shift went the utmost ordinary and usual way. Time flew, which you were thankful for, since the only thing you wanted to do at this point was go home, refresh yourself through showering your warmed up skin in cool water, and keep staring at those photos juuust a little more.

For what would be the last time today your work phone vibrated once more, and the reason appeared entirely clueless to you as you were already on your way home.

A direct message from your boss.

Hey y/n, special commission for you this coming week. You're going to be assigned to Mr Quinn exclusively for the entirety of his stay. He will need transfer between hotel and film set twice daily until his ADT on May 27. I know I can count on you. Cheers and enjoy the rest of your evening.

– Laurenz

The letters of the words became a blur in your periphery.

Oh dear lord.

-----

taglist is empty and open

[crimsonblackrose]

tagged by @le-red-queen thank you for tag! (Hope your move has gone well! 💖)

3 ships: Lawrusso...uh...hmm...it feels silly if they’re all CK/TKK but I guess I’ve been enjoying writing lawguichi and I assume I’ll enjoy whatever I write next. Uh but I guess that’s sort of phoning it in so I do always enjoy Hannigram and I was going to pick an anime ship but then like twenty jumped to the forefront of my mind all of a sudden like opening a can of joke peanuts so I’ll just pick Tiger and Bunny though I haven’t watched the new season and I think I missed a movie.

1st ever ship: I’m wracking my brain for that one I honestly don’t remember. Like I remember my first fanfiction I ever read because an upperclassman just printed out a fic and shoved it in my hands and was like read this and it was sonic/shadow and I was like wtf is this? Because I didn’t even play the games really so I had no context for what I was reading and it was kind of like someone just threw me into the deep end of the pool. 😂 Maybe like Misty and Ash from pokemon? 😂

Last song: SCREAMING you will not believe this dear friend, but I pulled up the song I was listening to on youtube and guess whose in the music video? Mary Mouser. Tw for her great acting skills while she simulates drowning in a bathtub and being trapped under glass in a bathtub. Anyway here’s Pierce the Veil’s Emergency Contact

Currently reading: Comments so I can respond to them. I’m behind by five pages I think. But I’ve got an 8 hour train ride ahead of me, actually longer because then I have to take another one home. So I’m hoping to catch up though I also brought magazines and a little kids coloring book that my cousin gave me when I went to her kids birthday party. 😂 Also reading job postings and applying for as many of those as possible. Trying to be productive.

But the actual book I’m reading atm is Queen of Shadows, we’ve been slowly trudging through the series for book club. My app says I’ve got 6 hours left, those books are massive which you don’t notice until you hold the physical book in your hands, and since I’m reading them on an app I never notice.

Last movie: Bad Moms, I’d already seen it but my sisters wanted to watch something so I watched it while doing other things. I’m hoping to watch the new Matilda movie when I get home tonight, I saw the show in London a long time ago and am curious how it compares. Plus Matilda is like my childhood favorite book/movie/story.

Currently consuming: Starbucks mocha frappuccino and some pumpkin scones from a mix I made a couple of days ago.

Currently watching: I just finished Letterkenny and Wednesday and tried picking up Leverage Redemption again but it’s got annoying ads every five seconds so I don’t know if I’ll make it very far so I started The Bear.

Currently craving: a full time job and my own place. 😅 Freedom and independence I suppose is what that boils down to. So we’ll see how it goes this year. Tagging (I don’t know whose done this and been tagged so I apologize if you just got tagged in this): @ziltoid-coffee @coldcompanion @hatethatoneguy @youandthemountains @macchiatosdumptruck

[novantinuum]

Intake (SUF one-shot)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: Teen Audiences (TW: brief discussion of mental illness related topics like suicide ideation and intrusive thoughts.)

Words: 2800

Summary: Steven fills out an important form.

This is set multiple months pre The Future, and is a small glimpse into Steven’s journey to find a therapist.

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. AO3 link will be provided in the reblogs. Thank you! <3

____

His leg bounces with a restless fervor as he slumps in the waiting room chair, clutching the clipboard and pencil the receptionist gave him with a white knuckled grip. Gaze hardened, he takes a good long look at the other patients spread across the room, a few of them appearing equally as spent and fidgety as him, and hunches over the intake form so his answers will be conclusively obscured from their view.

He grimaces. Ugh. Why would a place like this lay out their chairs so close, anyways? Why even give people the option of being nosey? He may be stuck seeing this therapist Connie’s mom recommended because he’s all messed up in the head, but it’s not like he wants the whole planet to know about it. Goodness knows all of Beach City and Little Homeworld already does thanks to his little ‘incident’ a month back. That’s bad enough.

His chest almost feeling hollow as he sighs, he scrawls in his name, his birthday, his cell number, address, and an emergency contact (Dad, who left for the car to give him privacy after signing a few forms he can’t fill out as a minor) on the lines indicated. He leaves out his many middle names for once, all of them leaving a bitter taste in his mouth at this present moment. Briefly, he wonders if this will be a problem, as these past few weeks Dr. Maheswaran assisted his dad in finally acquiring legal documentation and health insurance for him, and per those records he’s officially ‘Steven Quartz Universe’ in the eyes of the law.

Eventually he shrugs, figuring the likelihood of there being another sixteen-year-old ‘Steven Universe’ here today to confuse him with is nearing zero.

Okay, what’s next?

He briefly skims over the next few passages— a bunch of legalese about the terms of counselor-patient confidentiality and when they might have to breach that for safety reasons— and signs where indicated so they know he looked over it.

Someone sitting two chairs away coughs. He can’t help but flinch at the sudden noise, and folds himself tighter in his own seat as he flips over the first page of the form and continues to read.

In a few words, explain why you’ve chosen to reach out to us today. How can we help you?

Steven frowns, fingers twitching around the shaft of the pencil as he contemplates how to respond. For whatever reason, the question “explain why you’re here” feels very blunt and antagonistic to him in a way he can’t quite ascertain. Like... in a “give the wrong answer, get booted right out the door” sorta way. He lifts his head, peering at all the humans spread across the room, each and every one with their own story, the central character of their own worlds. Some are texting on their phones as they wait for the receptionist to call their names, others are filling out forms as well. What brought these people here, he wonders? Surely there’s plenty of people having a worse time than him right now. Surely there’s people with real problems, people who are literally struggling just to stay alive from day-to-day. He’s not like that, right? Besides that one little wobble a month back, he’s been handling his problems on his own fairly okay. Hasn’t he? So what makes him selfish enough to think that he’s worth anyone’s time?

In his pocket his phone vibrates, knocking him back into reality. He yanks it out and switches it on to look at the new text splashed across the lock screen:

Dad: Hey Schtu-ball, just wanna let you know that I’m proud of you and love you very much. You’ve got this!

He stares at these words for a good minute, the kind sentiment— despite reading as a little hopelessly over-encouraging— filling the hollow space in his chest partway. Even if his dad’s been a bit overbearing in his affections this past month, it’s clear he means well.

So. Why am I here today, he thinks, reading the question over again. He folds his fingers up into a stiff fist, pulling his thumb across his knuckles. After licking his chapped lips and shoving his phone back in his pocket, he scribbles a hasty reply.

I feel really angry and empty and tense and just want to be better.

The teen pauses, allowing those words to echo over and over in his mind, to truly sink in. It’s such a succinct and to-the-point admission that he suddenly wonders why he ever doubted he was less deserving of aid than anyone else in this waiting room.

His countenance a little lighter now and his shoulders growing less stiff, he moves on to the next section.

To aid our counselors in providing you the best possible care, please rate the following statements on a scale from zero to four, zero meaning “not at all like me,” and four meaning “extremely like me.”

Steven’s eyes dart across the length of the massive table below these instructions, his previous anxiety rushing back into his brittle bones as if it’d never left. Each row is host to a short sentence and five blank boxes, numbered zero to four. Read it and rate yourself, right? Should be simple enough. But as his glance flits over these statements and he understands the sort of personal, probing questions they’re asking through them, he begins to mistrust his previous burst of optimism. Dread floods his system, making his cheeks flush bright pink. Heart pounding at the mere thought of people staring, he drops his head lower, successfully hiding most of his face behind the clipboard until he can coax that betraying glow into fading away.

In the end, this goes to prove that it doesn’t matter if everyone says therapy will be ‘helpful’ for him; reflecting on all this junk is still gonna suck.

Quietly, he takes a steadying breath and forces himself to read on, to crack open the hornet’s nest that is the depths of his crap brain.

1. I am shy around others.

He considers this for a moment. Shy. Historically, this has never been a word people would use to describe him. For years he reveled in the thrill of meeting new people, new Gems. His childhood eagerness to engage in fellowship with those around is half the reason Era 3 even exists. And he’s fine around people he knows. Like, on a rare good day he has no problem playing board games or watching cheesy soap operas with his friends. But to be fair... as of late, his eagerness to meet anyone new feels like it’s all but vanished. Is that being shy? Or is that just him failing to care for anyone beyond his inner circle?

With a small shrug he checks the box for one, and moves on.

2. I don’t enjoy being around people as much as I used to.

Hmm. Probably a three. People are unintentionally exhausting these days. He used to be energized by social interaction, and now it just leaves him sucked dry. Most days he’d rather stick to his room.

3. I feel isolated and alone.

The weight of the diamond embedded in his belly— something he normally barely notices— grows ever more apparent as he marks off a four.

4. My heart often races for no good reason.

Uh, yeah. What happened just a minute ago is a pretty good tell. Four.

5. I have spells of terror or panic.

Another four.

6. I am anxious that I might have a panic attack while in public.

Four once more. He holds his pencil tighter, squirming in his seat as he tries (and fails) not to think about the pale scars spread across his back, hidden in his hairline, and on the underside of his arms, indentations that once marked the base of the crystalline spines that jut out from between his scales.

7. I think about food more than I’d like to.

Steven pauses at this one. For once, he’s not sure he can say this statement applies to him. Truth be told, he only started caring about what he put in his mouth earlier this year, when he cut meat and fish out of his diet. And that’s not... a bad thing? It’s not bad to want to consider the impact your food choices have on the environment? He definitely didn’t choose to do so for self-denying reasons, and that’s probably what they’re asking about. He checks zero, and moves on.

8. I feel out of control when I eat.

He almost checks another zero, but then he remembers that day after the proposal... and the week after his incident. And he decides that even if he doesn’t consciously obsess over the food he eats, there’s still a few occasions where once he starts snacking he finds it difficult to stop. A one it is, then.

9. I have sleep difficulties.

This statement nearly makes him laugh. Does he have sleep difficulties. Hah. He doesn’t think he’s gotten a truly restful night of sleep since he sacrificed himself to Homeworld at fourteen.

A solid four. No question.

10. My thoughts are racing.

Four.

11. I feel uncomfortable around people I don’t know.

Hmm. Two.

12. I drink alcohol frequently.

The only alcohol he’s ever had is a tiny sip of his dad’s with permission at Garnet’s wedding reception, and it tasted terrible. He has no interest in drinking again. Zero.

13. When I drink alcohol I can’t remember what happened.

Zero.

14. I drink more than I should.

Zero again.

15. I have done something I have regretted because of drinking.

Another zero. It almost makes him feel better, just knowing there’s a decent number of lines on this paper that aren’t a carbon copy of his lived experience.

16. I feel sad all the time.

Aaaand back to “the story of his life.” Briefly, he wonders if ‘feeling sad’ is the same thing as feeling nothing at all. But then again, does the difference really matter? He checks the box for three.

17. I am concerned that other people don’t like me.

Three. Although honestly, he’s even more concerned that people continue to like him after everything he’s done.

18. I feel worthless.

Steven nibbles at the inside of his cheek as he reads this statement, memories automatically flashing through the pathetic events of the last few weeks, through all the days he barely crawled out from under his covers, all the days he didn’t even manage to brush his teeth or run his fingers through his greasy, knotted hair, all those awful days he couldn’t so much as play one of his video games without growing tired of it in minutes and taking a restless nap for the rest of the afternoon instead.

Four.

19. I feel helpless.

Two. Everyday affairs are a drag, but at the very least he knows he can fight his way out of danger in a pinch. He wouldn’t call that helpless.

20. I have thoughts of ending my life.

He freezes. Goes back, reads this line again. Reads it a third time to make sure he’s not horrendously misconstruing the prompt he’s been given.

(Tries not to think too deeply about the graphic images that flood his imagination some nights. It’s just stray thoughts, though. He’s fine.)

One, he marks, although his muscles can’t help but twitch as he shifts his wrist, as if deep down he knows he’s underplaying his answer.

21. I feel tense.

Steven gives a small snort under his breath. Yeah, he outright admitted as much earlier in this form. Four.

22. I get angry easily.

His grip tightens.

Four.

23. I have difficulty controlling my temper.

He swallows hard, his mouth feeling abnormally dry. He’s not sure he likes how blunt and probing this questionnaire is becoming.

Four...

24. I sometimes feel like breaking or smashing things.

His knuckles go white around his pencil, and he only barely resists the temptation to snap it in half as he feels a rush of hard light flow the distance from his gem through the veins of his arm. Geeze, it’s not like he means to break things! It’s just that all of his stupid powers are linked with his emotions, and whenever he gets even marginally upset now things start to splinter, crack in half, and inevitably end up broken. Just another sign he’s fated to ruin everything around him forever, and that his intent doesn’t matter. Why do they have to pry into this? He already feels terrible enough for thinking these things.

Three, he checks, his eyes damp, but mostly because he’s too scared what their response will be otherwise.

25. I am not able to concentrate as well as usual.

He takes a deep breath, coaxing his body to return to a baseline state. Eh. He’ll give this a two.

26. I feel self-conscious around others.

His glance skirts over the edge of the clipboard to monitor the four others currently spread out across the room. One’s rhythmically swinging their legs, another is still filling out a form like him, but sitting criss-cross on the chair, and the other two are quietly typing on their phones. Thankfully none of them are pressing an ounce of attention his way, (at least, not right now), but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like an exposed nerve. Three.

27. I am afraid I may lose control and act violently.

The raw memories hit like lightning before he can even think to prepare.

Flashes of Pink. Orange fragments, cold and slick in his palms. Thunder splits the skies overhead, each cacophonous sound manifesting in perfect synchronicity with his erratic heartbeat, with each tidal wave of thoughts gushing like a maelstrom through his head: SHATTERER, I’m a shatterer, I’m—

Feeling almost dizzy from the intensity of his heart’s pulse, he knows with full certainty that his cheeks are glowing bright pink again. All he can do is clench his fists, suck down whatever amount of fresh air his lungs will allow, and pray to the very stars themselves that it’ll fade away before it garners the attention of every last human in this place.

He checks the box for four, pencil marking so hard that slivers of graphite splinter off onto the page, and moves on before he can be cowardly enough to change his answer.

28. I have thoughts of hurting others.

His fingernails claw into the thin denim at his knee, limbs outright quivering as he stews in his seat, as he’s forced to reflect upon all the ugly, ugly thoughts that have flit across his awareness over the past weeks. Thoughts about one Gem specifically. He’s... always been angry, always harbored deep resentment... but ever since his most recent trip to visit Her, he hasn’t been able to shake this awful idea: a vision of him standing over the remnants of her gemstone, shattered, fragments spilled across the otherwise pristine floors of Homeworld. He... he didn’t do it when he had the chance. He wouldn’t do it, would he?

(Orange fragments, cold and slick...)

Would he??

And yet nevertheless, the thought tortures him with its frequency, makes him feel downright nauseous at every turn. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to feel this way at all.

Four.

29. I am unable to keep up with my schoolwork.

Stop. Sharp inhale. Staccato, shaky exhale. Repeat, deeper this time. Repeat.

(He can no longer see neon pink reflecting in the smooth metal clasp at the top of his clipboard.)

Okay. Schoolwork.

N/A, he writes in one of the boxes, arm still trembling from the last two questions despite his attempt at cool-down exercises. Not applicable. He hasn’t even been to school, and dreads the inevitability of this therapist asking about that mess.

30. It’s hard to stay motivated for my classes.

N/A.

31. I feel confident that I can succeed academically.

N/A, once more.

And like that, the questionnaire is over. Steven is quick to hide his answers behind the front page, and slides the pencil through the length of the metal clip. He glances around him, drinking in his surroundings with pinpoint precision. Despite his earlier concerns, no one is maliciously staring. No one’s whispering. He internally wrestled with a few challenging subjects and what do you know, it didn’t end in an embarrassingly public meltdown. He— he wipes a stray tear from his eye with the butt of his palm— he took a solid step forward today.

Coercing his body to move, he pulls himself out of the cushioned chair and crosses the room.

“I finished,” he says softly, proudly, as he hands the clipboard and pencil to the receptionist. She smiles and accepts his hard-fought offering.

For the first time in a while, the smile he instinctively flashes back almost feels genuine.

I want to be better, he thinks. I will be better.

____

Notes:

This fic is loosely based on my own experience of the intake process, and the questionnaire I had to fill out. No two intake experiences are the same though, of course. This is merely one possibility. I also take personal liberties on the way I depict Steven’s struggle with mental health, and acknowledge and respect that no two fans’ interpretation will be the same.

Additional notes: -Steven’s still a minor, so he can’t actually sign contracts. I figure Greg signed a handful of forms beforehand as his guardian, and then left to allow his son a bit of privacy with filling out the questionnaire stuff. Since he's a teen, they're still giving him the full confidentiality clauses to look over so he's wholly aware how that works, though.

-To expand on a brief comment made in the midst of this, I headcanon that Steven cut both meat and fish out of his diet, and thus actually slipped up on his vegetarian diet when he was training with Jasper. I interpret this as further showcasing how the poor kid— due to being mentally vulnerable at the time and thus liable to coercion/unwise decisions— began to take actions that went against much of his established morality. He ended up sacrificing his dietary choices during those days, just like he briefly sacrificed his pacifistic views to fight Jasper.

-I also headcanon that the therapist Steven is going in to see after this isn’t the one he eventually sticks with and mentions as “my new therapist” in The Future. It’s totally normal and okay to try a few different people to find someone who you click with, after all.

Thank you for reading!

[degenerate-yandere]

Damon & Ray Headcanons

Woo boy this took awhile to get through, but here it is! Some general Headcanons for my boys to lay some groundwork, I plan on doing some fics for them very soon.

Ray has some double-ups from a previous post, simply because I wanted this to be the comprehensive post with all their information in one spot, if that makes sense.

Anyway I hope y’all enjoy! This was partly for the beautiful @ramwrites​ who wanted some Damon content, and who am I to deny the Queen’s request.

Picrews used: Damon, Ray.

TW: Abuse, kidnapping, yandere, violence, implied murder, drugging, non-consensual touching, stalking, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour

Damon:

Attraction + Pursuit

Disgust - an ample word to describe Damon’s initial reaction to these newfound emotions that threaten the fortitude of his petrified heart. Every time you cause his breath to hitch in his throat, he’s reminded of just how damn vulnerable you make him; a highly unwelcomed source of insecurity. If Damon hates one thing, it’s being undermined.

As a result of his mounting insecurity, it can be expected that his infatuation, at first, manifests as resentment. Damon will be especially cruel to you - intimidation, bullying, and public degradation are all outlets of his internal frustration. You’ll think he hates you, and maybe a part of him does. He doesn’t feel guilty, no; this is all your fault, you’re the one who makes him feel this way - It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

This torment is short-lived however. It’ll come as an epiphany as he towers over you, looking down at your comparatively fragile form. You are pathetic, but more importantly, he isn’t. Damon’s bigger and stronger than you, so what’s stopping him from simply making you his? He’s quick to surmise that he’s entitled to you. All this stems from Damon’s immense ego; an inflated sense of superiority, and a fragile one at that.

As far Damon’s concerned, you need him as much as he needs you. First-hand experience has shown him just how weak and defenseless you are. You need him to keep you safe. He’ll protect you, he likes to keep what’s his intact - unknowing to the fact he’s the exact thing you need to be protected from.

It’ll give you whiplash how fast Damon’s demeanor seems to change. You’ll be lucky to receive a grumbled apology for his past actions. He’ll loom above you nigh constantly, glaring daggers at any who’d approach you. His intimidating presence is enough on its own to isolate you.

It’s important to note Damon’s utter lack of experience. Sure, he’s had numerous flings in the past, but this - this is different. Romance is an alien concept, and courtship is an incomprehensible endeavor. But he tries - he makes an effort to lower his gravelly voice, relaxing his body language and resisting the urge to belittle you. He’ll bring you odd gifts and trinkets, shoving them into your hands with no explanation other than a grunt. You doubt they were acquired through wholesome means. Damon will grumble compliments, ones that, when accompanied with his threatening voice and vulgar verbiage, are often perceived as thinly-veiled threats. He tries, he really does - but his patience is easily waned.

Any inquiries you raise about his insistence on shadowing you are met with a scoff and a disingenuous insult;

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.”

No matter how many times you ask him, his answer will always be the same - nonchalant and unsatisfactory.

He’ll grow tired if you continue to fear him or try to avoid him. You should be grateful. Damon will resort to threats and manipulation to force you to accept his advances.

Anyone he deems a threat, whether that be individuals he believes might harm you, partners, exes, or even people who simply stare at you too long, will all meet a similar fate - broken, bloodied, and barely recognizable. He likes to take pictures of his hard work, he can’t help but feel a sense of pride as he looks through them. Maybe he’d show you one day, to let you know just how grateful you should be that he’s keeping you safe. There’s a wicked glee he derives from pummeling people for your sake.

Kidnapping is an inevitability; the urge to protect you from those who’d dare to take you away from him, and his selfish desire to own you, will make that decision a definite one.

It’ll be easy - cornering you in some isolated spot late at night, caging you against his built body as he tells you just how long he’s been waiting for this. He’ll overpower you with his abundant brute strength, remarking that the more you struggle, the rougher he’ll be - a promise he makes well on. It’s hard to deny his joy of having you struggle against him, completely at his mercy. It serves as an omen of the life that awaits you.

Post-kidnapping + Punishment

Damon’s captivity is stern and demanding. There is no ’grace period’, no time allocated to allow you to grow somewhat accustomed with the nightmare you’ve been thrust into.

His expectations, as demeaning as they are, are made evident from the beginning. You are to accept his affections, no matter how forceful or rough. You will show him ample appreciation for protecting you, an act which he considers merciful.

Damon is quick to ‘correct your mistakes’, and ensures you never make them again. There’s no restraint, no mercy - but he likes it when you beg anyway.

Punishments are cruel and severe; Taunting you as he holds the cindering end of his cigarette inches above your skin, allowing you to feel the heat emanating from it as you beg and plead - cut short as he presses it against your flesh. Isolation, food deprivation, impassioned beatings -  all serving as painful reprimands.

Behind his anger and frustration lies an undeniable sadistic enthusiasm as he punishes you. Damon loves putting you in your place, he adores holding immense power over you.

Bite marks litter your body, purple patches coat your neck - Damon’s constant, little ‘reminders’ to show you who you belong to. His affection is equally barbaric; his touches leave bruises, his kisses result in bloodied, swollen lips.

Don’t squirm when he forces you onto his lap to place kisses along your shoulder, don’t cry when he tightly embraces you in bed, and maybe he’ll be gentle.

His ego is a possible source of exploitation - worship him, tell him how big and strong he is, confess your adoration, and he may just let his guard down.

If you ever consider escape, pray he never finds you. Damon will yank you by the hair as he tells you just how much you’ve fucked up. A series of harsh punishments follow, to ingrain the fact that you belong to him, that you can never escape him. There’s no painkillers, no warning or care as he begins applying painful pressure to your legs. He’ll ensure you can’t run from him again.

Non-Yandere Headcanons 

Damon found work as a bouncer for a few years, until he was abruptly fired for hospitalizing a rowdy client. As a result, he’s resorted to… less than ethical means of income.

Damon’s birthday is on March 27th, though he isn’t one to celebrate it.

You bet this dude has a motorcycle, and he treats it like his child.

Damon is built like an absolute tank - a brick wall of raw, hard power. He’s proud of his stature.

He tastes, and often smells, like booze and cigarettes - indicative of his poor habits.

Ray:

Attraction + Pursuit

Ray’s infatuation, a product of a seemingly inconsequential interaction, is quick to fester into enraptured obsession. He’ll form an emotional dependency, a suffocating need, toward the poor soul he’s latched onto.

He’ll find a desire to satiate his growing obsession, to satisfy the numerous questions about you that weigh constantly on his mind. He can’t approach you directly, the very thought makes his heart threaten to leap from his chest. Instead, he’ll opt to stalk you, just so he can learn everything about you. He’ll become acquainted with your place of residence, rifling through your belongings - perhaps even taking some to keep for himself. You could’ve sworn you had more pairs of underwear.

The more he finds out about you, the more ultimately enamoured he becomes. Ray can’t stop thinking about you. That’s when the drawings begin. They start as idle sketches, cute doodles accompanied by scribbled love-hearts. It isn’t long before Ray is struck with grander inspiration, your likeness becoming a mainstake in his manga. He draws panels upon panels of his love-sick longing; taking you on the romantic dates you deserve, heartfelt confessions of love which reek of shoujo cliche, tender kisses and gentle touches. They line the walls of his room, accompanied by the various photographs he’s taken of you - for reference, of course.

That isn’t the extent of his collection, however. Ray keeps a private stash; the outlet for his more salacious desires. He feels somewhat bad about drawing your perfect form in such disgusting, compromising scenarios, but his filthy needs overpower his consideration.

Ray’s rationality, as middling as it is, only erodes as his obsession grows more unrestrained. He’ll be increasingly emboldened, sending you love letters and anonymous text messages with such detail that they establish…. troubling implications.

His gnawing need for you only grows further. It keeps him up at night, his fingers shakely caressing your clothes desperately hoping it’ll bring him comfort. He wants to rip his hair out sometimes - he just wants to touch you, he wants to love you, he needs you more than anything.

Ray isn’t a violent man, but if anyone threatens his one-sided relationship with you, well - he can’t let that happen. A baseball bat, and the lovestruck conviction to swing it, work wonders at remeding his problems. He doesn’t mean to hurt anyone, he frantically tells himself as he washes the blood from his hands.

He eventually reaches the conclusion that he has to take you. The very thought of you being swept away, abandoning him, is enough to make his decision a certainty. Ray assures himself that it’s what’s best for you - he can take care of you, keep you safe and secure.

Unlike Damon, Ray goes about his kidnapping with significantly more finesse. He can’t stand the thought of hurting you - he’ll instead opt to slip something in your drink, or ambush you with a strong-smelling rag against your nose.

Post-kidnapping + Punishment

You’ll wake up, gagged and handcuffed to his bedpost; This marks the beginning of your ‘relationship’. He’ll try desperately to tell you he won't hurt you, to convince you that he just wants to help you. His fingers seem magnetised to you, itching and yearning to feel you beneath them. The blazing blush across his face, the bashful grin adorning his lips, and the utterly deranged adoration that speckle his eyes betray just how content he is.

He’ll be quick to show you just how much he loves you; flicking through all his artwork of you, reaffirming that it’s all been for you.

Ray is patient, understanding, but completely overbearing. When he sees how terrified you are he can’t help but coil himself around you and mutter reassurances against your skin - even if he’s the very source of your fear

“It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay. I-I have you now, you d-don’t have to be afraid anymore”.

It won’t take long to realize just how needy he is - his touch-starved skin rarely leaving yours. He relishes in your sweet touch, nuzzling against you as his arms wrap around you, his fingers exploring every inch of your flesh. Whines and groans escape him whenever he’s deprived of your addictive touch.

Ray’s insists on feeding you, sitting you on his lap as he plays video games or draws, pulling you close and burying his nose in your hair as he drifts to sleep. His kisses, as rare as they are without your consent, are sloppy and inexperienced - but laced with such a raw, unrestrained need.

Lives for your praise and validation, outright begging for it. His heart swells at any crumbs he can extrapolate. You stared at his artwork? You must love it! You didn’t flinch away when he kissed you? You must want him just as much as he wants you.

Ray isn’t one for punishments, he couldn’t bring himself to willingly hurt his precious darling. If you grow violent or reckless, he’ll simply pin you down and wait out your little outburst.

But if he ever fears you may leave him, or if you ever manage to escape and he catches you - he has no quarrels about doing anything if it means you can’t escape. The thought of you abandoning him makes him completely unhinged. Ray’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means hurting you. He’ll cry and scream, begging you to tell him why ‘you’re making him do this’.

“Y-You can’t leave me! Don’t you get it?! I-I can’t live without you!”

Non-yandere Headcanons

Ray’s birthday is on October 10th, although he never usually has anyone to celebrate with...

Despite his shut-in nature, Ray likes to remain fit. He frequents the gym at his apartment complex (at night of course; less people). He did martial arts during his teenage years, and reluctantly joined his school’s volleyball team. This results in a lean physique comprised of sinewy, surprisingly strong muscles - all the better to restrain protect his darling.

He makes money from his web manga and commissions, as well as working part time at a videogame store. Has a surprisingly good work ethic.

Survives off the college diet of caffeine and ramen - but he’ll try his damndest to change it if his darling is less than receptive of his refined cuisine.

His hygiene… isn’t the best. He’s a firm believer that a shower can be replaced with spraying oneself with copious amounts of cheap, intoxicatingly strong body spray.

[thetomorrowshow]

Mutually Beneficial Ch. xxix

First  -  Previous  -  Next  -  Chapter list  -  AO3!

Recommended listening: Cavetown - 2am

Tw: Roman’s a hurt boi

-

Sneaking into the kitchen without alerting Logan could be a competitive sport, Roman thought, as he did just that. The next annual Creation Games that he held in the Imagination would have to feature it. He planned it out as he opened the fridge without a creak.

A dark room. Swept with night, a patch of darkness washed light with a moonbeam pushing through the crack in the curtains. Floorboards strategically placed to creak when pressure was applied.

The quest was to retrieve a a small, wooden token from any randomized place in the kitchen-modeled room. Breakables scattered on every surface, cupboards to hide in when whatever represented Logan heard you. A motion sensor!

This felt nice. Roman had been dry when it came to creativity as of late—ironic, as that was what he literally was. Or perhaps it was worrisome, not ironic. It felt good to have a new idea, though, and deep inside, he realized Thomas was smiling. That was good. For the first time since the incident, it felt like things were looking up.

“Roman? What are you doing in the dark?”

The light clicked on and Roman muttered a curse. He spun slowly on his heel. Logan stood in the doorway, one hand still on the light switch. Something between worry and confusion crossed his face. “It's the middle of the day,” he said slowly. “Why was the light off?”

“Uh. . . .” The truth? That could be the best lie in this situation. “I . . . was designing a game!”

Logan's face lit up in that special way, the way that made Roman feel all warm inside. He knew that that look meant the logical Side was excited, intrigue shining in his eyes and discovery raising his eyebrows. “Really? Might I assist?”

Well, maybe a lie would have been better. Roman had been designing a game, but Logan would likely find it more insulting than interesting. Better to not share.

“It's not for Thomas to play, probably,” Roman tried to cover. “Just for the peoples of the Imagination. And it's barely an inkling as of yet. I'll approach you if I think it's good enough for Thomas.”

Logan nodded, and seemed to turn to leave. Roman almost laughed in pure relief and joy. How had he escaped the inevitable discussion? Then Logan stopped, and frowned. Deeply. “Roman, while pleased that you seem to be creating, I must say this.”

This. This was precisely what Roman had been attempting to avoid. This dance, that had been repeated too many times over the seven days the Mind Palace had been eerily quiet, lacking Patton's presence. Over and over again, Logan tried to ask him to explain himself. Over and over again, Roman deflected his questions and slipped away.

“You promised. In exchange for me remaining, you would permit my helping you.” Logan reached out a hand. “Please. Allow me to help.”

Roman stared at the outstretched hand. He—he couldn't. He didn't want Logan's facts. Logan couldn't offer any empathy, comfort. He wanted . . . he wanted Virgil. Virgil would understand. Virgil wouldn't try to make him better. Virgil knew what it was like to be broken.

He had promised Logan, though. He didn't have to tell the whole thing, just—just the beginning of an explanation. Roman's hand absently ran across the scars under his shirt, feeling each bump and ridge. It had become a worried habit, a sick sort of comfort. Knowing the words were there gave Roman validation, in a sense.

“I—” Roman's voice cracked. Just the necessities. Just the surface. He never promised to tell everything at once, after all.

“Would you prefer to sit down?” Logan asked. He let his arm fall and stepped aside, freeing the path to the living room.

Roman practically jumped at the excuse, walking as slowly as possible. More time to plan what to say! More time to decide what he was comfortable with Logan knowing.

Roman sat, and so did Logan. Him on the sofa, Logan in the armchair. Roman considered briefly—he could give Logan the barest of minimums, stating facts already obvious. Or he could start the full explanation. He wasn't sure he could get through either without crying.

“I. . . .” Roman trialed off and looked down. How could he start? What could he say? His fingers fidgeted with the ends of his uniform. “I . . . I can't. . . .”

“Roman, are you feeling well? You are looking rather pale.”

Roman shoved his fists into his eyes in frustration. “I want to tell you,” he lied. “I really do, I just—I can't—”

“Roman, it is quite all right.” Logan left his place on the armchair to join Roman on the sofa. “I understand that there is likely trauma involved. I am here to help, to give you someone to speak to.” Hesitantly, he reached out.

Roman scrambled away. Adding touch to this conversation would only make it worse. Then he saw Logan's expression. Confused, and maybe a little hurt. Now he felt bad.

“I, uh,” he managed. “I can't touch people. It—it freaks me out.” That wasn't too hard, was it? Why did he feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes? Why did the shame in his chest threaten to swallow him?

Roman noticed Logan's eyes fix on his chest, then realized his hand was subconsciously rubbing over his scars again. Roman forced his arm down, but not before Logan's face softened.

“I see,” Logan said quietly. “That—that's fine, Roman. If something I am doing is harming you, you need only mention it and I will stop.”

This wasn't what Roman expected, or wanted. He could hear the pity dripping from Logan's words, taste his own shame like bile rising to the back of his throat. He didn't want to cry in front of Logan, but tears leaked out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. The steadying breath he tried to take transformed into a sob.

“It—it's all right.” Logan almost wrapped his arms around the Side, but seemed to think better of it. Roman pushed himself into the corner of the couch, wishing he could disappear as he choked out tears. “It is all right.”

It's not, Roman wanted to say. It's not all right and it never will be. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a banging sound in the kitchen.

Logan shot up, eyes on high alert. Before Roman could even roll off the couch, he was in the kitchen.

Roman heard Logan curse loudly and took a moment to dash his tears away. It had to be Deceit. Deceit didn't need to see how weak he still was.

He grasped at his side and was greeted with the familiar weight of his sword, the worn leather wound around the hilt, the perfect balance of the blade. If Logan needed defending, Roman was going to be there for him.

The sight that greeted him was not what he expected. Logan was leaning over the sink, hands scrabbling at the window set in the wall. As Roman stepped closer, Logan's fingers pried open the latch and the window burst open as a Side fell through. Roman stepped back quickly, his eyes following a blurred object as it flew across the room, hitting the floor and sliding under the table. Something in Roman's head told him that it didn't matter, wasn't worth him. So he turned his attention back to the Side haphazardly splayed over the sink and counters. His glasses clattered to the floor, and Roman saw his face—red, tear-stained, sallow.

“Don't touch the chains!” Patton managed, then passed out.

-

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @i-can-get-extra-with-my-ships @emo-adjacent @kai-the-person  @stop-it-anxiety @shitpost-sides  @bl00scl00s @charakitcat @ainsleyf @sandersstuffsblog @ginnyfox617 @enragedbees @minty4green @eggy-boyo @escalatingtoofast @hayden-going-insane @piixelations @supersoftsupersleep @crowsmadreadful @hpdmmdundtl @imnotjustanxiety @thenewlarislynn @mooniecoockie @eden607 @sanderssidesweirdo @cali-the-dreamer @thedukeofdeodorant-main @hankaa-aaaa @atlasistryingherbest @arcticfrostdoesthings @awkward-and-artistic @wants-to-be-bad-but-is-soft

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Appointments

Link to song: Appointments by Julien Baker

Synopsis: Feyre makes good on her promise to Rhys, and Rhys makes good on his promise to Feyre.

TW: Brief and non-graphic mention of self-harm, suicide and domestic abuse.

Ao3 link

Chapter 16: Appointments

“How are you feeling today, Feyre?”

How was I feeling? I didn’t know. My body felt like TV static with the volume on low. Crackling, bustling, full of nervous energy, but dim. Quiet. How was I supposed to explain that to him without sounding like a true basket case?

He sat in the chaise across from me. It was grey, muted, soft. Everything in his office was. There were great, wide panoramic windows, and outside rain pattered softly against the windows. Another week of rain in Prythian, as though it was just for me.

The couch beneath me was soft, comfortable. I sank into it when I’d sat down minutes ago and settled in after sitting in the waiting room. When I’d first walked into the clinic, there were others in the chairs. A older man, probably in his forties, was thumbing a magazine, but not looking at it. Just staring at the walls around him, flicking through the magazine, as though his fingers were soaking in the articles through his skin. A woman about my age listening to music on her phone, eyes closed, head leaned back on the wall. I’d only stared at my feet as the sound of the secretary typing away on her computer filled the empty space, paperwork clutched in my fingers. I’d filled them out on Saturday, and Rhys had them scanned and emailed that day, but they needed more paper copies handed from me in person.

“Miss Archeron?” The secretary had called out. I’d pushed up from my seat and shuffled over to the counter, presenting her with the five sheets I’d meticulously filled out. They were thorough, extremely thorough—so much so that when I’d filled them out at Rhys’s kitchen counter, I was clenching my teeth, ticking off the boxes that applied.

Suicidality:

Ideation: No-Active-Passive

Plan: No-Yes (describe): Jump

Attempts: No-Yes-More than one

Date of last attempt: March 27th

Lethality of attempt(s): Low-Moderate-High

Thankfully, Rhys had left me alone that night leaning over the kitchen island, pen tapping against the cold marble. Every question was like another stab in the gut.

Self-Harm Behaviour:

Current: No-Yes (describe): Cutting

Past: No-Yes (describe): Cutting, two years ago

When it got to family history and prior or current relationships, I nearly tore up the papers right then and there and walked out of the townhouse. Instead, I scribbled down my answers as concisely and quickly as possible to not feel the sting of the words.

In my hands, handing over the papers, it felt like I was yet again giving pieces of myself over, letting them cut open my brain and take a peak of the scrambled, decayed remains inside.

The secretary, a kind-smiled woman in her early thirties, pointed to a blue door where the gold plaque read Dr. Angèl Suriel, PhD. I’d knocked softly on the door, heard a muffled, “Come in!” From the other side. The first thing that hit me when I opened the door was the faint smell of fried chicken.

“Sorry,” he’d said, hunched over his desk further in the back of the room, next to the windows on the back wall. There’d been a rustling of a food takeout bag before he’d shoved the top drawer of his desk closed. “Just got some lunch quickly.”

He opened a window, and lit a candle on his desk next to his jar of identical pencils, then turned to face me. Angèl Suriel was an older man, tall and thin with darker skin. His accent was slightly lilted, definitely Spanish judging by his first name. He’d smiled warmly when he faced me and extended his hand, which he’d brushed on his tan trousers moments before.

“Angèl Suriel,” he'd presented himself, and I’d shaken his hand weakly. “But call me Suriel. No doctor formalities, please.” He’d smiled. “You must be Feyre.”

I nodded, eyes diverting from his. They were brilliant blue, so pale, contrasting against his tanner skin.

Staring at him now, sitting five feet across from me on his chaise with a file in his lap, I wondered how the hell Rhys had found this guy. Why he’d needed to find him, in the first place.

How was I feeling? How was I feeling?

My tongue felt swollen, limp and utterly useless in my mouth. I resorted to staring past him, over his shoulder, to the buildings in the background. They were like standing giants across the city, watching over, holding thousands of people with energy and moment and life, but so solemn and serious in appearance.

“Feyre?” He repeated.

I blinked. “How about you look in that file of yours and tell me how I’m feeling, Suriel.”

“Oh no, that’s not how this works,” he grinned. “It seems as though you’ve watched too much TV, miss Archeron. I’m not going to sit here and waste my time if you’re going to be resistant or unwilling to share. I’m only going to say this once, so listen to me.”

My heart pounded wildly in my chest as those crystal eyes met mine, and he leaned forward slightly in his seat.

“There are thousands of people in this city who suffer with the very same feelings and behaviours that you demonstrate. There are hundreds of people on my waiting list, right now, waiting for a call that they can finally see me and get the help they need. I work twelve hours a day seeing people, filling in charts, coordinating with hospitals and answering ER calls at three in the morning. I’m doing this as a favour for Rhys, and I’m doing this because I want to help you. It’s only going to work if you do your part as well. So if you’re here to waste my time, feel free to leave so I can get back to my fried chicken.”

I sat there shocked. My mouth was open in surprise, and all I could do was blurt, “I don’t know how I feel.”

Satisfied that I’d given him an answer, he resumed his position, one leg crossed across the other to balance the papers in his lap. “Okay,” he said, “how about we try this. On a scale of one to ten, one being your complete worst, and ten being your complete best, where do you think you fall?”

It took a few seconds to mull over before I murmured, “Three, I think.”

He nodded and wrote something done. “And Friday night? What number did you feel then?”

That one didn’t take as long. “Zero.”

“Zero,” he repeated. “You just broke my scale.”

Despite myself, I snorted.

“Tell me about what happened.”

Another question that settled within me like a stone sinking into water. I felt like I was holding it in the palm of my hands, turning it over slowly, examining its features, dips and curves, not knowing where to begin, or what to say.

“I don’t know what happened.” That was true. The details were so hazy. The timeline was broken in my head, only giving me fragments and pieces of those moments on the ledge.

In his lap, Suriel flipped over a paper and murmured, “It says here you were going to jump. Where were you?”

At the word jump, I flinched. Clutching my kneecaps, I blew out a shaky breath, still staring just past Suriel’s shoulder, never quite in his eyes. “At my friend Cassian’s apartment. Fifty storeys up.” I picked at the skin on my thumb, not knowing what to do with my hands.

“You went to a friend’s house? To carry out your plan?”

“I was staying at his place.”

“For how long?”

“I was there for about a week and a half.”

“Where did you live now?”

“With Rhys in his townhouse.”

“And before that?”

I wasn’t ready to go there yet. “My apartment.”

But Suriel watched me carefully, like he knew my answer was missing something.

I murmured, “With my ex-fiancee.”

His pen scribbled against the paper once more, and this time when he looked back up at me, he said, “You were at this friend’s apartment. Alone?”

I nodded. “He was still at work.”

“So,” he said, then paused for a bit, wondering how to phrase his next question, “do you remember the events, or maybe the emotions or thoughts that lead up to the execution of your plan?”

It was like I was back up on that building with Rhys’s voice echoing in my ears. I could practically feel the rain falling on my shoulders, my hair, my hands.

When Suriel pushed a Kleenex box on the small table between us, I realized it was because I was crying. The tear drops collected in my open palms like some sick offering to the gods of pain.

“Why am I doing this?” I whispered sinisterly, bitterness in my voice, my eyes as I narrowed them at Suriel, wanting to storm out of this fucking office and never look back. Rhys was wrong. He was a destructive, conniving asshole. “What the fuck is the point of this?

Suriel, not missing a beat, leaned forward as I did, and spoke in that low commanding voice of his he’d wielded only minutes ago. “The point of therapy, Feyre, is for you to get as close as possible to the ideal life you imagine and want for yourself. To solve the problems you face, to help hone your skills and speak your mind. Many of my clients walk into this office just like you, sometimes in worse shape, clinging to the notion that this is the enemy. That I am the enemy. But the only enemy right now in this room is you, you and your mind.”

I couldn’t stop myself from crying harder.

“I am not here to judge you. I am not here to pick apart your brains, but I need to know what the problem is, where to start, and where we can go from there. People walk into this office miserable and they leave with hope.”

Even the rain paused outside when I said, “I was kneeling in the entrance of the apartment. Crying.”

My mind went back to me curled into myself on the hardwood floor, when I’d shut out the world completely in my own little bubble of agony.

“I got up, ran to the bathroom, and tried to find pills, blades, anything, but the shelves were empty. Cassian must’ve been worried because he’d basically childproofed the entire damned place. But one thing he couldn’t take away from me was the fact he’d bought an apartment on the fiftieth floor.”

“And before that? Before you went out on the balcony? Why were you crying?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Words I hadn’t spoken to anyone, not a soul. Words I didn’t think I could even speak.

“Feyre, take a deep breath.”

I clenched my eyes closed, only able to see his twisted snarl of fury when his hands had closed around my throat. When my chest had slammed into his desk. When his fists slammed into my ribs.

“Feyre, take a deep breath.”

Slowly, trembling, I forced a breath into my lungs. I choked it out in a sob.

“Good. Another one.”

This time it came a little easier. On the exhale of my third breath, I said, “My ex-fiancee was there.”

“Did you speak to him?”

I shook my head. “I heard him through the door. He’d found me with a tracker on my phone.”

“Why aren’t you together anymore?”

I thought of the elevator, of me crawling on my hands and knees, nails cracking as I tried to resist him dragging me across the carpet of the executive floor.

“Because he locked me up,” I wheezed. “He wasn’t my partner. He was my captor.”

There was an eerie silence, only broken by the soft sounds of my quiet sobs. Suriel’s eyes found mine, and when I looked up to him, I said, “He was my fiancee. And I loved him. I love him.”

“But,” Suriel sighed, “he abused you.”

“No,” I contradicted weakly, “not necessarily.”

“Was he ever physically violent with you? Did he ever intentionally hurt you, has he ever tried to manipulate you or repress you?”

Silence. And Suriel had his answer. As I reached for a tissue, Suriel wrote some more notes in his papers. He looked over his shoulder to the city scape, then turned those eyes to mine and wondered, “Have you talked to your friends since everything happened?”

I shook my head. “Only Rhys. He may have said something to them, but I’m not sure.”

“Okay. It says here you don’t have a job right now. Are you looking?”

I shrugged with one shoulder. “A little. Rhys offered me something short-term.”

Suriel said, “That’s good. I want you working on something right now, Feyre. Even if it’s from home, if it’s a skill or a hobby or a job, you need something right now to keep you distracted. I don’t know enough about your situation right now to give you more specific goals or coping mechanisms, but I’ve found the best thing for clients in your position is just to keep their mind focused on something else. Being alone with only your thoughts when they’re so toxic can lead you down the wrong roads.”

I nodded, hands pursed in my lap.

“Try to see what Rhys can do with that job, try to talk with some friends. Something light. You don’t need to tell them about what you’re going through if you’re not comfortable because you don’t owe anyone an explanation. So you know your homework?”

“Get a job. Talk to friends.”

He snorted. “Distract yourself, Feyre. With good things. Light things. Even if it’s a movie with Rhys or cooking dinner. And try to stay away from alcohol and substances.”

“Distraction.” I repeated.

“Distraction.” He confirmed, a light grin on his face. “And I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.”

I wiped my nose once more than stood, tissue clenched in my fingers. “Same time next week?” I wondered, heading towards the door.

Suriel smiled then said, “Sounds good to me. Thank you very much for today, Feyre. You’re doing extremely well so far.”

“Well, hopefully therapy is the one thing I won’t fuck up.”

He smiled, more of a smug, cheeky smile. I opened the door and it closed softly behind me, but not before hearing his drawer being pulled open, and the sound of that takeout bag rustling around.

***

The car door shut beside me, and Rhys turned on the ignition.

“How was it?”

The streets passed by, full of people, full of energy. “Were you there in the parking lot the whole time?”

He shrugged as he made a left turn, going the opposite way of home. I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t you have better things to do? A company to manage?”

“My office is very flexible. Phone calls can be made from anywhere, including the comforts of my car.”

“You shouldn’t be sacrificing your work to take care of me.”

Rhys eyed me sideways. “Taking care of you is not a sacrifice. It’s as essential as any hour of tediousness in that stupid building.”

I sighed, my arms crossing across my chest. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere. How was the session? Do you like him? If not, we’ll find somebody else.”

The rain beat furiously against the windshield. Rhys increased the speed of his wipers. I said, “It was fine.”

“Fine.” It was more of an assertion than a question.

“He’s strange, but he’s good.” I glanced at him sidelong, and that calm concentration lining his features. “How did you find him?”

He shrugged. “Suriel was a very difficult man to track down. There’re many psychologists in Prythian, but not many that take on…these kinds of cases.”

“Which kinds?”

He looked at me then, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Suicidal ones.”

My next question was already on my lips, but a call came through, and Rhys touched the bluetooth piece in his left ear. “Yes Morrigan?”

I could hear her shrill voice distantly yelling at him to never call her that again. Rhys and her spoke of something for a few minutes, names and things I didn’t understand and didn’t care enough to try and decode. Finally, he said, “I’ll be there in a minute.” The call ended, and he pulled the piece out of his ear, discarding it in the cupholder. I looked out the window, curious as to where we were.

“Where are we going?”

Rhys said, “To the office. I have to pick up some things.”

My heart beat nervously. I knew that the circle would be in the office, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see them yet. But I remembered Suriel’s homework for me and sighed, knowing that it was best if I did have some sort of human contact. “Can I come?”

His smile was wicked and salacious. “But of course, darling. Let me take you into devil’s lair.”

***

Night Industries was nothing like Spring Corporations.

Everything, from the lobby to the reception to the workers was much more heavy duty. Sleek. Dripping with grace and elegance in a dark, ominous way. Black marble greeted us upon our entry where six security guards stood at their posts. Each nodded to Rhysand, who in turn greeted them all by name with a stern nod of his head. Rhys didn’t need to say anything as he marched past the reception desk towards the elevators. I went to reach for the button, but he shook his head.

“Executive floor is a little more protected than that.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“We do things a little different here than Spring.”

At that, he lead me down another corridor to the left and down to flights of stairs. I was about to ask where the hell he was taking me when we entered another lounge, with a different secretary, who instantly greeted us with a smile on her face. This place was darker, a dingy unsuspecting hallway that I wouldn’t have considered if ever I were to break in. I guess Rhys expected such a thing and acted accordingly.

“Good morning Nuala,” Rhys smiled as he laid his finger on the scanner presented to him by the dark haired woman. She didn’t say a word to him, only smiled at both of us as the tablet turned green and the door to what looked like a janitorial elevator opened. It reeked of metal and rust as we entered the wide space. On the interior, it was padded with black velvet and golden lining. Rhys pressed the button for the ninetieth floor, and we were going up.

“Your clients don’t find this a little sketchy when they visit?”

Rhys snorted. “My clients never cross the threshold of my real office.”

Another raise of my brows. He only said, “You can never be too careful, Feyre darling.”

We were silent the rest of the way up. Once the elevator doors opened once more, the space that greeted us was nothing like the beat-up receptionist’s office downstairs.

Everything was dark, but in a different way. Grey walls. Dark stained floors with a silver carpet leading down the main artery of the hallway. On each side were doors, definitely offices or file rooms hiding behind them. It was like an impenetrable fortress on all four sides. At the end of the corridor lay a set of black double doors with silver glinting handles. Lights shone at the bottom of each wall, lighting up the floors, leading your way to them. I only stood in shock at the stark differences between Spring and Night, the luxury and elegance that seemed oozing power and control here rather than tacky expensiveness in that ivory tower.

Before the doors, to the right hand side stood an empty office chair behind a black desk. An apple computer was there, unused, unoccupied, waiting for somebody to sit down.

“Who works there?”

“No one,” Rhys replied, as he laid his palm on his door handle. He waited a moment before a whir and a click sounded, then winked at me. “Only opens with my fingerprints on the door handle.”

How that worked, I had no clue. But once the doors opened, I swallowed hard at the scene that greeted me.

If… if his office was supposed to look grand, it was nothing compared to Rhys’s.

The walls were twenty feet high, and along the entire back wall stood windows reaching all the way from floor to ceiling. The light, despite the raining day, was bright and inviting, speckled with drops of precipitation outside. On the left side of the room lay an area for comfort, white leather couches and seats, enough for all the damn employees in this place to sit. A low grey marble table sat between the seats in the middle of the circle, currently obscured with documents and files piled up haphazardly. Stretched out across it though, was a map—a map of Prythian, marked up by different colour pens, from the Sidra to the major companies of Prythian and their headquarters. The colours made no distinct pattern I could decipher, but the entire thing seemed meticulously examined.

On the ceiling, light lined the space in strips, the source unseen beneath the black beams forming squares, each equally spaced apart. On the side wall were different alcoves, within one I could see acting as a coffee bar with a mini fridge beneath it. The others were wider, also lined with light—but barren.

“I’m waiting for the right art piece to put there.” He explained. “Nothing has quite tickled my fancy yet.”

I could paint for you, I thought, but then was disgusted by the notion of picking up a paint brush.

And to the left of the space was finally his desk. Nearly the length of the wall—the back of which was filled with books—and also dark to match his limited palette. Three screen monitors sat atop of it, and other files were strewn around, as though he’d left his office in a hurry. He strode over to it once he saw my shock had subsided it, and sat in his black leather chair with a sigh.

“Take a seat, Feyre. Won’t be too long.”

I sat in the grey leather chair across from him, still soaking in the room. It was gorgeous. Bigger than any apartment my sisters, father and I used to live in.

He fiddled around on his cellphone for a bit while I was still gazing across the city skyline, and minutes later came a knock at the door. Rhys checked the monitor, then pressed a button on his keyboard. The door opened, and in sauntered Mor.

“Seriously, I could’ve just emailed them to you. I don’t know why you’ve got to waste so much gas to drag your ass across the city for a stupid paper—” only she stopped when she saw me. Mor, beautiful as ever, wore a white pantsuit and her hair up in a high sleek ponytail to show off her gold hoop earrings. Her face broke into a smile, her red lipstick beaming, when she saw me.

“Feyre! He finally showed you around. What do you think? Don’t give him any credit for this place, I designed this thing from the ground up.”

“You’re a dirty liar, Morrigan. This place was built before you were born.”

“Don’t call me that again, Rhys, lest you want me to remove your favourite part. And you know full well that I was in charge of all the renovations, so look in the mirror next time you call someone a liar.”

Rhys rolled his eyes as Mor sauntered over and handed him the paper. His eyes scanned it for a few moments before they filled with dread. “Seriously?” He asked his cousin mournfully.

She only swallowed, eyes skirting over the words as well. “I’m sorry, Rhys.”

He sighed. “It’s fine. We’ll just add it to the rest of the chaos we have to deal with.”

As he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a file, Mor came to sit beside me. Her hand found mine and gave it a squeeze, her brown eyes warm and bright. “You’re looking great, Feyre.”

I could tell by the kindness in her voice that she was being genuine, and not Ianthe’s sappy fake shrill that I was used to. “Thanks, Mor.” My voice was scratchy and low.

She turned her head to Rhys, who was collecting other papers from his desk to cram into the manila folder. “Have you talked to her about the position yet? It’d be nice to have someone new around the—”

One look from him and she stopped mid-conversation, then turned to me. “I picked up another set of clothes for you, by the way. After your comments from last time I went for more…comfort. Still very stylish, though, so not to worry.”

“Thanks. I didn’t really think the leather jacket look suited me.”

Mor laughed at my dryness, and Rhys only rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mor.” A clear dismissal, but I only thought of what Suriel had given me for homework as Mor lifted from her seat and made her way to the door.

“Wait,” I said, looking into Mor’s soft eyes, who were filled with hope and excitement just at the sound of my voice. My heart swelled with the non-verbal support she held for me. “Why don’t you all come over tonight? For dinner?”

“Feyre, darling, please, that’s just asking for it.”

“Wait, no! That’s perfect! I’ll make cookies, and we can bring popcorn and snacks and oh, oh!” Mor jumped up and down excitedly, looking to Rhys with her eyes full of hope. “We can have a game night!”

“Dear Gods, Mor,” Rhys folded his hand into a steeple and closed his eyes, his features lined with misery. “Are you trying to scare her away?”

“Oh, you’re just old and cranky. Make yourself another coffee, for fuck’s sake. Have a little fun, Rhys. We’ll be there at seven!”

The door closed, and I could only work on trying to bite back my smile as I turned to face Rhys.

“You seriously don’t know what you’ve started, Feyre.”

“I’m just doing what Suriel suggested, Rhys,” I said sweetly. “Social interaction is good for the disturbed mind.”

He only chuckled and shook his head, amused. Then he stood, hands in the dark trousers he’d donned today. No suit—he’d worked from home most of the morning before my appointment. The black long-sleeve sweater he wore stretched over his muscles that rippled beneath as he faced the skyline below us.

“I did come here for that paper, but I guess while I’m at it I should make good on my promise to you.”

Pushing up from my chair, I followed behind him quietly, arms crossed over my chest. “Promise?”

“Yes. I said I’d have a job for you. And I do.” He was quiet for a few moments, the stars in his eyes glowing as he gazed at the cars below. “I need all the people I can get right now.”

“Why?” I breathed. The response, whatever it was, made my heart beat furiously in my chest.

“Because war is coming, Feyre.”

[anneboleyns]

I saw the downton abbey movie so now here’s kind of a rambling personal essay, under a cut for spoilers for the downton abbey movie. downton abbey movie spoilers ahead.

once again SPOILERS AHEAD also tw for death, grief, suicide attempts/etc mention.

so, i know probably no one cares but considering how active i was in this fandom and how incredibly important this show and the character of thomas was to me personally, i’m just gonna sit here and write my thoughts about thomas barrow, the show, the movie, what it meant to me, and my critique overall

so basically i always loved the show and thomas but it really took off 2 yrs ago during 2017.

i had just moved out of my mother’s house and i had just finished a rewatch of the show, i remember this so clearly lol it was september 2017 the rewatch had started like june 2017. and i remember when i got to my new apartment one of the “comfort shows” i would put on on my very own tv in my very own apartment was “downton abbey”. i believe the other that was regularly tossed on in the background was “the tudors”, obviously lol

anyways, i was so hyper obsessed. i had also JUST discovered that thomas and jimmy were legitimately shipped in this fandom. i had no idea that was a real thing when i watched it live. and i had never cared about jimmy or thought of them as an actual viable relationship. but with this rewatch they just hit different i guess. i spent hours and hours and hours at my mother’s house before the move (which was an EXTREMELY tense living situation, the month or so right before i left. i’m not getting into all of it now. if you followed me back then you know) watching this show like properly sitting and watching an episode with my sister, and then capping for gifs, which if you make gifs you know is basically spending possibly 3 or 4 hours with the same episode. like it can take that long for me personally to go through it and cap everything i want, then, sorting the caps into folders, especially if i’d capped more than one episode. completely mesmerized with the smallest details, hand and facial movements i specifically wanted to gif or be in a set, clothing movements, emotional moments, like i was just so into all aspects of the show and wanted to gif everything. my fav 4 are thomas, sybil, mary, and tom. i also adore edith and it may be a “fav 5″ now as i think i just love all of those characters equally. so i pretty much giffed every single fucking scene they were in lol. unless they were “ugly scenes” that i knew i could never make work in photoshop. sometimes i would cap it anyway and sort it anyway and open it up anyway and try but would end up deleting all the caps for that set. so all the gifs i have posted, is not even all the ones i capped. anyway

okay and then, there’s the fanfic. reading it, rereading, and writing it. it took me 2 years but i actually read close to every single thomas/jimmy fanfic on a03. at some point i only started opening complete fanfics because i got burned too many times on abandoned slow burns, and if a fic wasn’t my thing i would obviously not finish it. but definitely hundreds of works i read, saved to my phone and reread in google books. works i would think about all day.

so, june 2017 i start the rewatch. i also start planning to move out of my mother’s. a toxic tense living situation. in the past i have used harsher words like “abusive”. i can’t really use that word and apply it to my mother right now even though it is accurate. it hurts to think about. i can’t think about it. september 2017 i actually move.

the hyperfixation is in full swing. hours every night reading. reading 50k word fanfics in a single night. hours every day (or, week, i have a fulltime job) capping and coloring frames in photoshop. eventually i started writing fanfic for them as well.

so, in november 2017 my mother is hospitalized. this was not an unusal occurence. in february 2018 they tell us she’s going to die. 12 days later she died.

i’m not gonna really get into what happened to my mental state. it’s uh. bad. guilt. self hatred. like hatred isn’t even a strong enough word. i wanted to annihilate myself. i believed i deserved to be annihilated. that’s the only word violent enough i can think of to describe the depth of it. suicidal. etc. whatever.

but! i had this piece of fiction, this series, and assorted fan works. it really intensified after this. i can look back at this time last year and i remember how obsessed i was lol.

when i try to articulate what this character and show means to me, i always feel really embarrassed. at some point when i’m talking about thomas it becomes obvious i am talking about myself as well. but i’m gonna really try and objectively talk about my opinion on thomas and why i adore him and why i want what i want for him. it’s probably gonna be obvious i am also talking about myself but. anyway. 

here’s the “meta” “opinion on the fictional characters” section.

thomas barrow starts the show as an antagonist. he’s rude, could even be called cruel. a bully, snide, dishonest when it suits him and honest when it hurts him. like, he’s an asshole. what he said about william’s mom. how he treated baxter. his ambition and the underhanded things he does to serve it. overall proud demeanor designed to make those around him feel lesser. feel less able to hurt him. he wants the people around him to feel like they should not hurt him. i think he might be unaware that that is his motivation. because even as he’s afraid of everyone, he craves everyone as well. he’s alone, outside, and he’s been shoved there, constantly, he’s been shoved there politely and he’s been shoved there violently and if they’re gonna shove him here outside, away from them, unfixably different from them, unworthy of them, then he will stay there. like, the meanness and the comments and the attitude. he’s already Not Like The Others. if they already don’t like him, he will make it even harder for them to like him. unless, he can get somewhere safer, which is where his motivation comes in.

i just really view thomas as a character that craves safety.

he wants others to not hurt him. he wants to get from where he is to somewhere safer, somewhere up there, where it’s even less likely for people to be able to hurt him.

so, his motivations: safety, and then, there’s love.

he constantly has this world and these people implicitly and explicitly telling him he cannot love or be loved. it’s not right, it’s not natural, best case scenario is it doesn’t even exist- he’s confused, he’s sick, he’s broken, maybe they can fix it. he’s on the outside, remember, and he just gets to watch thru the window as the others dance and fall in love and have friends and family and be cherished. he can have none of it. this is a really old story that could be told by better people and in a better way.

the loves we get to see him have all have teeth. he’s betrayed by one lover and then abandoned, someone he obviously had feelings for but also betrayed first. then we get a probably one-sided attraction, but still a friend, still someone he can actually be vulnerable with since they’re helplessly vulnerable with him as well due to the circumstances. who kills himself. and then there’s the shameless, stupid hope that almost costs him everything, but he does get a friend in the balance.

he finds a friend in baxter, another character i just adore, because she gives to thomas what he needs even though he objectively does not deserve it, at least not from her, who he has terrorized. baxter’s trauma from her abusive relationship with coyle that thomas knows and uses, the impossible situation thomas places her in, the manipulation, the bullying, some would even term his behavior abusive. baxter would have had every right to ignore thomas, to get him fired, to hurt him back. but she loves him instead. she loves him in spite of. she loves him because. she helps him, she speaks to him softly and kindly. she tells him he’s brave. she remembers him as a child. this especially touches me. the idea of thomas as a child, someone who must have been different from who he is now, and she knows them both and loves him. she looks at the grown, hurt, cruel man in front of her and she speaks to the boy she once knew, and thomas listens. slowly. but he listens. AND she tries to give him advice for finding a lover, supporting and encouraging something the rest of the entire fucking series despises or ignores.

i don’t have enough energy to really go off but, baxter is supreme. i need a baxter.

thomas clearly cannot form self esteem in the environment he lives in. the ground is dead. he can’t grow it himself. he has this ironclad sense that he deserves what the others have, the ones on the inside. it’s immovable. he deserves it, they have no right to keep it from him. maybe he’ll never, ever get it, but in his mind, in his heart, he will never stop believing he deserves it. they tell him he’s nothing, he’s dirt, he’s wrong, and he just nods and keeps walking. they can think that. they can say that. he can’t stop them. but he will not stop working for the future he wants. he will not stop until they have no choice but to let him inside.

but he wants, i think, for them to invite him inside. but he’ll never admit it, and he’ll never ask for it, and he’ll never get it anyway.

so, he tries to change himself. maybe they’ll invite him in then? no.

then, his attempts to form friendships get twisted, and aborted, and he gets tired stereotypical accusations thrown on him.

then, he tries to kill himself in a bathtub with a razor.

then, he leaves his home and spends his days bored and unchallenged and away from all of the friends and half-friends he had.

then, he’s invited back. he’s invited inside!!!! you might say. and yeah i guess. as close as they’ll ever let him. but part of him always ignored and not commented on. part of him always raised eyebrows at i’m sure. and yes, his bad behavior is also to blame for this. but see, the 2 are linked. and you can’t unlink them.

by the end of the show the others still largely tiptoe around him. but due to his now somewhat subdued behavior he’s “likable” now.

i think it’s quite a choice to have this character who is completely sharp edges have them worn away by heartbreak, torture, injury, suicide attempt, ostracisation, abandonment, and present that as a victory, as a happy ending. but guess what? it is. and i’ll take it. he was back among his friends, back home, accepted, celebrating with everyone else, and i adored it, even as the jarring notes i heard in it won’t ever fade from my opinion of it.

anyway, in the aftermath of my grief i fell heavily into this story and the many stories of thomas finding love and safety. and healing, and friends, and peace. lots different from each other and lots the same. again, i relate very strongly to this character. i was not in a mindset where i was able to be kind to myself. or think sympathetically about myself. i think i fixated so much on this character, became obsessed with finding stories where he gets told and he experiences all the things i think i wanted to be told and i wanted to experience. i couldn’t accept it, even the concept, directly. but i devoured and absorbed a billion pixels of a character very similar to me accepting it. it’s the closest the concept could have gotten to me and i’m embarrassed i only recently realized this link and that that was what i was doing considering it is obvious, and common, and normal. maybe not “healthy” but like. let’s not get into healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms rn bec i promise you the fanfic and the fiction fixation is not even at the top of the list lol

FAST FORWARD it’s september 2019. the movie is in theaters.

my mom is still dead. but. a lot has happened to me. i have happened to some people. i’ve been thru some more things now. dipped my toes and eventually completely submerged and perhaps am drowning in the entire Romance/Love/Sex section of human experience. again, let’s not get into it. but it’s a LOT. 

i don’t quite have the same relationship with fiction and fanfiction as i used to. it’s been only 2 years since leaving my mother’s house, but i feel as though galaxies could fit in between the girl back there and the one here. but they’re the same! i’m working on understanding that. 

i love this character and this show so much. i loved the film. there are problems- the writing and plotting is not nearly as neat and crisp and sharp. it’s more smooth, almost to a loss of definition, and instead of quick-wit it feels just... fast. there’s no time to really dive in in a film, so i’ll forgive all that, but it’s a flaw that should be mentioned. but it’s not a flaw that prevents joy in the film. i was overjoyed watching it. the things i wanted for thomas all happened. all the characters and relationships were... smoothed, i can’t describe it any other way. i feel like the bumps and corners and quirks and hidden pockets of them were just smoothed away. we know they’re there because we watched the show, but the film doesn’t- can’t- show them all. 

it was frustrating for me to see thomas smoothed in this way, but also satisfying, because while he absolutely one of a kind, unique, damaged, and layered, and contradictory, really a marvelous character and well-built... he is just like everyone else. and i think he would love and hate that and i love and hate that about myself.

for this reason, i really enjoyed a scene where he refuses to help carson. carson is flustered and overworked, in a crisis, and asks barrow for help, and thomas refuses, with a smile. i adored it. carson is one of thomas’ worst ... opponents, i could say. carson hurls homophobic abuse at and about thomas several times during the series, casts aspersions on him in the film as well, and he can choke. i love that even though towards the end of the show and yes during the rest of the film thomas’ sharp edges got smoothed away, but they put this one in and it catches you right on the bone how it should- an older woman in my theater actually gasped, offended, when thomas refused to help and carson was left to flounder. i, on the other hand, thought, “that’s my boy,” and leaned back in my seat satisfied. it might be my fav moment in the film. surprising considering the AMAZING joy and tenderness thomas gets to experience in the movie (but, i think that’s just my taste right now due to a personal heartbreak i won’t get into). like, they shoved him outside, carson shoved him outside, outside the realm of normal, and this is a moment of carson needing his help and thomas going, “no, remember how you used to treat me? remember how you secretly think of me? i do. i won’t forget. good luck! bye!” and then goes on to have a terrible wonderful adventure, while someone funny and kind finally falls in love with him, he gets to stand up for himself to the crawleys in the beginning of the film as well and i just felt elated watching that scene.

i could probably write essays about the love and romance portion of his storyline in the movie. but i’m just not in the headspace to do that right now super in depth but.

i’m also annoyed he had to experience yet ANOTHER homophobic plotline. he goes out to a gay club for literally The First Time and gets arrested and called a dirty pervert. i remember this being my exact fear for the movie. like “imagine if thomas goes to a gay club and gets arrested? that would suck!!!” and that is exactly what happens. but at least it’s so quick, i genuinely think that entire plot is like 6 short scenes max. why is julian fellowes obsessed with having this character, the ONE main queer character, suffer solely because he is gay? experience so many gay-specific agonies, the depths of which i just really doubt he, fellowes, can understand. it’s really, really, disappointing. but consistent as the show did this as well. smh. at least he gets out, and his lover, richard, goes to bat for him in this movie TWICE!!!!! and stares at him with stars in his eyes, soft and enamoured? while thomas is oblivious?? I’VE READ THIS FIC BEFORE!!!! so yes that was VERY cute and all i ever fucking wanted

it’s just funny how fiction touches us differently depending on what we’re going through, especially for those of us that were lonely, neglected, children, ones who grew up with favorite characters instead of friends. i might be more “normal” i might be more “sociable” i might have more “life experience” than i used to but this fangirl inside is just not going anywhere.

this was just a ramble, i wrote it with no point in mind and i’m not rereading or editing it lol. enjoy this vague update into my life/movie review/character meta lol

[alternativewinxcontinuity]

Princess Solaria: Fairy Lost

Princess Solaria: Fairy Lost (part 03) Winx Pilot Episode AU Bloom turns a corner and heads to the beach, Stella deals with the fall out.

Previously: AO3; 01-Clean/TW; 02

Pursuit of knowledge

Stella stepped out of the shower as the sun was rising. She'd slept fitfully through the night, exhausted physically from the long night and day of worried wandering, but her mind continued to throw problems at her.

Could the men in suits track her? What did they want with her? Was her physiology that different from the locals? Was that noise someone breaking in? What was the local political climate like? How hard would it be for Stella to find the things she'd need to contact home? How much danger was she actually in?

Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Stella eyed her reflection critically. Her hair remained the same orange-brown of her father, the bruises on her skin still looked fresh, which was expected. Breathing deeply and applying a slight amount of pressure, Stella checked her bones for breaks, but while her body ached, she felt no sharp stab that came with bone injuries.

She sighed with relief, knowing the worst of the healing was out of the way. Stella had been worried about her magical reserves, trying to decide if it would have been better to force all of her reserves directly into healing, which would have left her physically whole, but depleted of magic, or wait and allow the natural siphon of her returning magic, which would have delayed her physical healing but ensured she had some power to work with.

With her bones healed, allowing the natural siphoning process to take place was her safest option.

Turning from the mirror, Stella pulled one of her suitcases from its carry space, grimacing when it opened to reveal a selection of short skirts.

'I really need to keep my carry space in better order,' she shoved the suitcase back and pulled out another, this one containing clothes she could wear out without showing off her bruising. If she was staying in, the skirts wouldn't have been a problem, and perhaps she should have taken the day to rest and recuperate, but she'd woken so many times in the night, convinced her dreams of men in suits breaking in were actually happening.

She needed to get off this planet.

Stepping into the local library took more determination than it should have, old taunts echoed in Stella's head as she slipped into the cold, air-conditioned building.

'Seriously,' she snarled mentally, 'who the heck thinks taunting the future queen is a good idea, stupid brats.' Stella banished the old hurts from her mind, mourning her ability to give a decent hair flick alongside the dismissal, her hair bound up in cute, woven buns.

“Can, can I help you?” A quite voice from off to the side of the entrance called out to her, Stella turned, the lenses of her glasses rapidly shifting back to clear inside the artificial light.

“I'm here for knowledge,” Stella said with mock seriousness, stepping closer to the young woman at the counter. “You wouldn't happen to know where I can find the books on space stuff and communications?” Stella let a chagrined smile onto her face, trying to put the woman at ease.

“Sure,” the woman stood, “I can show you if you'd like?”

“That would be great-” Stella caught sight of a name tag “-thanks Pattie.”

As the woman led Stella through the shelving she asked, “how's your morning been so far?”

“Not bad,” Stella replied vaguely.

“You just looked kind of... scowly when you came in.”

“Oh!” The princess let herself feel a second of shame for her slip, before shoving it to the side and covering it up with a lie, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring my bad attitude with me. My boarding school does summer homework, and I wanted to get it out of the way so I could enjoy my break, you know? Unlike certain other people.”

“Let me guess: team assignment everyone else is happy to leave until the night before going back?”

“Got it in one,” Stella let out a sigh, “on the bright side, the teacher this is for, is more than happy to do individual grades so: I'm throwing those slackers under the bus.”

She tried not to let her confusion show as her figure of speech came out strangely, why would she throw people under a moving vehicle? That was a horrible thing to do.

“Urgh, I wish my teachers would do that, seriously, last group assignment was the worst. In other news, uh...” Pattie made a face and a small pointing gesture at Stella, like she was trying to remember something.

“Oh, sorry, I'm Elaine,” the false name slid from her mouth with ease. She'd taken several minutes to practice in the mirror before she'd left the apartment.

“Elaine, right, here is our 'space stuff' section. All our information for communications, well I assume you mean like radio, telephone, email? Anyway all that stuff is-” Pattie gave directions with her hands and arms as well as her words, telling Stella how to find the categories she was after, and where to find the tables and chairs she could work at. “And if you want to take any of the books home, come find me at the front desk, I'll set you up with a card.”

“Thank you so much, you are the best,” Pattie snorted and ducked her head away, a grin and a blush covering her face at Stella's praise.

“No problem,” Pattie started walking backwards in the direction of her desk, “good luck with your assignment.”

“Thank you,” Stella mouthed at the retreating girl, before turning to the books. “Okay,” she whispered, “star charts, star charts.” She ran her fingers across the book spines, pulling out anything that sounded like it could help.

At the front desk of the library, the young assistant librarian covered her red face with her hands, trying not to squeal. She wiggled happily as a feeling of warmth bubbled inside her. Mid-wriggle Pattie froze.

'Holy crap,' she knew this feeling, 'am I Bi?'

Elaine's words, 'you are the best,' floated through Pattie's head and she had to stop herself from squealing all over again. Her sexuality crisis could wait, a super pretty girl had just told her she was 'the best.'

“Pattie?” the young woman startled so hard she almost dropped her sandwich.

“Elaine!? Hey,” Pattie shoved her lunch back into its wrapper and checked her mouth for food smears. “What's up?”

“Sorry, I didn't realise I'd be here so long, and I didn't think I could eat in the library anyway,” the duo glanced at the half hidden sandwich.

Pattie threw a hand over it and whispered “you saw nothing. Librarian privileges.”

Stella let out a little huff of laughter, “saw nothing, got it. Uhm, so I'm just going to head over to the café and grab some lunch, I shouldn't be more than an hour, is it alright if I leave my books at the table I was working at?”

It took Pattie a second to catch up with the conversation, her embarrassment causing her brain to lag behind. “Sure, uh, yeah that's fine. I mean, I'd take my personal equipment with me if I was you, but the books are fine where they are, I'll let the other librarian on duty know to leave them.”

Stella lifted her satchel bag and patted it gently, “got my stuff, I'll see you after lunch.”

As Stella walked to the door Pattie sighed, “Oh my god I'm bi.” The doors closed with a quiet 'thg', and she blanched, “please don't let her have heard me, please don't let her have heard meeee.”

Walking down the steps Stella giggled, “still got it.”

Stella was in trouble. A lot of trouble.

Every star chart she'd looked over had led her to one conclusion: she wasn't as lost as she'd assumed.

Which sounded amazing, but in reality, was far worse.

She was on Albion, a colony world where fairies had been hunted to extinction, a world that had been quarantined from the rest of the Dimension as a result. She was as far from the Magical Dimension as it was possible to get, without actually leaving.

No one knew what had really happened in the last days of Tir Nan Og, but there were theories, each crazier than the last. Queen Morgana had sent out a message across the Dimension, telling everyone to stay away while her people cast a Great Spell. When the energy emissions had died down, and people had gone to investigate, all traces of the fairy cities, of magic and the fairies themselves, were gone.

The Planet's energy fields were warped, inexplicably draining its own magic, and nothing anyone had done, could undo it.

The problem didn't begin and end there though, not for Stella. The quarantine wasn't just because of the assumed genocide. If she didn't take steps to protect her magical core, the warped planetary fields would begin to drain her magic as well.

Stella groaned as she dumped her stack of books onto her kitchen bench. Pattie had been kind enough to warn her about the Summer Activities the library participated in, including the book readings for small children which would begin the following day. So Stella had done the smart thing, and taken Pattie up on her offer of a library card; toting the heavy pile of books all the way back to her apartment was a small price to pay for the peace to actually study.

Throwing a meal into her microwave, Stella turned on her tv, looking for the news station. She managed to catch the last fifteen minutes of a news broadcast, and learned nothing of interest. She left the television on while she took a shower, and came back to a strange movie about a reporter who wore his bright red underwear over a blue unitard while saving his partner who didn't recognise him without his glasses.

Stella wasn't sure if that was normal, or if the woman was some level of face-blind; because while glasses helped change the appearance of the face, (the reason Stella was wearing them) they didn't alter it so much that a co-worker would be that confused.

Turning the tv off with a muttered 'this planet is so weird,' Stella began sorting through her books, preparing to read up on the planet's communication technology.

Royal Palace : Solaria

“Every guard, every soldier, hire volunteers if we must!” Queen Luna shouted to the assembled military leaders. Beside her, her husband radiated with fury.

“Find our daughter!” The assembly hesitated. “GO!”

The attendees scrambled for the exits, all preparing for the search. In the throne room Luna sank to her knees while Radius glared holes in the carpet. Rage was so much easier than grief.

Gardenia : Earth

Stella needed a break. Her brain was melting out her ears.

Probably.

She'd spent a full day studying at the library, plus she'd spent an entire day staying in the apartment with the books she'd brought back, she deserved a break.

She'd spent so long pretending, she'd actually forgotten how obnoxious studying was.

So, as the sun rose over the city of Gardenia once more, Stella prepared for a day off at the beach. Her bruising was finally faded enough to disappear under a light foundation, so Stella was going to take full advantage to catch some sun rays and bolster her magical energy. At the door she paused, groaning to herself as she back-tracked and grabbed her notebooks, stuffing them in her beach bag to go over. If she felt like it.

Stella decided to take a bus to the beach, rather than walk, it was only a few dollars, and the convenience seemed more than worth it. As the bus drove through the streets of Gardenia, Stella's eyes caught on a pair of girls on a bicycle.

The one on the parcel tray looked like she'd feel right at home at Cloud Tower, from her sandy-green hair, to her chunky boots. The girl pedalling the bike had flame-orange hair, and as the bus passed them, Stella turned, getting a view of the girl's face.

There was a strange familiarity about the girl, but Stella couldn't put her finger on why. Then the bus turned a corner and the pair fell out of sight, Stella shoved the thought away. She'd probably just seen the girl around town.

Even in her head, it felt like a lie.

Roxy wasn't sure what to think when she recognised Stella; the young woman was wearing a sarong over a bikini that showed off an impressive amount of skin. Despite Roxy's frown, Stella smiled when she saw the younger teen.

“Hey Roxy,” Stella slid onto a stool across the bar from the waitress, her smile faltering when Roxy's frown didn't lessen, the girl running an eye over Stella's flawless skin.

“Oh, yeah, I heal really fast.” When Roxy didn't look impressed, the ginger girl looked around, before leaning close, “I'm also wearing a ridiculous amount of cover up right now. Like, I probably could have started a store, with the amount I'm wearing, no joke.”

Stella pulled a bottle from her bag to show the waitress, but Roxy didn't recognise the brand.

“Speaking of expenses,” she shove the bottle back into her beach back, and pulled out a purse, “I can't pay you for the help you gave me, but I can pay for the food and drinks now.” Before she could start pulling out money, Roxy waved her off, finally relaxing.

“Don't worry about it, you needed the help, and it didn't affect the bar's bottom line. But if you want to pay for your drinks form now on...”

“Happily,” Stella grinned, “I didn't even go outside yesterday, so today, I'm treating myself.”

“You found a place to stay?” Roxy stepped back from the bar, putting together a mocktail with practised ease.

“Yeah, just a little place, but it's all mine,” Stella swapped her cash for the drink and took a sip, “oh this is amazing, what is it?”

“It's a sunrise, don't worry, it's virgin, despite being a 'bar,' we don't actually have an alcohol license.”

Something about the name made Stella giggle, “it's perfect,” she assured Roxy.

“Well, good. You know what else is perfect?” Stella looked up from her second sip, an eyebrow raised curiously. “Your accent, seriously Stella, how did you get that down so fast?”

The young woman flinched, “I'm kinda... good with languages? Also, could,” Stella looked around again, worry evident in the lines of her body, “could you call me Elaine?”

“Elaine?” Stella nodded, “okay, I can do that... Ste- Elaine, are, are you an illegal immigrant? Is that why those guys...”

“No! No, I'm, I'm not... those men aren't after me for being an illegal immigrant.”

The girl was curling in on herself, and Roxy felt horrible about it but she pushed a little further, “does it have to do with whoever hurt you?”

Stella tensed, when she replied her voice was barely more than a whisper, “I don't know what happened exactly, but they showed up while I was in the hospital. I can't tell you what they want with me, but it is not good.”

Roxy leaned across the bar, resting one of her hands gently on Stella's arm, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted. “I'm sorry for pushing, I shouldn't have done that.”

“No; strange foreign woman shows up in your bar needing help and on the run, you have every right to wonder. Although...”

“Although?”

“When I say it like that it sounds like the start of a trashy detective novel.” The two girls shared a look, before breaking out into giggles, the heavy atmosphere lifted like a light fog in the hot sun.

“Roxy!” The younger woman turned towards the interrupting call, eyes settling on her father.

“Yeah dad?”

“Stop flirting, there's other customers waiting,” the man gave the girls a teasing look, turning back to his own customers. The girls started laughing all over again, even as Roxy drew away.

“Ah, I'd better get back to it.”

“I'll leave you alone then,” Stella began to move from her seat then stopped, “Oh, uh, I was going to catch some sun, can I-” she lifted the mostly full drink.

“Oh yeah, just don't leave the glass in the sand, and stay in the bar's designated area, I'll pick it up on my rounds.”

“Cool, I'll see you later,” Stella gave her a little wave and flounced away. Roxy shook her head and got back to work.

Part 04