#its slow going since i can only build an hour a day at most but im enjoying it anyeay

[imflyingfish]

New base progress! I've added a ton of flower fields and some more trees! Further terraforming, garages and vineyards to come but I wanted to break it up a little bit more.

If u have any suggestions let me know :]

[mt-oe]

I’ve just been highly obsessed over modern Mizu. So I’m just asking for that, modern Mizu meets reader at uni or something like that! I love LOVE your writing!! 💖💖

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dear!

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you don't mind if I add a bit more to this <3 I've been wanting to write modern au Mizu hcs and your request really granted me the opportunity to do so.

Also, I'm so sorry for being so slow on the requests. I've been so eepy lately for some reason and I can't fight against it, like I tried but failed so many times ;; I am a slave to my own body

Anyways, I hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warning/s: not proofread, she/her for mizu, implied afab reader, game reference (league of legends)

general headcanons

✦ This woman would either overload or underload her units like crazy. She'd either be busy with her academics and work 6 days a week, even sending a letter to the admin so she can go past the mandated maximum amount of units in one semester or doing absolutely nothing while the rest of her friends are going apeshit on their finals. There's no in between.

She would plan it like an absolute psychopath too. Nothing special foreseeably happening in the next semester? She's going above and beyond. A convention she wants to go to on September? Signing up for the bare minimum amount of allowed units just for one event.

Her friends are either concerned for her and losing contact for a whole semester, or are pissed off that she's playing some kind of gacha game on her phone while they're losing their minds on their finals.

✦ Would be the type to be so pissed off by slow walkers in the hallway. The hatred she has for people who walk so fucking slow in the hallway is unbridled. Though she's not the type to pick fights, she'd be the type to sigh loudly, making you feel her anger, before overtaking and wouldn't be afraid to bump against the person if needed. Her hatred goes deep enough to the point where she even remembers people JUST because they walk slow.

✦ The type of friend who would walk to everything. Sure she has her motorbike, but if she can walk to it, you bet she's going to walk. She even knows different shortcuts to different buildings on campus.

"This looks like a good place," Akemi tells them, showing her phone. For once, their vacant hours finally aligned and they've been trying to find a good place to eat since the lunch hall food was getting repetitive and they could feel their taste buds dulling over time. Akemi, being the 'what do you guys want to eat?' friend, and the other three, being the 'I don't know' or the 'I'm fine with whatever' friends, is left to search for a new place.

They took a look at the place and shrugged in agreement, making her roll her eyes at their lack of opinion. "Okay but how are we going to go there?" Taigen asks. Mizu takes Akemi's phone and looks up the map to the place. The distance itself was enough to tell a person that they should take the bus. Hell, it was on the other side of town almost.

"We can walk. It's not that far," she says, closing the map and handing Akemi her phone back. They trusted Mizu. It couldn't be that bad.

Right?

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, they were already sweating, ready to give up, tired out of their wits. The food wasn't even worth it anymore.

"It's not that far" my ass.

Even Taigen, her fellow gym rat and workout buddy, was fucking exhausted. And this bitch (affectionately), has the audacity to stand there, crossing her arms with the most unamused expression on her face as if it was their fault for being so exhausted. If she tells you its walking distance, it is NOT within walking distance.

✦ She's a jack-of-all trades type of person, but she'd have the fattest fucking talent crush on anyone who can express themselves through art. The talents and skills she gathered were purely out of necessity. Fixing and modifying bikes was the only thing she was truly passionate about but it's hard to be expressive through repairing motorbikes, right?

She has always been so amazed by stories of painters, sculptors, singers, and writers who have deep backstories and can reflect it through their art. She would be the type to read the whole description in art museums just because she's so amazed by them.

Deep inside her, she wished she could do that too. To express herself through a medium. Like what do you mean you wrote this poem because you're sad your cat died? Or what do you mean you took this professional-looking picture just because you had the best picnic date with your friends? How can someone write a song about casual sapphic sex? She can't even vocalize her feelings, how much more in art? Whenever she sees someone writing their English essay so well or drawing randomly, she'd secretly be so interested.

✦ Mizu would have social media accounts but would use it bare minimum. She'd be that type of classmate that you're not sure if it's really her because she doesn't have a profile picture you can check or if she does, it's like a picture of an item instead of her face.

Her friends would be so happy whenever Mizu posts an IG story even if it's just a picture of where they were eating or even if their face is barely in the picture.

"Aww you posted us!" and they're like little ants with how small they were in the picture.

Or

"Do you want to eat at that place again?" and she'd be like 'what? why?' but they'd know she actually enjoyed the food because she bothered posting a picture of the place.

Deep inside her, Mizu wants to keep up with whatever trends her friends are into but she's very lowkey about it. The tough love friend who secretly really enjoys being friends, y'know? She'd search about it and try to figure it out. Everyone's surprised by her internet knowledge since she always acts like she wouldn't give a shit whatever new trend is on.

✦ This sounds so corny and stereotypical, but Taigen and her would be those gym rats who solve everything by working out. It didn't matter if it was a weekday, a weekend, a holiday, or whatever weather condition was going on outside, they are going.

They failed a test? Gym. Hungover? Gym. Too much homework? Gym.

When Megan Thee Stallion said she'll go to the gym two times a day, they go three. When she said the results are resulting? The body is bodying? These two are taking it seriously.

Taigen would focus on biceps, chest, and lats, cutting down on fat so his body would look more lean. He'd hate leg day but would do it anyway just to balance out his physique.

Meanwhile, Mizu would have a 'sleeper-type' build and her routine would be more well-rounded and would even include calisthenics on her free time. They'd try to beat each other's PR but it really ain't a competition when Mizu is always winning.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

how did you two meet?

Stupid shitty project.

Stupid fucking publisher gatekeeping the fucking article.

Stupid bitch ass school wifi keeps disconnecting.

Mizu resisted the urge to slam her laptop shut as her device disconnected from the wifi for the nth time. She was stuck in the library trying to finish her midterm project for building design system and holy shit was she frustrated.

She needed to create a specific building design that was supposed to be environmentally friendly, using what was considered as 'green materials' and had minimally destructive designs. It wouldn't be so bad if this fucking publisher just had to put a price on the article she needed. Wasn't education supposed to be free or whatever?

Her friends tried to help her, telling her to use the library computers, but none of them were working or free at the moment. That leaves her to use her laptop in the library. Usually, that wouldn't be a problem but due to the recent rains, the school wifi has been pretty shitty.

After a few more tries, she decided that this wasn't worth the frustration and trouble, and decided to collect her things to get ready to leave. Just as she was about to zip up her bag, a tap on the shoulder stopped her. She turned around to look at who was trying to get her attention, ready to tell them off. But upon turning around, her heart skipped a beat.

There you stood.

In your oh-so fancy sweatpants and college logo hoodie (whose logo wasn't even the university's). Your hair was ruffled and messy, eyes tired and more exhausted than her's. Understandably so though. It was hell week and everyone was tired, but somehow, your tired looked so pretty.

Her eyes continued to stare at you. Like the world stopped moving and it was just you and her in the room.

"Umm...there's a free computer over there if you still need it," you said shyly but in a straightforward manner. A small tired smile on your lips, trying to appear as friendly as possible. Mizu snapped out of her trance and nodded, slinging her bag over her shoulder to move to the said computer.

Maybe she'll stay for a bit. To finish her midterm project.

Definitely not for the pretty lady.

No, of course not.

Upon sitting down, she couldn't help but sneak glances at you, looking back down at the screen when you looked in her direction. She felt stupid, like a lovestruck fool. Borderline, like a child getting their first actual crush.

In her mind, she was already planning how to approach you without making it awkward. Maybe she'll try to strike up a conversation? But how? Hmmm..

It definitely took a while, being distracted and all, but she was finally able to finish her report. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself mentally to talk to you. She stood up and stretched after logging herself out, pretending to look around the room but in reality she was looking for you.

Much to her dismay, you were no where to be found. A small "fuck" left her lips as she sighed, picking her bag up. The universe must hate her. Giving her an opportunity to see the most beautiful person she's ever seen only for them to leave early? Fuck.

Her thoughts continued to plague her for the rest of the day, even until the next morning. It sounded so silly and so stupid for her to be this bothered, but she really just couldn't forget you. She sighed once again as she stared at the lecture hall walls, face hidden against her palms.

"Excuse me. Do you have an extra pencil?" a voice asked as she felt a tap on her shoulder. Looking up grouchily, her eyes widened immediately.

It was you.

And this time, she wasn't going to let this opportunity pass.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

but what now? (girlfriend headcanons)

✦ Mizu would absolutely remember EVERYTHING about you. Your birthday, MBTI score, favorites, dislikes, and even the silliest things such as what makes you sneeze.

She has a second brain for these, an internal SSD in her brain just for you. You won't even have to remind her about anything, because she already planned it out before you remember.

It's especially great for errands since you don't have to give her a list, she already has a list in her brain. Sometimes, you'd think she forgot because she's so quiet about it but she always finds a way to prove you wrong. If she says she forgot something about you, it's a lie. She never forgets, especially when it comes to her girlfriend.

✦ Would pretend to not understand or know how to do something just so you could teach or show her. Mizu definitely has a lot of skill up her sleeves, but whenever you asked if she knew something that she knew you were good at, she'd pretend not to.

"So I just click like this?" she asked you through the call, clicking on a minion. You had enthusiastically called her, asking if she wanted to learn how to play League of Legends. Unknown to you, your girlfriend already knew how to play and was quite good at it (that's a lie, she's beyond good).

She couldn't help but smile slightly as she watched you nod enthusiastically. The thought of you being so eager to spend time with her was heart-warming. She even made a dummy account just to make her beginner act look believable. "Yeah, you just need to keep this up. So should we queue together?" you asked, sounding really excited.

Mizu chuckled and nodded. "Don't get mad at me, okay?" she joked lightly, accepting your invite. "I won't. I'll be the ADC so you can play support until you get the hang of it, okay?" you said, checking which ADR champions you had cool skins of. Your girlfriend let out a small laugh at your enthusiasm, signaling you to start the queue.

The game went really well. Extremely well.

To your surprise, Mizu was quite a good support. Never accidentally stealing your CS, always being there during a clash, skill shots always hitting, knowing who to focus on. "It's because you're good at teaching people," she said.

But really, you wonder how she knew which items to build when you never even taught her.

✦ Would do the most random or the smallest things for you. She's not good at expressing her feelings so she makes up for it through acts of service and gift giving. Mizu tries her best to be as loving as she can without overwhelming you.

Can you even remember the last time you tied your own shoelaces? You can't. Can you?

Sometimes, you'll be surprised to arrive home with the fridge already stocked even though you had told her that you'll do the groceries on your next day off. The only response you'll get is a shake of her head and a random thing you mentioned you wanted to buy.

Sometimes, she's a bit silly though. Putting in the effort to remove her jacket to shield you from the rain even though you had an umbrella, removing the buckle of your helmet so she'd be the one to put it on you, gifting you random goofy greeting cards.

It's both endearing and a bit funny.

✦ Secretly loves it when you put makeup on her or if you let her do your makeup. Her amazement and fascination skyrockets whenever she watched you put make up on. It was a line of femininity that she was never taught to cross. She'd watch you with deep interest, observing how carefully you did it, how purposeful each step you did was.

"So why do you put it on?" she asks. You hum in thought before shrugging. "It just...makes me feel pretty."

What do you mean it makes you feel pretty?

You were already pretty.

You can't help but laugh at her and her curiosity. "It just does. It feels therapeutic to put on and I like how I look after, it's like expressing myself or something. Like painting but on your face," you explained to her, making her raise an eyebrow.

"But what if you don't like the way it looks?" she asked, picking up your eyeshadow palette and swatching a color on her hand curiously. "I can always take it off," you answered, blending the blush on your cheeks.

She stayed silent for a moment, continuing to swatch the colors on her hand. Her mind still couldn't wrap around the fact that this could make you feel better. Its just color and chemicals, and it washes off too.

Your eyes scanned her face before a soft laugh left your lips. "Here. Want to try?" you offered. Your girlfriend looked a bit hesitant but she wanted to understand.

Was this really fun?

After a few minutes, some struggles and squirming, you finally finished putting some make up on her. You tried your best to make it look as natural and as light as possible, knowing that she wouldn't appreciate the texture of heavy makeup immediately.

Blue eyes scanned over her own face on the mirror. She didn't say anything, but the slight twitch of her lips and the shine in her eyes spoke thousands.

"I want to do it on you too," she said quietly. "At least one thing. Let me try to do it for you."

You heart melted at her excitement. How could you refuse her when she finally finds something she likes? You handed her your eyeliner and sat down. "Here, follow my instructions.."

Mizu actually ended up liking it. Although she enjoyed putting it on you more, she still enjoyed it nonetheless. The amount of practice she put in made you wonder if she was actually better than you now. Somehow, she felt a bit of relief and a bit happy that she finally found something she could do that was considered as 'artistic'.

What started off as a simple "let me try" ended up being part of your routine. This woman never stopped practicing different eyeliner looks and now she just sits on your bed, waiting for you to finish your routine so she can put it on you. Sometimes she'd do a more creative graphic liner look, but on days you had to go to uni or work, she'd do the usual. She could probably do it with her eyes closed.

And the results?

SHARP.

Capital S H A R P.

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things: chapter two

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. no porn in first two chapters, sorry gang :)

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

When you arrive at 8:35, all of the lights in the building are already on, a warm, yellow hued light against the stormy sky. The exterior almost melts into the overcast; it makes you think of that ‘bye-bye blue' that Disney coined for its buildings, only much more depressing. Sometimes you look at this build and think about the hours of your life that it’s stolen, but not today. No, for once, you decide to have a good day. 

It’s your birthday, after all.

The dash across the parking lot is a bit wobbly, your heels catching the gravel and potholes. Mic had texted you last night to remind you to wear something special, since he and a couple other office friends were taking you out, so you had dawned the only pair of heels you actually liked: a red pair you found at a thrift shop years ago. The stilettos are a bit high and much too sexy for your taste, but there’s an unknowable something about them that you love. 

You did, however, forget your umbrella.

One of the interns is by the door, jacket pulled over his head to protect himself and his cigarette from the rain. Izuku, chubby cheeked and doe eyed, is shorter than most of his peers, with thick green curls that puff up and frizz in the humidity. For his stature, he’s surprisingly built; he and his boyfriend -no, fiance now- go to the gym together every morning and the hard work shows. You can’t help but notice the curve of bicep that flexes as he moves his arm back to his face.

“Good morning!” you call out. The weather is cool, so you wrap both hands around your special little birthday latte. Izuku seems unphased by the weather; he sniffles a bit as he pulls another drag, freckled nose wrinkling. The red stained rims of his eyes are stark against his tan skin. 

“Yeah.” He sucks in a breath, trying to keep his voice light and failing. His Southern draw sits heavy on his tongue. “Not quite.”

“Oh no, what happened?” Rain drives a shiver up your spine and so does the look in his eyes.

 “Like, okay, it was so-” He takes another thick pull and exhales it too quickly, coughing a bit as he talks. His ideas come faster than his mouth can handle. “First thing this morning-- well, actually, Ka-chan and I got here before anybody, so it wasn’t, like, first thing-first thing, you know? Anyway, like- thirty minutes after the first thing, when Mr. Aizawa arrived, he like, didn’t even set his stuff down before he told me to get into the conference room, which is crazy because he usually won’t do anything until you’re here and-”

“Izuku, focus.”

“I am focused-- these are important details! Mr. Aizawa pulled me into a conference room this morning and reamed me out. Incompetent: he called me lazy and incompetent, which is crazy because I do so much in this department! You wouldn’t believe it! And you know what Ka did? Laughed. He could hear it from the cubicle and he laughed, isn’t that awful? We’re getting married and yet he thinks it's okay to laugh at my misfortun-?”

“Wait, slow down,” you say. “Why were you yelled at?”

Izuku takes a dramatic gulp of air to slow himself, but it clearly does nothing. His finger twiddle the cigarette back and forth, ash falling to the puddle at his feet.. “He told me the work I turned in yesterday wasn't acceptable.”

It couldn't be the things you did. There’s no way; you’re smart -- well, okay, maybe not. You’re competent at least-- competent enough that you’ve done the reports previously without any complaints. 

“No.”

“It's my fault.” Izuku continues. His accent gets thicker when it’s holding worry, clipping words and rounding out other sounds. “I should have finished them myself, but Denki offered to help me out-- and I had a meeting with the wedding planner yesterday so I had to leave early; if i was late again I would have upset Mitsuki and I couldn’t upset Mitsuki again because she’s intense, like, way more intense that Katsuki ever is, so I’m a little terrified of her-”

Fuck. You can’t listen- you’re trying to focus on keeping your breakfast down. That was your work. You’re the one that made Izuku and Denki look bad.

“-Biomedical engineering. Why did I pick biomedical engineering? I should have chosen law school like Iida. That would have been a better career path.”

“What about Denki?” You interrupt his rambling and he seems to snap out of his panic loop. For once, he’s quiet. “What about Denki, Izuku?”

“Oh.” Izuku says. “Yeah. Well.”

He places the cigarette between his teeth and goes to suck, only to realize he’s hit the filter. With a tsk, he smashes the embers against the concrete side of the building, but doesn’t drop the butt, instead holding it in his palm. A trickle of rain runs down your cheek, just enough to make you shiver.

“Allegedly,” Now, he speaks too slowly, chewing on every word. “HR is working on his off boarding.”

Your body forgets how to breathe. The interns are all part of a specific college program- if they aren’t working, they don’t get credit towards their summer graduation. Because of you, Denki will not be graduating this spring-- in fact, he’s going to have to wait another full school year until he can apply for graduating again. Your head is spinning from the lack of oxygen and you have to manually force yourself to suck in a breath.

“He’s fired?” you ask, stupidly. 

“I’m not surprised, to be honest.” Izuku says. His pretty little curls are flattened now, heavy with wet. “This was his fifth big mistake and Mr. Aizawa is, well… he’s Mr. Aizawa. He doesn’t pull any punches.”  

“Oh, geez.” You want to barf. “Oh, no, oh, geez.” 

You’re ruining someone's life. One mistake and  you’ve fucked everything up. Tears prickle hot behind your eyes as you think; what are your options here? You can’t just let this happen. Your job is to fix things-- that’s the only thing you’re good for. Discussing this with Aizawa would be a dead end; he’d probably just fire you too. You need to go above him. 

“I’ll fix this,” you say, mostly to reassure yourself. You turn on your heel and march inside, a plan already forming in your mind. “Don’t worry.”

“Fix what?” Izuku calls after you. “Denki getting fired?”

You flash the security officer your badge, not bothering to turn around. There’s no time for that. The head of HR is usually punctual, so you only have a couple minutes before he arrives and sees the termination paperwork. It’ll take time to process, of course, but you’d rather fix this before it’s even reached that point.  You scramble to your desk and don’t bother to sit down before you’re picking up your phone and dialing. The number is posted on a little sticky note, right under ‘emergencies only’ written in big red letters. This… counts, right? This is an emergency in its own regard.

The line rings once, then twice. Then, it clicks. 

“Good morning.” The voice on the other side is unusually smooth, a clear timbre despite it all. In between words he takes long, drawing breaths, pulling through his nasal cannula. “Is my company? On fire?”

You laugh at that and you aren’t sure why. Maybe it’s the trill of fear in your gut, burrowing its way out anyway it can. “Good morning, sir. No, the building is still standing, luckily.”

“Please,"  he says, and you understand immediately.

“Yagi.” The informality of it all feels weird, even after all this time. He's the CEO and he wants you to address him like a friend. It’s been that way since you first started, but it still feels undeserved. “How are you?”

“I’m well.” Behind him you can hear the mumble of the television: a children’s show, you think. “My niece is visiting. So, I’ve been. Spending a lot of time. By the pond, feeding the ducks.”

He mentioned once that he had wanted children, but the company had taken up too much of his time. That memory makes your gut twist in a different way as you remember just how finite his time really is. 

“That sounds lovely.”

“It is lovely.” He pauses. Then, clears his throat. “Not that I’m. Not happy to hear from you, but… why are you calling?”

“Well, I-” You’re not sure where to start. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, swaying like you have to pee. “I made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”  

“Not a company ruining one, but…” Oh, geez. Maybe you'll end up being the one without a job today.  “I finalized some work for the engineering department interns and it wasn’t up to standard. And the manager-”

“-Shouta?”

 “Yes, uh. Aizawa. He wasn’t aware of that fact and he fired the intern for work that I did.”

There's a pause.

“Are you sure?” He sniffles a bit. You can picture how he itches his nose with the back of his hand. He hates that tube. “I know he isn’t. The warmest man, but Aizawa. Isn’t one to fire. An employee without. Apt reason. Have you tried. Speaking to him?”

You can’t. The idea of confrontation makes your skin itch. Besides, you can’t just look him in the eyes and admit you fucked up-- he’d lose his mind. 

“I just can’t let Kaminari get in trouble for my work.”

Yagi hums a low tone.

“I’ll bring it. To Shouta’s attention.” You almost jump for joy at that. “And I’ll let HR. Know.”

“Oh, thank you.” You’re physically bouncing. “I felt so guilty.”

“That’s under. Standable.” he says. “Maybe we. Have the engineers. Do their own work from now on, okay?”

“I know, I know, I just--” Can’t say no? “I like to be useful.”

“You’re more than useful.” His voice is warm, almost paternal. “I’m being told that I have an episode of Bluey to watch, so…”

“Goodbye, have fun, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You hang up, then wait a couple beats before sighing with relief. Crisis avoided! Happy birthday to you! Maybe, against all odds, this will be a good day. 

You drop into your seat and let it spin. Your latte isn’t hot anymore, but even lukewarm it’s still pretty damn good. After it boots up, your computer notifications are alight with companies wishing you a happy day and a merry 30% off. There’s a couple of DMs from coworkers that you haven’t opened yet as well and the attention makes you glitter.You almost forget that Touya still hasn't read your messages. It's not a surprise; he always forgets your birthday. It shouldn’t upset you at this point.

The workday official starts and, for once, it’s calm. There’s time to organize your desk and check on your facebook. Maybe, just maybe, the universe has decided to be kind to you. Yagi sounded better than he usually does, if not a bit winded.

You’re thirty, but you don’t feel older. 18 feels like last week, 25 is still your friend. Being this old almost feels like a joke-- especially being this old and single, with a job you’re not passionate about. You thought, maybe, that things would be okay by now. You’d be successful, with more than a couple hundred in your checking account, and a husband that could return a fucking text. Life, of course, had other plans.

It’s not that you don’t love Touya. You do. You really do. You just wish that you didn’t. It's easier to love someone like Hizashi or a boring man from R&D, but being with him feels like running on sand as it sinks down an hourglass. You're too far gone already, too intertwined with him; fate has linked you to a man that will inevitably break your heart, over and over again.

You almost don’t notice the stomp of boots down the hallway until it’s too late. You’ve been eclipsed.

Aizawa turns the corner so quickly that you jump and spill your coffee. His brow furrowed so deeply that his ‘11’ lines have gained an extra 1, and extra wrinkles have puckered around his straight drawn mouth. When he speaks, his lips curl up in one corner in revulsion, giving you a hint of canine. Someone from marketing walks down the hall,  meets your eyes, then turns back around, fleeing it away from this situation. You wish you could do the same.

 His hands press flat against your desk. The space he takes up alone makes you wilt, drawing back into your chair. Oh, he's pissed. Beyond pissed. His hair is down for once, falling in front of his face as he talks, and his hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows, revealing the punched, tense muscle underneath. The finer hairs on his arms are raised up into goosebumps, standing straight like pins.

“If you have a problem with the way I run my department,” Aizawa seethes. “At least have the balls to say it to my face.” 

The air in your lungs turns icy. You’re frozen there, hands hovering above your keyboard, unsure if you should even pick up your drink. 

“On what planet is it acceptable to tattle on me to the CEO?” His voice carries down the hall as he growls at you, the low, rolling tone of his voice somehow more terrifying than actual yelling. He reminds you of a wild dog, ears pinned back and ready to bite. And you’re just the poor rabbit in his path. “And to HR? Are you fucking kidding? You’re better than this.”

Oh, this is the type of interaction you were trying to avoid. Heat flares across your cheeks as you sputter and you frantically look anywhere else to avoid the burn. “I-- uh--”

“Did the interns come crying to you again?” Aizawa continues. “Did you let them walk all over you again?”

He leans in even closer.

“You are not their mother or their friend. They are adults. With jobs. And they do not need the secretary saving them from work they are paid to do-- especially Kaminari, who regularly abuses your good faith.”

Your shoes. You focus on those. Your pretty, candy red heels with the delicate strap, the ones Touya always compliments and the ones that make you feel beautiful. 

“Calling Toshinori? May I remind you that he is actively dying? May I remind you that you are actively wasting his time with this?"

Shoes, look at your shoes.

"I also don’t have the fucking time for this. We are a business in a time crunch-- I don’t have the energy or brain power or man power to be dragging around dead weight," he says. "If I decide someone isn't fit enough to work here, they are not fit to work here. Do you understand that?”

Oh. A sudden, horrible realization hits you. All of the weeks of stress and loneliness and heartbreak and other random bullshit that’s built up in your life is hitting all at once and, despite how hard you’re trying not to, you are going to cry. Tears are prickling hot against the corners of your eyes, burning to come out, and you know there’s only second before they spill over-

“Do you understand that?”

You look up. He looks down. Your lip quivers. 

Aizawa immediately draws back, eyes widening with realization. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, drawing in a short breath. His brows are pinched together differently now; if he was anyone else, you’d assume he was sorry. If he was anyone else, you might care.

“I didn’t mean to…” he tries.

“You’re-” You want to scream and fight and curse, but all you can say is: “I hate you.”

It’s incredibly juvenile, but saying it feels good. With all of the fury you can muster, you stand, chair bouncing back against the wall behind you, and march out of there and straight into the women’s bathroom. You hold your chin high until the door slams behind you. 

Then, you sob. It’s loud enough that you know it can be heard in the hall, wet enough that all of your make-up ends on the back of your hands, hard enough that you lose one of your contacts, but you just can’t stop. It comes in a torrent, one that doesn’t stop until you’re all blurry eyed and swollen and absolutely, positively destroyed.  

Fucking astrology. Fucking Aizawa. Fucking work. Fucking Touya. Fucking turning thirty.

Your heels look stupid against the blue and white linoleum. The faux leather no longer looks convincing, but like cheap, normal plastic. Your cellphone is still on your desk and covered in an 8 dollar latte, so there's nothing to distract you from your own downward spiral. You want to be helpful. You want to be a good person, but nothing seems to work out that way. 

By the time you manage to peel yourself out of the bathroom stall, the world has started to turn again. Someone’s at the coffee station, stirring in way too many sugars, someone else is taking on the phone just out of earshot. Aizawa is thankfully gone. You’re not sure you could have handled more of that.

Frankly, you’re not sure you can handle more of anything. You strip your other contact from your eye and throw on your only other option: the emergency glasses you have stashed in your desk. Great, as if you didn't feel bad enough already, now you feel ugly too. 

A ping comes through from HR, letting you know that you have sick time available 'if need be.’ For once, the office gossip works in your favor. You shoot off a quick reply, confirming that you're going to head out, then grab your phone. It's sticky and wet, but it still works.

do you want to leave work early and go get drunk?<-

Hizashi’s response is almost immediate.

->leave work early????? who is this and what have you done with my babygirl?????

-is that a no? ): <-

->are you kidding?????? I’ll be at your desk in 15

You are going to get drunk. Very. Very. Drunk.

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER TWO - an interrogation

TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC)

PREV CHAPTER || MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace you still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

"You've got the wrong person."

"I can assure you we don't."

"Then what the fuck did I do?"

Price sits back in his chair with his arms crossed, staring out the one-sided mirror that separates him from the interrogation taking place.  The room is dark save for the mirror, the laptop in front of him, and the red-yellow embers of his third cigar in the span of an hour.  He fidgets uselessly with it, rolling the paper between the fingers in his right hand while the other clutches a pair of dog tags.  The metal feels twice as cold in his palm as he listens to the two people in the room in front of him.

Laswell looks tired—typically perfect hair beginning to fall from her bun and the bags under her eyes deeper than usual.  He doesn’t doubt he looks the same, if not worse.  Despite the majority of the day dead and gone, the only thing they have to show for the amount of time spent in this room is a quickly filling tray of cigarette ashes and a messy desk of conflicting files, open laptops, and empty mugs of both tea and coffee.

"Nothing.  We just have some questions regarding your birth family."

You chuckle bitterly, your voice strained from the day's events even through the intercom.  "You had me kidnapped and nearly killed for a couple of questions?"  

Laswell's mouth opens and then snaps shut again. 

Price flips the dog tags through his fingers like the world’s most unlucky coin.

"This isn't an interrogation,"  she eventually responds.  "We’re trying to help you.”

“Then why am I in an interrogation room?”

He thinks its hard to find anything surprising, nowadays.  Price thought he saw pretty much everything there was to see already.  He’s traveled the world, faced every obstacle with bared teeth and clenched fists.  He’s seen death in all its forms, he’s seen someone come back from death—and yet, this was a new problem.  One he hadn’t encountered before.  A mission he, for once, didn’t know how to approach. 

He sighs, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees as he watches Laswell shuffle through papers.  This is usually what the chief specialized in—getting intel—but it appears even she's left flustered and clueless with how to handle the iron will of a shell-shocked teenager.

You’re sitting in a similar position as Price himself as you sit across from Laswell; a too-big S.A.S. sweater on your shoulders paired with sweatpants of a similar fit, your previous clothes ruined with blood.  Eyes downcast, hands clasped and shaking; Price can’t imagine the things running through your head.  He felt even worse that they didn’t have spare shoes, leaving you in your untied sneakers stained red-brown with the blood from earlier that day.  

You’re lost in thought.  You try to focus on what Laswell says, but her questions seem to go in one ear and then back out the other if you don't snap with a sarcastic comeback.  Laswell swallows heavily, much more used to this routine involving adults with war crime lists as long as the very building is tall.  She’s being gentle—well, as gentle as she can manage given your sharp tongue—but you haven’t given them any answers since you showed up.

You're scared.  You want answers.  Anyone in your situation would be the same.

So, after a few more minutes of talking and getting nowhere, Laswell stands.  She spares you one last, sympathetic look before crossing the room to the door—where she leaves the room in favor of the small office Price resides in.  A long breath leaves her as she stops at the table, lifting her arms and then letting them fall back to her sides in defeat.

“Nothing,”  she breathes.

Price nods.  He takes another drag of his cigar and exhales the smoke in a heavy sigh.

“Figures,”  he says, leaning over to snuff the embers out in the dish.  “Simon scared ‘em shitless.”

Laswell scoffs.  Shaking her head, she drops the file on the desk with a slap before sitting down herself—rubbing her tired face.  Her gaze falls to you sitting alone in the room, her brow furrowed tight.  In all his years of working with her, Price doubts he’s seen someone get under her skin like this in a long time.  

“We can’t wait for answers—not with the news spreading like this.”

He hums.  “You’re right.  We can’t.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”  She asks, genuinely.  “Because this isn’t working.  The kid's not talking until we tell them what's going on."

Price is silent for a moment.  None of the team had expected anyone else to catch wind of your location so quickly—nor had they expected such an organization like the Shadow Company to get involved.  What was supposed to be a silent search-and-rescue mission turned into something more of an ambush.  Something Price knows Graves will eventually seek repercussions for.

He feels his stomach twist from the thought, but he shakes it from his head.  Right now, proving to you that you weren’t in any danger was his priority.  The sooner you felt safe, the sooner you would answer questions—the sooner Price could formulate some semblance of a plan going forwards.

He pushes himself to his feet.  “Then we'll just have to give 'em what they want."

Laswell sighs, “John—”

“We owe the kid answers, Kate,”  He insists.  "We have for a long time.  Far too long."

“And if Graves or someone worse gets to them?  What happens then…when they give up intel?”  Laswell argues.   “We’ll just have to keep them until they’re ready to give up answers.  It’s the only way to make sure we don’t get compromised if shit hits the fan again.”

Price’s brow furrows.  He looks back out into the interrogation room for a moment, at how you stare down at the table wiping your bruised face on your sleeves.  Laswell is right, of course—she usually is.  If you gave up sensitive information to save your own skin after everything you’ve been through, nobody would blame you.  It could ruin everything, and it would be his fault, but that’s a risk he’s willing to take.  

He turns to Laswell again, his voice low as he steps closer. Palms flat on the desk, he leans down to her level.  “Then we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

Laswell just stares at him for a second, her gaze hard in calm resolve.  She seems to consider his preposition, carefully weighing the pros and cons as she searches Price’s gaze for any hint of self-doubt.  As usual, she finds none.

She sighs again, shakes her head, and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table.

"Fifteen minutes, Captain."  She says, resolute, as she lights a cigarette between her teeth.  "That's all you get."

Fifteen minutes.  He’s saved lives with less, but yet he still finds himself taking a nervous breath as he grasps the doorknob anyway.  Up until this point he hasn't officially met you.  In a perfect world, he probably never would have needed to.

He swallows the lump in his throat and opens the door.

Immediately, your eyes dart up to meet his.  Your expression is a tangled mess of things.  Fear, maybe.  Anger, definitely.  There’s sadness and anxiety in there, too, as Price meets your gaze for a moment before padding inside.  He makes a point to leave the door open behind him as he walks forwards, pulls the chair out, and sits down with his hands on the table.  Your legs are pulled up to your chest now; arms hugging your knees as you stare up at him—defensive.

Like you're a cornered animal ready to bite.  

You are, but that's besides the point.

He regards you for a moment, attempting to look past how you have your father’s eyes—bright and focussed and unrelenting underneath the deep, puffy bruise on your left eyelid.  The wound looks old, at least by a few hours, so he knows it wasn’t caused by any of his men.  Even the Shadows wouldn’t swoop so low as to hurt you without reason.

"Nice eye,"  is all he says.

Immediately, you look away, suddenly self-conscious as you wipe at the aching, bruised flesh.  It hurts, that’s for sure, but you do a good job at hiding it.

"The other guy looked worse,"  you lie.

"A soldier?"

"No…"  you clear your throat and shift, your shoulders easing just a little from exhaustion.  "No.  Some kid.  Long story.”

"Ah,"  he chuckles a little, as if you aren't sitting across from him with your hands still stained in some dead guy's blood.  "Somehow, I don't doubt that."

"Who are you?"

Hm.  The dreaded question.  For a second, Price debates how much he should tell you—and he knows Laswell is holding her breath hoping he'll hold his tongue, but you deserve answers.  It's the least he could do.

The dog tags feel like they were burning a hole in his pocket.

"Captain John Price.  British Special Air Service."  He answers through a sigh as he sits back in his chair.  "But you can just call me Price."

That furrow in your brow loosens just a little.  Slowly, you remove your arms from around yourself, letting your shoes hit the linoleum flooring.  Maybe you recognized his name somehow, or maybe you’re just relieved to be talked to like a human and not a cornered animal—but you’re more relaxed than you have been that whole day.

"And the woman?"  You press.

"A friend,"  Price answers honestly.  "She helped us find you.  You can trust her, too."

"And how do I know you're telling the truth?"

Price hesitates at that, glancing towards the one-sided mirror where he can feel Laswell watching.  Then, he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out the dogtags.  He tosses them over and they slide across the metal table before landing in your hands.  You turn the metal chips over in your palm, tracing the enamel with shaky hands.  When you look back up at Price, it's in disbelief.

They're your father's.

"To make a very long story short: over a year ago he had a mission,"  Price begins.  "Your old man was tasked with disarming a missile.  He succeeded, changed the code...and died before he could deliver it.  As of a month ago, it's been missing.”

It's a grossly summarized version of what happened over the course of the past year and a half, but Price figures he’ll spare you the details.  Details like how your father was tortured for months before he was finally killed while escaping.  Details like while he was stuck in enemy territory—you were all he would write about.  Your interests.  Your face.  Your words.

You're silent for a moment, squeezing the cold metal in your palms.  When you speak, it's quiet.

"That's a lie," you argue.  "Dad died when I was five. In Mexico."

Price nods.

“Maybe,” he says quietly.  “But, like his kid—he wouldn’t go down easy.”

You let out a breath, sitting back against the chair as you digest the information handed to you.  He watches dots string together in your mind as you mull over your whole life up until that very moment.  He knows what you’re thinking of already; not because he ever met the man personally, but because with the past few months he spent reading and rereading every letter, email, and assignment report—he feels like he did.  He knows you’re rethinking every letter your father sent you right up until his supposed “death" and every call promising his return soon.

He knows it’s a lot to take in, and that aching guilt in his chest rears its ugly head.  He wished he could do more—apologize on behalf of your father, reassure you things would be fine, take you back to your home…but, alas, all of those things were impossible.  So, instead, he’d answer whatever question you asked.

Because that was all he could do.

Almost a full minute passes before you speak again, quietly.  "And why, exactly, am I so important?"

"Because your father kept a journal,”  he answers promptly.  “In that journal, he said you knew the code.”

You laugh bitterly.  “It’s not like he was around to tell me—I don’t know shit.”

“I figured,”  he sighs, nodding.  “So, until we figure things out…you’re sticking with me and my men."

You bristle again, shoulders tensing.  "I never agreed to that."

"I never gave you the choice,"  John hardens his tone, not leaving any room for argument.  "It's what your father would've wanted.  Those were his last orders."

At that, you fall quiet; your face scrunched with frustrated anger and unshed tears as you look away to steel yourself.  John sighs and softens again.

"You’ll have a temporary room for the next few days.  Then, Friday; you, me, and my team are moving to a different base to plan and gather intel.  Everyone here answers to me, and if any of ‘em give you trouble—I’m never far away.”

He leans in close.

"I'm sorry, kid.  Really," he says, "but you can't go home."

Finally, you nod in understanding, your gaze falling to the table.  Lost in thought again, another long moment passes.  He watches as you look down at the dog tags before, hesitantly, lifting them up and over your neck.  They fall to rest at your chest as you clasp them before looking up at Price.  You won’t ask the question—won’t admit what you’re thinking—but he meets your gaze with calm resolve as he speaks again.

"You'll be safe here," he says. “Alright?”

You purse your lips, thinking.  John almost holds his breath, waiting for your response.  Conflicting emotions swim in your eyes as you squeeze the metal on your neck. 

He pretends not to notice the tears pricking your eyes as you swallow heavily and nod.

“Yeah…yes,”  you choke out.  “Not like I have anywhere to go, anyway."

After that, things go smoother.  There were supposed to be more tests—more questioning, interviewing, and other supposedly mandatory things that would get everyone nowhere.  Instead, Price decides to bypass all of it with Laswell’s permission.  The walk to your room is silent, and he assures you, again, that nothing will happen to you here.  He apologizes profusely, but he’s not sure you truly hear any of it—simply nodding and thanking him before the door is shut, and the halls are quiet.

Only then does he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, slipping his hat off to run his hand back through his hair.  There’s paperwork he has to do, a briefing to attend to, and he still has yet to touch base with Soap and Ghost about what exactly happened earlier that day.  Despite it all, though—he feels somehow lighter.  Months of tracking down your father’s only family coming to a close now that you were found and safe.  Or, maybe, it was just because the dog tags were weighing him down.

Nevertheless, he barely spares himself a moment to recollect before his hat is placed back on his head, his expression is hardened again, and he finds himself walking back down the hallway—already itching for another cigar.

It was going to be a long fucking week.

@brokenpieces-72 @warenai

[thinkingthougths]

ngl im finding it hard to get the story going and actually come up with a decent plot and i’ve also started writing like 5 other stories that i hope one day i can post here xoxo

-Ghost x female reader

2036 words

-no warnings in this chapter

The haunting of a Ghost

Chapter 4

You called in sick the rest of the day. Just a few non significant meetings that didn’t require your presence nor had any importance in the future, just routine and what not.

From noon to late evening you kept to yourself in the barracks, thankful that your bed were at the end of the room and provided a wall instead of a neighbor bed. The coverage gave some privacy compared to the ones whose bed were placed in the middle of the room, surrounded by others with no corner to hide in.

Restlessly you attempted to sleep through the day, turning back and forth in your bed chasing an ounce of some shuteye. A nap seemed like the best way to make the hours pass by quicker, not wanting to endure the ever growing pit of shame in your stomach and the constant flashbacks of the incident with the lieutenant.

You self-sooth by tightly hugging yourself, desperate for some comfort to calm yourself. It helped a little, loosened your muscles and slowed your breathing. But sleep never came.

Glancing at the clock on your phone, it says it’s past seven in the evening. Meaning the cafeteria will most likely be devoid of any visitors, since dinner was two hours ago. You missed the meal when you opted to stay in bed and loathe yourself. Persistent growls from your empty stomach reveals how hungry you’ve become after not participating in dinner. You need to eat, and now is the best time to sneak past everyone to get to the building where the cafeteria is and buy something from the vending machines.

It was a whole ordeal mustering up the confidence to accept the chance you might stumble upon Ghost on your way there.

You’ve spent every minute since the whole fiasco happened going through all the details. Scrutinizing your actions and thoughts, judging yourself and hating that you didn’t call in sick from the beginning. Then you wouldn’t have had ended up as a train wreck and everything would have been normal and continued the way it was before.

You should have listen to your gut feeling that told you it wasn’t a good idea to enter the gym today. Should have heeded the foreboding omens.

The cafeteria was in the northern building and the path there took you right by all the recreation rooms and places where everyone would relax especially now when the work day was over for most people. Thankfully, you knew of a shortcut that wasn’t really much of a shortcut, just a different path nobody particularly used. Its path winded through several conjoined buildings, up and down few stairs, and then a small path behind the cafeteria to its back door. The buildings were mostly made up of meeting rooms and similar rooms that were only used during the day and are supposed to be empty this time of day. It’s a road you’ve hiked before, when the introvert in you were desperate for food and not in the mood for small talk with your fellow soldiers.

Dressed in simple gray sweatpants and a black fleece jacket with a T-shirt beneath, you embarked on the journey for some dinner.

A few of the women from your barrack stopped you on your way out, asking how you were feeling. They had been on the meetings you missed and noticed your lack of presence. You gave them a hasty throw-up of words about the reason why, lying that you probably just had eaten something your stomach didn’t approve but it was much better now. They swallowed your lie with ease and let you continue on your errand.

It’s nice knowing that you’re not completely invisible as you think you are sometimes and that people actually do notice if you’re missing.

The dim lights at the door give way for the moons gentle glow shine through the small window. Opening the door to the outside, the moon’s delightfully basking you in its pale light as you head for the next building.

It went smoothly to get to one place to the other. You encountered a minimal amount of people, none that knew you and thankfully left you alone. And most important of all, you didn’t run into Ghost. That was what you feared the most. Not knowing how to behave around him after what had happened. For the last couple of hours you had contemplated wether to act like the way you felt, hurt and ashamed, or if you should do the most professional thing in these circumstances; act like nothing had gone down between you, like his soft brushes against your shivering skin hadn’t culminated any raw desires deep within your innocent and tender heart.

Which might turn out to be kind of hard since you share a few friends with him, especially a certain Sergeant Kyle Garrick. Kyle was the one who showed you the ropes the day you transferred to this base, he took you under his wing and made you feel at home ridiculously fast. The amount of compassion and benevolence that man carried was unmeasurable, he always went out of his way to be there for everyone and he never let you down. Without him this place would have been unbearable your first year when no one else seemed to have taken an interest to you to become a friend. You were so goddamn grateful for Kyle, you’d take a bullet for him no questions asked.

He was also, unfortunately, a very close companion to Ghost since they came from the same taskforce, the 141. The bond they shared came from years and years of tough missions done together, some that lasted many long and torturous months. You’d never beat that, and secretly feared that if push came to shove and this whole situation with Ghost turned really bad, Kyle would pick the lieutenants side over yours.

No, you shake your head while exiting the last building, it isn’t fair to Kyle to wager which of his friends he’d choose. He’s too much of a good person to ever pick a side.

Instead, you focused on not slipping in the dewy grass behind the cafeteria. Tiptoeing carefully using the faint glow of the moon to see where you’re stepping. Some moisture from the grass makes its way through your thin sneakers, annoyingly dampening the bottoms of your socks. This is the downside of behaving like some stupid spy on a mission, opting for the outside terrain instead of the inside where proper flooring is; you get to suffer a bit.

Above the double door was a twinkling lightbulb barely covered by the metal lampshade, the bulb having a steady rhythm of being on and off. For such a large and well money supported military base you’d think they’d invest a bit more in keeping functional lights. You let out a scoff, rolling your eyes and pulling the door open. Its hinges creaks from apparent disuse and neglect, no one goes through these doors regularly. And that’s why you slow down the opening of the door, to dull the sound and keep noisy ears from being tempted to see where the shrill sound came from.

Hot air from the overhead ac blew on you, making you toasty again after being outside in the colder temperature.

The room you entered was just an antechamber that led to different hallways. The one you’re walking towards leads you straight to the where the vending machines are. Past a few other rooms designed for the soldiers and others on this base to leisure in, and by the distant reverberating sounds they are all pretty much occupied.

You were aware of this, that people would hang out here, and have already doubled up your speed to sneak by unseen.

The clamor of a group loudly laughing at something had you slow down to a normal pace. One laugh stood out to you, it was the rich voice of Kyle.

Shit. If Kyle’s there, then the rest of taskforce 141 are also probably hanging out in the rec room with him as they tend to stay together.

There was no door leading into the room, just a wide gaping entrance that gives a panoramic view of the entire space.

Anxiety tugged at your heart, an inner voice telling you keep your head straight forward and keep on walking.

But curiosity of knowing whether the lieutenant was participating in the pastime or not made you falter your step into a creeping shuffle. Just one quick peak inside before anyone can catch you spying and your curiosity will be sated, you tell yourself. The lewd action of something way too close to stalking was thrilling all the while you were chewing on the inside of your cheek in nervousness.

Standing right next to the entrance and out of sight, you gather some courage and wipe your sweaty hands on your pants.

Steadily leaning forward while holding a grip on the wall, you survey the small crowded room. Twenty people at least, occupying every seat that can be found including ledges of tables and some down on the ratty carpets.

Scanning all faces, you find the one whose voice you’d picked up earlier; Kyle. The carefreeness oozing from him as he lively holds a conversation with a man you don’t recognize while taking a swig from a beer bottle. A warm smile forms on your lips at the sight, seeing him at ease and enjoying himself after the intense mission he came from last night makes you happy.

Happiness that’s extinguished like a light when your eyes catches the sight of Ghost.

You feel sick.

He is standing in a corner, leaning up against the wall next to a girl you can’t remember ever having seen here before. She’s very pretty and it’s abundantly clear that she is heavily flirting with him. Standing close, arching her body and seductively tilting her dainty head while bearing her neck to him, like an offering. An offering that he seems to consider as he’s not outright rejecting her advances nor trying to make any moves to escape the interaction.

The view has you difficulty swallowing, mouth suddenly bone dry as your blood punishingly pounds throughout your tensed body.

Taking a step back, you blink in confusion. Why are you having such a strong reaction at seeing a woman fluttering her eyes at Ghost. You hate the man, hate his guts and everything about him. He’s a bully. You should feel relief that his attention might move on from you and to another woman that he can harass.

So, why do you want to throw up when Ghost tips just an inch closer toward her while holding her heated gaze.

Damn his balaclava that covers his face so you can’t make out if he is smirking or not, accepting her advances or not. The only things visible are his hooded eyes. The same brown eyes that once were pointed to you.

You don’t want to accept that you’re feeling rejected. As if you’ve been in some sort of situationship with him and now been thrown aside like garbage and replaced by a newer and prettier toy.

You detest Ghost. He shouldn’t have the power to make you feel like this. You absolutely hate these disgusting emotions that he’s provoked. The rollercoaster of fear and humiliation, and the feelings you don’t want to admit to, the odd infatuation that’s he enchanted you with and how special you felt that someone paid you any attention. Especially, a guy like him who’s known for being stone cold unattainable and rejecting all forms of approaches.

Lost in your musings, your eyes stayed too long on Ghost and he noticed you. His fierce brown eyes flicked towards yours so fast, as if he’d know all along you’d been watching him.

You gasped, stumbling backwards in surprise.

Did he knew you were spying in him all this time?

It felt like a bucket of ice cold water had been poured on you, making your heart drop into your stomach as you fast-track it out of there not sparing a single second for him to burn you with his heated stare.

[sparrowrye]

Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, part 19

Synopsis: soulmate AU where you have the same mark on your body as your soulmate, and if your soulmate dies, you die too. Alastor needs to make sure that his soulmate is safe so he can continue his reign - whatever that takes. Though it looks like we have a couple secrets of our own.

Previous part

Part 19: the curse

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the first time in my whole life, things were going my way. I was at peace.

Spring had fully turned to Summer and I often kept the windows open in the mornings or on a breezy day. It let fresh air circle through the dusty house and gave more critters for Niffty to chase after.

Since the Overlord meeting, Alastor had been nice. Well, nice in his own way. He kept his snide, condescending comments to himself (most of the time) and left me alone after our training sessions.

I noticed the increase of our proximity whenever we were in the same room. He stood uncomfortably close and circled me a lot when we spoke. His presence was always against my shields, as were his hands with my shoulders. He always seemed to have a claw somewhere on me.

After our training sessions, Husker and I would spend time outside lying around. We lay on our backs and look at the sky in the field or just beyond the forest line. I didn't realize how much I needed those silent, peaceful moments. I felt wonderful to lay there and do nothing. No running, fighting, arguing, surviving, nothing.

It did, however, give me lots of time to think about my Sanctuary. I had a layout already in my head and planned on how to build and maintain it. We had to be self reliant or have a strong, unbreakable bond with traders. Soul deals would be a perfect way to do that but I wasn't about to become even more of a Demon and trap someone in a deal like Alastor.

Speaking of whom disappeared for the entire day and didn't return until well into the night. Husker had told me he wanted to do a session when he got back. So I was forced to wait for him by the fire of the sitting room. Husker waited with me, Niffty dozing off with her head on his lap. She had been meddling with his feathers for an hour before. The small girl had really grown on me.

Alastor's shadow slipped out of the fire and the Radio Demon manifested in the middle of the room. I noticed my shadow morph from my figure into her new one. Since Spring, my shadow started to have its own form. She wore a large hat with a net that dropped past her face, like someone from the Victorian time. Her eyes and sharp teeth sometimes shone through as a bright white. She always seemed to make herself known when Alastor was around.

I silently followed Alastor into the library. I was shocked to find he didn't slam the doors like usual. He sat at the pair of chairs in between the two large windows. My nerves went through the roof and my Demon side itched to come out. My walk slowed as I sat down in the chair beside his, a small table the only distance between us.

"Are you ready to attempt mind magic again?" he asked. It seemed uncharacteristic of him to actually ask if I wanted to do something. Though I had feeling he would push me to do it anyways, even if I said no.

"What exactly are we doing?" I questioned, not at all hiding my reluctance.

"We're visiting your dark memory again. This time I'm going to be there to keep you from losing yourself again."

"What? I'm...but I don't..."

He leaned his elbow on the armrest and held out his clawed hand. His yellow teeth were showing and he had one leg crossed over the other. "You have worked at your magic muscle, so keeping yourself separate from the memory will be easier this time.”

"But I'm...you should’ve warned me that we were doing this."

"Would it have made a difference? You may have worn yourself down worrying over it." He inched his claw closer.

I kept my hand glued to my arm. This wasn't something that someone could just get over. Even Husker had made sure not to mention the incident. He never pressed and he made sure he kept his distance unless I initiated it. That's how you were supposed to handle it.

"I don't think I'm ready for this." My eyes were scanning every inch of him. I was waiting for him to pounce, impatient that I was hesitating.

"I believe this may be the final thread to your curse," he said. "This would make it far easier to access and learn magic. But you have to master keeping yourself separate from your own memories."

I was quiet for a moment. I looked down at my hands and let my Demon side show. I wanted to learn more magic and rid myself of this constraining curse. The faster I learned magic, the sooner I could build my sanctuary. Yet I had tried for weeks to bury that memory again.

Alastor's patience was unnerving. He sat and waited, hand still hovering in the air in between us. His eyes never left me and I could feel his presence on the outskirts of my shields again. He had been the only one who had pulled me out of the dark spots in this difficult magic. He had helped with the Striker memory, the one that stayed in my vision, and when the incident was first revealed and I fell into the darkness. He had the power to keep me from losing myself, but I wouldn’t exactly call him a savior.

Passing this test meant we wouldn't have to keep doing this. He's trying to get rid of the curse, which he stated was a mind thing, and that hopefully meant I wouldn't have to do more of this mind magic anymore.

Finally, I took a deep breath. I rubbed my sweaty hands on my pant leg and sat up straight. My shadow stood against the wall behind me, a shadowy hand making its way onto my shoulder.

"Okay." I forced myself not to look at Alastor's smiling face. It might throw me back into my nerves if I even caught a glimpse of it. So I turned my head just enough to see his hand and reached out. His claws wrapped around mine one at a time. He pushed past my shields and gradually melted through my body. It was cold, like always, and I didn't fall into my mindscape until the cold had reached my toes.

I opened my eyes to find myself in my own head. The shields were still holding and Alastor waited in the center with me. His cane was behind his back and he looked to be inspecting the bland landscape.

Noise caught my attention. I turned to see Striker yelling at me in the healer's tent. He dragged me back to my cage and slammed the door behind me. Everything went into high alert when the dark figures surrounded my cage. I felt myself walking out of the shields, trying to get back into my body to stop the memory from happening.

I was abruptly pulled back. Alastor moved to stand in front of me, letting go of my arm but putting his own across my chest. I barely had a chance to make a remark as the memory kept playing. My body itched to move, to go back into my physical body to stop it all. I couldn't let it happen to me again.

And yet I had to let it. Alastor's hold on me was tight, even when I dug my claws into his skin. I twisted my heels into the ground and gritted my teeth. I pretended to ground myself, pretended that my shields kept me from leaving, and pretended that whatever was happening wasn't actually happening. Tears fell down my cheeks as I fought against the painful tug of my heart and mind.

Just a memory. Just a memory. Just a memory.

Then it stopped. I found a woman's arm across my chest instead of Alastor's. I was in a cage, a large one, not my mind. The woman was much bigger than me and she was whispering things in my ear. I didn't understand what any of it meant but I could feel a prickle in my neck and back. It felt like a weight was being placed on my shoulders and seeping into my very being. A kiss to the forehead locked everything in place.

I shook my head. It was just a memory. I pressed my head into her shoulder and imagined myself back in my own shields. When I opened my eyes I found myself leaning into Alastor's shoulder. It felt like a thread was being pulled out of my head and down my spine. I shivered as the feeling spread to the rest of my body. The thread finally left my body with a snap.

I looked up as Alastor dropped a red thread from his pointy fingers. It floated to the ground and vanished. As soon as it was gone from sight, everything opened. I could see and feel everything physical and magical.

My eyes opened to the library again. I could feel Alastor beside me, see and smell his magic, as well as Husker and Niffty in the other room. I could actually see their souls, see a small thread connecting Husker and Niffty to Alastor, and a larger one between me and him. There was magic in the house, too, all over. I felt giddy with the sense of magic flowing through everything and into me.

"Do you feel that?" Alastor stood, my hand still firmly trapped on his and pulling me to my feet. He smiled wide and tapped his fingers on his cane. It felt like a flow of magic was cycling between us. It was the same feeling as when a strong gust of wind blows in my face. It felt good.

"Did I do it? Did I unravel it?" I asked. Husker and Niffty were well awake and watching intently.

"Oh you most certainly did. The curse is gone and your true power shines through." His smile widened and looked janky, truly devilish. His eyes had a look of insanity to them. "It will only grow and grow with time. I will be there every step of the way to guide and harbor this power of yours."

I suddenly wanted to be twenty yards from him. I tried to let go but his grip only tightened. His shadow loomed behind him with a large smile and my own shadow turned into a dragon again.

"Our magic combined is like nothing I've seen before." He jerked my hand back so I stumbled into him. My head had to tilt way back just to keep eye contact. "Together, with our combined power, we will be untouchable." His hair had hardened into spikes and his antlers grew overhead. His eyes darkened and his smile reached well past them. Were those stitches on the corners of his mouth?

His claws weren't touching my skin but his grip was crushing. I could feel pins and needles poking through my finger and it went straight up to my shoulder.

"You're...you're hurting me," I whimpered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note:

Someone got a taste for power! Something tells me he’s not gonna want to leave her alone any time soon.

As always, let me know what you think 😉

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 17 - To Watch The Dying of the Day

Summary: Say, isn't it strange? I am still me, and you are still you. In this place. Isn't it strange how people can change? From strangers to friends, friends into lovers. To strangers again.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters  Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

A/N: Oh gosh, it's been so long! A mixture of burnout and chaos will do that to a girl. But it's here, coming in at a strong 7k words. It's on the shorter side, especially since my previous chapters have been anywhere between 10-13k words. But this chapter is transitioning us back into the main story. So do with that information as you will, its going to be a bumpy ride....

TW: None really, just hella angst.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw 

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

StoryTags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, John?” Abigail’s voice echoed through the camp as the tent flaps were shoved open harshly by the young man, who only ignored her comment. He was making a beeline for the one person he needed to complete his team—the one person he knew would stand by his side to enact revenge on the men who nearly took his brother's life.

Kate was chopping celery and carrots for an afternoon stew when she heard the heavy footsteps of John approaching. His gaze was determined, each step fueled with a fiery purpose. She glanced up to see Abigail standing not far behind him, arms crossed in frustration, throwing her hands in the air as John continued to ignore her protests. Kate already knew what he was going to ask of her.

John had found Colm O’Driscoll’s hideout, and he was ready to take action.

Kate placed the knife down with a sigh. Since their return from Emerald Ranch, things had been relatively calm. At least as calm as life could get when you were running with a bunch of outlaws, hanging onto the threads of some "plan" by a man she barely trusted. When they arrived back from their trip, Sean and the boys had planned a small party for Arthur—a ‘Celebration of Life,’ the ambitious Irishman had called it. Though it was more likely just another excuse to drink beer, dance, and be rowdy.

They used the get-together as an opportunity to tell the others about their relationship. Kate drank and sang with the girls, talking with them into the late hours of the night about her time with Arthur. Their small circle was filled with ‘aww’s’ and teasing glances. Kate felt a weight lifted off her shoulders after telling them, like somehow their relationship was finally real now that the rest of the gang knew—at least the ones most important to her.

Arthur was gradually reintegrated into jobs and missions, starting with small fishing trips and eventually moving on to more lucrative endeavors like robbing stagecoaches. Kate protested at first, trying to convince him there were safer ways to make money, but she knew she couldn't take the thrill of the heist out of the outlaw so easily. Arthur found work where he could, especially when Dutch wasn’t ordering him around. All of Arthur’s worries about being replaced seemed to dissipate in the days after his return. Dutch, ever the charmer, appeared overjoyed that Arthur was making a steady recovery and happy that his son found some happiness in a woman. He couldn't resist leaving Arthur with a gentle reminder that their priority was, and still is, to make enough money to escape. Arthur assured him with a promise: he would see it done.

This morning, Dutch sent Arthur, Sean, and Micah into Rhodes to meet up with Bill. Sheriff Gray wanted to speak with them about some work, and Arthur felt mighty proud to be involved, given his month-long absence. After breakfast, Kate pulled him aside for a few quick good-luck and be-safe kisses. It had become a new habit of theirs, since alone-time was rarely granted. They always made sure to say goodbye when one was leaving for a job, sealed with a kiss and a hug.

Kate looked up at John from under the brim of her hat, wishing in that moment Arthur was there to set him straight. But she knew nothing was going to change the young outlaw’s mind.

“Kate,” John greeted with a nod, his tone indicating he was ready to say more.

Wiping her hands on her raggedy apron, she leaned against the cutting table. “Fine afternoon, ain’t it, John?” she said with a smile, squinting up at the sun.

John wasted no time. “We’re ridin’ out today, to Hanging Dog Ranch. You coming?”

“Is that so?” She sighed. “What for?” Kate’s voice carried a hint of feigned ignorance. She knew why, but she was still trying to find it in herself to say no.

Since their ride back from Emerald Ranch, Kate had wrestled with Arthur’s words. She knew revenge was foolish, but seeing the way it had changed him cut her so deep she feared she would carry that rage with her for a long time. It was the same rage she felt years ago when she lost everything. Back then, her anger often consumed her, but over time she learned how to control it, to use it to protect herself and others. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to keep her word to Arthur, but also to protect him.

“You know why, Kate,” John’s voice grew stern, pulling her from her thoughts. “Colm’s men are up there. This is our chance.”

Kate’s heart clenched. She wanted to protect Arthur, to ensure that what happened to him never happened to anyone again. But she also knew that succumbing to vengeance could destroy her just as easily as it could destroy their enemies.

“John,” she began, her voice wavering slightly, “I promised Arthur I wouldn’t get swept up in this mess.”

John’s expression softened a moment, but his resolve remained firm. “I get it, Kate. But we need you. If we don’t take this chance, we might not get another.”

Kate huffed and lowered her voice so only he could hear, “Does Dutch know about this? Doesn’t he have a plan to get back at Colm?” She tried to make him see reason in her questions.

John only shook his head. “To hell with his plans. The way I see it, Colm doesn’t see us as a threat anymore. He tried to lay a trap and set the law on us. Well, he fucked around and it's about time he found out.”

Kate rolled her eyes at John’s ambitious statement. “John, no. I can’t go through with this and you shouldn't either.” She planned to leave him with that, pulling the apron over her head and starting to walk away.

John grunted and followed behind her, his frustration growing more evident. “C’mon, Kate, quit pussyfootin’ around. We need you, and we’re losing daylight.”

Kate turned and saw behind him as the others began saddling their horses and loading their weapons. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Sadie packing her saddlebags, and her heart began to race as Lenny waited proudly on the back of his stallion, ready to take off at a moment's notice. Charles was there too, making his way over to see what the hold-up was. She was surprised to see this was the group that would be leading the charge. But, after all, these were Arthur’s closest and most trusted comrades.

Consequently, they were also the people Kate cared for deeply and saw as her own family. They were all putting themselves in harm's way for the sake of revenge.

“What would Arthur say about this?” Kate said finally.

Charles had finally caught up to them and heard the last bit of the conversation. “Arthur would say revenge is a fool’s game,” he stated.

“Exactly, thank you Char-”

“But those are his words, not mine,” Charles interrupted.

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose as John continued his persuasion. “Arthur’s the goddamn fool. We need to strike back, now. What if they come after us again? What if this time Colm takes one of the girls, or you?”

Kate felt the weight of John’s words settling heavily on her shoulders. The thought of Colm’s men taking her or any of the other women gnawed at her heart. She couldn’t deny the logic in John’s argument, even if it went against Arthur’s wishes.

Looking past the two men, she saw Lenny waving to her as if simply asking, "What are you waiting for?" John must have told them she would be joining, as Sadie looked over in anticipation, already holding Lorena’s reins, ready to leave as soon as Kate gave the word.

“Charles,” she began, her voice deep with conviction, “you’ve got a level head. This is a bad idea. How could you go through with this?”

Her words came out with a bite, unintended, but they stung nonetheless. Charles had always been a beacon of reason, often the one she or Arthur leaned on in times of need.

Charles' response betrayed no hurt, only his own sense of determination. “These bastards deserve it. Arthur suffered enough.” 

Kate found herself seething at his words, anger bubbling up like black coffee neglected over a fire for too long. The gang knew Arthur better than she did, Kate understood that much. But nobody had watched him suffer like she had. Night after endless night, holding his broken body and cradling him as she willed with all her strength that the pain and tortuous nightmares would cease. Her thoughts drifted to the night of their shared intimacy, seeing how Colm had broken him in unimaginable ways.

Nobody understood the extent of his suffering, except for Kate.

“Sadie suffered by them too,” Charles added after a moment. 

“We’ve all suffered from the O’Driscolls!” John exclaimed with a defeated sigh. “Choose your battles, Kate. But we’re going to send a message to Colm, whether you come or not.”

The two men turned to walk away, their boots kicking up dust as they marched back to their horses, saddled and ready for battle. Moments later, a third pair of footsteps fell in time behind them.

Kate had made her choice.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The dry spell had lingered for well over a month, and the oppressive heat of Lemoyne had turned the air into a stifling, dusty haze. The town of Rhodes lay beneath a thick, barren cloud of yellow dust, each gust of wind sending particles stinging into Arthur’s throat and eyes, making them water. The winds whipped past him as he spurred Belle forward, urging her faster and faster. His grip on the reins was white-knuckled, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as he tried to steady his racing heart.

The Sheriff had caught on to their schemes, and set them up in Rhodes. Sean had paid the ultimate price with a bullet between the eyes. The image of Sean’s lifeless body was seared into Arthur’s mind, a haunting image he knew would never leave him. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the relentless memory that played over and over like a broken motion picture. Sean had been on the cusp of becoming a man, his 24th birthday just a few months away. Though Arthur gave him grief since the day he joined their gang, deep inside he saw the ambitious Irishman as his younger brother. 

The irony of the situation gnawed at Arthur’s consciousness. Sean had warned them it was a setup. He had sensed something was off from the moment they entered the sleepy town, but both Arthur and Micah had dismissed his concerns as mere paranoia. Now, anger swelled in Arthur's belly, especially toward Micah. As much as he despised the shady outlaw, Arthur couldn’t deny that he wouldn’t have made it out alive without his help. Micah recognized that Arthur’s injuries had hindered his abilities, though his accuracy remained as deadly as ever. Together, they had picked off nearly every lawman and trigger-happy drunk who stood in their way, barely escaping with Bill in tow. Arthur knew his disability had slowed him down, and he blamed himself for Sean’s loss. 

The escape was a blur of gunfire and chaos. Arthur's mind raced with the events of the ambush, replaying each moment as a jarring blend of fear and fury. Belle's hooves thundered against the ground, each stride a desperate attempt to outrun the mix of anger, guilt and shame that threatened to overwhelm him. The acrid taste of dust and blood lingered in his mouth, a reminder of the violence they had scarcely escaped.

As they galloped through the barren landscape, Arthur's thoughts turned to Kate. He knew she would be waiting for him back at camp, a small comfort amidst the chaos. But the moment of peace would be short lived, they would have to leave again, and soon. The law would catch up to them in a matter of days. 

The thought of facing Dutch made Arthur cringe inwardly. Dutch would undoubtedly demand a report of what happened, and Arthur knew it could go one of two ways: Dutch might dismiss the incident, as he had when Arthur previously warned about their increasing sloppiness and the Pinkertons closing in. Or he might tuck-tail and opt for retreat to a new hideout, favoring the path with the fewest casualties. Either way, Arthur was in for an earful back at camp. He silently hoped that someone would go back for Sean, praying he wouldn't be discarded in a mass grave. Every man deserved a proper burial, but for people like him and his gang, it was a luxury rarely granted. 

As Clemens Point came into view, a deep sense of unease settled over Arthur. The camp seemed unusually quiet, devoid of the usual bustle and chatter. An eerie silence had taken its place. He panicked for a moment, what if the law had found them while he was away?

Arthur barely had time to dismount before Abigail came running towards him, tears streaming down her face. Dutch was close behind her, his expression grim. A chill ran down Arthur's spine.

Abigail grabbed Arthur's arm, her voice trembling with panic. “Arthur, they took Jack! Someone took Jack!” she cried, her eyes wild with fear.

Dutch placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, though his eyes were hard with determination. “We’ll get him back, Abigail. I promise you that,” he said firmly.

Arthur opened his mouth to explain what had happened in Rhodes, but the urgency of the situation left no room for words. His mind was whirling with this new information, trying to piece together what happened while he was away. There was a moment of silence, and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat as he realized Kate was also nowhere to be seen.

“Who took him?” Arthur said finally, his voice betrayed no hint of the unease he was feeling.

Hosea stepped forward, his expression was dire. “We believe the Braithwaites have taken Jack. They’ve been gunning for us ever since we crossed them,” he explained.

“Where is my son?” Abigail shouted. “If anything–oh God,” she choked on the words. “Where is my son Dutch!” 

“We will find him,” Dutch affirmed, clenching his jaw, eyes blazing with resolve. “We’ll make that Braithwaite bitch pay for this.” He surveyed the three men as Bill and Micah stood awkwardly nearby, unsure what to say. “What the hell happened to you three? Where’s Sean?”

Arthur took in Hosea’s words and then let out a breath as he shook his head. “They set us up, Dutch. Sheriff Gray killed Sean, nearly got Bill too. We shot up half the town trying to escape. If we’re not careful about this, we’ll surely be caught by the law.” They were in deep shit now, both families were gunning for them. They couldn't afford another casualty, let alone young Jack. The situation tore at his heart. 

Dutch’s eyes darkened, his mouth set in a tight line. Arthur recognized that look—it was the look of a man out of options. “We’re getting that boy back, Arthur, or so help me God—”

At that moment, the thunderous sound of hooves echoed down the path to their hideout. Arthur's hand hovered over his revolver, his mind still in fight-or-flight mode. As the riders emerged from the trees, he saw John leading the group, with Kate at the rear. A wave of relief washed over him; at least the law hadn't caught up to them yet. But as they drew closer, Arthur noticed Kate's clothing was stained with blood. His relief quickly turned to a mix of worry and dread.

As John dismounted, Abigail flung herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. “They took him, John! They took our boy!” she cried, her voice breaking with desperation. John shot a confused look at Arthur, his own emotions swirling with shock and concern. He held onto Abigail, trying to process the chaos around him.

Dutch's voice cut through the commotion like a knife, demanding answers. “How nice of you to finally show up. Where have you lot been?”

“Taking care of business,” John replied dryly, his grip on Abigail tightening as he tried to make sense of the unfolding crisis. The air was thick with urgency and panic, even the winds seemed to hold their breath, anticipating the next move.

“What business?” Dutch spat, his agitation palpable as he glared at his returning crew members. The tension crackled like electricity in the air, setting everyone on edge.

Arthur's heart pounded in his chest, the rapid beat echoing the chaos of his thoughts. Sean's death, the ambush, Jack's disappearance, and the blood on Kate’s clothes all swirled in his mind. He moved with heavy, purposeful steps toward Kate, his focus narrowing to her alone. He tuned out the escalating argument between Dutch and John, his attention solely on the woman he loved.

“Kate,” he called, his voice rough from the dry air and his mounting anxiety.

She turned at the sound of her name, immediately reading the worry etched into Arthur’s face. Noticing her bloodied clothing, she quickly reassured him, “It’s not my blood.”

Relief flooded Arthur, and he pulled her into a tight hug, inhaling her familiar scent. The rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest provided a momentary solace amidst the turmoil.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear as she pulled away slightly.

“Rhodes was a trap. They set the law on us, Sean’s dead,” Arthur briefly explained, his voice heavy with grief. Kate gasped softly, her eyes widening. “We just got back, and Jack’s missing. Hosea thinks it was the Braithwaites.”

Kate stood speechless, feeling the weight of the world crashing down around her. "Oh, Arthur, we have to—"

Arthur gripped her arms fiercely, his eyes burning with a mix of confusion and betrayal. Desperation etched into every line of his face. “Where were you, Kate?” he demanded, his voice laced with hurt and anger.

He hadn’t meant for the words to come out with such force, but his mind was a whirlwind of doubts and anxiety. Jack could be dead for all he knew. The thought of an innocent child being involved in this nightmare gnawed at his soul. Despite everything, Arthur blamed himself for Jack's disappearance. He cursed himself for not ensuring someone was watching over the boy when he left. Normally, there were plenty of people he and Abigail trusted with Jack, but those people had been gone nearly as long as he had. He desperately needed an explanation for her absence.

Kate pulled away from his grip but held his hands tightly, her gaze filled with guilt. Arthur’s heart began to sink, a cold dread settling in his stomach. “We were up at Hanging Dog Ranch,” she breathed. “Where Colm’s men were hiding.”

Arthur’s gaze hardened, a cold look crossing over his features. “I don’t s’ppose you were there to play hooky?” he spat, sarcasm dripping from his words. He felt the world spinning around him, losing Sean, losing Jack, and now, feeling a profound sense of betrayal from the woman he loved.

Kate shook her head quietly, her cheeks flushing pink with shame. “Arthur, I—”

Arthur’s grip on her hands tightened momentarily before he let go. “You promised me, Kate,” he said, his voice breaking. “You promised you wouldn’t get involved with Colm.”

Kate’s heart shattered at the pain in his eyes. “I know, and I am so sorry. But I thought—”

“You thought what?” Arthur interrupted, his voice rising with a mix of anger and fear. “You thought this would help? That getting yourself killed would make things better?”

Kate’s eyes filled with tears, her voice trembling slightly. “I just wanted to protect you and the others from those terrible people.”

“That is not your job, Kate!” Arthur shouted, and Kate flinched, taking a step back from him.

Arthur let out a breath, shaking his head, the betrayal cutting deep. “You just don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand what it does to me, seeing you put yourself in danger like that.”

“I see you put yourself in danger every day,” she answered meekly, her voice wavering with a mix of fear and frustration.

“Don’t make this about me,” he said sharply. “I trusted you to keep that promise.” The life he lived, the life she had joined, was a dangerous one. And Kate wouldn’t be the first woman he lost to such violence. Born from a promise that he broke, costing the life of his family. If he had lost her and Jack in the same night, he feared what he would unleash upon himself.

“I’m sorry Arthur,” Kate breathed deeply, tears finally spilling over and streaming down her cheeks. There was an old selfish ache deep in her soul, a desperate need to make them suffer for taking someone from her. Her fear of loss drove her every thought, every action, every breath. It had consumed her, nearly losing herself during Arthur’s recovery. Kate had never known anything but grief and loss. Holding on so tightly to her sliver of happiness that she was smothering it. Her selfish need cost her Arthur’s trust. 

“Kate,” his voice was softer now, laced with deep sorrow. Arthur shook his head, “I can’t go through this again.” His eyes softened, though the hurt remained. 

Kate opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. She felt a dark sense of dread, knowing that despite her intentions she had broken his trust and his heart. 

The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon them, a suffocating silence settling in. Arthur’s eyes, filled with a mix of anger and hurt, searched hers. The pain of his words, the pain of her actions, it all mingled together in a storm of emotions that neither of them could escape. A deeper love that remained unspoken.

Before she could find the words to make things right, Dutch’s voice boomed across the camp. “We’re not waiting another damn minute! Mount up, we’re riding out to get Jack back now!”

Arthur turned away, his expression unreadable. “I’m glad that you’re home safe. I wish I could say the same for Jack,” he said, walking over to mount his mare once more. The other boys were saddling up, the tension in the air thick with anticipation.

Kate stood in stunned silence, tears streaming down her face. The fear of losing Arthur, the guilt of breaking her promise, and the terror of what lay ahead gnawed at her. She felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness as she watched Arthur ride off into the night, leaving her standing there with her heart in pieces.

As she watched the men race down the winding path out of Clemens Point, she noticed Abigail's trembling form. Abigail was using her apron to wipe the tears that stained her cheeks. Kate swallowed her sorrow, pushing down her own broken heart. This was about Jack and Abigail.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

“I bet this has something to do with why you got shot to hell in town.” John’s voice broke Arthur from his clouding thoughts. The trees raced past them in a blur, and Arthur hadn’t even realized his brother was riding right beside him.

Arthur’s mind was a whirlwind of anxiety and turmoil. The events of the day had left him feeling raw and exposed. The setup in Rhodes, Kate’s actions, and now Jack’s abduction—all of it weighed heavily on him. The feeling gnawing at his insides.

“I don’t want to think about that right now, John,” he answered, trying to push the memory of Sean's lifeless body out of his mind. “We have to focus on Jack.”

John’s voice rose with anger, a mirror of Arthur's own inner turmoil. “I swear, I’ll kill every single one of them.” The desperation in his voice was palpable, and Arthur could sense the fear behind his brother's bravado.

Dutch’s voice called from the front of the line, a forced calmness trying to steady the group. “Easy, John. Try to stay calm. We’ll make them pay for this.”

“What about the plan, Dutch? Isn’t this family sitting on gold?” Bill’s voice cut through the night, his ulterior concerns evident.

Hosea answered, his tone grim and weary. “I hate to break it to you, but there is no gold. I’ve turned every stone. If they ever had any, it's gone.”

“For Christ’s sake, Hosea, after everything? Another perfect plan fed to the dogs,” John retorted, his voice laced with bitter frustration. Arthur felt the same anger bubbling up inside him—another one of Dutch’s schemes that had led them into danger and kept them on the run from the law.

“We underestimated them,” said Hosea, his voice heavy with regret and concern.

“No, they underestimated us!” Dutch roared, his voice echoing through the trees. “Enough talk. There’s no point arguing how we got here. This is where we are. And we are going to kill every one of those inbred trash.”

Arthur’s grip tightened on the reins, his knuckles white with tension. The thought of what lay ahead mixed with a fierce determination to bring Jack back safely. His heart pounded in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety and resolve. As they rode on, the night closed in around them, a shroud of darkness and danger. The only sounds were the thunder of hooves and the heavy breathing of their mounts. Arthur’s mind was a storm of emotions, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him.

The ride to Braithwaite Manor was filled with a tense silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. Arthur’s mind kept drifting back to Kate. They were close now, and there was no turning back. Jack’s life was at risk. The stakes were higher than ever, and the weight of their mission rested heavily on his heart. There was no room for distraction or hesitation.

Dutch’s voice broke through the silence, a final order before the storm. “Nobody makes a move until I say so. Follow my lead.”

The tension in the air was electric as they approached the manor, each man ready for the fight of their lives. As they dismounted, Arthur’s thoughts turned briefly to Kate once more. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate couldn’t sleep. The lamp was down to the midnight oil in the small green canvas tent that the Marstons called home. She had stayed with Abigail while the men were out in search of Jack. She couldn’t tell how long they had been gone; her weary mind drifted in and out of consciousness. She tried to stay alert for their arrival, or for anyone else who might try to abduct another member of their gang.

Abigail slept beside her, her cheeks tinted pink from tears. She clutched Jack's nightgown tightly to her chest, inhaling the scent of her child, her whole world. Kate understood that feeling. She looked down at her hands, the dim light flickering across her fingers. Old blood was dried into the cracks of her nails. Images flashed before her eyes of the violence that had defined her day. She had unleashed herself on Colm’s men, disregarding her promise. And consequently, she had neglected the safety of those left behind at camp.

An acidic queasiness settled in her belly. It had felt good to kill those men. By some miracle, or perhaps coincidence, she had found Arthur’s captors amongst the men hiding at the ranch. The two men had recognized her, though she had no idea how. They had never met before. But like most cocky men, they boasted about Arthur’s torture and the pain they would inflict upon her. Little did they know who she was.

Keeping them alive as the last two men standing, Kate gave them the same courtesy they had given Arthur. She made sure they would never use their arms again, and strung them up by their ankles. Finally, she sliced open their bellies, their blood draining like pigs for the slaughter. Her friends watched in cautious silence. And when she was done, she mounted Lorena, and together they left the ranch without so much as another word.

It was justice, Kate tried to convince herself. But no, it was a deep selfishness. One that an old friend had stoked like flames to a fire. Perhaps it was in her nature, to lose lives and take them. All of the people Kate was, and tried to be, were always a part of her. The mother, the nurturer, the defender, and the killer.

She regretted her actions, but selfishly, she would do it all again. The thrill of revenge had brought her a temporary sense of control, a fleeting moment where she felt powerful in a world that constantly threatened to strip her of everything she held dear. But as she sat in the tent, the reality of her choices weighed heavily on her. She wasn’t sure if she could ever reconcile the different parts of herself—the woman who longed for peace and the one who couldn’t escape the violence that had shaped her life.

Exhaustion finally overcame her. The flickering light of the lamp faded as she drifted into a restless sleep, haunted by the faces of the men she had killed and the fear of what might come next.

When Kate awoke the next morning, the first light of dawn seeped through the tent’s seams. She reached out instinctively, but the space beside her was empty. Abigail was gone. Panic gripped her heart as she sat up quickly, straining to hear the muffled voices outside the tent.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur stood at the back of the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces around the small wooden table where Dutch sat, the tension palpable in the air. Dutch was deep in thought, the weight of leadership pressing heavily on his shoulders as the gang awaited his orders. Abigail stood silently next to John, her face a mask of fury and desperation. Her tears had dried, replaced by a seething anger at the men she had trusted to protect her family, now arguing over their next move.

The Braithwaites didn’t have Jack. They had passed him off to a man named Angelo Bronte. Arthur’s mind raced with strategies for their next step. Bronte was supposedly in Saint Denis, the heart of the new modern America, where law was heavily enforced, and policemen patrolled every corner. They needed to be cautious. Any misstep could end with them at the end of a rope, and that wouldn’t help Jack at all.

As Arthur idly rubbed his wounded arm, the pain a constant reminder of his recent ordeal, he replayed the events of the night over and over in his mind. They had stormed the Braithwaite manor, killing everyone who stood in their way. But they had been too late. Dutch had shot Catherine Braithwaite without hesitation and ordered the house to be burned to the ground. An entire empire, a long-standing family, wiped out in an instant. 

He was lost in his thoughts when a gentle touch on his arm brought him back to the present. Turning around, he found himself face to face with Kate. The memory of her actions, the betrayal he felt, and the look in her eyes were too much to bear. He quickly averted his gaze.

“Arthur,” she began quietly, her voice trembling with worry. “Where is Jack? Is he—”

Arthur shook his head, cutting her off. “They didn’t have him,” he said curtly.

“W-what did you find?” she stuttered, her voice edged with panic.

He knew he was being cruel by withholding details, but the turmoil inside him made it difficult to be gentle. With a sigh, he turned to face her again. “They handed him off to some Bronte fellow. Jack is somewhere in Saint Denis.”

“I don’t understand, why would they do this? What do we do now?” she asked, her voice rising in desperation.

Arthur gestured towards the group of men who were still arguing heatedly. “They’re working on it,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Feeling incredibly defeated, Arthur’s thoughts were a blend of frustration and sorrow. He had thought things were getting better. After nearly dying from sepsis, he had started to find comfort and joy in Kate’s presence. But now, everything seemed to be falling apart. Sean’s death had barely been processed, overshadowed by Jack’s disappearance. His recent fight with Kate had left a gaping hole in his heart, the urge to mend things with her gnawing at him. But there was no time for feelings right now.

The gang was on the brink of a precipice, and Arthur knew they needed to act quickly and decisively. As much as he wanted to fix things with Kate, Jack’s safety had to come first. Pushing down his own emotions, he focused on the task at hand, knowing that every moment they delayed could bring them closer to disaster.

“It’s gonna work out, John,” Hosea’s voice joined the commotion, his tone reassuring. “Jack will be fine. Just listen to Dutch.”

Dutch’s voice cut through the din, authoritative and calm. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I need your trust. Your word, now more than ever. No more running off behind my back. I know you were trying to do the right thing—”

“If I don’t get that boy back safe, I’m—” John shot a glance at Abigail, who stood trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “She’ll kill us all.”

“Looking at this logically, that boy is fine. They only took him to scare us. Nobody takes a child to harm him,” Dutch continued, his words meant to be comforting but failing to ease the tension.

“It’s true, John,” Hosea chimed in, placing a reaffirming hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, what do you think?”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head slightly. They were all trying to be strong for John, but deep down, they were just as scared. They’d seen what this world could do to children. The cruelties of their life were too real, too close. There was no guarantee Jack was safe.

“The boy will be fine,” Arthur lied, trying to steady his voice. “But of course, Marston’s scared rotten. We killed all those people, stirred up all that trouble…for nothing.”

Dutch scoffed from his seat. “No. No, not for nothing. For living. We get that boy back, and we go. It’s about time we leave this place. Trust me.”

Suddenly, Lenny’s voice boomed from the camp entrance. “Dutch! We’ve got a problem!” He shouted, rifles raised and pointing at two strangers who walked into camp with their hands held high.

Arthur’s mouth went dry. It was the Pinkertons. Agent Ross and Agent Milton.

“Not a problem, visitors. We come with a solution,” Milton said coldly, his demeanor relaxed and confident. His gaze found Arthur’s. “Ah, Mr. Morgan. Nice to see you again.”

Instinctively, Arthur stepped in front of Kate, shielding her from whatever was about to unfold. The other gang members began to surround the two agents, their suspicion evident. Dutch betrayed no hint of surprise, remaining seated comfortably.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Moron?” Dutch said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but this is a civilized land now. We didn’t kill all them savages only to allow the likes of you to act like human dignity was not yet invented,” Milton explained, his disdain palpable. “This thing? It’s done,” he spat.

Dutch finally rose from his seat, confronting the agent. “This land was never civilized. It’s consumed with man’s love for greed.”

“And that lets you take what you please? Kill whom you please and hang the rest of us? Who made you the messiah to these lost souls you’ve led astray?” Milton retorted coldly.

“I’m nothing but a seeker, Mr. Milton,” Dutch replied.

“You’re nothing but a bunch of killers. But I came here to make a deal; you come with me and I’ll give the rest of you three days to run off and disappear. I’m giving you one last chance to live like decent human beings.” Milton’s voice rose, addressing everyone in the gang.

A bitter chuckle rose from Dutch’s throat. “Ain’t that a fine thing? You risked death by coming into a den of murderers and thieves to have me. And to give them the chance to live and love?”

Kate remained quiet behind Arthur, her hand ready to draw her pistol at a moment's notice. But she sensed that this man, this detective, was telling the truth. Why would he risk so much for one man unless he was out of options?

“I don’t want to kill all these people, Dutch. Just you,” Milton answered, his resolve unwavering.

Dutch raised his hands, a hint of mockery in his voice. “In that case, I’d be happy to join you, Agent Milton.” As he stepped closer to the detective, everyone simultaneously began to draw their pistols.

Kate watched the moment unfold with genuine concern and admiration. These people, Arthur’s gang, were willing to risk everything for one man. Their loyalty and dedication ran deeper than she could ever imagine.

It was Ms. Grimshaw who leveled her shotgun and gave the final orders. “I think it’s time our new friends leave.”

Agent Milton raised his hands once more as Lenny and Javier began to escort them out of camp. “You’re making a big mistake, all of you!”

“The only mistake is how you keep following us. Good day, sir,” Dutch said, turning away, suddenly unbothered.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. And when I return, all of you will die. Run away from this place, you fools!” Milton’s tone carried a desperate warning. As he turned to leave, his gaze locked with Kate’s for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, trying to piece together her familiar face, but Javier’s gun pushed him along.

“How dreadful,” Dutch chuckled as he returned to his seat.

Arthur approached Dutch quickly, his steps heavy with the weight of the situation. “What now?”

“We get out of here. Have the women start packing. I’m sending you and the others to look for a new hideout. We’re running out of time,” Dutch said quietly, his urgency clear.

As Arthur turned to carry out Dutch’s orders, his eyes met Kate’s once more. The pain and fear were mirrored in their gazes. There was no time for reconciliation now. They had a mission to complete, and the stakes had never been higher.

“Arthur, maybe we should consider—” Kate began her voice quiet, searching for the right words to address their precarious situation.

Arthur spun on his heel so fast it made her dizzy. “Don’t. Don’t you even suggest it. You don’t have a say in this anymore, Kate.” His rage towards the Pinkertons and his anxiety about the lives at stake spilled out in hot bursts towards the woman he loved, and he couldn't stop the fire from spreading.

“Excuse me?” she responded, her voice a mix of offense and hurt. “I only want what's best for the gang.”

“The best thing to do now is leave. Go help the women pack,” he ordered, turning away from her.

“When does it end, Arthur? This cat-and-mouse game you have with seemingly every lawman in this country. How many more people have to be killed for it to stop?” Kate’s voice wavered with her fading strength. It was all too much to handle; everything was changing so fast. And now an innocent child was involved. She didn’t know what to do.

Arthur’s voice roared back, “I don’t know! Make up your goddamn mind, Kate. You go back on your word and put a target on your back. And now you want to lecture me on my poor choices? If you’re tired of running, you can leave. I won’t stop you.”

He left her with those words, his steps heavy and final. The men took off without a moment's hesitation, Ms. Grimshaw dishing out orders to begin loading the wagons. Kate felt a bitter moment of déjà vu, back to the day at the Downes ranch. She had scolded him for his actions, as if she were one to reprimand him. Kate had glimpsed the kind of man he truly was that day—the hardened outlaw, the merciless killer. She knew there was a kind heart inside him, and she had fallen in love with that part of him. Convinced herself that she could persuade him to leave it all behind, to give up that title for something softer. Arthur wanted it too, but only now was she beginning to understand the giant inside him. The man who had never known peace, who spent every moment fighting for his life and the lives of his family.

Arthur was consumed by his loyalty, as Kate was consumed by her grief. The realization hit her hard, and she felt a deep, gnawing sorrow. She watched him mount his horse, his back tense with determination and anger. The bitter truth settled over her like a shroud—no matter how much they loved each other, the world they lived in was tearing them apart.

A/N: I hope this chapter was alright! To be honest I went back and forth over this conflict for a while, and I think that’s where the birth of my writers block began. I wasn’t intending for their fight to become so heated, but then i was like “you know what? Their situation is a crock of shit, it can’t all be sunshine and rainbows.”

(Also trying to squeeze this in while simultaneously returning to a major plot point of the game was really hard haha)

So yeah, i may have gotten a bit carried away. But fear not, my summary for this chapter was incredibly dramatic. They’re not breaking up! They just got to figure themselves out, and come to understand one another. I want to make it clear that Kate has just as many flaws as Arthur, and that she suffers in silence too. God these two really need each other 😭

I think this was my first time writing some serious angst that didn’t involve one of them nearly dying (lol). So let me know how I did! It’s been awhile since I updated this story, and sometimes things can get lost to the tricks of time. If you notice any inconsistencies or plot holes please don’t be shy to point them out to me! 🙏❤️

[fetching-sketching]

long-ass post ahead so i'll put it under a cut but basically this is a ninjago superhero au with drawings explaining stuff because i couldn't get it out of my head ok lets go

it's kind of a fusion between regular ninjago, movie ninjago and superhero elements. the ninja work as a protective force of ninjago city and are in some sort of superhero training program where the dr kids are the underclassmen and some of the other realms are basically rival training programs. the main six ninja are essentially on a work study (the costume designs are very first pass here, i just wanted to get ideas onto a page and i'll work on them from there).

we'll start with zane since he was the first one i drew. when he activates his power it slows time down for him and speeds up his cognition, so he's essentially moving at 2x speed and thinking at 4x speed compared to everyone else. he can't activate it for long, however, because it very rapidly drains his body heat. his costume is designed to keep him warm and there's heating pads in the coat he can turn on and off. he's the best guy for time-critical crisis situations, but he can hold his own in a fight, too.

next is nya! she can turn her body into water, fully or partially. when she's in full water mode, she can travel through regular water as well. one of her signature moves is turning a single arm into a water whip. she also uses her water form to evade attacks as well. her suit is pretty similar to that of a scuba suit for ease of transporting and getting back into her suit when she goes in and out of her water form. she can't control water that isn't 'her', but she can move it around if that makes sense? like how we can move water with are hands but if our hands were also water. anyways she mainly works around the shoreline but can help in a lot of other situations as well. her favorite trick is instead of taking the stairs, she'll jump from a roof and turn into water before she hits the ground so she doesn't get hurt. (i'm not the most pleased with her suit since it is basically just a scuba suit, so i'll revise it to something more interesting).

onto lloyd! he can draw energy from any living thing and turn it into an energy blast. it's really simple, almost a bit too simple so i'm more open to changing it in the future. idk, if it works it works i guess. he can draw energy from things other than himself but he's paranoid of hurting others so he strictly draws energy from himself. he can blast the energy like he does in the show or he pop it when he's still holding it to maneuver himself when he's in the air. with enough concentration he can even double jump. he's kind of a generalist, working wherever he's needed, acting as a sort of comfort figure for people whenever they see him. i felt that if any of the ninja could have a costume reminiscent of their show gi, it would be lloyd.

jay's turn! whenever he generates static electricity, he stores it in his body until he releases it as a single bolt. the amount of electricity he can store is theoretically infinite, but he can only release the electricity all at once, so if he stores up too much its no bueno. periodically throughout the day he has to release whatever he's built up, which is rather annoying. once he learns how to control his output it's over for everyone, he'll be unstoppable. he used to have his regular combover hair but when his powers came in it got all curly and wild. no amount of water, gel, or brushing can tame it. his powers come with a rather neat immunity to electricity. he's a generalist like lloyd, although he skews a little towards more fights than anything else. one time the local hospital lost power and he spent three hours powering the backup generators before they got the power up and running again. he hates it, but one of the fastest ways for him to build up a charge is to rub his hair with his gloves on. he thinks it makes him look stupid. he can have a stereotypical hero costume. as a treat.

kai's turn! his is pretty basic too, but i feel like it fits him. he can light himself on fire. that's pretty much it. once the fire catches on something that isn't him he can't control it anymore, so he has to be careful about it. he has a flamethrower he uses mainly for combat, so he doesn't always go out with it on. the most useful part of his power is his immunity to fire and heat, so he responds to a lot of fire calls. however, he's not immune to smoke, so he keeps a face mask in his pack with him to combat that. since breathing fire is more of a european dragon thing rather than an eastern dragon thing, he has some knight elements in his costuming as well. tbh i'm not sure if i'm gonna keep it, ninjago is obviously very eastern-inspired and there's probably other motifs i could explore rather than medieval knight, but it was the first idea that came to mind and my main goal, again, was just to put pen to paper and get stuff down.

last and most certainly not least is cole! he can cover himself in a rocky outer skin, where the strength and durability of whatever areas that are covered are boosted. currently, he can't cover much of his body, his maximum is just about enough to completely cover both of his arms, but he's working on upping the amount. he works a lot of disaster situations, such earhtquakes, building collapsses, and other similar situations. his costume is based a lot on early 20th century mining uniforms, and same as nya it doesn't offer a lot more, so i'll do more with it in further revisions. cole is the one i've thought the most about with the story. his mother was a very well-known hero who protected ninjago city as well, but she sustained and eventually succumbed to an injury she sustained on the field. cole wants to follow her footsteps, but lou is pretty opposed to him going into the same field that killed his mother. he's being allowed to do the work study, but just barely, and it's an unspoken rule that lou will pull him from the work study if he gets injured whatsoever.

obviously i'm still working out a lot of the kinks but the powers, which are the most interesting part to me, are pretty much done and dusted! i have so many characters thought out you wouldn't believe. pixal and morro should be next, but after that i'm not sure. lmk if there's any specific character you wanna see done next because chances are i've thought them through!

[angryschnauzer]

I realised two months have gone by since i last updated you all, i'm not even sure if anyone is interested anymore. I know i haven't been on much, perhaps sporadically coming on and mindlessly reblogging Henry stuff just for a little escape, but its intermittent at best. I had hoped to be back to writing by now, but life is still a huge pile of shit.

I'm run ragged trying to pay the bills. My wedding decorations business is halfway between slow and dead; the cost of living crisis means weddings aren't really happening, and if they are most of the items i do people are making themselves. My side gig in ebay flipping is quiet too but at least its trickling by. I don't mention this much as people get a lot of abuse over 'thrift store flippers' (Charity Shop resellers here in the UK), but right now its what's keeping my family fed. I buy clothing for £1 from the stinky dregs bin in a charity shop, wash it, mend it, resell it for £4. I'm not making millions or even thousands. I'm lucky if i'm bringing in £150 a week which barely covers our weekly food shop. Its draining that when i do eventually mention this to my friends they immediately start moaning at me that i'm the one 'ruining' charity shops and why its pushing the prices up. But when i calmly tell them its that or i don't eat they go quiet. I'm not the one pushing a 2nd hand coat for £25 which was only £20 brand new which most high street charity shops are doing. Do i like doing this? No. Do i have to? Yes. Because i sure as ain't cute enough for onlyfans.

But the majority of my time over the last couple of months has been spent caring for our son. He's 8 and has type 1 diabetes, and since school started back in September one little shit in his class has spent every waking moment bullying him. This little shit has been stabbing my son with pencils, poking him in the kidneys with whatever he has to hand, laughing and sneering at him at every opportunity even when he's just walking past. Having the adrenaline and cortisol in my son's bloodstream affects how his insulin works, and he builds up an insulin resistance because of all the other hormones in his bloodstream. I've had so many meetings with the school, and have had to get the board of governors involved because when your 8 year old kid says quietly to you "It would be better if i wasn't alive as then *Little Shit* wouldn't be able to bully me" your heart breaks into pieces.

He needs my support more than anything, so every single other thing has been put by the wayside. And its tough. He acts out at home, messes around with his dinner because he feels he needs to be able to control something, but that in turn messes up insulin dosing so i'm spending half the night dealing with highs and lows for his blood sugars. I get at most 5 hours sleep a night.

I have no more energy left. I'm not eating, because i just can't stomach it. I'm 43 and hitting menopause, but my doctor doesn't want to know because "You just need to loose some weight" (don't get be started on fat bias from the NHS).

So i'm filling my time with volunteering at school so i can be 'around' for my Little Dude. He knows that if he's having an awful day, he will find me in the office sorting through paperwork for our next fundraiser. Its not what i want to be doing, but its what i need to be doing.

One day i hope to get back to my writing. I miss being creative and i hate that i have so many stories part written/published. As the months tick by i actually end up seeing stories written by others that have the same characters/plotlines. This is no-ones fault that two stories exist on the same synopsis, it would just seem that they and I have taken the same inspiration from media at some point. But it makes me scared that if i now publish a story i started 2 years ago, i'll be accused of stealing an idea. I don't know what to do. So i just leave my WIP folder abandoned.

For everyone that has stayed with me thank you. For those that have moved onto pastures new, i wish you well and hold no malice.

I do love you all

Mama Schnauz

x

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter three

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

During your internship days, your absolute favorite shift was the full night shift. Everyone thought you were crazy. Why would you ruin yourself like that, multiple times a week? Sure, Hawks could do it, but an intern like you was only able to scrape by thanks to your youth and caffeine. You still feel the effects to this day, to be honest.

It wasn’t just a crisp nighttime walk, either. Hawks would take off into the sky and leave you, along with Tokoyami (he came once a week while you came twice), to catch up. You didn’t even know where he was the majority of the time, your only hint being the occasional shadow or unusual gust of wind.

But you couldn’t stop. The shotgunning of Red Bull beforehand, the exhilaration of the chase (despite its frustration and, often, salty rage); most of all, the morning after. The morning was what made it so, so worth it, because they were the only times you had alone with Hawks.

He’d take you to the closest twenty-four-hour corner store and buy breakfast, which typically included two prepackaged pork buns and two red bean buns, split evenly between the two of you. Hawks would then buy either hot or canned coffee, depending on the store, and you’d buy your new favorite energy drink.

“I’ve turned you into some kinda Red Bull fiend, huh?”

Hawks is sitting next to you on the curb, just outside of the corner store. He’s got a pork bun in hand, canned coffee placed next to his feet. You’re laying down next to him, holding your pork bun close to your face. You take slow, small bites. Three Red Bulls sit next to your hip.

Hawks is staring down at you with a mischievous grin. You nearly choke with the realization he’s caught you staring; your hand comes up to cover your mouth as you giggle. He licks some stray filling off of his lip. The sky is pink, the world the same color. Around him, packaged food and concrete becomes a thousand times more beautiful.

You sigh, give him a playful smile of your own. “What, feeling guilty?”

Hawks’ hair is curling into his face and you wish you could kiss it. “Pshh.” His wings reposition themselves.

All you can think about are his eyes. Hawks’ eyes are hurting, sweetly, like honey.

You bump his knee with yours. “I just get so happy when I drink them.”

“You’re happy all the time, though.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, stare at your knees. You can’t look at him for too long; it makes you feel a completeness you can’t bear. You rub your cheeks. It’s like there are fireworks going off in there. 

“I guess I am.”

The ceiling is beige, an old, browning shade of it. 

There’s a bottle of apple juice and two small, plastic-wrapped biscuits on the table next to you. The rest of the room is blocked by white curtains. A tube is going down your nose. There’s the faint sound of traffic.

You’ve woken up in a hospital once before. It was darker then, late at night instead of the early morning it seems to be now; you were at your father’s bedside. He hadn’t woken up since you’d found him on the couch, vomit down his shirt and up his nose. He stayed limp no matter how much you shook him. Your mother couldn’t help, and neither could the paramedics, who wheeled him out on a gurney.

As your mother drove the two of you to the hospital, you looked out the window and watched the city. There were office buildings, restaurants, and cafes. There were people; young, old, those who walked with purpose and those who didn’t. Other people, real people, normal people. You were seven, you were no Plato, but you watched all those people fly by and began to understand what it was that made them, the normal people, feel so, so far away: those people didn’t wake up to the wretched stench of throw up. Those people didn’t live in apartments furnished with cardboard boxes and garbage. They walked with glossy pumps and spent their mornings eating croissants. You didn’t. That’s what life was supposed to be, and yet you couldn’t imagine yours being any different.

You were certain he was dead. It was something instinctual, surely, because you saw his body and just knew. The new weight that he carried, the sweat, and most of all, the utter stillness you had never seen in him, the way his bombastic presence had somehow vanished into the couch cushions. When the paramedics came you wanted to tell them that he was gone, they didn’t have to check, but you couldn’t speak. You kept randomly smelling vomit for several weeks after that, kept covering your nose and mouth in class.

To your surprise, your father was both alive and conscious when you woke up. He was laying in his hospital bed, his hands cupping his face. He was crying. You had never seen him cry. His sobs were so unnatural, so foreign and childlike. You clambered onto his bed and let him cling to you, let him cry and pet your hair. As for you, you acted like you had the entire time; you didn’t cry, didn’t say a word, and instead fell away from your skin and the world.

All that was left was this constant, vapid mixture of emotion that was too difficult for a seven-year-old to articulate. Even now, staring at the ceiling and touching the tube taped to your face, you can’t identify it. The gnawing? The emptiness? It sounds stupid, but what else could describe it, that hollowness that stretches on and on? To try, for the thousandth time: your insides are limitless but your mind isn’t. Your mind is a tiny, soft pea that’s smeared again and again down a plate. Your mind is a damp, warm pillow suffocating you. It’s pressure, it’s squeezing, it’s always the fucking squeezing, like all your organs, feelings, and everything else that should end that eternal, aching emptiness is being crammed into your head. Like the you that your father hugged and cried to had their jaw ripped open, acid poured down their throat, and was then promptly pumped full of morphine.

It’s been that way since you were a kid. How you’re less than half of a person, how you’re desperately searching for whatever you’re missing.

You haven’t felt that way, so badly, since you met Hawks.

The silence is only broken with the occasional blinking of the turn signal or crinkling of your biscuit wrapper. You sip at your apple juice. You look at the city, it’s twinkling all over like it’s full of stars, the sky is dark and empty and deep. You look at the small, buzzed sections of hair where there are only staples keeping your scalp together, wrapping around your head like lightning.

There’s a cat-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror. It swings and spins a bit as the city passes by. The car rolls to a stop. There’s a traffic light. The sky is black, it’s swallowing you.

You turn towards the driver's seat. Your teacher’s sitting there. He’s holding the steering wheel with one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. You don’t know what to say.

You’ve been in a medically induced coma for eight days. They had to, the doctor said, your brain just kept swelling. Yes, it kept swelling, and gosh the glass was right up in there, and concrete isn’t very good for your health and are you allergic to anything when skulls hit concrete they splat like an egg with the yolk splat and your brain is the yolk the yolk shakes around in its egg-juice and your brain is the same what do you mean I’m talking too fast let me run some tests.

You got every flashcard she showed you right. Ma’am, that is a dog. Ma’am, that is a cloud. Ma’am, that is a flower. You want me to be specific? Ma’am, that is a flower named Flower, it lived in a park with other flowers and then it was stepped on and died.

Oh. Ma’am, that is a rose.

Yes, I can speak, I know it’s sticky, but I can. My self is blurry, a drop in my soupy thought soup, but I am here. I don’t know what you mean, ma’am. This is how I’ve always lived my life. 

“A social worker is coming tomorrow.”

The traffic light is long gone. The car is dead, there is no rumbling from the engine or pulling of a corner. You’re in the teacher’s parking lot, sitting with Aizawa-Sensei in his car. It occurs to you that he’s maybe a ghost, and that’s why his voice is like air.

“They said they’ll be here at three.”

You open your mouth to say something. You shut it. You press your lips together like you’ve just put on chapstick.

“Do you need help getting out of the car?”

Aizawa is looking at you for the first time since picking you up from the hospital. You shake your head. The two of you get out of the car, the handle is cold and so is the door.

You walk with him across campus, across grass and sidewalk. Mostly sidewalk. Stop thinking.

When you got discharged, the nurses had you in a wheelchair. You were high on pain meds, still are, and just kept saying, “roll out,” in a low, grumbly voice. You had your clothes in a plastic bag on your lap. You were aware of your situation, but you didn’t want to be, you didn’t want to be sober, so you kept saying it. They rolled you outside, to the kiss and ride (“roll out!”), and your clothes smelled like beer (“roll out!”), and you have nobody, for real this time (“roll out!”), and there: Aizawa-Sensei, teach, the ultimate witness.

Yes, he witnessed the whole thing, from beginning to end — he knows what you have never told anybody, what you have both taken pride in and despised, what you look like crying in your own vomit and seizing in an ambulance.

And your transformer ass was sober.

(“roll…”)

Aizawa opens the dorm door for you and you head inside. The commons is the same as you left it. Not literally, all the lights are off and your friends aren’t on the couch anymore, but it’s the same lemon-scented cleaner in the air. It’s the same lived-in kitchen. The dishwasher is on its dry cycle. Chuga-chuga. It sounds like a faraway train.

Aizawa opens the fridge while you stand by the shoe cubbies. “You should bring some water up with you.” He pulls out an old bowl of mac n’ cheese, nose and brows crinkled. “The nurse said it was okay for you to eat. Do you want something?”

The mac goes in the trash with a splat. You’re still by the cubbies. Aizawa starts rinsing the bowl. He glances at you. He repeats what he said, just a little slower.

“Uh.” Your face heats up. “I’m — not hungry.”

“What?”

“I’m not hungry.” Your voice is round. You toe your shoes off and place them in a cubby.

“Okay.” His voice is calm in a way that means he actually isn’t. You rub your arms.

Aizawa is standing in front of you. He’s talking. There’s a plastic bottle of water in your hands. “—I need to grab some things from my office. Wait here.”

He disappears down the hall. You sit at the kitchen island with the water. It’s cool in your hands, wet, and when you set it down your hands are glossy. You wipe them on your sweatpants. Did you change at the hospital?

You grab the water bottle and hold it in your hands and focus on the cold.

Where’s your phone? You need to text him. Your hands feel weird. You take a deep breath, stretch your legs out, raise your head and look around the kitchen. Bakugo must have cleaned the kitchen earlier; even the water spots on the sink faucet are gone. His parents must miss him.

Ahhh, shit.

You rest your head on the counter, stare at the bottle you’re holding between your legs. The commons are so empty, so quiet at night. When did you move from the cubbies?

There’s a landline telephone by the microwave. You find yourself staring at it but the buzzing in your chest keeps you at the stool. When did the butterflies you felt when thinking of him turn into flies?

Your face sort of droops, gets warm, and you’re back to looking at your crotch as your fingers pick at each other. Blinking has never felt so important. Blink. Blink. Don’t cry.

“It’s okay to cry.”

His voice is soft. Hawks is sitting next to you on the bathroom floor, shoulder touching yours. A thumb runs over your knuckles once. His fingers twitch. He does it again. You’re trying to understand what any of that means.

The elevator down the hall dings. You wipe hard at your face. Aizawa’s office is on this floor, he didn’t take the elevator. There’s the soft sound of socks brushing against carpet. 

You ruffle your leftover hair to try and cover everything; realizing that just draws attention to your head, you start patting your pockets like you’re looking for something instead, even though you’re not, but it’s not like Midoriya would know that.

Yeah, out of all the people in this building, it’s that guy. It’s his curly green hair, his doe-puppy-childlike eyes, and his freckled face that hasn’t felt violence outside of training and Bakugo’s old fits of rage. No, no, you’re wrong, shut up; he’s tougher than you’ll ever be. The thick scars running down his arms prove that.

Still, you look at him and look at yourself and he’s disgusting. The first time you met him you were revolted, everything about him screamed weak and spoiled and ‘my Mom loves me!’ Every time he spoke to you, that deep discomfort (resentment?) drove you away from him. Now, three-ish years later, you know he’s not what you thought (hoped?) he was. He’s kind, forgiving, resilient, considerate, innovative, brave, blah, blah, blah, the list could go on. He’s everything you’re not. Maybe the leftover disgust you feel is towards yourself.

But then, you think about that time you went to his place for dinner. His Mom made some really amazing katsudon. Bakugo told you how his room was full of All Might memorabilia, just like his dorm. You all helped to clean up afterwards; Bakugo washed the dishes, Midoriya dried them, and you put them away. You never saw any bottle openers in his drawers. He had three pairs of shoes. His fridge was full. His Mom kept fussing over him and when the three of you left, she kissed him all over his face and hugged him tight and told him to visit more. You stood there and watched and Bakugo asked if you were okay.

You weren’t; you realized that he was everything you’d never be because he had everything you never did, that destiny exists in a way, that everything that you become and do and experience is inevitable and it isn’t your fault and it’s not Midoriya’s, that there is no reason some are better off than others because the universe doesn’t care that much, and that Midoriya’s life could’ve been yours if you had just been brought into existence by somebody else’s cum. You took pride in your suffering because you thought it had meaning. It doesn’t.

You and Midoriya stare at each other from where you’ve frozen up. You cross your arms. His eyes are wide and his brows have shot up to his hairline. Then, his lips curve into a watery smile.

“Hey.” He jogs over to you, takes a quick glance at your scalp. You shove your hands into your pockets and try to smile. Everything is buzzing. He will never know how it feels to hide; he will never listen to crying and the shattering of glassware and wonder when he will be found. “Sensei didn’t tell us you were coming back today. Do you want me to get Mina? Or Kacchan?”

You look at his shirt instead of his face. “Oh, nah, it’s fine. Thanks.”

“Okay.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. What does he have to be nervous about all the time? “They’d be really happy to see you, though.”

“No, yeah, I just -- uh, they’re probably asleep right now, I don’t wanna wake them up.”

Does he have thoughts that don’t stop? Is that why he talks to himself? Dad told you something like that once. “Yeah, don’t worry, I get it, I just meant -- um.” He shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Yeah.”

Your palms are much too clammy in your pockets. You take them out and wipe them on your shirt. He does the same. Midoriya chuckles again. You’re staring at the ground.

“Do you, uh, want some water? I came down here to get some.”

You shake your head.

“Ah, um, okay. Cool.” He’s at the cabinets now, a glass in hand. You hear him press it against the fridge door’s water thingy. It fills slowly. “Wanna go back to our dorms together?”

“I have to wait for Aizawa.”

He sips his water, stands at the counter. He nods slowly. “How was the, um, hospital? Did you see the flowers we got you?”

He’s asking too many questions. “Um, yeah, probably.” There’s the sense that you have to elaborate. You don’t. Midoriya’s nose scrunches up in the way it does when he’s confused.

“What?” You say, hunched forward in your stool. Midoriya looks stupidly lost. You could never afford to look like that.

“Um, I mean, what do you mean ‘probably’?”

You saw flowers when you woke up. You saw the bouquets on your windowsill after they put you in the wheelchair. But, you also remember waking up to a beige ceiling. You remember waking up to a nurse wiping apple juice from your chin.

“I don’t know. Why do you care?”

Midoriya stands in the kitchen with his scrunched nose and cocked head and stupid expression. Your head throbs. The telephone. You cover your face with your hands.

Aizawa’s voice is somewhere here and he guides you away from Midoriya. You swallow pills, drink from your water bottle. He pats your shoulder. Nothing helps. The elevator dings. You walk down your dorm hall with him next to you; his hair is up now.

He opens your door and your room is dark. The blinds are half open. You crawl into bed and you shut your eyes so tightly your forehead creases.

[mario-breskic]

An idea for a study project about studying after graduation: Uncredited Credits

I have been kicking around this idea during my graphic design study for a while, since I am nothing but ambitious (and I have a few fond memories of this working before, to my benefit): to actually put in the workload for each topic related to graphic design and applied arts.

Hi. I am Mario, and I have a bachelor’s degree in graphic design, which, to you, should mean that I passed every test. And, for the sake of this project, it is best to assume that I barely made the cut each time. It is also best to assume that this applies to everyone with a degree, since scoring high grades is not what makes you pass.

A passing grade does.

So, right now, I am at the point where I am ready to actually understand graphic design (and my second interest: applied arts), and I was looking for a system, a quantifiable system of work put in, translating into workload, per week, per topic.

And that system is called ECTS: the European Credit Transfer System

Each credit in this system translates to roughly 25 hours of workload put in. A topic or lecture is worth 3 credits? That means an investment of 75 hours. 5 credits translate to 125 hours.

You can use this for yourself, independent of whether or not you actually study a course someplace.

So, you can go ahead and look online for a course giving you information about its lectures, topics, ECTS credits, and workload, and create your own schedule, at your own pace:

45 minutes every other day will very quickly beat the eight‑hour long crunches once each week, since a good schedule is about allowing consistency to take hold. I am not an educator (yet, afaik), but from what I remember the issue with these crunch sessions is that the session which came before is already barely present, its learnings vague, my progress a memory.

So, let us say that you have found a course telling you about its lectures and classes, and how they are set up. Ideally, with information about recommended literature. If you are a polyglot (and who isn’t these days?) you can again enjoy having an edge, for obvious reasons I don’t need to get into. You have been shopping around colleges and universities around the EU, and you have found out that which interests you most, is figure drawing.

And, for the sake of this example, I’ll say that there are three figure drawing classes, called “figure drawing I”, “figure drawing II”, and “figure drawing III” respectively, valued at 5 each. To you, this means a workload of 375 hours for your absolute foundations in figure drawing (5 × 3 × 25).

Of course, to do this, you also need courses in anatomy (75 hours?), drawing (75 plus 75 hours maybe?), and painting (375 hours?) to have those foundations upon which you can build your figure drawing.

Provided you build smart (and frequent a good library in the largest city in your area), we are looking at a workload of around 975 hours.

These are study hours: learning, reading, doing.

What this translates to in terms of doing 45 minutes of work every other day, is that to get those (I assume solid) foundations in figure drawing, assuming you work 3 hours per week in total, will take you 375 weeks.

Or 6.25 years.

This seems slow. And it is. It should be. But the outcome will be the same: a passing grade in figure drawing. For only 45 minutes of work every other day (not counting your trips to the library each time you need a new book to study from).

Of course, we can look at that the other way as well: if that is the workload anyhow, why not get credits for it? They, at the very least, are proof of what you studied. And because, in our example, we just accumulated around 45 ECTS credits, you might as well have them validated and go study for real, feel me?

BTW, my graphic design study was 180 of those credits in total, so you just did a quarter of the points needed for completing a bachelor’s degree.

Huh. This was insightful. For both of us, I hope.

[justmybookthots]

The Prisoner's Throne

This is THE book. The book that's been consuming my every waking thought since I read its prequel in May last year. The book which, if I didn't manage to read any in 2024, would be the only one I read this year at all. The Stolen Heir was among my favourite reads last year, possibly even more than The Cruel Prince because of Oak's characterisation. 

The last few days before the book release was agonising. Sheer, skin-flaying agony. When Ann Liang's 2024 release let me down after I'd spent months hyping it up—as did I with Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands—I have to confess I was terrified the same thing would happen with The Prisoner's Throne. Ann Liang is one thing, but this is Holly Black. The Prisoner's Throne is on a much, much higher pedestal for me than any other book in existence thus far. If this hurt me like the others did, I might really go into the worst kind of depression. (Yes, I'm one for histrionics… only I'm being perfectly serious.)

After a night of poor sleep—I am still very grateful that I managed to sleep, albeit fitfully, most of the hours away—I started reading this book at 7AM. (I'd downloaded the book at 2 in the night.) And then I didn't stop until I was done at 10AM. 

First thoughts: THANK THE FUCK IT WASN'T A MASSIVE LETDOWN OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. Was it as good as its prequel? No. But it didn't end up anywhere as bad as my jaded, paranoid self had secretly feared, and for that I am grateful. Overall, I enjoyed it!! I saw quite a handful of negative reviews on Goodreads but I don't feel the same way. Granted, the book definitely has a few issues, but being too slow or character-driven was not mine.

Let me talk about some things I liked and did not. Beware: Spoilers abound. 

Things I did not love:

I'm going to start with my most major disappointment. Oak, who is the highlight of this duology to me, wasn't as alluring as I found him in the first book. I think that Oak's character is written best when his POV isn't the entire book. I definitely LOVED reading his POV and welcomed it, but I also felt that having the entire thing in his perspective dulled some of his mystique. This is my personal preference, because I don't generally love stories that have too much of the hero's POV. I think Six of Crows is a good example of finding balance with Kaz's perspective and the other characters'. Also, because the story is in Oak's head, we don't see much physical descriptions of him. I miss all those parts about his adorable marigold hair and his golden eyes 🥺

I also miss his cleverness. He was very manipulative in the first book, and it was easier to feel impressed back then because you weren't in his head and you didn't know what was coming. In this instalment, he thinks a lot about playing the fool, over and over. It gets wearisome because I'm constantly being told but not often shown. In the first book, I was actually shown without being told at all—which is why it hit so much harder. Moreover, I don't think he did anything specifically very clever in this book? I guess he did use the wedding ruse to prevent a war, and he did find out what Wren was hiding, but he found that out too late and that was less cleverness than the plot being in motion.  

There's a running theme in this book about being accepted and loved for your truest, darkest self, but… I don't think it was conveyed very well. In the end, he says that Wren is the only one who can love him for who he is, but it isn't convincing to me because it's so clear to me how much—and how unconditionally—his family loves him. A lot of his inner turmoil felt very contrived and self-inflicted, whereas I thought Wren's own self-loathing was a thousand times more convincing and understandable. 

I was also quite confused by how much he loved Wren when their feelings seemed to be only gradually building in the first book. But he's completely head over heels for her at the start of this book and I wonder about the transition. I'd been hoping for some clarity because he mentioned in Book 1 that he'd loved a lot of different girls, so what made Wren The One here? I suppose it's because he didn't play the fool with her and she "saw him as himself"? I wish the writing was more convincing in this regard.

Genuinely a little baffled by the plotline about the Ghost. I'd thought we'd already covered his part in Liriope's murder in the Cruel Prince series. (I may need to reread the OG series to be sure.) But it's being rehashed again like ripping open an old wound. And I never knew Oak cared that deeply about his biological parents. My point is: Leave the Ghost alone! 

I wasn't invested in Tiernan and Hyacinth's story. I skimmed a lot of their screen time together, but their fans will probably receive quite the treat. 

Lady Elaine, fuck off!!! (That said, I do understand her role in the story, especially the climax.)

OAK TRYING TO KILL WREN AT THE END, SIR, SIR, PLEASE. DO NOT. 

We didn't need the sex scene being SO IMPLICIT –- GIVE ME DETAILS, DAMN IT!! Now I feel empty.

Things I liked: 

One thing I predicted when I'd read the exclusive first few chapters of Prisoner's Throne months ago: Wren's power came as a cost to her health. I was right. And I loved it. I'm not the biggest fan of overpowered heroines and her limitations were a great story point to me. Holly always does such an exemplary job in making her heroines, including Jude, badass and yet so human (more a figurative phrase for Wren since Wren is fae) and grounded. Also, in general, I liked Wren a lot in this book. My heart broke for her over and over. I JUST WANT WREN TO BE HAPPY AND I AM GLAD SHE GOT A HAPPY ENDING.

I had COMPLETELY forgotten about her connection to her mortal family and I am so, so happy we managed to resolve that in this book. The fact that Wren would do anything to protect her sister Brex moved me immensely. Holly did well in tying that loose end up, and hurray that Wren finally got to spend time with her family at the end of the book. 🙂

JUDE AND CARDAN!!!! Especially Cardan. He was such a gem and so intriguing in this book. Once I'm done writing this review, I'm going to reread all his scenes. No one can complain that Jurdan wasn't in this book—they were very, very involved in the plot here.

Holly Black's prose is still one of the most beautiful things I've ever read. It's my favourite prose of any author, period. It's succinct and poetic at the same time. It scratches an itch in my brain that I never knew needed scratching. 

The ending where Oak goes to find Wren and he proposes was so lovely. Ahhh. I will always have a special love and fondness for them. Bless their baby hearts.

Oak supporting Wren when she was ill will NEVER not move my stone cold heart. The way he held her weight to keep her from falling while they danced...

Before I sign off, I want to say one more thing: WHAT IS HOLLY PLANNING WITH NICASIA'S STORY? Is she going to write / create a male lead for Nicasia? What's going on?? Holly pretty much confirmed that she's going to write something else in this universe, and I must KNOW what she has in mind. Nicasia was so unlikeable in the original series that I wonder how it would be like to read her as a heroine of her own story. 

Holly, I'm right here, waiting for whatever you might throw at us next. 

[yacinthemorning]

Tailored to Your Liking

Chapter 7

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Summary: Tumble Town attracts all sorts of misfits looking for a fresh start on the frontier, but everyone still needs clothes. Be it extra limbs or high temperatures, Jimmy caters to every hybrid's needs.

Ships: Jimmy/Tango (slow burn romantic), Grian/Mumbo/Scar (romantic), Joel/Lizzie (romantic)

Warnings: Implied traumatic events, awkward flirting, verbal fight, anxiety attack

Jimmy tapped at his desk, staring down at the skeins before him. A weepweave was laid out across the table behind him, waiting to be drawn into shapes. He’d worked out the patterns weeks ago. And adjusted for the weight Tango had gained since. If he could just get himself to work it could be done in no time.

But there in lied the problem.

He pulled from his breast pocket the little brass bird. A canary, like the ones they’d used in the mines Tango worked much of his life in since coming to this continent. The ornament was truly lovely, something Jimmy would cherish, but he knew the poor thing carried much more weight than that. It carried a culture Jimmy wasn’t especially familiar with. The weight of its material and its palm sized stature. Tango had given it to him, but he’d avoided looking at it since.

It hurt, just a bit. Irrationally. If it was a symbol of his intentions then what did it say to be so ashamed of it? Jimmy knew better than that, of course, but it didn’t help emotions. Especially not when Tango had begun to treat Jimmy much the same.

A glance informed him it was nearly five o’clock. Ten hours since he last saw Tango. Where was he? What job had he found that took up so much of his time? They better be paying him more than a few copper if they’re going to-

Jimmy took a deep breath. He pushed out of his seat, grabbed his hat, and abandoned his shop for the day. There was no point in driving himself mad indoors if he wasn’t going to be productive for it. There was something else he ought to do anyways.

He made it to the end of Main Street, where a large, white building lay quiet. Few people approached the town hall most days, not unless there was a holiday. Besides Lizzie’s family, in fact, only its two employees could be found in its vicinity. Their presence was part of the reason it remained so silent.

Taking unsure hops, it seems he was ever so lucky enough to catch them both reclining at the front desk. Two sets of glowing, cyan eyes immediately snapped to Jimmy the moment his talons brushed the wood floor. Cub was the first to offer a welcoming smile, though Jimmy always found it rather unnerving. Not so much due to the skulk that draped him, but the knowledge that Scar thought quite highly of him. A “retired” doctor beloved by a snake oil salesman was no one Jimmy had a desire to trust.

Luckily Pixl was the one to motion for Jimmy, greeting him with a silent nod. “Welcome, Mister Solidarity. How may we be of service?” He voice was soft, not even an echo forming in the grand hall.

“I was actually interested in accessing the library, though I don’t imagine I’ll find what I’m searching for.” Jimmy admitted.

Curiosity raised Pixl’s eyebrow. He nodded to Cub, their teal antlers vibrating. Nothing Jimmy could understand, but he was sure others felt similarly to how the avians in town flared and flattened their feathers. “Of course, follow me. Perhaps I can help in your search.” Pixl suggested as they made their way down the hall, leaving Cub behind. “If it’s a matter of history, I could be of great service.”

The pickings were slim. What wasn’t bookkeeping or dictionaries were the few documents and books brought in with arriving citizens. The worldliness of the collection could be attributed to the variety of folks that wandered their way into Tumble Town more than interest in the topics. It made the collection particularly eclectic despite its size, everything from children’s books to family trees and obscure novels in languages Jimmy had never seen before.

An album of miscellaneous photographs found its way in front of him. Some were from events, others collected upon deaths, many donated by Mumbo. Jimmy was nearly through the entire album before he spotted it. The photos were in horrid condition, even a bit burnt at the edges. Each portrayed one of two women, one elderly and the other a bit older than Jimmy’s age, both alike to one another. Their hair flowed like fire and their sharp ears were adorned with jewellery. Though the young woman wore a skirt similar in style to what Jimmy often made, the elderly woman dressed entirely differently. Thin layers of cloth draped her body, with some sort of shaping going on underneath. The shoulders sat loose under the clutches of gold ornaments, with a particularly intricate necklace. A favour. Jimmy absentmindedly rested his hand over his pocket.

There were a few others, including a photo of the younger in a similar garb, though the decor seemed to be of a different material and less intricate. It seemed to be some sort of celebration. There were short notes on the backs but they were all written in Pigling. Even in the black and white photos the gowns were gorgeous. He continued to flip through the dozen photos, trying to figure out their make. The waist pulled in but there was no seams visible anywhere on the outer layer. Not at the visible angles. Their trousers, too, were tailored into anklets. There was no embroidery or decorative stitchwork in the cloth itself, and no patterns. Were the layers different colours? Knowing the material they were likely made of they were most certainly vibrant...

So entranced was Jimmy that he didn’t notice Pixl approaching until a loud thud made him jump up out of his seat. A stack of three books had been placed on the table. Pixl shrugged in apology. “These are all we have that mention in any capacity the Nether or Netherborn, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you.” Jimmy muttered in a daze. As he flipped open the first few pages, it occurred that he had never told the sculkling what he was looking for. He whipped his head up to give some type of indignant remark he had yet to think of, but Pixl was already gone. In a huff, he gathered up the books. It was getting late, and whether Tango came home or not, Jimmy needed to make dinner for at least himself.

To his surprise when he reached home, Tango’s shoes and jacket were there at the entrance. More surprisingly, there was a smell wafting out from the kitchen. Jimmy poked his head past the door. Seeing Tango at the stove momentarily brought out a moment of panic, but there were thankfully no metallic smells, only the scent of spices and chicken.

A curious tweet slipped out of the avian. Tango jumped so high Jimmy worried he might hit his head on the ceiling. He spun around, spilling whatever had been in the ladle in his hand across the floor. And his foot. He jumped a second time, curses spilling out of his mouth, until his knee hit the back of a chair and they both went down. In a panicked flurry Jimmy went to the poor man’s aid, himself almost slipping on the spilled substance in the process.

“My goodness, are you alright?” Jimmy squeaked.

Tango was still dazed, though his face had contorted in guilt or pain, likely both. “Just peachy. Ah!” His neck cracked as he rolled it. It seemed unsatisfying, but he left it to return tending the large pot on the stove. “At least I didn’t knock anything important over.”

“What are you doing?”

Instantly Tango shrunk in on himself, held himself like a scolded dog. Was Jimmy’s tone so accusatory? He couldn’t deny being more than a bit frustrated with the man’s indecisiveness. “Well, I’m making dinner.”

“Yes, I can see that. But why?” Though Tango often helped in the kitchen he’d never taken the initiative to cook himself. It was never clear whether it was out of the delusion that what he chose to make would be poorly received, the nonsense idea he had no right to use the ingredients Jimmy bought, or the only reasonable explanation that he simply didn’t enjoy cooking.

Tango didn’t look up from the pot. “You weren’t here when I got back, so I thought I should.”

Jimmy hadn’t been there because Tango hadn’t either. There was nothing stewing because Jimmy had been too distracted thinking of the party. Tango always picked up more chores when he was feeling useless. There were many things Jimmy could say, but, perhaps for the best, they were all stuck on one another in his throat. “What are you making?” He asked instead, approaching the pot.

“You like curry? It’s sort of like curried chicken. Except not. They call it Nether peppered chicken here I think, but there’s no Nether peppers in it. It’s...”

“Tasty?” Jimmy offered an out, which Tango graciously took with a nod. “I’m guessing a Nether dish?”

The tuft of Tango’s tail swept against jimmy’s leg in absentminded agitation. “Sorta. It’s actually something I learned from a workmate after I first arrived here. It’s...” He tilted his head back, brows knit. “Like, it’s hard to get certain spices and vegetables here, so people make due, and it sorta turned into its own thing. I guess I did, too. I had this friend for a while, Brody, he couldn’t handle the spiciness, so I started making it differently, less spicy more bitter.” He paused to pour a mixture of ground spices and greens into the pot. “It’s why I like making it, probably.”

Because you can’t say you made it wrong, Jimmy managed to not say aloud. Was it reasonable to be envious of a man’s relationship to his dinner? Most likely not, but that was the only way Jimmy could describe the melancholic lump in his chest as he watched Tango stir the pot without tension in his shoulders.

“It looks delicious.” He murmured. Tango hummed in reply. While he continued to stir Jimmy placed the cutlery and plates and sat down. Something dropped into the pot with a pop. “... You know, you can make it as spicy as you please.” Jimmy’s voice pitched up, “I don’t mind, it doesn’t bother avians.”

“The peppers in the market aren’t very spicy, it’s better this way with what w-you have.”

“Oh, okay.” Jimmy adjusted his wings around the back of his chair. Feather wrapped over his arms. The ladle scraped against the side of the pot. “How was work?”

Tango paused for a moment, tail twitching with anxious energy. “Fine. Just helped Etho and Pause with some barn repairs at Beef’s ranch. Was done by noon so I helped Impulse with bottling his beer. Then Chef let me help load the coal wagons going to the station for a couple gold.”

“That’s nice of him...”

“It is. Way more than I ever got paid as one of Fwhip’s guys for the same job. Funny that.”

“Funny that.” Jimmy repeated mindlessly, talon tracing the pattern of the table cloth. Why did it always have to go back to money lately? He knew why. “Have you made anything recently?” He asked, hoping there was some odd little redstone scheme boiling in Tango’s mind ready to spill out into hours long explanations Jimmy could barely wrap his head around.

But there was none. “Not really. Been busy.” Tango shrugged.

“The shop’s closed tomorrow, we could go down to Joe’s and see what he’s selling?”

“I don’t wanna waste money-”

Both jumped as the silverware crashed down against plates. It took Jimmy a heartbeat to realize it was his own fist against the table that had caused it. He mumbled out an apology, not daring to return the blazeborn’s gaze.

“Jim-”

“It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

Tango had abandoned dinner, now leaning against the chair beside Jimmy. “Jimmy.”

Why did talking have to be so difficult all of a sudden? “You don’t have to take so many jobs in one day.” He managed to choke out.

“Well... I had the energy, I guess.”

“You didn’t want to come back.”

Tango’s tail wrapped around his leg, frown twisting with guilt as he was now the one who couldn’t look at the other.

Jimmy felt his stomach sink. “I’m not... I understand, but I don’t get it.”

“Why I work?”

“Why you won’t let yourself be good enough.” Jimmy reached out, hesitating when Tango leaned away. “And I don’t know what you need to help you.”

“Then I got bad news for what it’s like being stuck with me.”

“Tango...” He was right. Jimmy couldn’t do anything to help Tango if Tango wasn’t willing to be helped. Perhaps he couldn’t help even if he wanted to. This wasn’t something Jimmy could bull-headedly push through like usual.

Tango approached the table, plating their food. As he placed the ladle back down, Jimmy reached out for his hands. He stared at the avian. Surprise, confusion, then concern. “You know you’re a wonderful man, right?” Jimmy asked. It was returned with a dumbfounded shake of Tango’s head. Jimmy almost laughed. Almost. He clutched Tango’s hand closer. “You’re the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, with your strange machines and inventions. And you’re too kind. You’re always helping other folks, I swear there isn’t a single person in this town that hasn’t something sweet to say about you-”

“What are you doing?” Tango asked, tugging weakly against Jimmy’s hold.

Jimmy gave him a sad smile. “You need to know, even if you don’t listen to me right now.”

Quiet fell over them, Tango not replying. Trapped somewhere between peace and tension, they ate dinner in silence.

-

Weepweave splayed out across Jimmy’s work station, its natural matte crimson colour darkened ever so slightly. It would suit Tango, easy to see long before Jimmy carved it into clothing. There were a few other materials, hoglin leather and twist, but the dark crimson weepweave was what he had the most to work with.

Tango hesitated at first, but his hand ran with fascination over the material. “This is nice.” He said with genuine surprise.

Jimmy shrugged, “Well, when it take this long to import we can’t have it falling apart on you after a few weeks. Otherwise you’ll be right back where you started!” He adjusted the fabric, giving one more once over. “There’s more than enough for three outfits. Four if we pushed our luck but I think it’s best to save some for future repairs.”

A gesture was enough for Tango to fetch the chalk while Jimmy turned the fabric over. Slowly the shapes of an outfit began to appear across the various pieces. Tango remained to help where he could while Jimmy worked.

It continued on through the morning, until the afternoon sun beat down through the windows. Jimmy could feel himself beginning to overheat. In a brief lull, he began to remove his vest, piling the tools that had begun to accumulate in its pocket down beside the cloth. By the time he’d placed the vest aside Tango had also frozen up, staring at the ground. Among the piled treasures was the metal bird.

Jimmy bit his tongue, picking it back up carefully while he sat down in his stool. Silence stretched out. “You know,” Jimmy tentatively broke it. “Avians are also known for their favours.”

“Oh?” Tango murmured back.

“Yes, a feather.”

This captured his attention. “A feather?”

Jimmy nodded, thumb rubbing over the canary’s wings. “Our own. Usually from along the spine, those aren’t quite as large.” He looked up to his companion, who was staring with knit brows at Jimmy’s yellow wings, befuddlement clear. “False will tell you there’s ceremonies and words to go with it but Grian simply handed them over one day to Scar and Mumbo. I suppose it’s one of those flock to flock things. Still, feathers are special to an avian. There’s many traditions involving our feathers, but I suppose you could call it the biggest one.”

“But…” Tango stumbled, seemingly unsure of his next words.

“It’s important it’s your own feather, that it’s a lovely one any damage to can be seen. I think it’s quite lovely, trusting a part of yourself to someone, and being trusted the same.”

“… I suppose.”

He was once more turned away. Jimmy worried his bottom lip. Had he come across as condescending? It was not his intention.

A great sigh escaped the blazeborn as he reclined onto the bench. “Not everyone has feathers to give, though.”

Jimmy’s heart sank. “No, I suppose they don’t. But the purpose is-”

“Gold’s quite common in the Nether, you know.” He continued, as if Jimmy hadn’t spoken. “In very small bits, but it’s everywhere. It’s more of a time investment. If you spend the time, you’ll have enough, eventually.” His gaze downcast. “But time is money, as they say.”

The little metal bird thunked against the table, muffled by the weepweave between them. Tango’s chest heaved as he tried to keep himself calm, and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to get up and go to his side to comfort him.

When Tango’s breath had evened out again he continued. “There was a moment, back with Brody, when we went out to the market together. We’d had nothing but stale bread and stolen eggs for a whole week. But we finally had thirty-four copper between us. That was the first time I was able to purchase everything on my own without messing up my words. At least, not bad enough that I was looked at funny or told to repeat myself. I thought, ‘This is it. I worked hard, I can speak the language, I can finally get a real job here.’ I was a real stupid kid.” His face twisted as his fists clenched the hem of his shirt, tail waving wildly beside him. “Guess I’m still stupid, cause I kept telling myself that until there was nowhere else to go. Doesn’t matter what words I say, or what continent I’m on, I’m still just some netherborn in rags. I can’t find a way to be more than that.”

Tango threw his hands out wide. “This is literally the peak of my life. I can’t-”

The blazeborn choked. Jimmy jumped out of his chair to Tango’s side in an instant, tucking the bird back into his breast pocket to free his hands to hold his companion. “Oh, Tango.” He tried desperately to soothe.

“I could see it, y’know. Last time you opened that vault, it looked like less.” Smoke billowed out like breath on a cold day, small sparks living for a fraction of a second within them. “And you’re here, working with the nicest material I’ve ever owned, and I shouldn’t own it. You shouldn’t have bought it. You shouldn’t be working on this instead of Katherine’s tea dress, or Mumbo’s coat. And I-” His hand shot out with desperation, ripping the bird out of Jimmy’s pocket and shoving it in both their faces. “-I shouldn’t be making prototypes for something I’m. Never. Going to get to make! I let myself get stupid ideas again, and dragged you down with me.”

Blazeborn couldn’t cry. Perhaps that was why they produced smoke, so that those around them could cry for them. Jimmy certainly was, clutching tightly to Tango for dear life as he tried to put together anything he could say. Minutes past, however long Tango needed to pull himself back together.

“Sorry.” He sniffled, to which Jimmy shook his head. Because he understood. Everyone in Tumble Town did. Not for taking the same road, but for winding up in the same place. Somewhere where problems didn’t go away, but they didn’t seem as big.

Jimmy glanced back over at the fabrics, all the shapes perfectly traced out for another well-fitted suit. He buried his cheek into Tango’s warmed hair, cooing comfortingly. Whatever bit of help Tango was willing to take, he’d make the most of it.

-

“How does it feel?”

Tango stepped back, turning in the mirror as he examined the vest. The last piece of his first outfit. He did a spin, tail training after him hotter than usual. No cloth caught aflame. He smiled bashfully over to Jimmy. “Feels good. Feels fancy. I’m scared people might start mistaking me for Scar’s assistant.”

Jimmy muffled his laugh against his sleeve, though the bell drowned it out for him in the end. “Why, what would scare you about that! It’d be a great compliment to be my assistant!” The man of the hour declared, clacking his cane against the floor for emphasis. A strange little noise escaped Tango in response.

“Good afternoon, Scar.” Jimmy greeted, unable to hide his amusement. “We were just finishing up, doesn’t Tango look handsome?”

Scar hummed and pulled his top hat down to his chest. “Why I’d say he is absolutely dashing! You’ll have every little canary in town swooning.”

Both men turned pink. Jimmy took advantage of his closer proximity to their menace to smack him across the shoulder. “Hush!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Timothy, but I’m afraid I cannot!” Scar announced dramatically, producing papers from within his coat. There was a paused in his theatrics, during which he sent Jimmy a wink that straightened the avian’s spine. “I, in fact, came to speak to you Tango. There’s a job I need your assistance with.”

Tango’s tail twitched, “Oh yeah? What’s the job?”

“A bit of work we’re doing with the Luxo Company. Fwhip informs me you were quite the handyman in the mines, and there are some drafts for the new rail line and station that need an extra hand in drawing up.”

“Uh, sure, but,” Tango glanced awkwardly between Jimmy and Scar. “I mean I’ll be glad to help but I would have thought you’d ask Mumbo.”

Scar waved dismissively. “Oh, Mumbo is off on one of his cycling trips right now, he won’t be back for a few months at least! And this needs to be done now. It’ll be a couple weeks’ work once the materials are delivered.”

Anxiousness vibrated through Tango’s tail, “No offense Scar, but it is you. What’s the catch?”

“No catch! Just some honest work that needs doing, and not a lot of qualified individuals in this one-horse town. Good pay, too.”

Tango finally threw his hands up in surrender. “I mean if you’re okay with it. I’m not exactly qualificated myself, I learned this stuff hands on, on the job.”

“That just means you have experience!”

“Alright, Scar. You got a deal.”

“Great, great!” The papers were placed down on Jimmy’s desk. “I’ll come by and grab you in a few days if Jimmy’ll be willing to let go.”

Jimmy scoffed. “Excuse you.”

“Excusing myself!” He agreed, rushing out the door. “Have a good day, fellas!”

“That man, honestly.” Huffed Jimmy, shaking his feathers flat. Tango didn’t reply, scanning the papers with his nose scrunched up. He peered over the shorter man’s shoulder. “Do you need help?”

Tango jumped. “Huh? Oh, no, it’s just. My name’s on here?”

“Pardon?”

“My name’s in the contract.” He repeated, holding up the page. Indeed, among the many printed letters instead of something neutral it specified ‘Mr. Tek’.

It took everything Jimmy had not to audibly groan. “I suppose he had faith in you.”

“Yeah…” Muttered Tango distractedly. He shrugged and put down the papers.

-

Tango spent much of the next two weeks off somewhere with Scar for most of the afternoon. Scar couldn’t work very long but they did the best they could with what time they had. Before and afterwards Tango would take other jobs, no matter how much Jimmy told him he didn’t have to. Catalogues were easy to find and he’d calculated what he owed Jimmy on his own. Some questionably true assurances convinced him to lower it at least a bit, to about half of what Jimmy might normally price his work at. Still, he was determined to pay.

At least Scar’s job took a good bit of the burden off. It was paid for by the Luxo Company who’d trusted Scar’s scouting. They didn’t need to be informed the details of the individual he scouted, so long as the plans were good. And Jimmy had all the trust in the world that Tango would make good plans.

More importantly, when he returned home in the evening he didn’t look like walking misery. Dead on his feet, sure, falling asleep in his dinner, but not defeated like he had the previous few weeks, which a horrified Jimmy had only realized after how familiar he’d become with it.

He was nearly done paying for the second set of clothes when they were done. The silhouette was looser, perhaps not as fashionable, but Jimmy could tell Tango was more comfortable. It was more like what he enjoyed wearing.

Tango had his hands shoved into the pockets, swaying back and forth in the mirror with a wide grin. “My gods, he’s done it again.” He declared, tilting his head to look at Jimmy.

“Stop it.” murmured the avian, swatting at the man with his wing. A raspy giggle was his response.

“Have you ever made this many clothes for one person in such a short time?”

Jimmy smiled, reaching out to adjust Tango’s skewed collar. “Can’t say I have… Tango?”

“Hm?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask about your last outfit.”

This got a curious glance. Flexing his wings nervously, Jimmy ushered them over to his desk. Ensuring Tango was paying attention first he pulled out a pattern, one he’d only finished piecing together the night before. He rolled it out. Tango’s eyes went wide. “This…”

“I wanted- is it too much?” He worried. “Or, wrong, maybe. I had to make some choices. I can use another pattern if you’d prefer. I’d understand.”

Tango’s hand was pressed the pattern. He looked back up to Jimmy, eyes round and disbelieving, before they softened. “No, this is good.” He said, almost too quiet for Jimmy to hear. “Jim… This is good.”

Warmth fluttered in Jimmy’s chest as relief washed over him. “I’m glad.”

But Tango sighed. “Jimmy, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Jimmy knew. It was something he was waiting to happen for the last few days. So, he sat down at his desk, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. What is it?”

“Scar’s job will be done this week. I’ll get my last pay the day after.”

“Yes.”

Tango looked away. “It’ll be more than enough with my other jobs to finish paying for this before it’s done.”

“And you’ve been saving some for yourself?” Jimmy asked, though he already knew. Some part of him wanted Tango to say it just so he was sure.

Tango did just that. “Yeah, just a bit. Enough.”

Enough. “For what?”

A bristled tuft wrapped around Jimmy’s leg. Jimmy reached out to lay his hand over Tango’s, nudging him to continue. “Scar says they’re looking to build some new infrastructure for the railway. New engines, new machines to build those engines. That sorta thing. They got a lot of new jobs opening up ‘cause of it. He thinks with my work for them so far I got a shot above the rest. At the very least they can put in a good word for me somewhere else. But-”

“But none of that work is here.” Jimmy concluded, willing his heart not to give. He tried to smile.

Tango winced back, “Yeah.”

He took a deep breath. “I understand.” His voice cracked anyways.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, and as he choked back the first sob, he couldn’t help think about how ridiculous this all was. It’d not even been four months since they first met, not five before they would part ways. He’d patently refused Tango at several points just to avoid being like his thoughtless brother, yet here he was anyways. There was a blooming of relief through his chest that contradicted everything else, from the thought that this could possibly be it for Tango. Jimmy couldn’t help him, but someone else could, and more importantly would.

He’d only received news he already knew was coming, yet it all seemed too much.

“Sorry.” He hiccuped, wiping his wrist over his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m happy for you, I promise.”

Tango’s arms tightened around his shoulders, a soft hum vibrating through Jimmy as his head rested into Tango’s throat. Somewhere he’d heard that cats purred when they were hurt as well as happy, to do with comfort instead of contentment, and he wondered in that moment if blazeborn were the same. “I know.” Tango said, his own voice breaking. “I know.”

-

The last outfit took Jimmy the longest, long enough for confirmations to happen and Tango to finish preparations to leave. It wasn’t that Jimmy was putting it off, if anything he’d worked so diligently. Others in town were accommodating, happy to accept that their orders would be put off for a while. The pattern and even some techniques were completely new to Jimmy, things he’d never tried. He was no grand artist making the next biggest trend or a high end dressmaker creating something everyone would talk about for weeks to come. He was a simple tailor for a small town in the middle of the frontier, who specialized in accommodating those that did not fit the mould. Maybe, by that description, there was something he could have been doing that he completely overlooked.

A very particular feeling overwhelmed the avian as Tango stepped out of the changing curtain. Like seeing the world’s most beautiful painting jump to life, filled with colours and textures and shadows that seemed too rich for reality. In a sense that was exactly what happened. Loose crimsons and warm grays draped down the man’s form, shaped as Jimmy had only seen in photos until now, no need for modifications for any part of the man.

It looked good on Tango. It looked really good. It was perfect for him, more than just the right colours could ever be. He’d never worn clothes so comfortably before or seemed so assured that he was wearing something unquestionably his. There were alterations, from where Jimmy could not figure out the way to recreate certain things, or where decorations had to be compromised for material’s sake, or where Tango had given input for his own preferences and insights. In front of Jimmy was a netherborn, and the most beautiful man Jimmy had the pleasure to meet.

“How’s it look?” Tango asked, though Jimmy didn’t think he needed to say anything from the smug grin on his face.

Jimmy was still too stunned to come up with something clever. “You’re perfect.” He said a bit breathlessly.

That seemed to knock the man out of his element a bit, smirk shrinking to something a bit shy that matched his reddening cheeks. His tail curled around his ankle before twisting back out. “Then, maybe I should wear it out today.”

“I thought you’d already planned your outfit for today?” Jimmy laughed while Tango bounced up to his side.

“I’ll wear it tomorrow.” He snickered, running a hand over the weepweave. “Can’t not show off my little birdy’s gorgeous work, now, can I?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Tango, all your clothes are my work.”

“True. Maybe I should wear them all every day.”

“You’re going to have to do a lot more laundry if you try.”

“True, true.” He sighed, but continued to smile.

Jimmy smiled right back. “Oh,” He suddenly realized, looking around his workshop. “There was, um, there’s one more thing.”

Tango watched him curiously as he ran over to one of his drawers, one he knew Tango never used himself. There it was. Nervous energy ran through his wings. He approached Tango slowly, hands behind his back. “If you would, I was hoping I could trust you with this.” Gathering his nerves, he held out his hands, delicately folded fingers unwrapping from around a bright yellow feather, as perfectly preened as he could manage. Wrapped around the base was nothing as nice as the bird Tango had made, a simple gold chain attached to a series of metal beads which held the feather in place. Tango stared down in wonder, carefully accepting the feather into his own hands while anxiety prickled down Jimmy’s wings.

Clawed finger rose up to Jimmy’s cheek. He leaned into it as they ran themselves through the feathers around his ear. For a moment Jimmy closed his eyes and basked in the warmth radiating from the man. “You’ll come visit now and then, won’t you?” He asked. Pleaded.

When he opened his eyes Tango eyes were warmer than he’d ever seen. “I’ll come back.” He promised instead, far more than Jimmy cared hope for in the days leading up to his departure. Tango’s hand fell away, instead resting over Jimmy’s breast pocket, the metal bird tucked within pressing into his palm and Jimmy’s heart. “Could you… Would you hold onto that? Until I do? Until I come back with a proper one?”

“This is the proper one.” He chuckled, placing his own hand over Tango’s. “But, if you insist, then of course.”

“Then I’ll take good care of your feather, and the clothes you made me.” Tango said, a determined spark flying from his tail. Jimmy grinned.

“Please do.”

[sntslomidzes]

dancing in a day dream

just you and me, dancing in a daydream just you and me, lost in the clouds just you and me, dancing in a daydream don't wanna wake up right now

His feet swings, back and forth, on the ledge of a building tall enough that he feels like he can touch the clouds, if he reaches his hand above his head. He doesn't. Heaven is no place for a creature dripping with blood and regret, staining the world beneath its hoofs. He feels strangely ordinary today; like he opened his eyes for the first time in a thousand years; his heart beats again under the moonlight, and he can finally breathe. Free falling onto a bed of broken glass. Back and forth, back and forth.

He doesn't understand what is different today; the house felt too stifling, like a cage made of gold ⸻ not too different from the ones in Rome. Then too, he reeked of sweat and blood and rot. How is he still a dancing monkey fighting for the enjoyment of a roaring crowd?

No. His sisters are not Ceasars, no Roman empire. His life is not the Coliseum anymore.

Then why ⸻

"Are you going to jump, or will I have to wait all night?"

That voice, it can't be. His head is playing tricks on him, whispers of his past haunting his every breath, every blink. For so long, his mind never replayed that sweet tone well. He closes his eyes, counts to ten. Why now? Why here? ⸻ One two three four five

"I've waited two thousand years for you, making me wait a minute longer feels discourteous."  

He turns his head, slowly, eyes tightly shut until he muster the courage to open them. And there she is, beautiful as the last time he had seen her. With a twinkle in her eyes and a smile that could make Aphrodite cry in defeat. It is like she never left his memory, his life, this universe. She shits next to him, watching, as if he hadn't watched her die. As if he didn't land the killing blow.

"Hey, I implored you to. I would have suffered a torturous slow painful death had you not been brave enough to give me mercy."

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, he remembers it now. Holding her in his arms, broken, bleeding, asking him to do the unforgivable. The inhuman men atop their tall boxes clapped and cheered, uncaring for the lives they so eagerly destroyed. He fought his way to her, I would kill and die for you, but he was too late. Her wounds were too grave, and all he could do was weep and cradle her as his dagger buried in her neck. A swift death after many hours of suffering. Another life taken in the name of amusement. Another body to be tossed into the pits. His love, his ⸻

"Fran," is all Ezra manages to whisper, eighteen again with bleeding hands and a heavy heart, tears in his eyes he holds back poorly. He has forgotten her face. How could he? How could he lose the only person that mattered to him? How how how ⸻

"It's been a long time."

He chuckles, bitterly. "It feels like it was yesterday, right now."

"It does, doesn't it?" She hums, pensive. His hands tremble, his body shakes. He feels out of place; on this roof, with a shirt ripped at the seam, a hoodie worn and cold. There is no blood stains, at least.

"Oh please, I've seen you covered in blood before. Most of it yours, mind I remind you."

He can't help but laugh. From the bottom of his ribcage through his windpipes, a rumbling sound he hadn't heard since ⸻ Well, since she died. His happiness was buried with her, he knows, in a place he cannot find anymore. With no name, no respect. He has tried; wandering through Rome before and after the fall, searching for something he couldn't quite remember. The missing puzzle piece.

"How ⸻ Why ⸻ When ⸻"

"Breathe, wonder boy. You will burn that head of yours if you think too much."

He laughs, wetly.

"I don't know how. I just am here now, for a little while."

"Just a little?"

"Just a little." Her smile makes the corner of his mouth tug into a shy grin, not wishing to take his eyes off her if she will soon disappears again. He vows to not forget; plans to draw and paint her face in as many canvas and paper as he can find. She deserves statues, a museum, worshipping. His Aphrodite in disguise. Fuck, he loves her. After all this time, he doesn't think he will ever stop.

"Don't be a sap now, wonder boy. The world is too cruel for romantics." She is right. "Tell me, how is the world doing now? Is it better than the shit-hole we lived in?"

He doesn't hesitate. "No," firm, quick, simple. "I don't think a world without you can be a good one." She blushes, and he is presented with his favorite view for the first time in nearly two millenniums. He can't help the tears dripping down his cheeks, his shaky smile, the nails digging into the skin of his fingers.

"Oh, shut up." Were she capable, he knows she would have shoved him now. He misses her touch. Her scent. He misses her.

"I should have married you," he whispers, blinking in awareness. "I should have married you and ran. We could've made it to Greece, and settled on a farm."

"And you would've become a brave fisherman and provide for our children?"

"Yes." The mention of children hurts them both, Ezra knows. They will never get to raise a family together, never grow old and sore, caring for each other as they vowed. There won't be grandchildren running around the house, no legacy to pass on.

"It is a lovely idea. You, me, Greece, the open sea." She sighs. "You know you couldn't have. You had your sisters to worry about."

His sisters. The two bright lights of his life, the ones he was devoted to. He fought to protect them, fought to get back to them. When Fran asked, begged, for them to run away together, he nearly did until he remembered his sisters. His loves. His murderers. They took him from her. From the life he could've lived. From the man he could have become. Bitterness boils inside of him, a poison he has never felt before.

"I should've taken you and ran," he repeats, reaffirms. They could've been happy. She wouldn't have suffered.

"We can't change what is in the past, Ezra."

But a future without her is one he doesn't want to go back to. He can't undo what is done, but it doesn't stop it from bleeding and hurting still. They sit in silence, watching each other, lost in a spell.

"Are you happy?"

"Without you, how can I be?"

"Have you found someone that makes you even a little bit happy?"

He thinks. Takes a deep breath. "There was a boy, not long ago. I think I could've been happy with him, had fate not taken me out of control."

She nods. "Tell me more about your life."

He tells her everything.

[iguessitsjustme]

Love Sea Ep 10 Thoughts

We have finally made it to the end of the show. I still have not watched episode 8 and I doubt I ever will. From what I have heard, the show and the story actually makes more sense to me than it does to people who have seen episode 8. That’s crazy. Anyway, I just made lunch and I got my juice so it’s time to watch. As always, here’s the disclaimer that I pretty harshly critique this show. If you think that will make you angry, don’t click the read more. Disclaimer done, let’s goooo:

Okay before I even start, how the hell do I have zits on the back of my neck. Where did these bad boys come from? One is right on my hairline. Hello? Go away.

Okay okay okay. I am going to go into this with an open mind actually. I am too tired and exhausted and sick to not at least try to enjoy this show. Also I was way too verbose for episode 9 and all of my thoughts were actually too long for tumblr. I ran out of characters. So gonna have to try to reign that in a bit today.

I beg your finest pardon but why the fuck is this episode one hour and twenty minutes long? Yeah this post is probably gonna end up too long too. Maybe I’ll just do two parts if needed. (it did not end up too long yay!)

Not gonna lie to you guys. I do love back hugs like this. As many problems as I have with this show and these characters…this? This is cute. See? I’m not always bitter! Just..most of the time.

Why mention the video clips that Rak’s dad apparently has just to say “oh it’s been taken care of. It’s not a problem.” That’s not how stories work. If you introduce a potential problem, you gotta let it be a problem or let the characters work to resolve it before it becomes a problem. Not just say “yep here’s a thing that should have been a main conflict but don’t worry. A character that only exists off screen and has only really had any sort of role for the past 2 episodes took care of it already!” Like…what?

Every day I am forced to be overstimulated by the nature of living in a city. Why do I live here I ask myself constantly? The answer is always because I can walk everywhere I need to go including to work and also because I love it. Just not…the idling trucks. The big engines. There is nowhere for the sound to go because it’s trapped by all of the tall buildings and I am on the bottom floor literally on the street. I walk out my apartment and boom. One of the busiest roads in my city. Anyway I digress. I have been overstimulated since June. The fall cannot get here fast enough.

You know I never fully understood how or when Mut fell in love with Rak. I still don’t know. I mean he was flirty on the island and they fucked but when did Mut actually fall so hard? I cannot pinpoint when his lust turned to love. It must have been a specific moment because it certainly wasn’t a slow build into love. Nope. One day Mut loves his island more than anything in the world and then he leaves it for Rak. Without a second thought. I just would like to understand when that happened. Sure, he liked Rak, but to love someone enough to give up your home? And I know he’s about to dip and go back home (without telling Rak) but I cannot figure out why he left in the first place. I know the answer is because he loves Rak but I did not see that until he actually fucking left the island. I did not see that until episode 6 when he finally maybe started respecting the barest minimum of boundaries.

Oh how this show looooooves its flashbacks. At least this one kind of makes sense. Though I wish it trusted its audience enough to know what Mut is calling back to.

Ew Vi. Mook run away girl. You deserve better.

Noisy neighbors go AWAY.

*eats my veggies* *considers blasting kpop*

*blasts Stray Kids* Congrats. Since you want to involve me in your conversation right outside my door, I get to involve you in my music taste. Just be lucky this isn’t an nc scene in Love Sea cause I’d blast that too. Make everyone uncomfortable.

Rak does not need Mut’s love to become a better person. Rak does not need love to be a better person. People are allowed to not want love for any reason. No one gets to make judgment calls on them for not wanting it. Full stop.

Surely the next words you’re gonna say are “Respect his boundaries and let him come to you when he’s ready, right? …RIGHT?

God damn it Mut.

Is Rak a dog that Mut is leaving behind? Why is he giving instructions on how to care for Rak? Rak is a grown ass adult and was fine before Mut entered his life. Like what the fuck is this?

Mut goes and says goodbye to everyone but Rak? What is with this farewell tour? Just fucking tell Rak that you respect his decision, but you can’t live like that anymore so you have to go. Don’t just…disappear from him while seeking out everyone else? What in the immaturity…

I am a bad person for laughing at Mut’s tears. But c’mon. This is just…too much. Just talk to him man. Just talk to him without trying to force your feelings on him or make him share what he’s feeling. My god. The DRAMA.

???? Boy you got a tattoo on your neck to remind you of him??? Which is it????

MAME really thought she did something with this drama. She really thought some message is landing here. It’s not. I’m bored. Just let them get together again so this can be over with my god.

A flashback to when Mut literally broke into Rak’s room…wait those aren’t the right words. He didn’t need to break in because HE HAD THE KEY when he should NOT have had the key.

Why the fuck did that get a romanticized flashback? Invading someone’s privacy is not romantic y’all what the fuck.

Well. That was a show. That I watched. Honestly, out of all of MAME’s offerings it was simultaneously the best and the worst. There was no sexual assault (that I am aware of, again I skipped episode 8). So that’s a plus. It is, however, the laziest writing I have seen from a BL in a long time. Is it a good show? No. Is it a good BL? No. Is it a good MAME show? Eh. Depends on the metrics. The story had structural issues as well as pacing issues. The cinematography needed work and that’s not something I am typically capable of noticing. The sound mixing was some of the worst I’ve heard in a BL. At least lately. The acting was fine. Actually, can someone give these actors some better roles for the love of god???? All of this to say. I am glad ViMook isn’t officially canon and I hope that Mook is able to get away from Vi cause that girl is awful. The end.

[caermorrighan]

Adapting your planning system for chronic illness

It took me way too long to work this out. But we're here now and that's what counts. Here is the revelation: if you are going to set yourself any kind of targets or goals and you have a chronic illness, you should adapt your system to account for that. Particularly if your chronic illness is less predictable.

Hi, I'm Morrighan and I've suffered from migraines for most of my adult life. And yet I was way too old when I realised I should add accommodations to my planning system for those migraines.

How I set goals

I tend to plan on a number of different horizons. But today I am going to talk about my daily planning. A key part of my system is that I am attempting to build daily habits. Things like write every day, exercise every day.

I do this by planning in advance (normally a week/month depending on the project I am working on). So at some point I will go to each of the daily pages for the next week or so and add targets for exercise, and a to do line to write.

You know what doesn't work well with a daily exercise target? Agonising pain. And with writing? The severe brain fog I get in the lead up to a migraine.

Accommodations

In education there is a practice called 'accommodations'. This is where you set up different arrangements to accommodate things like neurodiversity. A student with Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) might have difficulty regulating their attention. So the school might provide a quieter space to take an exam, with less distractions. They might provide a person to prompt the student if they seem to be getting distracted.

This, and many other tools, are provided because the education environment is rarely suitable for the neurodiverse. A student with ADHD will find it challenging to concentrate for two hours in a row because their brain chemistry simply does not support it.

Do those accommodations go far enough? No. But that's a whole different conversation. What I want you to think about is - do you offer yourself that same grace?

Because I didn't.

Planning and migraine

My migraines are currently unpredictable in terms of when they occur. The only thing that is consistent is the progression - brain fog leads to pain which leads to a 'hangover'. If I catch it early enough, I can skip the pain part. But since the brain fog is the only advanced clue I get so there is no way to avoid that part.

I know, and have known for years, that migraine is one of the biggest challenges to meeting goals I set. All my plans start well, and then the migraine hits, and it all falls over.

Repeat.

I know its not my fault. I can't avoid these migraines (I know what my triggers are). But it still triggers a negativity spiral. I still view it as failing. It still is a day of 'progress' that is left blank.

And so, my solution is accommodations. Which I have also planned.

When a migraine hits I now review my tasks and remove certain items from the list. There is no point trying to do something clever during severe brain fog - I'll only have to do it again later (all the while going 'what the hell was I even thinking?'). I can't drive during brain fog - my reactions are too slow.

So I go through and mark them as done. I class them as complete.

That sounds odd. I didn't do the task. But I've realised that tracking your failures is bad. Negative consequences have a disproportionate effect on how we feel and, as detailed in Ali Abdaal's Feel Good Productivity, we are more likely to get things done when we feel good, and much less likely to if we feel bad. A small failure can very easily become a doom spiral. I missed 3 days of a target, so a 4th doesn't really matter. Or, even worse, I missed 3 days and now I need to catch up, but I don't have time, and so I can't face trying and 3 days becomes 4, 5, 6 ... 3 days missed is 3 dents to your confidence that you can do the thing. All of these add up to failure. Not because you didn't do the thing (which was probably a very minimal loss in the grand scheme of things), but because you felt so bad about it, that it actually blocked your progress.

If its a regular habit kind of task, then I just move on. If its part of a project, I'll add the task back into my backlog. Key point here - don't add it onto the next day. I've already planned the next day. I can't just add more to it and hope it will work (it won't).

As you write it, this will feel odd. But in a few weeks you'll find you can't even remember what day it was you had the migraine on unless you wrote that down.

Reframing your planning horizon

Going a step further, you also need to build those accommodations into your planning horizon. If, once or twice a month, I am going to lose 3 days for writing, then I should assume I will be unable to write on 6 days of the month. And likely, because of my life, there will be a couple of other days where I can't write. So I plan to write every day and assume I will achieve that on 20 days in a month.

I will still write the prompt down each day. Say I managed to write on 24 days. If I write on 24/20 days, I feel good. If I write on 24/30 days, I feel bad. Its the same number of days, but it can have a radical effect on my state of mind.

The goal of planning is to achieve those plans. To do that, you need to plan accommodations for the things that will derail those plans.

Depending on the symptoms, I have written down a list of changes I will make to my day. And I plan for the things that are likely to happen in advance when I look at the number of things I can do in a given time frame. It works for me by keeping me in a positive flow rather than a doom spiral. Maybe it will help other people as well.