#like he was suicidal. resigned. nearly died. lost his home.

[fiona-fififi]

WHY are we still in the middle of this fucking hotshots storyline with fucking Brad?? It was stupid before the season started, and it's stupid now.

I would like some development with the characters I actually give a shit about, thanks.

[wagner-fell]

Inspired by Beetlejuice, mostly the song What I Know Now bc I listen to that song way more than anyone reasonably should tw major mention of suicide

Rostam awoke in his sister’s old bedroom in Cirenworth. But that didn’t make sense, did it? The last thing he remembered was the panicked cries of the various members of his family-in-law as he lost consciousness in the alleyway behind The Devil’s Tavern. Perhaps he had carried to this bizarre choice of location to heal.

However something was decidedly off about it. Dresses from Cordelia’s childhood were strew across the floor. The lightbulbs that were usually fixed on the wall on either side of her desk were replaced by candles, though few were lit. A dollhouse rested in the corner by the door.

And there was a man sitting on her bed.

He was short, with dark brown hair that cropped just below his ears. His eyes were such a deep brown they appeared black. He wore a dress shirt that would have been in pristine condition if not for the blood that covered the majority of it, stemming from the knife that was buried in his abdomen. And if that wasn’t weird enough, he looked just like the man Rostam saw in the mirror, if not a few years older.

“Who are you,” Rostam wondered aloud.

The man snapped his head in the direction of the newcomer. “Rostam?” His voice was horse and he sounded as if he hadn’t spoken in so long he’d nearly forgotten how to. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Rostam tried to take a step backwards but found himself unable to move. “How do you know my name?”

The man’s face fell. It returned to the resigned sadness it had displayed before Rostam’s arrival had twisted it into a mix of surprise and anger. “Of course you don’t recognize me. I’m Alastair, your brother.” Alastair hadn’t needed to introduce himself as his brother. He would have known the second he said his name.

Because of course Rostam knew who Alastair was. Maman and Cordelia still burst into tears at the mere mention of his name more often than not, even after all these years later.

Rostam had never met his brother. He killed himself several weeks before the youngest member of the Carstairs family was born. But he heard all about him constantly. He was told he was an exact replica of his late brother so often it was impossible to avoid him in conversation.

Rostam could have said or done about a million things in that moment. He could have ran over and wrapped him in a giant hug or informed him that Thomas Lightwood, for reasons unknow, still wore all white on the day he died. But instead, Rostam asked, “why did you do it?”

Alastair sighed. “That’s justified I suppose.”

He looked him dead in the eye, which was frankly more upsetting than the fact that it was his long dead brother making him so uncomfortable.

“I insisted I was fine, I was not. I didn’t get out a lot, you know? Our families reputation was at stake. I began raising Cordelia at eight.” Alastair laughed bitterly. “And my so called ‘one true love’? Oh, he didn’t give a damn.”

He broke eye contact, his eyes flitting around the room. “So, yes, I was depressed. Also completely obsessed. An unhappy bastard king who faced social isolation at fourteen. I had such low self-esteem. I was a mess.” He gestured around the room. “Being in this room with our sister is one of the only happy memories I have left. I suppose that’s why I’m trapped hear for all eternity.”

“I gave more memories with Cordelia up for the netherworld. I’ve been here,” he waved his arms wildly, gesturing at the contents of the room, “since before you entered this world. If I lived in a more forgiving world, I might have stuck it out, might have been able to learn what life’s about.”

“Pain and joy and suffering. Failing but recovering. I’ll tell you another thing. Once you die, your even more alone. So if you have anyone who loves you, go home.”

Rostam wanted to cry out, wanted to tell Alastair he had people who loved him, who were still in mourning after seventeen years. But he kept quiet as Alastair began to speak again.

“If I knew then what I know now I would have looked within and let happiness in somehow.” Alastair shook his head slightly. The long-ago shed tears glistened in the candlelight as he did so. “If I only knew the truth back then.” His fingers hovered over ornate blade sunk in his stomach. “I wouldn’t have had my little accident.”

Despite his immobility, Rostam felt tears of his own spill down his checks.

“I think you’re hear because you’re dying.” Rostam suddenly recalled the severity of his pain from the demonic attack. “That seems logical. But Alastair, I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here. With you.”

Rostam had nothing going for him in the world of the living. His fiancée had just called off their engagement a month before their wedding because she’d fallen out of love with him but didn’t have to heart to tell him when he’d proposed. And after three years togethe, his friends had all become her friends too. At the moment, they were all to busy comforting her to see just how much he was hurting. He’d gone to the pub in the first place to drink away his troubles. The hoard of demons would have been a welcome distraction if he hadn’t been far beyond tipsy when they came out of hiding.

He wanted nothing more to join his brother. A ghost only onto himself, away from where any fresh wounds could emerge.

Rostam was just so, so tired of hurting.

Alastair shook his head like that was the most idiot thing he’d ever heard. “Rostam, I know what your going through. Another layer of my eternal curse is that I can see and hear everything that goes on in or around this room. But Rostam, don’t be blind. You can’t just leave your whole life behind.”

“Says you,” Rostam muttered. Alastair glared at him.

“You think I haven’t regretted that decision since the second I ended up in this infernal place? Talk to Risa or Maman. Ask the recently passed on. Death is final unless you’re a Blackthorn.”

“If I knew then what I know now,” he repeated once more, “I would have crossed every line and drank all the wine before my final bow.”

“If I knew the things that now I know.” He turned his gaze back on Rostam a final time. “I would have never tried so hard to please those self righteous Merry Thieves. I would have shouted till my throat grew sore. I would have damned every social rule and norm. So before to rest you are laid, make sure your depts are paid. I know you think everything is over for you, but you’re seventeen. Will yourself to wake up and ask Cordelia what fresh hells being seventeenth entails.”

“But I can’t, dadash. I can’t go back. I just…I don’t truly want to die but I simply can’t return to the mental torture that awaits me.” Rostam chocked out a singular sob. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“But are you any happier here?“ Alastair asked in an equally soft voice.

“Anything is better than what I would wake up to.”

Alastair slowly made his way over to where Rostam stood, though every step appeared to be agony. Rostam figured it couldn’t be comfortable walking around with a knife sticking out of your stomach. Than he said the last thing Rostam expected. “No.”

”What?”

He leaned down and cupped Rostam’s bloodied cheek. ”Rostam, let me tell you something. I ended my own life because I was tired. Not because I felt angry or sad but precisely because I hadn’t felt anything in so long. So until you feel like that, sorry, you’re not permitted to stay.”

“But I am tired,“ he murmured, refusing to meet his brother‘s eyes. “Tired of feeling all my emotions so strongly and intensely they leave me empty.”

Alastair let his arm fall limp. He stood carefully. Just when it looked like he had formulated a reply, Rostam awoke.

He was in the infirmary. Tessa, Will, The Merry Thieves, Cordelia, Maman, Risa and cousin Jem stood over him. The first thing he saw was his sister flinging herself into her husband’s arms and crying, “oh thank the Angel.”

Maman hunched over to kiss his forehead but he sprung up before she could do so. “No, no, no, no, no,” he found himself saying over and over again. But he couldn’t help it. Alastair was supposed to take away his pain, or at the very least give him knowledge on how to deal with it so he didn’t end up like him, utterly alone and miserable.

“What is it,” Maman asked worriedly, the wrinkles on her forehead increasing as she examined him with concern.

“I need to go back,” he said, and he didn’t care that he was shouting. “I can’t leave him alone again. We need each other. Please,” he begged to no one in particular, “let me go back.”

“Sweetie,” Tessa said, “you’re scaring us. Go back for who exactly?”

”Alastair! He’s trapped in Cordelia’s old bedroom in Cirenworth.“ Rostam vaguely realized the impact his words had on the others but he didn’t care, not when he needed to know what Alastair was going to tell him. “I need to go back to him!”

Maman climbed onto the infirmary bed and squeezed him against her chest. That was all it took for him to break down hysterically sobbing.

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

@spooky-drusilla @writeordie-4 @melanielocke @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @hahahax30 @maxboythedog @noah-herondale-lightwood @obsessive-sapphic @yozinha-z @ddepressedbookworm @arangiajoan @shelvesofgold @hardlymatters @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped @book-dragon-not-worm

[emwritesstuff]

as the world caves in | ch. 7 | bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: You are a ghost story. A former Air Force pilot who had her plane shot down by Germany in 1945, but here you were in 2023, alive and frozen in your 25-year-old body.

You haven’t seen Bucky since the 1940’s, before his fall, before you went on a suicide mission only to come back alive. You aren’t sure reliving those memories – and being a living memory of everything the man has lost – is the best for him.

But you and Bucky won’t be apart for long.  

This will loosely follow the plot of TFATWS - so spoilers ahead, specially regarding episode five. Thread carefully!

masterlist | AO3

notes: i got wordy with this one, lol. But there IS fluff and revelations in there somewhere

(warnings: mentions of death, blood, injuries, weapons) (word count: 5K)

seven: timing

You’ve seen death before. It’s inevitable, when you’ve lived an entire century.

You’ve died before, when half of the universe did too, crumbling into dust and fading into thin air. You’ve seen it during the war, during missions, you’ve done it. Yet, you might never get used to it, not like this.

A shield is objectively a protector in nature. Captain America’s shield, once the symbol of salvation, had been tarnished with blood.

Bucky and Sam looked at you when you turned back to them, after watching John Walker ran off from the square. Their silent conversation from seconds before communicated to you through a look.

Walker couldn’t carry the shield. Not anymore.

“We have to take it back.” Sam said, and you and Bucky nodded at the same time.

“He has to have gotten his hands on the serum somehow. He’s too strong.” You made your way through the crowd hastily, having to shove people out of the way, everyone still in slow motion due to shock.

“That means it won’t be easy.” Bucky added as the streets had gotten empty enough for you to start running freely.

“It never is, is it?”

Sam led the way on air while you and Bucky ran, following his coordinates. A fine rain fell over Riga, and it did good of seeping through your hair and clothes, though you didn’t register the cold in the moment. The warehouse you ended up in was empty except for industrial lifts, the lot abandoned and overgrown. A good enough hiding place.

John Walker marched over to you somewhat casually, and your eyes met Bucky’s as Sam stroke up conversation.

“What? You saw what happened. You know what I had to do. I killed him because I had to!” You held yourself from flinching when he raised his voice. “He killed Lemar!”

“He didn’t kill Lemar, John.” Bucky said calmly. “Don’t go down that road. Believe me, it doesn’t end well.”

Your fingers brushed Bucky’s metal ones lightly, them twitching in response.

“I’m not like you.”

That much was right. Sam stepped forward to try and reason with him, you and Bucky staying behind.

“Bucky—” You whispered, urging him to look at you.

He offered you a small strained smile. “I know.”

“Okay. Good.” This time you linked your hands fully, icy skin on Vibranium. You squeezed for a second and let go, forgetting that it probably wasn’t bringing him the comfort you intended. You hoped the message got across, at least.

“We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” Sam’s voice drew your attention back to Walker and the imminent conflict. “John… You gotta give me the shield, man.”

Walker looked up at you three, a smirk gaining on his face. “Oh, so that’s what this is. You almost got me.”

“You made a mistake.”

“Don’t make another.” You said, your brows furrowing.

“You don’t wanna do this.”

“Yeah, we do.”

When Bucky said that he, you and Sam advanced into Walker, surrounding him as he swung the shield in every direction.

He lunged at Sam, sending him to ground. You were smaller, but that got you to land punches at his side and ribs, which he blocked a few of. You wondered how much more he could take, one against three.

A kick to your abdomen launched you back. He was terrifyingly strong, and you think that this serum had to be the most advanced yet. On top of that, he was completely deranged.

You helped Sam up while Bucky kept Walker occupied, then using the fact that Walker had him pinned against a lift you ran behind him and landed a knee to his spine.

“Why are you making me do this!” Walker flung Bucky first, and your eyes widened in horror when he crashed violently into a metal pillar. You were second, the shield hitting your head and flinging you towards the same direction as Bucky, your body sliding on the concrete floor.

Spots swam before your eyes. You blinked once, twice, trying to get them to focus again. You felt warmth on the side of your head. Blood.

Bucky was still limp on the ground, his metal arm sparking and twitching wildly. Your breath hitched in your throat and your eyes started to fill with water and fear.

“Bucky? Buck—oh my god, Bucky, come on,” Still dazed, you held his face in your hands, watching it twitch along with his arm.

You looked up to Sam altercating with Walker and Bucky stirred in your grasp.

“Y/N.”

A relieved sigh escaped your lips, along with a couple of hot tears that Bucky caught with his flesh hand. “Y/N, the shield—”

Looking up again, you saw what Bucky meant. The shield, seemingly forgotten as Sam and John Walker scuffled on the ground. You ran to it, swaying slightly, and stomped on the edge so it would go up into your arm.

As Walker ripped Sam’s wings out you flung the shield at his back, it flying back to your arm like a boomerang. You had his attention. He ran at you, nearly howling, and you stopped his lunges using the shield.

“You. You’re strong. You’re a super soldier too.”

“I have been… since 1945.” You panted, trying to catch your breath. Walker frowned at you.

You went at him again, not giving him time to process the new information. He grabbed the shield, trying to wrestle it out of your arm. Bucky tackled him before you could crumble, but as they stumbled down and away from you so did the shield, John Walker’s hands still gripping is viciously.

Somehow, he managed to have it strapped to his arm again, hitting Bucky with it as they threw punches.

You and Sam reached them at the same time, one to each side of Walker, taking him off of Bucky. Sam moved to remove the shield from Walker as you and Bucky pinned him.

There was a crack.

Sam took the shield off, rolling away with it, and you let go of Walker when you felt he stopped resisting due to the pain. Bucky spat red, and you cleaned the blood off your face with your sleeve.

Your head was throbbing, and you felt your balance wavering once again.

“It’s mine.”

“It’s over John.”

You tried jogging to Sam’s side, but all you did was limp the quickest you could. Suddenly, your knee was in fiery pain again. You would probably need a new replacement soon.

“It’s mine!” Walker moved on Bucky who was closest. You took a step toward them, but Sam put a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

“He’s got it.”

You turned to him, wondering if you really looked that much in bad shape.

Bucky really did get him, tackling Walker and hurling his body against Sam and the shield. The three of them fell to the ground.

It was over. You finally let your knees buckle, wincing once they hit the floor.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, spots swimming in your vision, and once you opened them again the men were still heaving on the ground. Bucky was the first to get up, picking up the shield and dumping it next to Sam.

He walked over to you, offering his hand. You took it gladly and let him hoist you up. His deeply concerned expression was the same as yours.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Buck.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s go clean up, sugar.”

--

A shower and your clean civilian clothes got you feeling good as new.

You ended up going back to Zemo’s place, Bucky making you answer too many pointless questions as the both of you tended to your injuries, even though you had assured him you did not have a concussion.

“How’s your knee?”

“Could be better. It’ll be fine, though. I just hope we don’t have to fight Walker or anyone again in the next few days.” You shrugged, pressing an antiseptic tissue to Bucky’s nose. He hissed. “Don’t be a baby.”

You chuckled when he glared at you, slumping his shoulders.

His jaw tensed. “We wouldn’t have fought if Sam—”

“Bucky, don’t start this again—”

“— hadn’t given up the shield!”

“James, none of what happened was his fault. Did you even try to understand his side of things?”

You threw the tissue in the bin and checked your phone. Sam had replied, confirming that he was okay, and that he had managed to find a ride home with a friend. You and Bucky weren’t going just yet, since you still had to find Zemo and give him to the Dora Milaje.

You sighed. “The shield is just an oversized Vibranium frisbee. It’s nothing without the right person behind it.”

Bucky shook his head. “Why are you defending him?”

“Because you aren’t. You should be the first to take Sam’s side.”

“He gave it away like it was nothing. This Vibranium frisbee it’s all we have left of Steve, Y/N!”

“Not it’s not. We have an entire life worth of Steve, Bucky. The shield is just… an object.”

“If Sam was Captain America, Walker wouldn’t even have been nominated.” He grumbled.

You sat beside Bucky and took his metal hand in yours, tracing the golden seams on his palm. He sighed, and you knew he was close to resigning.

“The government didn’t even consider Sam before nominating Walker. Hell, they didn’t even talk to him.” You pursed your lips, feeling Bucky’s eyes on you.

“How can he be Captain America if America’s gonna treat him like that? And it wasn’t a one-time thing, either. So, I get it. I don’t like how things turned out. But I get it.”

Bucky looked at the floor. “Yeah. I want to understand. I’m—I’m trying.”

You beamed at him. It had taken you a while to understand too, and you still struggled sometimes. But you were proud of Bucky, for at least being open to listen.

--

You met Sam the next morning at the displacement camp. Or, at least, where it had been. Sam explained that the GRC was conducting raids in search for Karli, arresting people and closing their lodgings, but without much success.

“They searched this camp and just like the last camp, nothing.”

“Well, she’ll be laying extra low after…everything.” You frowned at Sam’s old gear, wings now a broken mess of carbon fiber and wires.

“She’s gone. We’ll never find her.” Sam’s voice was grave and littered with anxiety.

“We will. She’ll move again. She won’t just stop.”

You looked at Sam and he shook his head. From the other side of the room, Bucky sighed.

“Hey, you uh, you got your sleeve back.” A new voice piped in, and you recognized its owner as the soldier from the hangar the other day. “Oh, it’s you—hi, I’m Torres. Joaquin Torres.”

The boy had a nice, gentle smile. No wonder he and Sam were friends.

“Y/N.” You smiled back at him and shook the hand he extended to you.

Bucky headed to the door without a word.

“Are you off to take care of Zemo?”

You nodded at Sam and gave him a quick hug. “He can’t be running around causing trouble, can he now? Take care, Sam.”

“You too.”

“Alright, good to know you survived.” Torres said at Bucky’s back as he disappeared through the door.

Sam smiled down at you and you let yourself be content with that for now. You still had Zemo to worry about, so you rushed to catch up with Bucky.

“So, I’m thinking we should go to—”

“I have intel he might be in Sokovia.” Bucky shot you a confused look that made you shrug. “You forget I was a spy for more than 40 years, Buck.”

You smirked a little. Retired, sure. But that kind of thing was like riding a bike, and you knew better than to drop all of your hard-earned contacts.

“Did you contact Ayo too?”

You shook your head, and started leading Bucky to the hangar where your plane was waiting. “No, I figured you might wanna do that.”

It was another good fifteen minutes of walking before you arrived, and there it was. Your baby. An Eclipse 500, a pretty little thing with a red stripe and caramel leather seats.

Bucky whistled. “When you said you flew in…”

“I flew in.”

You smiled brightly at Bucky once you were on air, and it was safe to hit the autopilot. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Bucky chuckled, looking at you. “Yeah.” His smile widened as he turned to watch the nose of the jet cutting the clouds.

Your chest ached with something unwelcome. Oh no. Not this, and not again. You wished for the feeling to go away, so you could just love him as your best friend, as a brother – but your heart wasn’t keen on listening.

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember you’re not that tiny, spunky girl who picked too many fights.”

“Well, that little girl is still in here somewhere. Except now I could say I have a bigger chance of winning those fights.”

Bucky smiled. “You always had a mean right hook.”

He was looking at you in some sort of way you couldn’t exactly determine and you decided not to think too much about it. You couldn’t.

“And now, what? You work for the UN, you have an airplane—you still live in New York, right?”

That was the moment when, after all that you’ve been through the past days, you realized that you and Bucky haven’t had a chance to actually catch up with each other. Everything had been a blur of conflict and stress, and although you knew most of what had been going on in Bucky’s life through Steve, Bucky knew virtually nothing about yours.

“I do, actually—do you remember those rowhouses in Columbia Heights?”

Bucky knitted his eyebrows. “The ones with the… sculpted flowers on the doorway?”

“Yeah. I bought one of them in the 60’s.” You grinned.

“We used to say that we’d live there, remember? Make it big, you, me and Steve.”

You nodded. It was one of the silly things you held on to – your dreamhouse, back when you had no idea that either Bucky or Steve were still alive. Back then, your house made you feel like you had fulfilled some sort of promise. The iron fences and the flowerbeds made you feel less alone in the world.

And then Steve came back. And then Bucky. And now Bucky was back in your life, and Steve was gone. Your eyes watered every time you thought of him.

“I remember, yeah. Gosh, I miss him.” You wiped the corner of your eye.

Bucky nodded, his eyes downcast. “I do too. I guess—guess that’s why I was so hung up on Sam giving up the shield. But you were right.”

“Oh? That’s new.”

“Shut up.” Bucky chuckled. “I’ve been thinking… and I still don’t fully understand. But Sam deserves at least an apology.”

You gave Bucky one last look before turning off the autopilot. What he was saying – that he was willing to understand Sam’s choices, and apologize – made your heart swell.

“Oh my, pigs might fly today!” When Bucky let out a tired exhale, you giggled. “I’m proud of you, Bucky. Really.”

He watched you for a long time while you brought the jet down to Sokovian grounds.

Bucky had gone off to change into new clothes before the two of you headed to find Zemo at the memorial. At least, that’s where he had been seen most recently. You had stayed to speak to the manager of the small airport you had landed in, the jet needed to be fueled and stationed somewhere before you headed back to the US.

“Alright, they’ll take care of her until we—”

You rounded the nose of your jet and faced with Bucky in a well-tailored black coat, his hair was styled and he’d shaven too, now only a faint stubble darkening his jawline. He cleaned up well, to say the least. Your heart skipped a couple of beats.

“—why, don’t you look dapper.”

Bucky smiled. “Have you seen Zemo in that coat of his?”

You laughed. “Alright, hold on a minute now.”

When you returned to him, you wore heeled ankle boots, a dark skirt and a silk blouse, all over your trench coat. Bucky’s Adam’s apple bobbled up and down as he took you in and you twirled, smiling sheepishly.

He offered you an arm.

“Come on, sugar.”

Sokovia was barren land now, most of the old city had gone up in the air, leaving a round crater in its place. There had been some rebuilding efforts, but everything was still quiet and empty. The memorial was right at the center, and as you and Bucky approached you saw him.

Zemo stood with his back to you, in that familiar overcoat, reading the inscriptions on the marble. You wondered if he had been waiting.

Bucky stopped walking, turning to you. “Ayo’s already here. She and the Dora will be waiting for my signal.” He took your hand. “Wanna come with me?”

“Do you need me?”

“I… should probably do this alone.”

You patted his hand with your free one before letting go. You drew a heavy breath when Bucky took out a pistol, then smiled when he emptied the bullets on his metal palm.

He raised his irises at you, a small frown making its way on his brow. “You said you were proud of me?”

You gave him a reassuring nod. “Always. I’ll be here.”

All you could do was watch now that Bucky was making the rest of the way to Zemo. If the Dora were watching somewhere, Bucky was probably safe, but you couldn’t keep your chest from constricting in apprehension as you watched him and Zemo interact.

Bucky raised the gun with his flesh hand, and with the other he dropped the bullets on the ground. That was the signal. The Dora Milaje came from behind Zemo, and Bucky looked over at you.

When they start walking off, leaving Bucky and Ayo behind, you approached.

“We will take him to the Raft, where he will live out his days.” Ayo said, greeting you with her dark eyes as you took place at Bucky’s side. “It would be prudent to make yourself scarce in Wakanda for the time being, White Wolf.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I hope to see you soon, Y/N.”

You and Ayo smiled at each other. “Same to you.”

Bucky gaped at you, and you had to stifle a laugh.

“Hey!” He called Ayo again. “I may have another favor to ask of you.”

You looked at him quizzically, and he smirked before closing the distance between him and the Dora Milaje, discussing something before walking back to you.

“It will be waiting for you once you get there.” She announced, and turned away. You raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Something for Sam.” Bucky said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You couldn’t help but lean into his warmth, and pulled him a little closer.

“How mysterious. Are we paying the Wilsons a visit, then?”

--

Delacroix was a close-knit community just south of New Orleans. It was sunny the day you and Bucky arrived, so much so that you’re able to ditch the heavy coats– you, at least, because Bucky had run back to get his jacket.

You didn’t mind much, that arm was a dead giveaway, and what truly mattered was him being comfortable – but you smiled once you noticed he didn’t have his gloves on.

You let Bucky go ahead and give Sam the favor he had asked of Wakanda by himself, despite his pleads for moral support. You figured it was a peace offering, and that being the case Bucky should deliver it himself.

When you finally approached them, greeting probably Sam’s sister Sarah with a smile, Bucky was busy tightening a pipe.

“Why didn’t you use the metal arm?”

“Well, I—I don’t always think of it immediately.”

“He’s right handed.” You quipped from behind them. Sam turned to you in surprise.

“Hey! I was wondering if I would have to deal with his grumpy ass without you.” He wrapped you in a hug and you laughed against his arm.

You smiled when Bucky rolled his eyes. “He’s actually in a good mood today.”

Bucky cleared his throat.

“So this is the boat, huh?”

“This is it.”

“It’s nice.” Bucky was looking around, rocking in his heels. “Want any help?”

Sam raised an eyebrow at you, and you simply shrugged.

“He was pretty handy in our time.”

Sam studied Bucky for a good two minutes in complete silence. Then, he relented, nodding and walking to the front of the boat.

Bucky stayed behind, looking up at Sam’s sister. “I’m Bucky.”

“Ah. Sarah.”

You raised your eyebrows once you realized just what he was doing. The sly dog. 106 years and he was still the biggest flirt to ever walk the earth.

You rushed to ignore the slight pang of jealously that hit you. You were debating following them when Sarah extended a hand to you.

“You must be Y/N. Thank you for offering the safehouse to us.”

You shook her hand, thinking that you couldn’t really blame Bucky for flirting – she was really pretty. Hell, maybe you should be flirting too.

“It was the least I could do.” You smiled.

“Does he… do that often?” She asked, looking in the direction Bucky had disappeared to.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve heard that, from hopeful girls who wished for more than just a date and a dance with Bucky. But you weren’t in the 1940’s anymore, though, and you had a feeling that flirting wasn’t really something he did often now.

“I’ll guess, no?” You shrugged, and she shook her head. “Serious!”

“Okay, okay. You go, I won’t keep you anymore.” Sarah nudged you with her shoulder. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N!” She said, walking away and waving.

“You too, Sarah!” You waved back.

Sam was inside the wheelhouse when you found him. He was fiddling with a bunch of wires that looked more like a plate of noodles than something that was supposed to power a machine.

“And what’s going on here?”

He huffed. “I can’t get the panel to turn back on. Are you any good at this?”

“Technically I only know my way around flying things. But I can try.” You waved your hand and he stepped to the side, allowing you to start sorting out through the wires and try to see what could be connecting to what.

“You know, I think I like staring Bucky better than flirting Bucky.” Sam said in a serious tone, and you smirked.

“What a protective brother, you.”

“No, no—I’m a protective friend too. You made a face when Bucky started being all flirty with my sister.”

You furrowed your brows, looking at him. “No I didn’t.”

“Uh, yes you did.”

“Did not—” You sighed. “We’re just friends, Sam. Always have been. And that’s what we’ll continue to be.”

You connected a couple of wires and the panel flickered.

“Look. Even before I knew you two were a pair of old relics from the last century, I had a feeling you two would be good for each other.” Sam looked out of the window as Bucky walked by it, busy with scraping the paint off some wooden bitts. “And I am a great wingman.”

He winked at you, proud of his own pun, and you rolled your eyes.

“We are good for each other. Good friends. Best friends, if I may be so bold.”

The panel flickered again, then went out again. You groaned. You were so sure that would get it to work.

“It’s no use. Thing’s busted.”

“If I get it to power on, will you drop the cupid thing?” You stared at Sam with raised eyebrows, a challenge lingering in your eyes. He narrowed his, then turned to the panel.

“Deal.”

You tried again, this time joining a different set of wires, and the panel lit up. And stayed.

You smirked. “All done!”

“No no no, no— you set me up! Deal’s off! You tricked me!”

“No dealing off! You’re welcome!”

You laughed, exiting the wheelhouse and stepping into the warm sunshine. You spent the rest of your afternoon like this – helping Sam fix the boat, looking at the engine but still not getting it to work, scraping off paint and laughing at Sam and Bucky’s antics.

The sun had started to set when Sam called in for a break, offering you and Bucky a beer and a breather.

“What’s in the case?”

You raised your shoulders, just as in the dark about it as Sam was. “Dunno. It’s your gift, you’ll find out when you open it.”

“Well… gonna catch my flight tomorrow.” Bucky started, getting up and taking the last swig of his beer. “Get a hotel room for the night. Crash, you know?”

You knitted your eyebrows. Sam began chuckling.  “So you’re just gonna set me up like that, huh?”

“I don’t wanna make it weird for your family.”

You hid your face in your hands. So smooth, Bucky.

“Just stay here. The people in this town are the most welcoming people in the world. They don’t care if you wear small t-shirts or if you have six toes or if your mom’s your aunt.”

Sam trailed off, but Bucky chuckled, raising a hand to stop him. “Okay, I get it. I mean, you know, the people are nice.”

Sam started laughing and stopped himself quickly. “But don’t flirt with my sister. ‘Cause if you do I’ll have Carlos cut you up and feed you to the fish.” He deadpanned.

You snorted. Sam elbowed you in the ribs.

“Okay.”

“Alright boys, I should get going, though. I can fly myself out still tonight.”

“Ah ah—no, he’s not staying here if you aren’t. C’mon, Y/N.”

The two looked at you expectantly. You sighed.

“Fine. But I am leaving first thing in the morning. The GRC vote is soon, and I have not been benched.”

On the contrary, actually. You knew the bubble was about to burst and so did the government. They needed all the help they could get to keep things running well, with so many international representatives coming over to New York for the vote.

--

Sam’s family home was a cozy three-bedroom facing the water and surrounded by green. It was homey, and the minute you stepped inside you felt at ease.

It was a Wilson thing, really. The house only reflected it.

You and Sarah had hit it off quite well, becoming quick friends after bonding over being completely done with Sam and Bucky’s incessant banter. They even had a staring contest, like the children they were.

“So, Bucky doesn’t flirt often… because you are into each other.” She said playfully as you cleaned the dishes from the dinner.

Your jaw slacked. “What—he’s not. Sarah! We’ve been friends for so long, that’s all.”

“Oh, come on, I see the way he looks at you. And you look at him. Also, Sam told me—”

“Sam was supposed to drop that! I can’t believe he told you.” Actually, you could. You set a couple of glasses on the dish rack, groaning.

“Hey, he told me not to tell you! But I did anyways.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “Enjoying the double agent life, huh?”

She laughed, and you went along with her.  

“I just think you should tell him how you feel. Before Samuel tries to parent-trap you.”

You knew Sarah was probably right – You should know better than not telling him before it was actually too late. You should, and yet the words die in your throat every time you looked at him.

You were in love with Bucky Barnes again. There was no going around it, but as it turned out, you were a coward. You were a coward, because you needed him to know. He deserved to know too – but you didn’t want to scare him off. Not now, that things were finally good. You’ve come all this way, and you promised him you wouldn’t leave.

This longing – this love – was only going to be a huge problem.

“I can’t. I don’t want to mess things up.”

She sighed at you and turned around to put the dishes away. “So you do have feelings for him.”

You looked at her, your eyes wide. She smiled big.

“Maybe you should date him.” You raised your eyebrows and crinkled your nose as she turned back to you, hands on her hips.

“Ah—no, don’t drag me into this.” She swatted you with a dishcloth when you raised your hands in defeat. “Let’s find you a place to sleep, girl.”

After much insistence on your part, Sarah agreed to let you sleep on the couch instead of Sam’s bed. You didn’t want to strip them off their comforts, so you settled on the couch, and Bucky took a mattress and placed it next to you on the floor.

The setup is familiar. You’ve slept like this before, you on either the bed or the couch and Bucky on the floor. Only thing left was Steve, your third piece. You’ve been trying not to spend all of your time missing him, but quiet nights were especially hard.

You tossed and turned for a while until Bucky reached for your hand, another of those old habits that had been resurfacing ever since you two started spending time together. With your hand secure in his, you drive the grief away and let sleep take you.

--

You woke up with the sounds of two kids making their own fighting sound effects. The smaller had the shield on his arm. Maybe it wasn’t just metal, after all. Maybe it could be more.

Bucky watched them from his makeshift bed, a grin on his face. “Hey.”

You giggled as the boys hurried to put the shield back in its case and ran back further into the house, startled by Bucky’s voice. “They’re so sweet.”

“You ever wanted them? Kids, I mean.”

You’re caught by surprise by Bucky’s question. Taking a deep breath, you processed it, trying to find a good way to answer it.

“I did – still do, I guess. It was never the right time. Or the right person.”

You closed your eyes, thinking that your person was laying right under you, on a mattress on the floor.

Strange thing, timing – you were born in 1918, and spent most of your life believing that your time with Bucky had come and gone. Now you both were more than one hundred years old, living way past your time frame – perhaps completely different people than what you used to be, but together again nonetheless.

Timing wasn’t right then – you wondered if timing could be right now.

Opening your eyes, you glanced at the clock on the wall. It was early, still barely 6.

“I have to go.”

Bucky was sat up, looking at you with a little frown. “No breakfast?”

“Well, I don’t want to abuse Sarah’s welcome. I’ll get it on the way.”

Bucky got up with you, his eyes following you as you gathered your things and he folded the blankets you two used during the night. He followed you to the door, then out to the front lawn, then to the start of the road right at the edge of the property.

“Don’t forget to have that talk with Sam, okay?”

“Yeah. I won’t.” He looked back at the house, and then at you. “I’ll see ya’ back at the city?”

You hummed. “You know where to find me.”

Bucky pulled you in, kissing your head, and you hugged him back tightly. His heartbeat was strong and steady.

“Take care, sugar.”

“You too, Buck.”

You turned back twice as you were walking away, finding Bucky on the same spot the first time and making his way back to the house on the second. Your eyes met both times, and you had to keep yourself from running back.

[fairfowl]

Hot Chocolate and Liquor (I Need A Drink)

April 2nd 2019, the remaining Hargreeves tie up loose ends (Klaus-centric, no Sparrows)

this fic is also on AO3

-

They arrived on April 2nd 2019 to an empty tomb of a mansion, echoing and cold. By the staircase Grace had booted up and greeted them warmly, leading them down to the kitchen for a snack as though nothing had ever happened.

There was no sign of Pogo.

No sign of Reginald. 

No apocalypse.

After everything that they'd experienced the anticlimactic calm had been surreal. The six of them had followed their mother's measured footsteps down the halls of their childhood home, politely averting their eyes as Diego wiped tears away. 

Five had led, with Vanya close to him. Diego and Luther followed side by side, while Klaus trailed after Allison, his fingers ghosting over the sleeve of her dress as though he was afraid of getting lost. Allison bore her brother's clinginess well, eventually grabbing and holding his bony hand in hers as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Both of them were shaking, but neither said a word.

Mom brewed hot chocolate uncannily quickly, and with more skill than Klaus had seen from professional chefs. Miraculously his flask had survived their battle and time travel, after pouring a hearty dose of the contents into his hot chocolate Klaus generously donated the rest to his siblings. Vanya, Allison, and Five accepted his offer—some more gratefully than others—while Luther and Diego declined. 

Instead Diego had turned to the counter and said something completely unprecedented.

"Mom, why don't you come sit down with us?" 

Their mother was widely considered to be unflappable. Klaus had seen her wrist deep in her childrens' guts, standing between knife wielding teenagers, and facing her own demise, all with the same demure expression on her face. But now she paused 

“Sure” She said finally, smiling, her blank processing expression turning to the familiar bright smile that she wore so often. “If it makes you kids happy.” 

It did.

She placed a plate of perfectly arranged cookies at the center of the table before sitting beside Diego,  her back straight, prim and proper, while the six of them silently drank their hot chocolate. It felt like a tiny little revolution. 

Allison had been the first to stand. Her graceful fingers had ghosted over her wedding ring as she explained. 

“I need to talk to Claire.” 

Five had nodded immediately, and the others followed suit. Klaus gave his sister a smile and two thumbs up before returning to his drink. He wondered idly if he would be able to summon Raymond, it was possible that he had died in the fifty-six years they’d travelled to be here. If he were alive he would be in his late eighties. Klaus hoped he’d had a good life, for Allison’t sake. 

As Allison left he switched the mug in his hands and grasped the hem of Vanya’s oversized shirt, rolling the stitches between his pointer and thumb hello.

Vanya looked at him, at first surprised and then soft, she said nothing but scooted closer. Across from him Diego met his eyes as Luther watched Allison go. Her heels made a quick anxious tap tap tap as she walked away.

“What are we going to do now?” Klaus broke the silence. “Now that it’s all over do we just go back to what we were doing before? Go our separate ways?” 

The remaining siblings shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other. 

“I don’t really have anything to go back to.” Luther said, running a large finger over the table’s wooden surface. “The last four years I spent in this time were all wasted on another of Dad’s lies. It’s not like I can just go back up to the moon and do nothing.” 

Luthor’s expression was caught between a rueful smile and a grimace. The look on his face was all but alien to the rest of the siblings, who had rarely seen Luthor look anything but neutral, annoyed, or smug. Klaus wondered if the ability to move his face was something that he’d learned on the moon, or if he’d picked it up during his time as an underground boxer who worked for the mafia. 

And wasn’t that still surreal. 

“I don’t have anywhere to be either.” Five chimed in, staring at his hot chocolate as if it held all the secrets of time and space. He seemed shocked by the prospect. After decades of single minded survival, years of assassinations, and two weeks of mad running to stop the world from ending, it must have been outright bizarre to find himself with nothing else to do. 

“You could join me!” Klaus interjected, unwilling to let the mood sour without at least an attempt of a joke. He pointed at Five.  “I have a lovely little alley behind Dunkin Donuts that’s just lovely this time of year.” 

“Why didn’t you invite me to your alley?” Luthor’s face turned to a more familiar annoyed expression.

“You wouldn’t fit.” As he spoke Klaus jolted slightly as Vanya’s small hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist.

“You were living in an alley?” 

“Not really.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t really live anywhere Vanya. It’s just a nice alley.”

Vanya looked as though she doubted that. 

"I think I'm still first chair." She murmured, there was something heavy in her voice. Klaus wondered if she really even wanted the position. "But I also think I probably still killed Leonard." 

There was something matter of fact in her statement, a resignation to accompany the guilt. 

"That doesn't matter." Luther frowned. "He was evil."

If only it was that simple. 

"Were your fingerprints on any of those knives?" Diego asked, his expression thoughtful.

"No, but there should be some in the house …. And in his car." 

“Ours would be too then.” Diego said, drawing one of his knives and fiddling with it thoughtfully. “Allison, Five, and I all went to his house to look around.”

Klaus frowned, glancing about the room before he remembered that the presence that he was looking for wasn’t there. If Ben wasn’t around then he’d have to think for himself. Vanya’s hand was warm on his clammy skin. 

“Remember when we were kids, and Dad would send Ben into a room with all the bad guys so he could ‘take care of them’?” He used his free hand to make air quotes. “We kind of committed murder all the time and never faced consequences for it. Why should we now?”

It was a horrible thing to say, arrogant and callous and extremely typical for the Hargreeves family. His siblings nodded uneasily. The room felt colder.

“How did Dad make all of that go away?” Klaus continued. 

“He had a lot of connections.” Luther ventured, his mug dwarfed to the comparative size of a shot glass by his giant fingers. “Between him and Pogo they could just sort of make anything go away. I think he had connections with the government somehow.” 

“Do you think we could inherit any of those connections?” Vanya raised her head, pushing hair out of her face. She was so pale that her eyes seemed black against the whiteness of her skin, even in the warm light of the kitchen.  

“Maybe.” Luther looked at Diego as if he was expecting a challenge, but Diego simply whittled at the edge of the table, his expression conflicted. Klaus doubted that their tentative plan sat well with their brother’s zealous sense of justice, and he was grateful to Diego for the restraint that he had shown so far. After their time in the 1960s, his experiences in the psychiatric hospital, his failed attempt to save Kennedy, and whatever had happened with Lila—Klaus really was confused about what had gone on there—must have exhausted him. 

Either that or Mom’s presence had mellowed him out. 

Speaking of Mom.

“There’s a form in your father’s office that can be used to deal with casualties. Once filled out it can be submitted electronically to an anonymous government agent who then proceeds to clean up any loose ends.” Her smile was like the ones shown in toothpaste commercials. 

“Well fuck.” Five’s time stopping the apocalypse really had done nothing for his manners.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Really they hadn’t known if it would work—they still didn’t know for sure—but it was better than doing nothing. After they had brought her up to speed Allison had put it well.

“It’s a good first step.” 

So they crowded together in their deceased father’s office, their voices hushed as though they were still children under Reginald’s watchful eye. Above them the unmarred portrait loomed, unyielding and perpetually disdainful. 

“I wonder if he was ever happy.” Vanya murmured, looking up at the painting as Luthor opened the file cabinet. Allison perched against the desk her eyes on Klaus as Klaus in turn watched Vanya. 

“I doubt it.” Five responded coming up to stand beside their sister. “Whatever else he was, Reginald Hargreeves was a terminal malcontent.” 

It was a grim pronouncement for a man who had ultimately committed suicide, but certainly not untrue. The terminal malcontent and his seven little natural disasters, spinning out of control at every opportunity. 

Six.

Klaus wrapped his arms around himself, his right hand resting on his left shoulder Hello. Sky Soldiers. Hello Sky Soldiers. 

Luthor made a satisfied noise as he found the folder in question, drawing out the form and placing it on the ostentatious hardwood desk. At the door their mother watched silently, her default serene smile cemented to her face. Five took the paper, scanning it clinically as he held one of Reginald’s fountain pens in his hand. 

It looked expensive and Klaus wondered how he’d missed it during his first looting of the office. It had been only days ago technically speaking, but for Klaus nearly four years had passed. The siblings who had once been exactly the same age down to the hour were now staggered across a few years’ worth of experiences. 

Physically Klaus was the eldest, but mentally Five had half a decade of trauma over the rest of them. Sometimes Klaus caught his brother’s eyes and those decades seemed especially apparent. 

“We had forms very like this at the commission.” Five’s voice was high pitched and childish, but his intonation held the heaviness of his age. “The field agents use them to account for accidental collateral damage, it’s pretty standard paperwork. This one has a CIA stamp but otherwise it’s nearly word for word.”

For a moment the siblings were silent. The fabric of Allison’s dress slipped across her knees as she shifted, Diego leaned forward, peering over Five’s shoulder. 

“Creepy.” He pronounced, long hair falling down to brush his cheek. Klaus wondered if he was going to shave it all off again now that they were all back. “Did you have to do that a lot?” 

“No. I was never sloppy enough to need it.”

Klaus wanted a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in three years, nothing, not even pot. After being spat out into 1960 he’d relied too much on Ben’s manifested abilities to get high, and after everything else cigarettes had hardly seemed worth it. Once Keechie had joined their group and started using charisma and psychobabble to push them all towards clean living Klaus had written nicotine off entirely to avoid losing control of the nebulous but extremely enthusiastic spiritual collective that had congregated around him. 

But the cult wasn’t there anymore.

Ben wasn’t there anymore.

He settled for biting his lip and mentally going over what he remembered of their father’s alcohol selection. At this point in life his memory was shot, but some things stuck out with obsessive clarity. He knew that there was top shelf vodka and gin behind the bar, scotch in the cabinet, ecstasy in his unicorn plushie, oxy in the infirmary, and a razor blade taped to the inside of the light fixture in the upstairs bathroom. 

He’d always had a good memory for escape routes, it was what had made him a good lookout in their childhood exploits. 

They filled out the paperwork in short order, and handed it to their mother to deliver. Even Five couldn't figure out who it would go to, but it was integrated into Grace’s programming and they collectively decided to trust her on this.

When they’d finished Allison hopped off the desk in a flurry of crinoline, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. 

“I’m going to get changed.” She said fingering the material of her skirt. “And then I need a drink.” 

Klaus smiled

“Way ahead of you.” 

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

They congregated by the bar. Klaus had poured for Vanya first before measuring out a shot for Five and himself. Diego and Luther hung back, looking at the bottles of liquor warily. Luther’s experiences with alcohol were limited to the one night days before the apocalypse, and if he’d had any feelings about that night he had yet to share them. Diego on the other hand had enough experience to know that he was better off if he avoided drinking in excess.

And he wasn’t shy about sharing his opinions.

“Really Klaus?” He looked disappointed, judgemental but not angry. 

“I already fell off the wagon Di, I might as well.” Klaus took the shot, Five and Vanya followed as Allison entered the room.

Her hair was pulled back and her clothes were much more modern.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you wear a t-shirt in years.” Klaus commented as she sat down. Their sister had changed into light wash jeans and a mustard yellow top. It was a sharp contrast from her extremely fashionable bespoke hollywood wardrobe, and the gorgeous dresses that she’d worn during their time in the past. She looked nice and Klaus wondered if he should follow suit. Wearing black felt right but he was getting chilly. 

He took another shot instead.

Diego finally shrugged, sitting beside Klaus at the bar and motioning Luther to follow him. Behind the bar Five rummaged for a moment before popping back up with a  satisfied expression and a green bottle. He poured himself a generous amount before sliding the bottle towards Allison and Vanya. Klaus could smell the familiar pine-y scent of gin. 

He poured himself another finger of vodka before passing the bottle into Diego’s waiting hand. 

“We should make a toast.” He said, mostly to fill the silence. Even surrounded by his siblings he felt alone, bereft of Ben’s familiar presence. 

“To what?” Luther asked, looking to Klaus as though he were expecting an order. For a man who had been raised to believe that he was a leader Klaus realized that Luther was absolutely most comfortable when following directions; whether the trait was a result of nature or Reginald’s grooming he couldn’t tell. 

“To Ben.” Vanya piped up, firm and confident in a way that she would have never been before. Klaus nodded.

“To Ben.”

[tenjouu]

revolvere (4/?)

facetious plot summary: Lancelot loses his magic upon traveling back in time to the day of Alice the Second’s arrival. How will he save the world equipped with only his winning looks and charisma? Read on to find out!

On this week’s episode of Lancelot’s Big D*ck Energy, Harr beams in to Lancelot’s office to confront him about his magic...

1  |  2  |  3  |  4 : the man in the mask

About Harr.

Lancelot knows, logically, that Harr can manifest in any space by will. He entered the Magic Tower by will, materializing in a flash of brilliant light that sparked horror rather than hope. And then Lancelot died in front of him.

So the next time Harr does it, Lancelot nearly dies again. From a heart attack.

When someone violates the laws of space and time, the world trembles and splits for a brief moment like it can’t repress its wounds. There’s a shimmer, like those mirages on cobblestone under an unforgiving sun, but Lancelot thinks it might be Amon, come two days too early. He’s been had.

He isn’t exactly proud to have been caught with his pants figuratively around his ankles, but he has his letter opener ready in hand, banking on the element of surprise. Ready to fight for his life or die trying.

It’s Harr.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Lancelot says, unable to mask the relief. Dying knocked his facade out of place a little—might have even cracked it, really.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Harr replies coolly, arching an unimpressed brow.

But Lancelot realizes it’s Harr. Harr is actually standing in front of him, in his office (with his muddy boots staining the red carpet).

A living, breathing Harr, albeit scowling and angry. Lancelot recognizes the flatness of his tone for anger, isn’t quite sure what he did to make Harr this mad though well aware that he does deserve all of Harr’s ire—

“What is the meaning of this, Lancelot?” Harr demands, interrupting his brooding. “You can’t—“

His eyes widen upon realizing that he can’t. Can’t feel Lancelot’s magic, that is. He looks like he’s been struck in the chest.

For the record, that makes the two of them. Before dying, it’d been months since he had seen Harr. The last person he saw was Harr. The expression Harr had made then wasn’t of a man looking at a cursed enemy. The expression he’s making right now though is definitely of a man thinking of cursing someone.

Harr, remarkably, doesn’t back away or tense up when Lancelot comes closer. Not like a fugitive would. Nor like a betrayed friend. He probably figures that Lancelot can’t do much harm now.

“You look well,” Lancelot says, content. Harr’s face is a little gaunt, but he seems sound in mind and body. Still angry. Some sticks up places are just permanent. Lancelot makes a noise of satisfaction. “Good to see you, Harr.”

“Loki did say you seem to have gone mad,” Harr says with resignation. He reaches up and presses his fingers into the tender spot on Lancelot’s jaw.

Lancelot jerks back. Because Harr isn’t a touchy person. Also, he doesn’t want to feel the pain. Harr’s eyes narrow at the reflex.

“Did Amon do this to you?” he asks coldly.

Lancelot isn’t sure which part he’s talking about. The no magic part, the bruise on his jaw part, or administering the killing blow part? Oh well. Lancelot decides to milk it for what it’s worth. “It’s not safe,” he says abruptly, channeling every ounce of melodrama from the swirling of his body chakras. “You can’t be here. Amon could come any minute—“

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harr cuts in, steely. When Lancelot chances a glance over, he sees that Harr’s lone visible grey eye has darkened to silver with pure rage.

Lancelot opens his mouth, but Harr whirls right on him.

“You fool,” he says, building momentum. “You stupid fool. You great idiot. You should have known that working with Amon would only bring you ruin. What he must have done to your father, and—and look what—look what he’s done to you—”

“Is that all?” Lancelot asks, voice shaking with unfathomable emotion.

“No,” Harr replies. “I’m not finished. You suicidal maniac. You have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. I do not understand how you are still alive. Amon took your magic without taking your soul? Do you understand what that means? He’s accomplished what he wanted all along!”

It’s…actually getting really hard. Trying not to laugh. Lancelot offers a wobbly smile that Harr mistakes for fragility, because Harr, though still furious, slowly draws back his temper. The thickness of his magical aura recedes with it. Lancelot only knows because the magical light by his desk flickers. After all, he can’t feel magic anymore.

“So help me,” Lancelot says simply.

“The nerve,” Harr says, without heat. “To think that I’ll just help you.”

“Why else did you come to my office?” Lancelot keeps his expression open, void of deception this time. He knows that he can trust Harr. He’s always trusted Harr. And he hopes that Harr will choose to trust him again, without the pretense of life or death.

“To see for myself if it was true,” Harr mutters unconvincingly. “To see for myself if you had really lost it.”

Harr has always been a terrible liar. Actually the worst. His tips of his ears turn a little red when he lies, you see. He glances left, where the eyes naturally fall when the brain tries to deceive the body. 

Lancelot is glad to see him living.

“I’m sane, I assure you. Now…” Lancelot claps his hands together authoritatively. “Since you’ve agreed, I’d like your protection.”

“I haven’t agreed,” Harr grumbles, but crosses his arms over his chest nonetheless. Warily, he says, “I can set up wards in your office that are triggered by aggressive magic—”

“No,” Lancelot says. “Not for me. There’s a bit of a situation, you see. You presumably already know. Amon has eyes on Alice.”

/

Harr very, very reluctantly agrees to keep Alice under his watch. Conversely, Lancelot thinks in sneaky, sneaky relief, that that means the Black Army will be able to protect Harr and his own ward as their own. Two birds with one stone.

“I didn’t take you for a romantic,” Harr notes, readying to depart. He adjusts his cloak, putting the hood over his head.

“Am I?” Lancelot asks curiously.

“Love at first sight,” Harr elaborates. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to reform out of love.”

Lancelot blinks at him, wondering if he’s been caught. He stares at Harr for the longest time, trying to figure out if he’s been figured out. Harr stares right back.

“There’s nothing romantic about it,” Lancelot finally says. “More tragic than romantic, actually.”

“There’s no tragedy.” Harr points out, puzzled. Harr then offers him his first smile of the night. “It’s good to see you have your priorities straight now.”

Lancelot leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth quirking up wryly. “My priorities have never changed,” he shoots back, and Harr vanishes with a humph.

He means it. He’ll make Cradle a place for everyone. A home (that Harr can return to).

[sadlittlenerdking]

Crossroads

The Magicians

Queliot, Eliot/Mike

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: All you need to know is this is about Eliot and the Suicide Fountain.

They open it back up in the spring. When Sunderland makes the announcement during class, Eliot merely rolls his eyes, and carries on pretending to do his work while a first year finishes up both of their projects. But he saves it. He’s not sure why he does, isn’t even sure it’s a conscious decision. But it’s there, ticking like a time bomb at the back of his mind.

He finds himself staring at it as he walks across campus. They’re all trying to pretend everything’s normal, but he killed Mike; Mike didn’t even know—He’s not doing it consciously. Really. It’s just . . . there’s something about it that pulls him in closer. Something that makes him see it, in a way that he never has before. Maybe that’s the danger of it.

It wins.

Four days after they open it back up, he has some time before he has to meet up with Margo and Quentin. It doesn’t help that Sunderland spelled him sober, so all these feelings are bubbling up over the surface, and he feels like he’s going to fucking explode. It’s not on purpose. But, he finds himself moving towards it. He can’t even pretend that’s not what he’s doing, because otherwise he wouldn’t step foot on this side of campus. Wouldn’t even look this distraction. Never has before.

He stops about twenty yards away from it. Inhales shakily, like something’s settling in his gut and he needs to make room for it. And then he shakes his head and stumbles backwards, before turning on his heel and rushing towards the Physical Kids Cottage for whatever drugs he can find to make it all go away.

Margo would never forgive him.

But Eliot’s always been selfish.

Which is how, three days later, he’s back. Closer.

He can feel the mist from the fountain settling on his skin, he’s so close. He closes his eyes, lets himself get a little lost in the sensation.

It’s almost enough.

But he’s high. So he turns around and walks away again.

And he doesn’t think about it for nearly a week because they’re so focused on killing the Beast. But after Margo forces him to study with her—probably because she doesn’t trust him not to get unbelievably high—he passes it. And then he stops. And turns back around to face it.

He clears his throat, and looks around. Later, he thinks. He’ll deal with it later.

It. He could laugh.

Later, after they’ve finished trying to find a way to defeat the Beast, Quentin’s curled up on the couch, knocked out and snoring. Margo’s upstairs, either sleeping or reading, Eliot can’t be sure. He looks down on Quentin for a long moment. Takes in the way his hair falls over his face, and the strands on his mouth that rise and fall with his every breath. He kneels down on the ground beside him, reaches up to gently cup Quentin’s cheek.

“I think I’ll miss you the most,” He breathes, soft, before leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to Quentin’s temple. He stays there for a moment, breathing in Quentin’s aftershave, before finally pulling away and nodding to himself.

He just can’t do this anymore. They’ll be fine.

And if they’re not . . .

He doesn't want to think about that. Instead, he lets his hand slide off Quentin’s cheek, pat gently at the space above his heart, and then turns on his heel and walks out of the cottage.

The walk is short, or long, he doesn’t really know. Too lost in his thoughts. Wondering how it’ll feel. if it’ll be quick or slow, or anticlimactic. He wonders if anyone will know he did it, or if he’ll just be marked down as another missing student in the Brakebills Book of Oh God We Fucked Up. But before he knows it, he’s standing at the base of it.

Of the Suicide Fountain.

He steps up, carefully, and stands on the edge of the fountain. Gazes down into the water.

Closes his eyes. One deep breath—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His eyes jerk open. He knows that voice.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” He mutters without looking. He’s too lost in the ripples in the water. Too lost in general, actually. Too far gone to be saved. Go home, Q, he thinks. Just go back to the cottage and forget he’s here.

“I’m—I’m a light sleeper. What are you doing?”

Eliot doesn’t respond. Just takes in a slow breath. Quentin’s presence shouldn’t—

“El,” Quentin breathes, and Eliot can hear the drag of his shoes against the concrete. Quentin needs to learn to walk without dragging his feet. Have confidence. “Eliot.” His voice is firmer now, though it’s stunted because he sounds a little breathless and scared. What’s there to be scared of? “Look at me.”

“Go back to the Cottage, Q.”

“Why?”

He has to roll his eyes at that. “You know why.”

There’s more of the scratch-scraping of Quentin’s shoes, until Eliot can feel him standing right behind him. Like electricity bounces between them, detecting the distance. Trying to close it. “I’m not leaving you alone here, Eliot.”

“Why not? You’ve been on the ledge before. Only difference is I’m not too much of a coward to go through with it.”

He practically feels the quick inhale of air Quentin takes.

“Eliot,” He murmurs after a beat, “Don’t do this.”

“I’ve already made up my mind.”

“What about Margo?”

Eliot clenches his jaw. “Margo’ll be fine.”

“Do you really think that?”

No. “Yes.”

There’s a small sigh of resignation, and Eliot almost thinks Quentin’s going to leave. But then Quentin drags his feet forward, until he’s stepping up onto the edge of the fountain, squaring his shoulders and looking up at Eliot. “Fine,” He says, reaching out to lace his fingers through Eliot’s. His hands are trembling. Eliot looks down at their hands, mouth falling open. “You’re not doing it alone, then.”

“Let go,” Eliot murmurs. But he doesn’t move to untangle their hands. Just stares down at them, and flexes slightly to feel Quentin squeeze tighter.

“No.”

He rolls his lips together, and finally allows himself to look up at him. Which—yep, that’s why he’d been avoiding looking at him—is a mistake, because Quentin looks like a puppy. That Eliot’s kicked repeatedly. Without remorse. “Jesus, Quentin,” He mutters, though his voice comes out hoarse and slightly choked off, “Stop looking at me like I stepped on your tail.”

“Stop trying to kill yourself,” Quentin bites back.

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is life, and yet.” He motions with his free hand, “Here we are.”

“Q . . .”

“You jump. I jump. That’s the deal, Eliot.” It’s almost scary how stiff and serious his voice is. Eliot looks away, gazes down at the water in front of them.

He inhales shakily. “I can’t—“ He breaks off, shaking his head as the words get lost. How can he even begin to put how he feels into words? It’s a mess. A big fucking ball of emotion that is clamping down on his chest, and making it hard to breathe. Like the entire world has wound itself up in him, clamping down on his heart.

Quentin squeezes his hand, and Eliot can see him nodding in his peripheral. “I know,” He says, soft. “But you have to.”

“Why?”

He hears Quentin lick his lips. “Because if you don’t, these feelings. They—they don’t disappear. They just. They go into someone else.” He pulls Eliot’s arm in closer, squeezing his hand so tight it hurts. But it’s a nice pain—tangible. Distinguishable. So different than what he’s been feeling since Mike. “I’ve—I wasn’t a coward every time I tried, El. I, uh. I did it, once. I just failed.”

Eliot turns to look at him. “What?” He blinks. What the fuck?

“I was fourteen,” Quentin supplies, looking out at the water. “Swallowed a whole bottle of pills. Woke up the next morning.” He shakes his head, and swallows audibly. “Sometimes I still—I still think about what that would have done to my dad. If I’d succeeded.” His face crumples as he turns his attention back on Eliot. “He would have been crushed. I’m—I’m all he has. He would have blamed himself.” He sucks his bottom lip in, reaching up with his free hand to wipe at his eyes. “Thing is, Eliot,” He breathes, “I—I think about doing it all the time.” He turns away and shrugs. “I know the best buildings in New York to do it, too. Least security, easiest roof access. Highest roof. Best view—everything.”

“What stops you?” He doesn’t even mean to ask, it just blurts out of him.

Quentin nods once, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Not just my dad, not anymore. It’s—“ Finally, he looks back at him. “It’s got a lot to do with you, actually.” He shrugs. “And Margo—and, Alice. Everyone. Even Penny.”

“How?” Eliot takes a quick breath and turns to face him. “How does—how can you think about what they’re feeling if it hurts this much?” A broken little sound vibrates through his throat, and Quentin’s eyebrows furrow in response. “Q—it. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. Alcohol doesn’t even put a dent in it. Cocaine? Heroine? Fucking ecstasy? It doesn’t go away. It—it’s taken over everything, Q.” He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes the saltwater on his lips, and he exhales so harshly his stomach crushes inward achingly. “How can thinking about—other people—how’s it even possible?”

“Because if I don’t . . . it, it consumes me.”

“Doesn’t it already?”

Quentin doesn’t say anything for a few long moments, his eyes flickering between Eliot’s. And for at least a couple of the moments, Eliot thinks this is the moment that confirms that it doesn’t end. But then Quentin turns so he’s fully facing him, and reaches up, cupping Eliot’s jaw. “Not when I’m like this,” He says, so soft, Eliot can barely hear him over the fountain. “Not when I have an anchor.”

“What does that even mean?”

He swallows, loud. “Every time it gets hard. Which is like,” he rolls his eyes, looking down for a moment, “Every day. I—I think about what would happen. If someone else had this in them. If I died—and they had to live with. With knowing that I was feeling like this—and that they didn’t do anything, because i didn’t—didn’t say anything to them. I think about you,” His hand slips down to Eliot’s shoulder. “How you’d react with this in you. And Margo, and Alice. Julia—I think about everyone that. That cares about me even a little. I think about this shit—this. Brokenness. Moving into them like some kind of parasitic snake—and it makes me so angry. At me. At my brain. At—at everything.

“The anger is somehow so much—brighter? Fiercer? Stronger, maybe. Than the pain. I refuse to let this shit in me control me. I’m not—I’m not it’s puppet. I’m not it’s host. Even if it feels like it. I, just. I have to fight. Otherwise other people suffer. And I don’t—I won’t let them.”

“How is being angry better than this?”

“If I’m angry I’m not dead.”

Eliot reaches up to wrap his hand around Quentin’s on his chest. “That’s so fucked.”

“So is being so coked up and drunk that you’re barely alive, Eliot.” He shrugs, “Neither of us have great coping mechanisms.”

“Then we shouldn’t bother trying.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so desperate, but somehow it does. Comes out high pitched and broken.

“That’s like saying because the Beast might kill us we shouldn’t try. Or—friendships are hard and take work, so we shouldn’t make friends. Love has risks, so we shouldn’t fall in love. Everything in life is a fucking battle, Eliot. We can’t just find the path of least resistance. Otherwise we’re not living at all.”

“I fell for someone and I ended up killing him.” He lets go of Quentin’s hand on his heart, and looks down at the water beneath them. “Q, I’d rather be dead than—than do anything like this. I’d rather be dead. Every person I’ve loved I’ve—“

“You haven’t hurt me.”

Eliot swallows. “Who says I—“

“I’m not an idiot, Eliot.” Quentin fits the fabric of Eliot’s vest in his fist, which is only mildly aggravating as Eliot had chosen his finest vest to wear tonight. Desperate and miserable or not, he wasn’t going to die looking like garbage. He’d even brushed his hair. The fingers still laced through Eliot’s squeeze tighter still. “I know everyone—everyone thinks I am. But I’m not. I know. I—“ He bites down on his bottom lip.

“You?”

“I know you probably think Margo’s . . . the only one that would care. If you . . .” He trails off and looks down at the fountain. “But she’s not.” He looks back up at him, eyes misty. “I would miss you. You—you are the single most important person in my life right now.”

“Q—“

“I know it’s selfish to ask you to stay. Or—or greedy, I guess. But I can help you. With this.”

“How?” Eliot shakes his head, “Q—this shit. It’s not—it’s not fading just because you—“

“You told me,” Quentin interrupts, “Back when I thought I was going to get expelled.”

“Q . . .”

“I’m not going to tell you it gets better, Eliot, because you know it won’t. It doesn’t. It just—hurts in different ways. But—I. I’m telling you you’re not alone here.” He offers a closed lip smile—the one he usually reserves for pretending he’s not upset, letting go of Eliot’s vest, and sliding his hand over his heart, “You’re not alone.”

“That’s not fair.”

Quentin lets out a wet laugh, nodding, as some of the tears finally slip over his cheeks, “I thought we already established that life’s not fair, El.”

Eliot’s chin trembles. “Q—“

“Please come back with me.” His eyes are wide and open, and he looks more like a puppy than he ever has before, and Eliot’s heart fucking clenches tight. Not the universe and the pressure and pain surrounding it—but his fucking heart. “Don’t do this. Don’t end this because you’re in pain. Nobody will ever get to meet you. Nobody will ever get to love you—“

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Quentin mutters, pressing his hand into Eliot’s chest. He’s so warm, like a heated blanket in the coldest winter. “Please. We can get through this. Together.” He must sense Eliot’s hesitation because he pulls in a deep breath. “Lean on me. When it gets bad. Eliot. Let me help.”

“I can—“

“So help me god if you say you can’t I will strangle you, and then tell Margo.”

“Margo would just kill me instead.”

Quentin stares at him for a long moment, before letting a little laugh bubble out. “Yeah,” He says, moving forward so he can rest his forehead on Eliot’s shoulder. “She would. But, still.” He pauses, the silence heavy. When he speaks again, his hands are shaking again, and the words come out so quiet, Eliot’s not even sure he hears them right. “I need you, Eliot Waugh.”

He brings his free hand up, cupping the back of Quentin’s neck. His thumb dips in the hairline, and he nods, tucking his chin against Quentin’s temple. “Okay,” He breathes. Quentin goes tense, before he carefully pulls away, just enough to look up at him with big, round, hopeful eyes. Eliot nods. “Okay,” He repeats. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Quentin echoes. He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing up and down, and then looks down at their hands laced together. “Okay.” He looks back up, and then very deliberately, takes a step back, before moving and hanging one food over the side of the fountain, hovering over the cement. He holds it there, raising an eyebrow at Eliot. Silently, Eliot mimics the motion, and Quentin dips down so his toes press into the concrete, and he pauses again, until Eliot follows the motion.

And then Quentin tugs him off the fountain, and drops his hand so he can wrap his arms around Eliot’s waist, and bury his face in his chest. It takes a moment, but Eliot carefully wraps his arms around Quentin, squeezing him like it’s all he’s got holding him together.

To be fair, it kind of is.

It feels okay. It’s not . . . better. It fucking hurts every time he breathes, and he can’t handle any of this, but.

Quentin needs him.

“We’d better get back,” He says after a few long minutes, nosing his way along Quentin’s hairline. “Before anyone notices.”

Quentin nods into his chest, but doesn’t move to pull away. Eliot opens his mouth to try again, but Quentin twists his neck until his chin is poking Eliot in the sternum. “No keeping it locked away,” He says, “No burying it under the drugs—talk to me. Cope.”

“Easier said than done.”

Quentin shrugs. “That’s why it needs to be done.”

Eliot bites down on his bottom lip before closing his eyes and nodding. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Okay, Q.” He opens his eyes, narrowing them down at Quentin as he unravels one arm and uses it to poke him in the side, “But if you think I’m giving up alcohol—“

“Oh god, no,” Quentin wrinkles his nose, “No, we need all the alcohol.”

For the first time in weeks, Eliot feels an amused little smile tug at his lips as he nods. “Now?”

Quentin blinks up at him with his big doe eyes. “That’s the plan. Get wasted and forget what just almost happened.”

“We could fall into bed together, too.”

The corners of Quentin’s eyes crinkle as he rolls them, “Yeah, maybe,” he says, pulling away and holding his hand out for him.

Eliot looks down at it and then back up at him. “If you’re worried—“

“I’m not. I just—I wanna. Hold. Your hand.”

“Oh. Okay.” He nods, once, and then takes Quentin’s hand in his. “Think we can . . . take the long way back?”

Quentin nods, moving to lean into him as they start walking. “‘Course.”

[inkyardpress]

10 YA Reads That Have Us Loving the Skin We’re In

There are so many diverse and empowering new reads out there totally flooding our TBR that we couldn’t pick just one of our current obsessions to share—so here’s a list of ten we can’t stop talking about. From kick-ass queer anthologies to MC’s who totally get what it’s like living with anxiety, from the body-positive heroes we deserve to the everyday teens showing us how to be true to who we are inside, these books have us feeling ourselves and celebrating our individuality.

Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now by Dana L. Davis

For sixteen-year-old Tiffany Sly, life hasn't been safe or normal for a while. Losing her mom to cancer has her a little bit traumatized, and now she has to leave her hometown of Chicago to live with the biological dad she's never known.

Anthony Stone is a rich man with four other daughters—and rules for every second of the day. Tiffany tries to make the best of things, but she doesn't fit into her new luxurious, but super-strict, home—or get along with her standoffish sister London. The only thing that makes her new life even remotely bearable is the strange boy across the street. Marcus McKinney has had his own experiences with death, and the unexpected friendship that blossoms between them is the only thing that makes her feel grounded.

But Tiffany has a secret. Another man claims he's Tiffany's real dad—and she has only seven days before he shows up to demand a paternity test and the truth comes out. With her life about to fall apart all over again, Tiffany finds herself discovering unexpected truths about her father, her mother and herself, and realizing that maybe family is in the bonds you make—and that life means sometimes taking risks.

Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

Puddin’ by Julie Murphy

Millie Michalchuk has gone to fat camp every year since she was a little girl. Not this year. This year she has new plans to chase her secret dream of being a newscaster—and to kiss the boy she’s crushing on.

Callie Reyes is the pretty girl who is next in line for dance team captain and has the popular boyfriend. But when it comes to other girls, she’s more frenemy than friend.

When circumstances bring the girls together over the course of a semester, they surprise everyone (especially themselves) by realizing that they might have more in common than they ever imagined.

Puddin’ is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

Fat Girl on a Plane by Kelly DeVos

FAT.

High school senior Cookie Vonn’s postgraduation dreams include getting out of Phoenix, attending Parsons and becoming the next great fashion designer. But in the world of fashion, being fat is a cardinal sin. It doesn’t help that she’s constantly compared to her supermodel mother—and named after a dessert. Thanks to her job at a fashion blog, Cookie scores a trip to New York to pitch her portfolio and appeal for a scholarship, but her plans are put on standby when she’s declared too fat to fly. Forced to turn to her BFF for cash, Cookie buys a second seat on the plane. She arrives in the city to find that she’s been replaced by the boss’s daughter, a girl who’s everything she’s not—ultrathin and superrich. Bowing to society’s pressure, she vows to lose weight, get out of the friend zone with her crush and put her life on track.

SKINNY.

Cookie expected sunshine and rainbows, but nothing about her new life is turning out like she planned. When the fashion designer of the moment offers her what she’s always wanted—an opportunity to live and study in New York—she finds herself in a world full of people more interested in putting women down than dressing them up. Her designs make waves, but her real dream of creating great clothes for people of all sizes seems to grow more distant by the day.

Will she realize that she’s always had the power to make her own dreams come true?

Fat Girl on a Plane is out June 5th. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

Undead Girl Gang by Lily Anderson

Mila Flores and her best friend Riley have always been inseparable. There's not much excitement in their small town of Cross Creek, so Mila and Riley make their own fun, devoting most of their time to Riley's favorite activity: amateur witchcraft.

So when Riley and two Fairmont Academy mean girls die under suspicious circumstances, Mila refuses to believe everyone's explanation that her BFF was involved in a suicide pact. Instead, armed with a tube of lip gloss and an ancient grimoire, Mila does the unthinkable to uncover the truth: she brings the girls back to life.

Unfortunately, Riley, June, and Dayton have no recollection of their murders, but they do have unfinished business to attend to. Now, with only seven days until the spell wears off and the girls return to their graves, Mila must wrangle the distracted group of undead teens and work fast to discover their murderer...before the killer strikes again.

Undead Girl Gang is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

All Out: The No-Longer-Secret Stories of Queer Teens Throughout the Ages edited by Saundra Mitchell

Take a journey through time and genres and discover a past where queer figures live, love and shape the world around them. Seventeen of the best young adult authors across the queer spectrum have come together to create a collection of beautifully written diverse historical fiction for teens.

From a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood set in war-torn 1870s Mexico featuring a transgender soldier, to two girls falling in love while mourning the death of Kurt Cobain, forbidden love in a sixteenth-century Spanish convent or an asexual girl discovering her identity amid the 1970s roller-disco scene, All Out tells a diverse range of stories across cultures, time periods and identities, shedding light on an area of history often ignored or forgotten.

All Out is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

Runebinder by Alex R. Kahler

When magic returned to the world, it could have saved humanity, but greed and thirst for power caused mankind's downfall instead. Now once-human monsters called Howls prowl abandoned streets, their hunger guided by corrupt necromancers and the all-powerful Kin. Only Hunters have the power to fight back in the unending war, using the same magic that ended civilization in the first place.

But they are losing.

Tenn is a Hunter, resigned to fight even though hope is nearly lost. When he is singled out by a seductive Kin named Tomás and the enigmatic Hunter Jarrett, Tenn realizes he’s become a pawn in a bigger game. One that could turn the tides of war. But if his mutinous magic and wayward heart get in the way, his power might not be used in favor of mankind.

If Tenn fails to play his part, it could cost him his friends, his life…and the entire world.

Runebinder is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

A Thousand Beginnings and Endings edited by Ellen Oh and Elsie Chapman

Star-crossed lovers, meddling immortals, feigned identities, battles of wits, and dire warnings. These are the stuff of fairy tale, myth, and folklore that have drawn us in for centuries.

Fifteen bestselling and acclaimed authors reimagine the folklore and mythology of East and South Asia in short stories that are by turns enchanting, heartbreaking, romantic, and passionate.

A mountain loses her heart. Two sisters transform into birds to escape captivity. A young man learns the true meaning of sacrifice. A young woman takes up her mother’s mantle and leads the dead to their final resting place. From fantasy to science fiction to contemporary, from romance to tales of revenge, these stories will beguile readers from start to finish.

A Thousand Beginnings and Endings is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

The Diminished by Kaitlyn Sage Patterson

In the Alskad Empire, nearly all are born with a twin, two halves to form one whole…yet some face the world alone.

A rare few are singleborn in each generation, and therefore given the right to rule by the gods and goddesses. Bo Trousillion is one of these few, born into the royal line and destined to rule. Though he has been chosen to succeed his great-aunt, Queen Runa, as the leader of the Alskad Empire, Bo has never felt equal to the grand future before him.

When one twin dies, the other usually follows, unable to face the world without their other half. Those who survive are considered diminished, doomed to succumb to the violent grief that inevitably destroys everyone whose twin has died. Such is the fate of Vi Abernathy, whose twin sister died in infancy. Raised by the anchorites of the temple after her family cast her off, Vi has spent her whole life scheming for a way to escape and live out what’s left of her life in peace.

As their sixteenth birthdays approach, Bo and Vi face very different futures—one a life of luxury as the heir to the throne, the other years of backbreaking work as a temple servant. But a long-held secret and the fate of the empire are destined to bring them together in a way they never could have imagined.

The Diminished is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

Emergency Contact by Mary H. K. Choi

For Penny Lee high school was a total nonevent. Her friends were okay, her grades were fine, and while she somehow managed to land a boyfriend, he doesn’t actually know anything about her. When Penny heads to college in Austin, Texas, to learn how to become a writer, it’s seventy-nine miles and a zillion light years away from everything she can’t wait to leave behind.

Sam’s stuck. Literally, figuratively, emotionally, financially. He works at a café and sleeps there too, on a mattress on the floor of an empty storage room upstairs. He knows that this is the god-awful chapter of his life that will serve as inspiration for when he’s a famous movie director but right this second the seventeen bucks in his checking account and his dying laptop are really testing him.

When Sam and Penny cross paths it’s less meet-cute and more a collision of unbearable awkwardness. Still, they swap numbers and stay in touch—via text—and soon become digitally inseparable, sharing their deepest anxieties and secret dreams without the humiliating weirdness of having to see each other.

Emergency Contact is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

Someone to Love by Melissa de la Cruz

Olivia "Liv" Blakely knows how important it is to look good. Her father is running for governor, and Liv will be making public appearances with her family. Liv has an image to uphold—to her maybe boyfriend, to the new friends who suddenly welcome her into their circle and to the public, who love to find fault on social media.

Liv's sunny, charming facade hides a dark inner voice that will settle for nothing less than perfection. No matter who she has to give up to get there. No matter what she has to lose to do it. Liv is working for the day when what she sees in the mirror is worthy…worthy of confidence. Worthy of success. Worthy of love. But as the high price of perfection takes a toll, placing her body and soul at risk, Liv herself has to realize what she has to live for.

Someone to Love is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf!

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[red-5]

Bad Influence

Summary: Derek is a little shit when he drinks.

Pairings: Derek x Reader/OC

Warnings: Adult themes, alcohol consumption 

She collapsed onto Derek’s couch with a huff, muscles stinging and skin burning as her body stitched itself together. It was a state she has grown accustomed to in her years living as a lone wolf, given the chance hunters tended to take the path of least resistance and an omega without a pack was an almost guaranteed payday, but unfortunately, she never healed any faster. Not that it ever stopped her. Despite the unbelieving glances she received at the declaration, she maintained she would take the open road over pack life any day.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” she breathed through a grimace, flexing her fingers as the joints popped back into place.

“Tell me about it,” Derek grumbled beside her. He didn’t look any better than she did.

“Hey, it’s not my fault every time I stroll into town I find you bleeding and half dead on the side of the road.”

“That was one time!” he cried in protest, wincing, and easing back into the cushions as his bones protested the sudden movement.

“That was twice,” she corrected matter-of-factly.

“No, that second time didn’t count, and you know it.”

She shot him a teasing grin that widened as his scowl deepened.

“Whatever you say, Hale.”

“You don’t have to keep coming back, you know,” he shot back, the softness behind his green eyes betraying his sharp words.

“Aw sure I do,” she drawled, grasping his hand playfully. “Who would show up at the last minute and save the day? Be the hero?”

Her airy giggle filled the loft as he yanked his hand back and rolled his eyes.

“Some hero you are, we almost died. Again.”

“Almost. And stop being so dramatic. You’re a werewolf, and a Hale at that. You should be used to it by now.”

His withering glare only cause more giggles to bubble from her chest.

She sighed as her laughter subsided, noting happily that the dull throbs and sharp pangs that littered her abused body had also ceased. They sat in a comfortable silence, watching as the scattered rays of sunlight disappeared from the floorboards. Despite the impending darkness, neither one of them could be bothered to move from their slumped positions to turn on a light, content instead to bask in the spreading moonlight.

“All healed up?”

He lifted his chin from his chest, eyes cracking open as hummed an affirmative.

“Good. Cause you look like you could use a drink.”

He wanted to sigh in exasperation, deliver a perfectly executed eye roll, remind her that no amount alcohol in the world would have any discernable effect on either one of them, but, being far too used to her antics by now, he simply resigned to watch her with tired eyes as she leaned over the side of the couch to dig in her tattered backpack and extract a large mason jar. The clear liquid inside sloshed up the sides and to the underside of the tightly screwed on lid as she lifted it up to give it a little shake.

“Just what the doctor ordered.”

He raised a challenging eyebrow.

“I highly doubt that.”

She tutted softly as she swatted his legs away to set the jar on the table top in front of them and moved to extract two small glasses from her bag.

“Don’t be such a party pooper.”

“You know that’s not going to do anything to us, right?”

His blood ran cold as she eyed him slyly. He knew that look. Nothing good ever followed that look.

“Being an omega has its advantages.” She twisted the lid off and set it aside, tipping the jar just enough to fill the two glasses to just below the rim. “You meet some very interesting people on the road.”

She turned to him, carefully lifting one glass to present it to him.

“Notice anything?”

He eyed her for a moment before tentatively reaching to take it, taking care not to allow the liquid to spill over the sides as he took a wary sniff. The strong scent of alcohol burned his nose and made his eyes water, but there was something else, something terrifyingly familiar beneath the sharp sting.

“Wolfsbane?” He asked incredulously, eyes widening as he held the vile substance away from his face.

She laughed in earnest, taking her own glass with her as she settled back comfortably.

“Moonshine, actually. But yes. It was distilled with wolfsbane.” Her eyes sparkled gleefully as she watched him, tipping the liquid in question down her throat in one go to prove a point.

“See? Harmless. And yes, technically, this is wolfsbane poisoning,” she admitted as she reached forward to pour herself another glass. “But, it was also carefully calculated through a series of trial and nearly suicidal error. It won’t kill us, just knock us down enough to fully enjoy the side effects of alcohol consumption. God bless the south, and the rednecks that call it home.”

He watched her, eyes wide and mouth gaping open.

“You’re actually insane.”

“Oh, come on, this isn’t even the most dangerous thing you’ve done today.”

She raised her now-full glass in a toast, nodding suggestively at him when he didn’t budge.

“To the last minute. If not for that singular stretch of time, nothing would get done.”

His eyes passed back and forth between her glass and his several times before a grin cracked the stone mask that held permanent residence on his face.

“To omegas,” he relented, clinking his glass against hers. “And bad influences.”

She shot him a wink before downing the shot, grinning wildly as he erupted into a fit of hacking coughs as the liquid fire burned down his throat.

“Good, isn’t it?”

He narrowed his eyes at her as his lungs constricted painfully.

“I know just what you need.” She plucked the jar off the table, gripping his wrist to steady his hand enough to pour him another despite the wild shake of his head. “You’ll get used to it,” she soothed, guiding the rim to his lips and coaxing his mouth open.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” he accused after swallowing his second mouthful. Dizziness had already begun to take hold, and he firmly told himself it was the recent lack of oxygen, not the wolfsbane-laced alcohol she was force feeding him.

She shrugged, reaching to fill their glasses again.

“You need to get drunk. If you get any stiffer, you’ll snap in two. If Stiles were here, he’d back me up on that.”

He didn’t need to be coerced into downing the third glass. The burn had lessened considerably, and a pleasant warmth had begun to spread down his limbs.

“Besides, this has to be better than sneaking into your mother’s liquor cabinet and raiding her prized brandy specifically reserved for honored guests in a failed teenage attempt to test werewolf alcohol tolerance.”

The laugh that forced its way out of his throat surprised him, but he didn’t stop it. She returned it, sparing him a glance before taking a sip.

“I’m not even sure what she was angrier about, the fact that we drained a bottle of 100-year-old cognac or the fact that you did it with an orphaned, juvenile delinquent omega.”

Peals of fresh laughter erupted between them as they reverted to a lighter moment from their younger days. He had forgotten how good it felt to laugh, free and loud, without the imminent threat of danger looming over their heads. He sobered as the humor at the memory died, leaving the subconscious implication of her words in its wake.

“I’m sorry- “

“Don’t.” She held up a halting hand. “Don’t apologize. I don’t blame her. The lone wolf threatens the pack, brings death and destruction, blah blah. Nothing I haven’t heard before. She was just looking out for her own. Protecting her impressionable son from a bad influence. I would have been a black mark on the family name, and If tonight is any indication she was right all along.”

She lifted the hand that held her empty glass to emphasize her point. Talia Hale never hated her, as far as she knew the older woman had harbored no ill feelings for her whatsoever, but that didn’t stop her from being wary of the stray omega her son had dragged in off the streets one day.

“It’s not like you chose this,” he returned, the softness of his voice surprising her.

“No, but it’s a fact of our existence. And I wasn’t exactly a star citizen. I can’t even get a parking ticket in this town without being carted off to the station.”

Sheriff Stilinski’s tired face peering at her through the bars of a holding cell swam behind her eyes. She remembered the way his eyes swam with understanding when he was admitted into the dark underworld of Beacon Hills, but even he didn’t have the authority to make her rap sheet go away. The things it took to stay alive on the back end of an attack that wiped out her entire pack did not always coincide with the law. Nor the anger of the child it left behind, manifesting itself into a legendary teenage rebellion for the ages.

“Well, if she would have known how many times you would end up saving my life she may have had a different position.”

She couldn’t stop the genuine smile that stretched across her face if she tried.

“He admits it!” She cried triumphantly

“Yes,” he sighed begrudgingly, “he admits it. I probably wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you.”

“Sitting,” she corrected without missing a beat despite the haze that had begun to build in her head.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, accepting the jar she passed to him and taking a swig, eliminating the need for their forgotten glasses as they passed the source back and forth.

“You’ve saved my life too, you know,” she slurred lightly after a few more swallows. “I’ve lost count of the number of arrows you’ve dug out of me.”

He cackled mercilessly, the less-than-playful swat she aimed at his chest only intensifying his mirth.

“I swear you’re a moving target. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long considering you trip over your own two feet.”

His sides cramped as she gasped dramatically, whirling to face him as she clutched her chest.

“I do not!”

He doubled over as his laugher intensified.

“Derek!”

“I’m sorry,” he managed between giggles, tears forming in his eyes as a light tinge of pink dusted his scruff-covered cheeks. “But it’s true.”

“Wow,” she drawled. “I come back to this hell hole, save your life, share my booze, and this is the thanks I get.”

“You love it,” he toned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to drag her into a lopsided embrace.

“You’re not nearly as charming as you think you are, Mr. Hale.”

He hummed in response, pressing his cheek into the side of her head.

“And yet, here you are.”

She tipped her chin just enough to catch his twinkling eyes.

“Here I am.”

They stilled in unison, lips frozen in their upturned position, unsure if the buzzing under their skin was the alcohol or a result of their sudden proximity. His warm breath fanned across her face, and for the first time she noticed how handsome he had become, the round features and soft lines of youth had melted away to reveal sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. Neither of them knew who moved first, only realizing they had drifted closer when their noses brushed against each other, lips millimeters apart. She need only lean forward to discover how his mouth would feel moving against hers. Her eyes fluttered shut as the growing warmth in her chest gave her the courage she was sure she would otherwise lack, straightening her back as the breath halted in her throat and-

SCREEEEECH

They flew apart, blinking through the shock of the sudden intrusion and heaviness that had settled in their eyelids as Scott tumbled in through the open door of the loft still clad in his grass-stained lacrosse uniform.

“We heard about the attack, are you guys okay?” he breathed, eyes darting wildly back and forth between them.

“Heyyyy!” she called, flinging her arms open in greeting as she regained her composure, discreetly scooching over to put some distance between her and the brooding werewolf she almost kissed in an alcohol-induced haze. “How was the game? Did you guys win? Of course you did. Don’t listen to that coach of yours, you guys are the best.”

His eyebrows pulled together as he took in the scene in front of him.

“Are you guys… drunk?”

“Wait, what?” Stiles’ head appeared from behind him, hand slowly reaching to pull his phone from his pocket.

Ignoring the interruption, Scott’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he pulled a deep breath in through his nose.

“Is that wolfsbane?”

“Shhhhhhh,” she held up a finger to shush his barrage of parental questions. “That’s a story for another time, Scotty boy. As much as I maintain that the hardships of being a teenage werewolf has earned you a drink, Mr. Stick-in-the-mud over here might disagree.”

She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder as Derek’s eyes rolled into the back of his head despite the grin that still graced his face.

“Maybe when you’re older.”

“This is awesome,” Stiles giggled under his breath, unlocking his phone once he had freed it from the confines of his pocket and raising it to eye-level.

“That’s okay… it’s a school night… “ Scott trailed off as the corners of his mouth twitched up.

“Blech. Well, that’s my cue.” She heaved a sigh, unperturbed that they were undoubtedly being filmed as she flopped a hand over the side of the couch to drag her bag into her lap before flinging her arm into the air. She had nearly made out with Derek Hale after only a few drinks, and she wasn’t quite prepared for what would happen, or the guilt the morning would bring, if she stayed. “Beam me up, Scotty.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, laughing as he walked over to drape her arm across his shoulders and haul her into a standing position.

She waved a dismissive hand, steadying herself on her feet as she slung a strap over her shoulder.

“Pft. I’ve made worse decisions under the dubious effect of illicit substances. I’ll be fine.”

She shot a look over her shoulder at the handsome… at the man still slouched into the pillows.

“Derek, always a pleasure. Keep that, you need it more than I do.”

He raised the jar in thanks for the gift, and in acknowledgement that any conversation that was to be had about what had nearly passed between them would be held at a later date, and in private. Not to mention, sober.

Scott walked her to the door, ghosting behind her with an outstretched hand, just in case, as she waltzed over to Stiles and swatted the gadget out of his hand.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” she said over his shout of protest as she pulled the two boys into a hug. “Alright, you two. You know the drill.”

“Take care of each other,” they monotoned in unison, returning her hug with nods and smiles.

“That’s right.” She pulled away, pinching their cheeks motherly. “I’m sure I’ll be back soon. You guys just can’t seem to stay out of trouble.”

“You’re one to talk,” Derek called.

She suppressed an aggravated sigh, sparing one last glance at the two faces currently turning a lovely shade of red at the effort to suppress their laughter.

“He’s your problem now. Tootles!”

With that she danced around them, stumbling, and giggling as she picked her way down the stairs.

“Why can’t we keep her?” Stiles asked seriously as he watched her leave.

Scott shook his head with a laugh, turning a tentative eye to the second drunk werewolf of the evening who stared back at them with a bored expression, tipping another mouthful of the mysterious fluid into his mouth before speaking.

“Didn’t you say you have school tomorrow?”

[kiss-my-kitty]

I need help.

(I am posting here on Tumblr because my domain name expired, and my hosting account is suspended due to non-payment.)

This is, without a doubt, the hardest blog entry I’ve ever written. In this post I will reveal just how bad things are, and the depth of my failings, humiliation, shame, and despair. But I have truly hit rock bottom, and I am in desperate need of help, as well as an outlet so that I am not internalizing everything - because it has become too much to bear. The summary is: we have lost our home and just about everything we own, Alyssa and Ryan are in foster care, Daniel had a mental health breakdown and hit me (he punched me in the face, giving me a black eye swollen cheek), and we have nothing left and no money, with our only resource being our 12 year old vehicle with a nearly-empty gas tank. We need help, desperately. PLEASE HELP: my PayPal address is x@jenn.nu. * * * * *

Six years ago Daniel had to resign from his restaurant management position due to debilitating and worsening anxiety, depression, and physical fatigue, pain, and sleep disturbances.

Five years ago I lost my very well-paying job due to the company I worked for going under.

Around this time (2012) I began suffering from significant medical problems myself - multiple emergency and planned surgeries to correct a variety of life-threatening gastric issues, including twisting/strangulating intestines, perforated ulcers, strangulated hernias, and twisted ovaries due to PCOS and endometriosis. I became very ill and septic twice, nearly died, have dealt with various painful procedures as well as feeding tubes and drainage tubes, and needless to say, have spent a lot of time in the hospital.

As if all of the gastric issues and surgeries weren't enough, three years ago my lower back suddenly gave out - I deal with constant severe and unrelenting lumbar pain due to arthritis, degenerative disc disease, a torn, leaking, and bulging disc at L4, a completely degenerated disc at L5, and healed fractures at L5 and S1.

In January of 2017 I suffered a medical emergency that led to a large vertical abdominal incision, a 6-day hospital stay, and over a month during which I needed assistance just to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. I was very, very sick and weak from this surgery; and I was still weak and underweight from surgical complications that caused sepsis and organ damage in May-June 2016.

Around this time I was also taking a prescribed SSRI, Amitriptyline (also known as Elavil), to help me sleep. While it did not help with sleep, as the pain in my lower back and random bouts of abdominal pain from all of the surgeries and consequent scar tissue and adhesions woke and continues to wake me up almost every night, it ended up causing SEVERE short-term memory loss. The best way I can describe it is like this: every two to three days my short-term memories were completely wiped from my memory. On a Monday I might go grocery shopping. By Wednesday of that week I would have no recollection of shopping on Monday, or of doing anything else that day.

Our ongoing financial issues because of Daniel's health problems and mine snowballed. The short-term memory loss complicated and worsened everything.

In June of 2017, we lost our home of 10 years. We were able to put everything into storage, and we moved in temporarily with my mother and 19 year old brother in their 2-bedroom apartment while we figured out what to do next.

In August of 2017 we were accepted into a transitional living program. This entailed the five of us -- Daniel, myself, Alyssa, Ryan, as well as my 19 year old brother, who had nowhere to go because my mother was evicted from her apartment due to non-payment of rent -- living in a hotel room in a large hotel that had been converted into a transitional living program. The program was very supportive, and entailed us living there, abiding by curfew and other building rules, and working with counselors to rebuild our life. While Alyssa and Ryan went to school and various after-school programs, Daniel and I helped my brother get re-established with high school, his SSI payments, getting a state ID, etc. - all of the things that my mother should have done for him but didn't. She, meanwhile, had been hospitalized since late July due to infected and gangrenous diabetic ulcers on her feet, and blood infections stemming from those infected ulcers.

By September of 2017 Daniel and I told my mother that we were done helping her. We could barely help ourselves; but worse, she did nothing to help herself with her own financial and medical difficulties. Instead, she was dragging us down because she would create numerous disasters for herself, take no responsibility for them, and do nothing to try to improve her circumstances. She expected everyone else to do this for her - namely, Daniel and I.

Writing my mother off caused a lot of conflict and drama between her and us. In her rage and fury, she went so far as to create a lot of drama based on outrageous lies and accusations. While we tried to stay ahead of this mess by informing the staff at the transitional living program of our problems with her, her allegations and pot-stirring ended up causing us to be abruptly evicted from the program - while my brother went to stay with my mother at the hospital/long-term care facility she was in, the four of us (Daniel, myself, Alyssa, and Ryan), were literally thrown onto the streets.

We were evicted on October 2, 2017. For the next six weeks we bounced around between a friend's home, a pastor's cabin, a retreat camp, and motel rooms.

On November 20, 2017, a false allegation about us staying in a cabin with no electricity or water was made against us, and Alyssa and Ryan were removed from our custody. Currently they are staying with the family of a friend of Alyssa's. Fortunately they are with people they know, and they are still attending the same school and are still active in the same extra-curricular STEM programs as they were before.

Because of having to spend so much money to keep ourselves afloat after being evicted from the transitional living program, we fell behind on our storage unit payments. We were unable to save our belongings - we have lost everything we own, with the exception of the belongings we had with us (about a large duffel bag worth of clothing, toiletries, and personal items for each of us; along with my laptop and cameras, and most of the kids' small electronics).

Through all of this Daniel and I have done our best to try and tackle one problem at a time, to see and talk to Alyssa and Ryan as much as possible, and to desperately explore all of our options to try to rebuild. His Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI/SSI) application, which was started in April of 2014, is still at the highest level of adjudication - we are awaiting a hearing date. Meanwhile, Daniel has had several more sleep disturbances and diagnoses added, and it looks like he has a very rare disease called Neuromyotonia - basically, all of the nerves in all of his muscles are constantly firing. It's comparable to a seizure, because of the nerve overactivity. But instead of seizures, Daniel endures constant and severe muscle pain and fatigue, due to his muscles constantly spasming and mis-firing.

I am working on my own SSDI/SSI application - with the memory issues, but more significantly all of the gastric surgeries and complications, and my severe back issues, I qualify five times over for both SSDI/SSI, and because of the constant pain I am in and the resulting fatigue I deal with, there is no way I am capable of working a "traditional" job - or even work online/remotely as much as I did before. I am ashamed to admit this, but it is true.

The final blow, which is a poor choice of words, came to us on December 29th, 2017: after abruptly and inexplicably cold-turkeying his anxiety and depression medications in mid-December, after days of escalating irritation and verbal clashing between Daniel and I, he snapped and lashed out at me - literally. We were having a relatively calm verbal argument, and out of nowhere he punched me in the face. He has never laid a hand on me before. He punched me, full strength, in the face - his fist hit my right cheekbone. I had, and still have, terrible bruising and swelling. Even with layers of makeup the injury is still visible, and obvious. It has been hard to go out in public and deal with the stares and silent as well as not-silence questions and judgment, on top of everything else I am dealing with. But while I make no excuses for what Daniel did, I do understand that the severe stress he has been under (that we have both been under), combined with the mental instability caused by the sudden lack of and withdrawal from his SSRI medications, definitely played a role in him losing control.

Immediately after Daniel hit me I exited the vehicle where we had been sitting. He took off. Not knowing what to do, and afraid Daniel might do something to himself out of guilt, I called the police to report what happened, and to ask them to please find him because I was afraid for his mental well-being.

That same evening, Daniel overdosed on three medications. He researched what medications to take in order to overdose and die, and wrote a suicide note. He was barely conscious when he messaged me an apology and goodbye via Facebook Messenger. But he did answer when I called him, and after pleading from both me and my friend's husband, he gave us his location, I called 911, and he was found and taken to an emergency room. He was given charcoal to drink as well as Narcan and other medications via IV. After he was medically stabilized, he was involuntarily committed to the hospital's psychiatric ward.

This past Monday, January 8, he was discharged from the psychiatric ward, and taken directly to jail because of the domestic violence charge against him from when I called the police on December 29th.

Yesterday was the domestic violence court hearing. Because I have been in touch with Daniel since December 29th, visited him daily at the psychiatric ward, and most importantly because I have truly forgiven him for what he did and I am not angry, and he himself is guilty, remorseful, and determined to make things right for himself and more importantly for both of us, I spoke with both the domestic violence advocate assigned to him and the district attorney who brought the charges against him, and it was agreed that Daniel would plead guilty to a harassment charge. This is a lesser charge that means he will not serve jail time; but he will have to take both domestic violence and anger management classes. And, his check-ins with a psychiatrist and a psychologist will also be mandated.

Daniel and I need to rent a room somewhere in the county, at the cost of anywhere from $75 to $100 per week, in order to have something to call "ours". From there we can rebuild:I can continue to do the bit of online work I have been able to find, he can focus on his mental health recovery and working with a local retained lawyer (free, due to our limited income) to get his SSDI/SSI case pushed through, and I can also focus on finishing up my SSDI/SSI application. While Daniel has more diagnoses than I do, I have a consistent trail of doctor visits, specialist visits, hospital visits, tests, surgeries, and diagnoses going all the way back to 2009 to prove my case several times over. Daniel's medical trail is more inconsistent due to all of my emergency surgeries and hospitalizations.

* * * * *

This is my plea: we need financial help, desperately. At this point we have nothing except our vehicle, a gas tank on empty despite me using the last $4.00 I had to put one and a half gallons in it, Alyssa and Ryan in foster care, and only several duffel bags and a laptop bag of belongings.

I am begging anyone who reads this: please help us get back on our feet. Any and all PayPal donations will be used to pay as many weekly/monthly rental fees as we can to ensure a room we rent remains ours. We'll also use any donated money to fill our gas tank, and to buy as little food as possible to keep us going. PLEASE HELP: my PayPal address is x@jenn.nu.

Please know that Daniel and I have been doing everything we can to rebuild ever since we lost our home last June, but we have been hit with one financial and/or medical crisis after another - in fact, in the midst of all of this, I was hospitalized for two days in October and then had an urgent surgery to remove my remaining ovary, because it was twisting and torsing due to the presence of cysts as well as many adhesions. I know that I have asked a lot of my friends both offline and online, but please know we are desperate, without any resources, and are truly trying the best we can. At this point I don’t know what else to do. I have nowhere to go, and I can’t stay much longer where I am now. In a matter of days we will be living in our car, but with no money even for gas, let alone food or shelter. I am putting all of this out here, online, in the hope of not just asking for help, but to clear up the vagueness and silence that has taken over my social media accounts. I’m so sorry to anyone I’ve offended or upset and I promise that once we are finally back on our feet, however long that takes, I will right the wrongs I’ve committed in inadvertently with any of my friends. PLEASE HELP: my PayPal address is x@jenn.nu.

[elliupa]

my grandmother is a fairly healthy 75 year old woman who has never questioned her place in life or the skin that she wears folded with time and experience

so when I told her I was a transgender man at 17 years old she didn't understand

she told me, "it's a phase" she told me, "you're such a beautiful girl, why would you want to ruin that?" she told me, "try living in your skin for just a little while longer"

she told me, "if you jump through my hoops, I'll believe you"

much, much later, as I was passed around like an Olympic baton of hating myself to psychiatrist to therapist to mental wards to hospitals who did their best to stitch the pieces of me back together

she asked me, "why do you want to die? why aren't you happy?"

and when getting out of bed and peeling back my covers was synonymous with peeling off my outer skin and becoming a walking, breathing, talking raw nerve and most days I didn't get out of bed out of sheer self preservation

she asked me, "why can't you just function like a normal human being for once?" she asked me, "have you taken your meds today?"

she told me, "stop being so lazy"

and back then, I did not have the words to tell her "Grandma, I'm not being lazy, I'm a chair. it's true I'm a chair that might have once long, long ago, in a time practically no one remembers stood up straight and supported the weight of those who needed to rest themselves against me

but time has whittled pieces of me away and now I tilt now I wobble now I stand barely able to hold up my own weight let alone the weight of anyone else's expectations

and wobbly chairs like me, well, we're an anomaly

and unlike those perfectly "normal" chairs we have only three options

either we whittle the bits and pieces of ourselves off and away to comfort those who would use us and become less anomalous less freakish, less malformed and become more like those normal chairs who don't question why they exist or why should they have to carry other people when they can barely carry themselves

who are just normal chairs for people like my grandmother to sit on

we get shoved with the other chairs who are "like us" you know, the shorter bunch the bunch with less staying power less polish while the bar stools treat us like we're aliens because, well we may be made of the same design, the same wood, the very same cosmic stardust but obviously not all chairs are created equal

that's just politically correct nonsense to believe anything otherwise

our second option is to have constant support until we die or are, ultimately, scrapped for the useful bits of our souls perhaps, maybe shove our wobbly leg on a book or a conveniently placed ledge that if we were ever, ever ever to move away from, we would pitch our usefulness into the floor and topple over and be left for dead

which brings us to our third option

we die

we die for the comfort of others and are cannibalized for valuables to be consumed valuables that most of you would not touch when we were breathing

the best example of this phenomenon was Van Gogh like, "yeah, he was mentally ill as fuck but my god, have you seen his art?"

this wobbly chair man, was just like me, missing an ear and being swung through the ultimate highs and deadly lows of his weaponized brain ignored because he couldn't carry any other weight other than those of his thoughts and his paint brushes

so they shoved him with the other useless chairs while he starved barely able to afford to buy the supplies to paint the masterpieces that we now sell for millions of dollars

and when he eventually died no, when he eventually killed himself no one blinked before lifting his corpse out of the streets and hanging it in museums for the normal chairs to stare at with misty eyes

because it turns out that's the business of most chairs they don't tell you that the weight you are meant to be carrying is the weight of those whose cultures we have raped and pillaged and the human beings who we now  call illegal until they can provide with commerce those whose homes we have destroyed because colonization is just the gentleman's word for genocide (*suicide)

these normal chairs cry words at us anomalous chairs words like, "faggot" words like, "tranny" words like, "black man" words like, "white genocide" words that in their mouths have lost all meaning because, let's face it, white people wouldn't know a genocide if it was literally killing people in front of them

they would just cry more words at us like "all lives matter"

because they- they have never been wobbly chairs

they have never had electric wires pressed against their temples, burning the skin of their scalp as their body convulses so hard that they have bruises banding the places the doctor's have tied them down and electrocuted them straight for the sin of loving someone who has the same genitalia as they do

these chairs have never been told that the hands at the end of their wrists hands that hold other hands or pencils or doors

or normal human things because they are normal human hands

they have never been told that those hands are weapons, and that the sin of having those hands, with that dark of a skin tone and daring to walk with your head up eyes not pointed at the ground like a good black man

that the punishment for that is death choking on their own blood in the streets

these 'normal' chairs like you, grandma, don't understand they don't try to understand because why would anyone choose to suffer the life of being anomalous?

why would anyone choose to be a broken chair?

we don't, the most of us

i know I did not choose to wake up in a life that I do not even want or appreciate in skin that is always either always too tight or not tight enough with genitalia that is both mine and most definitely not fucking mine growing up to be called

lazy faggot dyke

less

than a normal chair

I would never, ever choose to see   someone just like me beaten to death bloody and screaming in the streets of New York of California of North Carolina of Prague of London of Brazil-

literally every where and every channel I turn to

when I was 26, I came to you again after living in this awful, awful skin that has never once fit

after dressing up, 'like an adult' in dresses that made me feel more like dying than any razor ever could

after dating man, after man, after man who I went to bed with like most people write their wills

with trepidation regret and resignation

I said, 'Grandma, I waited nearly ten years' I said, 'Grandma, I jumped through your hoops' I said, 'Grandma, I am still a man.'

And grandma, you were silent.

Grandma, you didn't say a word

you rushed through our conversation to tell me you were buying me more makeup of a better quality to paint my traitorous mouth closed and did not acknowledge that I had ever spoken

I tried again, months later, to say, 'Grandma, I have got to get out of this town it is killing me and I am afraid to live life as I am

because it may just carry a death sentence

and I have finally, finally realized I want to live

maybe just long enough that I can finally meet myself'

and you were silent.

You spoke with my sister about her child who came out as trans at nearly 15 years old this year- the same time I realized I was not the girl the world told me I was- and you made the decision that I wasn't allowed to see them anymore because I was a 'bad influence'

When I asked you when I would be able to see them again,

Grandma, you were silent

because you, Grandma are a normal chair a normal chair who is tired of waiting for me to cut off pieces of myself to fit your dreams of who I would grow up to be and you have decided to limit my contact with the rest of the "normal" chairs in our  family so they don't end up with my sickness the sickness of daring not to carry your dreams on my back and instead, carrying my own

you're waiting, just like everyone else on this god forsaken planet, for this sickness to eventually kill me so you can cannibalize my corpse for my poetry and my drawings because consumerism is always more important than saving a life

right?

and when you have looted my soul and shoved it up in museums for others to stare at with misty eyes thinking to themselves, "thank god this is a thing of the past a relic that exists more in fiction and art galleries than in real life"

another me is being beaten to death in an alley one street down

so Grandma, I have just one question to ask you,

just one

do you remember when I was eleven years old and you told me it didn't matter what I wanted to be I could be whatever I wanted, just so long as I was happy and you would support me if I ever wobbled?

because I do."

[newstfionline]

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Despite Trump’s Nudging, Schools Are Likely to Stay Shut for Months (NYT) With students languishing, the economy stagnating and working parents straining to turn their kitchen tables into classrooms, the nation’s public schools have been working to bring children back to their desks, lockers and study halls. But despite President Trump’s prediction that “I think you’ll see a lot of schools open up,” all but a few states have suspended in-person classes for the rest of the academic year, and some are preparing for the possibility of shutdowns or part-time schedules in the fall. Whenever students do come back, classes are unlikely to look anything like the school days they remember. There may be staggered half-day classes or one-day-on, one-day-off schedules so desks can be spread out and buses can run half-empty. Students can expect school equipment to be sterilized and meals to be served at their desks or in socially distanced lunchrooms. Masked teachers and temperature checks at school doorways may be common. Forget note-passing, study groups and recess. And if new outbreaks surface, virtual classes may abruptly start up again.

Foreign student fallout (Foreign Policy) With Western universities expecting an 80 to 100 percent drop in the number of international students this year, the U.S. higher education system is facing a double crisis: the pandemic and the disappearance of the Chinese students it relies on for financial health. Even if international students eventually return, Chinese students may face increased pressure—both from the Chinese government and from Republican Party rhetoric—not to attend U.S. schools. That could cause the situation that U.S. Ambassador to China Terry Branstad has warned against: a financial crisis for lesser-known universities without large endowments.

Making public transport safe next hurdle in easing lockdowns (AP) In cities around the world, public transport systems are the key to getting workers back on the job and restarting devastated economies, yet everything from trains to buses to ferries to bicycles will have to be re-imagined for the coronavirus era. In Europe in particular, public transport is shaping up as a new front line in the battle to tame the pandemic that has already killed over 120,000 of its citizens. In hard-hit Italy, Spain, France and Britain, standing cheek-to-jowl with fellow commuters in packed trains or trams was as much a part of the morning routine in pre-coronavirus times as a steaming shot of espresso or a crispy croissant. That’s going to have to change as authorities try to balance restarting devastated economies while still clinging to hard-won gains in controling the spread of the virus. Solutions include putting red stickers on the floor to tell bus travelers in Milan how far apart to stand. The Dutch are putting on longer, roomier trains and many cities including Berlin are opening up more lanes to cyclists. In Britain, bus passengers are entering through the middle or rear doors to reduce the virus risks for drivers.

U.S. economy shrank 4.8 percent in first quarter, biggest decline since the Great Recession (Washington Post) The fallout from the deadly coronavirus caused the U.S. economy to contract at a 4.8 percent pace from January through March, the deepest decline since the depths of the financial crisis more than a decade ago, the Commerce Department said Wednesday. Spending by Americans tumbled 7.6 percent, and business investment shrank 8.6 percent, according to the Commerce Department report. Although Americans flooded grocery stores to buy food and supplies, it was not nearly enough to offset lost spending on dining out, car sales, entertainment and more. The worst is yet to come, many analysts say. The second quarter is likely to show a decline of more than 30 percent—a level not seen since the Great Depression—as much of the economy entered a deep lockdown to try to encourage people to stay home to stop the spread of the virus.

Peruvian prisoners riot over outbreak concerns (AP) At least nine inmates died during a riot in a Peru prison over concerns that the facility was not doing enough to protect prisoners from the novel coronavirus, the government said. The unrest began Monday afternoon, as inmates at the Miguel Castro Castro prison in the country’s capital, Lima, threw objects, burned mattresses and held up signs calling for better sanitation to prevent the virus and better health care to treat prisoners already infected. The pandemic’s spread has sparked concerns that the world’s prisons, often overcrowded and unsanitary, are prime breeding grounds for outbreaks.

“We can’t complain”, say pals stuck in London pub (Reuters) If you are going to be stuck under lockdown, there are worse places to end up than a spacious pub with free beer on tap. Steve Pond and Dom Townsend consider themselves lucky to be sharing an apartment above The Prince in Stoke Newington, north London. Like all UK pubs, it is closed until further notice as part of measures to slow the spread of the coronavirus. “I moved in just a couple of months before lockdown which has worked out well, considering,” said Townsend, 29, now assistant manager after starting there as a barman. “We’ve got fresh beer on tap,” Townsend told Reuters as he poured a pint and placed it next to the hand sanitizer on the bar.

Be patriotic and eat frites (CNBC) Belgians are being called upon to eat fries at least twice a week as more than 750,000 tons of potatoes are at risk of being thrown away. The coronavirus crisis has led to a surplus of potatoes in the small European country, as demand for frites—a national dish of twice-fried potatoes often eaten in bars and restaurants—has slumped amid Belgium’s government-enforced lockdown.

Europe’s north-south divide in coronavirus recovery (Wall Street Journal)​​​ Most nations of Europe’s north are set to recover faster from their medically induced economic comas than those in the south, exacerbating a divergence of fortunes in the eurozone and feeding political tensions over how to pay for the fallout of the coronavirus pandemic. In the north, Germany has a lighter lockdown, more fiscal firepower, and entered the pandemic in better economic shape. In the south, Italy has a worse health crisis, a deeper economic standstill and high debts that deter aggressive stimulus. That widening economic divide poses a challenge to the long-term viability of the euro. It erodes support for the currency in southern Europe while making it harder for the European Central Bank to set interest rates that are suitable for all members.​

Chinese Diplomats Make Veiled Threats (Foreign Policy) China’s rhetorical assaults on the West amid the coronavirus pandemic have continued this week, with Beijing’s ambassadors taking an increasingly undiplomatic tone—likely in response to pressure from home. After Australia’s prime minister called for an international inquiry into the origins of the coronavirus, the Chinese ambassador in Canberra made a thinly veiled threat of boycotting the Australian economy. State media doubled down on criticism of Australia’s call for an investigation, with the editor of the Global Times calling Australia “gum stuck to the bottom of China’s shoe.” The Netherlands was also in China’s firing line this week after it changed the name of its representative office in Taipei—it doesn’t have an embassy there—to a form that Beijing interpreted as being more supportive of Taiwanese independence. The Netherlands also criticized the quality of coronavirus tests sold in Europe by Chinese companies. In response, China made vague threats against the Dutch—likely to be backed up by future sanctions. China’s fierce language is driven in part by anti-foreign feeling at home and officials desperate to stand out by waving the flag. Performative patriotism appears to be a necessity for political survival.

Bombing near Afghan capital kills three amid unabated violence (Reuters) A suicide bombing near Kabul, the Afghan capital, killed three people and wounded 15 on Wednesday, the interior ministry said, as violence in the war-torn nation threatens a fragile peace process.

Violence in Lebanon (Foreign Policy) Protestors vandalized and set fire to banks in Tripoli on Tuesday as unrest over the country’s battered economy reignited. The Lebanese army was deployed to quell the protestors, firing tear gas and rubber bullets. One man in his 20s died in the melee. “This is not a riot, this is expressing (anger) that the dollar has reached 4,000 Lebanese pounds … How are people going to eat? And this is the holy month of Ramadan,” Abou Hussein, a Tripoli-based activist, told Reuters. Lebanon was already in financial crisis before the coronavirus pandemic, with street protests in October leading to the resignation of Prime Minister Saad Hariri. On April 16, Prime Minister Hassan Diab said it had contacted the International Monetary Fund in hopes of receiving emergency financing.

Dozens dead in Afrin bombing (Foreign Policy) At least 40 people were killed in the Syrian city of Afrin on the country’s Turkish border after a bomb detonated near an oil tanker on a busy street. On Twitter, Turkey’s defense ministry blamed the Kurdish People’s Protection Units (YPG) for the attack. Writing from Afrin in 2018, after Turkish forces had seized the city from the YPG, Borzou Daragahi warned that Turkey may have overstepped by occupying the city. “Turkey, without quite realizing it, also made itself the de facto ruler of this part of Syria. The responsibility seems more of a quagmire than the Turkish government originally expected,” he wrote.

African locust swarms (Wall Street Journal)​​ First came the floods. The waters swamped bean and corn fields and created a breeding ground for a swarm of desert locusts the size of Manhattan that fanned out and destroyed a swath of farmland across eight East African nations as large as Oklahoma earlier this year. Now their offspring are threatening a historic infestation—a second wave of locusts, 20 times as large as the first, that the U.N. warns could chew their way through 2 million square miles of pastureland, farms and gardens, around the half the size of Western Europe. The swarms, which would be by far the largest on record, are expected to descend as the new coronavirus accelerates across East Africa, raising the prospect of a double-shock to some of the world’s poorest and most heavily-indebted economies. Aid agencies warn that, together, they could lead to a collapse in agricultural production and mass food shortages.​

The last places on earth without the coronavirus (Reuters) Despite infecting more than three million people around the world, there are still 34 countries and territories that have yet to report a single case of the novel coronavirus. These include Comoros, Lesotho, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and tiny far-flung island nations in the Pacific such as Nauru, Kiribati and the Solomon Islands. Of course, just because a nation has not reported an infection does not necessarily mean there have been no cases.

COVID-19 and contact-tracing apps (Worldcrunch) The latest in the efforts to track and limit the spread of the novel coronavirus could take a turn towards the Orwellian, with the implementation and experimentation of smartphone apps and QR codes used to keep tabs on citizens who have come in contact with the virus, have a high probability of being infected, or whether or not someone is following quarantine. Software like this has already been implemented in countries like China and South Korea, allowing them to re-open society despite fears of a potential second wave of pandemic looming.      Australian App Adoption: The COVIDSafe app in Australia went live Saturday night and promptly exceeded government expectations with more than 1.13 million downloads within the first few hours. The software works by maintaining a log of the bluetooth connections an individual’s phone makes with others. Experts caution that for the app to be effective, at least 40% of the population must have it downloaded and active. While the government basks in the high numbers of voluntary downloads, a group of 80 academics and industry experts concerned about privacy demanded that the app’s source code be released to the public to know exactly how it works and what information will be used.      France Forging Ahead: Prime Minister Edouard Philippe called the coming StopCovid app the “third pillar,” necessary for the country to re-open, alongside social distancing and good hygiene practices, as well as a ramping-up widespread testing. The app will essentially be like contact tracing but using technology, presumptively using bluetooth. Though it is not yet available for download and will be used only on individuals who download it voluntarily, it has already met with its fair share of backlash from a privacy-concerned population.      Fails and fears: One of the first contact-tracing apps launched was in Singapore, in March, called TraceTogether. Its software in fact has been used as a blueprint for a number of other apps being developed in other countries like Australia. Yet it has never gotten momentum in the Asian city-state, according to an article in Les Echos. The app would only be effective if 75% or more of the population is using it. But only about 20% of the population have downloaded it, apparently fueled by fear for their personal data more than the virus. The same problem is being faced around the world, like in Austria, where only 3% of the population have downloaded the app made by the Austrian Red Cross. Statistics like this have even caused some countries to think twice about implementing their own apps of this nature, one such example is in Belgium, where the Minister of Digital and Telecommunications cancelled plans for developing an app in favor of old-fashioned manual contact tracing.