#one of my close friends is reading Kafkas works at the moment

[rustyelias]

I’ll l never forgive Alex for making real historical figures npc’s I can never escape this podcast man

[lysatoru]

heavenly - cigarettes after sex

gojo fluff! gojo x gn!reader

gojo’s favorite evenings are when he lays his head on your chest and hears you yapping <3

Even though Gojo was busy most of the time with his missions and his title of "strongest", there were still a few quiet evenings when Gojo came home. You heard the keys in the lock of your front door and realized that he was finally home. If he came home in the evening, that meant he was off, at least for tonight. So you smile stupidly as you wait for him to come through the door.

"Hi there," he says, kissing your forehead and tucking an arm behind your back. "How was your day?" you asked, already knowing the answer. "As usual," it was on.

After a good shower, Satoru joins you on the sofa, you're reading a book "The Metamorphosis" by Kafka. He turns on the TV, but doesn't look at it, he looks at you. "The Metamorphosis, eh? Sounds too heady for me," he says with a sneer — "It's a man turning into a cockroach, it's not that complicated" you reply. "Eww! It's disgusting, poor thing" he says, mimicking disgust.

You laugh and he continues to stroke your legs, his elbow resting on the edge of the sofa, holding his head.

"You're really beautiful, you know that?"

You close your book and look at him, "What's the matter with you tonight?" you say, smiling. "I'm not allowed to compliment the love of my life?" he says, taking your book and resting his head on your chest. "You could have said earlier that you wanted to cuddle!" you then start stroking his hair, with your long nails. "No, you're sexy when you read" — he replies, closing his eyes — "Mmh.. Your petting will get me killed."

You stay like that for half an hour, in silence, just the two of you.

If Satoru had a reason for coming home every night, it was because after your work, he knew you'd be waiting for him and welcoming him with open arms, damn it, how he loved your cuddles, the warmth of your body, the softness of your skin and the smell that emanated from it.

You break the silence for a brief moment, "Remember my friend with the black hair and the glasses?" — "Oh yes, the one who left her boyfriend because he cheated on her?" — you laugh, tugging at his hair, how tactless he could be sometimes - "Yeah, well, she had a date last week and it went really well". Satoru immediately rises from your chest, leaning on his arm. "You've got to be kidding! With who? What they look like?" — Satoru looks more excited than you do at the idea that your friend had met someone, Satoru loves gossip. "they’re slightly smaller than her, tattooed, black hair, brown eyes and they seem very nice!" You reply, happy to know that finally, your friend might be getting some respite with this new person. "They'd better not cheat on her" replies Satoru, before lying back down on your chest. You laugh.

These were Satoru's favorite evenings, no fancy parties, no appearances, no hypocrisy. Just him and you against the rest of the world. That's why he loved coming home at night, because he knew he'd get his fill of gossip, and he loved it. Your life was so much simpler than his and yet all the relationships between your friends seemed so complicated, but he loved hearing you talk. He loved, above all, to rest his head on your chest and hear your vocal chords resonate and your heart beat. You were there, you'd always be there, waiting for him. What had he done to deserve someone who could put up with his lifestyle and his much busier-than-average schedule, with the added risk of never coming back once he left the house? But fate had put you in his path, and he thanked the gods every day for that.

The gossip session must have lasted a good two hours, you coming back again and again to the same stories from the past, he knew them by heart but he could listen to them every day without flinching.

"Don't you think it smells a bit burnt?" asks Satoru. "She found him cheating on her- wait, what? no, my lasagna!" You get up just as early to go and look in the oven, the lasagna couldn't wait for the gossip session to end. Gojo stands up, laughs and walks over to you. He takes you by the waist, "You're so good in the kitchen, that's what I like most about you" he says ironically, kissing your neck. "I wanted to please you" — "Oh no, baby… We’ll order, it's no big deal mmh?". He embraces you tightly, "Yes, we should order." He chuckles one last time, you laugh too,

what he'd give to hear you laugh every day.

a little fluff! i think there are grammar mistakes and im sorry for that, english isn’t my first language😿

requests are open! jjk and also haikyu!

[ha-18t]

Oguro Kafka - Thanatophobia

Novel

Chapter 1

💬 Translation under the cut!

...

That day, I woke up in the same hospital room.

The seven year old me sighed. The bright white room was in the children’s ward of Daikoku Hospital. For as long as I could remember, I had been in and out of the hospital, but recently I had not been able to go back home at all. That house on the wharf was only faintly visible in my memory.

“I wonder if my father will visit today… or maybe my mother…”

I might have been physically sick, but that didn’t mean I was unhappy.

My family would always take time off of work to visit me. My father, who was the tourism director, and my mother, who was a scientist, would always visit my room.

The times when my mother would visit were always interesting - she was extremely well-informed and would always have a story to tell me.

My father was… Well, he would just tell me it was lonely without me in the house. But he would always do his best to express his feelings to me. That was how I received his love.

“But… I’m going to die someday, right?”

Looking out the window and into the clear sky above, I whispered that to myself.

I couldn’t go outside, I couldn’t go to school. I had no friends. I wasn’t the only one in the children’s ward, but it felt like everybody kept me at arm’s length. Well, it could have been because I didn’t act my age, or maybe because my family was a household name in HAMA.

“You’re a bit special.” My mother would tell me,

“But being special is a blessing, Kafka. If everybody was the same as you, what would make you stand out?”

But was that my mother’s belief? Or my own?

Either way, if my life ends early, what sort of blessing would my special-ness have given me? If I were to die right now, what would I even have been born for?

Neither of my parents showed up that day, so I asked for permission to go up to the rooftop garden.

Although the garden was simple, it had a bench for me to read and think on. That day, there was a small bird laying dead on the concrete. It must have hit something and fell. The little bird’s eyes were closed and it was completely limp.

‘Poor thing’, I thought for a moment. I thought it would be a good idea to bury it. But, I wasn’t sure if somebody as frail as I was should have been handling a dead, wild bird. I asked my nurse, who gave me a mask and gloves, and I buried it in the courtyard of the hospital.

Despite its sudden death, I didn’t think we were that different from each other. Just like the bird, I could have had a sudden heart attack, fell over, and died on the rooftop garden. And I would have just wanted the person who found me to be kind to me.

The nurse left, and I just stood there in front of the little bird’s grave. Suddenly, a shadow cast over me. I looked up and saw my mother, clad in her white uniform. She must have left work early.

“You buried a little bird?”

My mother definitely heard it from the nurse.

“Yes, it was dead.”

I was sure the bird was dead, but even through the gloves I could feel its body, heavier and warmer than I was expecting. It made me wonder if it was still alive.

“One day, will I also be like that bird?”

“….”

My mother suddenly fell silent, then asked me…

“What do you think it means to be ‘dead’?”

“Isn’t it when your heart stops beating?”

��Or, maybe when your thoughts stop?”

My mother took my hand and pulled me towards a bench in the courtyard so we could talk.

“Some people even believe that a person only truly dies when all memories of them are gone.”

With that said, my mother continued with the subject.

“The current Japanese medical definition for death is cardiac arrest, cessation of respiration, loss of the light reflex, and dilation of the pupils. Legally, you can define death as the cessation of respiration and a general inability to resuscitate.”

“Is animal death the same?”

“If we are only talking about physical death, then death can simply be defined as the irreversible departure from life.”

My mother led me to the bench and then sat down beside me.

The wind blew gently through the courtyard, and I could faintly smell chemicals from my mother’s work uniform. The scent was sterile, tranquil, and cold. I didn’t dislike it.

“So, yes. All life on Earth is dependent on carbon polymers. When you look at it that way, the process of dying isn’t that different between humans and other things on Earth. Either way, the body stops, decomposes, becomes microbial fertilizer, and leaves behind everything that isn’t usable.”

My mother talked about death so bluntly.

She stroked my head and asked me, “What do you think about death, Kafka?”

I thought for a moment, and decided to tell her what had been going through my mind.

“No matter what, all living things die… So I shouldn’t be afraid… but really, I’m not sure. Sometimes I feel as if I’m going to die, but I’m still alive.”

My mother kept stroking my head, and lapsed back into silence.

At some point, her hand stopped.

“I am… a thanatophobe. Death has always been… a huge fear of mine. When I was giving birth to you, I was terrified.”

The usually intense voice of my mother suddenly seemed so small. I looked up to meet her face, and she was staring far into space as if lost in thought.

But in a split second, my mother’s face turned to a smile.

She pulled me close to her chest and hugged me wistfully, squeezing my arms.

“Of course, I’m so happy that I gave birth to you.” She added.

“…But, I wish it had been a healthier birth. There are some things you only learn when you’re close to death. I know that from experience.”

It’s very rare for my mother to make such a negative statement. Rarely, and really only rarely, would my mother say something so gloomy. Only when she would talk about my body, or my death.

My mother and I look so much alike. My father would always say that. He’s so proud that I inherited my mother’s beautiful face and smarts. He wishes I wasn’t so sick though. He doesn’t say it, but I know he thinks it.

“Kafka, unlike me, there’s a major surgery you can have when you’re an adult. It’s possible to make a full recovery. If you live until 20, you will likely have a healthy future.”

“Unlike you…?”

“I…”

After saying that, my mother couldn’t get a clear word out. I didn’t know what to do. My mother had a job, but just like me, she was always bedridden and in and out of the hospital a lot.

“Kafka, let’s make a bet. If you live until 20, I’ll give you a surprise.”

“Huh?”

I wanted to ask her if she would be alive then, but I couldn’t get the words out.

These little bets that my mother and I would make were so much fun - like our own secret game.

It was always how she would try to lighten the mood.

Every single day felt the same. I would wake up in the same hospital room, and I would sleep in the same hospital room. In the midst of instability, I counted on these bets with my mother to get me at least a little excited about the future.

That’s why… I didn’t want to bet against my mother.

“I think it would be more fun to bet on what’s for dinner tonight.”

“Is that so?”

We bet that the hospital would have Jell-O. On the way to the cafeteria, my mother unexpectedly put her head to mine and whispered to me.

“Until your surgery at 20 years old… no, even after that… we can’t be afraid of death, Kafka. Death is simply a cessation of the physical being. The mind is much more complex than that.”

“Isn’t being so close to death and so terrified of it exhausting?”

“Having justifiable fears can add purpose to your life.”

My mother looked directly into my eyes and murmured, as if she was revealing the secret to life.

“If you live your life to the fullest, you’ll eventually be privy to the secrets of the world.”

“The secrets of the world…?”

When I repeated her, my mother let out a painful, wistful laugh.

“Whether knowing them is a blessing or a curse… That’s up to you to decide.”

My mother was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t understand.

The secrets of the world, huh. Are they that important? More important than unsolved mathematical formulas, undiscovered ideas, and the story of everything beyond our universe?

My mother, who has lived her whole life afraid of death… does she already know all the secrets of this world?

“Think it over, maybe while you’re fishing.”

My mother let go of my body and stood up quickly. I was caught up on her bringing up fishing so suddenly, but my mother just laughed and stroked my arm.

“There’s a fishing spot by the hospital, just through the courtyard. If you want to learn, your father can teach you.”

“Ehhh… I’m happy just playing on the computer.” I grumble.

“Let’s make a bet, then.” My mother says.

“Fishing is surprisingly heavy on the brain. You have to think about the tides, the wind, the temperature, the season, the bait. I bet you can’t catch more fish than your father. You wouldn’t think about that kind of stuff.”

When my mother wanted me to act upon something, she would always say ‘Alright, then I guess Kafka has thrown in the towel and I won the bet!’

“Alright! I’ll learn from my father, and I’ll make you proud!”

My mother just laughed out loud at my defiance.

The sunlight reflected off of her in the courtyard, making her hair and eyes sparkle.

Back then, she looked like the surface of the ocean on a sunny day, reflecting the light onto the pier.

...

[lemonpils]

A Smile Long Forgotten - Blade & Kafka

Authors note; i legit haven't seen anything from this pairing and its CRIMINAL, so heres some fluff between these two!!

Summary; Blades Mara struck is acting up again, and Kafka finds out a fun little piece of information whilst trying to heal him.

It hurts so bad.

It burns. It aches.

Everything felt like pins and needles, in the worst way possible.

It was late, later then he'd usually be up. But he couldn't sleep, not one bit. He tossed and turned, watching out the window of the Stellaron Hunter's ship as he lied awake. It stings.

It stings so bad.

It was reaching that time again, where the tall dark haired man would have to seek out the help of his magenta haired acquaintance. Where he would have to show weakness, admitting that he needed assistance with his health. But it was something he had grown accustom to doing, and it was something that he had grown more comfortable to as well. He sat up from his bed, pushing the hair from his face. He looked towards his door, and noticed light coming from the bottom.

"She's... Still awake." He thought.

As he pulled himself from bed, he brushed his hair out from his face, finger combing the more intense knots out. He slipped on a black t-shirt, and quietly opened his bedroom door as he walked down the hall. Kafka was sitting on the couch of the ships lounge room, a glass of wine in hand as she read a small article. Blades footsteps we're noticed as she turned her head, a small smile adorning her face.

"Ah, Bladie."

It hurts so bad.

His voice quivered. "Kafka, I-"

My bodies on fire.

"Something caught your tongue?" She spoke.

It feels like I'm dying.

"Kafka, help me, please."

As blade let out those four words, she knew exactly what the situation was. She nodded, gently pulling him down to her. She was seated at the end of the couch, making sure there was room for him. Her hands laid his head on her lap as his body laid across the rest of the couch. Blades pained expression only made Kafka's heart hurt more, seeing her friend in such torment. "Just close your eyes, you know the drill." She said softly. Blade nodded, letting his eyes close like he always did. Followed by feeling Kafka's icy delicate hands begin to caress his face, torso, and wherever else she needed to touch. This was the part of the healing that was so difficult, having to feel her hands all over him. It wasn't that he didnt like it, he'd just never had someone touch him in this way. He groaned as she used her abilities, softening the leathality of the Mara Stuck with only her hands. Kafka was always so gentle with this process, she knew exactly what felt best, and what worked more efficiently. She dragged her fingers along his collar bones, practically pulling the pain right out from him. "Mmm..." He murmured. "That must feel better, hmm?" She spoke sweetly, as she continued to focus around his neck.

Blade nodded, he could feel the pain being relieved, and how it was replaced with a warm and refreshing feeling instead. He could also feel another sensation, an odd one- One of Kafka's nails had gently scratched along the shell of his ear, making his head twitch. "Oh? Did I miss a spot?" Kafka's fingers reached Blade's ear, and began caressing along it gently. She thought he reacted out of pain, that he needed some more healing in that specific area. She was wrong. At the moment, Blade was having a really difficult time holding in whatever reaction he was feeling. It was tingly, but not painfully so. He had the urge to- giggle. It was quite strange, it was almost as if he was ticklish. ... He is, so very ticklish. "K-Kafka... Stop." "I know it hurts Blade, but we're almost done." She said innocently. He could feel a smile tugging at his lips. "N-No thats not what I mehean..." Kafka froze, did he just giggle? She tilted her head, placing her fingers along that same spot on his neck as she watched him almost squirm away from her touch. Ah, I see. She thought. Her fingers curled against his skin, watched as he gasped out. "A-Ah! Kafka-" He grumbled, he then realized that she had caught on to what was occurring, and that he needed a way out fast. "Now then Bladie." She said with a smirk. "Kafka don't you dare-"

"Dont, move." She said using her ability.

As her words hit Blade's ears, he felt his limps come to a stop. He felt as her power took over him, that he was now immobile on Kafka's lap, great. "Bladie, why didn't you tell me you we're so... sensitive?" She said as she tweaked Blades side. "MhHf- I'm not." He said dryly. Kafka only smiled, she held her hands in front of his face, slowly bringing them to his ribs. "Time to run a test then, eh?" She giggled. Blade felt ten fingers beginning to knead against his ribs, feeling her nails scratch and skittering along. Which caused a miracle of a sound to emerge from Blade's mouth. "Bahahah! K-Kafka! Unhahand me!" He demanded through his giggles. Kafka let out an Awwwe~ Before raking her nails into his ribs once more, watching as Blade's smiley face cried out in sweet giggly laughter. "I dont think I will, not yet at least. I'm enjoying this pretty little view." She teased. Blade whined through his giggles, how dare she make a fool out of him! The way she cooed at his little noises, it was so belittling! But it was also kind of, nice..? No no, that cant be right. "Kahahafkahaha!" "Yes Bladie?" "Enohohough!" He pleaded. "Nah, Im good." Her smile turned to a smirk, as she used her nails to spider along his toned stomach. That really got him going. "NOOhoAHA! Nohohohoo! STOP!" His stomach was a lot more sensitive, she realized. His laughter got more frantic as she inched closer to that sweet spot in the middle. "Uh oh, looks like someone is in trouble~" Her voice teased at his ears. "YoHohOu're sUhuch ahAHa pahAHAin!" He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and how they began staining his pink tinted cheeks. "Hmm, I could be much more of a pain if you'd like." "NooHAhOHO!" He exclaimed. This was odd, Blades face was quite warm. He felt- fuzzy inside, like he was enjoying the playful attention from her. He hasn't felt this in a long, long time. "Here I cooome~" Kafka began tracing her nails towards his bellybutton, watching as Blade grew more nervous. "Dohohn't- nohoho..." He whined. "Aaaaand, gotcha." Her nail began to swirl along the inside of his belly button.

Blade would then burst out into heavy laughter, tears streaming down his face. "PFFTEAHAHAA! NOHOAHA! KAHAFKA!" He screamed. Kafka only smiled, playfully giggling as she teased his belly button. "Aww~ Is someone ticklish here?" Blade only nodded as he laughed, screaming in ticklish agony as he suffered under her touch. "NOHOHO MORE! NOHOHO MOHOHORE!" Blade begged, he was growing ever so tired, and Kafka took notice to that as she slowed down. "Alright, alright. Shh, I'm stopping." She said softly, releasing his limbs as she combed his hair out of his face. He huffed and puffed, she had sure worn him out. He sat up, leaving her lap. "You- are a handful." He groaned, pulling his shirt back down over his stomach. She could see the tints of blush across his cheeks, and she chuckled to herself. "Oh relax, I was just having some fun. I haven't seen that smile in a while." That was true, Blade couldn't remember the last time he had smiled like that, let alone laughed like that. It was, a pleasant feeling.

"Yea, sure. Thank you for healing me, now- goodnight." He quickly paced back to his room, hands rubbing at his eyes. "Have a goodnight Bladie~" She teased. He made his way down the hall, passing by Silverwolf in the process. "Sounded like you two had fun." She said. "Shut up." He shot back.

It was safe to say, he was probably going to go back for some 'healing' sooner than later.

[teaberrii]

Chapter 20: Someone to Love

After ending a five-year relationship, you pour all your energy into work. Your latest assignment? Staying at a popular bed-and-breakfast to gather information. It should be a piece of cake... If only the owner isn't the man you scolded on the street.

Jing Yuan/You

Notes:

Cross-posted on Ao3

Female reader

Chapter index at the end of chapter one

Support my writing

You almost miss hearing the thunder rumble in the distance as Jing Yuan’s phone starts blowing up with messages and calls. Is this what Caelus’s uncle meant by ending things once and for all? How did he know about what happened to Jing Yuan’s friend? Wait. What happened to the guy? You nervously tap on the article and brace yourself as you read.

Jing Yuan’s old company—desperate to stay afloat amidst poor sales and a terrible economy—had their stocks crash. Jing Yuan’s friend, who had invested a pretty penny in hopes of a high return had lost everything. The company, knowing about his financial situation, had disregarded him, and his situation took a tragic turn. The article continues by saying that this man’s tragic downfall starts with Jing Yuan, the “rich CEO with millions that recommended and brought his friend into a corrupted company with no morale for its employees.”

What the article doesn’t say is what Jing Yuan told you just moments earlier:

“...I told him the consequences.”

Jing Yuan's eyes are glued to his phone, and for once, you know what's on his mind.

His business, partnerships, reputation… It's going to take a massive hit if he doesn't explain. Now you understand what Caelus's uncle and Jing Yuan meant. Are you going to stand by a man who's supposedly a "criminal" for ruining an innocent man's life? Are you willing to put your reputation on the line?

“...Hey.” You put your hand on his arm. “You don’t have anything to hide,” you reassure. “Using these dirty tactics means nothing if they aren’t true.”

“It’s true I referred to him... But, before then, I told him what I knew about was happening.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Yet, he kept insisting that everything will be fine. At the time, I thought: Fine. I warned you. And it’s not guaranteed he’d get in through my referral alone. So, I did it.” Jing Yuan is looking away from you now. “It was not a smart decision, but I never thought it would lead to something as bad as it did.”

You tilt his head back. “...It’s not your fault.” Jing Yuan’s hand finds yours, and he holds it tightly. “He made that decision. All of it.” You pull him into a hug, and Jing Yuan’s arms go around you. “We’ll get through this. We won’t let him win.”

Jing Yuan wishes he could continue holding you like this. He can feel your heartbeat just like you can feel his, beating in sync.

“If you’re going to miss each other that much…” You and Jing Yuan break apart. Yanqing stands to the side, looking up at the two of you. “Why can’t Mom just sleep over?”

Jing Yuan crouches and picks Yanqing up. “...Dad has to take care of something tonight.”

Yanqing pouts, and you put a hand on Yanqing’s head. “Can you take care of Dad for me tonight?”

“I look after him every night!”

You and Jing Yuan smile, and then he lightly bounces Yanqing up. “Let’s give Mom a goodnight kiss.” Yanqing kisses your cheek, and then Jing Yuan says, “Now, close your eyes for a few seconds."

Yanqing does as he’s told, but he peeks out. When Jing Yuan leans closer to you, Yanqing completely covers his eyes. Jing Yuan’s kiss is brief, but long enough that you crave the taste of him. Then, you hear him whisper in your ear:

“Goodnight, my love.”

But, that night, like Jing Yuan, it’s far from a good night as you don’t get a wink of sleep.

It’s early the next morning when you’re on the phone with Kafka. Your phone is on speaker as you’re making coffee.

“The timing is too strategic and deliberate,” Kafka says.

“He knows about the investigation I’ve been doing,” you say. “It seems like he wants to shift the public’s focus onto other things even though nothing about him has come out… yet.”

“Well, innocent until proven guilty. If what Jing Yuan told you is true, I also don’t think he did anything wrong. The only problem is proving it.” She sighs. “Wait. What am I talking about? I’m supposed to be talking to you about work, for goodness sake.”

“You are… sort of.”

“Anyway, it’s crazy, but the company believes this will work to our advantage. With Jing Yuan in hot water, we can start making moves.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, I wonder how long that will last. It’s not like Star Rails has the best reputation here to begin with. Just because someone else is in trouble doesn’t mean we'll get a permanent boost. But…”

“...It’s making our ‘big, bad director’ more suspicious. I’m having another meeting with them today. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Great. Because I’ll be having a meeting of my own.”

It’s not long after you end the call with Kafka that you give the ex-fiancée of Caelus’s father a call.

“...I saw the article,” she says. “It’s all over social media.”

“I want to ask about the recording.”

“...The recording? The one between my brother and him?”

“My theory is that he needed proof. Imagine someone walking up to you and telling you that your wife cheated and had secret children. Who wouldn’t ask for proof?”

“Well… He could’ve asked his niece and nephew to get a DNA test or something… It’s pretty easy to do that nowadays.”

“Sadly, that kind of information is pretty private if they did. I highly doubt I can get my hands on it. I just want to know if you know about the details of that recording. You said it was a private conversation between your brother and him, but were Caelus and Stelle ever brought up? Or, maybe your relationship with their father? Anything that points to the fact that they were children of an affair.”

“...I’d have to ask my brother.”

“This man’s done enough,” you say. “You say it takes one person to ruin a bunch of people’s lives. Well, it can also take one person to save a bunch of people’s lives.”

You hope those words are enough to convince her.

When noon rolled around, you and Jing Yuan got in touch once. It's no surprise he's busy dealing with the aftermath of this fiasco while you're scrambling to get something tangible to nab Caelus's uncle once and for all. What puts you at ease is that Blade and Luocha are with him, but what surprises you is that even Jing Yuan's ex has willingly stepped up to give a statement. The man who died had been a friend of hers, too, and while the tragedy happened during their divorce, Jing Yuan had told her about his warnings to him when they were still together.

March and the others have also gotten in touch, and you could easily picture her annoyed face and clenched fists when she said:

“He’s such a little worm! That fuc—”

“As much as Jing Yuan’s trying to protect himself, he’s also keeping your name out of this as much as possible,” Dan Feng said, and you assumed he took the phone from March. “It’s no secret what that wormy old man is going to do next, so be careful, too.”

“Everyone in Xianzhou is surprised,” Welt said. “No surprise there, but we’re trying to mitigate the situation.”

March sighed. “...Yeah. We can’t sit around and do nothing. It’s frustrating.”

“But, don’t worry, Mom. We also got the almighty JIngliu on our side." You could see the smile on Dan Feng's face. "We got this.”

You walk into a café, and you see the “wormy old man” sitting at the back with a hot drink that you wish you could pour all over him. When you sit across from him, he finally looks at you.

“Not going to get a drink?”

“I’d rather not waste my time.”

“Fine. Let’s get down to business, shall we? Have you decided to stop your little investigation?”

“And if I don’t, will you release an article saying that I’m just as much of a criminal as Jing Yuan?”

“It doesn’t look good for you, considering he’s a competitor, isn’t he? Also, as a woman climbing the corporate ladder, it’s going to make it difficult for you even if you leave Star Rails.”

You almost scoff. “Is that what you also told Jing Yuan’s ex to keep her quiet? After Caelus died, you used this tactic that if word got out she was involved, it would harm her reputation and career.”

“You’re making some bold accusations without any evidence.”

“You used her as a pawn to get what you and the director wanted.”

Caelus’s uncle has a tight smile. “And what would we want?”

“...Do you believe me now?”

The director’s face had gone pale. His arms were on the table, his hands entwined, and he pressed his forehead against them as the words of the recording began to sink in and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He thought he’d knew everything, but this goddamn woman had hid even more secrets from him. She was an ugly blemish on his life that would never disappear, and he wanted to fucking scream.

“Did you know she had children?”

The director slammed one of his hands on the table. “It’s all in the past. I have nothing to do with her anymore.”

“She took your money, didn’t she?”

The director glared at him. “What do you want?”

Caelus’s uncle crossed one leg over the other. “The same as you. Revenge. My brother is someone who only cares about himself. He refuses to give me anything, and he has everyone in Xianzhou fooled that it’s sickening. He came between you and your wife… and she supported him using your money. The hotel that’s thriving in Xianzhou… a large part of that success is because of your hard-earned money, and it’s in the hands of the child my brother had with your wife. If I were you, I’d like to see it go up in flames.”

He knew he had the director right where he wanted him. His face was red as a tomato, fists clenched, and a dangerous look in his eyes that looked as if something snapped.

“I’m sure you know that we’re trying to acquire that hotel right now,” Caelus’s uncle continued. “The project manager in charge of that… I know her very well. A capable woman who’s desperate to climb the corporate ladder. She’s willing to do anything to make sure this project goes through. Her greediness and desperation will be beneficial to us.”

The director’s anger seemed to have subsided slightly when he said, “...The one who presented at the meeting today?”

“That’s right. A pretty one, isn’t she? With the right words, I doubt we’ll have to do much. A woman’s desperation can be a scary but entertaining thing to watch.”

Caelus’s uncle remembers the conversation vividly. It feels like it’s just yesterday. He’s looking straight at you, impressed but also terrified at how much you know. But everything is just speculation. As long as the right people keep quiet…

“...Fine. I’ll entertain you.” He glares at you. “Assuming what you said is all true, there’s no direct evidence that leads to me purposely pressuring my nephew to take his life. There was a full police investigation, and while there was no suicide note, there was also no foul play.”

“You think you have everyone wrapped around your finger, but”—you lean closer—”people are selfish. If they don’t see any benefit to keep quiet, they won’t.”

Just then, your phone buzzes. It’s a message from the woman, and after reading it, you smile.

Your smile doesn’t go unnoticed by Caelus’s uncle. What did you read? Who messaged you?

“You gave us an opportunity,” you say, sliding your phone back into your pocket. “You trying to smear Jing Yuan also put your name in the papers. With him coming out clean, you won’t get off so easily. People can be ruthless when digging up other people's pasts, especially if they're dirty. The more lies you say, the bigger the hole. You won’t get off so easily no matter how much you try to play it off.”

“This doesn’t mean you and Jing Yuan will come out unscarred.”

“...We'll see who gets the last laugh.”

You’ve just exited the café when you take your phone out and reread the earlier message from the woman.

My brother doesn’t have the recording, but… he sent me these screenshots.

Lo’ and behold, it’s written in black and white: a conversation about the recording, but most importantly… one whole paragraph about how Caelus's uncle hates his brother and his desire to ruin his family and “take back what’s his” by getting rid of the children who stand in his way. The way it was written makes you think he must’ve been drunk at the time.

Just moments later, Kafka calls you.

“Like I thought, he denied everything,” Kafka says. “He said he only knew him from the project, but they weren’t involved in anything… personal.”

"Of course, I knew him," the director said. "He was a stakeholder in that project."

“He’s also the brother of the man who had an affair with your wife.”

He quickly stood. “What is this really about, Kafka?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen the article about Jing Yuan. I just found it interesting that the company mentioned in the article… was the same one we were looking to work with many years ago. I did a little digging myself and saw that Jing Yuan left before anything between the companies even began.”

“And?”

“The man that took his life… He was part of the management team that was on close terms with us, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, Kafka… Don’t tell me that you think we came up with this article. That’s ridiculous.”

“This timing is all very coincidental. Perhaps it’s to cover—”

“Your imagination is as wild as some of the people who work here.” Kafka narrowed her eyes. “The employee that you sent to Xianzhou hasn’t been delivering any results. Perhaps she should be thanking whoever wrote this article that the reputation of our competitor is going to go to shit.”

Kafka shook her head in disappointment. “You know what would’ve been the smartest move?” She looked at him straight in the eyes. “You should’ve left Xianzhou alone.”

You almost scoff. “Sounds like he can’t contain his guilt anymore. But… It makes sense. I don’t see how Caelus’s uncle would’ve known about what happened to Jing Yuan’s friend if someone hadn’t tipped him off.” Then, you roll your eyes. “Guess Star Rails was smart to not put their name in the paper.”

“Well, it’ll turn ugly, that’s for sure. Our director fed him this information. And, thinking they had the upper hand, they quickly published it. Now, if Jing Yuan is found to be clean, people will start questioning the person who started this entire thing.”

“Knowing the kind of person he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if Caelus’s uncle drags in our big, bad director and Star Rails so he doesn’t take all the blame. But, I’m glad this case will finally see the light of day.”

“In due time. It’s likely Star Rails paid this journalist to come up with this article if that journalist didn’t bother checking facts.”

“Then, I guess it’s good I have connections of my own.”

◆◆◆

“People are shocked, but not everyone is blindly believing it. So, that’s a good sign.”

It’s late afternoon, and Dan Heng and Jingliu are at a nearby café.

“I talked to Jing Yuan earlier today,” Jingliu says. “It’s the constant explaining to his investors and partnerships that’s driving him a little mad. But, at least the media already reached out to him. Our cute little investigator is also involved. ”

“Cute little investigator?”

Jingliu says your name. “She’s ready to fire bullets.”

Dan Heng puts his hands around his coffee. “...Looks like you are, too.”

“Me? Oh, well, if you call finding a new path firing bullets…” She chuckles. “I suppose.”

“It’ll do well. A physical rehab center for seniors isn’t something Xianzhou has yet. Fits with the market too since the population is getting older.”

“I’m glad people are already looking forward to it. A lot of my younger staff are already thinking about getting certifications. Some of them haven't decided what they want to do as a career yet, and this is something they're considering."

Dan Heng’s hand finds hers. “What about your dad?”

“What do you think?” Jingliu laughs. “He’s glad he doesn’t have to travel to the city if something does happen. In other words, he's happy we found a way out without having anything to do with you-know-who.” She slightly leans forward. “Why do you look down? I thought you also have things figured out.”

Does he? Dan Heng has been trying hard not to let it show, but it seems like he can’t suppress all of his emotions. He looks off to the side, wanting to pull his hand back when she holds it tightly. Is it childish to tell her what he truly feels? Probably. But it’s better than keeping her in the dark. So, he looks at her and says:

“...I’ll miss you. A lot.” Jingliu gives him a small, reassuring smile. “But knowing that both of us have our own thing going on, I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“I don’t know about other people, but”—Jingliu holds his hand—”I prefer this than being stuck with each other all the time.”

“I thought you might say that.”

Jingliu leans back and glances out the window. “You asked when was the last time I’ve been on a date. Well, I’ve been on a couple… but obviously they never worked out.” She looks back. “Some people told me I was too assertive and that men liked a woman who’s a little dependent on them.”

“...I’m sure there are people who fit that mould, but”—he smiles—”we do our own thing, regardless of what other people say.”

“I think that’s one of the things I like about you, Dan Heng.” The unexpected compliment makes his face warm. “Out of the years I’ve been training you, you don’t sway easily by what other people say. Whether it’s about your performance or decisions… You think about whether what people say has merit. That’s not something easily accomplished by someone your age.”

“I’m not young anymore.”

“Well, some people never get there.”

“...There’s one person whose opinion I want to know about.”

Jingliu laughs. “My dad?” Judging from the look on his face, she was right. “Oh, he’ll love you. Don’t worry.”

But his legs still feel like jelly every time he thinks about formally meeting him, anyway.

◆◆◆

Dan Feng is lying half-naked on a table with acupuncture needles sticking out of his shoulders when March walks in. He glances at her and sees she already got his bag of medicine. She slides the door shut, and he can no longer hear the outside conversations. It’s just him and her.

“Luocha says Jing Yuan will be fine,” March says. “Looks like Welt’s Ms. Femme Fatale got some dirt on Caelus’s uncle that will really shut his mouth once and for all. Hallelujah!"

“You talking about Mom?”

“Stop calling her that,” March deadpans. “It’s weird.”

Dan Feng tilts his head to the right as if he’s a puppy. “Why? You call JIngliu Mom. With how things are going, you might as well start calling Dan Heng Dad."

March makes a disgusted face. “That’s different.”

“Well, we have time to spare. Enlighten me, dear March.”

“You’re not that much older than her.”

Dan Feng gives her a deadpan look. March ignores this and pulls out her phone. When she slips it back into her pocket again, Dan Feng asks, “You waiting for someone?”

She sits on a nearby chair. “...I’ve been back in touch with some people I knew in the entertainment industry.”

“Are you excited?” March looks at him. “You’re going to be performing on music shows, aren’t you?”

“Actually…” She takes a small breath. “The contract I’m going to be signing is for acting.”

“Acting? You’re going to be an actress?”

“I was talking to Welt about it the other day… How cool it would be if his novel got a film adaptation. I joked that I could play our Ms. Femme Fatale, and then he literally said ‘Well, why not?’ Just got me thinking… considering it looks like everyone is stepping into new things. I don’t want to fall behind.” When Dan Feng doesn’t say anything, March starts fidgeting. “If you’re going to laugh, then just do it. Stop making me anxious.”

“Why would I laugh?” Dan Feng rolls his eyes. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Yeah, well, you—” March stops and stares at him with wide eyes. “What did you say?”

Dan Feng would've shrugged if he could. "It's just something I noticed. You have a natural talent for singing but you wanted to try dancing. When you got good at dancing, you wanted to try producing and writing your own songs. I don't know. I guess it's cool that you don't settle just because you're good at one thing."

March’s jaw drops.

“You look like a fish out of water,” Dan Feng continues.

“I, um, well… That’s…”

“Your face is turning red.”

She huffs.

“Now, you look like a blowfish.”

She walks over and gently pokes one of the needles. “Don’t make me stab you.”

“Ooh, I’m terrified.”

March moves in front of him, and Dan Feng watches as she gets at eye level with him. What is she doing? If only he can move.

“You know what I hate about you?”

Dan Feng holds her stare. “Everything?”

She sighs and moves closer. “...Yeah. Everything.”

A small smirk. “Well, you won’t hate me if you come just a little closer.”

“Sounds sus, but—”

It takes March a moment to realize that Dan Feng is kissing her… while lying half-naked on the acupuncture bed.

◆◆◆

When you finally see Jing Yuan, it’s late afternoon, Things have finally begun to settle down as he’d finished talking to reporters and took care of things internally to come out with a statement. But, most importantly, he still had the texts between him and his friend that proved his innocence. Now, all that’s left is to wait.

You, Blade, and Jing Yuan are having tea at Jing Yuan’s place when you say:

“I feel like I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be going through all of this when you first got here,” Blade says.

“It’s something I’ll never forget, that’s for sure. But… not everything’s finished yet.” You put your tea on the table. “I’m officially working with the media on an article exposing Star Rails.”

“Wait,” Jing Yuan says. “...But, you’re still working there.”

“Yeah… Won’t this get you into some pretty big trouble?” Blade asks.

“If you mean launching a new career, then… yeah. I suppose so.”

“A new career? You mean…”

You’re looking at Jing Yuan when you say, “If things go well… I might be offered a contract as a freelance journalist covering local news here." Jing Yuan feels his heart soar. "Of course, this is just the start… The more experience I get, I can start a newsroom here.”

Your words wash his fatigue away as he pulls you into a hug. “The best news I've heard all day. You’ll do so well, love.”

“Hm… Interesting. Perhaps we’ll even work together.”

“Work together?” you ask Blade as Jing Yuan lets you go.

“The university I work at is interested in building a small agricultural campus here. It's partly why I'm here."

“Are you overseeing this project?”

“That’s right. I’ll also be relocating here to teach.”

Your jaw almost drops. “Wow. I bet Yanqing will be happy to have both of his dads here.”

“...I asked Yanqing not to call Blade that anymore,” Jing Yuan says.

Before you can ask, Blade notices the time and says, “All good things have to come to an end, I guess.” He stands. “But, at least I still get to spend time with my favourite kid.” You and Jing Yuan walk Blade to the door. “I’ll drop him off later.”

Jing Yuan nods, and you and Blade say a quick goodbye.

Once Blade leaves, you jokingly ask, “Is someone being too protective of Yanqing now?”

Jing Yuan walks up, puts his hands around your waist, and leans closer. “I don’t want people to think you also belong to Blade.” The thought has never crossed your mind, but it makes sense… as Yanqing calls you Mom. Jing Yuan’s forehead is against yours when he says, “...You belong to me.”

Your mind goes into a daze when his lips meet yours. Soon, his hot mouth once again takes you on a wild, wild ride, unleashing a flame within that quickly spreads throughout your body. Your fingers weave through his hair; his grip around your waist tightens, and he pulls you even closer until your body is flush against his. Your teasing touches dance along his broad shoulders and muscular arms, fanning the fiery flames of desire that he can no longer hold back.

The world becomes a blur as Jing Yuan lifts you effortlessly. With his hands on your hips, your legs around him, you gasp as his sinful, delicious mouth travels from your lips to your neck and then to your collarbone, leaving a burning trail in its wake that makes you long for more. A soft moan. A quiet gasp.

Then, you feel his breath against your ear.

“Let me hear more, love…”

You breathlessly say his name when he finds that sensitive spot on your neck.

“...I’ve waited too long.”

Soon, his tongue teases and dances with yours, and he’s kissing you as if it’s the last. You pull the red ribbon, releasing his hair from its confinement. Then, with your hands cupping his face, you say:

“...Love me, Jing Yuan.”

Chapter 21

End notes:

Muahahahaha the smut has finally arrived. I really want to try upping my game when writing smut lol so let's see how this goes.

The next chapter is the last! I'm surprised I actually kept this within a reasonable length lol. My initial want of keeping this within 20 chapters wasn't too far off. *pats self on back*

Tag list: @suoshiii @lordbugs @lxry-chxn @seirenspinel @immahuman @queencybow @nqctre @grimreapersscythe @winterpein @asakenajustexistshere @sunsethw4

[heaven-s-black-box]

Pitfall- Stellaron hunters & Ali!gn!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: May 2nd, 2024

Description: Hello I was wondering if you could make a honkai star rail story with the reader being a member of the Astral Express crew and their extremely innocent and naive, but when the Astral Express crew arrived at the Xianzhou Loufu the reader is kidnapped by Blade and Kafka after a small battle and the reader is injured and they kidnapped the reader because they were much more useful to the stellaron hunters alive than dead because of their ancestry from a near extinct race that was known as the Ali, creatures created by the aeon of preservation with wing made of crystal and they created blades similar to lightsabers from a small crystal on their wings (I made up the whole Ali thing but you're more than welcome to write this in anyway you please, and if you need to know anymore information about Ali's you can look in my profile, the post with the most information is Kesshou, but if you're not comfortable with writing this that's completely alright)

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with @crystalkat6747, we thank her for her contributions. The reade being an Ali didn't come up too much, and I took a bit of liberty with the lore (adding not taking away), so I hope you don't mind.

Word count: 1 112

Back to directory

There is a fine line between kindness and naivety.

It is kind to offer an injured stranger help, it is naive to let him direct you towards a secluded area. It is kind to help even those wanted by the IPC, it is naive to believe they will not turn on you.

Unfortunately, Y/n is naive. The kind of naive born of a peaceful life and a steadfast belief in their aeon. Qlipoth created the Ali, THEY blessed them with life, and while THEIR children may not follow THEIR wish of isolation THEY continue to bless them with long lives should they prove themselves.

Y/n’s body felt stiff as they came to. Their wings were pinned back carefully, creating  tension in their shoulders, so that their crystalline structure didn’t rip the binding, and their hands and feet were bound as well. The soft chiming of their wings trying to flutter caused the blurry masses before them to look over.

Someone faintly scoffed, and then one of the masses began to approach; each step accented with the clicking of heels on the stone floor.

“Well, well, well,” a woman drawled, “look who’s finally awake.”

The Ali’s vision began to clear, and the woman’s close proximity made her the clearest thing in the room. Y/n had seen Kafka’s face around on wanted posters across the galaxy as they traveled with the astral express, just like they’d seen Blade’s. They weren’t stupid, they’d considered the possibility of capture as they hauled Blade in the direction he asked.

“I was trying to help.”

“Aw, well isn’t that sweet, but Bladie’s fine. He appreciates your concern though.”

Blade, still sitting on a stool and sharpening his sword, scoffs.

“You know when I don’t meet up with March, my friends will come looking for me.

“And the Luofu is a big place, by the time they get here we’ll be long gone.”

Kafka drew a knife and held it in front of Y/n’s face for a moment, a pleasant smile gracing her features, before she broke their ankle bindings and tucked it away again. She grabbed them by the arm and hauled them to their feet, leading them towards the warehouse door.

Y/n tried to drag their feet, tried to find something to dig into, but they only slid along the smooth stone in their socks. They looked around for their shoes and found them tossed haphazardly on the other side of the small room.

On inspection they seemed to be in a small empty warehouse with only the two stools Kafka and Blade had been occupying.

“Come on Bladie, Silver Wolf’s just about here.”

The man fell into step behind Kafka and Y/n, seemingly watching them in case they tried to escape. They tried to strike out at him with their wings but only succeeded in straining their muscles. The binding was clearly heat resistant too, because no matter how hot they made the crystals it wasn’t burning or melting.

Kafka flung the door open, forcing Y/n to squint at the sudden bright light.

Y/n could already foresee the scolding from Mr. Yang and Himeko about getting themself kidnapped in broad daylight.

“What do you even want with me?” Y/n grumbled as they tried again to dig their feet into the ground.

The soles of their feet burned as they were dragged across the harsh ground in nothing but socks.

“Elio tasked us with retrieving you. Pure blood Ali are hard to come by you know, but you came right to us.”

She was surprisingly gentle as she set them down in the back of the ship, grabbing another piece of binding and fastening their hands to a mesh behind them. Then she re-tied their feet just as Silver Wolf emerged from the cockpit and settled across from them.

The ship's door hissed as Blade closed it behind himself and then settled in the seat right beside the control panel– as far away from Silver Wolf as he could be with her on the opposite end of the seats.

“As for why, you’ll have to ask him when you see him.” The stellaron hunter patted Y/n’s head, making them scowl, before making her way into the cockpit. “But don’t worry,” she called back, “it won’t be long.”

Kafka was right, it wasn’t long before they met Elio.

The illusive head of the Stelleron hunters dismissed Kafka after having her remove their bindings. He offered them a cup of tea before sliding a file across the table and motioning to take a seat. Y/n hesitantly obliges, sniffing the tea and dipping their tongue into it cautiously. When they can’t taste anything strange, they take a small sip before setting the cup down.

“Why am I here?”

“I require your assistance,” the man says, adding a sugar cube to his own cup. The only sound echoing through the room is the spoon against the porcelain cup as he stirs the sugar in. He watches the liquid swirl as he continues. “Has your newest companion told you what awaits him?” He glances up to find Y/n’s face scrunched in confusion. “He will face Nanook, and when he does, he will need allies.”

“That’s why you sent us to the Luofu,”

Elio nodded.

“Your perception of the Luofu and the general were a great asset, I must thank you for playing your part so well.”

Y/n scowled. “You think I’m bound by destiny?”

“Everyone is bound by destiny, I’m offering you a chance to be prepared.”

He waves at the folder on the table.

Y/n caved and picked up the folder, opening it to find this exact conversation printed neatly. Everything beyond them checking the folder was blacked out, then the page numbers jumped ahead. They gazed upon the future, eyes flicking from word to word as Eli watched silently.

After a moment they closed the folder again and set it down, leaving their hand on top of it.

“Why am I here?”

A barely noticeable smile pulled at Elio’s lips.

“Your friends are on their way to Penacony, are they not? All I ask is that you help them track down the great legacy, and track down more allies for the coming battle. I think that’s reasonable enough.”

Y/n stares at the man for a long moment.

 Kindness is offering up information on the future. Naivety is expecting them believe you without a second thought.

Elio is not naive.

Kindness is thanking him for the information. Naivety is believing that he’s telling them the whole story.

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful.”

But Y/n is.

[pastel-rights]

Rate your friends

oh this anon finally decided to come around [insert tracy happy here]

uhhh it'll be underneath the cut because it's gonna be. long as hell BWAHAHA apologizing ahead of time if I get sappy 😶‍🌫️

sap

sap

sapppp

Rina [ My first real internet friend 🫡]

RINAAA I see you. I see your art. I perceive you.

And, even if we don't talk as much as we used to in the past, you'll always be the first of many great people I've met. And, I really love and appreciate your presence in my life. Dare I say it was life-altering!!

Ocean, Shamia, Arella, and all your other ocs, I'm cradling them in the palms on my hands so so lovingly. I have so many things I need to tell you to be honest !! But goddamnit I have work every night so I'm always busy doing something wahhhh

Anyways.

New Shamia reference when? I need to draw her and her blonde bitchass dog [ jack ] again they're so funny and I miss them 😭

Blue [ My lifelong irl to internet friend ]

From an IRL friend to now an online friend, we just can't get rid of each other. You're so cool...

You don't use tumblr so, I won't talk much further... but I do appreciate you. And all your silly Itto shrine moments.

Tae [ My Beloved Wife 🫶🏼]

She's the Cro to my Lee.

The Shuichi to my Kaede.

The President Barbie to my Stereotypical Barbie.

The Kafka to my Bladie [ unfortunately /lh ]

Theeeee Raiden Ei to my Yae Mikooooo.

My wife is many things to me!! I really really love your art and your writing, and you're always so kind and funny and I just wanna grrrrr I just want to hold all your ocs and all your muses so close I love them all 😭😭😭

although

YOU.

YOU

FUCKING

ASSHOLE /lh

THAT ORPHY EDIT. THOSE KAFKA BLADIE EDITS. THAT PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP TRIO EDIT. TRYING TO GASLIGHT ME INTO THINKING EVERYONE ELSE ISNT REAL. THE MURDER. THE KIDNAPPING. THE DART. THE FUCKING DART. OUGHHHHHHHHH

I HOPE YOU FALL THROUGH THE SKY, JOHN. KER-FUCKING-SPLAT, BITCH. I think you've driven me insane. A little bit.

But.

We're so good we are so good. Don't even WORRY about it.

Sam [ My Infamous Brother-in-Tumblr Law ]

Sam you're so. /pos

I think the Immortalpheus AU has permanently altered my perception on life.

Your writing is. well. it's painful /pos

You're so cryptic and really funny yet you and your sister make me say some weird shit during work. Like the uno cards and the Dazai shenanigans and Immortalpheus moments and whenever you drop some life shattering fics and shit you drop on others.

Crazy.

You're a very nice and fun person, all jokes aside!! You're very cool and very amazing and a delight to game with and just fun to be around??? your AU lore and your bots and everything is just so.

mwah

good friend good friend!!

french /j

Piano Immortalpheus forever immortalized isn’t that funny

Navi [ My detective in arms ]

NAVI.

OUGH.

THOSE VERITY JOURNAL ENTIRIES.

IM SO.

OUGHHHHHHH

Your art and your way of expressing your characters and your son in your writing are just soooo good I rotate them in my head so often.

Whenever I see you posting about your crimes to Tumblr, I simply giggle. Get em, Navi!!

We don't talk very often but like. I'd love to talk more. plot. commit shenanigans. heart hands.

Fifi [ fucking fifi /lh ]

I want to clasp my hands around your neck and rattle you violently /lh /pos

How are we friends /lh

We've been friends so long, it's kind of insane??? I remember first talking to you during Amy's opening event and everything just sort of spiraled from there... and every day with you is. an experience!! /pos

Still waiting for the Tower Bifty interaction fr fr [ they try to murder each other within the first five replies /j ]

Carrie [ my favorite mike enjoyer ]

CARRRIEEEEE

Number One Mike enthusiast the real Mike enjoyer.

Im always so giddy whenever you occasionally message me, even if it's just to check on me or show me how you torment Sam /lh and your writing and way of interpreting differing IDV characters and skins is so good??? I love reading them they make me so giggly.

Overall 10/10 friend would ramble to given the chance

Pins [ my boss /ih ]

MAFIA FISHHHHHHHHHH

stunning

beautiful

talented

pink enthusiast

My actual best friend, dare i say the bestest friend in the world???? every moment I spend with you is a blissful and amazing moment, and you've been through so much with me and the fact you stayed throughout it all????

I'm just... really glad you chose to stick with me this long. I can be a very abrasive and impulsive person, and yet you care for me, even with all my flaws and I think that just... says a lot about you.

You're the Jade to my Chiaki.

The Rook to my Epel.

The Deuce to my Ace!

Also your art just solos everything I glow whenever I see it

Skye [ my twst buddy !! ]

Grabs you

Holds you

Rattles you

Is friend.

Is friend shaped.

Approved /lh

Four [ floyd kinnie moment ]

Stop tormenting me with the take a break floyds you SCARE me

Never will be over the fucking

Ghostbusters Floyd edit

I flex my Beans Floyd in memory of you

You’re not dead I think you’re just somewhere in the distance squeezing someone like your life depends on it

10/10 friend when we ignore the four imposed breaks /j

Beth [ my favorite aesop and naib enjoyer ]

You.

Holds you gently.

The Aesop player

The Panda Naib haver.

The beloved

The silly.

✨ Beth ✨

Your art? Immaculate. I such a adoration for your art, and whenever I’m able to catch your drawing streams??? I’m just in awe!! Your colors and outfit inspirations are just so cute so nice so well done???

You’re so. You’re so cool uwahhh

MarioGuy [ where do you keep coming from I know damn well it isn't the door /lh ]

I feel like you kind of just break into my house sometimes and make yourself known before randomly disappearing through a non existent back door /pos

You’re a delight to be around!! Every match with you is a bit. It’s uhm. Something!! /lh

Please stop breaking into my home

Rice [ i occasionally remember that Mi Bianca thing and cry a little ]

Every time I see you pop up in my notifications I just smile and giggle.

We don’t talk often but you’re just so cool and awesome and your muses are so funky fresh and your art is so good and ????

Yeah.

Klai [ you. ]

You.

Chaos gremlin.

You never learn.

But you’re funny so I guess it’s okay.

Your art is so. It’s like a shiny gem 💎 and I WANT it. Holding it hostage.

My precious friend’s doodles.

Never trusting you to prime a cipher though. No hard feelings /lh

10/10 friend!! 0/10 decoder though /j

Orange [ ORANGEEEE my favorite chaos gremlin ]

ORANGEEEEE 🍊

So funny

So talented

So cool

So so cool

Your art is so good, you’re so funny and talented and a wonder to talk to. Your ideas are so creative so unique and yet so unequivocally you and I just…

I love it!!

Orange stop being so cool /j

Clown [ the greatest step-parent on the scene!! ]

This is utter insanity Clown you can’t be EVERY MUSE’S step parents there has to be a LIMIT!!!

A LINE in the SAND!!!!

Clown PLEASEEE

But also your art.

I’ve talked so much about everyone’s art

Yours reminds me of the feeling of waking up on a snow day and realizing school is canceled.

It’s always such a delight to see!!

And while every time you open your mouth, I get a little more worried about you, you’re so so cool /lh

Lupi [ you. x2 ]

imagine arson? imagine it no more im approaching your house at rapidly increasing speeds with my hello kitty lighter /j

Sleepy [ 🫡 ]

Sleepy!! 🫂 so cool,,, you’re so cool,,, /pos

Emma [ Sorry. Only one monster lover can exist in this server peacefully. GET EM. - emma ]

The caption says it all.

Also Tatya stop accidentally seducing all the muses or nearly getting stabbed or exploded or hypnotized you are worrying the GIRLIES! /lh

Al [ you have the vibes of the drunk wine family member in a /pos way ]

I don’t talk to you often but whenever you come around, it makes me so giggly. You’re very funny and your art slaps!!

Joe [ joe the silliest ]

JOE

Joe

Joe!

Your art? Funky fresh.

The lore? So interesting I love the little snippets I see floating around.

You’re so creative

Your Embrace is so funny they scream sacrificial lamb uncle who’s kind of fun at parties /lh

They’ve also got a really nice and warm personality, chaotic yet chill and relatable.

Kind of reminds me of Sam but without the entities 🫶🏼

Nakki [ you. x3 ]

Grabs you like a squeaky toy

That’s it that’s everything tbh

Kory, Boris, Brian [ and the rest of the McMun's Hut /lh ]

And this goes out to all my friends and acquaintances in the McMun’s hut! What is wrong with all of you /pos/lh (except you Boris, you’re an Angel)

Everyone there is super chill and super nice, and they’re a lot of fun to be around. So many differing personalities yet it’s always a vibe somehow.

[juniperusashei]

2021 Top Books

10. Gathering Moss by Robin Wall Kimmerer The only author to appear on my list twice (last year was Dworkin), Kimmerer’s work continues to be extremely influential on my life. Gathering Moss is “more of the same” as Braiding Sweetgrass, but this time all about moss. Despite that, I liked it enough to put it on my list, and this is mostly because of the essay “The Owner,” which despite being nonfiction is more poignant than most short stories.

9. Medea by Euripides (translated by Anthony Podlecki) I was not expecting to like Medea as much as I did, but I was already really attached to her character after reading the Argonautica. It’s sort of like an ancient version of Midsommar… cathartic feminist horror that’s somehow written by a man!

8. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood I’m a bit embarrassed that it took me this long to get to this classic, but Handmaid’s Tale definitely lives up to the hype. It’s amazing and depressing that it was written in the 80s, because so many parts of it perfectly encapsulate today’s political climate. But hey, they say the best dystopian writing describes the present instead of the future!

7. Ways of Seeing by John Berger The most mindblowing thing about this book was that it was written 50 years ago, in 1972. Ways of Seeing is one of those books that everyone’s heard of even if they don’t know it… Berger was so ahead of his time, predicting everything from the idiocy of NFTs to providing a framework for Laura Mulvey’s theory of the Male Gaze.

6. Cassandra’s Dolls by @wonem​ This book is special because I am the second person in the entire world to have read this. I’m not just extolling it because it was written by a close friend, even if I didn’t know him I would love Cassandra’s Dolls because it fills the slice-of-life post-apocalyptic niche that I’m always on the lookout for! Somewhere between Hayao Miyazaki and Andrei Tarkovsky, definitely keep an eye out for this book because it’s going places…

5. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro I’m a long-time Ishiguro fan, but my complaint was that all of his books deal with the same themes of memory and loss. It’s almost a cliché at this point! But The Remains of the Day might be the origin of that cliché. It’s definitely the best work I’ve read from him so far… elegant, tragic, and at times surprisingly funny!

4. 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami Like Ishiguro, I’ve read lots of Murakami. Sputnik Sweetheart will always be my favorite because it’s so personal to me, but I think 1Q84 is his best. They could take place in the same psychosexual dream-logic universe (as could Kafka on the Shore and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle) but 1Q84 is the most straightforward exploration of those themes. It’s also probably the longest book I’ve ever read, at over 900 pages, but it went by breezily.

3. Right-Wing Women by Andrea Dworkin I know Dworkin made it on my list twice last year, but I’ve definitely decided this is my favorite of her books, her thesis if you will. It very succinctly deconstructs the misogyny of the right wing, and how the left has failed to respond to it. I’m reminded of the Dumbledore quote… "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."

2. Devotions by Mary Oliver Devotions is Mary Oliver’s de facto Collected Works, though a few were missing. I read a poem every morning and night, which took 6 months. Her work will always be so special to me, and it was so grounding to start and end each day with a moment of meditation with Mary. I’ve been trying to branch out and read other poets since finishing this one, but nothing hits quite the same way.

1. Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer Big surprise! Braiding Sweetgrass was actually the first book I finished last year, meaning I haven’t read most of it since 2020. Maybe it’s time for a reread? But I honestly think about this book at least once a day, it’s informed my life so deeply scientifically, politically, spiritually, and philosophically. This is the closest to religion I’ll get.

For fun, here are the 5 worst books I read:

1.     The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin

2.     Too Like the Lightning by Ada Palmer

3.     The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin

4.     Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

5.     Squee’s Wonderful Big Giant Book of Unspeakable Horrors by Jhonen Vásquez

Is it telling that the top 3 worst are science fiction? Maybe I’ve grown out of it… And Murakami has the dubious honor of being in fourth place on both lists, I promise I didn’t plan this! But for real, if you’re reading this thanks for reading to the end, and as always if you have any suggestions feel free to send them my way! Also: CHECK OUT my 2020 top reads HERE.

[bangtansfavwriter]

📚🌱book store owner! namjoon🌱📚

- you were still trying to find your way around town as you moved there like 3 weeks ago

-you spent most of your time furnishing your flat and getting groceries as you were snacking all the damn time

-the weather was also kinda bad so you didn't really mind

- on one morning you got up and it was surprisingly sunny outside

-so you thought "why not explore the city a bit?", got ready and went out

-after an hour or so that you've spent in a stationary shop, you noticed a cute book store that was right across the street

- you almost didn't notice there was a shop in there bc of all the plants and flowers hanging down the balcony above the shop

- that's why it felt like a huge discovery to you bc this was probably the cutest book store you'd ever seen, with a very handsome guy sitting at a table in the front of the shop, between some peonies and dahlias that were planted in raised beds

- the guy was fixing something which you recognized as a ukulele when you walked past him and quickly made your way into the book shop, when you heard him grumble and say something like "broke it again..."

-you shook your head when you walked in and forgot about the angry ukulele guy when you got the first look at the superbly organized and clean shop with freaking bonsai trees literally everywhere you'd look

- there were 2 kids at the comic section, some youngsters revising something at one of the tables inside the shop and an old man reading a book next to a tabletop fountain

- as you made your way through the store you noticed something else that made the store even better than you thought, because whoever owned this shop was a salty but funny book nerd

- the book sections were titled in a rather unusual way.. to say the least. one section, for example, was called: "books you probably hate when you start reading but when you get to the end you have an existential crisis because of how good it was"

-you walked to the next section, already curious to see what was next and were surprised to see pretty much the entire bibliography of kafka right there in the "love him or hate him, you ain't him" and chuckled, because you too didn't know anyone with a neutral opinion on Kafka, people either loved him or hated him for his work

-you, however, loved him and apparently so did the person who put this section together

-you full on started laughing when you saw the section "kinda overrated, but suit yourself" and saw "romeo and juliet" displayed at the very front

- "guessing from you laughter, I'd assume you probably agree with me" you heard someone say behind you

- you turned around and zoned out for a sec, as you mustered the gorgeous man in front of you who had the sweetest dimples you'd ever seen

- "you know... I'll get shy if you stare any longer" he said with his deep voice and a slight smirk on his lips

- you snapped back into reality after he said that and quickly tried saving yourself because you already felt your cheeks burning, and you didn't want him to notice that

- "oh sorry, I suppose I was just startled. you're very tall, you know? kinda intimidating with all that... height.."

- he smiled and nodded and you mentally slapped yourself for this statement of yours

- "you're right, by the way, about romeo and juliet. absolutely overrated story about dramatic teens." you said and put the book back "did you come up with these categories?"

- "yeah, maybe it's a tad bit too personalized, but it's my humble opinion about some 'classics' the general public is trying to shove down our throats" he said

- "like 'old man and the sea'" you said and started laughing when he shot you a look of bewilderment

- "don't you dare insult hemingway in this household" he said, but started laughing himself after he said that

- "that was by far one of the most boring books I have ever read in my entire life!!"

"but it depicts the long struggle of the old man who faces his struggles and realizes how they ultimately become his-"

"boooring! and hemingway got a nobel peace prize for literature? for that writing? you should make a new category in your store - 'got prizes but at what cost (hint: my patience)'"

-he broke into laughter and you physically had to refrain yourself from poking his dimples

- your felt your blood rush into your head again when he shot you a beaming smile and said "maybe I should make a new category. 'controversial opinions from a gorgeous stranger' - how does that sound?"

- you quickly changed the subject, because his smooth answer actually made you flustered - something almost no one ever succeeded in

- "are these all your bonsai trees?" you said and walked some steps away from him, secretly hoping he'd follow and continue the conversation you were too shy to make a flirt out of

-"yes, cost me a lot of money and almost a friendship, but these are my babies."

-"this friendship... there was a rather angry looking guy sitting in front of your shop. does it have to do anything with him?" - "did he have a ukulele?" - "...yes." - "yeah that's him. jin hyung is mad at me because he helped me carry that big boy there (- he points at the biggest tree next to the check-out) and I obviously couldn't see what was around me and I accidentally kicked his ukulele. apparently it's broken now, I don't know." - you could somehow understand the flower-boy's anger but the book store guy was cute so: "he shouldn't have left around a damn ukulele then?? i mean?? "

- you giggled as he blurted out "I KNOW, RIGHT?" while wildly gesticulating in excitement about the fact that a stranger agreed with him

- you both went silent after laughing together, the tension didn't go unnoticed by neither of you. you remembered what he said to you earlier and had to suppress your smile. these couple minutes you spent with this stranger made you smile more often than you probably did this month altogether and you were aware of the fact that this is obviously something very special. but you just moved here and had to get adjusted to your new life in this city, would it really be sensible to get a new guy this quick? hell, he probably isn't even single, right? with these looks AND that height plus these dimples that you highkey wanted to kiss?

- he interrupted your train of thought by just clearing his voice, which you were incredibly thankful for, as you got very tongue-tied that moment:

"I should probably get back to work..."

-that was definitely not what you wanted to hear and you clearly couldn't hide your disappointment, bc his eyes widened all of a sudden and he started fidgeting nervously.

- "I should go, too, then..."

-that was not what he wanted to hear either... he sighed deeply and looked around quickly before softly pushing you into an aisle ("yearning 101")

- your breath hitched, his breathing became rapid too, as there were mere millimeters parting your lips from each other.. he gently ran his hands up your arms and you felt goosebumps all over your body. the only time his eyes left yours that moment was when he looked at your lips, that were more than eager to meet his at that moment. just as he was about to lean into you - "KIM NAMJOON! You owe me a new ukulele, you airhead!" was heard across the entire shop, followed by the front door slamming shut

-both of you stared at each other in shock before breaking into loud laughter

- "Oh my god, way to ruin the mood!"

You rubbed your sides that started aching from laughing so much. "You should go after your friend, you know" you said and could tell, by the look on his, that this was certainly not his priority at the moment. He scooted closer to you again. "Tell me your name, gorgeous." - "Y/N..." - He repeated your name with a hushed voice, as if he wanted to keep it a secret from the world. The mere melody of name leaving his lips affected both of you in a way, that you knew you had to explore further. "Say, Y/N... Any chance you might come along again tomorrow?" - "Most definitely" you replied with a smirk on your lips. "Oh, that's a relief. That'll bring me through the day and dealing with hyung. Maybe I'll even build a new section until you come back." You chuckled and looked at him. "Surprise me then, Namjoon~" you teased. "Maybe something like 'books to read all night because you thought of someone cute'?" - "'Books I randomly put together after I saw the cutest smile on earth" may be an option, I don't know" - "Oh, you're getting bold! 'Books I should have sorted instead of blatantly flirting with a customer'. What are you intentions, hmm?" you retorted sarcastically and slowly made your way to the door. You laughed as you saw the slightly offended look on his face. "Books I need to convince a sweetheart that I'm nothing like Joe Golberg!" - "Books how to learn to let people go and then go apologise to people!" (You two were now shouting through the store, the customers were confused but smiled at you two)

"books I will never read today because I'll see you tomorrow!" he yelled last, before you waved at each other with a smile and you left the store.

- Namjoon was growing more and more impatient the next day, as he jumped everytime he heard the door open, but each time it was some customer and not you. He ultimately starting losing hope and felt a little stupid for actually staying up late and creating a whole new section in the shop, hoping to show it to you as soon as possible. The mere thought of seeing you again made his heart race, that's why it was even more disappointing for him when it was almost time for him to close the shop and there was still no trace of you. He heard the door again and sighed very, very deeply, as an old man walked into the store who was one of the few people Namjoon actually despised, because of his overly-specific wishes. And, of course, the fact that he never actually bought a book. As his life energy was once again being sucked out by the most pointless conversation ever, he thought of you again. He wondered if something happened that made you change your mind. Was he too cocky? Did you think of him as some player who just flirted with each customer he found attractive? He sighed again. "Young man, you don't sigh in front of customers! Were you not taught any manners!". Namjoon, with his best customer service smile, tried to convince the man that it was just him, being absent-minded and that he didn't mean to offend him (even though he'd have every right to do so). In-between all the hassle, he didn't even hear that the door opened once again. It wasn't until you called out for him, that he noticed you finally were in the shop, with him. He stared at you with a blank expression on his face when you rushed towards him and immediately apologised for taking so long, which was because of the moving company being earlier than expected. Namjoon just stared at you while you rambled on, as did the old man. You apologised over and over again and then excused yourself when you finally realized that you probably interrupted Namjoon while he was talking to a customer. "Y/N!" he called after you. You turned around and looked at him with a quizzical look. "There's a new section in the back... Maybe you should check it out." You two smiled at each other, neither of you wanting to break your gaze. "Young man... I think I'm gonna take this book here. You can never go wrong with the classics" the old man said and grabbed 'The old man and the sea'. Namjoon did his very best not to laugh in his face, only did he now have a smile on his face that he absolutely could not hide at that moment. Two victories in one day. This day could only get better.

Meanwhile, you went to the very back of the shop, curious about what would expect you in the new section. A book joke again? One of the things you were talking about yesterday? You lost your train of thought when you noticed a section, that you didn't pass by yesterday. "My loneliness is killing me", with books by Dickinson and Poe at the very front, followed by "I must confess, I still believe" with romance novels all across the table, decorated with peonies he was growing in front of the shop. "The new section is in the next aisle, love" you heard Namjoon say behind you. You hesitated a bit, kind of overwhelmed with how fast you could feel everything developing. Yet, everything felt so right. "Go right ahead, I'm right here", he said reassuringly, as if he sensed your hesitation. You nodded and smiled at him. The most beautiful table in the entire shop awaited you in the next aisle. Inbetween beautiful bouquets and absolutely dashing table decorations were Shakespeare's sonnets and other love poems that were among your personal favourites as well. You looked at the section title, written on a card that was put into one bouquet.

"Books that will help me ask you out"

💕

[womantranslated]

Review: Trick

Title: Trick Author: Domenico Starnone Translator: Jhumpa Lahiri Original Language: Italian Publication Dates: original in 2016, English translation in 2018

This is an instance of me selecting a translation purely because I am a big fan of the translator — not as a translator (prior to reading this), but as a writer in her own right. Jhumpa Lahiri is an incredibly talented author, both of short fiction and longer form novels, and she has an extremely distinctive style of prose. I was curious as to whether her own sensibilities as a writer would be detectible in her work as a translator.

The short answer is no, though I'm sure there are people who have read Jhumpa Lahiri's work more closely than I have, who might be able to sense something of her style in the translation of Trick. But in any case, as a translator, Lahiri does not disappoint. Even though I chose this book specifically for Woman Translated, there were several moments where I forgot I was reading a translation, so comprehensively did the translated prose absorb me as a reader into Daniele's story. It perhaps also helps that I recently watched the first two seasons of My Brilliant Friend on HBO, which takes place in Naples in an apartment that I could easily imagine as something similar to where Betta lives with her family. So having that pre-existing cultural exposure (however inaccurate in terms of contemporality — Trick takes place in the 2010s, whereas My Brilliant Friend is set in the 1950s) possibly aided me in completing the illusion of the translation.

As a story, it is a very claustrophobic one, with echoes of Metamorphosis in many ways. It also almost made me loathe children, especially four-year-old boys who are only children to overly doting parents. Lahiri writes a superb introduction, which also double times as a translator's note towards the end, that sheds a lot of insight and was an excellent primer before reading the actual story. In it, she mentions Kafka but more importantly Henry James, which I found surprising to learn about in relation to his influence of postmodern Italian literature. She highly recommends reading the ghost story by James that features so heavily as its own character in Trick, but I chickened out, not out of laziness so much as the fact that the copy of Trick I read is a library loan and with the ongoing pandemic I'm trying not to make too many trips to the public library. But I will try to get to it before too long.

Author Bio

Domenico Starnone, like the main character in Trick, is born in Naples but moved to a northern Italian city as an adult (Rome, in his case). Interestingly, this New York Times article cites that he has ties to the aforementioned My Brilliant Friend, albeit the original book series and not the show. He's a fairly prolific writer of fiction, and Lahiri has translated two of his works prior to this, with a fourth translation by Lahiri being published in 2021. Similar to how the only translations of Italo Calvino, one of my favourite Italian writers, I have read are all by William Weaver, it would be fascinating to read more of Lahiri's translations of Starnone's novels.

Translator Bio

What is there to say about Jhumpa Lahiri? First off, go and read some of her work! My first and favourite so far was Interpreter of Maladies, a collection of short stories. She is one of those authors, and now translators, who I would read without even needing to consult the book jacket. If only there were more instances where my favourite writers also translate and have such excellent taste in translation choices!

[langernameohnebedeutung]

(2/2)Mann who writes himself into EVERY one of his novels, usually as this cynic and, quite frankly, unlikable ‘writer genius’ who hates about everyone except the pretty waiters at his favorite restaurant. Or Dostoyevsky who’s selfinserts are always . A complete mess. Or Kafka who’s inserts are even more of a mess AND die horribly. And ofc Since you mentioned Moby Dick there’s also Melville who just straight up unashamedly ships his insert with a handsome buff sailor. That’s so much more fun imo

Just first up: The first half of your ask disappeared once again on, I read it, I drafted it to answer and then it was gone, but I read it and I remember most of my answer to it. You may wonder why I drafted an ask again after the last one disappeared and the answer is because I’m a god-damn moron.

I think the negative opinion people have about self-inserts today has a lot to do with the way people learn writing these days and I think it's especially prominent among writers who either write fanfiction or come into original writing from fanfiction. Many people either read tips or read books on writing and this advice is usually all about 'do-s' and 'don't's in my experience, and I'm not sure that's helpful. But one big Don't is Mary Sue's, self-inserts, because (according to these tips) they might be over-powered or something.

And this makes sense to a certain degree especially from a fanfiction point of view. It is boring if someone who doesn't know any of the characters and their world waltzes in and solves their problems in ten minutes flat as if everyone else had just been morons who couldn't have figured that out for themselves. But I think that's a problem on plot-level not on the character level. It says nothing about the character and whether they are good. They might be interesting. They may be a flat, boring character completely unrelated to the plot. Rather, you should ask yourself if it really makes sense for the character to assemble all the necessary information to solve that problem as quickly as they do. And whether you have properly introduced their means of doing so in a way that makes them relatable to the audience. And obviously, causing problems for your characters that they have to work to overcome is also a part of writing, so you have to ask yourself if you made life difficult enough for them.

The thing is, we live in the age of super-heroes, media-wise, not even just literal ones. Many of the most popular fictional characters are in many ways Mary Sues. And we often talk about how YA novels are very popular among adults as well. And since YA novels often have a young main-character managing feats no one would have expected of them and surviving against the odds, I think it's fair to say that people do want to see that and that they do want to see the unlikely candidate triumph, even if it means cutting some corners regarding how likely it is.

But the problem is that young writers are told to avoid these types of characters and the examples are usually the typical Mary Sue and the typical Mary Sue has certain attributes: stereotypically a good-looking young woman with a minor ‘flaw’, inconspicuous at first but suddenly a badass, not terrified of the big villains etc. So people are often discouraged from using this type of character in general and it's the character itself instead of the plot that is treated as bad writing. And people tend to take this sort of writing advice not only as something that is supposed to help them write but also a tool to judge something already is written and they decide that the existence of a character fitting this description in some shape or form is already a sign that the work is bad. That`s why, the moment someone doesn’t like a particular work, they point towards these characters while they probably like a lot of similar characters in other media. 

Now, your original ask (rip ask) was about writer-inserts rather than self-inserts so maybe this answer might seem off topic, but you mentioned Hermoine Granger as JK Rowling's self-insert, which got me thinking about this question why some are rejected and others are not.

Many people - especially young women - insist that Hermoine was a very important character to them and that they related to her growing up. And I think there is a good reason why the common reaction was: “Hey this girl reminds me of me!” rather than: “Hey, that’s clearly JK Rowling!” Because she is defined by traits that are common experiences. In fact, I would argue that she is even made accessible for the audience to relate to. 

JK Rowling was a teacher. She could have easily made her surrogate a teacher-character in Hogwarts. She could have made it someone her age. It could have been a side-character. But Hermoine is a main-character and in the same age-group as our other main-characters. She’s a pupil, like most of the intended audience. And her experiences are some that are very relatable to many people: She is very intelligent and eager to learn, but people make fun of her for it or are annoyed. She is socially awkward and even bullied. She is insecure about her looks. 

But then, there are also some validating messages in all of this: Her intelligence and knowledge are eventually appreciated and frequently help the heroes save the day. She finds true friends. Men fall in love with her. For the exercise of this ask, I’m going to coin this an ‘open-door’ writer-insert. Open-door, because JK basically invites the readers to identify with her, because Hermoine’s characterisation is dominated by traits that JK shares with many people - not super-exclusive traits like how she likes her tea or sharing her favourite musician. Instead, she goes to extra-length to make this character accessible to her intended audience.

Also, when people talk about relating to fictional characters and Harry Potter in particular, they often point out how it helped them through dark times. Especially now many people write about how Rowling’s views affect their memories of their own childhood, because these books provided them with comfort when they were struggling. My point here is, we don’t relate to characters in that way because we solved our own problems. We relate to them because their struggles resemble our own, not their solutions. In fact, seeing that these fictional characters stay strong and that they find a happy-end is part of why they are able to provide comfort and I think that’s a function that is very particular to these open-door inserts: They tell us we can make it, because they already did.

As a different example, someone else who is very famous for working his own identity into his own characters is Stephen King and his endless string of Main-based authors with personal demons. Misery, for example, is based on his own experiences when fans hounded him over writing a fantasy book rater than the horror they’ve come to expect of him once (as well as his cocaine addiction). But in my opinion, his characters ‘close the door’ rather than open it, because they are very much defined by King’s own personality. I’m not going to make an argument whether that’s better or worse writing, I just think it provides different opportunities and changes the intention. I don’t know (m)any people who read Stephen King novels because the main-characters gave them such hope and strength in their darkest times. And King doesn’t change his insert to match the experiences of his intended audience. 

If you think about Misery, his readers do get a role - that of the insane fan torturing the author to write a work that matches their expectations. Basically, neither of these characters are supposed to make us think: “Wow this is absolutely me and the way they experience the world is absolute relatable to me!” The way we relate to King’s character is by seeing the world through his eyes and facing the problems he does. It’s about their survival rather than the question if they will grow through the experience. 

The main-character of Misery survives, but at the end he’s still struggling with the injuries inflicted on him as well as with alcoholism to make-up for the pain-medication she forced on him. Hermoine ends up being happy and successful. Now, if we were to switch these around, and Hermoine ended up a miserable alcoholic, I’m not sure she would still have been as much of a comfort-character to teenagers and if the main-character of Misery had remained strong and stubborn through it all and ended up well-adjusted and happy, I don’t think the novel would have packed quite the same punch. Because the intentions behind these characters are different, despite them both being writer inserts.

I think another character who is interesting (in that regard) is Bella Swan from Twilight. Now, Stephanie Meyer never officially said that this is her surrogate, but I want to point something out. This is something she says on her website:

I left out a detailed description of Bella in the book so that the reader could more easily step into her shoes. [...] In my head, Bella is very fair-skinned, with long, straight, dark brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. Her face is heart-shaped—a wide forehead with a widow’s peak, large, wide-spaced eyes, prominent cheekbones, and then a thin nose and a narrow jaw with a pointed chin. Her lips are a little out of proportion, a bit too full for her jaw line. Her eyebrows are darker than her hair and more straight than they are arched. She’s five foot four inches tall, slender but not at all muscular, and weighs about 115 pounds. 

Now, this is a photo of Stephanie Meyer:

According to google, she is...5′4. As I said, this is somewhat speculation on my part, but I’m not the first person to point out these similarities. There are so biographical similarities for example that Meyer, raised in Phoenix,  used to feel unpopular at a school and it changed when she moved, according to what I learnt doing a google search on her. 

not like other girls alert

There has already been talked a lot about Twilight and Meyer’s religious origins in the LDS-church (what many people know as Mormon church) and how Bella’s growth and progression as a character and the decisions she makes seem to line up with those in many ways (marriage, family, not aborting a baby that kills her, sex only after the wedding etc.), but since we can speculate in which way or degree Meyer personally shares these ideas and and thinks of them for herself (aka I’m too lazy to google and learn more stuff about Stephanie Meyer), I’m just going to leave the fact that Bella happily attains a very conservative idea of female happiness at the end of her journey (if you disregard the vampire thing).

What I would like to point out is that this character shares a lot of traits with her - physical traits, biography etc. - while at the same time, she says she wanted to leave the character open for the reader to relate to and to identify with her. 

In my last ask on the subject, I talked about the way the third person narrator is thinning out in many novels as a distinct entity and is more and more becoming one with the POV-character. Bella is obviously a first person narrator. Now, you did mention Moby Dick, and we have the same thing here: A first person narrator sharing their experiences with the author. But even the first person narrator is a very distinct entity here. Not that Melville himself makes an appearance, but that Ishmael is very clear about the fact the is telling us a story. Which is how we know he is going survive the journey, because he still there, afterwards, to tell us about his trip.

The famous first sentence of Moby Dick is: “Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.” He makes it clear that this has happened in the past, he talks to the reader directly (call me Ishamel) as if in conversation and then goes on.

He also makes it clear that he is writing about a past events at a different point of events:

“He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age.”

Now, here’s the preface to the first Twilight novel:

“I'd never given much thought to how I would die — though I'd had reason enough in the last few months — but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this. I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me. Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something. I knew that if I'd never gone to Forks, I wouldn't be facing death now. But, terrified as I was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision. When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end. The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me.” 

After this, the first chapter starts and we are immediately with Bella on her way to the airport, she tells us why she is going to Forks, what Forks is, why she is leaving and so on. There are also two points in time here, but they are employed differently and for different reasons:

Bella is constructed in a way for us to relate to her and identify with her - Meyer says that herself that she even held back on talking about her looks in order to make her accessible to the reader - so using a first person narrator opens the door for us. The future point in time in the preface creates suspense - she says she is about to die and that’s what we prepare ourselves for during the story (even if we assume she might survive after all, we know she will be in danger and we know that she will sacrifice herself for someone she loves).

Moby Dick has a first person narrator, because it’s Ishmael writing down his story for us to read. On a technical level, we take his perspective, but we are provided with an in-story reason for the first person narrator. And while we can at least speculate that Bella might die, if we know nothing else about the franchise or the genre when we encounter that preface, we also know from the first sentence on that Ishmael is going to survive, because ‘he’ has written down this story for us. And by giving an in-story reason for a first person narrator, the story is already closing the door a little by saying: ‘this is a distinct character and you are reading his story, that’s why it uses I/me pronouns’. 

Now, I already mentioned that I found it interesting that JK’s self insert is a pupil rather than a teacher and that she is younger than JK. The same thing happens with Bella the Meyer-look-alike: She is a student and pupil, like the target audience, going through experiences that Meyer did in her youth. And for her as well, things work out. She is a principled character, finds friends, boys fight over her and she ends up finding an immortal, perfect, beautiful family she becomes part of. 

Beauty is an interesting thing in Twilight, btw, in my opinion. The way Meyer describes Bella (literally named Beauty and aftera Bird symbolising Beauty), she is quite good-looking with some ‘flaws’, like her lips being ‘too full for her face’. Now, there is nothing wrong with having full lips, obviously, but Meyer says ‘a bit too full for her face’ and I think this is already part of the typical traits of an open-door author-insert in my opinion: They are a little it ‘too’ this or ‘too’ that to be perfect models, but they’re also rarely described as actually ugly. Hermoine has teeth that are too long (magicked away after that teeth growing accident) and is always mentioned to have ‘bushy hair’. Bella is also said to be very pale, even comparing herself to an albino (you know, because Meyer went to such length to make her character’s looks relatable to everyone). Pale skin is at odds with the sun-kissed other-girls in Phoenix and symbolises Bella’s otherness in many ways, that she isn’t like what Meyer calls the ‘barbies’.

The fact that pale = beautiful in Twilight and that beauty is important becomes very obvious when dealing with the Cullens:

“And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes — purplish, bruiselike shadows.As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their features, were straight, perfect, angular. But all this is not why I couldn't look away. I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful — maybe the perfect blond girl, or the bronzehaired boy.”

They are good beautiful - sullen, mysterious. Not bad beautiful: frivolous, talkative, loud, dumb. And they’re also not beautiful with a minor flaw - but beautiful with no flaw. 

Bella Swan acquires that beauty by the end and becomes one of them - once her transformation into a vampire is complete. Hermoine also transforms - and turns from the nerd girl into a confident, strong young woman and played a major role in defeating the people who discriminated against her in her youth. 

I described these sort of characters as open-door characters. They bear strong resemblance to the author in Bella’s case and Hermoine is the declared author-insert for Rowling, but these authors went to extra length to make them accessible to the reader to identify with them. Basically, the author invited the reader to enter that open door. 

The fact that they have positive endings and that the struggles that the reader relates to are dissolved (satisfying or not) provides comfort. I already mentioned that with the whole thing that is going on with Rowling, a lot of people write about their own experiences with Harry Potter. And I’ve not seen people write: “I liked these books because the characters solved their problems like I did or because I, too, grew up to be happy” - they say they related in their darkest time, when they were feeling down and when there were no solutions to their problems in sight. These characters are designed to offer hope and advice and remind you that these traits you share with them or that you assume you share with them are good and something to be proud of and they tell you that you can succeed. I already said that it would have been very dissatisfying if Hermoine had ended up like Paul Sheldon. Even worse if they had actually been killed off: Basically, that would have been the equivalent of the author inviting the reader through that open door and then hitting them over the head with  a hammer. That would have been...kafkaesk.

Heh. Transitions.

You already mentioned Kafka’s tendency to kill off his main-characters. With Kafka, things are always quite complex and there are so many different interpretations and takes on his work and its meaning. It’s important to keep in mind that he is a modernist and the reader is ‘invited’ to actively interpret the text, figure things out, make sense of things and notice contradictions. 

Metamorphosis can easily be concluded to draw on Kafka’s own problems with his family and his father. His works are always filled with obstacles that are both insurmountable and banal, drawn from reality and yet surreal. Nothing hits home like reading Der Prozess or Das Schloss while you’re too mentally slouched to deal with the last ten incomprehensible letters you got from your local Verbandsgemeindeverwaltung. „Die Fessel der gequälten Menschheit sind aus Kanzleipapier,” indeed, Franz, indeed. (”The chain of the tormented human race are made of office paper”)

I wanted to look at Metamorphosis specifically, because for one, it’s one where it’s most easily arguable that family situation very closely resembles Kafka’s own. Also I already mentioned that the open-door author-inserts usually undergo a transformation (did I already mention that this is the age of super-heroes?) of some form. There is an old debate over whose metamorphosis Die Verwandlung is actually about - Gregor Samsa’s or that of his sister? While Samsa wastes away, his sister turns into a strong young woman - much like Bella or Hermoine. And yet many people see her betrayal of Gregor as the 'big’ one, the ultimate act of betrayal that destroys Gregor and of her even as the actual villain of the story rather than the father. There is also the general metamorphosis of his relationships- for example his sister’s social position in the family is better now that Gregor is an insect and his father has far more power over him than before.

Gregor Samsa has very relatable fears, concerns and anxieties: He has a hard job and he does it to support his family. He yearns for the love of his family. This is something a lot of people can relate to. After he turns into the Ungeziefer, he not only learns that his family had savings, they also treat him worse and worse now that they he is no longer feeding them.

If we consider Gregor Samsa as an open-door character - someone sharing similarities with the author who has been designed to be accessible for the reader to relate to - we also have to ask ourselves: Is he a comfort character? A comforting message would be if he fought back, found someone who loved him even in his Ungeziefer-form and he had built a life for himself somewhere.

But Samsa doesn’t fight back, he desires his family’s love no matter how badly they treat him and until he wastes away after his sister says he needs to go. Samsa's story isn’t about growth or learning or overcoming obstacles. He is constantly wasting away - so if we consider him a character open to project ourselves on, he’s not one intended to be comforting because that’s not the point of the story. His love for his family is not some secret super-power that overcomes all difficulties, it’s his weakness.

His situation is also not an every day situation like going to school - it’s a highly surreal one being turned into an Ungeziefer. He gets turned into a strange creature, he is confined into a single room etc. I already mentioned that Kafka had a tendency to erase certain information while editing his works - for example, an earlier draft of The Castle contained K. musing: ‘In this way I was fighting not the others but rather myself”, but Kafka took it out for the reader to come to that conclusion. And with a situation like Samsa’s, we can also make up our own mind about who his struggle is with and what everything means and - if we identify with him - what our Ungeziefer-state is, what our Lady in Fur is, what our Abstellkammer would look like, who our father is and sister etc..

But the whole thing is - you don’t read Kafka because his characters are so fascinating. He didn’t want them to be complex and fascinating. He went out of his way to make them less so and you already said, it’s pretty much the opposite of a character like Hermoine. It goes very deep into the realm of speculation which author based which traits of what character on themselves for what reasons or if it was voluntary or not, but I think the way people do it has a lot to do with genre, writing style, audience etc. and I thing right now is a time where a lot of fiction is all about making a change, growing having happy ends. If you look around tumblr for writing advice, sad endings are often criticised as cynical, edgy and depressing. People complain about gritty characters. Wholesome escapism is simply very popular right now and that’s why self-inserts, imo, are going to be wholesome and escapist. But specifically when talking about self-inserts, a wholesome positive self-insert is going to collide with the expectation that such self inserts are bad writing.

I also think big names play a role. JKR is a big name in fiction and Harry Potter is a big deal for our generation - the “read a different book!” meme pretty much illustrates the huge monopoly Harry Potter has for us. I’d argue that Harry Potter, while not a self-insert, also has a lot of Mary Sue traits, but because he’s a male character and not Rowling’s self-insert, he already escapes quite a lot of criticism. I’m pretty sure if Harry Potter had a female main-character, there would have been much more criticism, especially if the main-character had publicly said that this was her self-insert. 

If you think about the works of Mann and Melville and Kafka, these are classics today, so they aren’t really subject to the trend of being wholesome and heroic. And King is a brand of himself, by himself and his name stands for a certain brand of fiction and a certain style of writing and a certain type of characters.

Twilight has become an acceptable thing to dislike, because it was liked by teenage girls (so the dudebro fraction likes it) and it’s restrictive and conservative and pretentious enough for its own fans to outgrow and no longer defend it. People did criticise the main-character especially, for being bland, helpless, only caring about her bf etc. but I think if Twilight had never taken off the way it did, it would have been forgotten among many other cheesy love stories. But it hit the right nail a the right time, took off and then the wind abruptly changed and people specifically disliked this kind of character and found it ‘cringy’ - I actually wanted to say something on the subject of cringe-culture but I forgot, but let it be said, I think it also plays a big role that being cringy has become such a big crime and that a self-insert means that you can accuse the author themselves of being cringy so that too might influence the opinions on making self-inserts. 

Either way, I think it has a lot to do with this sort of immunity timeless classics have and also with genre - because it puts a YA-hero spin on the self insert and those are usually characters who are in the same age bracket as the intended audience, have similar problems (romance) etc. and usually these stories have a happy end as well.

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU 

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Hope you packed your crash helmets. This is a bumpy ride. Eternal thanks to @fraddit for holding my hand as I put this together. Maybe it’s not ready yet, but it’s spent enough time living rent-free in my head.

***

Killian

August W. Booth. Killian would never admit it, but he knew the name, even before Emma Swan had tumbled into his life. He’d remembered seeing it grace the spine of a book on the shelf of his old flat, back in London. He’d remembered asking Milah about it, and he remembered her non-committal response.

“It’s alright,” she’d said, flopping down onto the bed beside him. “If you’re into Americans who read too much Kafka travelling the world to ‘find themselves’.” She’d even done the air quotes, and he’d smiled at her honesty.

And in the months after she was gone, and he was left with nothing but her meagre possessions, he’d picked it up and read it cover to cover, in an effort to be closer to her.

But it really was just a book.

Killian didn’t want to ‘find himself’ on a Thai beach. Or follow in the footsteps of obscure European authors. Or even consume a questionable amount of hallucinogens. He had just wanted to wake up in a world where Milah still slept soundly beside him.

He’d donated the book to a charity shop on Camden High Street, along with most of Milah’s clothes.

He’d never imagined he’d meet the author. Or that he’d kind of hate him.

How to describe that first moment with August W. Booth? At first, Emma had been beside him, her hand held tight to his sleeve as they waded into the party throng. And then, with something that sounded like a choked sob, she was gone.

It was only when the crowd parted that he saw the spectacle for himself. Emma Swan, laughing. Damn near hysterical laughing, having launched herself at this bearded bloke in cable knit jumper. He’d barely caught her, but he had, even if he’d knocked over his beer in the process.

“Emma Swan, as I live and breathe!” The man, August, had declared, lifting her off her feet. “Have you gained weight?”

She smacked him on the shoulder, but her smile was still beatific, even as he set her back down. Killian had never seen that smile. Not once.

“Lost it, actually. Didn’t you hear? I run now. Like, habitually.”

“Now I come to think of it, Ruby did say something about that. But I assumed she was joking.”

Another smack. Another round of smiles as they talked over each other, trying to make up for lost time.

Killian was not a wallflower by nature, but something about the ready intimacy of their chatter kept him on the periphery, hovering awkwardly by a potted palm he highly suspected to be fake. He was just reaching out his hand to check when he felt a tug on his prosthetic.

She was dressed like Hilary Clinton, her blonde wig drunkenly askew. “Why’s your hand made of plastic?” she asked with all the tact of someone six vodka cranberries deep. “It is real? That’s sooo weird. Did you have some, like, terrible accident?”

Her accent was American, but much more the bubbly Southern Californian version than the one he was used to. He didn’t find it endearing.

“Hilary!” he greeted her with a forced smile, snatching his prosthetic back from her grasp. “Long time no see. How’s Bill? Still a complete cad?”

Her face was a picture of confusion. “My name is Hadley?” She looked down at her pantsuit, and then it seemed to dawn on her. “This is just a costume,” she explained slowly. “You know, for the party?”

“You don’t say! My apologies, Hadley. I mistook you for a woman of substance.”

It was not the most gentlemanly brushoff, but it did the trick.

Hadley squinted up at him for a few long moments, before tipping the rest of her drink down his front. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

He was, and he did. And thanks to her dramatics, the rest of the room were fast becoming aware of the fact too, even as her (seventh?) vodka cranberry seeped miserably into his shirt. He looked up just in time to catch Emma’s raised eyebrows as she approached, August following in her wake.

“Uh, do I want to know what you said to Hilary to piss her off?” she asked.

“Nothing she hadn’t already heard on the campaign trail,” Killian muttered, fanning his shirt away from where it was sticking fast to his chest. “I don’t know what it is about this party, Swan, but it doesn’t much approve of our outfits.”

Emma opened her mouth to retort, when a hand suddenly appeared in front of Killian’s face, attached to a weaselly-looking novelist.

“August Booth. You must be the Graham Humbert I’ve heard so much about?”

And he thought having a drink thrown over him would be the most aggrieving event of the evening.

“Killian Jones,” he corrected, delivering a slightly firmer handshake than necessary. “And I’m leaving.”

***

I feel like that could’ve gone better. ES

Are you okay? ES

Jones? ES

I’ve had worse things thrown at me than a girly cocktail, Swan. I dare say I’ll survive. KJ

Probably. But that’s not what I meant. ES

You should probably get back to your surprise visitor. He came a long way to see you. KJ

August is big boy. He can handle himself for a few minutes. Are you at home?  ES

No. KJ

So you’re walking around at large with a huge purple stain down your shirt? ES

Apparently so. KJ

That’s not weird at all. ES

How fortuitous then, that I’m not your problem. KJ

Wow. Okay. I guess you’re not. Fuck you very much. ES

***

It was a foolish idea. He had reminders set on his phone that pinged at regular intervals to remind him of exactly how foolish an idea it was. And yet, there he was anyway. Half a bottle of Captain Morgan later, standing outside Tink’s building in Newington, leaning on the buzzer.

The intercom chirruped into life. “If you don’t have a pizza, I don’t know you.”

He grinned, and leaned close to the speaker. “Margherita Cheese, extra olives.”

There was a pregnant pause. And then the front door buzzed open.

It wasn’t terribly late, by their usual standards. Barely past sunset, now they weren’t long past the solstice. And yet when Tink opened the door she was definitely wearing pyjamas. The kind one actually slept in, rather than entertained in.

Not that she seemed to care either way, tearing the pizza box from his hands with barely more than a nod in his direction. He followed her in anyway, and sat in her kitchen as she devoured half of it before coming up for air.

“Hungry?” he teased.

“My flatmate has us all on the Keto diet,” she shrugged by way of explanation. “It’s been hell. You know how many Greggs franchises I have to walk past on my way to work? It was only a matter of time until I cracked. But I’m glad it was you,” she crooned to the last of her pizza. “You were worth the wait.”

“I can’t decide if this is pathetic or adorable,” Killian mused.

“Definitely pathetic,” Tink declared, closing the box at last. “But you’re one to talk. You look rough as guts. And what did you get all over your shirt?”

He knew he should’ve stopped home to change first.

“Vodka cranberry, I believe.”

“Ooh,” she said, folding her hands under her chin. “The plot thickens. A deliberate attack?”

“It... may have been.”

She snorted. “You always know how to charm a lady, Jones. Until you don’t.”

“You never seemed to mind,” he reminded her, with a sly smile in her direction.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, before hooking a thumb in her direction. “Pathetic, remember?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said silky, letting his hand come to rest on hers. “In fact, I seem to recall a rather impressive list of talents…”

Tink slid her hand out from under his, to slap herself in the forehead. “So that’s what you’re doing here! It all makes sense now. You’ve had a shit night, and now you thought you’d show up, and what? I’d take you into my bedroom and help you forget all about it?”

“No, I just-”

“Just thought I was your standby girl. And I get it. I really do. Lord knows, I played the part enough times. But, honestly, Killian, wouldn’t you rather be with someone you’re actually crazy about? Like, oh, I don’t know...” She tapped her chin meaningfully, “...Emma?”

Something inside of him constricted at the sound of her name on Tink’s lips, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t want to think about her, or any of it. To hell with them.  

“Who’s Emma?” he replied, leaning in again. “All I see is you.”

He saw the slap coming, but his reactions weren’t what they were.

“Hey, you know we’re friends, right?” she said, her words a direct contradiction to the stinging of his cheek.  “I know we made a mess of things, but I thought we could still talk to each other. What’s going on? Because you’re not here because you find me completely irresistible.”

“Don’t I, love?”

It was a last ditch effort, but she wasn’t buying it.

“No, you don’t.” She sounded a little sad when she said it. “So start talking, or your drunken arse is getting an Uber. And you can start with what happened with Emma.”

“Nothing happened with Emma,” Killian muttered, looking around her kitchen for a possible source of alcohol. Any alcohol. So consumed was he by the search he didn’t catch Tink spiriting his phone from his pocket until she was already back in her chair again, scouring through his latest messages.

He really should’ve changed his passcode months ago.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I stand corrected,” she said, sliding it back across the table towards him with a roll of her eyes. “Nothing happened at all.”

Anger flaring, he snatched it back. “That’s really none of your business, love.”

“It is when you’re sitting in my kitchen, smelling like a distillery, and looking to use my body to distract you from your problems.”

God, he really was an arsehole. No wonder everyone he knew despised him. At last his eyes alighted on a stoppered bottle of brown liquid tucked away on top of the fridge. He stood up to retrieve it, and removed the stopper with his teeth.

He ducked down to take a whiff. Brandy. Perfect.

He found a pair of relatively clean glasses in the dish rack, and poured a generous measure into each.

“Peace offering?” he asked, slinging one of them in Tink’s direction.

Her glower didn’t abate any, but she accepted the glass anyway, wincing as her first sip hit her tongue.

“Needs water,” she said, handing it back with a cough.

Killian dutifully filled it up from the tap, and returned to his old place at the table. Just his performing this small act seemed to soften her somewhat, because the anger faded from her eyes.

“Look, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m trying a new thing. It’s called: ‘I only sleep with guys who are actually into me.’ And you know what? It’s going pretty good. I don’t wake up feeling like shit all the time.”

There was a novel concept.

“I’ve been an arsehole,” Killian summed up.

“Sometimes,” Tink agreed, with a comforting pat to his shoulder. “But I knew what your deal was. You get into bed with a guy with a missing hand and another girl’s name tattooed on his arm, you don’t really expect it’ll work out long-term.”

Now it was his turn to snort. “Aye, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did,” she said, with an unapologetic grin. “But it’s okay. We were both just biding our time. Me until I grew some self-esteem, and you until your heart healed over a little.”

He wondered if it had. The wounds had been there so long, cut so deep, he rarely pressed them anymore. Rarely tested the strength of the scar tissue that had grown in their place.

“Well then,” he said, raising his glass. “To your self-esteem.”

Their glasses clinked, and he took his first sip. The brandy was thick across his tongue, but warming. A little burst of liquid courage to ask the question he’d been turning over and over in his mind since he’d glanced into Emma’s eyes on that settee, and felt things start to shift.

“You ever feel like there’s some things you just can’t get away from, no matter how hard you try?” he asked.

“My parents named me Tinker Bell. What do you think?” she replied, deadpan.

“Fair point,” he conceded, suddenly wishing he’d never opened his fool bloody mouth.

Unfortunately, Tink was not a mind reader and she didn’t let it go. “Are you talking about Milah?”

It had been so long since anyone had said her name aloud, he couldn’t entirely stop himself from flinching.

“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Not entirely. I just… I’m not sure there’s ever really any overcoming the fundamental truths of our past.”

“Fundamental truths?” she asked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like, for example,” he began, wetting his lips with another syrupy slug of Brandy. “Everything my brother has ever done in his life has been to distance himself from our father. He’s got the upstanding, family man bit down. He’s a card-carrying member of the bourgeoisie. But when push comes to shove, they still made the exact same mistakes.”

She cocked her head to the side, considering this. “I mean, there’s a genetic component to addiction. And idiocy, arguably. But I don’t believe in that ‘sins of the father’ bullshit. You are who you make yourself into. I’m not saying it’s easy to break the pattern, but it’s doable.”

Killian wanted to believe that. But he wasn’t so sure he did.

“I couldn’t,” he pointed out. “When I lost Milah, I-” The rum in his stomach roiled, and he wondered if he was going to throw up. He wondered how long it would take for Tink to throw him out after. But after a moment, the feeling passed, and he realised she was still waiting for him to finish his thought. “I… I was no different,” he finished, feeling foolish.

“So you lost someone who mattered to you, and you handled it badly?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make you your Dad. It makes you a person with a heartbeat.”

Killian stretched his prosthetic out on the table in front of him, considering the shiny piece of hardware. His most expensive souvenir from the shortest trip he’d ever taken.

“It’s not a liability, you know,” Tink said gently, nudging his prosthesis with her glass. “The hand. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was. And it wasn’t. Drunken Hilary’s ill-timed comments had certainly hit their mark, but it wasn’t just the hand. It was what it represented. The very permanent reminder that he was no longer entirely whole.

Most days, he was fine with that. It was much the same as his tattoo. He liked having that proof. However tenuous. However painful. It was a tether to a time he’d been truly happy, and it was a comfort to him, to know he hadn’t imagined it.

Lately, he’d begun to wonder if he’d held on too long.

Tink had said so herself, they’d never stood a chance. That hadn’t bothered him so much before, because he hadn’t really been looking for one. At least, not with Tink.

“I think I fucked up with Emma,” he blurted out.

“Oh, you think?” Tink sneered, downing the last of her glass.

“I… definitely fucked up with Emma,” he agreed, tipping his head back to finish his own drink. It burned, and he let it. He deserved it.

This time it was Tink who reached for the bottle, pouring them another measure each. She didn’t top this one off with water

“To bitchy texts,” she declared, holding her glass aloft. “Ruining everything.”

Killian drank to that.

“So, are we past the denial portion of the evening? You like her, right?” Tink had that twinkle in her eye again. The same one she’d had when she realised the stain on his shirt hadn’t been an accident. Dirt. That was all she wanted.

“I… sometimes.”

Tink rolled her eyes. “Way to commit”

“She’s attractive,” Killian shrugged. “And I find myself... attracted.”

Tink blew a raspberry. “Oh, c’mon. I read your column. You are not subtle. You might as well start drawing ‘KJ 4 ES’ hearts all over your homework.”

“They aren’t that bad,” Killian scoffed.

“Really? Have you read the comment section lately? People ship it!”

“People are little old ladies with too much time to spend on Facebook between soap operas,” Killian responded blithely.  “I’m not overly concerned with their opinions.”

“How about mine? I saw you two sing an Elton John medley together, remember? That wasn’t attraction. That was fireworks.”

“It was stage theatrics,” he corrected. “Besides, it doesn’t matter now. She’s not the forgiving type. I’m not getting back in her good graces.”

“So why screw everything up in the first place? Jealousy?”

Yes.

Killian sighed. “A friend of hers is in town.”

“Like a special friend?”

“Like an old friend. Her oldest. She’s different with him. Happier. I’ve never seen her smile so much. I didn’t even know she could.”

“And you wish that was you? Making her happy?”

Yes.

Killian snorted. “She doesn’t want me.”

“How do you know? Did you ask her?”

As if that was something he could casually slip in a conversation somewhere. ‘Here’s your pint.. Oh, by the way, I quite fancy you and I was wondering if you fancy me back?’

“I think you’re forgetting she has already has a suitor.”

“Who? That Grant guy? They’ve been on what? Two dates? Two dates is not a relationship. Even I’ve spent more time with her than that.”

“Her friend certainly seemed to know all about him..” Killian swallowed back the bile in his throat at the thought.

Tink looked skeptical. “I doubt there’s much to know.”

“And I’ll remind you that this is all for naught, since we’ve established that I made a complete tit of myself, and she’s never speaking to me again.”

They both went silent at the thought. Tink refreshed their drinks.

“Well, then,” she said, offering up her glass for another impromptu toast. “Here’s to learning how to grovel.”

***

I’m sorry. I’m a complete arse. KJ

Yep. ES

***

Killian awoke in a strange room, his mouth dry and his virtue intact. It took him a moment of watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of morning light above his head to figure out exactly where he was.

Tink’s flat. It looked different by day. Shabbier. More lived in. He’d ended up on the sofa somehow, alone, twisted up in a crochet blanket into a strange configuration that would give him hell later. He was still wearing all of his clothes. Even the shirt with the cranberry stain down the front.

He could hear a radio somewhere nearby, giving a bleak update on the state of traffic on the City Bypass. Pipes shuddered, and soft feminine whispers punctuated the spaces between. The smell of burnt coffee grounds wafting up from the cafe downstairs, as the city woke to a new day.

He lay his head back down, and scrubbed at his face with his hand.

How many drinks had it been, all told? Eighty? Too many, he admitted to himself, as he surfed an accompanying wave of nausea.  It was time to find a new crutch. He wasn’t a student anymore.

“Hey, you’re up.” Tink’s voice was fuel to his headache, but her tone was friendly. He sat up to see her standing in the doorway, holding a giant steaming mug in her hands. The underlying tension of their usual morning after routine was gone. She looked comfortable, in a way he’d rarely seen.

“That for me?” he asked, hopefully.

“It is. Thought it might help with the, ah, sore head.”

It did. From the very first sip, Killian felt the fog in his head clearing, and life returning to his limbs. “Thanks, love.”

She nodded, and stepped back. “I was going to let you sleep, but uh, well… your sister-in-law is here.”

Killian nearly dropped the mug. “Elsa’s here?”

“In the kitchen. She showed up about ten minutes ago. You want me to send her in?”

Elsa. In Tink’s kitchen. Like his life hadn’t been strange enough lately.

“What is she-?”

“She didn’t say. But she-” Tink hesitated. “She looks rough. Kind of upset, you know?”

No, he didn’t know. Elsa was the queen of poise. She rarely let her feelings show, least of all to practical strangers. Was it Liam? The boys? Dammit, where was his phone? Had something happened?

He was already on his feet when Elsa rounded the doorway. And even with the warning, it was still a shock to see her. She did, indeed, look rough. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, her face noticeably puffy. She’d forgone the implacable facade she carried with her into the outside world.

“I’ll just… leave you two alone,” Tink said, backing out of the room.

He took a few steps towards Elsa, and then hesitated. “Is everyone-”

“Everyone’s fine. Alive. Healthy. I promise.” She tried for a reassuring smile, but it did nothing of the sort. “Robin told me you might be here. And I’m really sorry to intrude-”

“Elsa,” he said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders. “You’re never intruding. What’s happened?”

She bit her lip, but a single tear still managed to escape, unbidden, trailing down her fair cheek. “You know, I was beginning to think he was cheating on me?” She rolled her eyes heavenward, like that might stem the tide.

Oh god.

“He’d never.” Coming to Liam’s defence was automatic at this point. A reflex.

“No,” she agreed. “He’ll lie, and he’ll steal,  and he’ll gamble, but he won’t cheat.” The sound might’ve been a laugh, if it wasn’t so bitter. So hard. “I know everything. About the money. Weaver. He called me at work, asked after the children. He knew their names. Where they go to school. He even knew the colour of Lachie’s scooter!”

Fear slid into his abdomen like a blade, sharp and cold. “He wouldn’t-”

“He won’t!” Elsa’s eyes flashed defiantly. “I paid him his money. I did everything he asked. Malcolm Weaver has no reason to come near any of us, ever again.”

It was a curious mixture of relief and anxiety, all muddled together, making Killian’s head swim. And somewhere in the mix, guilt. A sense of culpability. “I should’ve told-”

“No,” she said, eyes shining with renewed anger. “My husband should’ve told me. He should’ve trusted me, like I thought I trusted him. And he never should’ve put you in the position of having to lie for him. Or lie to your family. And your eye-”

Her tears were flowing freely now, and Killian’s grip on her arms tightened. “He’s an idiot. And he’s too proud for his own good. But you know he never wanted to hurt you, or disappoint you. You or the boys.”

“I know,” Elsa hiccuped. “But he did. Not because he made a mistake-” She physically swatted the idea away. “We all do that. But because he couldn’t be honest with me. That’s not the marriage I thought I had.”

“Had?” The way she’s said it, it sounded so… final.

Elsa swiped a sleeve across her cheeks, mopping up her tears. “I love him, Killian. You know I love him. But I can’t look at him right now. Anna asked me to stay. I’ll take the boys to New York for the summer. I don’t need them getting caught up in all this.”

“But you are coming back?” The lump in Killian’s throat had nearly doubled. As much as he’d resented being the black sheep in a flock of prize Merinos, he couldn’t quite imagine a life now without them.

Elsa smiled a dim smile. “This is home. And you Jones Boys, you’re home too,” she said, gathering him into a fierce hug. “And you’re always going to be a part of this family, with or without Liam. You know that, don’t you?”

It was an oft-repeated phrase of hers. Always trying to include him. Always trying to set him at ease. But it had never really rung true, before. He’d never been wholly convinced. They were a family, and he was an interloper. A squatter. He’d come to terms with that.

It wasn’t until he found himself crushed under the weight of Elsa’s furious embrace that he finally let himself see it. It wasn’t just Elsa’s bird bones that had a hold on him. It was her affection for him. Her love. The well ran deep, the force more formidable than he would have imagined. A sister’s love.

“Aye,” he said, letting his chin rest atop her shoulder. “I know that.”

They separated a bit, and she smiled her first real smile. “Took you long enough.”

“I’m a Jones,” he shrugged wryly. “We’re not the smartest.”

“No,” Elsa agreed, sweeping his hair from his forehead like he’d watched her do for Lachie and Callum a thousand times. A protective, nurturing gesture. Automatic as breathing. “And what did you do to your shirt?”

***

I am your problem. That is, I wish to be your problem. KJ

I confess: I was an almighty dickhead the other night. And if you don’t forgive me for that, I would understand. KJ

I made you feel as if you weren’t important to me, but that isn’t true. We’re friends. Good friends, I hope. I was angry at so many people that night, but none of them were you. You just got caught in the crossfire, and I can only apologise for that. I would like to do so in person, if you’d permit me. KJ

You give good apology, Killian Jones. But I know how good you are with words. ES

Not good enough, apparently. KJ

You know you made me feel like an idiot, right? For thinking we were friends? ES

We are friends. I’m just a spectacularly bad one, sometimes. I could blame the drink, or the stress of Liam’s secret, or Hilary’s tactless comments about my hand, or August not having a clue who I was, or even how fucking raw I was after sitting on that settee with you. But the truth is, sometimes I’m not quite the man I want to be. KJ

Maybe you don’t want to be friends with someone like that. I wouldn’t blame you. But I also think you understand, perhaps better than anyone, why we push people away without really meaning to. KJ

A little fucked up. A little scared. KJ

I understand. ES

I mean, I’m still kind of pissed. ES

But I get it. ES

Pint? KJ

Busy. I’m babysitting a novelist, remember? They’re very high maintenance. ES

Bring him along. Don’t you think it’s about time he learned of the wonder that is Open Mic Night? They moved it to Friday this week. KJ

Oh no. That can only end in heartbreak. ES

Heartbreak Hotel ;-) KJ.

Maybe next time, Jones. ES

I look forward to it, Swan. KJ

***

Emma and her novelist never made an appearance at Open Mic Night, though Killian spent half the night watching the door anyway. Not the entire night, mind. Robin was being far too entertaining for that.

His bereaved, beloved Robin, who’d taken the stage and was attempting a version of Wild Thing complete with a series of hip gyrations which made Eddie Vedder’s relationship with his microphone stand seem chaste.

A courtship display if Killian had ever seen one. All directed at the brunette in the front row, who looked decidedly more like the university administrator she was than Killian remembered last time he’d seen her. As Wonder Woman. Out of costume, she was better recognised as Regina Mills, University Vice-Chancellor.

Apparently they were dating now. And things were going well.

He could only confess to a little jealousy. Robin, more than anyone he knew, deserved a little happiness. Though when things started to get hot and heavy after Robin’s encore, Killian was only too happy to make his excuses.

***

Returning home to the big empty house in Merchiston brought mixed feelings. Killian still preferred his bed to the medieval torture device which was Tink’s sofa, but there was something unnerving about the place with the boys gone. Without laughter, or chaos, or the 60% chance of treading on a stray Lego brick with your bare feet at any given moment.

He was almost disappointed when he made it down the hallway unscathed in the dark. Right up until the moment he switched on his bedroom light, and found a dark clad figure standing directly before him.

His scream was not particularly masculine. Not as he stumbled backwards, and not as he picked up the nearest object and threw it with all of his might at his would-be attacker.

The boot caught the figure upside the head, hard enough to have him swearing. By the second string of curses, Killian realised his mistake.

“Bloody hell, Liam. Do you have a death wish?” he asked, dropping the second boot and coming to his brother’s side. “I thought I was about to meet my fucking maker.”

“My. Mistake,” Liam ground out through gritted teeth, hands still clutched to his head where Killian had struck his blow. Liam didn’t have to ask who he’d mistaken him for. Even after Elsa’s intervention, the spectre of Weaver’s goons loomed large in their imaginations.

And that’s when he saw it, lying on the rug where it had fallen during their altercation. The Galaxy bar.

Liam’s eyes followed his gaze, crinkling slightly despite his pain. “Happy St Killian’s Day, little brother.”

***

-KJ has sent you a document file-

What’s this? ES

I’m sure even you can recognise a Word document when you see one, Swan. KJ

I mean, why am I getting it? You’ve never sent me a copy of your column before it’s published before. ES

I’m trying something new. It’s called ‘consideration for other people’s feelings’. KJ

Huh. Seems kind of out of character for you. ES

I probably deserved that. KJ

You definitely did. ES

This column touches on some… more sensitive topics. I’d feel more comfortable having your approval before I took it to Liam. Would you please indulge me? KJ

Fiiiine. ES

... ES

Um. Wow. ES

Too personal. Understood. Consider it vanquished. KJ

No! I mean, yeah, it’s personal. But it’s… real. I never really… It’s good, Killian. And if Liam doesn’t have a problem with it, then I don’t have a problem with it. ES

You’re positive? Once I post this, there’s no taking it back. KJ

Positive. ES

As you wish. KJ

[squadron-of-damned]

⭐ - for the fanfic ask

Yes okay, my pick. that’s the tough part. Hmm… I’d say I’d like to talk about Black Garb, but frankly, I think I have said everything I wanted to say there.

So instead let’s talk about The Long-Awaited Sequel. The name itself is supposed to be a tie-in with the previous work from the Basketville series, because that one is called The Last Chapter, so there is a book theme supposedly going on and also it focuses on the new life Downey and Vetinari have in Basketville, so it is “a brand new book” which everyone has been long waiting for.

Fun fact: Originally the “main hero” whose POV is followed was supposed to be Christian Agate, the renown paperback author who is definitely not the Discworld incarnation of Agatha Christie. While this idea got scratched, the book theme remained just as the concept of Basketville being “the countryside village to which old (male) literary heroes retire to have a cottage, bees and their best companion to whom they aren’t married (but only because it isn’t legal yet).”

Part of the fun with this bodyswap fic was that Vatinari and Downey know each other well enough to actually pull off they are the other person while nobody really knows them enough to notice if there is something wrong. That means that I as an author (and subsequently you as the reader) didn’t have to focus on the “comedy effect” of the bodyswap when they are “this close to being caught,” because let’s serve us clean wine: I don’t like this trope. No, what I wanted to explore was how the physical differences in a body affect the individual.

Let’s start with Downey. In the book Night Watch it is implied that he might have a problem reading long words (although it is possible Vetinari meant that as a very ugly joke) and over the time this implication evolved into a headcanon that he has dyslexia and possibly dysgraphia as well. (I know that they aren’t one and the same, but my two childhood friends have them both and when thinking about one I find it quite difficult not to connect it to the other.) And since you specifically Napoleon are asking this, you are the one who’s assigned that man synethesia as well. I believe that it isn’t addressed in this fic, but originally it was supposed to be and the only reason it isn’t there is because I didn’t figure out a simple way to make AO3 format work with colours.

There is the poem:

This is now all of my wit:to love loud turmoil of the fight,to penetrate girls’ dreams in night,to be in debt a little bit,to whistle as my mouth is shaped,to wash away worry with wine,to squander fast this life of mine,to gain nothing, same to forfeit.

It is my translation of František Gellner’s To je teď celá moudrost moje and in the fic it has scattered bolding and italicizing which is supposed to represent how it is seen through Downey’s eyes. Originally the whole text was heavily colourized, all the alike sounding parts done in the same or similar colours, so it looked like a very bad acid trip. (I was quite angry when the colours didn’t make it in because I spent about an hour colouring that damn thing for nothing.)

Here is the fun part: Why does Vetinari experience these conditions when he is in Downey’s body while he doesn’t get to deal with Downey’s short-fused temper? Because according to some very smart article which I have read and lost and can’t be bothered at the moment to find again, things like dyslexia or introversion tendencies are bound to brain. In fact this article which focused on the fact that people are born either more extroverted or introverted and they can’t do anything about it because it is a physical condition just like the solidness of your bones or blood type is what inspired this particular fic.

Do Vetinari, a known book worm, finds out that there are people who are literally physically incapable to enjoy a book without getting a horrible headache. He also finds out that there are people for whom being around other people is not energetically draining. I can’t remember if he has to deal with Downey’s absolute musical hearing. I think he doesn’t.

Downey on the other hand is mostly reliant on his people skill, on the fact that he is good at being around people and in the only moment that he is supposed to use it (the variation of the PTA gathering), it fails him because of Vetinari’s brain introversion. There is also a minor deal with haywire colourvision which I don’t think I’ve ever bothered to explain. That is a headcanon of mine which doesn’t affect anything and hasn’t got any real backing by the actual lore, but through Vetinari’s eyes Downey can see colours which he previously couldn’t see. The word itself doesn’t get actually used, but Vetinari has tetrachromatic vision instead of the human usual trichromatic one.* Yes, I am aware that the cone cell pigment genes are bound to the X chromosome, thus making tetrachromacy a thing found in the XX 23rd gene combination, but consider: tetrachromacy has actually been found in men, Discworld genetic is strange, magic can apply, no one is saying that Discworld human genes are like ours, no one is saying that Vetinari is cis, also I don’t care because this is a work of fiction not a research paper so if you have a problem with Vetinari having a trait predominately found in human females, it is a you-problem and you have to deal with it somehow (probably by not reading that fic for a start). He also has to deal with chronic pain in leg which I believe Vetinari is more or less used to, but Downey isn’t.

Speaking of chronic pains. Both of those guys have been through some serious shit. Both mentally and physically. In case you haven’t been here for my writing, Downey’s time in Ankh-Morpork during Snapcase’s regime was not a walk in a rosy garden. Or maybe it was a walk in a rosy garden but he was forced to take it through the thorny bushes. He was interrogated, he was tortured for information and there had been at least one attempt to execute him which is implied in the fic. Downey says that he loves Vetinari “Enough for a lack of eloquence to be considered of virtue” just the moment after some very old scars on Downey’s body are mentioned. I don’t know if this reads clearly for you, but it has always been clear to me (and that is why I cannot describe it better): “They tried to physically force me to tell them everything about you and I didn’t say a word.” Until today I am convinced that this particular line is one of the… strongest that I have ever written.

There is a very strong reference to Kafka in this work, namely the very hideous tattoo on Downey’s back which says VerboIncooperativus Testi (verbally uncooperative witness, although the translation is a shared effort of mine and Google Translator, though Discworld Latatin is a bastart language, so whatever). All I can say to that is this: In the Penal Colony.

That brings me to the side characters. Some of them have only a little impact on the story, such as Papermould. Some of them are long time dead like Offer Littlegood to whom I would like to dedicate a short work on his own because he is the Discworld’s constructor of the horrible tattoo-execution machine, which might or might not be clear from what is written about him and implied in other parts of the work. I have a lot of thoughts about Offer Littlegood. I am a loud about being from Czechia, so here is a linguistic joke for you: a rather archaic/fairy-tale sounding euphemism for an executioner (and torturer, stories like to pile these two jobs into one) in Czech is “mistr málodobrý” which translates to English as “mister (or master) littlegood.” That is where Littlegood’s name comes from, to me he is an executioner and torturer by name.

Then there is July Mendahorse. For a starter: I love July Mendahorse. She isn’t pretty and she is the perfect noir femme fatale and she is an important character in The Graveyard Shift. In this story there are featured three people who look a lot like Vetinari: Vetinari himself, Constantin Meserole who is his cousin and a mirror thirty years to the past (he is far mor like Vetinari in his mind than he realizes and he would hate himself a lot if he had ever learned that), and then July Mendahorse (who is actually also a lot like Vetinari, but she lacks the upbringing and education). The opening line about her section is a lowkey reference to the song The House of the Rising Sun (this gets more played on in The Graveyard Shift). When Downey and Vetinari are talking about their exes, Downey recalls briefly dating July (without naming her) who happened to look a lot like Vetinari and speak with his accent. I am not sure if I want to work with it in The Graveyard Shift or give Downey/July their own fic in the original timeline but I want to clear up one thing for you here: Downey actively conditioned July to erase a whole a lot of differences between her and Vetinari. Some of that were good things, like giving her education or taking her to see culture, some of that were… less nice. Not exactly abusive, but… Look, folks, don’t try to forge a girl you’ve found on the street into your unreachable partner of your dreams, alright?

Since we have Vetinari-alike people here, let’s give a paragraph to Constantin Meserole, shall we? If Constanting had a dollar for every time someone called him Havelock, he’d be a very rich man. He looks like Vetinari at that age. He is very actively trying to difference himself from his cousin, but he fails to realize he is doing it in the most Vetinari-like (or Constantin-like) way possible. He is more psychology oriented than Vetinari, but he is also more fed up with his situation. Vetinari’s (and Downey, Sybil and Vimes’s) generation could be compared to those people who were children and teens during the 70′s and 80′s (speaking from a country which used to be a part of the communist block at that time: fucking bloody normalization, so with the Wint/Snapcase’s regime it is twice as accurate), while Constantin (and Lus Twinkle and all their classmates) are those who are growing up right now. They don’t remember that era but they grew up with people telling stories what it was like and they see people actively trying to make history repeat itself and they are feeling like AAARGH! Oh, and Constantin and Twinkle’s relationship is a mirror to Downey and Vetinari’s relationship in the sense “Okay, whit if they weren’t absolute idiots, but only a little bit idiots?”

There are retired fictional characters: Blatantly obvious Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson except they are dwarves now (and are actually both girls), Captain Tramain who is from Wizardry 8 and I’ve always had a soft spot for him. There is aforementioned and not entirely fictional Christian Agate.

There is Helen Foxglove. I have a friend who has just writhed herself out of an abusive marriage. This fic was written before she actually made it and at the time I felt that the most I could do for her aside from coming over every here and then and helping her out was to give her a fictional happy ending. This is that happy ending where she got out with her children and her dogs, and her piece of a shit husband got a dagger through his skull. Maybe some time in the future Helen Foxglove will get together with a witch who might and might not be a version of my mum. Look, I’ve always thought that those two should get together ever since I was, like, four and knew what ‘get together’ was. I’ve always saw her son as a brother, so you know.

I like writing about Basketville but I also find it terribly difficult. Terry Pratchett said that Ankh-Morpork is a fantasy city which still functions after the story ends. In the same way, Basketville is the happy ending retirement countryside village which still functions after the story ends. Everything that happens in Basketville is an epilogue to some story, but it is important to realize that there are people whose whole lives were other people’s epilogues. That is both difficult and amazing to write.

[undocarly]

THE INTERVIEW: THE 1975

The 1975 have been a long time coming. The four met at secondary school, started jamming in each other’s bedrooms throughout their teenage years and finally got around to releasing an EP last year – nearly ten years after writing their first song – before signing to a mate’s record label ‘when they were ready’. Their debut album is due out this summer and with 2013 touted as the ‘return of the guitar band’ we decide to get to know the frontrunners a little better.

TALK US THROUGH HOW THE BAND FORMED?

We didn’t really start a band per se, we were friends and we just started picking up instruments and messing about. None of us had picked an instrument particularly, we were all big fans of music and just tinkered with lots of different things. So when we all started playing music together it was a natural evolution, an organic process really. We started playing in punk cover bands and by the time we were 18 or 19 we were supporting our mates who were in more established bands – but we never felt the necessity to put anything out until August last year.

SO AT WHAT POINT DID IT BECOME MORE SERIOUS?

We’ve always believed that we could do it but retrospectively, when I think about it now, we’ve had quite a lot of foresight, we were very aware that there was no rush. We’d seen bands put music out too early and it came back to bite them in the arse. It was just a stage in our lives that felt right, we were signed by an indie label – and before that had been winded and dined by some major labels when we were very young and not ready – and because we had big songs, everyone was very excited. But nobody at major labels has any balls and that was proven to us so we signed to our mates’ label in the UK and Vagrant in America and it just felt right. We had enough material that we were proud of as well. I don’t know if we would have worked if we were signed to a major. We have to pride ourselves on our conviction.

There’s a brilliant Kafka quote that’s: a camel is a horse designed by a committee. If you’ve got the idea of a horse in your mind and you then give it to twelve people you’re going to get a camel back. And that’s very much how I feel about this band. The devil’s in the detail – it’s the intricacies that make us who we are.

THE STORY BEHIND YOUR NAME HAS BEEN QUITE ROMANTICISED – WHERE’S THE TRUTH IN IT?

It’s become quite idealised, yeah. It’s a romantic story though. I was on holiday in Northern Majorca and I went for a walk and met an artist out there. We hung out a bit and I left with loads of literature that he gave me – I was a very impressionable 19-year-old boy. So I got the books home and read them and one had been treated like a diary by the previous owner, covered in scribblings. It wasn’t a suicide note as has been reported but it was obviously the demise of someone, you could tell from the writing, and the note was dated 1 June the 1975. It was the use of the word ‘the’ that stuck with me. I didn’t instantly think ‘oh I’m going to name my band that’ when we were trying to come up with a name I remembered that story.

A LOT OF YOUR MUSIC IS QUITE AMBIENT, AS WELL AS THE INDIE AND POP THAT WE’VE HEARD. HAVE YOU FOUND YOUR SOUND YET?

That’s the question that we’ve become fascinated with, and that has defined us recently. With the Facedown and Sex EP it brought quite a lot of critical acclaim upon us but also a lot of criticism because people were saying ‘do they know who they are’ or ‘what do they want to be’ and we got fascinated by it. We don’t listen to one type of music or consume any media in one linear format so we find it difficult to create in that way. It’s not even a conscious approach it’s just that our musical vocabulary has developed in that way. We’ve been living in each others pockets for ten years so our tastes and influences are the same, which makes it very coherent. The idea of searching within yourself to find what you want to project, or suffering from a lack of identity – everyone can relate to that. It’s a reflection to who we are as people. If you can manage to not have a defined sound over 16 tracks then you’re doing okay. I’m not harboured by that way of thinking.

DO YOU VIEW ANYONE AS COMPETITION?

I haven’t really thought about it you know. I’ve never really worried about the competition, it feels like the pressure is kind of off us a bit because if you are investing in our band you are investing in us – this is the only thing that we know how to do. It’s our only form of expression. We’regrouped in with the usual suspects – Palma Violets, Peace and Swim Deep but I would put us more along the likes of AlunaGeorge or the Weeknd. The people that we know and are close to musically are all in the R’n’B scene like Bareface or Tourist, so we don’t feel that much competition because we don’t see our sound the same as those we’re compared to. We’ve been called guitar ‘n’ B before and I love that.

WHO’S IMPRESSING YOU IN MUSIC RIGHT NOW?

Laura Mvula is great and we love A$AP Rocky more than belief. I met him outside our hotel – he recognised me from the Futures festival which was amazing but weird.  And also Kendrick Lamar, Tourist and obviously Aluna George and Disclosure. Our heads have always been buried in R’n’B and dance music so we identify with that.

DO YOU THINK CURRENT R’N’B IS GOING TO MOVE AWAY FROM THIS DANCE SOUND THAT IT’S LATCHED ON TO?

Hopefully there’ll just be a move towards something more organic. But currently I think music moves in waves, something wishy washy always follows something good. Look at what you had after Blur and Oasis – Travis! And then the Libertines came along and then the Arctic Monkeys which was great but then what did you get after – The Hooisers and the Wombats. The David Guetta scene has to die at some stage. We can live in hope at least.

YOU WORKED WITH MIKE CROSSEY ON THE ALBUM – HOW WAS THAT?

He’s now one of my closest friends. He understood how we worked and he understood that it can be quite unsettling moving away from a way of working that you’re used to. We were originally just going to do that album ourselves but he came on board after falling in love with the band and he didn’t steam roll over anything we did, and we listened to him because of that. I learned so much from him about producing. His technical understanding revitalised our creative process.

WHAT CAN WE EXPECT FROM THE ALBUM?

It’s very broad you know, and very ambitious. It doesn’t sound like the EPs even though ‘Sex’, ‘The City’ and ‘Chocolate’ are on the album. I’m not very good at retrospect, I have a lot more conviction about what I’m saying in the moment so most of my lyrics are quotes, like in ‘Sex’, most of that song was spoken at some point. That song was about four or five different girls, and a lot of them have picked up on it because they remember me saying those exact words to them!

YOU’RE ALSO SIGNED IN THE US TO VAGRANT. DO YOU THINK THE US WILL GET YOU?

I think they’ll get us more. They love the accent so that’s a start. Musically I think our album will work really well in America because even though it feels like a happy record most of the lyrics are not, they’re quite unsettling – like ‘Chocolate’ which is about my relationship with a particular drug and our relationship with the police in a very small middle class town.

WHAT ARE YOU HUNGRY FOR?

I’m hungry for seeing a really emotional validation in people through our music. What we’re starting to get now from people is a direct emotional response which has been quite moving. We’ve been writing music for nine years but before this tour hadn’t really performed our own music to people. I’m hungry to hear a story about how our music has affected somebody’s life – whether they listened to a song to get through something or whether they were inspired by listening to us, I’m hungry for a human connection.

Interview: hunger tv, feb 26th 2013

[coeurdastronaute]

Essays in Existentialism: Movies

Jake was a romantic at heart and a huge fan of old b+w movies, and he and Clarke went to the old local movie theatre every Sunday to watch them. So when Jake dies, Clarke carries on the Sunday tradition alone...til, one Sunday, she meets Lexa.

The funeral was at 1pm.

At six-thirty, with no will left for the rest of the people that crowded in her house, the only daughter left the wake without a single word. Wondered straight out off of the porch with no real thought at all, not even missed by anyone in particular. 

There were pictures being shown, albums opened and passed around to the extended family who mourned and cried and tried to laugh, though found it almost impossible with the circumstances. The house on the end of the street, the one with the stupid miniature windmill in the front, the one with the big porch and tool shed in the back that once was always open, but now had remained shut for months, that house was very alive despite the somber reality it would face soon enough. It was too alive, in all actuality. Too many people filling up too much quiet with too many words of too much sympathy.

But none of that mattered.

At six-thirty, Clarke couldn’t handle anything else. She didn’t want to hear anymore stories about what her father was like as a kid, or the pranks he played on coeds in college, or even how sweet he was with her when she was just a toddler. She didn’t want to tell anyone anything either, instead, electing to horde all of her father that she could to herself, afraid that once she spoke the words, he would disappear and not be her’s any longer. Now she was a daughter without a father, and she was making it up as she went.

Like clockwork, her body moved on its own routine. The car drove itself without her thinking, stopping at signs and signaling accordingly. It parked in a familiar lot. At one point, she was certain there was a song playing on the radio, but by the time she stopped, all that there was in the cab of the car was silence.

“One, please,” she swallowed and dug in her purse for money at the window.

“The Sunday feature isn’t until nine.”

“I know. I was just. I was hoping that...” she furrowed and tried to speak words, only realizing that she didn’t have any left at all in her for such things, and there was no where else she wanted to go on a Sunday.

“We’re not even really open,” the clerk at the window shifted nervously. All of sixteen and very unsure what to do for the woman in the nice black dress who was four hours early for a movie.

Clarke dug into the purse that was just for show, coming up with about three and a half mints and a tampon.

“Ma’am, I’m not sure I can sell you anything...”

“I know I have... I can figure it out.”

“Let me get my manager,” he squeaked. “Just give me a second.”

Clarke took very little notice of what was happening on the street, as nothing interested her more than getting into her regular seat in her regular theater and seeing whatever was appearing. She didn’t even care what the clerk was actually saying. She was on a mission.

“Listen, I just... I have to get in. I have to see this movie,” Clarke murmured, her chest inflating with the many breaths she was taking. “You don’t understand. I can’t go home. There are thirty people at my house, all looking at me with these sad eyes, and I’m not sure how, but my best friend is dead, who happened to be my dad, and I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow, but I know that I can shut off my brain for two hours and sit in the dark and forget. That’s all I want. I just want to forget. So please. Can I just hide here for a couple of hours?”

“Um.”

“Just. Give me a second. I’ll be quiet. I’ll just sit there. But I can’t go home. I can’t... Thirty people who just want to apologize,” she shook her head and swallowed. “I come here every week. I swear I do. I know everyone’s names, and they know me. My father brings me here. Brought me. Brought me here every Sunday since I was like ten.”

“Like I said, it’s only seven.”

“Excuse me,” a stranger asked, interrupting the match between the frantic woman and the pitiful attendant at the window. Both just stared back at the newest addition.

The old flannel shirt slid off of one shoulder, while a necklace hung long from her neck. Hair a mess of dark brown, tucked up with sunglasses fresh from the early sunny spring day, green eyes squinted and perused the situation carefully. Shorts showed off long tan legs while her hand fiddled with the edge of her shirt. All at once, she was both severe and soft, a delicate balance politely on the slope of her jaw and the angle of her nose.

Opposite of her, the woman on the verge of tough tears tilted her strong chin. Blonde hair in a neat bun, single gold chain around her neck. Black dress and heels. Every part of her was rigid at the moment. Every bit of her ached and wanted to say yes. Not two more different images could have been seen so closely juxtaposed.

“Um. Yeah,” she continued, not earning a response. “What’s playing?”

“I’m... I’m not sure,” Clarke’s brow wrinkled into peaks as she looked helplessly back at the attendant.

“Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy,” he offered.

“Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy,” Clarke repeated.

“I’ve never seen it,” she smiled. “Is it any good?”

“One of the best. Lot’s of mummy puns.”

“I do love a good pun. Could I have two tickets, please?” the stranger decided, tugging some money out of her pocket and counting it as she squinted at the sign behind the ticket booth.

“The movie doesn’t start until nine,” the teenager repeated once more. Sundays were the easy days. That’s what they told him when he swapped shifts. He could picture his coworkers laughing evilly in the distance at the idiot who took a Sunday.

“I don’t mind,” she shrugged, sliding the money through the gap in the glass.

To his credit, he debated it before giving up and deciding his wages and three hours of training didn’t prepare him for this situation.

“Thank you,” Clarke nodded. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No worries,” she smiled and held the door open. “I was just walking by and happened to be thinking about how much I wanted to see a movie.”

It was a lie, but Clarke didn’t have the wherewithal to imagine anything other than what was presented to her. So she nodded, as if it were the most reasonable answer to the situation. As if it made sense that a stranger happened upon her and bought her a ticket because she really did just want to watch a random movie.eeee

“I only caught a bit of that out there,” the stranger shrugged. “Sounds like you’re having a bad day.”

“I don’t know. I guess,” Clarke sighed. “Thanks again.”

Without any other indication, Clarke moved toward her seat in the theater, unable to keep up polite conversation. The stranger took it as enough of a sign, and nodded once again, electing to take a seat a few rows up and on the opposite side of the theater.

Quiet and calm, Clarke felt relief to be somewhere safe, somewhere time couldn’t touch, where nothing bad happened and where she didn’t have to think about the closed casket.

By the time the lights dimmed only a handful of other people filtered in. Clarke didn’t notice the occasional glance from the buyer of her ticket. Instead, she disappeared into the movie, and it was, perhaps, the best gift anyone could have given her on that terrible day.

It wasn’t as if there weren’t anything else to do on a Sunday night. About sixteen pages of papers needed to be written and a stack of books that never seemed to get smaller needed to be read, but still, Lexa found herself checking her watch and once again refreshing the website for the small theater on Main Street.

“Hey, where are you off to?” Anya called from down the hall as Lexa tugged on shoes by the door. With a heavy sigh, she made her way toward the kitchen.

Tall, and skinny, much like their mother, Anya was responsible and always so much older than her years. With a dish towel over her shoulder and hair flying away from cleaning, she was beautiful and clever and still a pain of an older sister.

“Hey! Not nice!” the three year old complained as her aunt stole a green bean from her plate. “Auntie Lexi stole my green bean!”

“Tattle tale,” she teased, kissing the brown hair.

“We’re working on asking nicely,” Anya reminded her little sister. “Now what do you say?” she said in that sing song way that haunted them from so many kids shows.

“I’m sorry,” she growled and made a face at her niece, earning a giggle.

“That’s okay. Do you want more?”

“No thank you.”

“So where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out, out, you’re just going out?” Anya taunted, hands on her hips.

Four years separated them, and yet more than that. It flt longer that they were apart. When Anya left and then came back a few years later with a newborn, it bonded them. After their mother died, and Lexa moved in to pursue her degree and help. Now they were a tiny family. Now she was even older, even wiser.

“Out out out out,” the little girl echoed.

“Double-teamed, huh?” Lexa grinned. “I’m just going to go catch a movie.”

“Hmmm,” her sister hummed.

“Hmmm,” her daughter mimicked.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the girl in the black dress from last week, does it?”

“OoohOOOhooh,” Lenny teased with a big smile.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” she moaned, putting her head down on the counter. “I don’t know anyone here outside of my classes. I just kind of want to go see a movie.”

“This has nothing to do with the pretty girl who didn’t even notice you?”

“Okay, alright,” Lexa shook her head and tossed her hair around. “On that note, I’m going. I’ll be home round eleven.”

“Or later if you’re lucky,” Anya teased.

“Night, Len,” she smiled and ruffled the hair of the toddler at the table. “I’ll see you later.”

It took a little more teasing before she made her way out to her car. Last week, it’d been pure luck that she was even downtown, choosing to usually forego drinks with people who described Kafka as one of their greatest motivations for studying literature. But her sister made her branch out.

There really was no reason to go back. She enjoyed the movie well enough, but maybe Anya was right, maybe it was to see if that stranger wit the sad eyes was going to be there again. All of which felt like a very weird thing to feel. After Costia, after Chicago, after all of it, Lexa didn’t think she’d ever be curious about someone else ever again.

If she didn’t see her, then none of it would matter and she could focus more on her paper that was stalled somewhere between analysis and absolute shit.

To her credit, she second guessed herself about thirteen times as she sat in the parking lot before she just gave in and went.

“Good evening,” a different attendant met her as she approached the window.

“Hi,” she breathed, shy and anxious.

“I’d like to have one, please. For the… Um, what’s it?”

“Fantastic Voyage,” he supplied.

“Yes. That,” Lexa nodded, sliding across her money.

It felt weird, to hold the ticket, but still, Lexa fiddled with it as she made her way inside, out of the lingering heat of the summer. Careful to not look around too much, but still trying to see everyone, she cautiously approached the theater.

By the time she took a seat, she was all nerves.

Nothing to worry about. No pretty girls in sight, she typed, using her phone as a crutch.

So you did go to see a pretty girl, Anya retorted.

No. Just proving you wrong. I came for some good, quality cinema.

Lenny said you’re lying.

A box of candy rattled beside her, pulling Lexa from the bright light of her phone. It slid into the cup hole on the armrest before she could argue more with her sister.

“I didn’t think I’d get a chance to thank you, but I hope you like sno-caps.”

“Hey,” Lexa swallowed and sat up a little bit in her chair. “Yeah. I mean. Of course. Yeah I do. But you don’t have to give me… I mean. It wasn’t…”

“You  might not ever know how nice of a gesture that was,” she continued. “But I really do appreciate it...”

“Lexa.”

“I am very grateful, Lexa.”

“Just… helping out I guess. It wasn’t a big deal…”

“Clarke,” she smiled, holding out her hand. “It’s nice to meet my knight in shining flip flops.”

“I should thank you. I’ve never been in this theater. And I never saw an Abbott and Costello movie. Now I’m teaching my three-year old niece bits,” Lexa rambled, shaking the hand one too many times, gripping it just a little too firmly. “Sorry. That’s a lot. I just. You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” Clarke nodded, crossing her arms as she leaned against the row ahead.

Gone was the dress and the neat hair and the heels. Lexa liked all of it though. Relaxed in an old, oversized sweater and long, long legs, her hair looked lighter than last week, if that was possible. The dim of the auditorium didn’t let Lexa see her eyes well enough, which was a travesty of the greatest degree.

“Then you’re welcome I guess.”

“So you liked the movie?” Clarke continued.

“I really did. I’m not too sure about this one, but I figured this was a good enough way to spend a Sunday evening. A nice detox from pouring over books and writing impossible papers.”

“This one’s also a good one,” she assured her.

The lights flickered and both looked up, knowing what it meant.

“I better get back to my seat. Enjoy those. I asked specifically for the not stale kind of candy,” Clarke promised, pushing off gracefully.

“Thanks.”

“Enjoy it.”

“You too.”

Lexa’s heart sank slightly as she made it a few steps toward the aisle.

“Maybe I’ll see you next week.”

“Maybe,” she nodded eagerly.

The lights faded not a minute after her departure, but the entire movie, Lexa felt herself fighting the urge to turn around and think of something clever to say, though nothing came to mind. Grateful for some otherworldly will power, she found herself enjoying the movie well enough.

As the end drew closer, she felt her body grow tenser with the idea that she would see Clarke when they left, an that was just another chance to look like an idiot. Surely she couldn’t not embarrass herself for that long.

“So, what did you think?” Clarke called as Lexa tried to hurry through the aisle.

“I liked last week's better.”

“Yeah, hard to beat Bud and Lou,” she smiled.

“If you know all of the movies already, why do you come?”

“Now that is a question.”

“Sorry, it just seemed… I don’t know,” Lexa shrugged and tossed her trash as they walked into the lobby.

Clarke stopped and debated, staring out at the dark that settled on their quiet town, made much heavier due to the day. The entire city prepared for the new week, already in bed and anxious to be miserable with work.

“Do you want to maybe grab a coffee?” Clarke decided, finally turning back to the confused girl in her wake. “We can talk about movies, and why I watch them. And you can tell me about books and papers.”

“Um, yeah. Sure. That’s. We could,” she nodded eagerly.

Carefully, Lexa checked herself in the mirror once again. She ran her hand through the mess on her head and frowned as she adjusted her nerdy glasses that she dreaded. Of course her contacts ran out. Of course she dreaded today.

With a final sigh, she decided that was as good as she could do, though it did not help her nerves.

“Ohhh, look at this one,” Anya teased as she sat on the couch and dried off her daughter, fresh from the bath. “Someone put on her cute flannel for her date.”

“It’s not a date,” Lexa insisted.

“You’ve spent the past two months with this girl.”

“Okay, just seeing movies, and only on Sundays.”

“What about lunch the other day? And drinks last night?” her sister reminded her.

“You look pretty and smart,” Lenny offered after stepping into her pajama pants.

“Thank you, Len,” Lexa nodded politely as she slipped on her boots.

“You should tell Clarke that she looks smart. Mom said brains are most important.”

“Solid dating advice,” Anya reasoned, helping her daughter slip her head through the shirt. “And put your arm around her. That always works. Classic movie move.”

“I’m not making a… I wouldn’t… No. I told. No. I told you it’s just because I like movies. Her dad just died.”

“She’s giving off vibes. And you know it.”

“Okay, alright, well….” Lexa nodded and made her way toward the door. “On that note. Thank you both.”

“Love you!” her sister called.

“Home by midnight, missy,” her niece reminded her.

By the time Lexa made it to the theater, she was a ball of nerves, working it all over in her head. Her sister was absolutely infuriating and lovely and just exhausting. She just liked hanging out with Clarke. That was it. It wasn’t that she was fun and a breath of fresh air, and absolutely her favorite person to look at and talk to, because that would be ridiculous. She just liked movies. Lexa just liked an escape.

“I like your glasses,” Clarke smiled as Lexa approached, deep in thought and distracted.

“Oh, yeah? Um these? I…” she sputtered gracelessly and pressed them up on her nose. “My new contacts went to my old address.”

“I don’t know. These are adorable. You look like you read books and drink gross coffee in the park.”

“Well, that’s fairly accurate.”

Lexa watched the blonde appraise her face, though nothing really changed except her glasses. There was something about blue eyes on her that felt intimidating and violent in the best way.

“I like it,” Clarke finally decided, as if she was truly debating it the entire time, weighing her options.  

“My niece said that I looked smart, which is what all girls should want to be.”

“A little feminist in the making?” Clarke chuckled, grabbing Lexa’s elbow as they got in line for tickets.

“My sister is insistent that her daughter is not going to end up pregnant, unmarried, and not ready like her. I mean, she’s a spectacular mother, but I know she thinks she isn’t doing well enough because she needs help. While our mother did it with two kids, completely alone.”

“I mean, Lenny sounds like an amazing kid. So I’m sure she does a great job. Plus Auntie Lexa probably just causes more trouble than the four year old.”

All Lexa could do was grin and order two tickets for them when they reached the window. It was unspoken that she bought the tickets and Clarke bought them candy and a drink to split. It’d been that way for what felt like forever, but wasn’t even that long at all.

“You never told me how she got the name,” Clarke reminded Lexa, as they took their normal seats after loading up. “Lenny isn’t a typical name.”

“And Clarke is?”

“As an expert in weird names, trust me. I know they have a story.”

“Well,” Lexa sighed, crossing her leg as she got comfortable. “Anya was very high on meds, and we’d been joking about names for the entire pregnancy. She was so stressed. I was still away at college, she was going alone until I came for the delivery. Len’s dad pops in and out, so she did it all. And I think she always knew what she was going to name her, but didn’t want to tell me. She’s named after our mother, Eleanor. Anya was going to call her Ellie.”

“And Auntie Lexa decided that was too normal?” Clarke asked, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

“I did,” she grinned, digging her phone out of her pocket. “She knows she’s in trouble when she gets Eleanor’d. She loves her name. Here she is.”

“Aww, look at that,” Clarke cooed, softening as Lexa showed off.

They were just barely texting friends, in that they only started to text every single day. And Lexa loved it. Now she was going to send pictures.

“I swear, your smile must be genetic because that’s pure trouble.”

“We’ve been known to cause a bit, yeah,” Lexa shrugged. “How was your paper?”

“I got an A. Thanks for taking a look and editing.”

“Well, what good is knowing a PhD student if they can’t edit your papers, right?”

“That’s the only reason I keep you around, Woods.”

“I knew it,” Lexa grinned, stealing a handful of snacks.

They were there plenty early. It seemed as if it got earlier every week, both arriving before the other in an attempt to eek out a little more time to chat. Lexa just liked hearing Clarke’s movie facts, and liked hearing about what her week was like, both past and the one that was coming up.

“So you said she was named after your mother?”

“Yeah.”

“As in your mom is…”

“Yeah, the year before Anya got pregnant.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No worries. You just… you know. You just get used to it,” Lexa shrugged.

“Yeah,” Clarke nodded, thoughtfully and distracted.

It wasn’t that she was sad, just that she was thinking, but Lexa didn’t want her to be sad, and it made her a little frantic. She stared at the screen before thinking of how to dig herself out of it.

“So you never told me what we’re watching. I need the Clarke Griffin preview, please,” she nudged, pretending to fight over the armrest.

“Lexa, we’ve been over this,” Clarke groaned, pushing back. “I get the armrest. You get to hold the drink.”

“Sorry. Slipped. My mistake.”

“Sure, sure.”

By the time the movie started, Lexa still wasn’t sure she cared about the film, but Clarke was excited, and it was infectious. And so she was quiet, nodding and not talking much until her partner leaned over and told her tiny parts of the film. That was her favorite part.

But this time, Lexa was more distracted than usual by the way the movie played on Clarke’s face. And she was more distracted by her sister’s words. She fiddled with the straw of the drink and tapped her thumb on her knee before steeling herself when the movie was over half finished.

With a slight movement, Lexa lifted her arm and placed it on the back of Clarke’s chair. Frozen, she didn’t turn her head to see what Clarke thought of it. Instead she stared at the screen like her eyes were glued permanently to that position.

It was only after a few minutes when Clarke sunk down slightly and rested the back of her head against Lexa’s arm that she chanced a sideways glance, still afraid to move her head at all. Lexa gulped.

Some things happened, though she didn't register what was happening in the plot. All Lexa felt was Clarke tugging her hand down so that the blonde had Lexa’s arm wrapped around her shoulders like a scarf.

As much as she didn’t want to, Lexa knew she was going to wake her sister up to tell her.

It wasn’t close to snowing. Not even in the realm of possibilities. But the weather did dip below sixty, which was an absolute catastrophe as far as LA was concerned. Clarke took it in stride, happy that the semester was done, that she got her internship, that she got to wear that cute, warm sweater, and that it was Sunday.

It wasn’t just the movies anymore. It was Lexa. Busy as they got, there’d already been coffee on Tuesday and Clarke even got to help her Christmas shop on Friday morning. It was a nice thing, and made her smile.

“Wow, someone looks cute,” Raven teased as she lounged on the couch, a book held above her head that then fell to her chest.

“Thank you.”

“I mean. Like. More cute than normal. Are you wearing make up? Did you shower and do your hair?”

“No.” It was a lie. Clarke did those things. “I’ll be back later.”

“Wait wait wait. Are you going to see your girlfriend?”

“She’s my friend.”

“Okay, but still,” Raven rolled her eyes. “Are you going to finally make your move? It’s been like six months.”

“I’m not making a move.”

“Waiting on her?”

“We’re friends. She’s nice. And sweet. And kind of dorky, though you’d never know which is super cool, and she’s sweet. And kind. And pretty. And ridiculously smart--”

“But you don’t like her,” her roommate reminded her.

“Right. That’s. No. I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

“Okay, stop. Bye,” Clarke decided, nodding to herself against the stupid words her friend wanted to say.

“Wear protection. You know I’m too young to be a grandmother!”

With a snort, Clarke made her way toward the theater. It was still too early for the movie, but getting there early was newly a thing.

It wasn’t that Clarke didn’t like Lexa. She very much liked Lexa. But the student was too hard to read, and their relationship was too good to mess up. She was a good friend when Clarke needed it most, a fresh face and fresh perspective. Lexa had an old soul, and that was comforting and peaceful when she felt the most disturbed.

But she also had these eyes and lips. The lips were a problem. And when she pushed her hair around, creating more of a mess when she thought really hard about something, or was explaining something she was passionate about. And when she put her arm around Clarke at the movies, and she could feel the little bicep there. And when Clarke chanced a look at ink that was on the skin there. And when Lexa wore glasses. And when she texted about stupid things. And when she sent adorable pictures of herself. And when she was just herself. Basically, Lexa was always a problem, and Clarke didn’t have a crush on her.

Except she very much did, but still wasn’t positive what to do about it because they reached such a great place.

Instead, she just walked down the road after she parked and felt herself grow warmer despite the little chill in the air, just from the thought of seeing Lexa.

“Now that’s an interesting hat,” she smiled as she watched Lexa approach from the opposite direction, both meeting in front of the box office.

“Oh, this old thing?” Lexa grinned. “Had it lying about.”

“The infamous Len, I presume?”

“Sorry. Anya had an emergency at work-- I guess another bar tender got sick, and there’s some Christmas party and they needed bodies, and extra money for the holidays doesn’t hurt, so--”

“Seriously? It’s more than fine,” Clarke rolled her eyes and looked up at the little girl perched on Lexa’s shoulders. Her little hands held onto Lexa’s cheeks.

“Care to say hi to my friend, Clarke?”

“Hi,” the little girl shrugged her neck into her shoulders shyly.

“It is nice to meet you, Lenny. Your aunt tells me all about your funny stories.”

“You do?” she asked.

“Of course I do,” Lexa promised. “You’re my best friend. I have to tell lots of stories about my best friend.”

Clarke grinned at the display, her heart simultaneously feeling as if it was being crushed between someone’s fist while at the same time expanding to ridiculously new sizes from being too full of adorable. Lexa with her niece was enough to make her ovaries howl.

The little girl leaned to the side, carefully whispering something that made Lexa smile despite herself.

“She says you’re prettier than I described you,” Lexa explained. “For the record, I described you as beautiful like a princess.”

“Oh my,” Clarke blushed. “A pair of charmers.”

“Like ‘Punzel,” Lenny offered.

“We watch a lot of Disney movies.”

“Tell me the truth, does Lexa sing all of the songs?” Clarke asked the little girl.

“Sometimes but not always. Mostly when we go on ‘ventures, she is the prince. Sometimes I am Wonder Woman, and then Auntie Lexa likes to be Hawkgirl.”

“Oh, now that sounds like a crime fighting duo I’d be afraid of.”

“Which superhero should she be?” Lexa tried as they got in line.

“Hmmm,” the little girl debated. “Make her Supergirl. Or Spider Gwen.”

“Wow, she is a total nerd like you.”

“I’ve corrupted her,” Lexa nodded proudly. “I could only handle so much princess shows before I was going crazy so I introduced her to superheros and life has been sweet.”

“Isn’t this a little late to keep her out?”

“Are you kidding? She stays up later than me,” Lexa scoffed. “Because Anya works at all hours, Len kind of doesn’t have a strict bedtime, so they can spend time together. At least until school next year. Pre-K here we come.”

“I’m going to read words soon,” she piped up from her perch.

“We’re working on the alphabet,” she explained, leaning forward once they made it inside, slipping the little girl from her shoulders to her hip. “Do you have to go potty?”

“No.”

“I’m not above buying affection,” Clarke decided. “Do you want to get a little candy, Lenny?”

She was all big brown eyes and chubby cheeks, and when her smile appeared after earning the nod from her aunt, dimples appeared. Easily, Clarke could understand how Lexa was so attached.

The little girl didn’t change much of their night. Clarke was actually surprised by how well-behaved she was, curling up on Lexa’s lap, tucking her head under her aunt’s chin, and falling asleep about a half hour into the movie despite her own insistence that she was not tired.

Clarke found herself sneaking glances at Lexa more than usual. It was the first movie she was excited for, after reading Little Women about fifteen times throughout her life. And Clarke was addicted to the small smile on Lexa’s face at times. And she liked how she kissed her niece’s hair from time to time, absently and soothingly.

Weirdly enough, Clarke found herself missing the feeling of an arm around her shoulders as she’d come to expect.

“Did it live up to your high standards?” Clarke asked as they watched the credits roll.

“I really, really liked it,” Lexa confessed. “I don’t know why I haven’t watched it yet.”

“Because you’re a book snob.”

“That’s true, but still.”

“Here, let me grab everything. You carry her,” she instructed, picking up Lexa’s coat and bag. “I’ll help you to the car.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry I had to change up our… thing… you know?”

“Are you kidding me?” she scoffed. “This kid is adorable. Glad I got to see what those Woods genes have to offer.”

“Are you going to try to make a baby with my sister?”

“I might after seeing this thing,” Clarke joked sa she hung Lenny’s coat around her shoulders.

“I don’t know how my sister does it. She works so hard, and is raising probably the greatest kid on the planet. She’s astounding.”

“You’re not so far from spectacular yourself.”

“Nah, I’m not… I mean. It’s. She’s a superstar.”

They pressed out into the chill of the night. The Christmas lights were still on in the storefronts on the street. The lampposts were strung in garland and the world was all gentle and tinted in the impending holidays.

“Lexa, you graduated with a degree after your mom died and your sister had a baby, and then got into one of the best PhD programs in the country. And you live with said sister and help with her kid while commuting an hour to and from school, while working, while reading and writing papers and teaching. And you still make time for a stupid movie tradition,” Clarke reminded her. “You’re fairly astounding.”

“I try,” she murmured and nudged her head toward her car down the block.

Clarke wanted to know if her blush was from the cold or her words. She really wanted to know and didn’t know how to ask.

“I never got to thank you, properly, for that… that day,” Clarke swallowed.

“I believe Sno-Caps were involved.”

“No, but I mean. It meant a lot. I know it’s a stupid tradition to have, but coming every Sunday was just part of my life for so long. I fell in love with movies, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“I love the feeling of the theatre, the smell of the popcorn, the murmuring of people. That feeling, where you just forget the world and are sucked in, your heart racing, your breath hitching, your hands wringing as you watch lives unfold. My father gave me that, and it meant a lot that a stranger bought me a ticket when I was at peak crazy.”

“I’m sure you can be crazier than that,” Lexa tried, swallowing hard at the description. “Besides, I had nothing else to do.”

“Why did you come back?”

“I don’t know.”

Clarke watched her hesitate before digging the keys from her pocket and clicking the button. Clarke opened the back door where the car seat was, and watched the tenderness and ease that Lexa fastened the smallest member of the expedition.

Only when Lexa closed the door did she finally look as sheepish as she must have felt. She scratched her neck, a telltale sign that she was slightly nervous. That came when she didn’t know what to say. Clarke had already catalogued such things.

“I thought you were nice and… I don’t know. I thought you were pretty. Plus I really did like the movie.”

“You did?”

With a quiet nod, Lexa leaned against the car door and knit her fingers in her hair, all anxious and honest at the same time. Her cheeks were pink and she huffed out a tiny cloud in the cold of the night.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know anyone here, and you just seemed very real, which is always unique.”

“I’m really glad it was you.”

“Me too,” she finally grinned.

“Did you really tell her I was pretty like a princess?”

“Yeah,” Lexa shrugged and crossed her arms. The smile was back, though it was the one that hid her kind of fake confidence.

“Do you want to grab dinner tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe we can try that place you saw, with… the… burgers…” her sentence trailed off with each step Clarke took toward her until she was standing right there, toe to toe.

“Sounds good.”

Clarke didn’t move though. She just stood there in front of Lexa until Lexa eyed her and made herself stand from the lean she’d protected herself with.

“I thought Rapunzel was a good comparison.”

“Will you just stand up so I don’t have to use some cheesy line from a movie?” Clarke demanded.

She regret it as soon as she finished speaking. But Clarke stood there, like every movie she’d ever seen, and she swallowed, suddenly aware of that fear in a new way. But Lexa called her pretty and normal, which weirdly enough were very nice things to hear for someone who felt neither, and often fought to achieve at least some semblance of real.

“What kind of lines would work now?” Lexa tried.

“I’m just a girl,” Clarke smiled. “Standing in front of a girl, asking her to love her.”

“I knew that one,” she smiled despite herself.  

“Swoon, and I’ll catch you.”

“Hmm. Not familiar.”

“No, I don’t think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”

She felt the proximity and her head was forgetting all the right words. Lexa started with an intensity that violently disproved her previous quote.

“And you know how?”

“What do you want?” Clarke started, her heart beating wildly. “You want the moon? Just say the world and I’ll throw a lasso around it a pull it down.”

Lexa gulped. Clarke felt hands on her sides, weirdly enough. The weight of a thumb just above her hip. And Lexa looked at her from beneath her lashes.

“Of all the gin joints in the world, she had to walk into mine.”

“That one works.”

Clarke ducked her head and stared at Lexa’s lips before meeting her eyes. It’d been months in the making and now she was here and she didn't know how to do it, how to move that singular inch.

"It seems right now that all I've ever done in my life is making my way here to you.”

“Any more?”

She shook her head though she had about a dozen things she wanted to say. There was a time for lines and a time for quiet. Clarke licked her lips and cupped Lexa’s cheek and for the life of her, she’ll never know how, but she kissed her, right there on the sidewalk after repeating too many movie lines, in front of the old electronic repair shop with the santa that mooned people who walked by from time to time.

A little girl was asleep in the car, and Clarke kissed Lexa because she was perfect, and her father had taught to her appreciate movie moments, because they didn’t exist in real life, except she got one right now.

That, and Lexa kissed and the winter turned into a tropical summer with the humidity of the equator. Clarke melted into it, pressing her chest against Lexa and sighing as she felt arms wrap around her. Too many thoughts barraged her brain, but she could focus on kissing. That was what she was made to do.

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agreed.

“Well, that’s going to be a problem.”

“What?”

“I won’t want to stop doing that.”

Clarke chuckled and shyly hid in Lexa’s shoulder, shaking her head slightly at the nonsense that seemed to always sprout so naturally from the girl.

“You ever use those lines on a girl before?”

“You ever use your adorable niece as a wingman before?”

“Never.”

“I might have used one or two…” Clarke murmured, earning a laugh.

The movie was very much forgotten. It was an old black and white with some damsel that Clarke was in love with and Lexa didn’t really care about one bit. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the movies, just that some of them weren’t terribly interesting to her. Certainly not as interesting as her companion.

She liked spending time with Clarke. She liked that part a lot. Between school and life and everything, it was hard to pick out moments of Clarke, but Lexa managed because it was important. She was madly falling for the weird girl who quoted movies and wanted to make them and said they were magic.

“Stop being so good at this,” Clarke complained, quiet, so as not to disturb the few people in the theater.

“At what?”

“Making out.”

Lexa just grinned and caught Clarke’s lps through half-lidded eyes before kissing her again, this time with a little more fervor to really drive home the good kissing part of CLarke’s assessment of her. It was difficult, with the armrest between them, but it was the only time they had.

“Want to come over to mine tomorrow afternoon? Anya is taking Len to the swimming pool for lessons.”

“I have filming all afternoon.”

Clarke closed the distance and kissed her back, fighting for the coveted position of being the best kisser, trying to repay and illicit just a fraction of the torture she was currently experiencing.

“What about after eight?” she tried.

“I’m watching Lenny.”

“My car after the movie?”

With a small chuckle, followed by a heavy sigh, laden with the realization that they were never going to have alone time ever in their lives. This was all they would have. Just torture in the back row at the movies.

“This is the worst.”

“My roommate is going to be gone on Tuesday,” Clarke remembered as she went through her own schedule.

“Perfect. I’ll reschedule my tutoring.”

“What? No.”

“Trust me. It’ll be worth it.”

The first Sunday, the usher notice immediately as he closed the doors and the lights dimmed. While at first, he assumed she must have snuck through when he was busy doing something else, he scans the darkening theater to discern that, in fact, the usual girl who sat four rows from the back on the right side middle was conspicuously missing.

The theater seemed a little different, with that realization.

Across the city, Lexa saddled the picnic table and handed her girlfriend another beer as her sister made a grand attempt at telling a story, earning a laugh from the film buff. Their night was just starting, and the summer was thick and angry despite the lack of sun finally.

From time to time, after the first Sunday, the theater notices the lack of a certain pair. Not every week, but often, followed by more often than not, until it is as if they come only once or twice a month.

When they do come, it’s always together, and never in any other seats. Sometimes, a little girl trails along, especially around the holidays.

Clarke half expected it to hurt to not go on Sundays, as if everything would miraculously change for some reason. And yet nothing did. She didn’t miss her father any more or any less. She didn’t feel guilty or as if she betrayed him, but merely a new kind of sad that he would never meet the bespeckled girl who still bought her a ticket when they went.

And instead of hiding on Sundays, sometimes, she noticed that it was a different kind of being alive, to have dinner with her mother, or tag along with Lexa and Lenny for ice cream.

The theater kept showing movies, and it was still there for her when she needed that feeling of magic though, and for that, Clarke was ever grateful.

Lexa didn’t consider herself a film snob or even buff. She liked what she liked, and she had little real care for appropriate or award-winning. She liked the modern classics and she love the old funnies, while Clarke was a golden age snob with an encyclopedic knowledge of just about everything cinematic.

For weeks, she spent every Tuesday with bated breath, refreshing the screen, hoping to find an appropriate film to set the mood. It was like holding in a shout she had to get rid of, one that clawed at her throat. But still, she waited because she only got one shot at it.

But it came.

“Anything can happen, don’t you think?” the actor asked, but Lexa didn’t see it. Instead, she kept glancing at the girl who once bought her snowcaps in what felt like an entirely different life.

It seemed as if life was somehow bisected between meeting Clarke. There was the before, and then the now, and Lexa had trouble thinking of them both as congruent.

“An Affair to Remember is just one of my favorites,” Clarke sighed as they sat there and the credits began to roll. “I don’t know why, but I’m just taken with it.”

“It’s no Abbott and Costello go to Mars, but it’s passable.”

“Sometimes I wonder how I put up with you.”

“I’m not sure, but let’s not question it too much.”

“Shall we, love?” Clarke rolled her eyes as she started to stand. “You have an early morning sleeping in and not going to work.”

“Sure, just hang on, one second,” Lexa swallowed, fiddling with her pocket before bending down on a knee.

“You’re going to stick to the floor.”

It didn’t deter her at all. Lexa looked up at the girl she loved and forgot her speech, and so words just came.”

“I fell in love with you at the movies. I know we’ve seen Mary Poppins about six times here, but I still have no idea what it’s about because I just love watching you smile through the whole thing. I love that you hold your breath during Hitchcock movies, and that you laugh even though you know every punchline to Abbott and Costello.”

“Lexa…”

“I fell in love with you at the movies. You were heartbroken, but I was suddenly sitting here, very much curious about this stranger.”

“What are you…”

“I can’t promise you a picture perfect movie life. I can’t promise dance numbers and montages of hard parts and perfectly timed animal costars, but I know that through it all, we can have a happy ending that anyone of these movies you made me watch would be jealous of. Because I’m just… I’m so in love with you, Clarke. Will you--”

In a second, she was half tugged up and half tackled, so that all she could do was hold onto the thing in her arms.

“Yes!” Clarke yelped, throwing her hands around her girlfriend’s neck. She kissed her cheeks and felt herself be tugged up tighter. “Of course, Lex. Oh my goodness.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course, yes. What else could I ever want?”  

“You want the moon? Just say the world and I’ll throw a lasso around it a pull it down,” Lexa promised, earning a wider smile, if it were possible.

 “Kiss me, you fool.”

And with that, she did.

“This isn’t even a classic,” Clarke complained as she juggled the drink and candy and coats in her arms as they made their way to their seats.

“Don’t be a snob,” her wife teased. “Back to the Future is a modern classic.”

“I don’t like what is happening to this theater. You’re a bad influence on it.”

“If I have to watch Casablanca again, I’ll die, honey,” Lexa promised.

“Yeah. Plus I have to do research for my Halloween costume,” Lenny reminded her aunts. “I want it to be perfect.”

All in a row, the three took familiar seats, adjusting in a familiar way. It wasn’t every Sunday. It wasn’t even close to every other Sunday, but still, often enough, in some combination of family members or occasionally just Clarke herself, the theater was still visited as faithfully as a church. Not completely devotion, but religiously enough in comparison.

Not much changed over the years. A few coats of paints, different marathons, petty fights and making out in the back like kids. It housed many memories and it was still a home, a place of refuge for many moments.

“And you are going to be the cutest Doc imaginable,” Clarke cooed to her son as she pulled him out of the carseat in her wife’s lap.

Sleepy, the ten month old yawned and nuzzled into his mother, oblivious as to what the future held for him in just a few weeks.

“This is what I brought on myself,” Lexa rolled her eyes at her niece and her wife and their antics. It was too much, too often. But it was just enough, always.

The End

[syxjaewon]

👀 + "What are three of your most favorite memories?"

favorite memories, ones he holds onto when the cold seepstoo far into his bones, when space gets too wide, expanding out faster than thespeed of light, when the ghosts come down the corridors in the darkness,calling his name, howling about spilt blood and horrors and war. favoritememories, ones he clings to with eyes nearly sewed shut, too-sharp vision withnothing he wants to see, pain bursting in his head like supernovae. notnecessarily important memories, not just the snippets of his life that have createdhis iron-plated skin, his mountaintop persona, the pricks and bruises that haveshaped his heart, colored it violet.

there are so many of those. ones he thinks about too oftenand ones he’d rather just ignore ( i wish i could forget you the way you forgotme… ), ones he knows are embedded in his ribs as deeply as the axe that wasonce shoved into his side, as deeply as the slave numbers branded on hiscollar.

but his favorites?

001.

he clings to the rooftop like a small animal, a boy with afake name and a fake birthdate, the vallurian skyline dark and dotted withmillions of stars he has never been able to touch. he’s made it all the way upto the top of this tower, fighting and shooting his way up, bullets cursed outfrom the guns he knows how to steal and use before discarding and gatheringanother. he has no gun of his own, one doesn’t need it when everyone else hasso many to pick over after they’ve died. he falls in line with a group offreedom fighters, star-dwellers he’s never seen before until tonight, and hedoesn’t know why he’s running with them, only that he has nothing left to goback to.

his reason comes over them like a god, engines whirling,lights shining, it’s presence kicking up a slew of whirlwinds that drag andpull at his hair, his clothes, his limbs. it’s a machine, a ship, large andbuilt into a peculiar shape, come around the edge of the top of the building,too close, close enough to shake the ground, shake the tower they stand on. andjaewon is on his knees, nails in the ground, eyes wide and awestruck, dustblowing into his mouth but he doesn’t cough—you’re not a true vallurian if youcough at a little dust.

the space ship lands a few meters away, its crew approachingthe docking area and jaewon sits still because he is not crew, he is not them,he is street rat, he is ghost, he is sand from the desert, sifting between thecracks of the world, between fingers that want to tear at him desperately.

a woman turns and stands before him, scars on her face likebattle trophies, her eyes cold and steady as stones, her jaw sharp enough tocut a man in half. tight lips, thin arms, a gun over her shoulder almost aslarge as she is. “which side are you on?” she asks, her voice like steel, thelights of a thousand stars burning behind her and he knows this is his onlychance.

he doesn’t hesitate. “whichever side gets me the hell offthis planet.”

002.

he stares at the blinking red light and knows this couldvery well be the end of everything. he hasn’t even started yet, hasn’t evenbeen given enough time to prove himself, but he knows well enough that he’llobey a direct order. if she tells him to come back. if she demands he returnher property. if she disowns him. his stomach twists into knots, his spinemelting into jelly; too many ifs. he doesn’t want to answer this, but he can’tignore it.

he pushes the light and stands straight up to attention, theway being an army sergeant has burned into his posture.

“jaewon,” she says, and with those two syllables, he knowsshe’d frustrated.

“okay before you start, let me just explain myself a littlebit, alright? i have three reasons for why i’ve done what i have, and if you’lljust listen to me, you’ll understand.”

she pauses, her dark eyes unblinking, contempt in the lineof her lips. “good reasons?”

“well, we’ll see in a minute, i’m making them up right now.so basically,” he begins. “i’ve more or less grown up here on this boat, i knowher ins and outs better than anyone else who’d try to buy it from you, and whilei can’t pay you back immediately, i can certainly send things back eventually.secondly,” okay now things are getting a little bit muddier inside his head. hehasn’t really come up with a strategy for this conversation—he really is makingthis up as he goes along. “i’m already off-world; henry and jonas and mina arewith me, we’ve taken the ship to yeret’s moon, where we’re working on thingsand reconstructing things—we’re going to have her back to operational very soon.so she won’t be unsafe or breakable out in the black, she’ll be completely new;i’m even going to rename her—”

“jaewon—”

“and thirdly!” he’s stumbling all over his words now, barelyable to maintain eye-contact. young sun-dried boy, 21 years old, still burningfrom the war, desperate now for something steady in his life, grasping ontoanything that is familiar. he wants to lock everything up into his chest,before he inevitably loses it all, because if the last four years of bloodshed,of killing and dying and horror, has taught him anything, it’s that he absolutelycan lose. “thirdly… i love this ship. it’s… home.” the only home he’s evermanaged to get. the closest to heaven he’ll ever tread. there is a hatefultremor in his voice, a weakness in his clenched teeth, and he’d rather die thanlook up at her right now. he cannot meet her gaze.

the silence that pours into the room is only a beat, butfeels like an eternity. finally she sighs. “jaewon. have you looked into the topright hand corner of the cabinet there?”

“i—what?”

she points to the cabinet off to the side of the bridge, theone carrying most of the paperwork for the ship, paperwork jaewon knows allabout, but knows not to mess with. he walks over and opens it up, pulls somefiles out, takes his time reading the documentation for the legalities of thespaceship. his name is littered throughout it.

“you…. you left it to me?” an inheritance?

“figured it’d be easier for you to make your way, if youdidn’t have to forge the documents.” she sounds unsurprised, unshaken, unmoved.

meanwhile jaewon falls apart at his seams, his teeth lockedtogether, his chest tightly wound, but that does nothing to stop his lungs fromshaking, his nose from stinging, his eyes from watering. he looks up at herthrough brimming tears, gold eyes uncharacteristically soft and shining. “yougave me the ship…?”

lost boy, street rat, desert orphan, born of sun and muckand trash, abandoned by faces he can’t remember, given nothing, saved for nothing,not even a name to go by. the families he creates keep dying or falling apart,losing friends, losing home, losing the war; his purpose, his ideals, hismorals shattered. golden eyes useless now, haunted only by the screams ofentire planets as they explode, his shoulders heavy with the weight of havingnothing.

vera lets a corner of her lips lift, a rare smile, a rarelight in her aged eyes, an unspeakable bond between them—mother and son. theyare not related and yet, they are. “take care of my boat, kid.” the screen cutsout.

003.

the third is not a memory of anything specific, not a singleset of dialogue or one interaction between himself and anyone else. it is ahodgepodge of views, the way jaewon sits at the head of the table in the messhall, reading over the cortex, day in, day out, his leg propped over the edgeof the arm of the chair, his posture slumped and comfortable. he reads andsometimes actually pays attention to what is there, but then mostly he’s payingmore attention to what’s going on around him, the way the crew and passengersinteract with each other as they meander through the room with the kitchenette andcouches. from this spot, jaewon can hear most things that are going on aroundthe ship as well, everything echoing off the halls; laughter and conversationsand shouts.

 “do you put your gorram feet on my countertops!?”

“i specifically remember you saying no standing on thechairs so i can’t use them. feet on counters it is.”

“i have some nice relaxing medi-packets if you are ‘stressed’CAP-tan…”

“well, I think you’reover-looking a third option: the brightest thing of all is my smile…”

“sorry, did you say plant? or planet?”

“or maybe you were dreaming. you dream of me, kafka?”

“oh like, could you teach me the tea stuff? and calligraphystuff you do too is like super pretty…”

“well?! is it a massive picture collection of dogs or apicture collection of massive dogs?!”

“i would totally sacrifice at least twenty cows for you…”

loud crew, noisy crew, alive and healthy and boisterous,some of them still wide-eyed, some of them with pasts drenched in blood, butall of them here, all of them safe under the wings of a ship named for abattle. jaewon’s people, a set of faces he won’t call family out loud, butinstead with every beat of a heart he swears doesn’t exist. their voices fillhis days to the brim, jokes and rumors, music and awkwardness, familiarity andquiet bonds stronger than the cohesion of atoms.

his crew. as long as they’re still flying, these are thememories he clings to, the ones he cherishes silently, the ones he lives for.at death’s door, these are the moments that will display across the universe ofhis life. and that would be heaven enough.