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littlemisspascal · 4 years ago

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Death and an Angel part 14.5

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously.

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,701

Warnings: angst, dialogue heavy, language, angst, Violence, plot plot plot, did I mention angst? Cuz it’s here

Author Note: Texas weather is no laughing matter and never have I hated snow more than these last few days. This is definitely more of a transition segment so I wrote shorter snippets as a result, but there is some serious plot development nevertheless. The response to last chapter was so amazing I can’t thank everyone enough for all the love and support 💖💖💖

Links to Part 1 and Part 14 and Part 15

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Ahsoka hijacks the Razor Crest as soon as Din teleports her aboard the ship. She pushes Din out of the cockpit, refusing to let him so much as glimpse the coordinates of the destination she inputs into the nav computer. The Oracle hadn’t been kidding when she said she didn’t trust him going alone to rescue his soulmate.

Bo-Katan hadn’t been phased by Ahsoka’s arrival, adapting to her presence with the same ease as a duck to water. However, Din couldn’t help noticing the moment her mask of cool indifference slipped when Ahsoka asked the reaper to stay in the cockpit with her, claiming they had important matters to discuss.

Din climbs down the ladder into the hull, recognizing that the conversation about to ensue is not one he needs to be involved in. Fingers twitching restlessly, he commits himself to checking each of the weapons in his armory, sharpening his vibroblades and loading a set of whistling birds into his vambrace. He’d made a promise to Ahsoka against killing Moff Gideon, but he’d made no vow against scarring the Seraph beyond recognition.

When Din’s finished with him, Gideon will be a warning to the rest of the galaxy what happens if you steal from Death.

He stills at the thrum of satisfaction that runs through his body at the thought of pressing Gideon’s eyeballs out with his thumbs. The darkness within him has grown stronger since he killed Hess and it’s becoming an increasingly harder challenge denying its craving for bloodshed. If not for Ahsoka’s intervention, he would have reaped Xi’an’s soul, breaking another sacred rule. He should feel grateful, but the darkness expresses annoyance instead, upset to have been denied its kill.

There is a thought that has been plaguing the back of his mind, shackled in the same corner as his other doubts and regrets. He once had iron control over his powers and emotions, but now he’s holding onto his human façade by a mere thread. So slowly he hadn’t even been aware it was happening, his darkness has usurped his morality.

He’s meant to be a neutral entity, but when he looks at his reflection in the fresher mirror all he sees is a weapon.

Obsidian orbs have replaced brown eyes. Flawless tan skin has become dissected by lines of ink that once were blue veins.

Darkness is corrupting him from the inside out, making him a slave to the power he once mastered.

And he doesn’t have a fucking clue how to stop it.

Bo-Katan joins him in the hull an hour later. She doesn’t say anything , just leans against the wall across from him, and Din continues cleaning the barrel of his amban rifle as if he doesn’t see her.

The silence isn’t tense or uncomfortable, but he feels her gaze trying to penetrate his helmet. He knows the reaper well-enough to tell there is a question on her mind, but her hesitance to voice it unsettles him. Bo-Katan rarely holds her tongue around him, preferring blunt honesty over sugarcoating, which means whatever is on her mind must be serious.

He bites back a sigh when she starts restlessly shifting in place and pauses his task. “Ahsoka told you,” he says at last.

“That Moff Gideon fucked with our lives?” Bo-Katan snorts humorlessly. “Yeah, she showed me everything.”

“I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Me too. But it’s...good not being in the dark anymore. I needed to hear the truth,” she replies stoically, but the pointless adjustment of her headband betrays her internal strife. There is a moment of pause before she looks at him again. “I heard about your promise,” she says, and it’s not really a question, except that it is.

Din’s fingers tighten around the rifle. “Did she make you swear the same one?”

“No.” Bo-Katan shakes her head. “No, she didn’t.”

He’s not surprised by the answer. He actually thinks he should have expected it, considering the universe has always held him to a stricter standard than other entities.

“Ahsoka made it clear to me that this is something between you, Gideon, and your angel alone. I cannot interfere just like you cannot kill him.”

There is bitter resignation in her tone. He recognizes it because he felt the same when he made his promise to Ahsoka. No one likes being told no when they want something. But this—knowing with absolute certainty Gideon is the one responsible for hurting their loved ones and being told you can’t do anything to avenge them? This is the kind of pain that will linger for years to come as an ache in their bones and a scar over their hearts.

It isn’t fair. But Din’s lived long enough to know the universe never intended life to be that way.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Bo-Katan asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He blinks at her, realizing this is the question she’d been withholding since she came down the ladder. Never has she asked him a request before. “What is it?”

“You must separate Gideon from the Darksaber,” she answers, expression one of absolute seriousness. “The Armorer warned my people if the Lightsaber was ever mishandled, it would turn against the wielder by transforming into the Darksaber. Instead of empowering you, it deceives you. Fills your head with delusions until you lose your grip on reality entirely.”

“And you want to spare Gideon’s sanity?” Din asks slowly.

“Of course not. The son of a bitch deserves to be punished for his crimes. Even if I did want to,” her lips curl into a snarl at the thought, “there’s no way of undoing the damage done to his mind. What I want is for the weapon to be returned to the Armorer. She’s the only one who can properly dispose of it.”

“Right,” he agrees quietly. Anything that comes out of the Armorer’s forge is built to last the length of eternity. He could toss the Darksaber into the center of a sun and it’d remain whole and unaffected, waiting to twist the mind of the next wielder. Nodding his head, he assures her, “I’ll take care of it, even if I have to cut off his hands.”

“Good.”

Din paces the length of the hull, each thud of his boots making contact with the metal floor blends with the low hum of the engines. Usually he’d ignore the creaks and groans of his home, but the metallic symphony is the only thing capable of drowning out the thoughts in his head urging him to storm the cockpit and retake control from Ahsoka.

“Pacing isn’t going to make us arrive any quicker,” Bo-Katan tells him, not even bothering to open her eyes as she lounges atop one of his storage crates. “Ahsoka said it will be another hour at least.”

He has a retort ready on his tongue when a voice calls out his name from somewhere beyond the Razor Crest.

“Din!”

Din freezes in place as unexpected, heart-wrenching hope slices through his chest. He knows that voice. It’s his favorite in all the galaxy.

“Death?” Bo-Katan asks, concerned by his stillness. “What’s wrong?”

He tentatively reaches out towards the bond, giving it the slightest of tugs. When he feels the distant flicker of a reaction on the other end from his angel he nearly forgets how to breathe.

“The bond,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and relief. “I can feel it again.”

Longing fills his chest where the hollowness used to reside now that the invisible block separating them is gone. It wraps around his heart, squeezing so tightly he nearly falls to his knees. Din pulls at the bond again on impulse, possessed by the all-consuming need to see her, to have her at his side where she’ll be safe.

The bond protests the harsh treatment, too weak to physically bring them together across the vast distance separating them. He snarls a curse under his breath, hating being helpless to protect her. It’s unfair, he finds himself thinking for a second time. Unfair how it hurts more now being able to feel her presence compared to when he couldn’t at all.

A paper airplane flickers into existence on the horizon of his mind, flying straight into his hand when he reaches out for it. I can’t leave this place. Not yet, the note says. The words themselves are unsettling, but it’s the strength of the emotions she’s attached that has him reeling with shock. For one crazy, electrifying moment he thinks he’s passed onto the afterlife.

Another note arrives. I miss you, Din. I want to see you so much it hurts. And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously.

As he sends a message of his own, never has he been more certain that if anyone can put an end to the darkness inside of him—it’s her.

“The Moff is an expert when it comes to defensive warding,” Ahsoka says as the three of them stand looking up at a canyon wall that extends in either direction as far as their eyes can see. “But even he can’t hide from my sight.”

Din scuffs at the salt-covered ground with his boot, still coming to terms with the fact all this time Gideon’s been hiding out on Crait of all planets. As much as he wants to believe Ahsoka’s right, his powers can’t detect even the barest hint of the Seraph’s presence.

Bo-Katan’s eyebrows arch with skepticism. “You’re sure this is the right place? It’s kind of remote.”

“Perfect for building an army,” Ahsoka replies without missing a beat.

Din exchanges a look with his reaper, realizing this is the first time either of them are hearing about this.

“Gideon has an army?” he asks. “Who—”

“Mercenaries,” she interrupts, turning around to face them. Her blue eyes are distant and cloudy, entranced by a vision. “When I break the warding, all but one will meet the end of their mortal lives attempting to overpower us.”

“All but one? I don’t think so.” Bo-Katan rests her hands deliberately on her blaster pistols. “Anyone who works for Gideon is an enemy in my book.”

“Migs Mayfeld is not to be harmed.” There is steel in Ahsoka’s voice as she blinks back into the present moment.

Din nudges Bo-Katan with his arm when it looks like she wants to continue arguing. The reaper huffs a quiet breath of annoyance, but eventually jerks her head in the tiniest nod of compliance.

Ahsoka grabs her twin sabers from her belt and ignites their blue blades. She handles her weapons with deadly grace, altering her appearance from peaceful Oracle to fierce and cunning warrior. Turning back to the canyon wall, her gaze trails over the red-brown rocks only to pause and narrow at seemingly random points.

Bo-Katan tries and fails to follow her line of vision. “What are you—”

The Oracle leaps into the air with surprising agility, lashing out with her sabers against the rock. Blinding light bursts forth from the point of collision followed by a flickering glimpse of a gigantic metal door.

“—looking at,” Bo-Katan finishes quietly, watching Ahsoka swing herself higher to attack another portion of the canyon wall where the next segment of warding is hidden.

There is something undeniably satisfying about seeing the door materialize as the wardings cloaking it are destroyed. Every precise strike of Ahsoka’s sabers brings Din one step closer to reuniting with his soulmate.

As if spurred by the mere thought of her, fear ripples across the bond like a gust of icy wind, stopping his heart cold. His angel is terrified. Din reaches out as far as the bond will allow in its fragile state, trying to get her attention by pulling at it and shouting her name, but none of his attempts breach the storm of panic.

“She needs me,” he mutters to himself, stepping forward with clenched fists. His vision narrows until all he can see is the door in front of him, an obstacle that must be dealt with. “She needs my help.”

“Wait,” Bo-Katan calls out, but her voice sounds as if it’s coming from thousands of miles away. “Ahsoka isn’t finished with the warding yet!”

If he were capable of rational thought in that moment, he would have heeded her warning. As it is, he summons his power into the palm of his hand, the darkness inside of him crowing in wicked delight. He winds his arm back, preparing to slam his fist against the door, only for a whipcord to wrap around his wrist with an audible zip.

He’s pulled backwards onto the ground, breath knocked from his lungs as he lands with a heavy thud. Bo-Katan appears not a second later and pins him in place by straddling his waist. The darkness is demanding he push her aside, knowing with absolute certainty the reaper is no match against him, and it takes all his strength to wrestle the urge under control.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” She glares at him, eyes resembling green flames eager to incinerate him.

“I—” he rasps, breathing heavily. His hand starts trembling, a burning itch under his skin. “I can feel her fear. She needs me.”

Bo-Katan blows out a long, frustrated breath. “Well, shit.” She jostles him then, forcing his head to momentarily clear as his helmet smacks the ground. “Look, soulmates are soulmates for a reason, right? I heard it’s like being two halves of the same whole. So if your soulmate is anything like you, she’s not going to give up without a fight. You have to trust she can take care of herself right now. That she’ll be fine.”

Din bristles. Trust is not the issue here. There is no one he trusts more than his angel—not Bo-Katan, not Ahsoka, not even Kuiil. The issue is he’s being asked to deny the instinct to shield her from danger which is woven into every cell of his being.

“She’ll be fine.” The words come out sounding sharp around the edges, cutting his tongue like shrapnel. “Everything will be fine.”

Bo-Katan disconnects the whipcord and rises to full height, apparently satisfied by his agreement. Din pushes himself onto his feet at a slower pace, his hand still shaking as if it's electric. He looks down at it, noticing for the first time the flesh is gone, replaced entirely by shadow. His expression tightens as he observes the change, realizing the black tendrils are slowly creeping up towards his wrist.

An alarm rings out, reverberating off the canyon walls like an explosion. Din’s gaze snaps up just as Ahsoka lands on the ground in a defensive crouch. Now that it's been fully unveiled, the door bears a striking resemblance to ones he’s seen at military fortresses across the galaxy, ridiculously massive to intimidate enemies and impenetrable from outside attacks. It makes sense, he thinks with a scoff, someone as power-hungry as Gideon claiming an abandoned base as their lair. Without the wardings, Din is able to detect the massive number of souls gathering on the other side, resembling vermin crawling over one another in their haste to arm themselves.

He searches for his angel’s soul, even just a glimpse of her bright light, only for his powers to instead encounter a massive cloud of dark, negatively-charged energy within a distant corner of the underground tunnel system. It fills an entire room, prohibiting him from sensing if anyone is inside. There is something strangely familiar about the energy, like he’s encountered its essence before, but he can’t recall the specifics of when or where.

“It’s time.”

Ahsoka’s voice reels his focus back to his physical surroundings. He notices the way her grip on her sabers tightens in anticipation and out of the corner of his eye Bo-Katan withdraws her blasters from their holsters.

The bottom of the door begins to raise with an earsplitting groan, but the mercenaries only wait the minimum amount of time it takes to pass under without hitting their heads to start charging forward.

Every mortal has a beginning and an end just like everything else in the galaxy. These mercenaries are no exceptions, having long sealed their fates when they agreed to accept Gideon’s payment. So when Din’s shadowy hand phases through a man’s chest and tears his heart out of its cavity, staining the white salt under their feet crimson as blood bursts from the vacant hole, Din tells himself he’s simply fulfilling destiny.

He repeats it when he discharges an assault of whistling birds, each one puncturing the throats of each target they encounter with a shrill warcry. And also when he rips a devaronian’s horn out of his head, a fragment of skull and bits of brain matter still gruesomely attached.

Again and again, with each permanently silenced voice and every shattered fragile bone, destiny is fulfilled.

Din would be lying if he said he’s never wondered what it would be like to die. To pass on from this world into a new realm for him to explore. He’s imagined the idyllic afterlife mortals have written poems and novels about, describing it as a blissful safe haven where sorrow and tragedy have no definition because they do not exist. He’s familiar with their opinions of damnation’s appearance, too, as an infernal place of fire and brimstone and screaming.

They were wrong about that.

Damnation is not a distant hell. It is found in an underground lair on Crait.

Instead of flames and sulfur, a Cupid’s blood is split and a soulmate bond is snapped in half.

Instead of screaming, a madman laughs.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” Gideon says through his chuckles, hauling himself onto his feet. His voice is an abrasive rasp, as if he’s shredded his vocal cords by screaming. “I’ve had to be patient, wait to find your weakness so I could catch your attention. It’s a shame, really, she had to be the one you fell for. She was quite the little spitfire.”

Din stares at his soulmate’s motionless body, frozen in place. Please, he pulls at his severed half of the bond, resolutely ignoring how cold it feels. Open your eyes, angel. Don’t leave me. Please.

There is no response. Just heartbreaking silence.

“I sense your anger, your hurt, and grief. Those are mortal emotions.” The Seraph grimaces in disgust, then lets out a low hiss when he agitates the wounds on his face. “By living amongst their kind you’ve forgotten your true potential. You are not their equal, Death. You are their superior. Immortals are meant to be better than them. To rule over every aspect of their pitiful lives.”

“I don’t want to rule anyone,” Din says, dragging his eyes away from his angel to glare at Gideon. Both his hands begin to shake as his mind plunges into a gaping abyss of remorse and despair. “I just want a life with her.”

“Even dead, she continues to blind you.”

Din snarls viciously in response. His control is pushed closer to the brink, holding on by mere fingertips, and darkness engulfs the entire room as a result.

The glow of the Darksaber persists, reflecting off his beskar and Gideon’s armor. It reminds him of moonlight, and he thinks for all that Bo-Katan warned him about the weapon’s sinful qualities, she did not mention its beauty. Even Ahsoka’s vision had failed to truly capture its radiance, just as a holovid can never compete with a face-to-face conversation.

His powers are drawn to the Darksaber. The energy it emits matches the one encountered earlier when searching the tunnels for his angel’s aura. This close, there is no ignoring its familiarity, not when his brain feels seconds away from exploding.

“I used to believe love conquers all,” Gideon prattles on, seemingly oblivious to Din’s torment. “I chose it as the Cupid motto because I thought there was nothing mortals cared more about than the health and happiness of their loved ones. Only after our fateful encounter did the Lightsaber reveal to me the truth.”

Lightsaber? Din’s head jerks up to stare at him, biting back a wince when the throbbing in the back of his mind intensifies at the movement. Does Gideon not realize the weapon has transformed?

By connecting Ahsoka’s claim that Gideon didn’t fully understand the consequence of corrupting the Lightsaber with Bo-Katan’s explanation that the Darksaber deceives its wielder, the answer is an obvious one: he doesn’t.

Gideon mistakes Din’s confusion for interest and his lips slowly curl into a smile. “Mors aeterna. It means—”

“Death is eternal.” The translation slips unbiddenly from Din’s lips before he even realizes his mouth has opened.

“There is no one more feared or respected than you. But for what reason? What have you done to earn your reputation?” Gideon demands, spit flying as his anger flares. “You are no more than the universe’s favorite puppet. Mindlessly obedient to its every demand.”

Hearing the truth always hurts, but hearing it from Gideon is especially torturous. Din’s creed to the universe has dictated his actions the entirety of his existence. He never fought against its orders, never thought of his own desires as more important than what it wanted.

Until he matched with his soulmate. She changed his priorities and shifted the center of his entire world by revealing to him even Death could experience love.

There had been no hesitation when he broke his creed for her.

And he doesn’t hesitate breaking Ahsoka’s promise now.

“I just murdered your soulmate right in front of you and you do nothing. Did you ever love her at all?”

“I do.”

Din summons every trace of power and darkness he possesses and combines them together within his core—a volatile, pulsating mass of pure chaos. His beskar armor starts to crack and chip away, unable to withstand the increasing pressure.

He thinks of his angel’s smiling face, the sound of her laughter, how bright her soul shines, and he thinks all those things are gone now. Not even a chance to say goodbye.

“More than anything.”

And Death lets go.

Series Tag List: @stardust-and-starlight, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @rhiannon-russo, @maytheglitter, @eleinemk, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds, @computeringturtle, @absurdthirst, @linkpk88, @bethany2002, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @imthedoctorlove, @fishsficrecs, @sarahjkl82-blog, @reblogggs, @annathewitch

Permanent Tag List: @promiscuoussatan, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @over300books, @aerynwrites, @softly-sad, @chibi-yuki, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @freeshavocadoooo, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @happiestsparkleofall, @randomness501, @gallowsjoker, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @captain-jebi, @leilei-draws, @coaaster, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @melobee, @artsymaddie, @disgruntledspacedad

#death and an angel #my fic #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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forkanna · 5 years ago

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Commissions OPEN!

For a long time, I’ve been considering Commissions; IE, you pay me to write a thing, and I write it. But I’ve had a ton of other projects I was juggling so it wasn’t feasible before now. Some of those are taken care of, and also I have no money, so let’s give it a whirl!

This is on a trial basis: if you ask and I tell you I'm no longer accepting commissions, then that's it! Please don't be mean. I took a look around Tumblr and borrowed ideas and snippets from a few other posts to give me a better notion of how to do this. Seriously, this is my first shot so I'm doing my best! If you are interested, please read through the full rules and details in this post.

Commission Rate: $5 to get started and first 1000 words + $0.02 per word

Minimum Word Count: 1500 (IE, $15 is the minimum for a finished product)

Maximum Word Count: Depends on number of commissions/my availability (but generally, anything over 10,000 is a stretch)

[Further details:]

Main Universes (I can jump in easily!):

Frozen

RWBY

Sabrina the Teenage Witch (90s TV series)

Riverdale/Archie Comics (yes, including Sabrina lol)

Overwatch

Harry Potter

Sailor Moon

Solty Rei

Wizard of Oz/Wicked

Bucky O’Hare

Scott Pilgrim

Jessica Jones

Miraculous Ladybug

Veronica Mars

Stranger Things

(This list may be updated)

Other 'Verses (I'll have to brush up to do them justice):

Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Firefly/Dollhouse

Charmed, Ugly Betty, Everwood

Hayate the Combat Butler, Zoids:Chaotic Century/Guardian Force, Zoids:Genesis, Tenchi Muyo!, One Piece, Naruto, YuYu Hakusho, Hunter X Hunter, FLCL, Cowboy Bebop, Dragonball, Bamboo Blade, Chobits, and a decent amount of other anime I don’t feel like listing

Other Disney verses, such as Tangled, Moana, Little Mermaid, what have you

Batman, Superman, Spider-man, X-Men

Tales of Symphonia/Vesperia/Abyss

Star Trek (anything but Enterprise)

Star Wars (original or new trilogy)

Hunger Games

Divergent

A Series Of Unfortunate Events

Steven Universe

Miller-Boyettverse (this means Full House, Family Matters, Perfect Strangers, etc.)

Sonic (But please don't ask me to write Sonic... like I will if you really want me to but ugh, it’ll just give me ‘Nam flashbacks)

Extras (note that these fees apply even if you didn’t notice them lol) :

More than 2 characters: $2.00 per character (if they have more than a single line of dialogue lol)

Use of Original Characters (OCs): $3.00 per OC

OCs must be from the same universe.

EXCEPTION: See Cross-overs below.

I will not write anyone else's OC. It must be wholly owned by you.

All OCs requested as primary characters must have a biography or a link to a biography page (if such exists) submitted to provide for characterisation. I’m not a mind-reader.

Cross-overs: $5.00 per universe (and they must still be one I'm familiar with)

Alternate Universe (AU): $5.00

Please describe your AU in the request; use as much detail as possible so I have a clearer picture of what you want.

If it’s just a general “Modern AU” with no other stipulations (meaning I can just write whatever comes to mind), this can be waived.

Pairings that aren’t F/F: $5.00 (sorry, I just need the extra motivation for non-femslash ^^;)

I WILL

Write from fandoms other than those above, as long as you provide information about the characters and the setting. This will cost you $10 extra, because unfamiliar elements will take a lot more time/effort for me to research and get into beyond simply writing the story itself (and I may refuse outright if I’m just not comfortable, fair warning)

Write smut! You can't be surprised.

Write any gender/gender pairing. I prefer and am best at F/F, but M/F, M/M, and anything outside the binary are all well and good for me (but I charge extra; see above).

Trans characters count as their gender for purposes of fees. (IE, if it’s F/trans F, it is F/F; if it’s F/trans Male, it is F/M and will be $5 extra but I’m still totally happy to do it)

Write all kinds of kinks; if you can think of it, I've either already written it or would be willing to try. But there are exceptions: see below.

Post the work on my blog and various fanfiction websites; you are paying for me to write what you want to read, not for you to be the sole "owner". Also, you can stipulate whether or not you are credited with having commissioned it, either with your name or just with a preferred nick/username/Tumblr URL.

I WILL NOT

Write anything that I ultimately don’t feel comfortable with. I reserve the right to refuse commissions for any reason with or without disclosing said reason. Do not push this or I may sever all contact.

Write non-con. Full stop. Dubcon, we can talk about it but I'm still not thrilled with the idea. Yes, I just said I'm dubious about dubiousness. (Superfluous note: this obviously extends to prepubescent characters because they cannot give consent, so just don’t.)

Write certain hard kinks. Scat and dismemberment are off the table; there are others but I’ll let you know if you hit one.

Write real people. This is a growing trend in the fanfiction community, and while I'm mildly iffy with it under the best of circumstances, it is off my commission table entirely. I’m not trying to shame anyone else but it’s just not my jam.

Do anything MLP. After what happened to Yamino, and then WebdogGate happening to me, I just... have an aversion. (There are other fandoms I won’t do but I will gently let you know if you ask about them)

Let you post the fic yourself. You will receive the file of the fic through email/messaging/file-sharing website, or simply by seeing the post on Tumblr/AO3 if you prefer, but you will not post it yourself and claim credit for the work. Just because you paid for it doesn't mean you are now the author; I’m not ghost-writing.

Write anything other than fiction. I’m not an Essay4Cash service.

NOTE: Asking for any of the things explicitly banned on my “I WILL NOT” list will probably get your commission request ignored.

MORE DETAILS

* I will respond to commission requests on my own time, checking when I can. If you are not responded to within 1 week you may request again. * Once I have accepted and begun work on a commission, I will generally try to contact again within 1 week, either to state the reason it isn’t finished or to hand over the finished product. You may contact me after that time to ask what’s going on. * PayPal is the only form of payment accepted at this time. All amounts are in USD. This information will be exchanged during discussions about the work in question. You can pay me via My Ko-Fi if that’s preferable (still uses PayPal), but I must know that is how you sent payment via PMs/email before you send payment so I can look for it. * The $5 initial fee (for starting work and the first words) is non-refundable, as are the fees for any extras you may have opted for, and that will be expected before any work begins. BUT DO NOT JUST SEND ME MONEY WITHOUT DISCUSSION OF THE WORK IN QUESTION FIRST. If I don’t like the commission idea and you already paid me, that’s on you, and I don’t want you wasting your money. * A brief excerpt from the completed commission will be sent for review prior to payment as proof of good faith. * The full commission will be delivered upon receipt of payment via PayPal. Unless I literally did not do something you requested (or did something you requested I not do), you are receiving the final product: don’t quibble over details or come to me with buyer’s remorse. Done deal, all sales final. * Your money is paying for my time and my work. If I really can’t finish your commission, I will do my best to get back to you and either discuss how to proceed or possibly a change in the work. (But legally speaking, you donated your money to me and it’s gone; don’t try something crazy like suing me to get it back because I have warned you. No refunds. But in most cases that will only be that initial $5 fee anyway). * Word counts may vary. I prefer to write a story to a natural stopping point, so I could go above or below the word count goal by a handful. I will not charge extra for overages unless it is substantially more, and even then I will likely ask you first if you have more payment to offer. * Your commission will be delivered in DOCX or PDF format in addition to being posted. Hell, if you really wanna send me another $5+printing/postage fees, I’ll print it out at Office Depot and mail it to you, signed. (Separate transaction/arrangement though.)

CONTACT ME TO DISCUSS ON TUMBLR, OR HERE (drawn terribly in paint to avoid spambots):

Thanks in advance!

#fanfiction commissions #commission work #fanfic commissions #fic commissions #writing commisions #jess the writer #jess the very broke writer

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kamekamelea · 5 years ago

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Never tell me the odds

Hello @fezzle! Here’s an early Halloween gift for you for the @b99fandomeventsfall fic challenge! I got super inspired by your prompts and it was hard to choose one to write but I hope you’re happy with the outcome <3

Special thanks go to @amydancepants-peralta for all your precious help with this one! You’re a true angel 💖 And thank you @b99peraltiago for your moral support and patience with my rants about this fic 💕

also, it’s super fun to be part of this challenge once again 😊❤

read on ao3 (bc it’s kinda too long for tumblr)

How has she once again fallen a victim to Gina’s trick?

The bet was supposed to be an easy win for Santiago, but somehow Gina managed to outwit her (or rather, as Amy assumed, cheat). And the defeat was bitter. The defeat was Gina choosing a costume for Santiago for the Halloween party held at Linetti’s. Was the result different, Linetti would be forced to go to any nerdy event of Amy’s choice and the latter just briefly wonders if such outcome would make Gina suffer equally. Because Amy’s misery right now is enormous.

The misery being her wearing a Chewbacca costume, of all possible choices Gina could’ve made.

The costume is thick, doesn’t let any air in or out and the smell inside the upper part is overwhelming in the worst sense. But now it’s too late to start looking for a new one, Amy thinks, standing in front of the door to Gina’s apartment and she knows Linetti won’t let her in, her wearing only yoga pants and a t-shirt under her costume. So she follows Rosa inside, her shoulders slumped. Not that anyone would notice in the bush of fake Wookie fur.

There are cheap Halloween decorations all around Gina’s apartment - plastic pumpkins put on every free surface, tacky spiders and bats hanging from door frames and lamps. The cups have skeletons imprinted on them and a big bowl is standing in the middle of the kitchen, filled with a suspiciously looking red jello, which, as Amy assumes, is supposed to look like blood. It’s not sophisticated (what is expected from a students’ party) but Amy admires Linetti’s dedication to decor. In the corner, far back in the living room, stands an occasionally screaming witch, scaring off from time to time those who come closer to the drinks table.

And Amy would love to get drunk as fast as possible but it is not really an option in that suit - it’s hard to walk in it being sober, she can only imagine how worse it would get after alcohol circulating in her system. So she stands in front of the makeshift bar, full of the cheapest beer and wine, with a few bottles of tequila and vodka in the back of it, and contemplates the reasons behind her desperate need to show up here tonight. Why did she oblige to Gina’s stupid terms just for the sake of one party? She doesn’t even like Halloween that much...

Oh, right. Because her private life is a disaster.

She’s nearing the end of college, satisfied with her results - it’s a good feeling to have the highest grades, a scholarship and University authorities’ recognition. Yet at what cost? While going through her university experience, she has kinda forgotten about one important life’s detail - people. And Amy’s been in a weird place recently, getting to know new people becoming harder and harder with age. Her being stuck in a small crowd of friends, people she loved with all of her heart, but even they’ve kept telling her to take some air. A breath of clear air that comes with a new friendship.

However, Amy has always been a bit weird with people, add to it her geekiness and OCD, it really doesn’t create the best combination for being popular. Even if she has never craved for popularity, it also doesn’t help in creating deep bonds with people she keeps close to herself. One of those people being Rosa Diaz, her classmate from high school, with whom she managed to form some kind of meaningful relationship. It was a hard task - Diaz being a human form of a brick wall, and Amy having her own struggles with opening to people - but in the end Amy was over the moon when their friendship developed, reaching a level where the other Latina agreed to become roommates as the time for college came.

And it’s not that she doesn’t like to be around people, no. It’s just that if she was to describe the feeling that overcomes her after spending too much time with an acquaintance she would use the noun discomfort. Because there is always a wall, a wall of politeness and courtesy, that blocks Amy from being her true self around most people. Those are rules of dealing with people and Amy loves to follow rules.

Surprisingly, a weird easiness Amy finds also in Linetti’s company, Rosa’s girlfriend of few months. Even though Gina never noticed Amy in high school (and still doesn’t believe she and Santiago actually attended some classes together, even when she showed her some pictures on the school’s website, always chortling right in her face when Amy brings it up) and only hangs out with her because of one Netflix account Rosa shares with Amy, which forces them to often watch TV together.

And when Gina invited Amy to her Halloween party (after Rosa elbowed her hard in the ribs) Amy thought it might be a good opportunity to step out of her comfort zone. Of course Linetti had to do it her way, coming up with the whole bet idea and again, Amy agreed because if there is one thing she loves more than following rules it’s competition. And she calculated her chances well - doing some calculus of probability is actually one of her hobbies, but somehow Gina, being the sneaky girl that she is, fooled her anyway.

It is a spooky season indeed, Amy thinks, her demons chasing her on this last day of October.

All of a sudden, Amy’s small pity party gets interrupted, as a pair of unknown arms encircles her from behind and an unexpected impact makes her wobble. But the arms are strong and they keep her in place.

“There you are, Chewie! I was worried the Stormtroopers finally got you!” Someone shouts loudly right into her ear and if it wasn’t for the mask, she would have lost her hearing for sure.

The arms let go of her, making it possible for her to turn to the source of the voice, which sounds somehow familiar, even in this noise of a crowded party. Through the small holes which are supposed to be Chewie’s eyes she sees a snippet of an ecru shirt and black vest. What she doesn’t see is a face, so she tilts her head in a weird angle to inspect it. And then a big smile shows, and sparkling brown eyes and a head of messy curls.

Amy knows this face, she just has trouble to match it with a name.

“Come on, Chewie! Don’t you recognize your best friend?!” The smile only grows bigger (if that’s even possible) and for a reason unknown to Amy it makes her blush. God bless the mask.

“Is this supposed to be a Han Solo costume?” she asks, her tone maybe a bit too sharp given he’s been nothing but nice, with this beam of his and friendly attitude. There was no reason whatsoever for her to go into her defensive mode. Her blush deepens.

“Oh, come on! It’s obvious I’m Han - I even have a gun, look!” The man, she still can’t remember the name of, reaches to his back pocket and takes out the tackiest plastic gun she’s ever seen.

She actually chuckles at his attempt to roll the gun on his finger, even if it’s a failed one. “Yeah, so much better now, Han Solo.”

“It’s Jake actually.” He smiles and then it clicks.

“Right, Jake Peralta!” She points her finger at him in a weird satisfactory gesture, excited she managed to finally to remember and only then she realizes how awkward it must have looked.

That’s why she should’ve stayed at home.

Jake’s brows furrow in a confused impression, though the smirk is still there, so she hurries with an explanation. “We went to high school together.”

They did go to the same school, true. And that’s it. They’ve never exchanged a word, him probably oblivious to her existence, but she knew him of course, because who didn’t really? The goofball, school’s clown, his jokes capable to charm even the strictest of teachers. He wasn’t maybe the most popular boy in school, but his personality was just so loud it was catching Amy’s attention, besides she enjoyed watching him interacting with others. He made it look so easy. Just coming by to a random person to chat about nothing in particular and bonding. Never seemed so easy for her. Maybe if he would’ve come up to her, it would have been easy as well? But he never did, so those thoughts are pointless.

(Most of the time he would be wearing that trademark grin of his proudly, but there were times Amy saw him walking in contemplation through a secluded hallway, his gaze wistful and lips pursed and if someone was to actually talk to him, he would put on a smile Amy knew was fake.)

“That’s so cool! Gina invited so many random people, it’s gonna be so nice to see a familiar face. Well, if you decide to finally let go of that mask, Chewie.”

He’s going to be so disappointed seeing a face of yet another stranger.

But she grasps the mask and struggles for a second and only with a slight help from Jake she manages to get it off.

“You probably don’t re...” she rushes to explain but gets interrupted by an excited scream.

“Oh my God, Amy Santiago?! In a Chewbacca costume!”

Jake giggles like crazy, and with his whole body, but Amy doesn’t feel offended by his reaction because the laugh doesn’t sound like a mean one, and it is a hilarious sight of her in that costume. First and foremost though her mind can only focus on one thing now - he knows her name.

His laugh is contagious, so she lets herself to chuckle timidly, and is amazed how easy it is to just laugh with a person she has just met.

“Wow, Amy Santiago, I didn’t take you for a person to wear a Chewbacca costume. I love it.” he says once their giggles die a bit and Amy wishes the mask was still in place to cover the redness of her cheeks.

“Not my choice really. But now that my sweat has mixed with all the sweat of people who wore this costume before me, I don’t even mind it anymore.”

The words leave her mouth and her hand twitches to slap herself for making it the most awkward small talk ever. According to good manners, this is not how you talk to person you barely know. Especially if that person has such mesmerizing eyes and cute smile. Bringing up sweat isn’t a sexy thing to say. Not that she wants to be received as sexy.

(Even if she wanted, it’s hard to accomplish it wearing the most shapeless and fury costume ever. This is like the opposite of sexy.)

“Sounds sexy!” His right brow rises in a funny way as he chuckles but Amy has only half the mind to admire this adorable sight, because the other half is amazed - looks like small talks don’t have to feel weird and forced after all. He must’ve taken her shocked expression as a wrong sign though, because for the first time the smile disappears from his face as he starts to explain. “Just kidding! I’m so sorry, this was so inappropriate. I made it super weird, didn’t I?”

“Super weird is actually my comfort zone, so thank you for finally lowering your standards of social interactions to my level.” It’s actually so true, Amy realizes, and is surprised it was easier to admit it to Jake than to herself for such long time. He takes it though only as a pretty dark joke probably, the beam finding its designated place on Jake’s face again, giving Amy no choice than to reciprocate it.

“You know what would be the coolest thing ever?” Jake suddenly exclaims excitedly. “Us together taking part in the costume contest.”

“What contest?...”

“Gina is holding a competition for matching costumes, since she really wants people to praise her costume idea for her and Rosa.”

“Who are they dressing up as? Rosa refused to tell me when I asked her about the blonde wig.”

“I think she’s supposed to be Portia and Gina’s dressing up as Ellen Degeneres.”

Yeah, Amy can see now why Rosa seemed so uncomfortable in her costume, probably preferring to wear a more gloomy outfit. But, there are worse things people do for love, and Amy is moved by Diaz’s gesture to make her girlfriend happy.

“So, wanna take part?” He prompts further cheerfully. “Being honest, I think it’s a destiny you and I both came wearing Star Wars costumes. And they match in the best way possible!”

Amy doesn’t know what makes her agree eventually, after Jake - a man she doesn’t really know - gives her a countless number of arguments (none of which makes sense) about the brilliance of his idea. She’s of course quick to correct him.

“The form you’re looking for is “brilliantness”. “Brilliance” refers to something exceptionally effulgent.”

He then mocks her know-it-all tone (giving it a weird British vibe), but in a way that makes her laugh, and she willingly indulges into a banter that goes on for a while. And somehow the result of it is her saying yes to that proposition.

Despite the thick layer of the Chewie costume, she feels a spark going through her nerves when Jake grabs her hand to pull her towards Gina, person in charge.

~~READ THE REST ON AO3~~

#b99fandomevents #b99 fall 2019 fic exchange #b99 #b99 fic #peraltiago #peraltiago fic #jake x amy #jake x amy fic #jake peralta #amy santiago #halloween meet-cute #i know i kinda twisted one of your other prompts #😅😂#hope you don't mind #and that you like it ❤#my writing #kasia writes #mine

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threadsketchier · 5 years ago

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Author Ask

Tagged by @slx99 THANK

Author name: same, ThreadSketchier

Fandoms you write for: only a Star War, I am a monogamous fangirl swan

Where you post: on le AO3 and here under the tag #my fics

Most popular one shot: uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I guess technically A Hard Question? If we’re just going by number of comments. Which is nice, because I really busted my honey-nut OTP feelios on that one.

Most popular multi-chapter: .............................wow um apparently it’s Gilded of all things. That...is not what I was expecting. Talk about getting a hardcore kick in the patooty about finishing that. TO EVERYONE’S MISERY.

Favorite story you wrote: Love Thy Enemy, man. It was like giving literary birth. The one damn fic I was carrying around in one form or another since before 2002. Finally getting at least SOME of it out was the most satisfying thing ever (after tearing my hair out over how frickin’ difficult it was).

Story you were nervous to post: Before I deleted it, that would’ve gone to “A Path of Embers,” mainly because I had a big dilemma over how to tag for content without spoiling the ending, but now it’s Gilded, lol. I mean, I’m making a freaking horror riff off of The Crystal Star, ffs. The original novel was already terribad and here I am, a chaotic dumbass, trying to make it worse!!!

How do you choose your titles: either a line lifted from the fic itself, or Something Pretentious™, or something that fits the overall theme (a good example of the last one would be the Glimpses series; since it was meant to be snippets of the OT gang in a sort of angsty-fluffy-slice-of-life sense I went with lines from Ecclesiastes, which are also featured in the song Turn! Turn! Turn!)

Do you outline: BRO DO I EVEN OUTLINE no no I do not. XD Instead I tend to build soundtrack playlists for bigger fics to act as an audio outline/storyboard.

Complete: the Glimpses series (because I couldn’t think of anything to keep writing past that point), my weirdo little fleeting attempt at a Jedi Academy Trilogy rewrite Paper Planes, technically Exit Strategy and Plotting Course even though they’re loosely connected in what I nicknamed the Zahn 2.0 series and I wish I could write more in the future, reeeeeally technically “A Hard Question” because it can be a stand-alone though I’d love to incorporate it as the new prologue to a rewrite of I’ll Come With You that will never come to fruition waaaaaaaaaaaaah

In progress: Gilded *dying animal noises*

Coming soon: honestly...I don’t know yet. I really haven’t written substantially in close to a year now (the Glimpses series already existed on my hard drive, I’d first written those privately for @culturevulture73 and then I was so desperate for validation I asked to post them openly) and I’m kind of floundering right now.

Upcoming story you are most excited to write: see previous answer *muffled sobbing*

Do you accept prompts: not really, because I suck harder than a Dyson vacuum at them. I have a notorious inability to know how to handle random prompts. Whatever fic I write has to come out of my own last two brain cells rather than external ideas. That said, I was maaaaaaaaybe hoping I could do at least a few Whumptober prompts just to get me back into the zone.

not tagging anyone specific, just letting y’all know if you feel like it, DEW IT.

#my fics #fic life #in the meme time #i'm not really a writer i just play one on the internet

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dogbearinggifts · 6 years ago

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Brothers in Arms, Part Two

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is (I think) the final installment of my Sheepdogs series. I am toying with an idea for an epilogue, and I’m open to new ideas for stories set roughly within the same continuity, but for now, I’m going to say this is where I leave it. Thank you to everyone who has followed, read, and commented on this story so far. If not for your support and enthusiasm, it would have remained a single oneshot. I’ve loved writing this series, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.

If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, I’d recommend starting from the beginning with He Saw the Ghosts, a oneshot exploring what could have happened if a kinder vet had approached Klaus in the VFW. Dead Ringer, Tattoos with Better Stories, Missing in Action, and Brothers in Arms Part One follow this small group of vets as they try to solve the mystery around the man in the picture who looks an awful lot like Klaus.

As always, you can check out this fic and the rest of the series on my AO3 account.

***********

1969

Someone had to stay with the body.

Art didn’t know at which point someone became him, didn’t remember anyone pointing to him and saying “Stay with Dave.” He didn’t remember much of the past hour, if it had been an hour, or how long it had been since the smoke and dust cleared and silence overtook the battlefield. He only remembered Dave.

His friend lay beside him in the dirt. Someone had closed his eyes. Art tried to remember who, wished he could remember who, but the thought refused to surface. It could’ve been one of the officers. It could have been Lawrence. It could have been anyone nearby, anyone who’d seen it and decided Dave deserved that one small act of decency. Events like that, small but significant happenings in the battle’s aftermath, slipped through his mind like dust through his fingers. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dave; when he opened them, he saw debris of the battle that had ended him.

Plenty of men died with their eyes open, and plenty died of wounds that weren’t an instant kill. They died screaming, they died calling out for mothers thousands of miles away, they died slower than any man should have to. Art had seen it, had offered what useless comfort he could when circumstances brought him to the side of a dying friend. He’d made it too late this time—far too late—but even if he’d made it in time it wouldn’t have mattered much. Bullet wound to the chest, right in the center. Dave would’ve had a minute or two of agony, a minute or two of panic, as he choked and gasped for breath that wouldn’t come, as he tried to call for help, tried to—

Art hugged his knees to his chest, digging dirt-blackened fingernails into his shins, though the cloth of his pants absorbed much of the pain. The thought didn’t quite leave, but it shuffled to the back of his mind. Silence took its place, but other thoughts, darker even than the one he’d just banished, threatened to fill it.

He had to do something for Dave.

He wasn’t the first of Art’s friends to die. Months back, Isaac had caught a piece of shrapnel in his stomach, hemorrhaging beyond what a medic could fix before any medic could try. He hadn’t seen Dave take his place beside his friend’s body, hadn’t been there when he began speaking, but when Art came near he’d heard the words of a psalm, cracking beneath Dave’s grief.

Art had recognized it then, known the words belonged to Scripture when he heard them, but the psalm’s specific number had eluded him then and it eluded him now. He should have paid more attention, should have noted a line or two and looked them up later, should have found a way to ask if the one he’d recited had been his favorite or simply the right one to recite when a friend died—but the question was a distraction now.

The Twenty-third had been the first psalm he’d memorized, back when the words meant little to him beyond their soothing cadence, but no memories of reciting The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want to the delight of parents and Sunday school teacher alike came to mind. Instead, his father’s voice cut through, strong and steady, yet never rising more than a few notes above a whisper. For a moment, Art was back home on the sofa, head bowed through the psalm meant to follow him through Vietnam, meant to offer comfort and protection from horrors he could not yet comprehend. Maybe it wasn’t the right one.

But it was what he had.

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High…”

Art hadn’t realized just how quiet the world became after a battle. He’d heard it before, felt it before, but now that he spoke, it was as though the silence itself pressed around him, threatening to swallow his words and suffocate them on the way down.

“…shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in him I will trust.”

His voice had fallen to a whisper, but he kept on. There was a certain rhythm to reciting psalms, a tempo no one ever explained or laid out as a requirement but one everybody fell into after the first line or so. Staying within it was like keeping to the grooves separating a country backroad from the countryside. Hold to the rhythm, stay on tune, and get to the end in one piece.

“Surely he shall deliver thee…”

He drew a breath that threatened to shake him to his core. This was the wrong psalm. The worst psalm. The worst piece of Scripture he could’ve chosen without straying into the Song of Solomon. He tried to think of another, but even the Twenty-third only surfaced in snippets and snatches.

“….from the snare of the fowler, and from…”

Art tried to get the rest of the verse out, but it was like swallowing sawdust. He raised his head, thinking he might see only shadows of trees silhouetted against the greying darkness of predawn, soldiers and officers moving about like ghosts, but one of those figures approached.

Klaus.

Art hadn’t seen him since the deafening chatter of gunfire turned to silence. The words unaccounted for and possibly missing circled his name, or they had before Art was told to stay with Dave. But this, this figure approaching out of the dark, it could be him, walking on his own two feet.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

He watched the figure’s approach, hardly daring to breathe. Any moment it would solidify, taking on that familiar lanky frame, a stride that was anything but purposeful but still managed to get from one point to the next. A few steps took the figure closer. It didn’t look like Klaus, not from where he sat, but nobody looked familiar from a great enough distance.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor by the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

Art’s stomach sank. The gait was all wrong, more of a lope than an amble; he wasn’t tall enough. Even before his face came into focus, Art saw he wore a shirt beneath his flak vest.

George.

Not Klaus.

Of course, that didn’t mean what he thought. Klaus didn’t have to pass him by on his way to prove he was indeed accounted for; he could go in any direction that made sense to him. It was probably better if he didn’t pass by Art, at any rate. Best if the news of Dave’s death were broken to him gently. Best if he heard of it through soft words and hedging.

Art couldn’t quite read George’s expression—not for lack of emotion, but for the sheer number of them blended together and cloaked in a veil of weariness. He raised his head as George drew closer.

“Klaus?” The question came out in a croak.

George met his gaze for a second, just a second. Then he looked to the ground, sorrow and anger and resignation visible for only a moment before his steps carried him away.

For a moment, Art couldn’t breathe and didn’t think to, couldn’t move and didn’t want to. He listened to the silence nibble at George’s footsteps until the sound was gone. He watched his friend’s retreat, watched as a few more strands of darkness faded to light, but no new figures ambled out of the jungle, no familiar voice called his name.

He should have shouted, screamed to the heavens, forced God to listen and hear what he had to say, really hear it, but the words refused to form and Art lacked even a whisper to carry them. He hugged his knees closer, and it brought no comfort. He buried his face and waited for tears that did not come, feeling as though someone had torn out his insides and stitched him back up. Only the psalm remained, the psalm he couldn’t have recited had he wanted to. The psalm he never wanted to hear again.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

*********

They didn’t know where Klaus was.

It was expected. Richard and Jim barely knew him, had only guessed at his surname. He’d met them in public spaces, and only one of those meetings had been planned. They wouldn’t know where he lived or where he was staying, and it simply wasn’t reasonable to hold them accountable for his whereabouts.

Even so, Art had to bite back a few sharp questions when they said as much.

Jim had taken two numbers from Diego—Diego Hargreeves; Art still wasn’t sure he’d fully comprehended the notion he might have served with a former superhero—and had left both of them at home.

“I’ll head back and grab ‘em,” Jim said.

Richard looked at his watch, then out the window at the darkening sky. “Mind if we just follow you? If we want to catch him tonight, seems like we should try and call before it gets too late.”

Art could have climbed into the front seat of Richard’s station wagon, but he’d always preferred to drive. Better to have a ready means to leave and not need it than need it and be stuck. Before long, he paced the teal carpet of the entryway to Jim’s apartment, one ear inclined toward the living room. Jim was the only one on the phone, the only one who could hear it ringing, but the moment he greeted whoever answered would be heard by all.

Jim’s apartment had a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and that was where Richard stood, leaning against the sink. Art couldn’t comprehend how he could remain so still—but then, none of the men he’d served with had reportedly popped up out of the woodwork fifty years later, looking the same as they had the day they’d vanished.

Not to Art’s knowledge, anyway.

Jim took a few steps to the left, then back to the right. The phone cord stretched out as he approached the opposite wall, sprang back into loops as he returned. The drive over had taken over twenty minutes, to say nothing of the hours the pair of them had spent tracking down everyone in Klaus’ unit—in his unit—the weeks and months and years expended trying to find just one man who could name the soldier in the photo.

It was a lot of effort to put into a hoax, especially one with no obvious gain for either perpetrator. A lot of time to spend listening to stories of a man whose identity they planned to use for some twisted purpose. Sincerity was fickle, the sort of thing that could be faked by anyone with enough people skills to feign empathy, but Art didn’t need to lean on what he thought he’d felt from Richard and Jim when the evidence spoke clearly enough. The two men were convinced of what they were selling. Which didn’t necessarily mean it was real; just that whoever might be behind it had been persuasive enough to pull the wool over their eyes.

Jim set the receiver back in its cradle, took it back up, and dialed the second number. Art only stopped his pacing when Jim spoke.

“Hey! Yeah, I’m calling for a guy named Diego. Yeah, Diego Hargreeves. He there?”

The long pause made it clear he wasn’t, even before Jim’s face fell.

“All right. Give him my number when you see him, will you? Let him know I called about his brother Klaus.”

He placed the receiver back in its cradle, but his hand lingered there a moment as he stared, as though waiting for it to ring again.

“Nothing?”

Jim shook his head. “I dunno what else to try.”

Art inhaled. They’d reached a dead end, and surrender was the most obvious solution. Go back to his family and enjoy the rest of his vacation—or enjoy it as much as he could, with thoughts of Klaus at the front of his mind. Push those thoughts to the back, accept them as a strange interruption in his trip. Wonder for the rest of his life, however long that may be, if one decision on his part could have changed the outcome, could have brought him face-to-face with an old friend or with an actor hired for the strangest, cruelest prank ever pulled on a veteran of the armed forces.

“You said he’s a Hargreeves, right?”

“We’re pretty sure,” Richard said.

“’Bout ninety-eight percent sure,” Jim added.

Those were good odds. Art had shed his coat some minutes back, when his pacing and Jim’s heater worked to make the extra layer less than tolerable, and he lifted it from the floor, putting it on so quickly his sleeves bunched.

“Which way’s the Academy?”

*********

1976

“Got married last year.”

Art had thought his voice might be too loud, loud to the point of vulgarity, but it was no more so than it might have been in an average park. The only other visitors, an elderly couple standing a dozen or so plots away, didn’t shoot him a glare or look up from their own mourning. Cemeteries, it seemed, were made to handle a little conversation.

“Her name’s Libby. Met her at a church potluck. There was this bowl, and it had a huge pile of whipped cream on top, more sprinkles than I’d ever seen in my life. I figure it’s pudding or something, go to take a spoonful. Libby sidles on over and whispers in my ear, ‘It’s tuna.’ Yeah. Some asshole put whipped cream on a tuna salad.”

Stillness greeted his words, filled only by a soft breeze and the rustling of grass beneath his feet, but Dave wouldn’t have accepted the story in silence. There would have been laughter—some of it disbelieving, most of it in good humor. Jokes would follow, but Art didn’t want to think about those. He wanted to hear them in Dave’s voice, carried on his laughter as that familiar smile lit up his face.

He wanted to hear Klaus say he would’ve eaten that tuna salad, whipped cream and all.

There’d been no word since the day he went missing. Art had thought he might see him with the other American POWs returned at the war’s conclusion, but Klaus was not among them and his name had not surfaced since.

When he slept, he saw Klaus dead or dying, surrounded by barbed wire and the enemy. Sometimes the dream lingered on his misery and sometimes it did not, but the end was always the same. Klaus dead, just like Dave. Like every other man who now appeared to him in nightmares and flashes that intruded even on his waking senses.

Art closed his eyes. There had been other soldiers, men he’d never met and never would, who disappeared from conflict only to resurface decades later with no awareness that the war had ended. He knew those instances were rare, that he wouldn’t have heard the names of those men if theirs had been a common feat, but the thought of Klaus holed up in a cave someplace, only dimly aware of news from outside as he made fools of his would-be or former captors, brought a small smile. He clung to it, willing it to drive back thoughts of the alternative—thoughts that sprang more readily to mind.

He regarded the headstone. There were fewer coins now than there had been a few years back, closer to his death, but Art still spied a couple of nickels from men who’d known him from boot camp beside pennies from other visitors. His was the only dime, but not every man Dave had served with could make it out to his grave at the same time. They might pass through weeks or months after Art returned to his routine, but they would come. Dave would not be left alone for long.

That familiar guilt wrapped itself around his shoulders again, whispering in his ear. The first time he’d spoken to Dave since returning home, the first time he’d managed more than a few choked sounds and silence, and the best he had to offer was a story about tuna salad. He hadn’t even wept for his friend in the seven years he’d been gone, but he could tell a story about himself as good as anyone.

“Still no word on Klaus.” Dave would want to know that, if he were near enough to listen, to know where he was and how he was and the answer to every other question Art had asked himself since the day he vanished. No news was anything but good news, in this case, but it was still something to share. “If he was back in the States, I’d have brought him along.”

The memory of what he’d seen all those years ago surfaced again, as fresh and clear as though he’d witnessed it the day prior. But he didn’t push it back. He’d let it come to him in recent years, let it remain in his thoughts long enough to lose its sharpest edges. The fear he’d felt then, the certainty that he had to tell someone, anyone, and the shame that he couldn’t, had faded—first to a sense that what he’d seen hadn’t been worth breaking their trust, then to something new, something gentler that Art still hadn’t identified. Something that left him with an echo of the hollowness he’d felt the night Dave died and Klaus vanished.

He’d seen them differently after that day, noticed things that had before escaped him. How whatever tension Klaus carried ebbed away at Dave’s approach. How Dave’s smile always seemed a little wider, the light in his eyes a little brighter, when Klaus was near. There were times, and probably more of them than Art had witnessed, when they seemed to forget they were fighting a war at all.

“You should’ve gone home with him.”

The words were out before he had a chance to ponder them, but once they hung in the air, he knew he couldn’t have said anything else. They were the only truth worth speaking, even if they set his mind on a course he didn’t want to follow. He tried to shut out thoughts of what might have been, of Klaus free and Dave alive, sharing smiles and bandying jokes back and forth as they explored whatever new city they’d chosen, together for as long as they had left and as happy as two could be.

He’d heard of moments like this, moments of sudden pain meant to bring relief, compared to the sensation of ripping off a bandage. And he knew, in that moment, that the analogy was not and never had been accurate. Tearing off a bandage never felt like tearing off his own skin.

His eyes stung; the headstone blurred. He shoved a fist against his mouth, biting down in an attempt to keep his tears silent, but a soft cry escaped regardless as what may have been faded into what was.

Six years. Six years he’d visited his friend’s grave and watched in silence. Six years he’d stood and thought and remembered and hated his inability to muster up a single word, but he’d stood on his own feet and walked off without shedding a tear.

Art sank to the grass, hugged his knees tight, and gave into his grief.

**********

The Academy wasn’t hard to miss.

It had been a city block, he’d heard, once upon a time—a whole city block with storefronts and apartments and pay phones. Over the years, though, the Academy had swallowed up those shops and homes one by one, not so much erasing them as subsuming them into a new whole. He’d never been inside; from what he knew, not even the press had been allowed to pass that wrought iron gate. Only those seven kids and Reginald had seen what went on within those walls.

“Bet your dad would be laughing at me now, huh, Klaus?”

“Yeah. And he laughed like this.” Klaus knit his brows, gaze hardening into a glare, lips drawn into such a scowl that Art had to laugh—a sound echoed by the other men in the tent.

Klaus had never described his father in detail, had never provided a clear image to conjure up for stories like that. Art had never crafted a picture of his own, but he’d never imagined him with white hair and a monocle, either.

Even so, thoughts of the famed Reginald Hargreeves wearing that scowl and that glare, of turning them both on his children, came easily to mind.

Too easily.

Art’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. There was still no evidence the Klaus he’d served with was alive or the same age as the day he’d vanished, and no reason to assume he’d served with the same Klaus Hargreeves who could speak to the dead. A shared weakness for drugs proved nothing. Shared tattoos proved much more, but he hadn’t seen them yet.

He had to find this Klaus, that was all. Find him, get a good look at him, ask him a few questions that only his friend could answer. Gain more evidence, examine it as objectively as he could, and make a judgment. He had to remain impartial. Focusing too closely on what might be would distract him from what was.

Art sucked in a breath, but his heart refused to slow. A short film played in his mind’s eye, one where Klaus greeted him with that smile he remembered, greeted the story of how he’d found him with a laugh he hadn’t heard in fifty years.

He’d been able to call it up, back when the war was still one of those subjects you avoided at Thanksgiving dinner and not a chapter in a high school textbook; but when he reached for it now, he heard only an echo that might have been Klaus’ voice or might have been a voice he’d heard on television.

He should have summoned that laugh, back when he remembered it. Endured the pain it brought, allowed it to carry memory after memory in its wake. He’d have done it daily, if it meant holding onto his friend a little longer.

Two blocks from the Academy, red and blue lights filled the darkness. Art pulled to a stop, rolling down his window as a uniformed officer approached.

“There an accident?”

“You could say that.” The officer glanced over her shoulder, toward the Academy. Art followed her gaze, but couldn’t make out much through the blinding haze of police lights. “The whole Academy just came down.”

“What?”

“We’re going to need you to take another route—”

“How?” Dizziness overtook him, passing as quickly as it had come—though the pit in his stomach remained. “I mean, what happened?”

“We’re not sure yet, but—”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Like I said, sir, we don’t know yet.”

Art barely heard the irritation in her tone. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he’d already shifted into reverse.

*********

2015

Save for the presence of more headstones than there had been, the cemetery hadn’t changed much since Art’s first visit. He still walked the same path to his friend, stood on the same land beneath the same sky. The world outside had grown bigger, louder, but the cemetery remained as serene as ever.

“Maddie’s fourteen now.” A soft smile quirked his lips at the thought of his granddaughter. “She and a couple other kids got in trouble for this poem they wrote, but she’s got a teacher named Butz, and he acts like one from what I hear. What was she supposed to do?”

He laid his dime on Dave’s headstone. It sat alone, but he’d spotted a nickel the last time he visited and a penny the time before that. And no coins at all didn’t mean no visitors, only that whoever had dropped by hadn’t seen the need to communicate as much.

“If that’s a down payment on a drink for the next time we meet up,” Art said, “then you’ve probably got enough money by now to buy the whole goddamn bar. If inflation’s not too bad up there.”

Whenever that aspect of the coin’s tradition was spoken of, it had the ring of a joke, but Art had never regarded it as anything less than half of one. Years had a way of changing a man’s views of death and what came after. Visions of blue skies carpeted with endless white clouds upon which winged souls played harps and sang hymns had become something less sterile, less cloying. Maybe Heaven was a bar where old friends waved you over to a table and dusted off stories you hadn’t heard in years. Maybe Hell was getting kicked out for starting a fight.

Or maybe there was nothing and he’d been talking to a slab of rock for forty-six years.

The breeze became wind, carrying the chill of a coming winter, but Art’s shiver had little to do with the cold.

Klaus wasn’t the only POW who’d never returned from Vietnam, not by far. Theories weren’t spoken of as commonly as they had been years back, but Art would be lying if he said he hadn’t entertained a few before quickly dismissing such an outcome for his friend. Each year, he’d imagined Klaus growing older far from home, trying to make it back and running into obstacle after insurmountable obstacle. But in his mind, Klaus had never stopped trying, and he never would. In his mind, Klaus would one day resurface to the surprise of an entire nation, would regale them with his tale of survival and reunite with whichever Army buddies still lived. Art would be among those there to greet him. No matter what it cost, no matter how long the drive, Art would be there to welcome him home.

He’d sheltered that hope over the years, allowed it to grow old with him. When it became threadbare, he’d locked it away lest it crumble at his touch. Death in combat was one thing; death in a POW camp was another, one he couldn’t consider for too long without the nightmares invading his thoughts. There was no evidence Klaus hadn’t met that fate, but there was no evidence he had. That was something. That was all the excuse Art needed to cling to hope a little longer.

All the excuse he needed to delay the inevitable.

The forty-fifth anniversary of Klaus’ disappearance had come and gone. That would have been a good time to do what needed to be done—or as close to a good time as there could be, for something like that—but Art had stood at his friend’s grave and spoke of everything and nothing, had left without saying what he’d come to say.

“Klaus…” His throat closed over the rest of the words. What he’d planned wasn’t much, but he still couldn’t get it out. Dave had seen visitor after visitor, received coin after coin and word after heartfelt word. If Art couldn’t do the same for Klaus, the least he could do was acknowledge he’d never received a decent burial.

Art’s breath shook. If he couldn’t say what he’d planned, he had to say something.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Probably sooner than later. But when I do…”

He closed his eyes against the tears, exhaled against the sob threatening to choke his words.

“You had better have Klaus with you.”

********

He drove full circle around the perimeter the police had cordoned off, near enough for red and blue to prick at the edges of his vision, far enough not to earn a few irritated words from the officers guarding every street.

Klaus hadn’t been inside.

Art didn’t know it for certain. The Academy would’ve been a roof over his head, a place to escape the streets; and with Reginald dead, it would have been more refuge than it once had been. Chances were good he’d made the Academy his temporary home before its destruction.

But that didn’t mean he’d been inside. He could have been out. Not getting high, necessarily; he could have been wandering out somewhere with one of his siblings at the moment of destruction. Or on his way to find Richard or Jim. Or something as simple and banal as ducking into a fast-food restaurant for a greasy burger.

If this Klaus Hargreeves was the same Klaus Hargreeves Vanya had written about.

Art’s foot hit the brake just before he made the turn that would have taken him around the perimeter for a second time, and he flipped on his turn signal instead. His headlights caught the name of the street, but he didn’t think to read it until it was behind him. He rode it to the next intersection and turned right, took that one a little further before turning left.

A plan. He needed a plan, but he didn’t know the city and wouldn’t know who to ask for directions. Get me to the nearest gas station would earn him a clear and concise answer, delivered as quickly as it sprang to the stranger’s mind. Help me find a guy, about six foot with some pretty distinctive tattoos, who might be anywhere in the city, including buried under a pile of rubble would earn strange looks, not answers.

He could have been at the Academy.

He probably had been at the Academy.

Art slapped the volume knob on the radio with slightly more force than necessary. The final notes of the previous song faded out, and warm guitar chords took their place. He breathed deep, turning onto the next street on a whim.

On the road of experience, trying to find my own way….

John Denver’s voice didn’t quite calm his nerves, but it did remind him of calmer times, less desperate times. It called to mind road trips of years past, of driving through state after state with the windows down while voices sang of places he’d been, of country roads and the black magic of Mulholland Drive. He drew a long breath, this one not as shaky as the last, and rolled down the window.

Sometimes I wish that I could fly away….

The evening chill poured in alongside sounds of the city. The downtown speed limit wasn’t as slow as some places he’d been, but it was slow enough for murmurs of conversation and the whoosh of an occasional passing vehicle to briefly enter his vehicle, carried in on air thick with the scents of fryer oil and spice. A throng of people clustered on the sidewalk, but before Art could scan their faces, a lone figure crossing the street caught his attention.

A tall figure with a mop of dark curls and a familiar tattoo on one shoulder.

Before he could consciously name what he was doing, Art had pulled into the first open spot he saw. A single stray thought had him rearranging his car well enough to escape the notice of any meter maid, but he only remembered that he ought to have fed the meter when he was already ten steps down the sidewalk.

The stranger vanished briefly behind the crowd, then emerged into view as Art quickened his pace.

He’d thought that face might take on unfamiliar features as he approached—a different nose shape, a mouth too wide—but the closer Art drew, the more the stranger resembled memories he’d held to, dredged up thoughts he’d forgotten. Those stubborn curls, springing free the second he removed his helmet. That facial hair, which he refused to shave off even when it would have saved him a few minutes. That same Hello greeting the world from a briefly upraised palm. He still wore his flak vest, though he’d paired it with a striped shirt that showed an inch or two of skin around his middle and pants that….

Was that leather?

A chuckle escaped his lips. When he’d imagined Klaus returning to the States, settling back into civilian life as best he could, this wasn’t what he’d pictured him wearing. Yet he knew in that moment that this getup, this mishmash of pieces that should have never been put together and managed to work regardless, was exactly what he should have pictured.

This was the Klaus he remembered. Wearing an outfit no one else would dare, looking around for something to catch his interest as he stood in line for tacos.

Art should have approached him quietly. Walked up, asked for recognition, answered questions as they came. But there he was, his old friend, not dead after all but in front of a taco truck, of all places, the perpetrator of the finest disappearing act ever orchestrated in wartime. Art couldn’t be polite, couldn’t be quiet. He announced his presence with the only words his mind could form.

“Klaus! You son of a bitch!”

He whirled at the sound of his name, and Art felt a spike of fear. His name was Klaus, true; but this might not be his Klaus. Everyone had a lookalike somewhere. Now he’d have to apologize, laugh through his disappointment just to make things less awkward….

Klaus took a few steps out of line as Art closed the gap. His eyes narrowed in a squint, then widened. A disbelieving laugh found its way out. “Art?”

That laugh. Art hadn’t forgotten it, not forever. It had simply retreated to the back of his mind, hidden behind a door he couldn’t locate; and when he heard it now, all those memories, all those moments where Klaus had laughed came rushing back.

They embraced, clapped each other on the back, and Art held back tears. Fifty years stood between him and the young man Klaus had known, and not one of those years had mattered. Not one of those years had prevented recognition.

It was him.

When they finally parted, Art saw the same bewildered joy reflected on Klaus’ features. “How—how the hell did you find me?”

“Long story.”

Klaus glanced over his shoulder, toward a theater bearing the name Icarus. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word, “there might not be time for that.”

Art nearly frowned. Maybe his siblings needed him elsewhere, and soon, but he could have said so plainly. “Well, how’ve you been? How’d you get back here?”

Klaus looked away, though Art couldn’t tell if the sorrow crossing his face was at the first question or the second. At any rate, it quickly dipped beneath a faint smile. “Would you believe me if I said time travel?”

“Yes.”

Klaus stared.

“You look the same as you did fifty years ago,” Art said with a laugh. “If you’ve got a better explanation, let’s hear it.”

Klaus chuckled, but there was still a trace of that sorrow—more than a trace, even—remaining as he looked back toward the Icarus Theater. “Just…didn’t think I’d see you here, that’s all.”

“What? Wasn’t expecting me to hunt you down the second I learned you might still be alive?”

One or two in the crowd turned brief looks of confusion on them. Art didn’t much care, and Klaus didn’t seem to, either.

“Well, yeah. I mean, that was fifty years ago.”

“Right. Fifty years.”

A few moments passed in silence. The smile faded, slowly but surely, to nothing, as Klaus turned his gaze toward the sidewalk.

“I guess….I didn’t think anyone would notice I was gone.”

So he’d chosen to leave when he did, had some control over his arrival and departure—but that was not what made Art stare, for a long minute, until Klaus finally met his gaze.

“What?”

“You know you’ve said some stupid shit.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah….”

“Like that time you said penguins don’t have legs, just feet?”

“Technically they don’t—”

“No. Not ‘technically.’ I looked it up. They have legs.”

“Okay, but why are you even bringing that up?”

“Because when I say ‘nobody would notice’ is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, I want it to mean something.”

For a few seconds, it looked as if Klaus would cry, but Art couldn’t tell if the tears were there or not. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t—” Memories crowded his mind, memories of laughter and jokes stretched out to the limit, of humor at just the right times and of his face, Klaus’ face, popping up right when shit was about to hit the fan, stepping in right when he was needed most. Art wanted to lay all of them out before him, point to each one in turn, ask Klaus if he thought this one meant nothing or if that one was worthless, but there were too many of them and trying to choose one jumbled it up with three more. “So what? You thought you’d just up and leave?”

“Yeah. I mean, I couldn’t stay.”

There was something more behind those words, but Art scarcely heard it. “You just popped on back without saying goodbye? Without letting somebody know ‘Hey, I’m not dead, just need to go home’?”

He half expected a question as to whether or not he would have been believed, but Klaus simply stared at the ground. His shoulders sank a fraction, as if some invisible weight had been added. Art sighed.

“Look. I don’t blame you for getting the hell out. I’d’ve done the same. But—”

Something about the look on his face, about his silence, triggered something Art couldn’t quite name. That night. Dave dead, succumbed to his wound. Klaus, never straying far from Dave, always close even in the heat of battle.

A chill brushed his shoulders as a cold pit formed in his stomach.

“You were there when he died. With Dave.”

Klaus nodded—stiff, jerky nods that didn’t lift his gaze from the sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ.”

Art should have said more, should have found the perfect words to give to his friend, but they and all others eluded him. He could only place a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, wrap him in his arms when he moved closer. There were no tears, none Art could feel, but tears could be fickle things, there when they were least wanted, absent when they were most needed. Maybe they had yet to visit him. Maybe he’d spent them already.

It wasn’t until Klaus pulled back, until he brushed at his eyes, that Art remembered moments fifty years gone when he’d done the same. Klaus had never been ashamed to cry, but when it was clear there was little time for tears he would hold them back. Brush them away, like he brushed them away now. Save them for a time when they wouldn’t endanger him or anyone depending on him.

Whatever was going on that theater, whatever his siblings or whoever he’d fallen in with had gotten themselves into, it left little time for talk. Of the war, of Dave, of how he’d found himself yanked from his present and thrown into a past no one should have to witness. No time for what he needed. No time for what Art needed.

Not now, anyway.

Art fished in his pocket, found an old receipt and smoothed it out. No pen, so he waved to the woman behind the taco truck’s counter. She rolled her eyes at the scribbling motion he made, but set one on the counter. Art wrote several numbers and passed them to Klaus.

“That’s my daughter’s house,” he said, pointing to the first number. “I’ll be there ‘till the end of the week. That one’s my home number. That next one is the one you call if you can’t get anybody at either of the other ones.”

“Thanks.” Klaus took the receipt, but didn’t pocket it immediately. He held it in his hands, staring down at the numbers as if he’d been handed a gift. A gift he didn’t know he deserved.

There were many things Art had contemplated saying over the years, should Klaus ever be returned home. Most of them he knew were things he’d never say the moment they popped into his head, while others lingered awhile before rejection. A few were edited and re-edited, changed and softened, wording shored up before he realized he’d never have the chance to give them voice.

But there was one thing he’d wanted to say, one thing he’d held onto until the day he gave Klaus up for dead. One thing that remained.

“We lost you and Dave that night. Glad you were someplace I could find you.”

That uncertainty hadn’t left Klaus’s face; but the moment he raised his head, Art saw it in full, saw it mixed with gratitude so deep the word fell flat. And when he did, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or pull Klaus in for another hug.

“Hey. You gonna order or not?”

Art looked up. The other customers had dispersed, a few to the pickup window but most to elsewhere. The truck’s owner had one elbow propped up on the counter, gaze drifting between Klaus and a teenager standing a few yards away, nervously shuffling through his wallet.

Klaus laughed. “I should probably order.”

“Fine.” Art pulled Klaus in for another quick hug. “See you around, all right?”

“Yeah. Sooner or later.”

Sooner or later. It wasn’t a solid promise, but it was more than Art had gotten. More than he ever thought he’d have. After another quick clap on the back, Art made his way back to his car, stopping at the curb.

He had thought Klaus might have focused his full attention on the taco truck, but that wasn’t the case. Art didn’t know how long Klaus had been watching him; he only knew that when he turned for one last look, Klaus was smiling. Not as bright a smile as some he’d seen, but this one seemed deeper, more real than others. There was a tinge of melancholy in it too, not strong enough to pull the whole thing down but present nonetheless.

Art had found him.

All those years of hoping, all those years of fear and wonder and awful sick certainty shouldn’t have ended with a conversation at a taco truck—but they had.

Klaus had lived. Maybe not in the most orthodox way, but Art had learned fifty years ago not to expect anything of the sort from him. He’d survived the war, skipped past a dozen other horrors that should have taken him, and wound up here, on the side of a street outside a theater, in the very city he’d started from, exactly the same as the day he’d left.

He’d made it home.

Not in the usual way, not in any way Art or anyone else could have predicted, but he’d done it, and he was back. Back in the States with years ahead of him and the worst behind him. The war would follow him; it always followed, no matter the distance. But it hadn’t claimed him.

Art raised a hand in farewell, and Klaus returned it.

Maybe this was the end of it. Maybe Klaus would call; maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would write; maybe he’d forget or choose not to or be constantly stymied by a thousand everyday inconveniences and distractions. Maybe it would be later, rather than sooner, when they spoke again.

But Art had seen him. Not on a memorial wall, not as another statistic, but walking the city in leather pants and a flak vest, smiling and fighting tears in turns. The war was close to him, fifty years closer than it should have been. It would always be closer than he could stand, always a little stronger than he’d thought.

Art started up his car and pulled out onto the street. Klaus had escaped the war once already, done it in such a spectacular fashion Art wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen the evidence with his own eyes—but he’d escaped.

He could escape it again.

**********

Author’s Note: If you’re interested, the song Art listens to is “Looking for Space” by John Denver.

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy fanfic #sheepdogs #klaus hargreeves #oc #original character #original characters #klaus and dave during vietnam #klaus #number four #dave katz #ptsd #ptsd mention #vietnam war #outsider pov #grief #fanfic #my fanfic

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ichibri · 7 years ago

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Writing Tag

I was tagged by @pilindiel (Thx :D & It’s good to be back)

Responses under the cut!

1. How did you come up with your username and what does it mean?

It’s a play on how in Bleach Ichigo’s sisters call him Ichi-nii. I always saw Ichigo as a brother figure and wished he was my brother instead of the jackass of an older brother that I have, so it’s IchiBri cause Bri is the first half of my last name.

2. Which fanfic of yours has the most feedback?

Wrong Place, Wrong Time. Which is honestly surprising cause it was my first sh/eith fic and I’m still in awe that so many people continue to follow it and leave comments every chapter.

3. What is your AO3 profile icon and why did you choose it?

It’s the same as my tumblr icon cause I adore Shiro and I love how pretty his eyes are in it.

4. Do you have any regular/favourite commenters?

All of them. Like honestly, when someone comments all the time, they become a dear friend to me. I have so much gratitude for them that I just want to shower them with love.

5. Is there a fanfic you keep going back to read again and again?

There’s some old Grimm/Ichi fics I absolutely loved in high school that I still reread every now and then.

6. How many stories are you subscribed to? How many do you have bookmarked?

Including author subscriptions, it’s 41. And I’ve got 73 bookmarks.

7. Which AU do you find yourself writing the most?

Magical, maybe?? Or slightly magical, like modern aus with demons or witches or time travel. Most of my original stuff is modern fantasy/supernatural/monster stuff too.

8. How many people are subscribed and bookmarked to you in total?

18 subscribed to me as an author, 251 story subscriptions, and 300 story bookmarks in total

9. Is there something you’d like to write about but are afraid of people judging you for it? (Feeling brave? If so, share it!)

I’d love to write some really dark, twisted shit. But yeah, not super into the whole ‘fiction equals reality’ argument that many people like tossing around. I’m lucky enough to avoid an/ties in the v.ld fandom so I’m not gonna push my luck.

10. Is there anything you’d like to be better at? Writing certain scenes or genres, replying to comments, updating better, etc.

Outlining and sticking to a damn plot. I wing everything and change so much it’s not even funny. It’d be so much easier if I could sit down and plot out a story before starting it, but I’m too impatient for that.

11. Do you write rarepairs or popular ships more often?

Normally popular ships. Call me vain, but I prefer the bigger audience that comes with popular ships.

12. How many stories have you posted on AO3 to this day?

13. How many stories do you have saved in/ with your writing program?

As in like wips? Cause not counting one-liners or jumbled ideas tossed together, then about 6. But if overall, then everything I’ve written since freshman year of high school, so a lot.

14. Do you write down story ideas or just keep them in your head?

I write them down in a note pad app on my phone cause they normally come to me when I don’t have pen/paper. I’ve been known to wake up in the middle of the night with an idea, type it out on the app, and find garbled nonsense the next morning, lol.

15. Have you ever co- authored a story?

Kinda. More like co-authored an au, where we came up with it together and wrote our own separate takes on it.

16. How did you discover AO3?

A bit after I got into Bleach, I was looking for more fics cause ff.net just didn’t have many for the pairing I wanted, and I noticed quite a few authors were moving to AO3 so I checked it out.

17. Do you consider yourself to be a popular or famous author in your fandom(s) on AO3?

No, but I’m super grateful for the readers I have.

18. Do you have a nickname or fandom name for your readers?

Nope

19. Was there an author who inspired or encouraged you to write?

Not in particular, but there are plenty of well-written, poetic fics that inspire me to write. Cause the best inspiration for me is reading others’ fics. But encouragement wise, that comes from my fandom friends. And my mom, lol. She reads everything of mine whether it’s fandom or not.

20. What writing advice would you give to a beginning author?

Don’t compare yourself to anyone but who you were yesterday. The writers you’re looking up to have been writing for many years, even decades. With tons of practice and an open mind willing to learn and develop, you’ll find your style and what works for you. Trust me, one day, you’ll look back and see how much you’ve grown, and you’ll feel immense pride in how far you’ve come. But first, you have to give yourself that time to grow.

21. Do you plot out your stories or do you just figure it out as you go?

I plot out the first 3-5 chapters and the climax, but everything else is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ And if it’s a oneshot, then I only have a general idea of what I want to write and let myself go whichever direction the words take me.

22. Have you ever gotten a bad comment on a story? If so, what did you do?

Yep. I’ll admit, I was hurt and pissed off at first. I ignored it, because they could have just as easily stopped reading if they didn’t like the direction the story was going. Like guys, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Writers are people too, and unless you commissioned the story, you have no say in the direction a writer takes it.

23. Is there a certain type of scene that you have a hard time writing? (Action, smut, etc)

Lol, I gave up trying to write smut when I realized I was ace, cause it’s just awkward as fuck, and I can’t stop laughing the entire time. But action scenes are kinda the bane of my existence. I think I’ve gotten down the basics and learning how to involve the 5 senses to make it more dynamic, but it’s still like pulling teeth for me. I prefer writing emotional vs physical.

24. What story(s) are you working on now?

Wrong Place, Wrong Time. Sh/eith Ferngully au. Sh/eith Heart Adventures au. And two original short stories, one about a grim reaper taking the soul of a baby and another about a human falling in love with an ichthyocentaur (basically a mermaid & a centaur all in one). Oh and they're lesbians because fck yeah they are.

25. Do you plan your new projects before you finish your current ongoing story(s)?

Yeah. I've got a huge list of projects/aus I want to do. My notepad app has so many snippets of different stories/plots it's not even funny.

26. Do you have a daily writing goal set for yourself?

No. I crumble under pressure, and trying to reach a daily word count always leaves me feeling like shit. Some days I'm lucky to write a single sentence and others I'll go on for hours.

27. Do you think you’ve improved as a writer since you first started?

God yeah. I've been writing stories since elementary school and it's hilarious reading what I thought was amazing back them. And even in just this past year, I've grown a lot and feel as though I've finally settled into a style that’s my own.

28. What is your favourite story that you have written?

Oh man, right now it's probably Grown-ups Come Back just because of how deep that cut me to write it. Like even now when I reread it, the emotions are still raw and I bawl my eyes out.

29. What is your least favourite story that you have written?

Ugh, Casper. It was a halloween extra for AToS, and it was rushed and forced and yeah, not super proud of it.

30. Where do you see yourself (as a writer) in 5 years?

With more novels under my belt and hopefully a steady-ish income coming from writing. Cause hopefully one day it can become my full-time job and I’ll be able to support myself off it.

31. What’s the easiest part about writing?

Coming up with plot points/scenes. It's super easy for me to think/write plot points, it's just connecting them together that gets a little challenging.

32. What is the hardest part about writing?

Keeping track of subtle actions. Like a character talking while holding a cup in their hand and then a page later the cup magically disappears cause I forgot I gave them a damn cup.

33. Why do you write?

Because I love it, and I'm good with written words. My oral communication skills suck, and it's frustrating to struggle with getting my thoughts to come out of my mouth properly and cohesively. But writing lets me say exactly what I want to and portray it in a desired way. Also I'm a deeply emotional person and exploring emotions through characters and stories helps to sort through my own and is my main coping mechanism for dealing with life.

#tagged #morgan shut up #this was fun #so if you're a writer and wanna do it consider yourself tagged

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