#maybe i should just buy myself a memory stick or something for the purpose but i feel like it could break way too easily and might not

[impalas-r-important]

Love of my Life - (1) All's fair in love and snowball fights.

Pairing: Dean x reader(ish)

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You and Dean were inseparable from the moment you met; a true match made in heaven. You were killed in the big showdown with Lucifer and Michael (S5), but were brought back to life along side Sam. Heartbreak quickly took over your life after finding out that Dean had already moved on with Lisa so soon after your death.

Series Masterlist

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You sighed as you looked over at Sam and Dean. You and Sam had been doing research for 5 straight days trying to help Bobby out with a case. Dean would come over and help when he could. Sam was in the living room, his nose buried in a book and Dean was sitting with his feet up on the kitchen table, pretending to look studious as he fought off his heavy eye lids. You stood up to stretch your legs and wandered over to the window. It had snowed all night and all morning, leaving the outside world blanketed with pillowy, inviting flakes. The corners of your mouth crept up in a slight smile as an idea came to your mind. You quickly grabbed your jacket that had been slung across the back of your chair which startled Dean enough to wake him up. He sloppily wiped a bit of drool from his mouth and looked over to find an irritated Sam glaring at him. You jogged a few steps to the back door and pulled your boots on.

“Where are you going?” You could hear Sam ask from the other room.

“I’ll be right back!”

You stepped outside and the chilly wind instantly burned the back of your throat, but you didn’t care. You were just happy to not be looking at the worn pages of another lore book. You bent down and scooped the snow together in your hands creating 2 perfect snowballs. A mischievous grin spread on your face as you stomped back into the living room of Bobby’s house. Sam was your first target; he was so unaware of what was about to hit him. Literally. You pulled back your arm, took your aim, and launched the snowball, nailing him square in the face. The shocked look on his face was priceless.

“Hah!” Dean looked up and tauntingly laughed from the table on the other side of the room. His laugh quickly turned into a frown as you threw the second snowball at him. He paused and blinked a few times before wiping the snow from his face. He turned to look at you, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. The three of you exchanged glances, a few seconds of silence passing while you all gauged the situation before Dean stood up giving you a perfect, playful smile.

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know what you just started.” He ran at you and you turned to run away, giving a squeal as you did. You were fast, but Dean was faster. You had a few good steps on him, but as you reached the staircase, he grabbed you by your waist, throwing you over his shoulder and marching out the door with you.

“Let me go!” You laughed as he tickled your sides.

“If you say so.” He ran across the yard and gently tossed you into a big snowbank, giving your system a shock. You shot up and tried to shake the snow out from your clothes.

“This means war, Winchester!” You shouted as you ran full speed at Dean, rugby tackling him into the few feet of snow piled up behind him.

Sam popped out from behind an icy car with an armful of huge snowballs. “Gotcha both!” He exclaimed as he pelted the two of you. Dean pulled you underneath him and turned his back to Sam, protecting you. You got lost in his green eyes for a moment as he pulled his face close to yours. “One, two, three!” Dean counted down and you knew exactly what his plan was, without needing to discuss it. The two of you had always been on the same wavelength, making you the perfect hunting (and snowball fight) partners. You both turned and ran at Sam, Dean grabbed your hand tight and extended his arm as the two of you clotheslined the taller brother, knocking him backwards. You stole the few snowballs Sam had dropped and threw them at the two boys.

“I thought we were on a team now?!” Dean grinned at you as he crouched down and began to form the snow in his hands. He cocked his arm back and launched it at you as you ducked behind a car. It just missed you. You sat with your back to the car door, catching your breath and looking on either side of you, waiting for one of the boys to jump out at you.

Dean had climbed on top of the car and jumped down in front of you. “Ha ha! I’ve got you right where I want you!” You laughed and slipped as you tried to get up, causing you to laugh even harder. Dean pulled you backwards by your feet. Kneeling on either side of you, he pinned you down with a snowball in hand. “Do you surrender?!” He demanded.

“Yes, yes fine!” Your stomach hurt from all the laughing. Dean dropped the snowball and huffed. He flopped down in the snow next to you, catching his breath and letting out a little laugh.

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I mean, the look on Sam’s face when you threw that first snowball at him. Priceless!” He turned to look at you, pulling you close to him. “Thanks, Y/N/N.” It had been so long since you had seen Dean smile a genuine smile like the one he was giving to you now. Your heart fluttered and memories of your relationship came flooding back the minute you looked into his eyes. He looked back at you and for a moment, nothing and no one else existed. This felt so right and so natural, like it had always felt with him when you were together. This was a joy that you rarely felt anymore, and you knew that the only thing bringing it to you was Dean. He brushed a stray hair behind your ear as his eyes wandered down to your lips.

“Dean?” A distant voice called. It was Lisa. You both sat up quickly. Overwhelming happiness quickly turned to heart break.

“Crap!” Dean said under his breath as he checked his watch. “We’re supposed to go to a neighbor’s house for dinner tonight. I should have been home 40 minutes ago. I just lost track of time.” He stood up and brushed the snow from his clothes.

“I’m sorry, this is my fault. I shouldn’t have started that stupid snowball fight.” You apologized.

“No, no I haven’t laughed like that in…” Dean paused, “hell, I don’t know how long. Don’t you dare apologize for that.” He reached out a hand to help you up, but you waved him off.

“I’m okay, you go. It’s probably better if Lisa doesn’t see me. I’ll stay hidden behind this old hunk a’ junk until you guys leave.” You patted the car behind you and tried to muster up a fake smile. Dean didn’t buy it. Lisa hated when your relationship with Dean was brought up, and she equally disliked you being around him.

“Listen, Y/N/N, I- “

“Dean?!” Lisa’s voice interrupted him. She was clearly getting angrier and closer.

Dean opened his mouth as if to say something to you, but instead just exhaled and looked at you with longing eyes. You broke the eye contact after a few seconds and moved your gaze to the ground.

“Bye, Y/N.” Dean muttered. You could hear his footsteps crunch in the snow as he walked away.

“Where the hell were you?!” You could hear Lisa demand in the background.

“Sam and I were just having a snowball fight.” Dean tried to explain himself. You noticed he had left your name out on purpose.

“I swear you two are children when you are around each other.”

You hated the way she talked down to him. Like he was some disobedient puppy on a leash. You heard another set of crunching footsteps approach you. Sam walked around the car and sat down next to you; you leaned your head on his shoulder. Your heavy heart had returned, and you felt empty again.

A few moments passed as you both waited to make sure Dean and Lisa had left. Sam broke the silence once he heard the back door close. “You know, you can talk to me, right Y/N?”

“Yeah, Sammy, thank you.” You looked up and gave him a halfhearted smile.

“No, not like this beat around the bush kind of talking. Like, really telling me how you feel. About Dean, about Lisa, about life. Anything and everything. You can trust me to keep your secrets. I feel like you and I are in the same boat right now. Neither of us expected to die, never mind come back, and it’s hard to see how life, Dean especially, changed while we were gone. I can tell this is all weighing on you. You’re not the same as you used to be.” He arched his neck to look down at you as much as he could. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like Lisa. Not at all. I don’t get what Dean sees in her. She has changed him into someone that I barely recognize, and I know you see it too.” Sam let out a small sigh of relief. “Man, I’ve been wanting to get that off my chest for a while.” His demeanor became more serious. “You know, I thought you and Dean would be together forever.”

His words helped you a little. “I thought we would be too. I guess I was just making our relationship out to be more than it really was.” You shrugged.

“What do you mean?” He questioned.

“I hadn’t even been dead for that long and he had already moved in with another woman. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, and if the situations were reversed, then I would rather live the rest of my life alone than be with someone else if I lost Dean.”

“I don’t have an explanation for that, but I do know that you weren’t making it out to be more than it was. Dean was head over heels in love with you. I knew it from, literally, the moment we met you. And honestly, I think he still is. He just does a good job of hiding it.”

“Everyday hurts, Sam. Every time I have to see him with her.” You whispered. “Lately I’ve been asking myself why I’m still here. I mean, Dean asked us to stick around here and make a home base, but I don’t know if I can do that anymore.”

“You’re thinking about leaving?” He frowned.

“Yeah, maybe... I don’t know.” You traced circles in the snow beneath you. “What good am I doing here? Why do I keep putting myself through this pain? If I left, I could try and move on with my life.”

Sam nodded and waited a few moments before saying, “Well, I can’t stop you from leaving, or tell you how to live your life, but I’m going to miss you like hell if you do go. You’re literally my sister. But I understand where you’re coming from. I miss being out on the road and just living case to case. Domestic life isn’t for me, not right now anyway. But I could never leave Dean here by himself, so I’ll figure out a hybrid of the two.”

You didn’t say anything because you didn’t want to break down in tears. Sam could tell. “Let’s get back inside and change. It’s been a nice to take a break from research. We’ll go grab some hot chocolate and dinner before we dive back into the books. Deal?”

You smiled and nodded at him. Sam helped you up and put his arm around you as you walked back inside. “Sorry I hit you in the face with a snowball… multiple times.” You joked and elbowed his side a little.

“Oh, I’ll get you back for that at some point, don’t you worry. It was just good to see a glimpse of the old you again.” Sam smiled and held the door open for you. It felt good to vent to Sam, and it felt even better knowing that he was on the same page as you about Lisa. You didn’t want to hate her; you weren’t that kind of a person. But you just couldn’t help it.

Chapter 2

[h-sleepingirl]

Personal Reflection on Hypnosis and Magic

I was fairly obsessed with magic as a child. I grew up in a secular household -- my mother’s side was mixed Christian but she didn’t inherit the beliefs and my father’s side was Jewish but not observant. We did Christmas and Chanukah and Easter for a little while but just as a cultural practice; we never went to church or synagogue and we never even had conversations about God.

I liked fantasy novels a lot, and I liked Harry Potter, and for a bit of time around age 8 I was making a concerted effort to transform into a unicorn. I found sticks outside and pretended they were wands with the neighborhood kids. Fairly standard. It was no surprise that when I started wondering if I should attempt to connect to spirituality in some way as a teen I discovered Neopaganism and Wicca. It was a lot of shy reading in the 130 section at the library and keeping a Book of Shadows and learning how to meditate and all the bells and whistles of ritual and correspondences.

I remember sneaking outside and kneeling in the grass in the backyard under the moon, I remember going to Salem for the first time. I felt like sometimes maybe I was communicating with gods or divine powers but I never was able to buy in, despite completing my year-and-a-day dedication and making the actions a part of my life for several years, on and off. Starting to smoke weed in college refreshed my curiosity and reinforced belief to some degree, of course, but eventually, I had to come to terms with the fact that this wasn’t something I should force myself to do if I didn’t truly feel a connection to it.

But though I dropped the label and identification, the rituals of Wicca (and Feri witchcraft, which I had started exploring) had filled a role for me that childhood religion does for most. They became something I was comfortable conceptualizing, something that I had gained innate familiarity with, even if I ultimately eschewed the spiritual and metaphysical.

Hypnosis was never connected to that, for me; it felt sacrilegious to make an association between something that was supposed to be sacred and divine and something that was, for a long time, a shameful part of my sexuality. But it was around the same time that I was earnestly practicing magic that I began really studying and doing hypnosis.

A partner of mine at that time -- with whom I was doing hypnosis -- asked me, “Isn’t hypnotic trance the same thing as meditation?”

Naively, I vehemently disagreed.

--

The big-name NLP practitioners are obsessed with calling what they do “magic.” “The Structure of Magic,” “Frogs Into Princes,” etc. Their books are filled to the brim with the metaphor that people who use language effectively are wizards, because language is a representation of the world and has the capability to transform (or “trance-form,” as they say). 

I struggled with hypnosis for a long time -- both trancing others and being tranced myself -- for a variety of reasons. But one of them was that I always felt like other people wanted to do stuff with hypnosis, while I just wanted to do hypnosis itself. For a while even when I was more comfortable in my skin, I described myself as “boring” -- I liked things like fractionation and really deep trance and control, but I struggled with articulating if I had attractions to specific activities. Doll play? Sure, I guess that’s fun. Oh, is the induction over already? Ok…

This mirrored an issue I had while practicing Wicca -- spells were always meant to do something, invite love, heal, connect with the divine, whatever. But while I often wanted to do magic, I had a difficult time deciding on what to do with it. This was made even more complex when I realized I was likely stuck as a nonbeliever -- why did I sometimes return to the rituals, and what was I trying to achieve? How could I incorporate it into my life without feeling disingenuous?

Even up until a year ago, when I tried out tarot and kept asking the cards, “What is my relationship with magic?” -- twofold, looking for an answer (that never came), as well as to have the opportunity to simply try to read cards when I had no actual pressing questions I could think of (ironic).

Bandler et al, as well, work within a model where goals and change are the purpose of magic.

What I was seeking, the whole time, was not using any of these processes for anything, but simply to feel the thing I felt while doing them that was both difficult to illustrate and uniquely recognizable, unlike anything else.

Once I realized this, I used to try to describe it in hypnosis as that I wanted to focus on the induction, or that I didn’t care what we did, or that “change” wasn’t important to me. But that’s not accurate, either. Transformation, manifestation sates that desire when done in a certain way -- surely then I think that NLP perfectly describes my model?

My hesitation there is that I think for myself, it is the pure exhilaration from doing the thing that is what feels like the sweet spot, and it’s not dependent on what direction it goes, what form it takes, or what goal is being achieved.

For me, that feeling of “doing magic” and “doing hypnosis” are completely interchangeable. It is a pure thrill. It is a specific feeling in my mind and body that I can attempt to describe but can never fully enunciate. It changes and shifts but it is always recognizable on some level.

It is much more like doing recreational drugs than it is about prescribing something. Purely hedonistically, I am seeking a high.

--

I don’t believe in magic. I have had a handful of experiences in my life that have made me deeply question that at times, and they are experiences that I have never reconciled, but that is sort of besides the point. Nothing has ever pushed me into a place where I am able to fully embrace the concept that magic exists in any real sense.

But when I do hypnosis, it is impossible not to work within this model. How else am I supposed to describe what it feels like when I look at someone and know what they are thinking, or I just imagine my will suppressing theirs and their eyes flutter, or I think about what I want and my mouth starts moving elegantly in a way that makes it happen? In kinesthetic hypnosis, it is almost too much. My muscle memory is to do things like manifest energy flowing into and through my fingers, affecting my partner, and it was years of trying rituals like blue fire Feri meditations that made that so easy to feel.

It is not that I can make an easy statement like “hypnosis is magic.” It is not literally true. But as a metaphor, it holds a lot of potency. And magic is a powerful and ubiquitous metaphor; it is culturally ingrained in us in the stories we tell and our history. It is vague; there is no universal definition of it, which allows us to stretch it extensively and apply it wherever we feel it fits.

Metaphor itself is a type of magic, and this is one area where my thoughts about the metaphysical qualities of hypnosis shine through. Magic is about symbolism. We use objects, words, actions that we assign meaning to in order to manifest something. Herbs are purported to have affinities for different concepts so we include them in ritual -- and it’s not just that those affinities are inherent; there is meaning behind the correspondences that works best when we understand it. Similarly, when we are attempting to relate a concept to someone, we often do so indirectly, by telling a story, by creating metaphors or associations.

I don’t believe in magic, so to some degree, when I do it, that action is metaphorical. I am using actions that I don’t literally believe to hold any power in order to find a feeling; I am telling a story about a journey in order to find a real destination. This holds true to one of my beliefs, that symbols themselves hold little to no objective meaning. NLP and Alfred Korzybski say, “The map is not the territory; the word is not the thing; this is not a pipe; there is no objective truth.” Our entire world is made of symbols and metaphors that we all have to buy into in order to function as humans. We assign values to things that intrinsically have much different or nonexistent value -- prices, nostalgia, connotation. A magical symbol, in my eyes, is only as powerful as the connections we’re able to make with it in our minds. Color associations are symbolic. The action of casting a circle is symbolic. 

Words are symbols as well, and I do drink the Kool-aid with NLP on this, to some degree. I think about how words are dependent on a vast, intangible amount of variables in order to settle on their presumed, subjective interpretation by a listener or reader. We do this processing as well as thinking about our intent unconsciously, for the most part. If I assume that language is at least partially representative of our experiences and worlds, that gives communication a lot of power, and sure, yes, fine, that smells like magic to me, I’ll take your 20th tired book now Mr. Bandler, sir.

So to some degree the metaphor of magic is about things that are too big, or too grand, or too unknowable to talk about concretely. We often say something is magical when it is difficult or impossible to explain any other way. I can talk plenty about unconscious reading and microexpressions and altered states and language patterns and any number of artifacts that factor into hypnosis, but although it’s fascinating to know about them and helpful to consider and learn, I don’t often think about them when it actually comes down to it. I used to, but not for a while, and there is surely something to be said there for what “becoming experienced” means in both concepts.

It connects to when I think about what things we tend to call “magical” in hypnosis. When I respond without conscious effort, when something is “too fast,” when I feel like I can just purely make someone do something amazing. Sure, it can be easy enough to pick those apart and use academic language and explain them, but sometimes I drive myself insane trying to do that when I just want to say, “It’s magic; it feels like magic.”

--

After leaving my exploration of witchcraft for a while, I ended up adopting parts of it back into my life. I had more connection to the holidays on the Wheel of the Year than any others, really, and Wiccan ritual feels natural to me. I don’t call myself a witch, and I struggled for a long time looking for a label that fits what I do.

When I picked it back up, it was for a Samhain (Halloween) ritual to show my partner. It had been years, but I felt more comfortable casting a circle and doing all the things than I ever had been. I realized that my magic practice had begun to look a lot more like my hypnosis practice. I was speaking and acting unconsciously, simply filtering whispers of my intent through my words and actions. I had no plan and was following no script, but I knew what to do and say. We were both in very deep trance and we could feel the boundary of the circle as a physical thing, the air buzzing. It was the first moment that I had allowed a harmonious marriage between my knowledge of witchcraft and my practice of hypnosis, and I got the druglike thrill that I always seek. We sat in the circle for an hour, unbeknownst to us.

I did some searching to try to find if others had a similar experience or worldview. The best I could describe what I was doing was “psychological magic” or “witchcraft-flavored hypnosis.” I found very little; chaos magic and secular witchcraft were not what I was searching for.

Despite feeling a little lost, the experience reignited my desire for magical ritual. It has always been complicated to go through the motions that logically have no objective power to me, and saying that I give them power feels like a cop-out when I feel like I give them nothing. To some degree, equating it to hypnosis on any level feels like a crutch, but it’s one I’m used to; after all, there is plenty of me that doesn’t really believe in hypnosis, either -- “Hypnosis is bullshit.”

But “spellwork” became the most effortless thing in the world to me when it used to be so careful and unsure and measured. I take my props, I think about what they could symbolize, I think about how they connect to all the other ingredients available to me. I assign value and meaning through those connections and logic in a pattern my brain knows all too well. It is just like manipulation, and I use that to feel things. Creating rituals is just like giving a good suggestion; identify the message of the utterance and craft something poignant and poetic with the tools at hand to give it meaning. In hypnosis, the tools are your place in the story/trance, your vocabulary, the tone, the props, your history and the history of the person you’re with. In magic, the tools are the same, but possibly with a different flavor. A hypnotic tool is the logic that the word “deeper” is a sensory-rich word; a magical tool is the logic that clockwise motion can be equated to “more.” Both tools are malleable.

I mentioned poetry, and I think for me, one of the most important parts of good magic (and good hypnosis) is that it’s beautiful in some way. Wicca, like other religions, puts emphasis on reverence. Even many secular witches will be awed by nature and use that as a motivating force. Magic is not inherently naturalistic for me, even though I borrow the aesthetic. I don’t necessarily seek that kind of divine wonderment, but my attraction is adjacent.

--

My desires with magic are incredibly reflective of my desires with hypnosis -- power. Blind desire for power, whether to have it or have it taken away from me. It sounds evil to write it out, but at its base level it’s much less about anything but a simple feeling. It feels good and heady and awe-filled, and while on some level that’s sexually driven, I think it might also come from another, deeper place.

I still get uncomfortable when magical rituals feel too sensual, and there is a similar discomfort when hypnosis scenes feel too spiritual, but the latter is easier than the former. Generally, I still don’t know “what” to do when I do magic -- I only know “how” to do it. And not to mention “why” I would do magic if I don’t believe in it.

There’s a lot left that I haven’t reconciled. I suppose from a very broad lens, trying to codify the connections I feel between these two concepts is an attempt to make it easier to think about from a variety of different perspectives. I think about how I got over the phase of calling myself “boring” with hypnosis for only seeking feelings, not concepts, and think maybe that will help me with magic. I think about how I became more comfortable over time with my motivations to do hypnosis -- then less comfortable, then more comfortable. A key of my self-growth has always been recognizing and accepting my cyclical nature. (Wicca might say something about moon phases or a myriad of other natural cycles here; hypnosis and NLP might say something about patterns.)

To some degree, these kinds of explorations are valuable because they force us to limit our frames of reference as well. I barely touched upon connected ideas like religion or kink as a whole, how teaching and writing play in, my skill with self-hypnosis (surprisingly low) or connection to mesmerism/magnetism, and so much more. But it’s approaching nebulous concepts like this in a variety of different ways where we find answers, because often we don’t really even know what questions we should be asking.

--

I hope you enjoyed this piece! There was of course a lot I wanted to say and I’m very interested if this sparks any ideas or conversations -- when I first talked about this on Twitter, I was happily surprised how many folks had some similar thoughts or experiences and wanted to relate.

If you liked this writing and want to see more, you can find similar pieces available on Patreon or Gumroad; I write 6-8k words per month, sometimes academic and sometimes more exploratory like this. Please check it out! You can also get this writing as a downloadable PDF and tip through Gumroad, if you feel so inclined.

Thanks as always for your support, no matter what form that takes, be it monetary or simply reading through what I have to say.

- sleepingirl

[goarwago]

Should Never Happens Chapter 6

The doctor was giving pregnancy instructions and advice, Nedim the whole time was looking down, and his two hands were in his waist as he was keeping his anger under control. Ceren observed Nedim's every move; she was scared; as soon the doctor was out, Nedim looked at her with a grudge.

"Who's baby is this ?" Nedim said Ceren didn't believe what she heard 'how could he ask this question?'

" it yours, how could y..." Ceren said with anger.

"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, you did that in purpose so that you can stick to me like leeches. This was your cheap plan from the beginning."

"NO, HOW COULD YOU THINK I WILL DO THAT?" she said while her heartburns with every word coming of Nedim's mouth.

"YOU DID IT before with Cank, and now it's my turn, you're a very cheap woman."

" shut up, Nedim, you ..."

"YOU SHUT UP, I DON'T WANT THIS BABY, AND DEFINITELY I DON'T WANT YOU. YOU RUINED MY LIFE, I HOPED I NEVER SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN," and Nedim was out of the room.

'It was all over again, the same story the father of her baby didn't want his child, her children are doomed like her, unloved, unwanted, what she was going to do now?' she thought, and her tears were falling.

Ceren rushed to the Palace with a taxi and immediately went to her room in the outer building; she ignored everyone, closed the door behind her, and slept in her bed. She didn't want to think about anything; she just wanted to forget everything and everyone . she just needed little peace and drifted to sleep.

When she woke up, the room was dark and outside the windows too, there were tears in her eyes but a smile in her lips; she knew what she would do, she had a plan and was sure about it. Tomorrow will be the beginning of it.

                         --------------------------------------------   

Nedim comes to the house very late when everyone was asleep; he didn't want to interfere with anyone at home; his day was getting worse by the minutes; it wasn't enough that he didn't know anything about work. Also, Cemre was like a shadow for his Cousin, she didn't leave his side in the hospital, and even at home, it killed him, and then this baby and Ceren,

'What am I going to do with both of them?'.He tried to sleep, but he couldn't until the morning; he changed his clothes and went to the company without breakfast.

There was a big meeting he had to attend with his uncle; during the meeting, he couldn't concentrate on anything; he kept thinking about the catastrophe he is in; he tried to remember that night.

'There were glimpses about it, just the feeling of a warm body, seeing Cemre under me, and my release of pleasure that I felt, it wasn't my first experience,  that I didn't know what it is or how it felt. Ceren wasn't the first woman I was with, so I knew the drive, the pleasure. I wasn't a virgin when I was going under my treatment in Germany in my last days, I hired an escort, the higher kind one that comes with a medical certificate, I didn't want to feel that I was less of a man, I AM24 years old who never been with women, I didn't want to be beneath Cenk ', Nedim wanted to be better than him, and the women who he loves is married to his Cousin.

'I wanted to get revenge from her too, so it was my man ego that took hold of me; she was gorgeous the women that were with me, in the beginning, I couldn't do anything, but she helped me to relax by drinking than guided me to what to do, I kept her all night with me, I never felt this kind of pleasure before it was pure lust and animalistic drive nothing more, but I liked it, in the morning I regretted it so much and promised myself that I would not do it again only with someone I have a feeling for.'

"But what was with Ceren? I don't know what to call it or what to call her, she had crossed her limit with me, and I found another reason to hate her; she was evil and a shameless girl, I never forget what she did to me, and now what she is doing, Ceren was a sadist who took pleasure in torturing me when I was in the wheelchair, the thought of that made my blood boil, I just wanted to be out of the meeting room'. Nedim thought, and for his luck, it did finish.

It was almost in the afternoon, his uncle had asked to join him for lunch with board members of the company, and he accepted it might take his mind of the situation; in the restaurant, all the members were engaging in eating and talking about business, he tried to mangel with them, but it was hard for him with his poor knowledge in business, his attention drift from the table to mother and her baby that was crying his lungs out.

'I will be a father'; this thought gives him mixed feelings; he didn't know how to react to it, this will make everything difficult for him,

'when I bright back Ceren to the house by using her baby and pretending that was my baby, I felt sorry when the baby died. He didn't have any crime to be involved in this revenge, but I didn't feel any attachment or responsibility to it, but this baby is different; it is my blood. What am I going to do?' He was so engaged in his thought that he didn't notice that everyone on the table was getting up only when his uncle called him.

"Nedim, are you okay, my son? I have been calling you for a while," Ageh said

"Yes, I ok, sorry I didn't hear you."

"It's ok, son; I'm going back home. Would you like to join me?"

"No, uncle, I have some work to do in the company, please care on."

" Ok, son," and Agah was gone.

Nedim was not ready to go back home; he needed to solve this problem. First, he rushed to the company and asked his secretary not to allow anyone to disturb him. It was evening when he found a solution to his problem. He decided that they will get divorced, and he will move her out of the house and buy her a new one so that she can live there with the baby- he didn't like the thought of their baby- and he will make sure all of her and the baby's need will be applied, he didn't want her in his life anymore. Still, he will take care of his child no matter who is his mother; this was his blood.

'I'm not Cank who didn't stop his mother from killing his baby, this was a solid plan that will work for both of them; I just need to go home and explain it to Ceren.'He reached the Palace and want directly to the outbuilding to talk to her. Civan was standing outside the house, and he greeted him.

"Hello Civan, how are you? Where is your sister ?"

"Great brother, Cemre?"Civan answered

"No, Ceren, I would like to talk to her."

"Let me check if she is inside," Civan despaired inside and came back after a while.

"She is not there; I even asked my mother she said she didn't see her from the morning."

"I will try to call her," Nedim called her phone; he heard the phone ring coming from inside; Mrs.Sehre came out holding the phone in her hand.

"Son, her phone is here, Ceren never leaves without her phone," Seher said with worry in her voice.

"Maybe she is in the Palace, " Civen said, trying to reduce his mother's anxiety.

"Ok, I will check there, don't worry, Mrs. Seher; when I find her, I will inform you," Nedim said as he was looking at his room's window, lights were coming from the window.

He entered the Palace and straightly claimed the staircase to his room; he opened the door, but the room was empty, he looked in the bathroom and the closet, but there were no traces of Ceren.he went down, calling Nurten, who come running.

"Nurten sister, do you know where Ceren is?"

"No, sir, I don't; the last time I saw her, it was in the morning. She entered your room then left very fast; I called her she didn't answer me and went out of the house door very fast," Nurten sister answered. Nedim didn't like what he heard and felt it in his get, that told him something wrong had happened.

" Thanks, Nurten sister," Nedim said and went back to his room. When he was inside, he took his jacket and dropped it on the chair near his desk. He noticed some papers and a folder on his desk; he took the papers, it was a divorce paper with Ceren's signature on it, he opened the folder found a wedding ring and a flash memory, and he knew that Ceren is gone.

[imhereforbvcky]

Vivid - Part 2

Masterlist  -  Series Masterpage 

Summary: Have you ever met someone who completely embodies a color? Not an aura, not synesthesia. Just… They walk into the room and when you spot them, you think to yourself, “Wow. That is a walking hurricane.” When Clint Barton serendipitously meets a free-spirited stranger, he sees red. Chapter: Clint never expected to see you again, but today he does. Can he convince you to see him again? Maybe on purpose next time?

Warnings: Sailor Mee and the curse of the lip, back at it again. (Swearing. There’s plenty of swearing.)

Word Count: 2503

A/N: Oooh boy. I’m on the fence about this one. I like parts of it, but I’m always leery about including side relationships and fleeting characters. In this case, I think it gives character insight? So I kept it? Again, fair warning, this “you” is practically an OFC.

The next time Clint saw you was as unexpected as the first.

He hated these events. Everyone did. Of course he knew it was important, a good cause, part of his responsibilities, and on, and on, and on. Having a few Avengers listed on the invitation always brought bigger donations. Clint knew this. But it was still a headache and he wasn’t great at pretending.

He’d shaken a few hands, smiled, simpered, and promptly grew bored. By the time Natasha found him observing from the corner, the speeches had nearly concluded. He’d slouched into a deeply uncomfortable rental sofa, spinning a long slender breadstick in his fingers.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?” Natasha teased as she handed him a whiskey neat. He quickly dumped it into his half empty coffee and took a gulp. Almost an Irish coffee. Rougher and not quite according to direction, like him.

“Convince me these are actually edible and I’ll stop.”

She yanked the slender stick from her fingers and crunched down on it. He laughed when she yelped and handed it back rubbing her jaw.

“Think one of these penguin suits is a decent dentist?” she groaned, scanning the room of tuxedos and glittering evening gowns.

“I think if you ask you’ll never hear yourself talk again,” he grumbled, taking another gulp of his drink. “I’m bored.”

Natasha hummed her agreement and took a sip of her cocktail while she scanned the room. “Well the band’s about to start. Take bets on the playlist? I’ll take $100 we get two Journey songs.”

“You think I’ve got $100 to flush down the toilet?”

Natasha laughed and shrugged. “Works on the dentists.”

He laughed, watching her scan the room, looking for a target for the night.

“Big red over there is pretty,” she nodded toward the stage.

Clint perked up, turning to look over his shoulder at the singer in the bright red dress.

“What d’you think her drink is?” Natasha asked, eyes too busy reading a million silent clues to see her friend’s slack jaw and wide, eager eyes. “I’m guessing… Gin martini with lemon. Definitely goes for a twist.”

“Coke,” Clint answered quietly beside her, as shocked as he was mesmerized. The band had begun to play, and of course she was a front-woman. It was so obvious it hurt. Or was that the pounding in his chest.

“What did you say?”

“She likes coke,” he answered, a smile slowly curling his lips. “I’m going rum and coke.”

Thoughtlessly, effortlessly, he was on his feet, moving toward the stage. He suddenly had that feeling again. Red. You wore it and you lived it. You came alive on that stage. With smiles and winks, a little dance and a few songs, you’d drawn every guest into motion.

They tapped of fingers modestly against their glasses mid-conversation. Or they swayed shoulders, skirting the dance-floor hoping to be asked. The more exuberant guests allowed themselves to be swept into the current.

You were a red neon light, glowing, burning. Energy itself innervating the room. He felt it on his skin and in the center of his chest.

“Do you know her?” Natasha turned to him, somewhere between an amused smile and a confused frown distorting her smooth features.

“We danced once…”

“You?”

“In a bodega.” He chuckled at the memory, at the promise it held.

“That makes more sense,” she smirked and scanned the room again. “Well, I guess I’ll have to try again for a dance partner then?”

“Uh-huh.” He hadn’t really heard. He’d stopped paying attention a long time ago. He was drawn like a moth to a bright red flame.

He waited, enjoying the rest of the party, for once. For once, he had something else to think about.

“You guys have been great,” you smiled wide into the microphone. “We’re gonna take a little break. Just enough time to have another look at the silent auction items.” A wink and the spotlight cut off the stage just as you turned to leave it in a swirl of red dress, blue light, and humming voices.

Clint weaved his way through the crowd as you and your band-mates cleared the stage. He had no idea what he was doing or what he might say, but… it seemed like fate. Like the wind had blown a lucky red balloon just within reach.

“No, fuck being friends!” he heard your whisper-shout when he finally spotted you down the hall. With eyes scrunched closed, your hands pushed out in front of you, toward the man across the hall. “This has never been just friends. Not for me. And it’s not for you either; you just can’t… You want to play around but my heart isn’t a toy. I can’t do this hot and cold thing.”

“Baby, don’t be like that,” the man urged, taking your hand. He stepped close. Very close. “I came to see you.”

You shoved the man’s hand away abruptly. “To see me.” A bitter laugh cut through the air. “It’s like you have some kind of special shit-stirrer’s radar. Every time I start doing okay without you, you turn up and make damn sure I’m not.”

“So don’t be without me,” he cooed, stroking his hands down your arms. “Not tonight.”

“This is what I mean. You want me ‘til you don’t. Doesn’t seem like that’s changed, has it?”

He merely sighed and looked at his feet, shaking his head, unwilling to answer. Always unwilling to risk anything but you. He was guarded while you stood, as ever, with a heart open and alive, red and beating, straining to feel it all. As ever, you were tired of breaking yourself against someone else’s walls.

You shook your head and pushed the man away gently. “Just go,” you said softly, hardly more than a whisper.

Having realized, too late, exactly what he’d stumbled upon, Clint turned to slip away in the shadows, unnoticed. Except Clint Barton, SHIELD spy, Avengers sharpshooter was shockingly prone to accidents. The clatter of glass drew your attention down the half-lit hallway. He’d tripped over a cocktail glass some wandering guest had left behind.

“The fundraiser’s the next door on your left,” you called, assuming he was a lost patron.

“Don’t do that,” the man across from you cooed, resuming your argument and reaching for you again. This time you moved out of reach. “We’re good as friends. Come with me, just for the night, for old time’s sake. No strings. We both know what it is this time; no one gets hurt..”

Clint didn’t like pushy people. He didn’t like anyone who manipulated their way into places they weren’t invited. He’d known a few.

“Um actually… I’m uh with the event” Clint stumbled with a sheepish grin that appealed to you immediately. It beamed a signal: gentle and safe, and… familiar. “I was hoping to talk to you.” He was giving you an out and you were grateful.

“I have to go,” you told the man you’d been arguing with. “So do you.”

With that you patted his shoulder and turned down the hall towards the event. Towards Clint.

“Hey honey, what can I help you with?” you asked with a customer service smile glued to your face, eyes shimmering with struggle.

“I was…” Clint stopped and shook his head, changing course. “Are you alright?”

“Of course.” In the momentary pause Clint raised his eyebrows, ever skeptical, and you , you released a heavy sigh. A bittersweet smile tilted your lips. “Or I will be. ”

“He seems like a jerk. You should go have a drink and dance til your feet are numb and buy yourself something weird and awesome and forget all about him,” he held out his elbow for you and you took it, looping your arm around his with a watery laugh. As if you could afford a single thing on the auction block.

You turned to him as he led you back to the party, with your fingers curled around his rigid bicep. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh, no. Nevermind.”

“No, come on!” You bumped him with your shoulder. “What was it?”

He turned to face you but shook his head, looking at his feet and yours, swept by that red-as-red-could-be red dress.

“I recognized you, is all,” he admitted. “When you guys started playing... I think the bodega performance was maybe, a cut above, but,” he shrugged with a huge grin on his face.

You burst into laughter at the memory.

“The bodega!” you smacked your palm onto your forehead. “Oh my god, I was… not myself that night.” You tipped your head with a wink to be sure he understood.

This time it was Clint who laughed. And you enjoyed every bit of it. The shocked rise of his eyebrows, the glint in his wide eyes, and the huge grin on his lips… It brightened your heavy heart. He was good at that, apparently.

“I should have known,” he laughed, “Sober people don’t sing to coke bottles.”

“Oh no, I absolutely do that sober.”

“Oh,” he laughed. “You’re that kind of person.”

“And you’re lucky to have witnessed it.”

“I am,” he agreed, with something warm and soft in his eyes.

“That was another ex-boyfriend special. Ending a night to forget with junk food and a hangover on the horizon,” you sighed, shaking your head. “I’m a jump in with both feet sort of girl, ya know?” He did know. In his mind you were bright red, full of risks. And if you were lucky, he assumed, gleaming rewards. It made perfect sense that you felt strongly and acted rashly. Red. “When I see something I like I’m all in. And he was a… a…”

“An idiot?” Clint offered. “An asshat? Blind?”

Your laughter was infectious to him. He didn’t even care if it was at his expense. He just wanted to hear it.

“That too, I like to think,” you agreed through a giggle. “Truth is: I’m the idiot. I feel too much and I get my heart broken too often. Can’t turn it off.”

“No,” Clint argued, dropping your hand from his arm so he could turn to face you. “Definitely not an idiot.”

“No?”

“Brave.”

People like you were a complete mystery to Clint. He could barely bring himself to say things like ‘I love you’ to people he well and truly loved. They knew it. People like Nat, and the others: his family. They shared traumas and challenges that understood why. Yet here you were, brimming with it, ready to share it so easily. This was what he had been drawn to that day in the bodega, and this was what had pulled him down the hallway looking for you this night like a moth to the bright red heat of a flame.

You chuckled softly, turning embarrassed eyes to your feet. “You do know there are real live Avengers in this room, right?”

“WHAT?!” he shrieked, feigning shock and looking wide-eyed about the room.

This time your laugh was deep and full. He was so light and fun, this stranger. Time with him was weightless, light as a feather. It cheered you up moment by tiny moment.

“I don’t know if I qualify as brave in this crowd,” you explained.

“Well,” he turned back to you. “Would I qualify if I danced around like a preschooler on Kool-Aid?”

“Oh, definitely,” you grinned, nodding.

“Bravest of them all.”

“Look out, Lancelot!”

By the time you glanced up to the stage, your band was already gearing up to finish the set. One grateful squeeze to your new yet old friend’s arm and you were off. Clint tried not to read too much into it, but it felt like a whole conversation. A ‘thanks,’ a ‘see you,’ a silent ‘I like this.’ Wishful thinking, he told himself.

You didn’t want to leave Clint’s side, but the show must go on. Especially one paid for by the biggest name in New York City.

It was the worst set of your life. Your band mates were furious. You were completely blowing an important gig, but damn it all, you couldn’t stop laughing.

Clint had planted himself at the center of the dance floor and held true to what you had thought was a joke. He flailed and jerked like a madman. He slid behind unsuspecting dancers making faces and wild gestures. He dragged a confused and reluctant Tony onto the floor for a waltz during your most lively song. It made no sense and it was exactly what you needed.

He spun and lunged and dipped, taking stealthy sips through straws of drinks held behind intimately held partner’s backs. Partner pairs he was absolutely not a part of.

What finally, finally got you to step away from the mike, cover your face, and double over laughing was the chicken dance in the middle of a slow mushy ballad.

The pianist glared at you before looking to your lead guitarist for help. They turned it into a lovely instrumental on the fly and you ended the show early.

“Thank you all, you’ve been a wonderful audience,” you managed through giggles. “And a generous one by the look of it! Give yourselves a hand! A beautiful evening for a beautiful cause.”

You paused for the soft applause that filled the room as the dancing stopped. Clint grinned up at you, fanning himself in mock exhaustion. Though, you didn’t doubt he probably had worn his dress shoes to blistering.

“And a special round of applause for my personal hero down here on the dance floor! Mr. Lancelot!”

This time it was Clint who turned red. He tried to duck into the crowd, shaking his head with a sheepish laugh.

“What the hell are you up to?” Tony asked in a discrete, tight lipped murmur as he, slung an arm over Clint’s shoulder, saving him from the limelight.

“Oh damn,” he sighed, high and long. Exhausted. “I have no idea.”

“If uh,” you stammered on the stage, the first time all night Clint had seen you look unsure. “If he wanted to hang around for a bit I’m gonna go get some pizza because this fancy fundraiser food is served on a toothpick and I’m starving.”

Clint’s entire face lit up. It was the most lovely thing you’d ever seen. It started in his eyes: they looked up into the light of the stage and glittered, narrowing as the smile pushed at his cheeks, rounding them and wrinkling the soft skin near his clear blue eyes. Lopsided, his lips drew over grinning white teeth, as he glanced at his feet, blushing.

He was cute as hell.

He laughed under Tony’s arm and nodded. A matching smile erupted across your own face, for the first time in weeks, excited to be greeting the early morning hours.

“You’re kidding me,” Tony scoffed from beside Clint. “Those moves actually worked?”

Part 3 >>

[sky-scribbles]

Kaas City shines in the rain.

The Republic news always shows it as grim and forbidding, endlessly smothered by floods. But anyone who’s lived here knows the city was built to be beautiful in a downpour. Gutters made of strengthened glass, refracting light into shining patterns as the water courses through them; funnels and spouts that catch the rain it trickles down buildings, channelling it into fountains.

Lana shines in the rain, too. But then, Lana always shines.

Neyna doesn’t bother to hide her smile as she leads Lana out onto the balcony of her apartment. This feels like the right place to talk: appropriately dramatic, what with the drumming of the rain on the canopy above their heads, and the city a shimmering artwork all around them. And here, she gets to see Lana in the light of the city. See the highlights and shadows thrown over her face. It’s a breathless experience – even though her robes are soaked and her hair’s sticking to her face – and Neyna very badly wants to kiss her.

She wonders if Lana has noticed her repeated glances towards her lips. Probably. Hopefully.

‘You didn’t have to come here in this downpour,’ Neyna says, leaning against the parapet. ‘Or if you did, you could have taken a taxi with a roof.’

‘I took the first one I saw as soon as I learned you were home.’ Lana smiles, and stars, Neyna will never get over what that does to her insides. ‘I wanted to see you as soon as I could. Besides, you didn’t have to buy me flowers, either.’

She’s still holding them, a explosion of amber-coloured petals – which, Neyna is delighted to see, match her eyes perfectly. ‘I did, really. It seems like the least kind of apology I can make for apparently-dying on you. And for taking so long to let you know I was alive.’

Lana is silent for a moment, her fingers twining around the flower stems. Then she says, ‘I missed you.’

Thunder crashes somewhere, and Neyna’s stomach clenches. The clouds hide the view of Zakuul’s blockade, ships in the thousands hanging above Dromund Kaas’s turbulent sky. She thinks of how those ships dropped out of nowhere, how she ran in a panicked dash to escape the Knights and droids that poured from them. Months spent dodging skytroopers as she battled towards home. Nights in cramped foxholes, lightsabre clutched to her chest like a child’s toy, thinking, Lana would know what to do. Lana would have made it home by now. I wouldn’t be anywhere near this scared if Lana could just be here with me –

She swallows, and her fingers clench over the edge of the balcony wall. ‘I missed you too.’

‘No. I –’ Lana’s voice catches in a way Neyna has only heard from her once before, when she was huddled on the ground on Ziost after trying to fight Master Surro. Blood in her hair, blood across her face. So much of it.

Neyna pushes the memory away, and focuses on the way Lana moves as she trails a fingertip over the edges of one of the flowers. Focuses on her voice. ‘I missed seeing you come into work with paint stains on your arms. I missed seeing you play with that bad-tempered kell drake of yours. I hated relying on stealth generators because I didn’t have you to cloak me with the Force. I hated sensing the empty space where you were meant to be at my back. Even –’ She stops, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘Even the Force felt wrong without you around. I won’t feel that again.’

Neyna steps closer. ‘You won’t have to.’

Lana doesn’t say anything. But she smiles. And there’s silence for a few seconds, broken by the sound of rain clattering on the canopy and on the streets and on a million artworks made to catch the water.

There’s no need to say anything more, Neyna decides. She and Lana both know what’s between them, it’s rippling across their Force bond with every second. How unnecessary words seem, and how foolish all those hesitations and missed chances feel, now the entire galaxy is going to change. Now they need to leave this shining city, leave the Empire. Now each of them is the other’s only still point.

Another sound joins the rain: Lana’s fingers drumming on the balcony in a very restless, un-Lana-like way. ‘I suppose we should probably talk about –’

Neyna can’t help the smirk that steals onto her face. ‘About the messages you sent me while I was missing? Your dramatic declaration of love?’

Lana looks equal parts annoyed and awkward, and Neyna shouldn’t be as amused by that as she is. But everything inside her feels too bright and warm right now, and she’s felt that way ever since she read Lana’s last message. My love, Lana called her, and Neyna cried, clutched the datapad until her fingers hurt, laughed in a way she hadn’t since the Eternal Empire came, then cried some more.

The sound of Lana’s voice breaks in on her thoughts. ‘We don’t need to talk about it now if you don’t want to. You’ve had a hard few months, and things are about to change a great deal. And you’ve never exactly made your feelings clear –’

‘I haven’t?’ The words turn into incredulous laugh. ‘Maybe I never said it in so many words, but – stars, Lana, didn’t I make my feelings clear when I said I’d walk through fire if you asked me to? When I gave up my own life essence to heal you on Ziost? When I forced myself to live when it was me against the whole Eternal Empire, just so I could find my way back to you?’ That bright feeling is growing stronger, and Neyna decides to follow where it leads. ‘Then let me make my feelings abundantly clear, Lana Beniko.’

And she steps forward and –

And she kisses Lana.

Finally.

It’s almost laughably easy, after all those months of watching Lana and wanting Lana and saying nothing. Take her face in both hands and lean in, find Lana meeting her halfway, pull her in close and bunch fingers into her hair and don’t let go, oh Force, don’t let go. Feel their bond in the Force flare up like an explosion, all of Lana’s surprise and delight and wonder hitting her in a punch. And something deeper. Something hot and fierce that’s both hers and Lana’s, something that makes Neyna hold on even tighter. Linger a little longer.

Lana’s eyes stay closed as Neyna moves back. Her lips twitch into a smile. ‘You’re squashing the flowers.’

Neyna pries them from her hands and set them down on the rim of the balcony. ‘You can collect them later.’

Because she’s not stopping at one kiss, not when she’s wanted this for more than a year, not when the reflections from the city walls are dancing on Lana’s face. And Lana’s eyes are open and it should be illegal to have eyes so vividly amber, and oh, Neyna is lost now if she wasn’t already, if she wasn’t the first time Lana ever smiled at her.

Neyna finds she’s very, very all right with being lost.

Because kissing Lana again and again is like the shock of a static spark from metal, the rich aftertaste of alcohol, the thrill of hearing music rise to a crescendo. It’s electric and it’s hungry and it’s joy in its rawest form, and there’s not a metaphor in the universe that’s strong enough right now. They told her back on Csilla that she would corrupt anything that touched her – and here she is with the most beautiful creature in the galaxy in her arms, and she’s laughing as she breaks the kiss, laughing with the triumphant glee of it.

So she nearly misses what Lana says. ‘Perhaps we should go inside.’

‘Must we?’ Neyna smiles the words against Lana’s lips. ‘You look beautiful in the rainlight.’

‘Rainlight? This is why I – ’ Lana doesn’t finish the sentence, just leans forward to kiss Neyna again. Soft. Warm. ‘I’ve never met anyone who sees the world the same way you do. Always seeing beauty.’

‘I know,’ Neyna says, looking at Lana in the least subtle way she can manage, and Lana laughs again. ‘But maybe you’re right. Maybe we should go inside. Somewhere nice and private.’

She would like to add, because I want you to myself and I want you as close as I can get you and quite honestly, I just want you and I have for so long. But she settles for grinning, a grin that’s definitely too smug, and Lana lets out a huff. ‘You’re insufferable.’

Neyna just keeps grinning, because she saw a familiar edge creep into Lana’s eyes. A look that says she’s seeing a challenge. Accepting it. And Lana can’t find her that insufferable anyway, because she keeps kissing Neyna even as they step across the doorway, not stopping as Neyna leads her to her room, only stepping back when Neyna turns the light down to a soft golden glow with a flick of her hand. Stars, she loves being a photokineticist. She turns back to Lana, and –

Oh.

There’s no awkward restlessness in Lana’s face now, no hesitation. The glow of her eyes in this lighting is downright ferocious, and Neyna feels her insides jolt so violently that she has a vague feeling that they might not even be in her body anymore.

Lana’s hand closes around the front of her robe. Pulls her close. Closer still. Close enough to slip Neyna’s scarf off with a single twist and hook purposeful fingers into the front of her robes.

‘I am done,’ Lana hisses, ‘with having distance between us.’

Which is absolutely fine, as far as Neyna is concerned.

And very soon there’s no distance between them at all.

[pearandpecorino]

Homemade Pumpkin Ravioli with Brown Butter and Sage

Happy Almost Halloween!

To celebrate the season, I’m sharing my recipe for homemade Pumpkin Ravioli. A savory take on pumpkin, paired with cheese, a hint of nutmeg, and a rich brown butter sage sauce. Nutty, earthy, just the right amount of pumpkin, enveloped in pasta that can’t get any more fresh.

Apparently when I was a little kid, on a trip to Italy, whenever I saw Pumpkin Ravioli on the menu, I had to order it. At five years old. It was a memory I was reminded of only recently when I had the idea to make these guys. I still can’t fully wrap my head around that memory. Weird. As I’ve gotten older, just barely able to look back at my childhood, I’ve come to embrace the concept that some traits in little kids aren’t that far off from their adult selves. Little chef then, not so little chef now. It feels like I’ve changed so much but then again some things never change.

Making the Dough

On a clean surface, form the flour into a pile and make a well in the center. Crack your eggs into the center of the well and use a fork to break up the yolk. Alternatively, whisk the eggs beforehand and pour the eggs into the center of the flour.

As you are whisking, begin to move the fork towards the inner edges of the well, gently bringing in more flour. Allow the flour to incorporate before continuing the process and adding more to the eggs. Repeat the process until the majority of the ingredients are combined.

If not all of the flour is combined, or more likely your dough is a big shaggy mess, don’t worry! That’s what it should look like at this point. This is when you’ll want to start kneading your dough and all of the stray pieces.

Kneading the dough:

Method 1:

This is the method that I always use. Once I get into the rhythm of kneading, the movements become second nature. Essentially a cycle of pushing the dough away and pulling it back towards the center.

Using the heel of your hand, push the further half of the dough away from yourself. You’ll see a little “tail” of dough form where you stretched the dough with your hand, sort of a more flat triangle shape. Fold the tail back in the center of the dough, towards yourself, and use the heel of your hand to firmly push it into the center. Rotate the dough roughly 45 degrees and repeat the process.

Method 2:

This is the method my dad uses when kneading pasta dough. Once you finish kneading, you are left with a nice little log shape that is all set to be rolled out.

Roll the dough into a log by placing both hands towards the center of the dough. Move each hand away from the center, stretching outwards and rocking your fingers forwards and backwards. Fold the outer thirds of the log back into the center and repeat the process.

A couple of things to keep in mind when making your dough:

Pasta dough has everything to do with feel. Altitude, humidity, even the size of your eggs effects your dough, which makes every batch of pasta unique. Pasta dough in autumn will not be the same as pasta in the spring. The heat of your hands, the moisture in the air, a particularly windy day - pasta does not adhere to strict guidelines that recipes set in place. I try not to fixate too much on the measurements, but instead focus on the texture and moisture of the dough. If it feels a bit sticky, add a little more flour to the work surface.

Go with the rhythm, adjust flour as you go, and look for texture. Once the dough is stretchy, workable, and silky, you’re good to go! Wrap in plastic wrap and let rest in the refrigerator until you are ready to roll out the pasta.

Take away every urge to stick firmly to technical aspects of recipes. Let your instincts - and hands - guide the process.

Rolling Out the Dough

Whether you have a fancy attachment or a hand cranked pasta maker, there are a few things to note when rolling out dough. Have a towel laid out for the pasta sheets so they have a place to rest and don’t dry out. Keep a knife or pasta cutter on hand to halve lengthy pasta sheets. Besides that, have fun!

Filling the Ravioli

Last few steps!

Lay out a sheet of pasta and spoon about a teaspoon of filling on one half of the dough. Continue down the sheet, leaving about an inch between each spoonful. Using your finger, brush a light line of water in between each spoonful and down the edges of the dough on either side.

Carefully, fold the dough over the top of the filling, but do not seal the seams. First, use your fingers to press out any air from between the ravioli and seal the space between each spoonful of filling. Then, press out any remaining air from the remaining seam by gently feeling around the filling. Once all the air is out, press together the final long edge.

Cut your ravioli! Using a knife or a pasta cutter, cut the ravioli into their individual pillows. If you’d like, trim the long edge for a more uniform look. Just be careful not to cut along the folded side.

From there, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, cook your ravioli, and finish off with some simple, yummy brown butter and sage sauce.

Before I jumped into making my dough, I sat down to read some wise words from Marcella Hazan. It had been a while since I’d made pasta by hand, and I wanted to reorient myself before starting. Marcella’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking is genuinely my handbook for Italian food. She writes pages upon pages about different pasta shapes, the process of rolling out dough, hand forming different shapes - there’s so much there to soak in, and just as much to learn by doing. Each part just as enjoyable. As I’m writing this, I’m becoming more and more aware of how difficult it is to explain something that can’t fully be put into words. Some elements seem too instinctual, too case by case to really put pen to paper. There’s so much to be said about a dish that can inspire pages of writing, made from two ingredients: flour and eggs. Beautifully simple, unique to each creator.

Today, I think many are of the mindset that newer equals better. That highly researched methods and newly developed ways must be the best ways. Or, on the flip side, that shortcuts produce the same results. That we can somehow fast track the process by cutting corners. We’re always looking for the next best thing. Not to say that any of these new or quick methods produce bad results. But that it’s difficult to mimic something done by hand. So if I am going to commit to making homemade pasta, I am going to take the time to treat it with care.

Maybe I’m just too stubborn and fiery to submit myself to new ways of pasta making.

Maybe I just like the heart and hands style of cooking that brings me back to earth, and don’t want to let go of these ways of cooking that have such deeply well-loved roots.

Homemade pasta is a rare meal, but the time put in is well worth it. Delicate, tender little pillows of pumpkin made by hand - another Halloween treat.

Homemade Pumpkin ravioli w/ brown butter and Sage

ingredients

Of course, this is Marcella Hazan’s recipe for yellow pasta dough from Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking.

For the Pasta Dough:

2 cup of unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more as needed

4 eggs

For the Filling:

3/4 cup pumpkin puree*

1/2 cup ricotta

1/4 cup grated parmesan

pinch of nutmeg

pinch of salt

pinch of pepper

*Be careful not to buy pumpkin puree with seasoning.

For the Sauce:

4 tbsp unsalted butter

a few sprigs of sage, roughly chopped

pinch of salt

method

The Pasta Dough

On a clean surface, form your flour into a pile and make a well in the center, wide enough to hold the eggs. Crack the eggs into the center of flour and begin to stir, breaking up the yolks and beating the eggs. Gradually, begin to bring some of the flour into the eggs, incorporating little by little as you go.

Once the majority of the flour is incorporated, or you can no long stir the eggs, you can begin kneading the dough. Repeat the process of stretching and pulling, adding more flour as needed if the dough is too sticky. Once the dough is stretchy, workable, and silky to the touch, it is ready.

Form into two logs and wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate until you are ready to roll out the dough.

Making the Ravioli

Meanwhile, prepare your filling. Mix together the pumpkin puree, ricotta*, parmesan, nutmeg, salt, and pepper.

*Some types of ricotta can be dry and not easily mixed. If your ricotta is creamy, mixing will work great. If you have a less creamy ricotta, transfer the filling to a food processor and pulse a few times for a smooth, creamy filling.

Prepare your work area by laying out a couple of towels to rest the dough, setting up your pasta maker, and having a knife or pasta cutter nearby. For stuffing ravioli, set out your pumpkin filling and a small bowl of water.

On the lowest setting on the pasta maker, draw the dough through while cranking at a consistent pace. Continue bringing the dough through the pasta maker, moving the setting up to gradually thin the dough. Once the dough forms a long thin sheet, it may become too difficult to work with, so I usually cut the sheet in half, setting one half to the side while finishing with the other. I recommend doing this around the third or fourth notch. Continue until you reach the second highest setting on the pasta maker (6 for me, but may vary). Repeat for each sheet of dough.

Lay out a sheet of pasta, and cover the others to prevent them from drying out. Spoon about a teaspoon of filling on one half of the dough. Continue down the sheet, leaving about an inch between each spoonful. Using your finger, brush a light line of water in between each spoonful and down the edges of the dough on either side.

Carefully, fold the dough over the top of the filling, but do not seal the seams. First, use your fingers to press out any air from between the ravioli and seal the space between each spoonful of filling. Then, press out any remaining air from the remaining seam by gently feeling around the filling. Once all the air is out, press together the final long edge.

Using a knife or a pasta cutter, cut the ravioli into their individual pillows. If you’d like, trim the long edge for a more uniform look. Just be careful not to cut along the folded side. As you finish making the ravioli, spread over the towel, turning every so often as they start to dry.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a bowl. Cook for about 5 minutes, until the ravioli is tender and soft. Carefully strain and transfer to the brown butter sage sauce.

Brown Butter Sage Sauce

In a saucepan over low heat, melt the butter with the sage and salt. Once the butter is melted, raise the heat to medium, stirring constantly. Watch for small flecks of golden brown to appear in the butter, then turn off the heat. Continue stirring, as the butter will continue to brown in the hot pan.

Toss the cooked pumpkin ravioli in the brown butter sage sauce and enjoy!

[themadlostgirl]

Not Dead Yet (Part 76)

*Teenagers scare the living shit out of me! (have i used this line yet on this fic?)*

Pairing: Reader x Peter Pan

Warning: language

After learning that I was from Neverland I went back and did some research at the library. Since there wasn’t any real mention of Neverland in Henry’s book I needed to resort to the classics. My first discovery was more of a realization that made my eye twitch. The author of Peter Pan was a man named J. M. Barrie. Marigold Barrie. I think I want to punch someone.

For all my reading it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. It was all the same story. Neverland was the place where kids never grow old and can fly and fight pirates and party with indians. It seemed so innocent compared to what Neal described.

I don’t know why but reading only made me angry. With every mention of Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, or Lost Boys, every time I looked at an illustration of Neverland, I wanted to claw at my skull. I could feel something in the back of my mind. A tickle. A nagging that all the answers to what I used to be was right there on the brink of consciousness.

I know I said I was content being Marigold but ever since Neal told me I was from Neverland I had been having weird dreams. They slipped away too quickly to mean anything but I knew they had to be about Neverland. My old life. The only thing I could ever remember was a pair of green eyes and the smell of wind mixed with something earthy.

It frustrated me not knowing who those eyes belonged to. Why that smell was so familiar and comforting. Why I felt like crying when I woke up and the dream slipped away.

Henry was hanging out with me for the day while everyone was off doing detective work. Apparently Regina was missing and everyone was banding together to find her. Even if Regina is the Evil Queen I didn’t like the thought of her being hurt. She’s a good person, even if she doesn’t go about it in the right way.

We were hanging out at the park. I was about to suggest we go back to Granny’s to get something to eat when the Charmings showed up looking somber. Emma pulled Henry away to talk. Something had gone wrong.

“Henry? Emma?” I got closer, a feeling of dread settling in my stomach, “What’s happened?”

“My--my dad--” Henry hiccuped. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Shh,” I hugged him, “Take it slow. Deep breaths.”

I looked over at Emma. She seemed to read the question in my eyes.

“Neal’s dead.”

“Oh god…” I gasped. I looked back at Henry and hugged him even tighter. “I am so sorry.”

The others went back to their apartment and I decided to take a walk and clear my head. Neal was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.

I ended up down near the docks when a tremor shook the ground. “What the heck was that?” I muttered to myself. Please let there not be another giant running around.

I sat down on the edge of the pier and watched the water lap against the wooden beams. Another tremor went off even worse than before. I didn’t move. Later still there was another that almost pitched me into the water. Still I remained.

The chaos didn’t frighten me. Not as much as it should have. It was just another town crisis. It would pass like all the rest.

“Love?”

I turned at the voice. A man clad in leather with a hook for a hand stood behind me. “Let me guess, Captain Hook?”

“You know it is.” he swaggered over to me, “What are you doing out here, Y/N?”

“Oh Y/N...you’re referring to the other me. The one they say I forgot.” I stared back at the horizon. “Should have guessed that if I lived in Neverland I would have come across the captain of the Jolly Roger at some point.”

“Forgot? What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

I groaned internally at having to explain this once again. “I crossed the town line and forgot who I was before the curse that created this land took hold.”

“Are you joking?”

“Nope. All I know is what Neal and the others told me. My real name is Y/N and I was from Neverland. Everything else is a mystery.”

“You really don’t remember…”

“Not at all. What are you doing in Storybrooke? Sightseeing? Looking for buried treasure?”

“I was actually just leaving,” he gestured to the ship I had been sitting next to all this time. “I don’t suppose you would want to come along.”

“Why would I go with you?”

“Because I can bring you home.”

“I am home.”

“Your real home.” he pulled something from his pocket. It looked like strangely shaped jewel. “And this can get us there.”

“My real home...you mean Neverland?”

“Yes. As you told me before you lost your memories, if I were to return Peter Pan’s missing Lost Girl I would be rewarded handsomely. I bring you home, you get reunited with your crazy family, and I can get whatever I want in exchange.”

I looked between the town and the ship. That tickle was back. A memory right out of reach.

“If I go with you, do you think it’ll help me remember?”

“Only one way to find out,” he held out a hand for me, “Shall we?”

“Okay.” I grabbed his hand and next thing I know he’s practically pushing me onto the ship. I watched as he worked effortlessly to bring the ship into the open water.

“So, Captain,” I stood next to him by the wheel, “How are we going to get to Neverland? Fly? Follow the second star to the right?”

“Not necessary,” he flashed the jewel again. Looking at it closer it looked like a sparkly bean. “With this it will open up a portal and take us there directly. No flying necessary.”

“That works too I guess.” I looked over the side of the ship as Storybrooke grew smaller. I was gonna miss everyone but I needed answers. I needed that nagging in the back of my mind to stop. This may be my only chance.

“Um, do you mind if I look around? I promise I won’t mess with anything.” I asked.

He didn’t answer. “Captain?”

“Hang on to something, love,” he turned the wheel sharply. Soon we were sailing back towards Storybrooke.

“What’s going on? Why are we going back?”

“I’m doing the right thing.” he groaned, “Nasty business, the right thing.”

We docked the ship. Emma and the others ran to meet us. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Helping.” Hook answered.

“Well, you’re too late.”

“Am I?”

“I thought you didn’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“Maybe I just needed reminding that I could.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I chimed in, “What’s going on?”

“Marigold? What are you doing with Hook?” Emma furrowed her brow at me.

“Stuff…” I felt bad admitting that I was leaving.

They didn’t pay me more mind as they went back to interrogating Hook.

“We need to get Henry.” Emma said. “Greg and Tamara took him through a portal.”

“Well I offer my ship and my services to follow them.” Hook looked back at me, “Sorry Y/N, looks like I won’t be taking you home.”

“Probably for the best. This seems like divine intervention telling me to stay the heck away from Neverland. If you’re going to rescue Henry though, I’d like to help. I love that kid and I owe him a lot. I’m not much help but I want to do what I can. Do we know where Greg and Tamara took Henry?”

“Leave that to me.” Mr. Gold stepped forward, “I can get us where we need to go.”

Hook looked less than pleased to have Mr. Gold along but conceded all the same. The others boarded the boat. Emma came up to me and asked if I was sure about coming along. It could be really dangerous.

“I want to help Henry. I don’t care how dangerous it is.” For the first time in a long time I felt like I had a purpose. I was going to bring Henry back home.

Mr. Gold conjured a white globe and squeezed a drop of his blood onto it. The blood grew and swirled until some land formed on the pristine surface.

“Where is that? Where have they taken Henry?” Regina asked.

“Neverland.” Hook turned to me, “Looks like you’re going home after all.”

“This could work to our advantage actually.” Mr. Gold walked up to me. “We already have an inside source.”

“I don’t remember anything though. What do expect me to tell you?”

“You don’t need to tell us anything. You just need to look the part.” he waved his hand and I was no longer in my regular clothes but something darker. Strapped to my hip was a dagger and I was now holding something that looked to be a cross between a walking stick and baseball bat.

“What is this?”

“This is the real you, Marigold.” Mr. Gold grinned, “Or should I say, Y/N.”

“I’d hate to say it but the crocodile has a point. Y/N was Pan’s most trusted friend. If we are going to Neverland then she can walk among them without suspicion.”

“She showed up with us. I think that’ll be a little suspicious.” Emma reminded him.

“Not for her.” Hook wrapped an arm around my shoulders, “The lass was always a sneaky one. It could be very believable that she found out where we were heading and stowed away on the ship without us noticing.”

“And you think they’ll buy that? I get that this Y/N character was some violent Lost Girl but giving me weapons and telling me to call myself Y/N isn’t going to change anything. They’ll know something’s up.”

“Oh no, they’ll be too happy to have their precious Lost Girl back that they won’t notice a thing. Best to forget the name Marigold. Until we’ve rescued the lad, you’re Y/N.” Hook gave me a push toward the lower deck, “Secure yourself below. We’ll worry about sailing the ship.”

“But I want to--”

“If we get there and something or someone sees you with us then the plan is shot to hell. You need to keep out of sight until we get onto the island. Understood.”

“Aye aye captain” I went below without arguing. I could feel the ship start to move and then tip. My stomach swooped as we fell through the portal.

When things evened out I left my spot below deck and poked my head up to where everyone else was. “Can I come up now?” The smell of the ocean calmed my nerves.

“No, love,” Hook said, “Stay below deck.”

“Who is possibly going to see me this far out from the island?”

“Pan’s shadow for one. Now stay down until we tell you to come up.” he growled.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes and went back to the spot I had been nestled in before. While they worked up above I studied the things Mr. Gold had given me before we left. A club covered with dark stains and a simple dagger. Both felt natural in my hands.

I ran my thumb over the bottom of the dagger where a crudely carved R was marked. Was this Mr. Gold’s old dagger? R. Rumplestiltskin. It might be.

Small...I don’t want to call them memories. More like feelings. A familiar sense. Holding the club and the dagger I felt in control. I felt like nothing could threaten me.

While waiting Hook came down to where I was sitting. “Seeing as how you’re going to be acting as Y/N I figured it’d be prudent to tell you something about yourself and who you’ll be dealing with.”

“What do I need to know exactly?”

“Something I doubt dear old Neal felt comfortable telling you.” Hook looked like he was ready to jump out of the porthole, “Now I’m telling you this so when you meet Pan and the Lost Boys it doesn’t come as a shock.”

“What? You don’t sound like you’re very comfortable telling me this either.” This didn’t sound good.

“Pan and you were not just friends like you were told. The relationship between you two, as far as I knew, was far more...intimate.”

“Wait…” the realization started to dawn on me, “Are you trying to tell me that I was Peter Pan’s girlfriend?”

“Aye.”

“Oh no. So I’m gonna have to pretend to--to--”

“Unfortunately. If you don’t then I can tell you that may be the red flag that alerts the others that something is wrong.”

“Maybe this is a bit over my head.” I curled into myself.

“Don’t worry. You just need to keep up the act long enough to rescue Henry. After that you never have to look at the hellspawn ever again.”

I nodded. He gave my shoulder a pat. “You’ll be fine. He won’t hurt you. No matter what you do.”

The ship lurched and I fell to the ground. “What was that?”

“Mermaids.” Hook cursed under his breath, “Stay down here! Do not come up no matter what happens.”

“But--”

“Stay down!” he shouted before running back above deck.

I tethered myself as the ship continued to rock violently in the waves. If the sea was this dangerous I was scared to know what the actual island was like.

~~~

Greg, Tamara and Henry landed less than gracefully in the thick of the jungles of Neverland. Everything had gone according to plan. That was except for not being able to nab Marigold on there way here. The girl had disappeared and there was no time to go looking for her.

Hopefully it didn’t matter. Henry was the big target. Still, having Marigold would have been a big boost to the Home Office. Tamara was trying to get a signal on the communicator but the light wouldn’t even turn on. She handed it to Greg in hopes that he could get it to work.

When he pulled the back to check the batteries though sand fell out. What the hell was going on? Where were the batteries?

There was no time to worry about some dumb trick. They needed to find the Home Office.

Just as they were getting a signal fire lit people started to emerge from the jungle surrounding them. No. Not people. Boys. Teenage boys everywhere.

“Who are you?” Greg kept his nerve. These were just kids. They couldn’t hurt them.

“We’re the Home Office,” The tallest one said with a sadistic grin. “Welcome to Neverland.”

“The Home Office is a bunch of teenagers?” Tamara’s sense of unease only grew.

“They’re not teenagers.” Henry sighed, “They’re the Lost Boys.”

“Look at that.” The tall boy smirked at Henry.

“Why do the Lost Boys want to destroy magic?”

“Who said we wanna destroy magic?” the leader asked.

“That was our mission.” Greg was losing patience.

“So you were told. You were also told to look for a girl. Where is she? You had said you found her.” The leader boy drawled.

“We did find her. But we couldn’t grab her before we left.”

“Shame. At least now we know where to find her.” the boy looked back at Henry, “Now the boy. Hand him over.”

“Not until you tell us the plan--” Tamara said, “For magic, for getting home.”

“You’re not getting home.” The boys around them started to snicker.

“Then you’re not getting the boy.” Greg balled his fists. He had never punched a teenager but he’d make an exception for these creeps.

“Of course we are.” the way the boy said it unnerved Greg. Then there came the roaring sound. The last thing he saw was a mass of black with white glowing eyes swooping down on him.

(First) (Previous) (Next)

[sanjuno]

SI prompt: Sailor Moon?

(2/32 SI Promptfest)

One of the things that Security always mentions when you start a new job and they hand over your accessbadge is that you need to completely close the doors behind you after passingthrough. A small piece of very important,very good advice that is sadly ignored more often than not once people settleinto their positions. Unfortunately, I failed to realize my coworker’s hubrisuntil the first shots were fired.

‘Oh shit.’ Thethought formed independent of the gibbering panic and pain as the horrificallyloud set of gunshots tore me out of my chair and flung me to the ground. ‘This is a brand new suit.’

I finished bleeding out about three minutes later.

/…/

Standing naked in the void, skin glowing like a star, myshocked mind could only offer up yet another inane thought. “Telling my motherthat I wanted my ashes turned into a diamond and mounted on a sword for my heirto wield as they avenge my death because I only intended to die when I waskilled was supposed to be a joke not aprophecy!”

“Too bad. Find comfort in the fact that your last wishes will be carriedout as you intended.” The human-shaped figure stepping out of theaether was a familiar stranger, their expression both sympathetic and uncaring.

“… Honored Janus.” Was I supposed to bow? Offer a handshake?How exactly were the dead supposed to greet a Roman God of duality and change?“I gotta say you’re not who I wasexpecting to run into roundabout now.”

“Who better than I to meet with one who so accepted the necessity ofchange, of growth and balance? Yours may not have been a grand story, but itwas a true one, and in the telling of it you have encouraged many changes.”The god of beginnings and endings grinned at me with one side of his face andfrowned with the other. No wonder the sculptors always put two faces on hisstatues. I would not want to be thecarver responsible for recreating that expression. Complicated was a bit of anunderstatement. “I find this useful for my purpose. Enjoy your new beginning, child ofthe Eclipse, Warrior of Dawn and Dusk.”

“… Eh?” I was the mostconfused. Was there supposed to be an explanation somewhere in there? “Wait,what the heeeee-olyshitwhatthefuck!”

Glitter. Glitter everywhere.Mixed with glowing bubbles and fireworks and no, really, what the fuck?

/…/

So.

Reincarnation was a thing. That actually happened to people.To me, specifically, in this case. If anyone was wondering.

It took awhile for my memories to come back, after I wasreborn. Which was actually a good thing because I needed those first few yearsto absorb a new first language. The confusion generated when I was six and myEnglish resurfaced was only funny in retrospect. At the time it was justfrustrating and slightly embarrassing.

Although once the initial assimilation was over with it wasnice to be able to code switch between English and Japanese. Almost like aconsolation prize for my new lease on life. Whee.

Oh, also I was a boy now. My eyes were still grayish-blue,my hair was still a dark ashy blond, but I was also Japanese and male. It wasan interesting mix of old and newfeatures coming together to make ‘me’.

… Probably Janus’ fault, now that I think of it. Good thingI never put any stock in gender or sex. Yay for the unexpected benefits ofbeing Ace-spectrum!

Nah, the gender reassignment was nothing. What reallybothered me was that I was the youngersibling. It was odd and wrong and upset the universal balance of what Iknew to be true. I could handle the educational pressure of being a ‘childgenius’. I could handle the overbearing social reinforcement of gender roles. Icould even handle the loss of everything I had once known and everyone I onceloved. (Granted, I did this by compartmentalizing and being slightlyemotionally stunted, but what works, works.)

I could not handle someone trying to ‘big sister’ me.

Thankfully, my new sister was… a flake. A ditz. A completeand total dunce. I loved her dearly and I would tear out the tongues of anyonewho spoke badly of her, but she had almost no academic intelligence at all.

I had expected it, really. After all, just because I wasreborn was never going to change such a fundamental part of her character. Heremotional and interpersonal intelligence was still off the charts, and hercharisma was frankly ludicrous. I still had a hard time accepting anyone who had proof positive of theirown ignorance not taking steps tocorrect it.

It was not like I wanted perfect grades from her. I justwanted enough effort put in to achieve competence.There was a difference between ‘I cannotdo this’ and ‘I will not do this’.Saying no once you have proved that you cando something is fine, but saying no without even trying sticks in my craw something fierce.

Knowing that a failed test paper plays a big part in Fate’sfuture machinations for my sister was also upsetting. Would pushing my sisterto study ruin the future? Would she still meet the people she needed to, stillmake the connections that allowed her to survive and win, even after all mymeddling?

I had no way of knowing. I could only trust that her Destinywould come for her. No matter what I did, or how many random first encounters Ineeded to contrive to bring it about.

“Shingo! Are you ready to go yet?” A voice I had beenfamiliar with long before my reincarnation called for me before my sister pokedher head into my room. “Come on,Shingo! I didn’t melt my brain studying all month just for you to flake out! I earned this shopping trip and youpromised to come with me!”

“Ehh, don’t pull out your hairbuns, Usagi.” Grabbing mysatchel off the back of my desk chair, I grinned at the future Queen of theWorld and winked. “Being this perfect takes work, you know?”

“Shingooo.” The eleven-year-old girl who was going to savethe world rolled her eyes at me and pouted. “Why are you like this?”

“Because not being me would be boring.” I stuck my nose up in the air with as much pomp as I wascapable of in a seven-year-old body. “Now let’s go! If we play this right Mamawill finally cave and get us the bedazzling gun so we can ‘enhance ourcreativity and encourage mental flexibility’.”

“Okay!” Usagi giggled, happily taking my offered hand andswinging our joined arms as we headed down the stairs. “Do you think we canconvince Mama to let me get my ears pierced too?”

“Eh, maybe.” I thought about the refractive properties ofcrystals and energy resonance as I glanced at my sister. The Imperium SilverCrystal, the Shintennou’s stones, Hearts Crystals, Star Seeds… crystals weregame changers in this world. Powerful ones. Tagging Usagi with a set that mostenemies would overlook… yeah. That was a good idea. Good job, self, excellentplan. I nodded. “I want my ears pierced too. We have an undeniable right tofreedom of self expression so long as we do so in a safe and healthy manner.”

Usagi stared blankly at me for a moment, nose scrunched upabove pursed lips. “You know I don’t understand you when you talk like that.”

“As long as you know what the words mean you’ll figure outhow they go together eventually, Bun-bun.” Cheerfully unrepentant, I hauled mysister down the last stair. “Onwards! To victory and glory everlasting!”

/…/

Ignoring the dull throb in my earlobes, I admired the hoopsI had chosen. Simple, elegant, unlikely to fall out unnoticed, and large enoughto hold three gemstone beads. For myself I had convinced my mother to buy blacktourmaline, lepidolite, and lapis lazuli. For Usagi I had picked outlabradorite, selenite, and rose quartz. Not expensive stones, but powerful onesfor the way their energies intersected and channeled power. Especially once Iwas done priming them as foci.

Abalone shell bowls with small, upwards facing mirrors atthe bottom. A little water in the bowls, add some salt, and then four undyedcandles in a circle, burning on the windowsill under the full moon. I watchedthe moonlight slowly gather in the stones, the smoke from the candles pulleddown into the water. Within moments of moonrise, each bead started to glitterand shine more brightly than nature intended.

Satisfied that it was working, I turned back to the blade inmy hand. It had appeared on my bed soon after my memories finished returning.It was ferociously sharp, and lighter in my hand than anything that size andmade of metal should be. The hilt was too big for my seven-year-old self to wieldeffectively, but the sword was perfectly proportioned for my old adult height. Carvedinto the blade was ancient Latin that named the sword VERITAS.

“Beware the truth, for it is a double-edged sword, whichcuts both ways.” I smiled, wiping the blade down to remove the excess oil. Itwas a magical blade, and probably did not need sharpening, but… better safethan brainwashed. “I do love a good pun.”

The milky diamond in the hilt flashed in the light, glowinglike a lantern in my dim bedroom. It was hard to look at the sword sometimes,especially since I knew what it meant. I was magic, the sword was magic, mysister was the fucking Queen of magicfor the entire damn solar system. It was still hard to look at my funeral stone,knowing that the diamond was formedfrom my ashes, and not feel cheated.

Violent deaths always leave something unfinished. I wondersometimes, now that I have experienced that incompleteness for myself, how muchof this resentment the Senshi felt after they knew of their past lives… and ofthe way the Moon Kingdom fell. At least, when the time came, I would be able tohelp Usagi deal with Serenity’s unfinished business.

“Sing, o muse! Of love everlasting!” I saluted the moonsolemnly before I fed the blade and sheathed it, shrinking it down to a pen andtucking it away. “Sing, o muse! As the old tale is told anew!”

Nothing and nobody would be allowed to stand in my way. Mysister was going to get her happy ending this time, and any assholes who triedto interfere with that were getting a death-sword to the face.

[chloemill]

On what I’ve been up to the last nine years

I have always been obsessed with food. It seems silly, honestly, to be obsessed with something that’s a basic human necessity. Food, water, shelter. Too bad there aren’t water disorders or I’d be all over that. Alcoholism, I guess, is a liquid-based disorder? This is getting dark quickly but I guess we should all know what we’re getting into with this one, shouldn’t we.

So, yeah, I’ve always been obsessed with food. I have alarmingly clear memories of food from childhood, and the sad(dest) part is most of it’s not even real fucking food, it’s like, cartoon food. I could probably describe every illustration from the Berenstain Bears installment where the dad bear and the kid bears randomly decide to go balls to the fucking wall and just mainline junk food until the mom bear is like “what the fuck is going on here” and gives them all apples or some shit and then everyone chills the fuck out. The pizza in A Goofy Movie when Goofy and Max randomly stop at a themed motel and the kids eat pizza while Goofy and Pete share what I remember to be a vaguely sexual moment in the hot tub? (There was definitely at LEAST a questionable power dynamic at play.) The kid at school whose weird helicopter mom came at lunch and hand-delivered her McDonald’s nuggets to the playground. Bake sales in the second grade - the cookies and brownies and “nachos” that were just round Tostitos with that terrifying and delicious fake cheese sauce that still honestly casts a spell twenty years later. It wasn’t quite normal, but as a kid, I didn’t think twice. When your parents are feeding you and your brain is the size of a baseball, you just kind of roll with the punches and settle for buying as much crap as possible at the bake sale with the two bucks your mom gave you. Shortly after I finished elementary school, actually, I think they stopped having bake sales as fundraisers because the school was trying to promote healthy eating. Go figure.

In high school we were allowed to go off campus for lunch and once or twice a week my sainted mother would give me money to buy lunch. It very rapidly became the bi-weekly Let’s See How Much Shit We Can Stuff In Our Body For Ten Dollars Challenge, but that’s not at all uncommon for high schoolers. At home we ate healthily, and I have a pretty fast metabolism thanks to my Slenderman of a father so I was more or less the size of a pencil for first few years of school. We’re talking, like, size double zero at Hollister. I actually used to peel the 00 size stickers off my low rise (!!!) jeans whenever I’d get a new pair and stick them on the side of my desk in my bedroom, which, as I became a normal-sized adult with not-normal-sized body image problems, morphed into a very creative form of self-inflicted psychological torment. I have some journal entries from the first few years of high school with “diet and workout plans”, but in teenage girl fashion, most of them were quickly forgotten about or amended with “forgot and ate mac and cheese today - whoops!” Stupid teenage shit. It’s actually kind of hilarious reading it back now until I remember how spectacularly fucked up everything got. ANYWAY!

My first real memory of hating my body was on a school trip to Scotland my junior year. I was fully indoctrinated into the cult of high school musical theatre and we were performing at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, which was an incredibly cool experience that I absolutely did NOT take full advantage of and instead did shit like drink way too much rum (fucking RUM because apparently I was a character in Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean franchise), try to climb out the window of the dorms we were staying in to go see my boyfriend in his building, quickly remember I was on like the fucking fourth floor, throw up all over the carpet of my room and then pass out. My room smelled like puke the rest of the trip but that, though tragic in its own right, is not the point of this anecdote. Being both across the pond and left to my own devices, I was eating nothing but beige-colored fried food to the point that I’m certain ketchup and fruit juice used solely as a mixer for alcohol were the only things saving me from full-blown scurvy. My clothes felt tight, and not in the 2010s way that everything was tight, but bad tight. My stomach poked out of my jeans in a way that my stomach wasn’t supposed to poke out of my jeans. Keep in mind - I was probably a size 0 instead of 00 at this point, and most of this change was just a product of being sixteen instead of fourteen and growing, but to me it felt ominous in a way I didn’t know how to explain. During a group trip to some Scottish landmark or another (see how much attention I paid to this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity my parents spent their hard-earned money to give me?) I remember sitting next to my close friend on the bus as we pulled over to stop for food. I was having relationship trouble with the aforementioned boyfriend, one of the first of many Musical Theatre Straight Boys™ that I would lose my fucking mind over, and I was getting emotional - more emotional than I expected. I realized something else was bothering me, and I turned to her and said “On top of everything else, I just feel… fat. I know I’m not fat, but I’m fat, like, for me.”

Two things here: first and foremost, yes, for that I know I am now the recipient of the Most Annoying Sentence Ever Spoken Aloud award and will provide the mailing address for my trophy at a later date. Second, I said that over ten years ago, and I remember it so clearly that I’m entirely sure that’s exactly what I said, verbatim. We got off the bus, and I walked into the restaurant and, after scanning the menu desperately trying to convince myself I should order something “healthy”, I ordered large steak fries and got back on the bus. I think this was the first time I ever really, consciously used food as a coping mechanism - the first time something small but powerful snapped in my head that told me fuck it - who the fuck cares? You’ve done enough damage already, what’s the point of stopping now?

High school ended, I graduated and we sang “Journey On” from Ragtime at the ceremony (baffling choice but the school was doing Ragtime next year and wanted to squeeze a promo out), I got into several of my top-choice musical theatre colleges and was so excited to go to the one I picked, which, you’ll be charmed to hear, was the absolute worst choice I could’ve made. I was 18 and a little bigger now, firmly in size 0/2 instead of 00 territory, had maybe graduated to a 32B bra instead of A, but still very thin by most standards. This was my first summer as a Very Online Person - I would stay up tlil probably 3 or 4 AM most nights blogging and watching Harry Potter movies for the umpteenth time. Because the rest of my family was, how do I put it, fucking normal, they’d go to bed at 11 or whenever and I’d be up alone for hours on the  computer. This is when I started bingeing. We didn’t really keep junk food in my house, nothing legit like Cheetos or Ben and Jerry’s or whatever, but we did have sugar cereal and reduced-fat Oreos and cheese and the occasional box of Triscuts. It became a nightly ritual for me - I’d wait for everyone to go to bed, then tiptoe in to the kitchen and, though I’d eaten dinner hours earlier, start eating again. Stacks of Oreos, multiple bowls of cereal, shredded cheese out of the bag. After a while my mom heard me banging around in the kitchen and told me (in so many words) to shut the fuck up, so my methods changed. I’d bring the box of cereal - Rice Krispies or Cocoa Puffs or whatever - a bowl, and a carton of milk into the bathroom with me. I’d run the sink and open the box and pour the cereal with the water running so no one would hear, and then I’d creep back out to the couch and eat it. Box of Oreos into the bathroom, water on, peel open the plastic, take out the biggest stack I thought I could with no one noticing, eat. Three or four granola bars into the bathroom, water on, wrappers off and hidden behind my bed or the couch or wherever, eat. Rinse and repeat.

I didn’t really know what binge eating was at this point, and some tiny, dark part of my brain buried way in the back told me that this wasn’t normal and it wasn’t good, but I pushed it away because of course I did. I did a few Google searches about it and came across the term “binge eating disorder” but was convinced that could never be me. This was just a thing, just a thing I was doing, and it would go away at the end of the summer when I went away to college because that’s when life was actually starting and it was going to be awesome and I wasn’t going to let this - whatever this was - fuck that up.

But I did, in fact, fuck it up. I fucked it up fast and hard (that’s what she said, ok back to being depressing) and college was not awesome, it was difficult and painful and I was drowning in something I had absolutely no chance of controlling on my own. I accepted very quickly that this thing I was doing had a name, and it was binge eating disorder, and I was all in. I gained weight - not a ton, maybe twenty pounds, and I was never actually overweight, but to me that didn’t matter. I hated how I looked. I overdrew my bank account spending money my mom gave me for groceries on binge food. I spent hours alone in the dining hall eating till I felt physically ill and sometimes threw up involuntarily because my body couldn’t handle what I was doing. One time I stood in the bathroom of my dorm and drank mustard mixed with warm water because I read online that makes you puke and I was so full I wanted to die (it didn’t work, please for the love of GOD don’t drink mustard water or, for that matter, anything else for the express purpose of making yourself vomit). I cancelled plans with friends and skipped classes to stay in and binge, or because I’d binged already that day and could barely move. I stole food from roommates, convincing myself no one would notice, even though of course they fucking noticed. I hid food and packaging and wrappers under my bed, in my closet, in my backpack, wherever I could because I didn’t want anyone to catch on. Lied about why I needed money so my parents would send me some and I could buy more shit. I ate stale food, food from the trash, once I literally ate straight up chocolate sauce (mustard water and chocolate sauce: 10 out of 10 doctors recommend!) because I had nothing else. Waking up for 8 AM ballet classes and seeing my body in a leotard under fluorescent lighting felt like a form of torture Dick Cheney might think was a little too harsh. I saw a therapist over the summers and ate with my parents at home, and things got better, and then I’d go back to school and everything would unravel again. I’m still kind of shocked I made it through.

I’ve been done with school and living in the city for five years now, and I can honestly say that things are better. I mean, not “better”, in the sense that this chapter of the book is still pretty fucking open. But I’m better at dealing with it. The majority of the time now, I eat normally. I still binge, sometimes a lot and sometimes a little, but I carry on and try again the next day. I don’t really restrict to make up for binges anymore. I can eat some foods now that used to send me straight into Eatin’ Town USA, like cheese and bread and maybe even Oreos sometimes. I started enjoying working out, not just logging time on the treadmill as a punishment and feeling like Jean Valjean in the opening number of Les Mis (look down look down you’RE HERE UNTIL YOU DI-IE). 

To be honest, I think I’m writing this mostly because the last couple months have been hard. I’ve fallen into some old stupid shitty habits, and I’ve been plugging along like normal and trying to claw myself out. But it’s not quite working like it normally does, and I don’t know why. I know I’ll make it through, because I always have, and what other option is there? But some days lately, I feel like twenty-year-old me, sobbing (very theatrically, natch) on the floor of my apartment because I should be over this by now - how am I not over this by now? This is my ninth year as a binge eater. Almost a decade! Far and away my longest and most committed relationship. When I hit 10 years strong, I should take myself out to a fancy restaurant or something but I don’t know what I’d order.

When I tell people this, I usually get some kind of “I had no idea”/“I’m sorry I didn’t notice”/“I would’ve never guessed” and the truth is that I didn’t, and still don’t, want anyone to notice. Of course I don’t. You don’t hide candy wrappers and empty pizza boxes in your closet with your winter boots because you want people to notice. It’s a very strange and secretive brand of shame that binge eating disorder brings and no one really get it unless they get it, and that’s not something I’d wish on anyone. (Okay, honestly, I’d wish it on some people, like it’s hard as hell but some people suck ass and probably deserve it? Anyway.) As I’ve grown up, I’ve started talking about this more and more. The first time I went public with all of this shit - I think I made a dramatic Instagram post a few years ago whilst day drunk during National Eating Disorder Awareness Week (absolutely incredible and Very Me start to a sentence) - I was shocked at how many people reached out to me privately and were like, hey, me too, and thank you for saying something. I’m still ashamed, but I’m trying not to be, and the more I talk about it the less alone I feel. “There are dozens of us! DOZENS!”

I guess one nice thing about this whole stupid nightmare is it’s kind of a reason why I am who I am. Not the only reason, but still. I started using jokes to cope with this while I was in school, and my sense of humor, whatever the fuck it is today, grew out of that. Except now I don’t joke about this stupid shit because I’m in denial, I do it because it’s real and I’m staring it in the face and it’s not going away, and the absurdity of something so excruciatingly difficult yet so entirely in my control gets fucking terrifying. I guess laughing at it makes it seem small.

[1caru]

Bro as someone who also struggles with an intense fear of failure I get you. The cost of fabric is the whole reason I don't sew. I do have a few tips for art and cooking/baking that might help though.

Buy the cheapest art supplies you possibly can. I'm talking dollar store notebooks and ballpoint pens from the back to school section at walmart. Grab some kids acrylic paint while you're at it and use an old cardboard box as your canvas. I was honestly shocked when I tried this and felt the weight of "not wasting my good supplies" melt away.

Adding on to that: draw "badly" on purpose. Draw scribbles. Make vent art. Take those paints, cover your hands with them, and make handprints and smears and patterns all over your cardboard.

You're not wasting resources because you aren't investing in resources. You're investing in memories and experience, which are much more valuable than resources. Money was made to be spent, and resources are made to be used up. In my opinion, never using the resources at all would be a bigger waste. How are you going to "use them for something that looks good" if you don't put in the time and effort to reach that level of skill?

I'm gonna apply all this to cooking as well. Cooking also happens to be an extremely important life skill, so there's your end goal right there. Start with recipes you know you can handle and use cheap ingredients (eggs, rice, flour, etc). Ask around for advice. Work your way up to harder recipes when you feel ready.

Oh I should probably address the original question instead of just the tags. My answer is simple. I personally have a million art projects that I've done a rough sketch for and then deleted cause I lost all motivation. Some of them stick around for a while just in case I decide to pick them up again, but I absolutely do not force myself to finish what I don't want to finish. I have enough stress in my life already, I don't need to add the responsibility of finishing 1000 different wips to that. Maybe push through anyway if it's a comm, but if you still can't find the energy or confidence to finish it then just refund the thing and move on. The world isn't gonna end cause someone didn't get a picture of their scrunkly.

Anyway hope some of that helps you out, hang in there man <3

I’ve been hearing different kinds of art advice and I’m torn on them.

Should you go through and finish something even though it doesn’t look good and is flawed in many ways OR scrap the piece and do it a different way/abandon the idea altogether?

[bamf-alec]

All Things By A Law Divine

Chapters 6-10

Artist: Lady Koalart (who did an absolutely incredible job)

Beta: @jeanboulet​

Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, various background pairings

Summary: Magnus had waited a long time for his soulmate to be born. Fate must have had a sick sense of humour, though, because after all these centuries, it had handed him a Shadowhunter. Magnus didn’t know who this Shadowhunter was, or how they could possibly be meant for each other, but he did know that this story wouldn't have a happy ending.

Alec also knew all about fate's sense of humour. He had known this his whole life. But the ground was coming up from under him and everything he knew was being turned on its head, systematically picked up and pulled apart and handed back to him looking nothing like it did before. Valentine was alive. His own parents had been members of the Circle. The Lightwoods’ grip on the Institute was slipping. And, through all this, his siblings had found their soulmates.

Alec had found Magnus. But that didn’t mean anything, did it?

Link to AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33515842/chapters/83272549

** I would really prefer you read it on AO3! **

This fic was created for the Shadowhunters Mini Bang 2021: Presented by the @malecdiscordserver

Chapter 6

Magnus had considered calling Alec. He’d even gone to the trouble of getting his number off Isabelle, which was really not much trouble at all. She was only too happy to provide.

He didn’t call. In the end, he thought it through a hundred times and decided it was probably best if he gave Alec space to deal with… with everything the incident with the memory demon may have brought up. 

It turned out not to matter. Alec’s friends were making a habit of showing up on his doorstep, this time with a dying werewolf in tow. Luke was getting blood all over Magnus’s freshly remade loft, but he decided it would probably be rude to comment on it. With how frantically Clary hovered over him, clasping Luke’s hand and shushing him every time he tried to talk, they probably would’ve ignored Magnus, anyway.

“Was he bitten by an alpha?” Magnus asked, dread building inside him as Luke continued to bleed on his new sofa.

It was the boy Magnus didn’t know who answered, nearly as frantic as Clary, glasses all askew. A very stereotypical nerd, if Magnus had ever seen one. “Yeah, why?”

Well, shit, Magnus thought, as Luke thrashed. What have you gotten yourself into this time, my friend?

Luke did not answer. Luke was too busy growling and baring his teeth, his eyes supernatural green. Magnus pushed him carefully back down where he’d risen off the couch, ignoring Clary and her friend’s wide eyes pinned on him. Then, much less carefully, Magnus went off in seek of the ingredients he’d need to fix this mess.

These kids were proving more trouble than they were worth.

Magnus glanced at his wrist. That was not entirely true.

Most of what he needed, Magnus didn’t have. He cursed to himself, dancing his fingers over the shelves in search of something that might at least buy them more time. Finding what he was looking for, he plucked it off the shelf and went over to shove it between Luke’s pointy teeth.

“What’s happening?” Clary asked. She was looking at Luke, concern painted all over her face. Magnus recalled somewhere in the back of his mind that Luke had helped Jocelyn acclimate to mundane life, and had stayed present in it ever since. For someone who’d already lost her mother, it was understandably upsetting to be losing another one of the only constants she’d had since childhood.

“Random werewolf transformation,” Magnus told her. “It’s a side effect of the poison in the alpha bite.”

Clary didn’t look like the knowledge of what was happening had reassured her whatsoever. Magnus made sure Luke wasn’t going to attack them or fall off the couch, and then left the three of them to see what he could dredge up for a more permanent solution.

It wasn’t much. He tossed a few things into his bowl, grabbed a few more off the shelf in his study, and brought them all out into the living room where Clary and her friend were hugging like the world was ending. With Valentine out on the loose again and Luke dying on Magnus’s couch, maybe it was.

“The bark will stop the transformation for now,” he said to announce his presence. They jumped apart. He surveyed his collection of things. Not enough.  “But Luke needs an antidote to stop the poison in his system. And I don’t have all the ingredients here.”

As expected, Clary volunteered to go fetch what he needed, but he waved her off. He’d already sensed a breach in his wards just a moment ago, and he’d let the potential intruder pass through. As expected, Jace rounded the corner, marched through the open door, and said, very gallantly, “I’ll go.”

“Jace,” Magnus greeted magnanimously. Unexpectedly, Jace’s face was a mess. Magnus used his finger to push Jace’s chin into the light and examine the damage. He didn’t think he could deal with healing him, too, while Luke was already on the brink of death. It didn’t look too bad, at least. “What happened to you?”

Jace shrugged him off. Reluctantly, he admitted, “Luke’s car may have found its way into a pole while I was stashing it.” Then, to defend himself from Clary and her friend’s disbelieving expressions, he muttered, “I don’t do mundane driving.”

He and Simon had some kind of ego measuring contest, which Magnus ignored in favour of bringing more things out of his study until the table he was putting them on looked sufficiently cluttered. He bit out a list of ingredients, effectively interrupting their display of masculinity. It started up again only seconds later. Clary looked as impressed as Magnus.

Just as they were about to head out the door, Magnus had a thought. A terrible, stupid thought.

He caught the edge of his soulmark, small and dark, words again. He had been trying not to look at it since it’d changed, feeling like he was breaching parts of Alec’s soul that he wasn’t welcome to, but it was very hard not to when it was, you know, tattooed on his arm.

Time, which sees all things, has found you out.

Magnus hesitated only for a second before he called to Jace, “One more thing. I need Alexander.”

Jace’s frown was very intense. “Why do you need Alec?”

It was a good question, one which Magnus had not prepared for in the moment between having the stupid thought and saying it out loud. He floundered, waving his hands about with purpose so as not to seem like he was floundering. “Virgin shadowhunter energy.”

Alec would kill him, if he ever found out. Magnus didn’t know him very well, but he knew that if he were Alec, he would definitely kill him, too.

The mundane said, “That explains so much.”

Magnus winced. If Alec did kill him, he would probably make it very slow and painful.

Magnus had only a moment to regret it while Jace, flummoxed, tripped over whatever he wanted to say in response. He looked pained. Magnus thought maybe it was because he was thinking about his brother’s virginity, but that turned out not to be the case.

“I can’t,” Jace said finally, pursing his lips. It looked like it had taken everything in him to admit it.

So they weren’t on good terms, then. Magnus didn’t want to be so curious, but he was. Had it been this way since the demon summoning? Was it because Jace knew, now, and he didn’t like what he’d found out? Or was it something else that happened in the time between then and now?

Maybe this was common for them. Brothers fought. Jace seemed like a very easy person to want to fight and also like someone who was very willing to be fought.

Clary stepped up, her hand on Jace’s shoulder. “Just ask, please” she said, imploringly. Then, when Jace didn’t look swayed, “You guys need to talk.”

However begrudging, Jace looked like he would. Magnus felt only slightly bad that he didn’t really need Alec at all, and it was easily soothed by the satisfaction that came with upsetting Jace.

Because sometimes Magnus couldn’t help but to be a dick when there was someone who was a bigger dick than him in the room, he asked, “Trouble in paradise?” and pretended to be surprised.

Jace looked like he wanted to strangle something, and he looked around the room like he might find that very something. He didn’t. With a great huff and some snarky comment to the mundane, he grabbed Clary’s friend by the front of his shirt and dragged him out the door with him. When they were gone, Clary sighed.

Magnus watched her carefully while he measured out the few ingredients he already had. She sank onto the couch across from Luke. She rested her elbow on the armrest and rubbed her forehead. There was still blood on her hands from carrying Luke into the loft.

When there was nothing left to measure, Magnus took the seat beside her.

“He’ll be okay,” he told her, resting a hand on her knee. She gave him a weak smile. Both to distract her and because he was horribly curious, he asked, “What’s wrong with Jace and Alec?”

Clary snorted, barely. “Boys don’t know how to talk like grown ups,” she replied. Then, catching Magnus’s frown, she dropped her hand from her forehead and sighed.

“Alec doesn’t like me,” she said more seriously. “I understand why. I’ve barely been here two seconds and I’ve got the whole Shadowworld up in flames. And Jace and Izzy have to keep breaking the rules to help me, and Alec…”

She paused, like she couldn’t work out what she should say, or if she should say it. Finally, she changed tracks, “Basically, Alec was put in charge of watching me. I got tired of him beating me up with a training stick, so I went to do something more useful and got myself and Simon kidnapped by some werewolves.” She waved a hand at Luke. “Downhill from there. I don’t know. By the time they showed up to rescue us, they didn’t seem to like each other very much. Probably Jace is pissed at Alec for losing me and Alec is pissed at Alec for losing me, but Alec is also pissed at everyone, primarily Jace, for breaking Clave rules. Again. Because of me.”

Clary paused.

“Understandable,” she finished, though she didn’t sound very understanding. She seemed a little pissed herself, in fact, but maybe it was just because her only father figure was dying on the couch across from them.

“You don’t like him, either?” Magnus hesitated to ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Was it bad etiquette to ask after your soulmate’s flaws from someone who hated them, before you really knew them at all? Probably.

Thankfully, Clary shook her head. She leaned forward to play with her hands, elbows resting on her knees. “I thought he was a dick, at first. He was a dick. Is a dick. But I can also see where he’s coming from, now, and I think he mostly has good intentions.” She paused. She turned her hands over, pushing her fingers through the drying blood. “He really loves his family. We have common ground there, at least.”

Clary blinked. She realized she’d probably said too much, and that Magnus had probably just wanted something short and sweet about why the golden boy had looked constipated at the mention of his parabatai. She had given him way more than that.

Magnus didn’t mind. His fingers fluttered over his wrist, wanting to touch, but they didn’t. He wondered if Alec had figured it out by now. And, if he hadn’t, he wondered when he would. When they weren’t strangers anymore? When Alec looked at Magnus’s wrist and saw a reflection of himself, an arrow or a rune or something Magnus didn’t know yet? When he stopped living in denial about his sexuality and was willing to see it?

Magnus caught himself. He was getting ahead of himself, and that last thought had filled him up with dread. How stupid, he had been, to think that it would be so easy not to care when he finally met his soulmate. To just cut the bond and be done with it.

He was beginning to think he wouldn’t need to. Alec and his siblings were different than most shadowhunters, and especially the ones that had come dreadfully to mind the first time he saw a rune on his wrist. If there was anything about Magnus that would give Alec pause, he didn’t think it would be that he was a warlock.

As though sensing he’d floated off into his thoughts, Luke let out a cry that swiftly pulled Magnus back to earth. They rushed to his side. Luke struggled to speak, but was very pressed to do so, grabbing at Clary. They waited. Magnus hesitated. He glanced at the door. He could cast a spell now to slow down the poison, but he didn’t know how long the others would be, and if his magic would last long enough, or if there would be enough left once they got here to finish the job.

He didn’t have a choice. Magnus summoned his magic and pressed it into Luke’s chest, then spread it through the rest of his body.

Luke continued to struggle, and the boys continued to be nowhere in sight. They were running out of time. The spell wore off, and Luke got worse, and Magnus found himself beside him, pouring everything he had into keeping him alive.

Hurry up, he willed Jace and Simon. He wondered if they were taking so long because Alec didn’t want to come. If that was the case, and if Luke died while they waited, Magnus would probably never sleep again.

Maybe the universe heard him. As soon as he’d thought it, someone was holding his shoulder, keeping him upright. Magnus didn’t have to look to know that it was Alec. He could feel it, now, with his magic all around them, wandering because he didn’t have enough energy to keep it focused on Luke. He felt it, this little piece of Alec that was familiar only because it felt like something of Magnus’s.

Alec was looking at him wide-eyed, his hand hovering on his shoulder, not sure what to do next.

Magnus said, “Help me.” He pulled a hand away from Luke to extend it to Alec, who took it before Magnus had even said what it was for. “I need your strength.”

He got it. He could feel it. Angelic power, energy that didn’t belong to him but felt like it could. It flowed through him where his magic usually did, unfamiliar and a little bit thrilling. If he thought about it, he could feel Alec’s pulse in it. He could feel Alec’s feelings, blurry as they were.

As soon as he felt them, he closed the door on them. That was the bond, ready and waiting to click into place. How close he had been to letting it.

Magnus didn’t register the others racing into the loft. He didn’t register them frantically throwing the rest of the potion together. He didn’t register much of anything, until all of a sudden the poison was gone and his magic paused, hovering in the air now that it had nothing to do.

And then Magnus promptly collapsed into Alec’s arms.

Chapter 7

Alec scrubbed vigorously at Magnus’s couch, but Luke’s blood was stubborn. The couch remained red where it should’ve been blue. Alec scrubbed some more.

When he risked looking to see what Magnus was doing, he saw he was mixing a drink. Two drinks, actually. Alec frowned. He stared accusingly at the rag he was using to scrub the couch, because it still wasn’t working. It looked like it was just spreading the red around even more.

“You know I have magic for that, right?” Magnus interjected mildly. He had come over to watch what Alec was doing. Alec wasn’t quite sure what to make of his presence now that there was nothing life-threatening happening.

Alec turned his eyes back to his work. “I think you’ve exerted yourself enough for one day.”

Magnus hummed. Alec thought he might make some kind of dirty joke here, as he had the last time they met, but he didn’t. Instead, Magnus extended one of the drinks he had made towards Alec. “Drink break?”

Alec considered it. It kind of felt like he would be accepting a glass full of poison, or a glass full of other, smaller, sharper bits of glass. It also kind of felt like, if he accepted the drink, then he would have to drink it, and it would be impolite to down it all at once, so he would have to drink it in more than one sip, and that would take a bit of time.

Alec considered the rag. It was white when he started, but now it was red. The stain was not coming out of the couch. He sighed.

Standing from where he’d been kneeling on Magnus’s hardwood floor, Alec took the drink. He eyed it warily. Magnus, smirking a little, snapped his fingers over it. The top layer exploded into a blue cloud, and Alec was even more wary. But, fuck it, he’d made it this far.

“To us,” Magnus said, and clinked his glass with Alec’s. His drink looked much more ordinary. Was he showing off for Alec?

Alec took a sip. It was even more terrible than he’d expected, and he tried to get all of the disgust out onto his face and then off again before Magnus had a chance to notice and be offended. Either he succeeded, or Magnus let him pretend that he had.

Alec hesitated for only a second before he asked the question that had been on his mind since Jace called him, “Why did you ask for me?”

It had been bothering him since Jace had called. Jace had been very mysterious about it, and Alec thought it was probably because it was something embarrassing, but he couldn’t think what that could be. If Magnus had just needed his strength, why had Jace been so weird about it?

“Jace didn’t tell you?” Magnus looked surprised, and then he didn’t. He looked a bit sheepish actually. He waved a hand, stepping away from Alec to look out the window at the city. “Doesn’t matter, it was a lie anyway.”

Alec wanted to be bothered, but instead he was amused. “Are warlocks always this cryptic?”

Magnus laughed. It was a nice sound, breathy and short. “I’m not being cryptic. I’m being coy.”

He turned back to Alec. When Alec only looked at him with raised eyebrows, he sighed and continued, “Let me spell it out for you. I wanted to see you again.”

Alec wasn’t sure what to make of that. He furrowed his brows, regarding Magnus carefully like he could deconstruct him if he only looked hard enough. He couldn’t. Magnus was frustratingly enigmatic. “Why?”

Magnus smiled, small and private, like he knew a secret and was only waiting for Alec to figure it out, too. Before he answered, if he’d even intended to, Alec’s phone went off in his pocket. He pulled it out, inspecting the caller ID.

It was his mother, probably to yell at him about tonight’s events. Or not yell, because Maryse rarely needed to yell, but rather to tell him very sternly and with much disappointment that he’d failed. But Alec didn’t feel much like a failure at the moment, when he had not only helped save Luke and patched things up with both Jace and Clary, but also managed to take another sip of that awful drink, this time without even making a face.

He declined the call. He didn’t think about whatever consequences there would be when he returned to the Institute.

“I thought about calling you,” Magnus confessed, changing the subject. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”

Alec considered. Had he wanted to hear from him? Alec hadn’t put much thought into Magnus other than that Alec found him attractive and that Magnus had probably been flirting with him, and that those two things rarely applied to the same person. And by rarely, Alec meant never.

Usually the people that flirted with Alec were much more drunk and much more female. Sometimes Alec humoured them while he waited for Jace and Izzy to get tired of dancing, and sometimes he didn’t and left Jace and Izzy to dance by themselves in favour of going home.

Alec didn’t bother wondering how Magnus had his number. It was probably Isabelle. When in doubt, it was usually Isabelle.

They’re setting you up, Isabelle had told him, angry on his behalf. Mom and Dad. They think that if you marry someone respectable, it’ll save the family name.

By ‘respectable’, Isabelle didn’t mean ‘from a good shadowhunter family’, though he was certain that his parents did. Isabelle meant ‘a woman’, and she meant it in a way that said that he should be outraged by this, too. He wasn’t. Alec had given up on anger when it came to this many, many years ago.

It would be someone whose soulmate had died. Who had possibly never even met them before they’d lost them. Or, like him, it would be someone who didn’t have a soulmate, but those were outstandingly rare. Alec had never met or heard of another like him, and he knew the percentage began with a zero and continued with zeros well after the decimal place before ending in a one.

Alec had time. It would take them a while to find someone suitable who fit those criteria, and then longer still to find one that wanted to take the Lightwood name in its current state. And even longer still because Alec had heard this from Isabelle and not from his parents, and it wasn’t happening until they told him it was happening.

Bravely, Alec said, “You could call me now.” Then amended, because he thought he might’ve sounded like an idiot, “I mean later. After I leave. If you wanted.”

Magnus smiled at him, a genuine, surprised little smile like Alec had said something very unexpectedly pleasing. He brought his hand up to toy with his earrings, of which there were many. His sleeve slipped down, just a little.

Alec’s eyes landed on something on Magnus’s wrist. Magnus caught him looking and searched his face. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. He discreetly lowered his hand and pulled his sleeve back down, the edge of the mark vanishing from sight.

Oh, Alec thought. Of course.

“I should go,” he said, setting his still mostly full glass on Magnus’s silver drink cart. He was already shrugging on his jacket. When he chanced a look at Magnus before he officially left, he thought he looked a bit disappointed and a bit sad, too, but then it all twisted into a brilliant smile as Magnus swept an arm towards the door.

“Of course,” he replied graciously. “I’ll call you.”

Alec paused for a second at that, but then shook it off and left.

Chapter 8

Magnus peered over the body. He could already smell the rot taking hold. He tapped his face shield, which did nothing to block the odour. He’d been peering at it for a while, probing with his magic, before Isabelle pushed aside the plastic covering the doorway and stepped into the morgue, her heels clicking across the Institute floor.

She was not the Lightwood he wanted to see, but she was a sight for sore eyes nonetheless.

“Isabelle,” he greeted warmly as she picked up a face shield of her own. She looked more like a caricature of a mortician than a real one, in her heels and her necklace and her tight dress under her white lab coat, but Magnus had absolutely zero doubts about her ability to take apart a body. 

“Magnus,” she replied with equal warmth. She peered over the body with him. “You found your way in alright?”

Magnus had not found his way in alright. First, he had stood in the hub while everyone in the room very inconspicuously stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Then, not wanting to be stared at, he had taken off in the direction he thought the morgue was in with as much purpose as he had ever had. Then, he had ended up very, very lost because the last time Magnus had been to the morgue in the New York Institute was a very, very long time ago. Then, he’d cursed the Lightwoods for calling him in and then seemingly forgetting he was coming, as no one had been there to greet them. Then, he’d been rescued by Clary, who’d tried not to laugh when she found him inspecting a wall just to look like he intended to be there. He’d told her he was checking the wards, but he didn’t think she believed him. Either way, she’d led him to the morgue.

“Yes,” Magnus said witheringly. “I found my way in alright.”

Isabelle flicked her eyes up at him and then back to the body in the manner of someone who knew what they were doing but was pretending they didn’t. She said, with no particular inflection, “Did you run into my brother, by any chance?”

Magnus had not, despite hoping that he would. And if he had discreetly peered through every doorway on his merry little jaunt around the Institute to see if he might catch a glimpse of the elusive eldest Lightwood, that was nobody’s business but his own.

He flicked his eyes up at Isabelle and then back to the body. “No, I did not. Is he around?”

“He’s around,” Isabelle said. She looked disappointed, but she masked it quickly. 

They both peered at the body some more. Grabbing a tool off a nearby tray, Magnus gave it an experimental poke. “I hear there’s a new head of the Institute.”

Isabelle’s lips curled up. “Temporary,” she said, with a lot of emphasis. “Temporary head of the Institute.”

Interest piqued, Magnus leaned back from the body to look at her. “Not a fan?”

“She’s perfectly fine,” Isabelle said in a perfectly fine tone of voice.

“But?” Magnus prompted.

Isabelle sighed, abandoning her inspection of the body. “But, she’s not Alec or my parents.”

“Ah.”

They both just stood there, pretending to examine the body while both knowing they should be examining it for real. Eventually, Isabelle sighed and wheeled the tray of tools closer. While she did her thing, Magnus looked at the door. 

Isabelle was cracking open the Forsaken’s chest when she told him, “He’s upset about something.”

It took Magnus a moment to realize she was talking about her brother. He raised an eyebrow. Well, if she was volunteering the information, who was Magnus to deny it? It wasn’t being nosey or prying where he shouldn’t if Isabelle was choosing to share.

“About what?”

Isabelle shrugged. “I don’t know. Lydia Branwell? They went to fetch the body and he came back moody.” She paused, reconsidering. “More moody than usual, anyway.”

Magnus frowned. It wasn’t about him, then, at least. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed. Part of him had hoped that maybe Alec had started piecing together the soulmark, and part of him had worried that Alec didn’t like the picture it was forming.

Magnus thought back to the last time he’d seen Alec. He wondered if Alec had left because he thought Magnus was his soulmate, or because he thought he wasn’t Magnus’s. Both options were equally discomfiting, but Magnus reminded himself not to put too much thought into it. To care too much. Hadn’t he himself hated the very idea of his soulmate only a month ago?

Magnus had magic to confirm what he’d already suspected. Alec was probably still working things out.

Begrudgingly, Magnus had to admit that fate seemed to know what it was doing, even when Magnus didn’t.

“I could talk to him?” Magnus offered. He could hear how hopeful he sounded, and he winced.

Isabelle looked at him, a sly smirk on her face. She slid her gaze back to the work she was doing. “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she agreed.

It was only after he had left, a short report on what they knew about the Forsaken so far in hand, that he started to think this had been her plan all along, and she had only tricked him into thinking it was his idea. He shook his head, terribly fond of her already.

Unlike his first traipse through the Institute, this time it was much easier to locate Alec. He was in the training room, out of sight of the main hub, surrounded by old wood and sunlight creeping through stained glass windows and an array of weapons that would’ve been alarming had they been literally anywhere else. He was also shirtless, pounding a punching bag like it had personally offended him. He didn’t notice Magnus until he’d placed his ringed fingers and painted nails gently on the side of bag to stop it from swinging.

“Magnus,” Alec said, more like he was confirming his presence than greeting him.

Magnus smiled. “Alec,” he echoed. He flicked the folder out to Alec. “The preliminary autopsy findings.”

Alec took it. He flipped it open, quickly scanned the page, then tossed it onto a nearby bench. His voice was tight. “Thanks. Should’ve given them to Lydia.”

“And yet I’m giving them to you,” Magnus countered. He watched Alec aggressively tug on a hoodie. “It bothers you that the Clave sent her to take over?”

“No,” Alec replied. He looked even more bothered than he had before, though.

Magnus raised an eyebrow. He’d realized too late that Alec had just been shirtless, and therefore his wrist had been bare, and therefore he may have satisfied this itching curiosity to know what was deeply important to himself. Now, the hoodie covered it. He tried to think back, reconstruct the sight in his mind, but he’d been too focused on his runes and his chest and his broad shoulders to pay enough attention to anything else.

Alec scrubbed a hand over his face. Magnus was just considering trying to weasel more out of him when, unprompted, Alec huffed. “Did you know?” he asked, sounding a bit accusatory but also like he was trying not to. He had pinned Magnus with a very intent look that did not falter. “That my parents were in the circle?”

Magnus met his eyes, and did not falter either. “Did you not?”

He hadn’t meant to rub salt in the wound, but it was clear that he had. Alec’s face tightened and then shuttered, anger and whatever else he was feeling disappearing behind the mask. He pulled off the half gloves he was wearing to protect his knuckles, tossing them onto the bench with the autopsy report.

Magnus tried to reverse the damage. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been a shock. I didn’t mean to… Yes, I knew. Everyone who was around back then knew. None of us can forget the things they did.”

Alec was quiet. He contemplated this, testing out his bruised knuckles with his fingers. He must’ve been at it for a while.

“I’m sorry, too,” Alec said eventually. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“But you did,” Magnus replied. He twisted one of his rings around his finger, blue sapphire reflecting the sunlight. “If it makes you feel any better, your parents don’t seem like bad people, anymore. I think they may have nearly made up for their mistakes. And they managed to raise three very good, surprisingly progressive kids, so their views must have changed since then.”

Something pained passed over Alec’s face, and he looked away.

Magnus regretted digging the hole deeper. “Or maybe not.”

“No,” Alec said. He sighed. He struggled to find what he wanted to say, and then struggled again with whether he should say it. Magnus could see the moment he reconsidered and chose the safest route instead. “You’re right. Thanks for the report. And thanks for coming in to help. I know you didn’t have to.”

Magnus smiled. He meant it when he said, “I wanted to. I’m growing quite fond of you Lightwoods.  It must be your jovial nature.” He got a half-smile and an almost laugh from Alec at that before he continued, more seriously. “And if you ever need anything, I will always be willing to help. I mean it.”

Alec nodded, but his brows had furrowed a bit, like he was confused. A second later he’d brushed it off to clap Magnus amiably on the shoulder as he passed him to go do whatever dethroned heads of Institutes did nowadays.

Chapter 9

“He has a soulmark,” Alec confessed quietly into his dark bedroom. So quietly, it was only audible because everything else was silent. He didn’t look at Isabelle, who lay beside him, both of them covered in bruises and smelling of ichor but too tired to do anything about it. He’d flicked the light on, at first, but it had only hurt his eyes after so long hunting demons that preferred to come out under cover of darkness. So now they lay on his bed in the dark, Alec’s jacket still on and Izzy’s thrown over his desk chair, where she’d tossed it when she’d come in to check on him.

She was curled on her side, facing him. She said nothing. Isabelle was very good at waiting him out when he was like this. He loved her so much in these moments that it hurt. Always, she knew when he was silent and gone to the world, and caught in the dark because his thoughts felt too real in the light. And always, she would do nothing but be there, with him, whether he chose to share those thoughts or not. Sometimes they’d wake up in the morning, not sure when they’d fallen asleep, and they would both pretend that Alec was perfectly fine.

Alec ran his eyes back and forth along the crack in the wooden beams that he could only just make out, and then only because he knew it was there.

“So, it doesn’t matter,” he concluded.

She inched her hand across the mattress until it rested on his shoulder. It was small, dainty, elegant, her long nails carefully maintained. It was hard to believe she fought demons with it.

“I hope you find him,” he told her. “I really do, Iz. I don’t ever want this for you.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder now, too, and he knew it was because she didn’t want him to know that she was crying. She swallowed hard, and then again, until her voice was steady enough to say, “This doesn’t have to be it for you, Alec. Please don’t lose hope.”

Hope.

Alec had never had hope to begin with, but he couldn’t tell her that. Not even if she already knew. Shadowhunters had soulmarks from birth. If they’d been born before their soulmate, the angelic power rune filled the space on their wrist while they waited. A promise. Their fated was there, waiting, and the angels would deliver them soon.

Alec knew it was different for the others. Warlocks had nothing, no matter how many centuries they had to wait, until the moment their soulmate took their first breath. Mundanes didn’t have them, didn’t even know they existed, so vampires’ marks only showed after they’d turned, and the same was true of werewolves.

But not Shadowhunters. From the moment they were born, there was a guarantee etched onto their wrist. They were destined for one person and one person only, and that person was always another Shadowhunter. Angelic power. There could be nothing else.

Except, there was. Not something else, but the lack of it. Of anything. Alec’s bare wrists had haunted him since he was old enough to understand what that meant.

He felt alien, whenever he saw them. Unmoored. Like there was something deeply broken inside of him, some piece that should’ve been there but wasn’t. His parents had refused to comment on it, except for his mother running her fingers through his hair the first and only time she caught him crying about it. He’d been young, and she’d been present, then. She’d pressed a kiss to the top of his head and told him it was nothing to be ashamed of.

It looked so out of character now. Alec wasn’t completely sure that it had really happened. Some days, it felt like his parents had taught him nothing but shame.

“What was it?” Isabelle asked when she had let him drown in his thoughts for too long. He came back to his bedroom, his fingers tracing his left wrist, soothing a phantom pain. He pulled them away. He had taken too long to answer. Isabelle clarified, “His soulmark.”

Alec sighed. “I didn’t see it. Just the edge of it. Words, I think.”

She hummed. She seemed deep in thought.

“Do you think he’s playing with me?” he asked her in a whisper. He was too ashamed to say it any louder. “That, maybe, this is just fun for him while he waits to meet them?”

He had expected her to vehemently disagree with him, maybe punch his shoulder, but instead she remained silent for a very long pause. Then, pensively, she said, “No, I don’t think so.”

Alec sighed again. He traced the crack in the ceiling. He had never felt so confused, or so tired.

“Alec,” Isabelle said, very carefully. “Do you think that, maybe, there’s something strange about your soulmark?”

His soulmark. Alec looked at her like she was insane. Of course there was something strange about his soulmark, and that was that he didn’t have one. She chewed her lip, resting her palm on his chest like she was preparing to soothe him.

“I’ve never heard of anyone who doesn’t have anyone,” she said. Her tone suggested that she hoped he would understand what she was getting at, but he didn’t.

She sighed. She rolled onto her back until no part of her was touching him. In the dark, he could make out her playing with her bracelet. “Someone told me about this ritual that makes soulmarks vanish.”

Alec’s breath caught. Or maybe it was knocked out of him. He whipped his head to look at her, the sheets ruffling under him. He clenched his jaw, and then unclenched it.

Hope, she had said. Isabelle had always had it in plenty, and Alec had always been starved of it.

“Isabelle,” he said. It was very firm and very tight, no room for argument. “Don’t. You’re only making it worse.”

He could feel that she wanted to argue, and also that she was hurt, but sometimes Alec didn’t have the energy to humour his siblings’ whims. Sometimes, they were just too much.

Because they were laying on his bed in his dark bedroom, and because she had found him silent and gone to the world, Isabelle didn’t say another word. They lay there for another hour, not speaking, while Isabelle pretended she couldn’t feel his pain like she was wounded, too, and Alec pretended that he was not playing her words out in his head, over and over and over again until they felt like a dream. A nightmare, maybe.

They managed to raise three very good, surprisingly progressive kids, so their views must have changed, Magnus had said of his parents. But Magnus didn’t know Maryse and Robert Lightwood, and he definitely didn’t know Alec. Alec didn’t know how much he and Izzy had talked, but he was pretty sure he didn’t know her well, either.

Alec and his siblings were not progressive because of their parents. They were progressive because of their parents’ absence. Because, in truth, Alec had raised his siblings, and the weight of the shame and otherness he felt had made him go to great lengths not to impart such things on them. Because, in her formative years, Izzy had started to realize that their parents didn’t pay them much attention and, in an effort to change that, had started doing things that were hard to ignore. Wearing sequined dresses out to Downworld clubs, fraternizing more with them than her own kind. Because, in Alec’s formative years, he had watched one of his superiors pound in the face of a werewolf who’d accidentally brushed his shoulder when he passed, and he couldn’t unhear the things that he’d called him.

Alec did not dare to think, Maybe. Not even for a second.

(Maybe I don’t know my parents at all. Maybe Magnus isn’t playing with me. Maybe he had hidden his soulmark because I would’ve recognized the words. Maybe this phantom pain never goes away because something was taken from me.)

(Maybe someone knew my soulmark pointed at a Downworlder and they erased it.)

Chapter 10

“He’s playing hard to get,” Magnus sighed. He lounged across one of his long, velvet chairs, a very strong and very blue drink hanging from his fingertips. “I don’t mean to be impatient.”

Catarina snorted. “Magnus Bane,” she said, with no inflection. “King of patience.”

Magnus shot her a nasty look, but he had to admit that it was true. He was still in his pyjamas, which meant he was still in shortsleeves, which meant they could both spend a considerable amount of time staring at his wrist.

A rune. Wedded union. Magnus did not want to be concerned.

“A bit fast, isn’t it?” Catarina finally said, after two hours of avoiding the elephant in the rune.

Magnus smiled, a ghost of a thing. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. He stared at the lines that criss-crossed over each other and the crescent moon that framed them. Quietly, he admitted, “I don’t think it’s for me. I’m not sure it’s for anyone, really.”

Catarina went very silent. Then, “Maryse and Robert Lightwood. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to breed. Denying a soulbond won’t make it go away, and forcing their son into some sham of a marriage to cover it will only do more harm than good.”

Magnus had heard the news from Isabelle, who had, even through text, sounded very worried. She thought Alec might be starting to take it seriously. She thought that Alec might not stand up to their parents. She thought that Magnus might care.

Magnus wondered if she knew. Perhaps she’d seen Alec’s soulmark and figured it out. Maybe it did point clearly to Magnus, after all, but Alec wasn’t ready to accept it, and so he was blind to it.

“I don’t think,” Magnus said softly, “either of us really understand what it means to be a shadowhunter.”

It was a difficult but inevitable truth that Magnus had come to.  He’d had to face the fact that he’d painted himself a picture of the Nephilim and stenciled it onto every one of them he met, the same way they did to Downworlders. Magnus felt a bit arrogant for assuming that he understood their culture well enough to be disgusted by it.

And he was. It was oppressive and cold and in the business of building child soldiers. But the disgust had extended to the victims of it, too, because he hadn’t thought there were any.

Magnus only helped exiled Shadowhunters. He had never thought about the ones who lived with that fear inside them, with the knowledge that sometimes just being yourself was enough of a crime to be deruned.

It pained him, now, to remember the first few runes his mark had shown. 

“Should I tell him?” Magnus asked.

Catarina immediately shook her head. “God, no. I don’t think a boy who’s seriously considering the nice woman his parents pick out for him is a boy who’s ready to run off into the sunset with his male, warlock soulmate.”

Magnus sighed. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

His phone went off. He fished it out of his pocket. Isabelle. Magnus was starting to think they might be friends.

Magnus.

He waited. Another text came in.

I really hate to do this. Please don’t ever tell Alec. He’ll never trust me again.

He waited again, now with a frown and bated breath.

He said you have a soulmark. He didn’t see what it was. Is it for him?

Magnus blinked. Straight to the point. Isabelle was the kind of person who wouldn’t stab you in the back, but instead go straight through the chest. Direct and efficient, but with very beautiful nails and much grace.

“What?” Catarina asked, leaning forward in her chair. “What’s wrong?”

Magnus glanced at her. He shook his head. “Nothing.” Then, when he still couldn’t figure out how to respond, he amended, “Isabelle. She is… quite something.”

Catarina frowned. “What did she say?”

Magnus smiled. “Nothing,” he replied, and tucked his phone back in his pocket without sending a response. “I don’t think I’ll need to be patient much longer, though.”

If Isabelle knew, then surely Alec would be close behind. It sent a thrill through him. Lately, everytime he closed his eyes, he felt Alec’s hand in his as he cast his magic on Luke. He remembered the feel of him, of the bond, so close but still just out of reach. In Magnus’s dreams, he tried to work out what it would feel like for it to be made whole. It was too difficult to imagine, so he woke restless and unsatisfied, his patience waning.

Magnus reminded himself that they didn’t know each other very well. It felt like they did. Or, maybe, that they were meant to. Once Alec figured it out, they could fix that. He could come to Magnus’s loft without his friends in tow and stay long enough to finish his drink.

Magnus looked at his wrist again. There was so much potential there. So much possibility. Surely, Alec saw it too?

[mellicose]

That Woman Over There - Chapter 23

A You Me and Him Fix-it Fic

Rating: Teen, for some mature themes

Word count: 3832

Warnings: none

Summary: ~ Set after the birth of Monty, Olivia’s baby ~ A dear friend of Olivia comes to visit for a week, and she disturbs the fragile peace between her, Alex, and John.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 |

Alex slammed into the gallery, cursing. She forgot to bring a damn umbrella, of all things. She shook herself off and threw down her bag. Rainwater dripped off it, to the parquet floor. The place was eerily dark. She wondered whether it was on purpose. She sniffed at the air. It smelled a bit like John’s house.

Her chest burned. “Fuck,” she said out loud. She wondered whether he hated her, and whether she’d ever smell his house again. She looked around and noticed pieces of art in pools of light. She walked to the closest one.

A painting. Fleshtones. Abstract, but the image began to take form in her brain almost immediately. Bodies. There was something about the sumptuous curves of the negative spaces … but she felt like she was missing something. The paint had a matte quality, a texture that fascinated her.

“It looks like living, breathing flesh, no?”

“Goddamnit!” she said, jumping aside. A lithe man in a striped t-shirt and a pair of jeans stood behind her.

He stood beside her and smiled a cheshire cat grin that was oddly nostalgic. He hugged his slim arms.

“Flesh, no?” he repeated.

“Yes, but there’s something off. I can’t tell where one body ends and the other begins,” she said. Her heart was only slowing now. He drifted the scent of cedar to her. Cedar and … violet? Her eyes drifted to him again. He wore a neat goatee and mustache, and his eyes were the color of his hair - golden brown.

He nodded, and stretched. His shirt rode nearly to the bottom of his ribcage. His smooth belly flexed. His jeans rode low on his hips, and she saw so much happy trail it made her blush.

“You can look away at any time,” he said, giving her a half grin. She didn’t know she was staring. “Not that I mind. You’re cute.”

Her cheeks were hot. Whether it was embarrassment or something else, she didn’t care to figure out.

“You are Alex?” he said, turning to her.

“How’d they get the paint to look like that?” she said, looking back at the painting.

“I don’t know how she does it. That’s why it’s here,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “Yeah. I’m Alex.” She held out her hand. Again, he smiled as they shook hands.

“How professional,” he said. “You’ve got a firm handshake.”

She shrugged. “Want to see my work?”

“Of course. No more flirting. Straight to business.”

“I’m not flirting,” she said, walking to her bag and digging in it for her laptop. “I’m-” she stopped. She was going to say she was gay. But it wasn’t true. At least, not all the way true. But she could still say it. She gave him a sidelong glance. She decided against it.

“You’re what?” he said. “Taken? If so, I’m sorry.”

She frowned. “No. Not taken.” She coughed.

He nodded. “Come, let’s go upstairs. There’s more light in my flat.” He walked to the far corner. He opened a door to an elevator.

“It’s one of those fancy personal ones,” she said as she entered behind him.

“Yeah. I don’t want a nosy visitor finding their way to my personal space,” he said. He punched in a code. It moved up smoothly. She caught another whiff of cedar.

“Again, you’re sniffing,” he said, smiling.

“Oh. Yeah. You smell a lot like a friend of mine,” she said, smiling bashfully.

“You close?” he said, opening the door. Beyond, was open space with islands of tasteful furniture.

“He’s my best mate,” she said. She hoped it was still true.

“He has good taste, then.”

“It’s not a perfume. It’s, uh, he works with wood, so the smell sticks to him.”

“Carpenter?” he said as he guided her to what looked like an office.

“Artist,” she said confidently. “He makes beautiful things. Precious things. You know, keepsakes.”

“Ouiai,” Alphonse said, and offered her a seat in front of his computer.

“The screen big enough for ye?” she said, and chuckled. It was at least 45 inches.

“I use this to view art,” he said.

“Sure, mate. Art.” she said, and handed him her USB with a sardonic grin she couldn’t wipe off.

His lips trembled with mirth. “You’re not terribly formal, are you?” he said.

“Should I be? This isn’t like, a proper interview, is it?” she said, and slung a leg over the arm of the office chair. “This chair’s rad, by the way. It’s ergonomic, right?”

“Maybe not how you’re using it,” he said. The screen came on and she lost her balance and fell back.

“Holy fuck! I can see colors I didn’t even know existed,” she said, crawling back up to the desk and standing up. “Sorry about the language.”

“Speak however you like. This isn’t the Vatican,” he said.

She looked over his shoulder.”There’s the folder with my work.”

She swore when he clicked on the first photo. “That’s bloody gorgeous,” she said. “Okay, you’re absolutely right. This screen is a requirement. All I’ve got is my mam’s grotty little 200 quid laptop. I can see every single brush stroke with this thing.” She leaned forward. “It’s brilliant.”

“Now you see the method to my madness,” he said.

“Yah, I do. It’s definitely not just for porn,” she said. She nodded.

He burst out laughing. “You have absolutely no filter, do you?” he said.

“Why? Should I? I have a feeling the posh art buyers might cringe at me, eh?” she said.

“Maybe you’re not the affected art school type, but it honestly doesn’t matter. Most of them don’t even know what they’re looking at anyway. They just buy to say they did. It’s very rare to find collectors with an actual eye for talent. That’s where I come in.”

“You’re an art dealer,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “You make the good shit available to ‘em.”

“Exactly,” he said. 

“You scare your fancy customers down there?”

“You were in my space,” he said.

“You could’ve made noise walking up, like normal people.”

He crossed his legs, and she noticed that he was barefoot. “Again, my space.”

She smiled. “Sorry. But I almost wee’d myself.” She squirmed.

“You need the loo?” he said.

“I think so,” she said. He pointed to a frosted glass cube in a corner of the apartment. She sighed. “Seriously?”

He winked. He watched her walk away. She was a bit rough around the edges, but her honesty was refreshing. Perhaps he had been around posh art students for too long. Even her shape was more inviting – curvy in places where so many others had on-trend angles.

“This is ridiculous,” she yelled as she closed the glass door behind her. “There’s no privacy whatsoever.”

“I live alone,” he said. He felt strange yelling in his own apartment.

“And when you have … guests?” she said.

“I don’t really hold parties in this space – any guests here are usually beyond that kind of embarrassment.”

“Oh. Yeah,” she said, and flushed. She looked around. There was a large shower in front of her, also glass. It was fancy in a way that made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t imagine washing her body in a place like that. And it was a place, not just a shower. The chrome fixtures gleamed, and the bottles on the shelf were not in English. She wondered whether they smelled like wood. She washed her hands, saw no towel, and dried them on her shorts. She felt weird letting the water dry on the sink. It would get spots.

“Hey, do you wipe down the sink?” she said as she walked back up.

“Shhhhhhh,” he said. He leaned forward, looking intently at one of her blue period pieces. At least, that’s what she called it. It was not naturalistic, but also not as abstract as some of the pieces she saw downstairs. “Viens-ici,” he said, and beckoned to her. “Tell me about this.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s the last piece I painted before I stopped for a while. I just sort of … sat in front of a canvas and let the brush do the talking.”

“Yes, it speaks volumes,” he said. He hugged himself again. “What’s most striking is that although the composition hints at desolation, you did not use the stereotypical washed out palette. It’s searingly bright.”

“I couldn’t stand using muted colors.” She echoed his action, hugging herself. “She deserves better than shades of gray.” She shivered.

“She?” he said.

“Jo,” she said softly.

“An ex?” he said.

“My daughter, who died last year right before being born.”

He gasped.”Ah, petite. J'en suis désolé,” he said. He patted her hand, and for some reason, she burst into tears again. He stood and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around his narrow frame and wept into his chest.

“I’m a mess. I’ve had the worst day ever. I think I just lost everything.”

“How do you mean?” he said.

It surprised her that he even cared. She didn’t know where to start. He was a stranger, so lying wasn’t worth the effort.

“My fiancee just broke up with me. She was right to do it. And I just fucked up my relationship with my best mate. At least, if he’s got any sense.”

“Eh,” he said. He didn’t expect the full truth. She was extraordinary.

“When you say “just”, do you mean in the last month or something?” he said. He rubbed her back. Her hair smelled like cigarette smoke and satsuma.

“I mean, today. Earlier.”

He pulled her away to look at her. “Putain. And you’re here?”

“I’ve got nothing left … what’s your name again?” She wiped her face with her arm.

“Alphonse. You can call me Alfie if you like.”

“Alfie. Sounds posh,” she said. “You don’t like Alphonse?”

“I’m named after my dad. He’s as asshole,” he said.

“‘Least you know ‘im,” she said, and sniffed.” I’ll call you Alfie, then. Don’t wanna be bringing back any bad memories. I don’t usually get like this.” She finished wiping her eyes, but her lips still quivered.

“You want a beer?” he said.

“God yes,” she said. He ran to the kitchen space and opened a giant fridge built into a brick wall “Jesus, man, got enough space in there?” she said. There was actual food in it. Like John, he liked to cook.

“You peckish? I’ve got some leftover cold sesame noodles,” he said, putting two bottles of beer on the counter. She shrugged, but approached the counter, curious. He pulled out a plastic tub and opened it.

“It’s not takeaway,” she said. The noodles were glossy with oil, and dotted with toasted sesame seed and green onion. “Smells amazing.”

“I made them for dinner. As ever, I made too much. I suppose some habits die hard,” he said, and handed her a fork.

“Cooking a lot?” she said around a mouthful of noodles.

“Adjusting to cooking for one again,” he said, and sat on a stool opposite her. “Tell me more about that piece. I noticed that it’s unfinished. Or am I wrong?”

She took a sip of her beer. “That’s perceptive,” she said. “This is delicious, by the way. Better than from a restaurant.”

“Merci,” he said. “I have a mild obsession with asian cuisine.”

“Was your ex girlfriend from there?” she said, taking another generous mouthful.

“Perceptive,” he said. She winked. “No, she isn’t. She’s Portuguese. But she’s a chef who specializes in pan-asian cuisine. She got me hooked.”

“She’s a chef? If I dated a chef I’d gain two stone in a year,” she said. “I’d wear it as a point of pride.”

He laughed. “I wish, but I can’t. Genetics won’t really let me gain much of anything. Some might consider it a blessing. I guess it is.” He shrugged.

“Uhuh,” she said. “I was like that until I hit 25. After that, things started happening in this area,” she said, gesturing to her middle.

“I’m quite a few years over that, and nothing’s happened yet,” he said.

“How old are you?”

“39,” he said.

“Really? You look amazin’, bruv,” she said. She blushed at the ease with which she gave him the compliment, but she didn’t regret it. He beamed.

“I avoid sunlight whenever possible,” he said.

“Okay, Nosferatu,” she said. She looked at the sweating bottle of beer in front of her. She liked him. He seemed like a good bloke, and he hadn’t acted funny when she burst into tears. She didn’t know what she expected when she came, but definitely not him. She looked at him. His eyes were gold, with flecks of green near the iris. It was one of her favorite color combinations.

“You’re staring again,” he said. She was so zoned in she didn’t see his smile.

“Your eyes. The green is nice,” she said, then stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“Thanks. My maman has Persian blood. I get my eyes from her,” he said. “And in more ways than one. She’s the artist. My father thinks art is a hobby.”

She snorted. “My mam’s the same. She thinks I should go to school to become a nurse’s assistant. But I can’t stand the sight of blood. I’m working on being a teacher, maybe.”

“Maybe?” he said, opening another beer for her. She took it gratefully.

“Liv, my fi-my ex-fiancee, suggested it. She had a baby too, Monty. He’s the sweetest little guy you’ll ever meet. He’s gonna be one year old in a month and a half.” She took a deep swig of beer. Her eyes started to swim again. He walked beside her.

“He’s going to be one. And you said you lost Jo last year…” he said.

“It’s a hella long story, mate,” she said. “And you’re a stranger.”

“I’ve got an empty dance card and a case of beer,” he said, walking to a nearby sofa. “Let’s get acquainted.”

She stared out one of his large windows. The night was setting in, and it was pouring rain.

“I think we should wrap up the art stuff. It’s pissing outside and I’ve got to take a train back to Bristol...” her voice failed. She didn’t know where she was gonna go once she got there. She would have to speak to Olivia, then her mam. She dreaded the latter far more than the former.

“I can give you a ride to the station, if you like,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “You that bored that you wanna listen to my long list of fuck ups?” she said. She sat on the other side of the sofa. She wished she could kick off her boots.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said.

“You just wait till I get into it, boyo,” she said.

“So that means you’ll stay for a bit,” he said. “I will open my ears and refrain from any possible censure until you’re done.”

“Century what?” she said, making a face.

“Censure. It means a strong or vehement expression of disapproval.”

“Huh. Whatever.” She looked down at her lap. She looked so lost. It made him want to stroke her rain-frizzy blond hair. She broke up with her fiancee just today, yet here she was, braving wind and rain to show him her worth. It was beyond his capacity to understand. He had not gotten out of bed for three weeks after Lorena left him, and it had been over two months until he was able to face the world. It was still difficult to adjust. She had been his life for six years.

“Where are you?” he said.

“I couldn’t finish it,” she said, tracing the shapes printed on her tights. She took a deep breath. He waited patiently. “At the time. It was, like…”

He moved a little closer, but made sure to give her plenty of space.

“It was like admitting she was finished. That her story was over,” she said. “I couldn’t bear it.” She hiccuped, but kept her composure. “I don’t even know why that’s in there. It’s a mess.”

“You keep saying that,” he said.

“Because it’s true. My life’s a mess. My work. My brain. They’re all one great big horrible mess.”

“You also said it’s unfinished,” he said softly.

“The painting? Yeah.”

“You don’t get me,” he said. He used his hands to speak, and it was beautiful to see. “I mean, it’s unfinished. Your life. Your brain. You. You’re young, no?”

“Old enough to know better about things, though,” she said, crossing her arms.

“You haven’t told me your unforgivable trespasses, but obviously not,” he said.

Her mouth dropped open.

He smiled. “I know you can’t see it from the inside looking out, but I have faith in you. You’ll right the wrongs of which you speak.”

“You don’t know me, bruv,” she said, taking a sip of beer. “I’m, like, the queen of fuckups.”

“That’s why it’s faith. If 2.2 billion Christians can believe in an invisible God, I can believe you’re not an incorrigible fuck up.”

She scratched her head. This bloke was something else. She rolled her eyes and gave him a half-grin.

“Alright. But you haven’t heard what I did yet,” she said.

“Will it explain the mystery of you and your ex being with child at the same time at some point? I am very rudely curious about that. Did you do it on purpose?”

���No,” she said loudly. “I didn’t.”

“Okay,” he said, and stretched his legs out. “We’re getting to the meat of the story.”

“I’ll bore you with my stupidity, but what does this have to do with my art?”

“We’ll figure it out along the way,” he said. “Talk to me.”

“Whatever. So my girlfriend got pregnant without telling me. I was really angry, and I got blind drunk and got off with our next door neighbor, John…”

“Wait. You’re gay?” he said.

She bit her lip. This was the first time she was going to say it out loud to someone she didn’t really know. But considering the stuff she was sharing, it couldn’t be that bad.

“I’m bi. I go both ways,” she said. She paused, as if waiting for peals of thunder and lightning, but the rain continued, silent and dark. “I didn’t know it at the time. But that comes later.”

“I see,” he said. “Take your time. I’m here all night.”

“Yeah. So, all it took was one night, and I was well preggers.”

“By the neighbor? Fuck,” he said. “And he was okay with it?”

“John? We became best mates during the pregnancy. He was in love with me or whatever, but we dealt with it. Now he’s in love with Connie.”

“What?” he said up. “So your ex girlfriend got pregnant without telling you. Then, you got off with your neighbor John, got pregnant after one night, and you’re still living by each other?”

“Yep,” she said.

“And now Encarnacion is with John, the father of Jo, and in love? Wasn’t she with Ella?

“Her and Ella went kaput last year. Big drama – at least, the bits I heard. Super messy.”

“I believe you now,” he said, eyes wide. He had to call Encarnacion. Her and Ella had once felt as immutable as a mountain. But Vesuvius most probably felt the same to the Pompeiians. “You remained friends?”

“Of course. Even after Jo. Like I said, he’s my absolute best mate. Or, possibly, was.”

“If you could endure that triangle, what happened to break it?”

She looked out the window again. She wondered what he was doing. Connie, most probably. He deserved happiness. She couldn’t get the indignant look on his face when she confessed. She never wanted to see that look on his face again.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oui.”

“What?” she said, snapping out of her train of thought.

“You developed feelings for him. That’s why you broke up with your fiancee.”

She kicked off her books and started pacing the open space in front of the window.

“I’ll have you know she broke up with me,” she said. “He’s the father of my girl,” she said. “Jo was ours.”

“You said he was in love with you. What happened to change that?”

She snorted. “I’m a fool. A damn fool.” His brows rose. “He moved on. I suppose to keep his sanity, but he did. Fully.”

“With Encarnacion,” he said.

“Who is Olivia’s best friend,” she said.

He brightened up. “How is Olivia? She was a hell of a drinking buddy, back in the day.”

“Drinking buddy, huh? Of course,” she said, but she didn’t ask. It was just another story Liv hadn’t bother to tell her. “She’s fine, I hope.”

“You’ve given me only the blurb, but it already sounds like a hell of a story,” he said.

She sat on the windowsill, which was lined with silk pillows. “I think I’ll need something stronger than lager to really get into it,” she said. She held out the half-empty beer bottle.

“I’ve got vodka in a freezer,” he said, taking it.

“That’s good. Pour a drop of juice in. I’m still nursing a hangover.”

“As one does,” he said with a smile, and handed her a glass. He sat against the wall, at her feet. “So, start at the beginning.”

“At the actual beginning, or when everything got fucked?”

“At the very beginning,” he said, nursing his beer. He was a believer that you could tell a lot by a person by the kind of conversation they had. There are people who could talk your ear off for hours, but in the end, you didn’t know them any better. And there were people like Alex – open to a beautiful fault. He already knew he would be crazy about her. Whether it was romantically or not, he couldn’t ascertain now. But he’d know soon enough.

“I met Olivia online, on a dating site. I’d joined as a gag, but in less that 24 hours, I had over 30 messages…”

They talked until dawn, and in the interim, he figured it out.

Next Chapter

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Synchronicity 12

F.E.A.R.!AU. We get to the testing facility. Finally. The plane in question is Shaanxi Y-8 gunship variant, a nice thing for moderate PMC outfit. There’s a mention of suicide. Gerard gives exposition in twirling-mustache-villain-fashion. Also, introducing core mechanic.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

(...)“The plane,” Jack chuckles, looking at his hands. Inadvertently he rolls his sleeves up to see the faint lines on his wrists, hardly raised anymore. “When it lands, he dies, that person dies, gets his throat somehow slashed, not just cut, slashed, and he knows that, relives it, but he still… refuses to acknowledge it?” Dark tendril uncurls around his arm and brushes against the scar, lingering on the discolored flesh, and he tries to keep the stinging tears back. “I don’t even remember,” he laughs. “I should know better. If you want to die you don’t do it like that. It gives them too much time to force you to live.”(...)

***

(…)

There's time on the wall, but no one around

His will is numb, he's half in the ground

If all we are is all we were

Then he'd soon pass on without a whisper

(…)

 The whole structure is coming apart around him, metal catwalks adjacent to it on this side scream and twist, portions of the construction break off and fall below. Jack follows the way down where the exit must be – the cavern’s ceiling is a flat surface of rock as far as he can see it. The masquerade is working in his favor, someone pats his arm and points in the direction of the evacuation route, or what is left of one, more likely.

But then the Beast tugs at his arm and he turns to the other side just as the metal bridge groans and rips in half under falling rocks, taking with it an unfortunate soldier. The man flails in the air descending to his death, and Jack observes him idly as he himself catches the outer sides of a ladder and grinds the soles of his boots into steel enclosure, then he merely slackens his grip and slides, landing on the platform below just in time for the whole upper part to sway and start collapsing on itself.

The ladder snaps, the whole portion of the catwalk looms above falling in slow motion. Jack clutches the railing, bracing for the impact, hunkering down. He only manages to drag in one breath before the crash jostles him, it feels almost like his arm gets torn out of its socket, and then he is falling.

He doesn’t register the moment his body smashes into the concrete, only the darkness whispering it will take him with it when it goes.

A jolt of pain to his ribs wakes him up. He cannot feel his hands behind his back. Someone barks a command at him in French. Moroccan accent. Get up. Profanities follow. Another kick catches the inside of his thigh and with a gasp, he manages to roll himself to rest on his side. Water.

He thanks whoever listens for the mask stopping him from aspirating the liquid and sits up. The twisted canopy of bent metal elements above groans dangerously.

“Fuck.” Doesn’t feel like anything broken, the memory of phantom blows is only that, a memory, something dredged up from god knows where. He should be dead, the fall from that height should have killed him, there is no way he could have survived it even encased in a metal cage. And even if, by an uncanny stroke of luck, when he moves his arm, it does not protest, not more than usual – the joint works perfectly.

“Lucky you,” with a short derisive laugh that sprays blood the blonde apparition looks him straight into eyes, the voice familiar, grating, decidedly unfriendly. Jack inhales sharply at the image. “Get the fuck up.”

“You aren’t like the others.”

“Give the man his cookie, he earned it,” his doppelganger glares, lips curled up into a sneer. With each word more clotted blood spills and mingles with murky water. “I’m not going to repeat myself again. Get the fuck up.”

“Little restless, aren’t you, Sunshine?” The Beast caresses the side of his neck as Jack makes his move to stand up, stopped in mid-motion when the wraith reaches out and its fingers make contact with the black mass. Apparition’s face softens, becomes almost vulnerable with a tragic melancholy – desperation – written on it.

“I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you so much… You didn’t take me with you,” the doppelganger whispers. “You left me.”

“Did I, Sunshine? I am here, after all, I am always with you,” the Beast murmurs back as the apparition flickers and dissolves in the faint lighting filtering in from above. “I am a part of you, Sunshine, always were and always will be,” it laughs, the sound bubbling under its surface, breaking out in waves, covering surroundings in rainbow-tinted luminosity that stretches the screech of metal into an unbearable low whine. “There will never be a point of return.”

“There will never be a point of return,” Jack, lifting himself up, repeats after it. The same kind of radiance that bathes every surface of an encompassing area follows in the wake of each of his movements. Something is wrong with how the water he wades in behaves, very wrong, like the surface tension does not want to give under his soles and sticks to his boots. He passes droplets almost frozen in the air – light refracts in them lazily painting space in pastels – and every breath he takes sluggishly flows between his lips, trickles down his throat like molasses.

And as he enters the concrete tunnel the time collapses into itself, the whine becomes a shrieking wail of roaring destruction when all the precariously balanced debris sink under their own weight; stones, concrete, and metal coming down with a delayed fury of gravity finally taking a jealous hold on its regained domain. Jack glances back – the way behind him is definitely blocked now.

He forces down nausea at the realization mere seconds – maybe even less – separated him from being crushed under the rubble. It also comes with a heady kiss of adrenaline that threatens to split his brain in two, and the hum of the rushing blood in his ears dampening any other sound into an indistinct echo. Jack licks his chapped lips. Probably around twenty-four hours since he ate anything. Or drunk. Or took the pills, damn pills, that have him shaking with every mention.

“Such a disturbing notion, Sunshine, isn’t it, every little dirty secret buried under the poison you willingly take crawling back out of the woodwork?” The Beast’s voice cuts through the haze. Jack walks the only direction available, away from the rubble, left hand raised and fingertips trailing the concrete of the tunnel. It’s grounding, in a way, helps with the tremors. “And who knows where the lies end?”

“You know, for being me, you’re fucking vague,” Jack chokes out a stifled chuckle.

“Where would be the fun in it being any other way? Just remember, Sunshine, we will kill them all, we will carve every nerve from their muscle, we will suck out the marrow from their bones, I promise you.”

“Yes. We will kill them all.” Bizarrely, the sentiment, and the words, bring some satisfaction, enough to curl up the corners of his mouth, it’s not a smile, not really, but the noise in his ears slowly dies down replaced by the sound of splashing water and whizzing air somewhere beyond the tunnel’s exit he’s nearing.

“And every step of the way I’ll be with you, Sunshine.”

“I know. I know.”

The area Jack enters has a different feel than the pretend hospital and the labs housed in the underground complex now entombed under tons of rock behind him. No, all the pretense is dropped here unceremoniously – everything speaks of industrial design and purpose. On the left, there are two elevator platforms, one of them broken and tilted to the side, the other seems stable.

He walks to the ledge and stares into the darkness below trying to come up with something, anything, that could be there in the cavern, deeper, so they would need to haul cargo, enough of it to warrant the elevators. It doesn’t matter. He can always come back and check.

As if to answer the possibility, the intact platform trembles and breaks off in a shower of sparks, plummeting down with a ripped off part of the rail. He waits for the sound of impact, counting. Almost fifteen seconds. Above one klick down.

“Shit.” So that leaves only one possible direction, another tunnel, and the only light he can see is at the entrance, above him. With uneasiness, Jack steps into the darkness, and a light warm breeze brushes his skin.

He glances at the aircraft flying low, dark under the crimson sky, reflective surfaces glinting menacingly. Four engines. Shaanxi. He doesn’t really bother with thinking what would be the reason to use Chinese plane other than smoke and mirrors, all the plausible deniability shtick, doesn’t buy into ‘the best for the best’, it’s not his area of expertise anyway.

What he does know, observing as the craft circles lazily to make its approach, is that when it touches down, something happens, something that has him freeze in apprehension, and turn towards the tarmac hidden behind the tall swaying grass where two shades walk side by side.

No. He has to warn them because when the plane lands it happens – whatever that it is – and they are there, oblivious, just walking – talking – like everything is right but it is only an illusion and it will happen. It. Will. Happen.

Yet before he can move one of the silhouettes turns around and red eyes pin him in place, leave him breathless and faltering. Scared of the wrath and visceral hate gleaming in them, and with a snarl the darkness rushes at him, the grass divides and flattens under chittering onslaught screaming murder with a multitude of one voice simultaneously.

It smashes into him – goes through him – and Jack hits the wall, thrown, shoulder painfully colliding with the solid surface. Gasping for precious air. He rips the mask off his face and stares into space.

Reaper is trapped. He is trapped, in those moments, memories possibly, he realizes, and he pulls him under into them with him either consciously or unwittingly, into a place that doesn’t exist but maybe parts of it did, the tree, the airstrip, the grass, and Jack is an intruder there.

He can imagine what it does to anyone when the pain of the blade and the smell of burnt meat, the screams, and the thunder, they are always lingering just at the edge of his own awareness, never entirely gone, the Beast stinging behind his teeth, looking through his eyes, whispering in his ears.

“Who isn’t a prisoner of their own past, Sunshine?”

“The plane,” Jack chuckles, looking at his hands. Inadvertently he rolls his sleeves up to see the faint lines on his wrists, hardly raised anymore. “When it lands, he dies, that person dies, gets his throat somehow slashed, not just cut, slashed, and he knows that, relives it, but he still… refuses to acknowledge it?” Dark tendril uncurls around his arm and brushes against the scar, lingering on the discolored flesh, and he tries to keep the stinging tears back. “I don’t even remember,” he laughs. “I should know better. If you want to die you don’t do it like that. It gives them too much time to force you to live.”

“No, Sunshine,” the Beast murmurs back, the sound deprived of its usual ridicule, “you can’t die yet, not until we kill our old friends, all of them.”

Somehow, with applied force, black tendril pulls his hand away from where it tried to grab the knife still strapped to the jacket. Jack slowly draws a breath, holds it for five seconds, and then exhales. The shaking stops after he repeats it several times.

“Good, Sunshine, now up. You have to go through the dome.”

He doesn’t question. To his right is gaping darkness, and to the left, the way ahead is buried under rocks, the ceiling caved in, but luckily the same occurrence crashed and bent the frame of another observation theatre. Judging by the thickness of the glass he wouldn’t be able to shoot through it. Below he can see screens rapidly flashing images in front of something that looks like a heavy reinforced platform crossed with a chair, something one would see in a cheap science fiction flick rather than in a laboratory or any industrial context. By the foot of it pools something that looks suspiciously like blood.

Three meters, give or take. He can’t roll, not really, not with all the shards littering the ground below. Jack positions himself cautiously, and jumps, landing on bent legs to the accompaniment of crunching glass. He bites back the groan in answer to his joints and muscles protesting the awkward pose and tension, draws the pistol, listening. Only the hum of machines.

Slowly he rounds the chair. In it, cuffed, sits the same kind of creature – human – he encountered earlier, emaciated, twisted, and very dead, with a part of construction stabbed through its – his – chest. Jack doesn’t know what he feels confronted with the sight, is it relief or pity for it – him?

The door further from his position is slightly ajar, one of the hinges broken, but he can glimpse the rubble behind it. No go. With glass creaking under his feet he slips toward the only other exit, a narrow short hallway that opens into a bigger area with strange half-finished construction bits, partitions with gaps that appear to mimic parts of buildings with doors and windows. There is a burned out frame of a car with most of its body intact to his left.

Training range. The recognition comes with the sound of a blaring alarm and his point of entrance being shut with heavy metal plate sliding into place. Jack lets the instinct take over and vaults over the nearest obstacle, a low brick wall, and immediately pushes his back against it.

The screen in front of him turns on, showing a chamber not unlike the one he was just in, but this time the chair’s occupant thrashes in the restraints snarling and hissing, more of a senseless animal than human.

“You’re turning out to be more trouble than you’re fucking worth, Morrison.” Gerard enters the frame from the right. “Or should I say, subject seventy-six. So, I was thinking we can run some test, see again how you fare against the newer models.” Jack can feel the anger, the hate, building up on his tongue, bitter seething thing thrashing inside. “Talon’s jewel in the crown, genetically engineered puppet soldiers, mindless cannon fodder, O’Deorain’s framework and Ziegler’s implementation, some fucking bullshit about telepathic command, that’s what you fucking get when you let fucking stupid bitches run things. But you see, turning one into a commander renders it fucking insane, useless, not really useful for a real military situation, but for now, it’s sufficient. Let’s run our little simulation.”

“Boss,” Rutledge’s voice coming from outside of the frame startles him, his fingers turning white on the grip of the pistol, “we had visual on our targets, six klicks away, covering a lot of ground.”

“Good. Finish it up. I don’t want anything on fucking Reaper, Replica or Harbinger getting out of here and linked with Talon. Have a nice die, Morrison,” Gerard snorts, stepping away from the camera. The alarm goes off again.

[shackalacklargebottom]

Gonna post this again for my own tags/tagging purposes - originally for omgsuchegobang’s “Fluff Me To Death” contest. Not so fluffy, at least at the beginning, but we’ll get there.

*** *** ***

Subject: Definitely Just Grump Business

From: Arin Hanson (grumpy.princess@gmail.com) To: Barry, Brian, Ross, Suzy (see details)

Alright gang,

Contrary to the clever and misleading subject line, this is NOT just Grump business. That was a ruse to keep Dan off our backs. Pretty smart, right?

We’re a week out, so I wanted to touch base with everyone about Dan’s birthday party. How’s everything coming together?

Your Lord and Commander, Arin

Subject: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Suzy (xXgoth_kittyXx@aol.com) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

Cake = covered! …mostly. Dan’s not allergic to peanut butter, right? Are peanuts kosher?

- sUzY /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Subject: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Barry (nonbarrykreamer@yahoo.com) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

Hey boss!

I’m taking Dan out Friday afternoon so you guys can come by and decorate the apartment. We’ll probably go see a movie or something. How much time do you think you’ll need?

- B

Subject: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Arin To: Barry

…The party’s on Saturday, B.

Grumpily Yours, Arin

Subject: Shit. From: Barry To: Arin

Shit. I, uh, kinda had plans on Saturday…

- B

Subject: Are you shitting me From: Arin To: Barry

Seriously, Barr?

Definitely Grumpily Yours, Arin

Subject: Re: Are you shitting me From: Barry To: Arin

I kid, I kid. Saturday it is.

- B

Subject: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Brian (wechtb@qmul.ac.uk) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

Arin,

Thank you for the helpful reminder email. I’ve been working on a playlist I think Danny will really enjoy, so consider music/DJ services officially covered.

By the way, make sure to reply ONLY to my work email - Danny has access to the Ninja Sex Party account. Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise by mistake.

Best, Dr. Brian Wecht, Ph.D Centre for Research on String Theory

Subject: Re: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Arin To: Brian

Great. Great. Sounds awesome…. by “playlist”, you definitely *don’t* mean ��every Rush album in order played back-to-back”, right? Just checking.

Final boss, Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Definitely Just Grump B…

From: Brian To: Arin

Arin,

I didn’t say I was finished working on it. I’ll have something, ah… varied, for Saturday.

Adverbially yours, Dr. Brian Wecht, Ph.D Centre for Research on String Theory

Subject: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

Dan’s having a birthday party?

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: Re: Definitely Just Grump Business From: Arin To: Ross

Rosssssssss.

Not amused, Arin

Subject: Fwd: Shit. From: Barry (nonbarrykreamer@yahoo.com) To: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com)

Baaaaabe,

So I kinda maybe forgot Dan’s birthday party was this weekend. Can we switch our plans to Friday night instead? I promised Arin I’d distract Dan while everyone sets up.

- B

Subject: Re: Fwd: Shit. From: Ross To: Barry

Fine… but only ‘cause you’re so cute, y’know?

One condition: you wear that leather thing from the other night.

xoxo Ross

Subject: Re: Re: Definitely Just Grump B… From: Ross To: Arin

Relax, dude, I’m totally joking. I definitely didn’t have any plans for Saturday.

I’m gonna pick up the decorations after work tomorrow night. The bachelorette party section at Party City should have dick-shaped pinatas, right? Dan’ll LOVE one of those!

xxxx Ross

Subject: I’m gonna make YOUR dick a pinata From: Arin To: Ross

What do you mean, you didn’t have plans for Saturday? Did you and Barry *both* forget about the party?!!? What, were you guys gonna hang out together or something?

Jesus. No. We’re not celebrating Dan’s birthday by beating a giant penis with a stick. I thought we agreed on a beach/island theme?

Get your shit together, Arin

Subject: If my dick were a pinata would I jizz candy? From: Ross To: Arin

No, Barry and I did not forget. How could I forget about Dan’s birthday? I already said I DIDN’T have plans. I didn’t even know Barry had plans. I bet if Barry did have plans, our plans wouldn’t have coincided. At all. And they wouldn’t have involved leather. Who’s Barry, anyway? He sounds like a fun guy.

Fine. Beachy island whatever it is. You just want an excuse to wear a bikini top in front of ~❤Daniel❤~

Wait… Brilliant idea… dicks on the beach! Best surprise birthday party theme ever!! I’m a genius.

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: Re: Fwd: Shit From: Ross To: Barry

Fuuuck. I think Arin might be onto us….

xoxo Ross

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Fwd: Shit From: Barry To: Ross

Uh, okay? What do I do if he asks me about it??

- B

Subject: Fess up From: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com) To: Barry (nonbarrykreamer@yahoo.com)

Barry,

Buddy. It’s okay. You can tell me the truth.

Unforgettably yours, Arin

Subject: Re: Fess up From: Barry To: Arin

Fine. Fine. Okay. You got us. Ross and I have been… intimate, for the last couple of months.

We just didn’t want to freak everyone out or mess with the office dynamic or anything!! Especially since we weren’t even sure if it was gonna work out!!! But it’s been going really well and we were gonna tell everyone soon I’M SORRY

Do us a favor and don’t tell Dan, okay? I wanna tell him on my own. Like a roomie thing.

Actually, don’t tell Brian either. He’d want to watch.

- B

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fwd: Shit From: Ross To: Barry

I think I managed to cover for us pretty smoothly, if I do say so myself, so just be cool and don’t say anything if he asks.

xoxo Ross

Subject: FUCK From: Barry To: Ross

FUCK I LET THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG

(OUT OF THE CLOSET, WHATEVER)

I’M SORRY

- B

Subject: Re: Re: Fess up From: Arin To: Barry CC: Ross (hotrossbuns@gmail.com)

Wait, what? You’re gay? Or bi or pan or??

?????, Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Fess up From: Barry To: Arin, Ross (see details)

Uhhhhh, yep, as it turns out… wait, what were YOU talking about?

- B???

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fess up From: Arin To: Barry, Ross (see details)

I just meant you can tell me you forgot about Dan’s birthday!!! Holy shit. Well, congrats dude. Although why you’d wanna be stuck with Ross is beyond me.

Speaking of, can you please make sure he doesn’t buy anything inappropriate for the party? I had to remind him a pinata shaped like a schween probably isn’t going to fit the theme.

Royally yours, Princess Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fess up From: Barry To: Ross, Arin (see details)

YOU’RE GETTING US A PEEÑATA?! Dan’s gonna love it!!

- B

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fess up From: Arin To: Ross, Barry (see details)

NO, he is NOT.

No dicks allowed, Arin

Subject: Suck my candy-flavored cock Hanson From: Ross To: Arin, Barry (see details)

YES, he IS. Why, does the thought of Dan seeing another dick make you ~jealous?

xxxx Ross

PS Barry! “Peeñata”! You’re hilarious, babe.

Subject: Fuck off Ross From: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com) To: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com)

…………../´¯/) …………,/¯../ ………../…./ …../´¯/’…’/´¯¯`·¸ ../’/…/…./……./¨¯\ (’(…´…´…. ¯~/’…’) ..…………….’…../ ..“….……… _.·´ …..………….( …….…………\

Definitely not jealous of a paper-mâchè cock, Arin

Subject: Boring Work-Related Email From: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com) To: Barry, Brian, Ross, Suzy (see details)

Okay everybody. Doubling down because there seems to be some… confusion about this party situation.

Suzy, the cake sounds great. Dan’s probably not religiously opposed *or* allergic to peanuts, since yesterday I watched him inhale a family-sized bag of mini Reese’s cups in under twenty minutes, and he survived to make it to the Grump session this morning.

Brian, lots of Rush is cool, but maybe we could try adding some songs people can dance to?

Barry, we’ll probably need about two hours to decorate. Taking Dan to a movie is perfect.

Ross… just remember what I said about dicks.

Stay sparkly, Arin

Subject: Jog my memory From: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

But Arin, you say so MUCH about dicks. How can I possibly remember one specific instance?

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: Boring Work-Related Email From: Brian (wechtb@qmul.ac.uk) To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Suzy

Hello again, all,

The only thing left to do is get creative with the tech setup. I’m thinking disco ball, laser light show, maybe a smoke machine? Something really tasteful and understated. Let me know your thoughts.

Murderous regards, Dr. Brian Wecht, Ph.D Centre for Research on String Theory

Subject: Re: Re: Boring Work-Related Email From: Suzy (xX_gothkitty_Xx@aol.com) To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Ross (see details)

Getting ExCiTeD! About this party! Here’s a mock-up of the cake decorations.

- sUzY /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Attached: cakedeco.jpg

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Boring Work-Related Em… From: Arin To: Barry, Brian, Ross, Suzy

Brian, do you have a disco ball? Or lasers or a smoke machine?

And Suzy, that looks incredible! …I’m just not sure how a creepy tombstone cake fits in with our “beach party” theme?

Your Stalwart General, Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Boring Work-Related … From: Brian To: Arin, Barry, Ross, Suzy

I certainly have some broken glass, a military-grade laser pointer, and incidental knowledge of how to produce smoke by starting some fires. We can start there.

Resourcefully yours, Dr. Brian Wecht, Ph.D Centre for Research on String Theory

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Boring Work-Relat… From: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com) To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Suzy (see details)

Suzy, how big is this cake gonna be? I have an idea >:)

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Boring Work-Re… From: Suzy To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Ross (see details)

Um, normal cake-sized? Why?

- sUzY /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Boring Work…

From: Ross To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Suzy (see details)

Do you have a pan big enough to fit a person in? I bet Dan would like it if someone popped out of the cake. Someone tall. And grumpy. With long hair. And a blond streak. Maybe scantily clad, wearing a bikini top perhaps? I really think it would fit the theme.

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Boring W… From: Brian To: Arin, Barry, Ross, Suzy (see details)

Ross,

My friend… you put the stripper inside after you bake the cake.

Best, Dr. Brian Wecht, Ph.D Centre for Research on String Theory

Subject: Mind blown From: Ross To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Suzy (see details)

Ohhhhh.

xxxx Ross

Subject: CUT THE CRAP YOU GUYS From: Arin To: Barry, Brian, Ross, Suzy (see details)

We are NOT hiring a STRIPPER to pop out of Dan’s cake!!!!!!!!!!!!

Graghgrlsdflkjgf! Arin

Subject: Arin do you have a G-String From: Ross To: Arin, Barry, Brian, Suzy (see details)

Yeesh. Obviously not. Why would we hire someone when you’ll do it for free, Arin?

xxxx Ross

Subject: Babe… From: Barry (nondairykreamer@yahoo.com) To: Ross (hotrossbuns@gmail.com)

Maybe you should let up on Arin a little bit?

Also, I miss you. Come over to my office?

- B

Subject: Re: Babe… From: Ross To: Barry

What? I’m just helping him on his ~journey of ~self-discovery.

On my way!

xoxo Ross

Subject: Cake? From: Suzy (xXgoth_kittyXx@aol.com) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

Hey! Would you really pop out of Dan’s cake? That would be soooo cute! :3

- sUzY /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Subject: Re: Cake? From: Arin To: Suzy

No, I would not. Ross is just being a prick.

Modestly yours, Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Cake? From: Suzy To: Arin

Oh… okay. Are you sure? I really think Dan would get a kick out of it…

- sUzY /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Cake?

From: Arin To: Suzy

Geez. Not you too, Suze. I don’t really appreciate all the jokes, okay? I’m just trying to do something nice for a friend here.

Sigh, Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Cake? From: Suzy To: Arin

I wasn’t joking? :(

- sUzY /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Subject: Me Kicking Your Ass From: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com) To: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com)

In the immortal words of everyone, ever,

God dammit Ross.

Can you just get off my back please? All I wanna do is throw Dan a goddamn birthday party. Please. This is difficult enough as it is.

Either help me out or don’t, Arin

Subject: Re: Me Kicking Your Ass From: Ross To: Arin

Hey, it’s Barry. Ross is… busy.

He says he’s sorry. Well, actually, what he said was “hmmwaahlfrrrgl,” but I’m pretty sure that means “I’m sorry”. It’s kinda hard to tell with his mouth full.

For what it’s worth, I think you’re taking this a little seriously. Dude, it’s a party! It’s supposed to be fun!

- B

Subject: Re: Re: Me Kicking Your Ass From: Arin To: Ross

Wait, his mouth is…?

??? Oh my God. I’m just… gonna ignore that for now. You pervs.

I just want everything to be nice for Dan, is that so bad?

Virtuously yours, Arin

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Me Kicking Your Ass From: Ross To: Arin

Dude, Dan will love anything you do for him. Don’t stress so much.

- B

PS It’s all good, Bossman. We got you covered.

xxxx Ross

Subject: Birthday Jamz From: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com) To: Ninja Sex Party (ninjasexparty@gmail.com)

Yooo Brian!

Do you have all the music set for Dan’s party? I have a couple requests I was thinking might be fun. Nothing that’ll make Arin freak out, I swear.

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: Birthday Jamz From: Ninja Sex Party To: Ross

arin’s throwing me a party? :D :D :D :D

wait, was it supposed to be a surprise???

- dan

Subject: YOU KICKING MY ASS From: Ross (hotrossbuns@hotmail.com) To: Arin (grumpy.princess@gmail.com)

FUCK!!! IT IS NOT ALL GOOD BOSSMAN

I DO NOT HAVE YOU COVERED

I AM SO SO SO SORRY PLEASE DON’T KILL ME

xxxx Ross

Subject: Re: YOU KICKING MY ASS From: Arin To: Ross

What did you do?!?!?!?!?!

*** *** ***

Arin stood overlooking the city on the small back balcony of Dan and Barry’s apartment. The sun trailed pink and orange streaks, dipping low behind the skyline. An oversized hibiscus blossom tucked behind one ear swayed in the wind as Arin sipped his drink as morosely as one could sip virgin piña colada mix from a plastic tiki head. Heedless to his absence, the party thumped on inside.

The door behind him slid softly open. Dan joined him on the railing. His nose was striped with a thick block of white sunblock, and a chunky disposable camera hung around his neck and chest, bare from his unbuttoned, clashy Hawaiian shirt. He balanced a fork and a grayish palette of cake and mushed icing in one hand as he shut the door behind him.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” he asked, playful.

“Just getting a breather,” Arin said, hurriedly forcing energy into a cheerful smile.

Pausing, Dan smiled thinly. Arin’s skin prickled at the calculatory scan the older man gave him. “It’s a great party, dude,” Dan said, after a moment. “You should be proud.”

“I guess so,” Arin said, shrugging. A breath, and then - “You’re not just saying that?”

Dan nodded vigorously, curls bobbing up and down. “Of course not. What’s not to like?”

“I don’t know. I had to convince Brian not to start a fire in your living room, for one,” Arin sighed.

“Sounds like a normal Saturday, then,” Dan said. He shoveled a glob of icing into his mouth. “Suzy did a great job with the cake,” he chewed, orchestrating the point with jabs of his fork.

“You’ve got,” Arin said, automatically, “frosting,” and reached out to swipe the corner of Dan’s mouth with his thumb. Dan blushed, freezing Arin before he realized himself and what he’d just done. Recovering, he said “You, uh, don’t think the tombstone thing is a little… morbid? For a birthday party?”

The older man cocked an eyebrow. “I thought it was supposed to be a big blobby shark.”

Arin actually chuckled at that, softly, but sincerely. Dan grinned loosely and was about to continue when a rolling tide of muffled cheers erupted from inside. Arin’s eyes widened, manic, for a second, but Dan only laughed and shook his head. “I really loved the piñata, too,” he said. “Ross is such a fucker.”

“Tell me about it,” Arin said, immediately glowering. “I told him like, a HUNDRED times not to get the giant dick.”

“Who cares, man? Candy delivery system’s a candy delivery system,” Dan retorted. Arin smiled, small. Dan’s grin faded. “Hey, come on,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

Arin opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, lowering his gaze. “What is it?” Dan repeated, to no answer. Taking a bit of cake on his fork, his expression settled into grim determination as he slowly pressed forward, gently dotting Arin’s nose with frosting once, twice, three times before the younger man lost his battle and his face untwisted into a smile. Arin glared at Dan reproachfully for just a second, before allowing himself to be fed a bit of cake.

Satisfied, Dan set the empty plate down and looked to his friend again. “Arin,” he said, gingerly.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t a surprise,” Arin said, finally. “I just wish I could’ve made it better. Or gotten you something better, I don’t know.”

Dan looked thoughtful for a long moment. “Well,” he said, “surprise me now.”

Arin frowned. “Right,” he stuttered, “right now?”

“Mhm,” said Dan, decisively. He covered his eyes with his hands.

“I don’t-” Arin began, stopping short. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding harder and harder in his chest. If he was wrong about what Dan wanted…

Slowly, Arin stepped forward and closed the gap between them. He barely breathed, hoping the quiet rush of traffic and dampened music and chatter from inside would cover him. As his skin buzzed, Arin brushed one hand into the collar of Dan’s shirt to steady himself - and insistently pressed their lips together.

Dan tasted like pineapples and sugar, and something softly musical bubbled up from his throat as he returned the kiss. Eyes closed and heavy-lidded, Arin felt Dan’s fingertips brush past flower petals to sweep his hair behind his ear, then gently cup his face. He threaded his fist more firmly into the fabric and let the kiss deepen further, pulling Dan closer. He felt just the barest coaxing of Dan’s tongue on his lips before another ripple of laughter and chatter from inside startled them both back into reality.

Jumping, Arin tried to pull back, but Dan held him solidly in place, turning slowly from the door back to the younger man as he deemed the coast clear. Still cupping Arin’s face, he rubbed Arin’s nose with his own, affectionately, before allowing Arin a delicate half-step back.

“You’ve got,” Dan said, sheepishly, “here,” and rubbed a bit of sunblock off Arin’s nose with his thumb. Arin made a small, content noise, low in his chest.

“Dan?”

“Yes?”

“Happy birthday.”

[lanznathanjohn]

A Savant’s Lament

      [prologue] A dead line drew near. I stayed late at night at one of those coffee shops right by the main road, cherishing the consumerist capitalist essence of overpriced coffee I, for the first time, paid for. —Before the last sip, I finalized everything, giving myself the illusion of accomplished work. Something I skillfully mastered throughout his secondary education years. There was no value of producing an honest //sincere output as long as the given output went according to the given standards. With nothing to write that inexplicably went against the purposeful expression and communication, everything there was to say was nothing but a vitriolic attempt to use prolific language addressing an achromatic dogma of artful expression since its meaning has been reduced to an esoteric virtue, a mere quest to an idiosyncratic form of communication that aims to bring the beholders to a certain state of fanciful impression.  ───

        I left the coffee shop satisfied at the amount of work I’ve done ─if there’s any, and at the length of time I spent inside the place, making the most out of the comfortable chairs and the aesthetically pleasing ambiance. Overstaying was the answer to overpriced coffee. I walked across an empty street. The gloom that enveloped the skies was disturbing, more so that the caffeine in my body triggered palpitations and anxiety. I fished deep in my pockets for quite some time until looking for something ─eventually I found it in the back pocket of my backpack. I grabbed the pack along with the wooden matches. There was only one stick left —the wish stick. With my hands shaking sweaty; I lit the red Marlboros and inhaled quite a drag. Almost instantly I felt the nicotine—pass through my lungs and onto my head. A flush of nausea// and lightheadedness immediately dimmed my vision. Caffeine /and nicotine surely isn’t a decent mix but along with it comes—a satisfying pleasurable type of pain. It wasn’t idealbut vices and virtues were the only things that kept me running and run I did. I looked for somewhere to stay. Everything is so dull. I called my conyo millennial manileno friends —what the hell are they so proud about they can’t even speak straight english they //talk like shit shit flowing out of their mouths vomiting words that has no meaning meaning nothing okay okay okay what the hell. Maybe I’m one of them or maybe not but at least I’m self—aware maybe that’s the difference the difference is that I’m self—aware i know I’m shit and I’m feeling like shit so even if I’m shit I’m not like shit shit. Some people are really shit like they swallowed a dictionary whole and they shit out the words out of their mouth nothing of meaning comes out nothing nothing—nothing really matters anymore anyway. They’re nowhere near. But I told them I need them and they’re coming //coming for me. I was thinking if I should call my other group of friends. The uncivilized illiterate bunch of retarded retards that has nothing to do other than have fun fun fun crazy crazy stuff but I can’t be with the same people all the time eventually you’ll run out of things to say and things to do so

       I’m here waiting working drinking smoking waiting waiting finally here they come here they come at long last I’m happy// I’m happy happy and excited and thrilled —I’ve been here for days years decades already coming walking nearer here they come here they come ohmygod dear lord —wait, shit what are you saying you can’t come I’ve been waiting oh whatever fuck off yeah sure it’s fine take care —no one’s going with me tonight then then whatever I have nowhere to go nothing to do no one to talk to. I’m just a caffeinated junkie with a superior intelligence quotient and an artistic head full of thoughts thoughts I can’t think straight anymore maybe another shot will help //gulp// oh what the hell am i saying speaking thinking its like im stupid dumb well shit im wasting everything wasting wasting my brain my brain cells my neurons my neurological capacity im not even here to enjoy no —what’s there to enjoy //partying isn’t my jam —jam //jam im just here because im sort of exploring human behavior sort of embarking on a mission to seek seek seek understanding about the reality of human society and the essence of chemically induced —yeah yeah yeah that sounds smart fuck yeah im back the smart ass is back im smart it does sound smart right right you know why? It’s cause I’m smart smart smart like really intelligent my iq is so high its like my iq smoked weed weed like really good shit weed that’s how high very high high—high //

       But im tired tired like really really tired not tired tired but bored exhausted tired of this and this and that and this again and again and again //nothing new just study work study work eat and eat wheres the adventure and satisfactionfeels like a distant memory—the only thing that can bring me closer is doing illegal underage shit //but law is just a social construct so is beauty and consumerism—and—capitalism and fucked up educational system and shit jobs poverty hunger dirt work work //do this and do that buy buy buy survive contribute to society and economy and money money money //is this what life is im pretty sure this isnt what life is supposed to be //suppose i stop giving a shit and drop dead //but no i want to live why would i want to die sometimes i dont //even i cant even understand myself i want to live but if i cant live id rather die instead that doesnt make any sense does it because i really hope i make sense it makes sense to me why cant it—make sense to other people i really try my best to make sense of everything and anything even if it doesnt make sense—but really //sometimes youre the one whos gotta //make sense of something —cause sometimes wherever or whoever the whatever it is that you need to make sense out of came// —from that someone or something //probably cant make sense out of it either isnt that poetic and abstract sometimes—some genius just flicks his—or—her his—or—her or—something—in—between paintbrush or splashes paint or throws in junk and junk and more junk and //i have absolutely no idea what im doing nor do they but its—up up up up! to you if you can make a meaning out of it and thats the meaning meaning it doesnt mean anything //unless you find meaning in it but this—whatever—this is whatever this is can you make—meaning out—of this// i—hope you do i really-want a high grade i deserve it i deserve it i deserve it i deserve i am i am worthy i am worth-something ─i am worth everything and—and everything because i am everything i can be anyone—anything in the// sunrise —sunrise-sun—rise if —if you want me to be //if you want me to be a sympathetic prophetic socratic junkie literary—genius //copyright-infringing plagiarizing—lover honest—student alcoholic-smoker chaste—ignorant literate political practical-devoted—christian atheist—//agnostic-deist and thats me-me—me—I—//am-am—I—am—every//everything—thing—im—anything—//and—I—can be anyone but -I’m -nothing but a-dead-//line-so-I-am-no-one-//no-one-one-one-one-two-three

       [Epilogue] I woke up. Scattered on the floor were empty beer bottles. On the table were some left overs and wet chips. On the ashtrays were half smoked cigarettes. I had no idea what happened. I remembered I had to go somewhere. I smelled like beer and piss and other types of liquids but it doesn’t matter. I needed to go somewhere because someone told me to go there. It was my duty as a member of society. And so as light at the end of the hallway slowly crept against the darkness the sun rose from the horizon and another day began, I walked. I still have a dead line to meet.

092316xxxx

[oliverphisher]

K E Osborn

Australian author K E Osborn was born and raised in Adelaide, South Australia. With a background in graphic design and a flair for all things creative, she felt compelled to write the story brewing in her mind. 

Get Rocked? (The Next Generation Series) (Volume 2) by K E Osborn (2015-08-16) By K E Osborn

Writing gives her life purpose. It makes her feel, laugh, cry, and get completely enveloped with the characters and their story lines. She feels completely at home when writing and wouldn’t consider doing anything else. She wrote Get Rocked? (2015).

What are one to three books that have greatly influenced your life? 

The Secret Garden – Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Secret Garden (HarperClassics) By Frances Hodgson Burnett

When I think of books from my childhood, this is the one that I always remember. It constantly sat beside me on my bedside table, and when it came out as a movie, I was so excited to see it. I loved it that much.

Fifty Shades of Grey – EL James

Fifty Shades of Grey (Fifty Shades, Book 1) By E L James

This series had such a significant impact on not only my career, but I believe the entire romance industry as it is now. Without this series paving the way for romance to be acceptable, I’m not sure I would have gotten into writing. Reading FSOG gave me the courage to write the stories brewing in my mind. I know I, and a lot of other authors out there, have a lot to thank EL James for.

Thoughtless – SC Stephens

Thoughtless By S.C. Stephens

This series is what dawned the rock genre phase I went through. After reading Thoughtless and loving the emotions it pulled from me, plus my love of music, I wanted to emulate that in my own stories. Now, I have four different rocker series published,and it all grew from reading Thoughtless. 

What purchase of $100 or less has most positively impacted your life in the last six months (or in recent memory)?      

An ergonomic keyboard and mouse. Honestly, you need the best of everything when you sit at a desk for eight hours a day.

How has a failure, or apparent failure, set you up for later success? 

It has taught me to be resilient. When you think things aren’t going your way, or that nothing is ever going to get better, things will always have a way of working themselves out in the end. There will always be a fix to a problem. Or if there isn’t, worrying over it isn’t going to resolve it either. If it can’t be fixed, and it isn’t life or death, then you can’t continue to stress over it. If it’s not going to cause you financial strain, cause you medical issues or your imminent death–let it go. When you let things go, you can work harder, and you become more efficient. When you can do that, things naturally fall into place, and you become more successful.

Are there any quotes you think of often or live your life by?

‘Just keep swimming’from Finding Nemo- is one I live by every day.

This author stuff is damn hard work. You need to push yourself every day to keep relevant, to keep up with the market, to just keep writing. So my motto has been for quite some time, to ‘Just keep swimming.’ Keep up the good fight and never give up, no matter how hard it gets, because in the end, I love what I do, and for every bad day there’s a dozen more that are great.

What is one of the best investment in a writing resource you’ve ever made? 

The Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglisi

What is an unusual habit or an absurd thing that you love? 

My unusual habit is when I sit down to write first thing in the morning, I have to have a cup of tea. I feel like if I don’t have one, my routine isn’t in order, and I get up in the end and make one anyway. It’s a habit now, and something that’s kind of ritualistic for me. If I don’t have my cup of tea, I can’t start for the day.

Weird, I know.

In the last five years, what new belief, behaviour, or habit has most improved your life? 

Self-editing is a must before sending it to anyone. Never send a draft to anyone, unless you are happy with what it contains.

Also, trying to eat healthily and exercise (though this doesn’t always happen in a busy author’s day, unfortunately).

What advice would you give to a smart, driven aspiring author? What advice should they ignore? 

ALWAYS send your manuscript to a reliable editor. Don’t ever think you’re good enough to not have your book edited and proofread. No one is ever that good. They are there not only to find your grammar and spelling mistakes but to check a variety of things we can miss (like timeline issues, inconsistencies, etc.) Once you have found a good editor, never let them go.

Make sure you have an amazing cover artist working with you on your cover. After all, the cover is the first thing a reader will see. If your cover is subpar, it represents the writing inside. Think about that. Your branding is everything. You might be the next ‘big thing,’ but if your cover is average, readers will judge your writing based on that fact alone. Image is everything in this industry – so branding should be at the forefront of your mind. Readers need to be able to spot you in a sea of covers, so always having the same branding can help them find you more easily.

If you haven’t invested some money in your book with a great cover, compelling blurb, and sharp editing, then, unfortunately, you will get what you paid for in return.  You are a small business, and you will need to spend money to make money.

Ignore people telling you to take out loans to advertise on social media. Spend what you can afford. Obviously, the more you can spend, the better the return will be, but don’t fall into traps where you need to take out repayments to finance your advertising. That’s dangerous territory. Do what you can. If you can add a little extra into your marketing budget, I recommend it, but don’t blow the bank in a way you can’t manage.

What are bad recommendations you hear in your profession often? 

Selling books at $1.99, this is the dead zone of marketing. Readers don’t seem to buy books at this price. Maybe it’s because they don’t see value in a book at $1.99. Always remember, you are worth the price readers will pay for your books.  Never have a book at 99c unless it’s for promotional reasons.

Beware of stepping away from your brand and genre, always keep it in mind.  Even if it means having a pen name for a genre that is too far away from what you are known for.

In the last five years, what have you become better at saying no to (distractions, invitations, etc.)? 

For me, I’m the opposite. I need to learn to say yes. I’m so busy working with my writing and on my author career that I never say yes to social invitations or distractions. I need to work on my work/life balance, and as of next year, I intend to focus on this more. I will be including work/life balance into my business plan to make sure I don’t overload myself like I have over the past few years. 

What marketing tactics should authors avoid?

As I mentioned previously, the $1.99 price point is a dead zone. Selling books at 99c – remember you are worth more.Free eBooks, unless you have a big deal with one of the large promotional companies and the book is the first in a series of books, so you can gain the on-sales from the free promotional book.

You should never release a book without a marking plan. Think about how you can make your book visible in the world of social media, and in any other way you can think of that will interest readers.  Think about the tactics you can make it known you have released a book.

What new realizations and/or approaches have helped you achieve your goals? 

I think when I decided to stick to writing to the market, I found my niche (MC Romance). I’m lucky that the genre I adore writing is also very popular at the moment, so when I write to the market, I find my sales and marketing methods tend to boost a lot higher than my other books.

When you feel overwhelmed or have lost your focus temporarily, what do you do? 

I tend to read. If I am having trouble thinking or with motivation, I go back to basics. Learn from my peers. See what they’re doing. What their stories are about. See how their writing flows. Try to pull inspiration from them. Then generally, that will pull my love back and get me back in the mood as it were.

Any other tips?

This industry isn’t easy.

Equally so, it isn’t for everyone.

You need to have a tough skin to be an author. Reviewers are tough. Editors are critical. But even worse are your own demons that continuously tell you you’re not good enough. But, if you can pull yourself through all that, there’s this bright light. A spark. That glimmer of brilliance that is your beacon of creativity, demanding her voice. If you can let her free and let her develop into a beautiful, dark, or angst-filled story, whatever it may be–then you’re on the right path. And let me tell you that path is a wondrous and joyful journey. If you can get to those two words- The End - that is the most powerful feeling in the world, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. 

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