#removing distractions is impossible my brain is full of stories

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

evil of my brain to react to me feeling very real pressure to finally get this paper done and instead start thinking about ideas for a wip i havent touched since 2020

[buckybarnesdiaries]

longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car

© mine.

bucky barnes x reader. ⎢ masterlist.

Bucky is kidnapped by Hydra to reactivate the Winter Soldier.

word count: 2.924 words. it worth it, i promise!!!

warnings/tags: none. angst as hell mostly. but it has a happy ending.

author notes: i don't speak russian, but i haven't used google translate either, so no worries. none of my stories contain reader’s body descriptions to be inclusive.

join the tag list NEW!!! here.

No. It couldn't be possible. It had to be part of a terrible nightmare. Bucky couldn't have been kidnapped by Hydra again.

You didn't know what to expect in the ship flying to the secret location of the organization. For Stark, it didn't take more than a couple of minutes to track the arm down, since Shuri put a small monitor on it when the soldier stayed in Wakanda. She never told it, wanting to use it in some kind of circumstance like the one you all were going through now. And you couldn't be more grateful, but it didn't help to make you feel better.

You were sitting close to the back hatch. Back rested against the metallic wall and legs curled to your chest. Nothing inside your head more than the hallucination of a pair of blue eyes staring at you. Blaming yourself was something you couldn't avoid. You should have been with him, by his side, protecting him as many times you promised him. But in fact, you just failed him. You failed his trust, his love. You let them take him. Only God knew which torture Hydra was putting him under, while you were there, lamenting.

You didn't even notice Steve's presence squatting next to you until he placed a hand on your shoulder. Then, you raised your face towards him. He was suffering too. In the end, Bucky was his long-life friend, his big brother. He lost him once and felt like he was going to lose him twice. Although this time was different. You were carrying the dispositive that could put to sleep back the winter soldier, but, at what cost?

“Buck got you now. Everything is gonn—”. He spoke in plural, referring to your last night's talk.

“How could you be so calm, Steve? How do you do it?” You whispered through your trembling lips, about to break in crying.

“Because he needs us focused, not distracted”.

He was wise. Captain America was wiser than anyone in that ship. He curled the left corner of his lips up, trying to make you feel good, trying to transmit you the encouragement you needed to not give up. And he did, more or less. You had to fight harder than ever. For Bucky, and only for Bucky. That's why you didn't hesitate on jumping out from the ship when it landed on the cold hard ground, as the freezing weather hit you on the face.

Following the plan, you ran quietly to the back door hidden under a huge layer of snow. Shaking part of it with the palm of your hand, you placed the device with technology from Wakanda on the locker. Not later than fifteen seconds, it deciphered the code to open the hatch. Once in position, the Avengers followed you downstairs. The passage was empty and silent. The only sound that broke it was a couple of rats running away from your presence. You all had studied the plans of the building, mostly underground, remembering exactly where you had to go.

The coast was clear, that was the reason why you all were so confused. You were expecting to find more than a dozen of agents, but when T'Challa enunciated through your earwigs that he only located two heat spots, you couldn't believe it. How only one man kidnapped the most fearless assassin up to now? Tortuous and bitter screams dragged you back to reality, causing your brain to react to make your legs run faster than ever in your whole damn life. You knew by heart that voice beneath all the pain.

Your skin bristled when your gaze landed on that chair of horrors, connected to an enormous power source. Bucky was sitting there against his want.

“... добросердечный… возвращение на родину… один…”

“STOP IT”. Steve yelled.

Huge mistake. You were aware of it when —yes— that man stopped reciting the Russian words to re-activate the Winter Soldier, but only enough time to push a red button near to him and close the heavy door in front of you. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. At the moment you glimpsed Steve’s shield sliding above the floor, straight to the inside of the room where Bucky was being tortured, you followed the same way. Never in your life, you were this fast. Like a lightning bolt, you snaked yourself under the small distance between the door and the ground before being closed. Now, it was you, that man and the soldier.

“You’re late…” He mocked with an awful American accent, under James crying out loud in pain. “грузовой ваг—”.

Your left hand moved quickly to unholster your gun and shoot him. One… Two… Three… Four bullets right to his head. The man fell dead before he couldn’t complete the command. You didn’t lose time, running to the controls to try to turn that machine off. But it was impossible. Even if you knew Tony could do it, there wasn’t signal inside those large and wide walls made of steel reinforced. You were in one of those abandoned soviet bunkers, that could save you from Armageddon. You were inhaling and exhaling so fast that your lungs never got really full, trying to focus, trying to shut every single noise around up. Trying to think of a plan b. But it was your heart who pushed you to act and not your brain. Grabbing Steve’s shield, you aimed for the energy source before tossing it like a damn frisbee.

That thing blew up, turning off any kind of light and dispositive around, as the sparks and the cables decorated your surroundings. Just like the fire that started to burn down a pile of boxes with different documents of Hydra. But that wasn't why you were impatient. Catching the shield when it came back to you, your legs moved immediately to Bucky, still stirring on his seat for a few seconds else. Then, he simply stopped shaking. Her eyes were wide opened. Reddened, in tears. His chest rose and fell violently. His heart was racing. And you could see the trauma taking control over his body in holy silence.

You didn't doubt removing the protection from his mouth along the restraints keeping him on the chair. Your fingers trembled like never before, not having any more time to lose. Probably, the Avengers would be trying to open the door when the emergency red lights illuminated the bunker, producing a loud alarm sound to indicate that something was going wrong inside the facilities.

“C'mon, Buck… C'mon, we have to leave”. You told him, trying to help him to stand up.

But as soon as your hand was about to land on his arm of vibranium, the five cold digits got closed around your throat. Soon, the lack of air for you was more than evident. He got up on his own, not needing you to do it. The ocean blue in his eyes turned into a dark storm. There wasn't any gesture on his face, more than his jaw clenching, pressing his teeth together. That wasn't Bucky —your Bucky—, but the unstable trained assassin Hydra turned him in. You could barely gulp saliva, gripping his metallic wrist with both of your hands to try to stop him from murdering you.

He couldn't. He couldn't kill you. His strength was suffocating you with no mercy, though.

For a moment, you felt too weak to fight, seeing everything around you getting blurred and darker. Blacking out. But there was something inside you, a sweet tone of voice calling your name. A male voice. Your eyelids rolled down bit by bit, wanting to concentrate on that honeyed sound being closer and closer.

“любить”.

The sore whisper left your lips. Love. The first time Bucky told you about love came to your mind. He told you about his family. George, Winnifred, Rebecca. He told you how much he desired to have a family of his own. To be loved.

“новый”.

Your almost dead fingers traced the form of his new arm made in Wakanda when you felt him lifting you from the floor, being suspended on air.

“сороковых годов”.

Trying to keep a firm tone of voice as much as the pressure let you, the Russian words were spat to the confused soldier, who wasn't understanding what you were doing. The forties changed his life. He was sent to war and, lately, captured by HYDRA. It was something he'd never forget, part of his DNA.

“заката”.

You didn't know what the hell your subconscious was doing either till that precise instant. You were reprogramming him. You were using his own memories to reset his wiped brain from them. Dusk. The first night he spent in Wakanda, Bucky was terrified. But you stayed with him. You comforted him by saying that everything was going to be okay, that his life would be different. That he was safe. That he was at home.

“лето”.

His last night of summer in that kingdom, Bucky took you to his favorite place between the woods, wanting to show you the fireflies fluttering in the middle of the gloom. He used to walk there whenever he woke up from a nightmare. Those small insects used to make him feel better for some reason he didn't comprehend. Until he saw their light reflecting on your amazed orbs. Bucky knew then he was in love with you. Besides his long-life friend, the only person who never judged him, who never ran away from him. The same person that now was dying under his fingers.

“шесть”

Six years took him to be Bucky, after his last war, after the last effort, after the last jump. He was a new man. You made him a new man. A good one. You guided him through the right way. You helped him to get used to the twenty-one century. You accompanied him to therapy and stayed in the waiting room every single session until he finished.

“заткнуться”.

The soldier ordered you to shut up, earning quite the opposite when you knew it was sorting some kind of effect on him, as soon as you felt some relief by the grip loosening around your throat and your tiptoes touching the ground. Little by little, you opened your eyes again, gluing them on the blue ones fixed on you.

“боец”.

He wasn't a super soldier, he was a fighter. He spent the last six years of his life fighting for it, fighting for ruling his existence, fighting for being pardoned for crimes he didn't want to commit, fighting for your love. Bucky furrowed swallowing, allowing you to place your feet on the floor.

“Бруклин”.

And when he demonstrated to the world that he was no longer the Winter Soldier, but James Bucky Barnes, he moved to his birthplace. Brooklyn. You and he rented an apartment together when you both learned that you couldn't live apart. That you were made for each other.

“Отец…”

A tear ran down your cheek, slowly moving your left hand to his free one. A shiver toured his backbone when he felt your warm touch holding his hand and, even if his cold fingers were still around your throat, the soldier bowed his head to follow the connection between the two of you. His flesh hand landed on your stomach, pressing it under yours, trying to transmit to him the news about your pregnancy status. Bucky was going to be a father. You were going to build a family as he always wished.

“Свобод��”.

As the sob escaped your soul, his hand made of vibranium released your neck. Freedom was what he got after all those years.

Bucky was free.

His hold was the only thing that kept you on your feet, pining to the cold hard ground, as well as you trying to fill your lungs with the heavy air around you because of the dense smoke coming from the flames burning down that damn place. You watched Bucky picking the shield close to you, probably believing it could be easier to kill you with it than with his own hands. Your arms automatically wrapped your abdomen, as if you could protect your unborn child from that horror, crying James' name to remember you.

“James… James…”

You weren't able to stop whining, feeling a heavy sorrow under your chest, covering your vitals organs. The noisy sound from the bunker was suddenly turned into a constant beep, beep, beep that caused you to frown yet keeping your eyes closed. You called him once and again until a warm hand laced his fingers with you. Peace invaded you eventually, after a fond squeeze around your skin followed by a pair of rough lips pressed on your forehead. You let yourself go, not finding any strength inside your heart to continue awake.

The next time you opened your eyes, you needed a moment to adjust your gaze to the sunlight. Purring feeling more comfortable than before, you rolled on your stomach, sinking your nose into the large pillow. Bucky's scent was like a punch of reality. Your eyes snapped open as your pulse increased, starting to panic. Sitting up, your orbs moved quickly all around the room you recognized instantly. It was your dorm in the Compound, the one you used to share with your boyfriend —and the father of your child. It was empty. No trace of James anywhere. You tossed away the oxygen mask and the sheets covering your stiff anatomy, getting up from the bed. Another huge mistake.

Everything spun around you, feeling strong dizziness hitting your head, having to sit down for a second. But as soon as you felt recovered, you stood up again walking straight to the main door to step out. The hallway was deserted, hearing some voices coming from the meeting room. You followed them slowly, finding balance with your palm against the walls. Sam was the first one noticing your presence, coming faster to help you.

“James… James…” You mumbled, not really sure about when you started to sob again, whilst your muscles got tense with every syllable.

“He's okay, he's okay, take it easy, girl”. He tried to calm you as Steve reached you to bring you to the closest chair.

“We don't know what you did… but even if that man introduced the commands again… you turned it off”. Natasha spoke this time.

“I re— I repro— reprogramed him”.

The confusion was more than evident between the Avengers present in the room. But no one of them had the need to ask how. The spy taught you Russian in your free time, you weren't a fluent speaker, but it was enough to have a chat. Even so, you weren't going to say the words you used. You weren't going to make Bucky go through another wipe. If they worked, you'd make sure that he'd hear them when the occasion required it.

“I wan— wanna see him… please”. You cried covering your face with both hands, desolated after the hell of the situation you had to live.

“He's resting”. Steve informed you, squatting close and placing a hand on your right thigh to gently caress it. “And you should do the same. For your baby”.

“There's no way you're gonna stop me from seeing him”. You replied, raising your head and looking at him through your eyelids. Silently pleading.

He snorted, convinced that you wouldn't change your mind. Nodding two times with his head, he stood up and offered you a hand to hold it and help you to walk. Steve guided you through upstairs, following your pace step by step —he could have carried you onto his arms, but he wasn't sure if he could hurt you accidentally. You were too weak, barely breathing properly because of all the smoke you swollen inside the bunker. Although you started to feel somewhat erratic and excited as you were coming to Bucky's old dorm.

Steve opened the door for you, letting you walk inside before closing it behind your back. Your boyfriend was peacefully sleeping under the sheets. There were some scars on his face, already healed but yet seeming painful. The only explanation you found to be there was that Bucky used the shield to open the door and take you out of the bunker. A theory that made more sense when you noticed that he hadn't his prosthesis and his shoulder was covered by a thin black microfiber.

You headed to the bed, tucking in to wrap his warm and heavy body between your arms. At the moment he felt you, he embraced you as better as he could, not opening his eyes but shedding a tear. His lips started to tremble as you pecked them, previous to hiding his face into your neck.

“I'm so sorry…” Bucky sobbed, causing your whole anatomy to shudder because of the sorrow in his voice.

“We're gonna be okay, my love… You, me, our baby… Our family”.

His crying increased after those two words, caressing his back slowly to comfort him somehow. You knew that this recovery would be hard and painful, being conscious of how close he had been to end with your life. He didn't want to do it, nobody could deny it. You were everything he had, everything he always wished for deep inside his soul and heart. And the acknowledgment of having a baby with you only provoked him to feel guiltier.

But as you said so, everything was going to be okay.

feedback is appreciated, please, leave a comment to let me know if you liked it.

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** the @ crossed out is because tumblr doesn't let me tag you, but you can activate notifications for when i post any writing!

[moxfirefly]

So anon’s I hope y’all don’t mind but I’m gonna connect these two request cause it just makes sense to me 👏 and since I’m riding that evil!Leo high it only seems perfect.

Tagging @nikitaboeve

Rated Explicit (18+ only)

“I take my business deals very seriously” You cross your legs, a sly smile on your lips. The man before you swallows, sweaty and worried. He lifts a finger to retort but you cut him off with the lift of a hand. “I don’t want your sorry excuses, you’re lucky I’m here and not him”

The man (in his cheap suit you couldn’t help but notice) shrinks back in his seat. It never seizes to delight you that the mere mention of Leonardo has these mobsters quacking like little children. He truly is the scary bedtime story you tell at night.

To you though, he is your man.

The king of the god damn city, is your man.

You get up and dust off lint from your slacks, the two Foot soldiers at your side adjust the straps of their weapons. The mobster grips the arms of his chair, eyes not even daring to follow you but he motions for his own lackey to hand over the suitcase of money. The soldier flanking your left takes the case and wordlessly exit the room with them following close.

The back of the building leads to an alley, there is a black van waiting for you. The side door slides open and you climb in, the case is passed towards you and you examine the contents. All in order you shoot Leo a text alerting him you’re on your way.

Moving from hideout to hideout is tedious but as of late the Foot and Leo have taken hold of an apartment building, the top floor belongs to the two of you. One elevator ride up you exit out and find the penthouse where you both have been shaking up in. He was in the living room area, maps of the city on the table and a concentrated expression on his face. You lean against the door frame and tap your knuckles on the case to which he looks up.

“I take it nobody pulled anything stupid?” You don’t miss the way his blue orbs travel up your legs, you do look so enticing.

“Ding ding, paid in full also” You set the case down and scan the maps he’s been looking at but you do notice his sudden distraction, you feel a strong hand travel up your back in soothing circles. You pretend to not notice, secretly eating up how you’re the very center of his intention even amidst his plans.

“You look good” Comes his heated words as he grabs the back of your neck and presses his lips against your temple. It’s impossible not to chuckle softly and bite your lip. “You’ve seen me in my ‘strictly business’ outfits” Your brain already feels muddy when his free hand starts to unbutton your blazer. He calmly almost too nonchalantly starts to unbutton your dress shirt as well, you lean back against his strong body.

Well, whatever was planned for tonight was not going to happen.

He cups your breast, enjoying the breathless giggle you can’t hold in. What has gotten into him? You think mockingly, fully knowing exactly what.

Leonardo inhales the scent of your hair, his hands slide towards you stomach in all their possessive nature. “You smell divine” He exhales, his fingers unbutton your slacks, the material pools down your legs. “Expensive perfume does that” You breath out almost choking when his hand cups your sex.

“No, not that, this” Your cheeks flush, Leo knows you’re ovulating. He always gets particularly more handsy and lustful during this time, and what a wonderful coincidence you chose your laciest pair of underwear. “What’s you’re strategy there big guy?” You press your rear against his crotch, hips swaying lightly to further entice him.

“I’m going to have you screaming by the end of the night, I’d say that’s my strategy” That very hand finds it’s way inside of your underwear and it takes all of your resolve to not come crashing down before him. There’s something about the way he can so easily pluck your thoughts and leave you purely feral to his advances. His finger teases your clit and you tremble, even when your hear him chuckle you love just how easily he has control over you.

Missing more pieces of clothing and one ride on his shoulder later, you’re dropped onto the bed. You watch with a grin as Leo unbuckles his belt and removes the whole thing in one easy yank. He wraps the leather around your wrists and bounds your wrist together. You trust him, he’s gotten way more creative than things on nights where his skin oozes rage from plans foiled.

He licks a digit and goes right back into working you to a needy, trembling frenzy. Blue eyes stay focused, an almost drunken stupor in them as he fingers you. Your legs spread more for him, eyes pleading with what you truly crave. “Please, I need you...” You know how susceptible he is when you’re like this, ripe and ready for his seed. You’ve seen how hard he fucks you, every intention of putting a baby in you even if it’s not plausible. It’s fun to try.

“Need what?” His voice drops to a husky tone, desire evident in his hungry eyes. He pulls his finger out, watches your clit jump at the lose. “Your cock, please, want you hard” Leo runs his hands up your midriff and cups your breasts, still enclosed in lace to his chagrin yet delight. “Fuck me hard, fuck me like you wanna get me pregnant” You bite your lip at his growl like churr, toes curling when you feel him push your legs onto his shoulders.

There isn’t gentle in these times, there isn’t romantic, it’s just pure passion and drive. The need to possess and claim as he buries his cock inside of you. Leo relishes how your eyes roll back, a breathless hitch that compels him to bite your calf as he slams into you. He watches your breasts bounce with every hard thrust, if he was to make a mother out of you they would grow in size wouldn’t they? That thought alone makes him grunt.

The perks of having an entire floor to yourselves is the ability to scream your lungs hoarse when the two of you fuck.

And god, does Leo love it when you’re a screaming mess around his cock. His fingers dig deeper into your flesh, bruising the skin already. “Yesss, that’s my good little slut” A version of himself he wasn’t acquainted with no more would’ve flinched at the word but seeing your lips part, cunt clenching around him, well he didn’t mind indulging in it now.

“Scream for me. I want everyone to know how good I make you feel” Leo leaned further, folding your legs at that angle that always made the muscle burn. He gripped your chin, even as your mouth parted and another wail left you that pleaded with him to fuck you faster. Whole floor to yourself aside, the soldiers down stairs were sure to hear, and it secretly thrilled you that they probably did. Leo thrusted harder, skin slapping skin, plastron rubbing your flesh raw. When you felt yourself slide off that precipice with nothing but his name and a gush of wetness you felt him follow suit with a growl. Burying himself as deeply as he could, each rope of cum shooting and filling you up.

Your lungs finally caught up, wrists sore from the leather. Satiated gaze found him gently pulling out, watching a string of cum still attaching you both. He churred lowly, before pushing back in, making sure nothing was to spill.

This would only be the first round.

[winterhawk-olympic-bang]

How To Edit Your Writing

Guest Poster: Chronicwhimsy

Here is our final Writer Workshop post, written by Chronicwhimsy. Have a read and then head over to the Discord Server where we have a channel for you to take part in a discussion based on the post, with chances to share your own ideas too.

Editing: a drive-by guide

Hi, my name is Claire, and I’m an editor.

(Hi Claire)

I’ve been asked to give a quick guide on tips for editing your stories, as I’ve been a beta/editor for various fanfic writers over the years. I’m a professional editor, working for a publishing house in the UK, and I offer independent freelance editing too, via my website. I’ll be on the Discord server answering questions this evening, but I’m also happy to chat to people either through my website or even if you wanted to drop me a line on tumblr.

The key thing to remember about editing is that the end goal is to make your story the best it can be, and make sure your initial idea comes across as clearly and purely as you first imagined it. It’s about ensuring that the lines of communication between you and your reader are 100% open.

To do that, you need to have finished your story, because you can’t fix something that doesn’t exist.

Then you edit.

What now?

So, you’ve finished your Winterhawk Olympic Bang Fic, and you’re wondering what to do next?

The very first, and most important thing you should do? Celebrate. I mean congratulate the hell out of yourself, pat yourself on the back, and have some cake. Finishing stories is hard. Getting through a first draft is one of the trickiest parts of writing, so you should be proud of yourself, and proud of your story.

Because in a short while, editing is going to make you hate both.

I mean that in the nicest possible way of course, but you absolutely are going to be thoroughly sick of this whole thing by the time you’re done, and you’re going to question everything you’ve ever written. You’re going to get a close-up view of all your narrative bad habits which will make you think you’ve never had any skill at all, and you’re going to re-read your work so many times that it’ll feel trite, old, uninspired. This is normal and it is your brain lying to you. If you remember nothing else, remember that!

“The writing itself is no big deal. The editing, and even more than that, the self-doubt, is excruciatingly impossible.” Jonathan Safran Foer

Don’t lose faith! Editors and editing exist for a reason, no first draft is perfect. You’ve done something amazing in finishing, and now you’re going to make it incredible.

Before You Start - Take a Break

You know the phrase “can’t see the wood for the trees”? It could just as easily be “can’t see the story for the words.” It’s never recommended to go straight into editing as soon as you finish writing, and part of the reason for that is because you’re too deep in the story to be able to assess it objectively, or to catch things that are missed out because you know they’re there, but the reader wouldn’t.

“Once it's done, put it away until you can read it with new eyes. When you're ready, pick it up and read it, as if you've never read it before.” Neil Gaiman

Most writers and editors advocate putting a story away for a month or so before returning to edit, so you’re looking at it with fresh eyes. Obviously, with a Big Bang (or other fic event) this sort of time is usually at a premium! Try and make as much space as you can while still leaving yourself time to edit.

If you really don’t have any time, one trick that can help is changing your location. If you write in your room, can you relocate to your kitchen? Or a café (if you can safely)? Could you print it out? (Printing Top Tip: if you do print it, try and do it double-spaced - this makes it easier on the eyes, and gives you room to make notes. Also, serif fonts can often be easier to read than sans serif fonts, as it gives stronger distinctions between different letters.)

The Filter System

I like to think of the editing process as a series of different filters which, when used one after the other, produce a finely-sieved finished product. Each filter stage has slightly smaller holes than the one before it, as you look increasingly closely at your work.

Filter 1: Structural editing

Does the story make sense? Is the pace okay? Do all the scenes work where they are, or would they be better elsewhere? Do some scenes need to be there at all? Is the characterisation consistent? Does anyone change names halfway through? Did you forget what time of year it was set halfway through?

Filter 2: Line editing

Is this phrase as tight as it could be? Have you repeated yourself anywhere? Does this sentence add anything or does it throw the pace off? Have you gone overboard with adjectives and similes? Have you been too sparse with them?

Filter 3: Copy editing

Is your style consistent? Did you start writing in present tense and switch to past tense? Could this scene transition be snappier? Are there any bits that you want to tidy up? Have you left any half-finished sentences because you got distracted before you could end it?

Filter 4: Proofreading

Is everything spelled correctly? Have you caught all the strange grammar mistakes?

Some of these things might be picked up by your beta reader if you have one. Different beta readers have different styles, and also they will work based on their relationship with you and what you prefer. Some may stick to proofreading and consistency-checking, others may be more confident to dive right in and look at structure, pacing and characterisation. Some may work through the process with you as you write, others may only look at the story when it’s complete so they can get a full overview. There is no right or wrong answer, and having a conversation with your beta about your respective styles at the start can help you work better together!

Filter 1 - Structural Editing

For this stage, you want to read your whole story through from start to finish, and resist the urge to tweak anything to begin with! You will want a way of making notes as you go through because as you do, you’ll make yourself a cheat-sheet to help you with your line edit. Things to keep track of:

Character name spellings

Character ages

Character relationships (drawing a relationship web can be very helpful to visualise this!)

The time span of the story - the date it starts, the date it ends.

As a subset of this, I find it can be very helpful to set up a spreadsheet with a timeline of what happens in the story, and who is involved. Doing this both chronologically for the characters and in order of how it happens in the story can help you keep track of what characters know when, and also when the readers find out certain information. You might have one of these from when you were planning your story (as detailed in Sara Holmes’ workshop). If you’ve kept it up to date with changes to the plot and structure as you’ve written, this will be super helpful.

At this stage, you’re looking to see if everything works as a consistent story. You want to check to see if it feels like it’s the right pace, or if there are bits where it drags or rushes through the action. Why is this? Are there scenes which aren’t adding anything to the progress? Could they just be referred to in passing, or removed entirely without impacting the story? Are there other scenes which need to be added to provide more detail and growth? Is there anything that you as a writer know that is essential to the story, but you forgot to actually put in the text?

“Crafty writers...don't allow Exposition to form Lumps. They break up the information, grind it fine, and make it into bricks to build the story with.” Ursula K. Le Guin

You’re also looking to see if the characters feel true to themselves all the way through. Do the relationships spark? Do they sound like themselves? Can you hear them in your head?

Some people recommend doing several structural edits, with a different focus each time. One pass to look at the pacing, one pass to look at the characters, one to look at the story arc. You’ll work out what floats your boat, but you will be re-reading this story a lot of times before you’re done editing - which is why it’s very important to write what you love and want to read! You’ll go through many stages of hating this story before you let it go, and that will be even harder if it wasn’t something you enjoyed in the first place.

Filter 2 - Line Editing

So you remember I told you to make all those notes during your structural edit? Here’s where you’re going to use them. Now’s the time to go through your story line by line and check that the details in your cheat sheet are correct all the way through the story. I’ve written a novel that I initially set in November, but by the time I finished it, I’d decided it was taking place in early May. I had to go back and fix all the dates and weather descriptions to make sure the action hadn’t actually been yeeted forward six months spontaneously in the middle of a conversation.

Arguably, the line edit will be the most painful part of editing. At this stage, you will be taking a fine-tooth comb to everything you have written, examining it to within an inch of its life, and casting judgement. You’re going to find every stylistic tic you have (for me, everyone is constantly quirking their eyebrows and smirking like they’ve got cramp in their facial muscles), and you’re going to get rid of them (a person only has so many eyebrows, and they can only quirk so far). Now is the time to kill your darlings - don’t hang on to anything unless you feel it’s really doing a job to further the story and the characters.

“Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler's heart, kill your darlings.” Stephen King

If you have ever worried about the unbearable sensation of being Known, the line edit is where you will experience that with every word, and you’ll be doing it to yourself. This is when the doubts will really start to creep in and you will maybe feel like everything you write is unoriginal, derivative trash and unfit for human eyes.

Here I’ll reiterate what I said above:

This is a normal feeling, everyone experiences it when editing. E V E R Y O N E.

It’s a lie. No-one else will ever read your story in this state, no-one else will ever read your story this closely. Of course it feels obvious and uninspired to you - you wrote it. It’s your idea, and you’ve read it several times, it holds no surprises for you. (I may be projecting my feelings from every time I’ve edited something here, but…)

You’ll also be catching any ELEPHANTS or whatever your mammal of choice for placeholder text is that you’ve stationed throughout the story as a flag for you to come back and add in a name, or a food, or a song title later. You know, the things you decided were a problem for Future!You. I have bad news, the future is now.

Top Tip: if you have changed someone’s name halfway through, DON’T for the love of Mike, just do a straight find and replace to correct it. Because that’s when you suddenly find out how many other words actually contain names (Mark became Bill? That’s great, until your characters are going to the superBillet to buy groceries). Some word processing programmes have a “whole word” option which is your friend, otherwise ensure to put spaces either side of the word when you search. If you don’t, you’ve just made another horrible job for yourself...

Filter 3 - Copy Editing

Once you’ve made it out the other side of the Line Edit (and given yourself a nice treat to congratulate yourself because that stage is HARD), we get onto copy editing. This is basically the set-dressing stage. You’ve built the house, you’ve decorated the room, and now you’re just making sure every bit of furniture is in the right place for optimal feng shui.

Here’s where you go through and go, do I really need a dash here, or could I just use a comma? Could I use fewer commas? Could I go in and move all of @kangofu_cb’s commas around because I’m the sort of person who will come into your house and change how you hang your toilet paper or where you keep your ketchup.

Now is the time to be as picky as possible, like you’re an interior designer for the most demanding client in the world and the ornament must be exactly equidistant from both ends of the mantlepiece and facing precisely south-west. Things that may have just survived your line edit will be measured again, and if they’re found wanting, then they get binned.

“Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very’; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.” Mark Twain

Another thing you might like to do here is check that all your features and things are correct. Did you make a wild claim about the lifecycle of salamanders, or the average price of corn and then never go back to verify this? Take a second to just do that now. It may be that you decide it’s not a problem (I received one copy edit note saying that an idiom used in a book wasn’t recorded until 200 years later, and I made the editorial decision that no-one would care), but for bigger things you may want to make sure you’re accurate.

If you google it (as I just did, to make sure I was definitely giving you the right information), copy editing is often conflated with line editing, and that’s because in reality a lot of the elements of copy editing actually wouldn’t usually be done by the author, and are probably irrelevant to fanfic. The copy editor is responsible for ensuring the book has a consistent grammatical style in line with the preferences of the publisher (em-dash or en-dash, curly quote marks or straight ones, how you deal with acronyms, what needs to be italicised, etc. etc.), which isn’t necessarily required for fanfic. In reality, for fanfic I’d use this stage as a second, lighter line-edit to see where things can be tightened up in phrasing, as well as perhaps a preliminary proofread where you start to mark up any spelling errors.

Filter 4 - Proofreading

By this stage, you’ll be exhausted, and sick to death of the blasted thing. But the end is in sight! Now you’re onto the proofread. This is another close read, where you go through and check for spelling errors, typos, missing full stops, strange formatting stuff (which probably will be less of an issue as AO3 basically makes everything uniform anyway).

Before you even start this, change your font.

We’ve all been there, thought we’d caught every spelling error, every weird typo, only to spot six immediately after posting. That’s because after a certain point our brain becomes used to the font we’ve written in, and will automatically correct things that aren’t right. AO3 has its own unique formatting - colour, spacing, font - and the minute your fic appears on there in this new format you brain wakes up and is like “oh shit, yeah, that’s not how it should be.”

By changing the font before you proofread, you preempt this step.

Another thing to remember: it’s unlikely you will ever catch every mistake. Published books regularly go out with a smattering of typographical errors throughout the text - how many first editions of books are valuable because of misspellings that slipped through the net? You’re only human.

“Connie's other job was proof-editing which she did very badly. Transferring the author's corrections to a clean sheet of proofs was something Connie was unable to do without missing an average of three corrections a page, or transcribing newly inserted material all wrong... she put angry authors' letters about the mutilation of their books under the cushion of her chair to deal with later.” Muriel Spark, A Far Cry from Kensington

Often, spelling errors and things you would look for in a proofread are things that a beta reader will pick up as they go, as they’re the easiest things to spot, but it’s also worth looking over yourself for anything your beta might have missed.

Whether you decide to follow any or all of these steps, always do the proofread last.There is no point carefully spellchecking a chapter you are then going to delete, or proofreading the whole thing, but adding loads of new paragraphs later that either don’t get looked at or mean you end up having to proofread twice. That’s the only hard and fast rule when it comes to editing, and it will save you a lot of unnecessary work!

FREEDOM

And then, finally, unbelievably - you’re done. Your literary child is ready to leave the nest. Resist the urge to keep re-reading and tweaking. Instead, click “publish” and give yourself a nice little treat. You’ve earned it.

Miscellany and Disclaimers

These editing stages are ones that would be applied to a published novel. An author would probably do this several times - once on their own to get it ready for submission, then perhaps again with their agent, but the really heavy work would be done with their editor. The structural edit would be done under the advice of an agent or editor where the author looks at their comments, rejigs things accordingly, and lather, rinse, repeat until everyone’s happy. The editor would undertake the line edit, and the author would decide what they wanted to keep or change. The copy edit and proofread would be done in-house or sent to freelancers, with queries and changes wafted past the author for clarification or approval.

Self-published authors will often hire freelancers to help at various stages to get feedback and advice.

Very rarely would an author go from draft to final published piece by doing all their editing alone. Because it’s hard fucking work, and because your brain will get exhausted.

In light of that, you need to remember:

You’ve written a fanfic

The editorial standards of fanfic are significantly less stringent than published books

Editing by yourself is really hard work that many people are often paid to do for published books

No-one is paying you for your fanfic

Fanfic is supposed to be fun

Some published authors will edit and rewrite and edit and rewrite again and again. At a panel I attended, Joanne Harris said that if she didn’t rewrite her work at least five times she was being too easy on herself, while Joe Hill said he usually aimed for three rewrites - Joe edited as he went along, going over the previous day’s pages before continuing, where Joanne completed her manuscripts before editing. Elizabeth May has talked about her stages of drafting, starting with her Trash Draft, then her Clean Draft, and then rewriting and editing after that.

These are people who are writing professionally, getting paid for their work, and so the time they put in has monetary results. If you want to write original fiction, their advice is extremely valuable.

For fanfiction, it’s a large time investment for something you’re doing as a hobby for free. If I’m strictly honest, I’m fairly lax with my fanfiction editing. I do structural discussions and tweaks with my beta reader as I write, and then a spell check. I’m also aware that my fanfics aren’t narratively complex, nor do they seem as polished, rich and deep as some of the other works out there. That’s fine by me. You simply need to find the level you’re happy at, where you can still feel proud of your work but you’re enjoying the experience.

In the end - it’s all for fun!

Resources:

Online

Curtis Brown Creative: An Editor’s Guide to Editing Your Novel

Joanne Harris: Ten Tweets About Editing

Joanne Harris: Writing Resources

NerdsLikeMe: Beta Reading vs Proofreading vs Editing

Books

Stephen King - On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Ursula K. Le Guin - Steering the Craft: Exercises and Discussions on Story Writing for the Lone Navigator or the Mutinous Crew

[freckledoriya]

“my eyes adored you” (izuku midoriya x reader fic)

WARNINGS: slightly angsty at times, but happy ending! 

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

SUMMARY: You were best friend with Izuku Midoriya when you were little, but went your separate ways. What happens when your paths cross again, years later? 

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | ask box

TAGLIST: at the end of the post, message me to be added/removed!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is kind of (really) trash, but hey, it’s been a while and I’m trying to get back into writing. take it easy on me. 

inspired by frankie valli’s “my eyes adored you” 

You’re standing at the register of your local coffee shop, working a hundred miles per hour during the morning rush. It’s a job that you’ve had for a while now. You tell yourself you’ll leave when you find what you’re really destined to do, but the day has yet to arrive. With no current ambition and no quirk, you’re seemingly left to take coffee orders for the rest of your days. 

Today starts to blend in with all the days before. You hear the bell of the shop door sound, and sigh before preparing your best “how can I help you?” face. And that’s when you see him. Izuku Midoriya standing in front of you.

You and Izuku Midoriya have known each other for longer than you could remember. The two of you grew up together, learning how to read side by side while thumbing through hero magazines. As a pair, you two were inseparable.

“Let’s play ‘heroes!’” five-year-old Izuku chirped with a bright smile, running up to you. He sticks his hand out for you to take. “I’ll be All Might!” 

You can’t help but smile back, giggling at your best friend’s unmatched enthusiasm. “You’re always All Might,” you tease, taking his hand in yours. 

You don’t know it then, as a naive toddler, but that feeling of pure happiness that rushes through your veins when you interlock hands with Izuku, is love in its beginning form. A love that will grow so strong, it will dominate your life and never let you free of its hold. It’s the kind of love that will keep you up at night, always wondering if tomorrow will be the day when you finally get over it, knowing damn well that tomorrow will arrive and your feelings will have only grown stronger. But right now, you’re five years old, and liking a boy is icky. 

You stick with him through everything. Through him finding out he doesn’t have a quirk, to the endless bullying he endures throughout elementary and middle school because of that. You spend nights camped out in your parents’ backyard, staying up late past your bedtime to talk about each other's feelings. Comforting him through tears, you wrap your arm around him. 

“I don’t have a quirk either,” you say. “And you still think I’m pretty great, right?”

He sniffles and nods, looking up at you and giving you a slight smile. 

You're not sure why at the time, but his smile makes your heart flutter. 

It’s not till you’re in middle school, walking home along the river as Izuku carries your books for you, that it dawns on you that you want nothing more than him to be your first everything- your first date, your first kiss, your first boyfriend. That’s when he becomes your first crush. Little did you know, that crush would seemingly endure the test of time. 

Time isn’t the only thing that tests the magnitude of your crush. After middle school, something changes. Izuku somehow gets a quirk and enters into the hero program at the prestigious U.A. high school. You could tell that he didn’t mean to leave you behind. The two of you would text every so often, vowing to meet up soon. But things never seemed to work out. He was always busy training or hanging with his newer, cooler friends. By the time of high school graduation, you two barely talked anymore. And then one year, he forgot your birthday. And then the next, and then the next.

You watched him from afar, climbing up the mountain to becoming the number one hero that he is today. Working his fingers to the bone to get himself a name, you saw the hell he went through to achieve his dream. And you admired him for it.

Some days, you’d find yourself daydreaming the day away, wishing you still were a part of Izuku’s life, but knowing full well that things could never be. He’s a top hero with fangirls, and you work the counter at a coffee shop. That humbling thought brought you back to reality.

“Can I have a coffee, please?” 

You assume that’s what Izuku says, but honestly, you’re too lost in your own thoughts and in his gorgeous, green eyes to comprehend that he’s speaking. He smiles a little bit, making your heart flutter in a way that it hasn’t in a long time. 

“M-Midoriya,” you whisper, his name falling out of your lips. 

He looks at you and slightly cocks his head to the side. Then, suddenly, you see it hit him.

“Y/N?” he asks, his eyes growing wider and wider. 

You can’t help but smile at the way he says your name. After all these years, he still says it like he’s talking to his best friend. 

“Oh my god, Y/N!” he almost yells. “I can’t believe it’s you!”

“It’s me!” you giggle. “I’ve missed you so much.”

That last part was meant to stay in your mind, but slipped out. Thankfully, Izuku is too distracted by processing that you’re in front of him to really think about it. 

“Ahem,” the person in line behind Izuku clears their throat. “I hate to ruin this moment, but some of us are in a rush to get our coffee.”

The two of you blush and mutter apologies. But then you start to panic. No, this can’t be goodbye again. You can’t let him slip out of your life again. Do something. 

“I’ll be on break in 15 minutes, if you wanna go hang out and catch up?” you say, your voice cracking at the end from nerves. 

“I’m actually on parole soon, so I can’t right now. But I’ll be done with work later tonight... We should have dinner!” 

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Sounds like a plan. Meet me here at 6?”

“Yeah!”

A beat passes of awkward silence as the two of you look at each other. 

“Um…Y/N?” he asks, his eyes looking into yours. 

“Yes?” you whisper, seemingly under his spell again. 

“...Can I get that coffee?” 

That snaps you out of it. “Yes! Of course! Coming right up!” 

The day passes painfully slow at work as you wait for 6 o'clock to roll around. The day is full of you playing back memories of you and Midoriya as children-- laughing, crying, being there for each other no matter what. It felt so good to see him earlier, like a piece of your life had been missing and you didn’t feel complete until he was standing in front of you.

You sit outside the coffee shop, waiting for him to arrive. 

… But he never does. 

It’s not till 8 that it starts to hit you that you’re being stood up. You practically feel your heart start to break. 

Because, who didn’t see this coming? Izuku Midoriya has better things to do than to hang out with you. You’re stupid for thinking otherwise. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He’s a superstar hero, and you’re nothing compared to him. Dust. Insignificant dust. Look at him, saving the world by taking out one villain at a time. And look at you, stuck in a dead-end job with no ambitions or dreams. Crushing on a man that removed you from his life for a reason.

You feel the tears well up behind your eyes. 

How pathetic. Look at you, sitting on a bench under a streetlamp, crying. You’re an adult, hopelessly in love with someone who forgets that you even exist. Why can’t you move on? You’re crazy, that’s why. You’re insane for even entertaining the idea that someday, somehow, Izuku will come to you with his arms open. 

You can’t stop the stream of tears coming from your eyes as you break down and cry. Softly sobbing, you put your face in your hands, wanting to hide from the world forever. Then, you hear it. Someone saying your name. No, not someone. You’d know that voice anywhere. 

You look up and see Izuku kneeling beside you, eyes wide and concerned.

Immediately, you see why he was late, and you feel stupid for not thinking of it sooner.

He is beside you in his hero costume, sweaty and bleeding in various places all over his body, obviously just coming back from an intense battle that went longer than expected.

“A-are you okay?” you ask immediately, wiping your tears away with your hands. 

Izuku furrows his eyebrows. “Me? Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just some cuts and bruises… Are you okay?”

“I-” you begin to speak, your brain telling you to say ‘I’m fine!’ and make up a story about why you were sobbing on a bench by yourself. 

But you can’t. Your heart won’t let you.

“I’m so scared to lose you again,” you confess, the tears coming back to your eyes. 

Izuku's face softens. “Lose me? What do you mean? You never lost me, Y/N.” 

You sniffle and shake your head. “You went on to do such incredible and amazing things. And I’m so proud of you. But I just wish I could be part of your life again.” 

He gently places his hands over your shaking hands, his touch feels impossibly electrifying and soothing at the same time.  

“I am so sorry,” he says. His eyes drift to the side and he gulps. “I… I was scared of how I felt about you.”

“How’d you feel about me?” you ask.. 

You can see a slight blush form on Izuku’s cheeks. “Like… I really liked you.” 

He looks up at you for a response, but you’re frozen in place, your brain working overtime to figure out what he’s saying. 

He must take you silence as something negative, because he begins muttering.

“I know, it’s stupid, it’s like we were best friends and you were so great and I was so not great but our relationship was so wonderful and you made me so happy like I never would have been able to get through middle school without you and I just adored you and-”

“And now?” you interrupt. 

He stops and looks at you, eyes searching yours for answers that you’ve kept hidden and locked away for years. 

“And now… I… I… I just want to be near you.” 

You don’t think. You just hug. 

You pull Izuku into you, wrapping your arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of him and reminding yourself that this isn’t a dream. It takes a second for him to unfreeze and hug you back, but when he does, you could swear that you’re flying. 

(TOLD YOU IT WAS TRASH IM SO SORRY PLS DON’T HATE ME)

TAG LIST: @prismaroyal @wesparklebitch @bnha-violetnote @sunflower-kami-boi @shoutosteakettle @strwbrry-lia​ @birds-have-teeth​ @ee-blue @shoutodoki @denise-the-death-goddess​ @sadistiks @knifeewifee @viceofaladriel @saltie @khemz1312 @frenchspeakingfilipina @tessaisalbright @katsumi-kaminari @pixxiesdust @izukuwus @knaite-solo @inochaos​ @kiripimarules @dnarez

[scullydubois]

Only the Light Ch. 18

18/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: mid-s3 (canon-divergent) | T | 5k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic <3

Scully, Mulder, and Missy travel to California to meet Emily and wrestle with the future.

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

The echo of Scully’s heels against the linoleum is almost enough to drown out her racing heart. Mulder’s thumping steps and her sister’s daintier ones help too, but their collective power does nothing to ease Scully’s awareness that the Earth circles the sun at a thousand miles per hour. Today, she’s feeling every bit of it. 

The three of them round a corner, and a broad-shouldered man and tiny-waisted woman come into view. Agent Feniston and the lawyer, this must be. Outside of conference room C--as planned. 

Straightening every disc in her spine, Scully extends a hand and exchanges a firm shake with each of them. Mulder and Melissa hang back. 

“Dana Scully,” she declares. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“That decision rested with the foster parents,” the male agent insists. “As does any from this point forward.”

“Yes, and I’ll be sure to thank them as well,” Scully acquiesces.

“Hello, Ms. Scully.” The lawyer uncrosses her ankles. “I’m Tanya Joyce, you can call me Tanya. As a representative of the state of California, my priority is guarding the child’s wellbeing and ensuring that any choice made is what’s best for her.”

“Of course,” Scully murmurs. “Thank you for being here.”

Tanya thumbs toward the closed door of the conference room. “Brian and Cecily are eager to meet you. The foster system has extremely limited information on little Emily. Your testimony will help us all fill in some blanks.”

Scully nods. “Me as well...this is as much a surprise for me as all of you.”

“Are we to understand that you were not aware you bore a child, Ms. Scully?” Agent Feniston asks. 

“Yes, sir. I know it’s quite hard to believe, I feel the same. I was missing for a period of time last year and was comatose when I returned.”

“Yes, and how long was that period of time, Ms. Scully?”

The edges of her lips fall. “Approximately five weeks.”

“So is it safe to assume that though the child shares your DNA, you did not carry her?”

“No sir, not that I know of. I believe that my eggs were harvested, and she was...well, she comes from one of those.”

The agent hums a note of acknowledgement. “As I told you over the phone, the federal database contained no viable DNA match of a father.”

Scully nods. “Yes sir, and I have no knowledge of what sperm may have been used.”

“Noted.” He rubs his neck. “We were lucky, we only found you because you were in the missing persons database.”

“I had no idea I was still listed there,” Scully says. “I’ve asked the FBI to remove it.”

“Well, it was a stroke of luck for us,” the agent tells her. “This little girl’s foster parents encouraged the state to pursue child abandonment charges against whoever left her. She was found outside a local care center at two weeks old, as I’ve told you.”

“Yes.” Scully purses her lips. She imagines a baby with her eyes, nose, toes, chromosomes crying on a nondescript doorstep...she and Mulder did not know what they were doing when they said they wanted the truth. 

“We’ve already confirmed your story with the FBI,” Feniston continues, “and we have proof that you were working on cases in the east at the time of Emily’s delivery to the foster center, so you are free of any child abandonment charges.”

“Wonderful,” Scully replies, but really, those were the least of her concerns. “May I see my daughter now?” 

That’s the first time she’s ever said that sentence, and she didn’t expect terror to shoot up her spine. Is this what it is, having an extension of your life outside your body?

The lawyer steps forward. “I’ll introduce you to Brian and Cecily, they’d like to speak with you first.”

Scully does not like the way that sits in the air. Still, she musters a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

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

Mulder and Melissa make themselves at home on a pair of leather chairs outside the conference room. They have been the pall-bearers keeping Scully aloft as her crushed dreams reinvent themselves as high hopes. They don’t understand how it happened any more than Scully herself: one phone call turned into multiple consultations with Agent Feniston, then Tanya and California Social Services and finally, DC social workers who performed background checks and prepared forms so that Scully could come here today to meet her baby and, God-willing, bring her home.

It doesn’t happen this fast, it never does--different voices said these same words to them a dozen times. And yet, barely two weeks after Agent Feniston’s fated voicemail, here they are. On All Hallow’s Eve, no less. Just in time for Emily to complete her first rotation around the sun.

They both play contrasting yet crucial roles in Operation Miracle Baby, as Mulder dubbed it. Dana has sobbed into Missy’s shoulder every night for the past two weeks; happy tears (her baby! she has a baby!), sad tears (she has a baby…and she didn’t even know...), scared tears (a baby! a baby, Missy! probably already walking, and maybe even talking if she’s exceptional...). The situation--and its implications--are impossible to reconcile in such a short time, if at all. Scully’s petite frame could not physically contain it. 

Mulder’s the comic relief, the distraction, the reminder that nothing can be so grave if there's still breath left in your body. He bought a CD of nursery rhymes and stuck in it his beat-up office radio, playing it through the day while Scully labored over this form or that and he pretended to alphabetize the case file drawer. Now, he hums himself to sleep every night with one of those rhymes; he’s hoping this new skill will come in handy. 

He would’ve bought toys and baby clothes too, but Melissa made him swear not to in case the adoption falls through. And she’s right, he can’t bear to imagine the pain Scully would feel packing those away. For sale: baby shoes, never worn hits you no matter who you are. Still, he has a stuffed UFO and a Build-a-Bear fox (yes, he went in and filled it himself) hidden in his closet, and he hopes they won’t go to waste. 

Operation Miracle Baby has been as covert as anything Mulder’s ever been involved in. He, Melissa, and Mrs. Scully are the only ones in his partner’s circle with any knowledge of what’s going on. No one else, in Scully’s words, matters. Trinity too has received a full briefing from Missy and is ecstatic about her girlfriend potentially becoming an auntie. Skinner was told it was a family emergency--and well, it is--though surely he’s suspicious about both of his agents requesting time off. Bill Jr. has no idea they’re in San Diego, though they may seek “refuge” (the air quotes are Missy’s) at his place if the proceedings drag on. 

This is a triumph or failure to be shared only with those most beloved, that’s what Scully said to them the night before they boarded the plane. Mulder has never been included in anyone’s most beloved before. It feels pretty damn good.

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

The perky lawyer raps on the conference room door, opening it in response to a voice on the other side. Scully’s breath catches….a strawberry-haired infant rests in her mother’s arms (Scully hates to think it, but surely this woman is more Emily’s mother than she is), pulling at a lock of the woman’s blonde hair. 

The woman turns her way, and Scully gets her first glimpse at Emily’s face. Emily. Her baby. She wondered the whole flight here whether she would feel a connection….a sense of recognition...upon laying eyes on her daughter. And my god, it’s like some chained section of her heart has burst open, flooded with all the good feelings of the world. Icy blue eyes and cherub cheeks...that’s her baby. That’s her baby.

She watches as her baby is passed to a woman in a CA Social Services button-up who slides past Scully in the doorway like she’s not even there. Scully has a split-second to notice the dimples on her daughter’s cheeks, but that’s it. Emily’s gaze misses her entirely. 

Tanya strides toward the couple in the room, Scully following behind. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Lace, this is Dana Scully, Emily’s biological mother.”

“We’re so glad to meet you,” the man says, shaking Scully’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m Brian, and this is my wife Cecily.”

“Thank you for speaking with me,” Scully tells them, shaking Cecily’s hand in kind. “I understand you’ve cared for Emily since shortly after she arrived at social services.”

“Yes,” Cecily confirms. “She came to us when she was a month old. Raising her has been an absolute joy.”

Brian nods. “She’s the second infant we’ve fostered. We adopted our first one, Andrew, when he was a year and a half.” 

“I didn’t realize you had another child,” Scully converses, feeling out of her depth. “It must have been quite a transition, taking Emily in.”

“It sure was, but she’s an angel, truly,” Brian says. “We couldn't fathom that someone could abandon her and get away with it, that’s why we contacted Agent Feniston.”

Cecily chimes in--”We were told the chances of finding a DNA match in the federal database was slim. We didn’t expect to learn that you were unaware of Emily’s existence!”

“Yes, I’m still coming to terms with it all,” Scully replies. “I’m grateful that you’ve given me the opportunity to see her, at the very least.”

“When we heard your story, we knew it would be heinous of us to say no,” Cecily says, offering a sympathetic smile. 

“You’re an FBI agent, did we hear that right?” Brain asks.

“Yes sir, I’ve been with the Bureau five years now.”

“You live in DC?”

Scully nods. “Around the corner from the National Mall.”

“That’s exciting!” Cecily pipes up. “How did you find yourself having Emily in San Diego?”

“I actually have no idea, Mrs. Lace,” Scully murmurs. “My family lived here when I was young, but I haven’t been back since. Coincidentally, my brother lives not too far off.”

“Wow,” Cecily gasps. “They weren’t kidding about you being a missing person.”

“No ma’am.” She went from a missing person to missing a person. No wonder she’s spent the past year feeling so empty. 

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

Mulder and Melissa get only the slightest moment to catch their breath before a child that is unmistakably the progeny of Dana Scully is carried into the lobby. Her hair curls around her ears in a cute mushroom top, her tongue dancing in her mouth like it has a mind of its own. They stare; they know better, but fuck it, if any baby is worth staring at, it’s this one. 

“Is that--?” Mulder whispers.

“Yeah,” Missy breathes. 

They’ve both seen the pictures, they are well aware that it’s her. They say these things for the awe of it. 

“She’s…” Mulder’s eyes are wide. “She’s bigger than I thought she would be. Not fat, I mean. Just...a whole tiny human.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Melissa smiles at her niece, who is now seated on her caretaker’s lap across the hallway. Emily’s big eyes blink at her, containing silent judgements. How like her mother she is.

Missy elbows Mulder. “I bet she orders mushroom pizza and then picks the mushrooms off because apparently ‘the cheese tastes better than on the regular cheese pizza,’” she muses, naming one of her sister’s quirks. 

Mulder likes this game. “I bet she vehemently denies the existence of extraterrestrials only to secretly believe that her dashing partner is right,” he offers.

Missy smirks. “I bet she would find this game very stupid if she understood it.”

“I’m all in on that one.” Mulder mimes pushing a pile of poker chips into the center of a table. 

Missy laughs, looks toward her seat partner with soft eyes. “She’s gonna be a great mom, isn’t she? Dana, I mean?”

“Oh yeah.” Mulder clasps his hands in his lap. “We should be so lucky to have a little Scully in the world.”

“Mm-hm.” Missy focuses on his face, watching for the slightest move that might give his thoughts away. “And she’ll be able to do it alone, do you think?”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll need some help from Mrs. Scully, and you, and…” he trails off before adding his own name, but Missy’s mind fills it in reflexively. “She’ll need help,” Mulder finishes, “but yeah, she’ll be incredible.”

The details have already been parsed out. As a single mother, Scully is required to list a guardian who would take custody of Emily if something were to happen to her. She listed her mother as the primary one--the social worker told her it’s best if it’s someone who has child-rearing experience--and Missy as the secondary guardian. She would, after all, already live in the child’s household. 

Then there was the matter of the job--its extensive time requirements, travelling, and danger level were all of concern to the agency. This came as no surprise to Scully; a single female FBI agent does not make the ideal adoption candidate. And though she hasn’t yet spoken to the Bureau, Mulder has promised her they’ll work something out. It can be like your leave of absence, he assured her. You tackle the paper trail and I’ll focus on following the suspect’s trail. Easy-peasy.

That’s what he says to her, though he’s terrified of losing her as his partner...Of her being reassigned to something simpler or leaving the Bureau entirely. She could teach at Quantico, that schedule would be a hell of a lot easier than running on Mulder time. Agent Scully can pack for hastily-booked flights at midnight then catch them at 7am, but Emily’s mother couldn’t. He will have to reckon with this if all the pieces fall into their graceful place. He’ll have to figure out how to rearrange their partnership for her, or even worse, how to live without her as his partner. Or maybe even at all. 

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

Scully glances at her shoes, then summons the courage to meet Mrs. Lace’s hazel eyes. “I hope you will consider my request. I know it’s not up to you entirely--the court will have the final say--but my abduction experience has left me unable to have a biological child, so learning of Emily was truly a miracle of the highest order.” 

Her voice clips as she takes a breath. “I understand that it would be a huge sacrifice on the part of your family, and that you’ve developed a bond with Emily over the past eleven months. I just ask you both to please...think about it.” Tears twinkle in her eyes. She made it, thank god, she made it without breaking down! She’s rehearsed that speech ten times over.

Cecily lays a hand on her husband’s arm. “Of course, Dana. It would be a painful sacrifice to us, you’re correct, but we understand that you’ve flown across the country to be here, and that you’ve brought witnesses to testify to your character, so your commitment is clear. We’ll listen and make as compassionate a decision as possible.”

Scully’s lips creep into a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She steps back, the weight of imminent sobs settling over her chest. 

“Ms. Scully has already undergone most of the requirements needed for adoption,” the lawyer tells Mr. and Mrs. Lace. “Medical clearance, psychiatric clearance, criminal background check, and home study. In the spirit of her unique circumstances, California and the District of Columbia have agreed to cooperate to make the process as smooth and expedient as possible, if you should choose to surrender Emily to her. I don’t mean to sway your decision in any way, just to give you all the available information.” 

The couple nods. “Thank you, Tanya,” Cecily answers. “We’d like to speak with the first witness now.”

Scully balks. She expected more questions, a barrage of them, as intense and prying as if she were testifying in front of Congress. And she was ready for that--she was prepared to do whatever they asked of her, to show that there are no lengths she wouldn’t go for Emily. She’s already documented every detail of her life for social services and given over the necessary specimens to prove that no, she’s not a drug user, and yes, her thyroid is hyperactive, but she takes medication for that and her doctor will confirm that it’s under control. 

And if they wanted to know more, she’d tell them. She’d tell it all. Her deepest, darkest secret (telling Daniel that yes, he should leave his wife & kids...all for her, to be with her), the most petty thing that haunts her (stolen cigarettes, smoked on the family porch at 1am), what she wants to say most but can’t (I love you)...a part of her was taken to create Emily. She would give the rest away to keep her.

There was a moment, in one of the drab little interrogation rooms at DC social services, where Scully was met with a question that lunged toward her like a time-bomb. Pull the fuse, pull the fuse it taunted her. See what happens. Instead, she played it off. Pretended she didn’t hear its doomed tick. Feigned none the wiser. No, she isn’t aware of any potential medical condition that would inhibit her life expectancy or ability to care for a child, she told the nice woman. Thank god they got the chip out of her neck before it showed up on any x-rays. 

She snaps back to reality, watching as the conference door opens, and her sister enters the room. 

“Thank you, Dana,” Tanya says, and she assumes that’s the lawyer’s way of telling her to get out, so she does. Outside the room, she settles next to Mulder in a seat that’s still warm.

“How’d it go in there, champ?” he chatters. “You need some water or anything?”

Scully’s not listening. Her eyes are trained on the baby girl across the way with hair too auburn to be brunette that’ll require a smattering of box dye every two weeks to qualify her as a soulless ginger. 

Emily’s eyes land on the woman she does not know is her mother, studying this new face with an infant’s usual curiosity. Mulder has realized by now that the little girl is of much more interest to his partner than he is, and he watches as mother and daughter wave to each other.

Scully lets out a laugh so strangled that for a moment Mulder thinks it’s a cry and jumps to comfort her. He relaxes back into his seat once he sees the joy on her face.

“She’s a sweetheart, huh?” Mulder wisecracks as the young girl jams her fingers into her mouth.

Scully beams. “She’s a baby, that’s her way of learning the world!”

“Hey, I’m not knocking it. That’s my personal preference as well,” he says with a lop-sided smile. 

“Yeah, well, she’s not licking evidence,” Scully quips. 

Mulder shrugs. “A man can’t help his oral fixation. Haven’t you ever heard of Freud…?” he lets it slide off his tongue. 

Scully rolls her eyes. His inability to maintain an appropriate manner is nothing if not inspiring. 

She gestures toward Emily. “You’re already encouraging bad behavior. Tsk-tsk,” she teases. 

“That’s my job as--hey, wait. What’s she gonna call me?” If you get custody, of course passes silently between them.

“I don’t know, Mulder,” Scully says, watching her daughter out of the corner of her eye. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” That’s a lie. She’s sat up during the night trying to decipher Mulder’s relation to Emily. He would certainly be the male authority in her life, but that doesn’t make him a father figure. Right? 

Scully adored her father because he was the head of the family, and he embraced the responsibility, always making sure they had what they needed. While her mother was often the one doing the grunt work of caring for them, her father provided for them. His long deployments with the Navy protected them. Scully understood his sacrifice and loved him for it 

That’s not how it would go with Emily. If she were so lucky as to get the child, Scully would be the caretaker and the provider. A two-in-one deal with a high price. What would that mean, for Emily? Scully could do it, she believes that. Not that it would be anything less than utterly exhausting, but with a little help from her mother and her sister, she could make do, and they say it takes a village to raise a child anyway, so what’s so bad about that?

Since she’s filling those roles herself, that leaves...well, Mulder could be the fun uncle, that fits him. Bill Jr. isn’t gonna cut it, and neither is Charlie, considering that he’s god knows where. Besides, it’s unlikely that Mulder will get a chance to know a biological niece or nephew. He and Emily could fill missing pieces in each other’s lives.

Scully’s eyes trace the contours of her partner’s face. “Do you have a preference about what she calls you?”

“I was hoping for His Royal Highness Fox Mulder of Martha’s Vineyard--is that too much?”

Scully lets a strand of hair fall over her face. “It might take her awhile to get her tongue around that.”

“Or it’ll speed up her speech acquisition,” Mulder replies. 

“Oh, you’re a child-rearing connoisseur now?”

Mulder twiddles his thumbs. “It is my goal to raise the first kid to transcribe canine language into English.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware of that,” Scully tells him, a smile flitting on her lips. It’s this kind of banter that keeps her sane. A few minutes out here with him, and she’s forgotten that what happens in that conference room will dictate the rest of her life. 

Across the hallway, Emily giggles at the air, and it fits, doesn’t it? Here she is, already laughing at Mulder’s jokes like the Scully girl she is. 

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

It feels like a prisoner exchange when witness number one in their civil-that-sure-feels-like-a-criminal case joins Scully back in the hallway, and Mulder is called forward “to the stand.” He swears he found a penny in the parking lot this morning & promises to bring back good news. Scully’s pretty sure he made that story up, but she’s no less hopeful that it’ll come true.

Returned from her brief stint in captivity, Missy dives right into a discussion of her niece: “Look at her, Dana, she looks just like you!”

“Well, she does have fifty percent of my DNA,” Scully concedes with an admiring glance at the little girl.

“Have you gone over to see her?”

Scully shakes her head. “I didn’t think that would be proper.”

“Are you kidding me?” Missy retorts. “First of all, Brian and Cecily are very nice people, and I’m not supposed to say this, but I think there’s a chance that Emily will be yours. Secondly, this could be your only opportunity to interact with your daughter and you’re not gonna take it?”

Scully bites her lip. Her sister knows how to craft an argument. “Alright, but you have to back me up.”

“Trust me, I wanna see her just as badly as you.”

Scully steels herself, then approaches the woman in the polo shirt. “Hello.” She does a polite half-wave, which she’s never done before and which makes her feel ridiculous. “I’m the potential adoptee, and I was wondering if I could say hello to this precious little girl.” It all feels completely out of character, like she’s reading lines from a script. But this is it, this is her reality.

The woman’s face offers little in the way of recognition. “You can have a supervised visit with her, yes,” she recites, as rehearsed as Scully. 

“Great.” Scully claps her hands together. “May I take her to my sister right over there?”

The woman nods. Scully lays her hands on Emily’s waist and lifts the girl gently from the woman’s lap. She is heavier than Scully imagined, or maybe just heavier than she hoped. Every ounce is a reminder of unseen existence and unwitnessed growth.

Emily does not balk, just stares up at her mother with those probing eyes. 

“Hi baby girl,” Scully coos to her daughter as she settles her against her hip. “Can you say hi? Have you got that one yet?”

The girl blinks. “Ma-ma.”

Scully crooks her neck, tries to reign in her racing imagination. All babies do this at this age, don’t they? Calling every woman mama and every man dada. Emily’s no exception. And yet...for that to be the first word her daughter has ever said to her. God winked at her, and she’s glad to have caught it. 

The pair makes it to Missy, who blows a kiss in Emily’s direction. “Hey there little one.” She extends her index finger, and the girl latches onto it. 

Scully cradles her baby’s head, Emily’s fine hair soft beneath her fingers. 

“She’s even-keeled for a baby,” Missy remarks, wiggling her finger and watching Emily crack a smile. 

“Yes,” Scully gurgles out of the sheer joy. She settles into her chair with Emily in her lap. “Do you know what she said to me?”

Missy looks up. “What?”

“Mama.” Scully dons a triumphant grin. “She called me mama.”

“Oh, no way!” Missy squeals. It’s a bit too loud and sudden, making Emily jump. The ladies laugh, and Scully pulls her daughter in closer, kissing the crown of her head. She still has that baby smell; the freshness of new life and all its purity. Scully sighs. It must have been even stronger when she was born.

Scully closes her eyes. If she had one chance to pause life somewhere along the way, to linger in a perfect moment longer, she would do it right now and she would never regret it. 

“My baby…” she breathes into Emily’s ear, hoping it will stick. That one day she’ll remember and find her way home, should she need to.

A warm tear slides down Scully’s cheek and lands in Emily’s lap, a dark drop on the girl’s corduroy pants. “Mama loves you, Emily.” She tightens her embrace. “That’s me,” she sniffs. “I love you, Emily.”

Observing this, Missy feels that she is an interloper and slips off to the bathroom, leaving mother and baby to have their moment. 

Scully strokes the girl’s tiny palm with her thumb. She has missed so much already, and my god, she could miss so much more. What is love, if not sacrifice? Hadn’t that been the takeaway from each week of Sunday school?

The conference door opens, and Scully finds herself irritated that life has failed to pause. Oh, what wouldn’t she do to take the reins from God, even for a moment? She looks up at Mulder, doe-eyed as he processes the optical illusion that is Emily and her mother. Said mother sees the tenderness on Mulder’s face as he comes to terms with this sight, and something in both of them breaks, and something else opens. 

Mulder approaches quietly, apprehensive about ruining the moment. Little does he know, he’s not ruining it; he’s completing it. 

“Hey,” Scully swoons. “How was it?”

He’s too earnest to crack a joke right now. “Less nerve-wracking than I expected,” he murmurs. “Brain and Cecily are good people.” 

Scully can’t help but wonder if they’re hammering this point about Brian and Cecily to make her feel better when the gavel falls in their direction. Mulder directs her train of thought away from this when he kneels in front of Emily.  His eyes are as soupy as ever, Scully notices; she could sink right into them.

“May I?”

Scully chuckles under her breath, like a stranger has just asked if they could pet her dog. “Of course, Mulder. Say hi.”

Over the past weeks, Mulder spent considerable time anticipating this initial interaction. First impressions are important, after all, and there is no one he has wanted to impress more than this sweet girl. Ultimately, he decided that he didn’t care what their meeting was, as long as it would be. And now that he’s here, knelt in front of his two favorite girls, he’s ready to make a promise.

He envelops Emily’s closed fist with one hand and uses the other to caress Scully’s palm. “I want you to know,” he begins, shifting his gaze between mother and daughter, “that I’ll always be here for you.” 

He looks to Scully, realizing that Emily is unable to comprehend what he is saying. “Regardless of Brian and Cecily’s choice, I am prepared to make every sacrifice so that you two can be a family. The family you deserve to be. I know what it’s like to not have that, and christ, Scully, I’m not letting you go through that. You’ve had enough for one lifetime.”

Scully’s face puckers. She is moved on a dimension that transcends the spiritual, if such a thing is possible. She closes her eyes, lets the tears slip out, then softens her focus on him. 

“Thank you, Mulder...Fox,” she effuses, needing to heighten the intimacy. “Emily and I…” she kisses her daughter’s temple again. “Well, you know. You already know.” Her voice is somber almost, reminiscent of a wedding vow’s binding utterance.

Mulder smiles up at them, pats Scully’s hand. “I know. Me too.” 

There are many phrases that could fill her blank, but he chose his favorite, and he’s got an inkling that he’s right.

Scully sucks in a breath, and it’s the first one that has ever counted. Earth is new to her, again.

The door opens a second time, and the lawyer approaches with Brian and Cecily behind her.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lace would like to take some time to think about their decision,” Tanya announces. “You will understand, they hope…?”

Scully nods, swallowing back a lump in her throat. She would like to break into a tantrum, throwing chairs and screeching every obscenity she knows. Begging please, please, don’t let me miss another heartbeat. Let me live in this Heaven I’ve found. But no answer is better than an immediate rejection, so she screws her lips into a smile and gives away two more handshakes. 

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Lace. I’m grateful for this opportunity.”

[xmint-conditionx]

☆ flanked ☆ ch1 | knj

(verb) flank - 

guard or strengthen (a military force or position) from the side.

attack down or from the sides, or rake with gunfire from the sides.

☆ pairing: soldier!namjoon x widow!reader; namjoon x fem!reader ☆ word count: 4.7K ☆ summary: you’re a recently widowed military spouse who is stationed at camp walker, south korea. you’re dealing with the tragedy of your husband’s recent death, and in the process, you accidentally meet a k-pop idol you’ve had a crush on for years. who knew you’d both be at the same post while he’s doing his compulsory service? who knew he’d be so damn nice? who knew it would be impossible to get him out of your head? ☆ warnings: angst, mentions of death, grieving, feelings of guilt, brief description of sexual acts. ☆ a/n: hey everyone c: glad to be putting this gem back up into the world. please do let me know if you want to be added to a taglist for this, i’d be happy to oblige! this was one of the first things i’ve written, and so i hadn’t quite found my style yet, but it’s not that bad??? i pretty much have the whole story planned out, but i want to take my time with it. this is my lil baby, and i wanna treat it right uwu this starts off with a lot of angst and tough emotions, but there will be eventual smut!!! huge thank you to my supportive spouse who is in the military and has helped out with some of the realism aspects of this story. hope y’all like it! enjoy!

- minty <3

It’s raining today. Again. The clouds hang low, like a weighted blanket covering your whole world. Aren’t those things supposed to help with anxiety? If only the clouds comforted you, maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to go to… therapy. The word stings in your brain. Another cruel joke of the universe: the un-comforting weighted cloud blanket, and the need for you to go to therapy to ease your pain about a dead therapist. 

The light of the day is beginning to leave as you walk towards the address the man had given you the day before. You really should have been nicer; he really didn’t mean to hurt you. And you really should have asked his name. Mentally kicking yourself, you vow that you’ll do it tonight. After all, this is the only other time you’ve left the house by yourself this week. It was nice to not have the Casualty Assistance Officer breathing down your neck for once. There has to be some good in that. Hell, this little outing might actually be helpful.

The old government building is dull, like both the sky and your feelings. If you died right now and were reincarnated into an object instead of a being, the building in front of you would probably be the best fit. Shades of brown and grey cover tired and worn brick. Government funding has tried its best to keep it presentable but truthfully, it’s barely holding on. It’s definitely seen better days. The more you think about the similarities, the more pathetic you feel, so you push on ahead and push the thoughts out of your mind. The door creaks as you walk in the cold and dark foyer and it all just... makes sense. As empty inside as you are. Jesus, you’ve never been this morbid. There are no lights on other than one at the end of one of the hallways, and you hesitantly step towards it. You don’t like the thought of what that light is going to expose. 

As you reluctantly enter the beam of offensive fluorescent light, someone takes notice of you. Already? They’re walking towards you, hand extended. You’re busy blinking back at the new bright sensation as you reach your hand out to introduce yourself. After blinking back the harsh light, you can see the little folding chairs placed in a circle in the room. Great, you think, just like AA. 

The man before you seems to be in his late 30s, a little on the short side, with a little bit of hair recession. As you finish your short bow to the man, he says in Korean “Yes, someone told us you might be joining us tonight.” as he sends a meaningful look over to one of the chairs in the circle. You follow his gaze to see the man from yesterday grinning up at you, dimples on full display, this time in civilian clothes. After sending you a goofy little wave, he pats the chair next to him and not so smoothly motions for you to sit there. 

“Go ahead,” the older man says, “make yourself comfortable. We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”

You walk toward the empty chair, and take in how truly different he looks in plain clothes. His KATUSA uniform was extremely flattering to his large frame, but this is just downright cruel. The black beanie he’s sporting looks way too good on him. His short sleeved v-neck shirt is a little tight, revealing the finely defined shape of his chest and his arms. He catches your eyes lingering on his body, and you quickly look down as you feel a blush creep up. You tell yourself to just pretend nothing happened, and it’ll all be fine. 

After you sit down, you open your mouth to ask for his name, but he does the same, your voices awkwardly echoing each other. Realizing what happened, your cheeks grow even warmer and you can’t help but turn away as you both share a laugh. You shake it off and give him your name, family first and individual second, attempting to at least make eye contact with him. 

“Nice to officially meet you. I’m Sangbyeong Kim Namjoon, but please don’t feel the need to use titles or honorifics with me. We’re equals here as far as I’m concerned. I’m really glad you decided to come tonight.” 

So, it is him. You can’t even begin to believe it. He looks so different than he did in the tour pictures you saw only a few years ago, but as you look up at him knowing what you know, it all falls into place. Some things for sure didn’t change one bit- his button nose, his deep and smoldering eyes, and the signature dimples really should have given it away. His smile is still just as genuine and reassuring and gleaming and... beautiful?

You immediately squish the thought and offer him back a tight smile. You’re not going to let him know you know who he is. It would probably only make him feel weird and you’ve already been so awful to him. You’re not going to allow yourself to make a big deal about this, and you’re definitely not going to allow yourself to... like him. 

“Look,” you start, “I appreciate your concern. I... I just don’t think something like this will help me. At least not right now.” You sigh, studying your shoes as a distraction. Your hands busy themselves fiddling with your necklace. There’s no way you can be here sitting this close to Namjoon. 

As if he can read your panicked thoughts, Namjoon leans in closer to you, so close you can feel his warm breath on your jaw, and with a hushed and more gravelly voice, he says, “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Hell, I didn’t say anything for almost a whole month. It just... felt good to listen. You’re not going to be forced into anything. This is going to go at your speed and be what you’re comfortable with. I promise.” With that last sentence, he places his large, warm hand on your knee. 

Shit. You suddenly feel your entire body ignite. What is this? A bolt of lightning rushes up your spine. Your heart starts to pound in your chest. No, this isn’t happening. Your legs begin to tingle. This can’t be happening; this is not allowed. You swallow hard. 

You don’t want to be aroused. You straight up shouldn’t be aroused. This is messed up. Really messed up. You blink some sense back into yourself and cross your legs away from him which thankfully removes the cursed hand.

You’d imagined being touched by this man for a pretty considerable amount of time some years ago; you had filled your head with countless fantasies, knowing they’d never come true. You’d read countless imaginings of his other fans and admirers. This man had fueled so many hidden desires within you. You’d thought of his hands exploring your frame, his strong arms throwing you around, his plush lips leaving marks along your inner thighs...

Thinking of him had been your guilty little pleasure, even something your husband had liked to playfully tease you about. To actually have him here next to you in the flesh, though, was still somehow unfathomable. Why now, you mentally screamed to the god you didn’t believe in. The universe’s cruel jokes just won’t end, will they? What can you possibly even do about this? You can’t sit here and allow your panties to be wet when your husband hasn’t even been buried yet for fucks sake. God, you’re so ashamed. You’re just going to have to keep him at a polite distance. That’s your only option.

You don’t speak through the meeting. But Namjoon was right, it is kind of nice to hear other people’s stories. Even though it’s only been a week since you found out, there’s a lot of feelings and thoughts you can relate to with these people. You’ve found out why Namjoon comes to these meetings every week. That was a question you didn’t want to linger on, much less learn the answer to. You didn’t want to imagine him experiencing a loss like this. Even when you weren’t convinced it was really him, seeing that same pain in another’s eyes only made yours hurt worse. 

One of Namjoon’s fellow soldiers had died in a training accident, and the whole fire team was there doing group therapy. They spent most of their time remembering the funny things he would do to cheer everyone up during their long ruck marches and their annoying and boring bouts of equipment cleaning. Private First Class Derek Williams was the goofball of the group, and he was definitely well loved. Namjoon’s eyes never fully lit up when everyone’s anecdotes hit their punchline.

As the meeting draws to a close and people begin filing out, the group leader comes over to the both of you and asks Namjoon how his thoughts have been over the past week. It’s interesting that the man takes special interest in Namjoon. He nods and just casually replies, “I keep thinking it should have been me instead.”

His relaxed confession is absolutely shocking. Why would he say that? The older man seems to be as surprised as you are.

“Namjoon-ah, please don’t say such things,” the man urges. 

“I know how it sounds, I really do. I’m not going to do anything crazy, and I know it’s a pointless thought,” he shrugs. “It’s just how I’ve been feeling.” 

The older man nods. 

“Go in well-being, Namjoon. Please, call me if you need to.”

You find yourself walking out together. The sky is now fully dark and there’s an added chill in the air, urging you to pull your scarf up a little higher. At least it’s not raining anymore. It’s not usually this cold in Daegu at this time of year; you’re practically begging Spring to come. Although you’re in stride with each other, Namjoon feels like he’s a million miles away.

 “Hey,” you begin, hoping to ease the tension. “I’m sorry about your friend. He sounded like a really nice guy.” 

“Yeah, he was. Thanks. I’m sorry about your husband too. You seem to miss him a lot.” 

“Yeah, I do. Part of me still doesn’t believe he can really be gone. I feel like I’ve been walking around in a daze for the past week. All the paperwork I’ve had to sign. All the logistics. It’s all a little overwhelming so I… just kind of shut down most of the time. Our dog is still looking for him around the house, too, which is probably the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Oh, shit. I couldn’t imagine. I have a dog too and... I don’t want to think about how confused they must be. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

You both stop walking, because you realize you’ve allowed him to walk you all the way to your car. He didn’t even ask.

“Speaking of my son… I... actually need to go walk him. He’s been inside all day and it’s finally stopped raining. Huskies need exercise... So...”

Namjoon lights up a little. “Do you walk him on post?”

“No actually, we go to Duryu Park. He likes the ducks that gather at the pond. Although they probably won’t be doing very much at this time of night.”

“Hey, why don’t we go together?” he asks, “It’s dark out and it’s not a good idea for you to be by yourself.” 

“Excuse me?” you snap. He doesn’t know you’re a brown belt, but he sure is about to.

A flustered Namjoon begins stumbling over his words. “I’m just saying, you’re like really small and someone could easily—“

“Namjoon,” you laugh. “I think I can handle myself.”

“No, uh, what I’m trying to say is that there’s safety in numbers, you know? It would be difficult to fight off bad guys while keeping hold of your dog...” He has a good point. You’ve never walked Draco this late before. You don’t want to admit it, but your recent lesson in mortality has left you a little more than uneasy, especially now that Namjoon has made you think about it.

He continues his word vomit, mistaking your furrowed eyebrows for reluctance instead of consideration. 

“Look, I’m sure you’re very intimidating but—“

Oh my god, you can’t take it anymore. 

“Namjoon!” you exclaim and he finally, finally stops the verbal deluge. “Fine.” 

He seems astonished. “Really?”

“Yeah, meet me by the bridge that leads to the little island in the middle of the pond in like... 30 minutes. We usually do two laps around the water. And...” you pause, “thanks.” You’re a little annoyed at how persistent he can be, but he is really considerate.

His eyes sparkle in the light of the street lamps and you notice his gaze linger on your pursed lips. He does a... weird little hop and finally fully smiles at you. You’ve forgotten how utterly striking his full smile can be. Jesus Christ, how many teeth does this man have? His cheeks have become even more round and his eyes shrink into little half moons. Your stomach does somersaults as you bask in the glow of his happiness. Ugh, not again.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon!” he says, hurrying away. You don’t notice him glance back at you, and that’s probably a good thing.

You get in your car and put your forehead against the steering wheel. Why can’t you just say no to this man?

___________________________

You walk up to the start of the bridge with your pup in tow, who is obviously very pleased to be outside and at his favorite park to boot. The street lamps don’t cover much, but you can just make out a leggy figure standing next to a small white fluff ball. You’d forgotten he said he had a dog too. As you get closer, you see he’s got the leash handle around his wrist, because both his hands are holding two white cups with steam pouring out of the top. 

“What’s this?” you ask, as he extends one of the cups to you. Your dogs are busy sniffing each other, ears back and tails wagging. 

“Hot chocolate! It’s really cold out and I noticed you shivering when we got out of the group therapy building and I was going to get you coffee but I didn’t know what kind you like or how you take it plus it’s late and caffeine might keep you up all night and I didn’t want to—“

“Namjoon,” you cut him off before he explodes. “Thank you.” you reply, taking a sip of the hot drink and relishing in how it warms you up. You look back up at the handsome man, who is beaming down at you, enthralled in your pleased reaction. Warmth is beginning to spread through your body, and as your eye contact with him deepens, you begin to wonder if it’s just the hot chocolate. You can’t help yourself. “You do know that there’s a lot of sugar in hot chocolate though, right?” 

He furrows his eyebrows and panic soon consumes his face.

 “Oh! Right! I’m sorry I—“

“Relax, I’m just teasing you. I’ll be fine, promise. And if I’m not and you end up keeping me up all night, I guess I’ll just have to kick your ass.” you deadpan, which takes more effort than usual because now, you’re picturing him… keeping you up all night.

He starts laughing and you can’t help but to join him. He has a good, hearty laugh, one that makes his entire face light up. It feels really good to be laughing with him. 

“Oh!” he exclaims suddenly, “this is Moni!” gesturing down to the adorable American Eskimo at the end of the pink leash. 

You squat down to formally introduce yourself to Moni. You let him sniff your hand as your dog takes the opportunity to sneak some kisses on your face. 

“Bananas, stop!” you light-heartedly scold, but your pooch doesn’t get the message. He seems encouraged instead, and you are given no mercy by your big fluffy boy. 

Namjoon just laughs at how adorably frustrated you are. After he’s had enough entertainment, he extends a hand and helps you back up. This is the first time you’ve touched skin to skin, and your body is keenly aware of it. His hands are softer than you thought they’d be, and really warm. With how cold it is, you wish you could keep holding onto his strong yet elegant hands. Even after he’s released you, a symphony of tingles play in your legs, betraying you once again.

“Shall we then?” Namjoon asks, tilting his head down slightly so he’s looking at you through his eyelashes. Why does he have to do that? He can’t look at you like that. It’s illegal. Not allowed. He’s torturing you, and surely he has to know that. Or is he oblivious? He’s probably not even trying, because he has no reason to. He doesn’t even need to try. Which is kind of the problem, because you can’t exactly tell him to stop being so damn hot.

You can only answer him by tugging on your leash with a “let’s go!”

Over your walk, you talk about favorite places to eat in town and the different attractions you’ve come to love during your stay here. He talks about one of his best friends who grew up here in Daegu, so he knows all of these nice little spots only a local would typically know. You don’t have to wait for him to say Yoongi’s name before you know who he’s talking about, bringing up a hint of stinging remorse at your secret. He says they’re still in contact as much as they can be, but it tends to be difficult when they were both doing their compulsory service. Yoongi had finished his obligation, and is back in Seoul working on music. For his time, he was stationed right outside of Seoul working with the Korean Military Police, so he never really had to totally put down his work. He talks about Yoongi like they’re brothers, and it’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever seen. Namjoon doesn’t even try to hide how much he misses his friend.

He asks about where you grew up, and the question is kind of startling. It’s not that you’re not wanting to tell him, but you’re surprised that he wants to know.

“I grew up in Georgia, in the United States. It’s in the Southeastern part of the country.”

“Ah okay, so you grew up close to Atlanta?” he asks, full of curiosity. 

“Kind of! I was about a 4 hour drive from there. I grew up closer to the ocean.” you say, and notice his eyes light up when you mention the sea.

“There’s a guy in my unit,” he begins, “who did his training in Georgia. He said that there isn’t much there other than Atlanta...” he says, quickly noticing your bemused look. He catches himself and finishes, “but in hindsight he was likely biased.”

“He probably trained at Ft. Benning. If that’s the case, I don’t blame him for thinking that at all,” you say, “He’s actually kind of right, if that’s all of Georgia he got to see,” you continue, laughing a little.

“Well, what do you think of Georgia?”

“Hmmmm. I think I wouldn’t have wanted to grow up anywhere else. The area where I grew up was close to the beach, but there was also a lot of agriculture. My grandma even had a peach tree in her backyard. She’d let me go back there and pick a peach and eat it if I had behaved that day. Peaches are my favorite, so it was a pretty good motivator.”

“Georgia is known for their peaches, right?” he asks, but his tone tells you he already knows the answer to that. You had always thought people were exaggerating at how smart he is, but you can’t deny the fact any longer.

“Yeah, we’re even called the peach state. Peaches, pecans, sweet onions and peanuts all grow well there.” you say and he nods with understanding. 

“So what about the town you grew up in?”

“The town was pretty small, my high school maybe had 500 people in it. But the bigger city by us was great. A lot of different types of people. A lot of good food. God, I miss southern food a lot.” you gasp, grabbing his bicep with your free hand, “Namjoon! You haven’t lived until you’ve had good collard greens!” 

“Collard greens? I’ve never heard of that,” he says, scrunching up his eyebrows.

“It’s a side dish we eat down south. It goes with just about everything, but it’s best next to fried chicken and macaroni and cheese.”

“Macaroni and cheese…” he muses, letting the English words roll off his tongue, “I really want to try more American food. I’ve had plenty of hamburgers, but I want to try everything. PFC Williams always let me try his lunch if I asked him. He brought this thing called potato salad one day… that was an interesting experience.”

You sigh, “there’s much more to American food than just hamburgers and potato salad. Too bad there aren’t any real authentic American food restaurants here. Although, there is a Johnny Rockets on the other side of town. Is that where you get your hamburgers?”

“Yeah… it is. Chain restaurants are cheating though, right?”

“Yeah, basically. If you want real American food, you’ve got to get a real American to make it for you. I thought I really liked Korean food until I moved here. Americanized Koean food is not half as good as the real thing,” you assure him.

“I could have told you that,” he teases, giving you a light bump with his shoulder. “Do you have a favorite restaurant in town?”

You discuss the places you have come to love in Daegu, from restaurants to parks to shopping areas to museums. You both realize you enjoy art, although he prefers looking at it while you enjoy making it. The conversation ventures to Pollock and Monet and Van Gogh and you go on about how you just don’t get Picassos. He just lets you just rant about how much you hate his works for probably too long, until you’ve run out of breath and are forced to take a break.

“Wow, that bad huh? What did he ever do to you?” Namjoon chuckles.

“He destroyed my corneas with his kindergarten level bullshit, that’s what.” you snap, which only makes him laugh more.

“So it’s safe to say that you hate Banksy too, then?” 

“No way!” you say, “Banksy is a genius!”

He just continues to chuckle, clearly amused. “I will never understand you, woman.” 

“Are you trying to?” you quip before you can stop yourself, and his laughs die down. Oh, no. That was so direct. Way too direct. He’s got to know you’re into him now; he’d be a moron to not pick up on it. Your stomach is doing somersaults again, but not the good kind this time. You’ve known him for less than two days, so why did you think that was a good thing to say?

You chew your lip, worried of what he might be thinking. Or worse, what he might actually say. After an excruciatingly long silence, finally, it happens.

“Yes. I am.” 

What does that even mean?! Your thoughts are beginning to spiral again, and thankfully, he continues, albeit way too nonchalantly. 

“And honestly, it’s been really enjoyable to do.”

It’s been... enjoyable? Has he already forgotten how you met? This man must have a death wish if getting verbally murked by a strange woman in public was something he considered to be ‘enjoyable.’ You’re immeasurably grateful he isn't looking at you right now, because it’s nearly impossible to hide your astonishment. 

“So…” he begins slowly, “I hope you’ll continue to let me.”

What do you even say to something like that? Namjoon is so much nicer than you ever expected, and that fact is only making things more difficult for you. You’ve had more enjoyment in this one walk than you’ve had this whole week, but there’s about a million different reasons why you should stay away from him. If you only could have met under different circumstances, this might be something you could explore. Honestly, you would still love to explore the possibilities with him, even here and now, but the thoughts of your husband are difficult to push away. 

You recoil at that and curse yourself. 

They shouldn’t be pushed away! It’s not fair to your husband or to his memory. It wouldn’t even be fair to Namjoon! You can barely give yourself a hundred percent right now, much less a new friendship. On top of everything, you’re going to have to go back to the states in less than 6 months, which is an eventuality you’re not looking forward to facing. 

The only sounds now are the soft contact of your shoes against pavement, the tinkling of metal dog tags, and the cold breeze rustling the trees around the four of you. You were correct about there being no ducks out this late, and you find yourself missing their chatter. Anything to distract you from this confrontation would be welcome right now. As the silence grows longer, it becomes more and more difficult for you to respond. You’ve never been great with words, but what do you have to lose besides looking like an idiot? Besides, you’ve already done that. Like, yesterday. You take a deep breath and offer up the most broad explanation.

“Namjoon, I just can’t be a good friend to you right now.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for.” he simply replies, not missing a beat. Why is he being so stubborn? You’re going to have to elaborate. Forget trying to not make a fool out of yourself. He’s a good person, and he deserves your honesty-- at least most of it.

“I can’t be a good friend to you ever. I’m too consumed in my own baggage right now to help you carry yours. Plus, I’ll have to return to the States soon. I just… don’t want to be a burden on you.”

“That’s… not what I’m asking for,” he says again.

Frustration building up causes you to sigh at him. You’re going to need a little help from this infuriating dimpled tree-man, so you make him give it to you.

“What are you asking for, then?” you inquire with a little sting in your tone, leaving him with no room to continue being vague.

“I am asking to continue spending time with you. That’s it. I enjoy your company.” he says. This answer is still unacceptable to you because...

“I literally yelled at you in a parking lot yesterday, Namjoon,” you say.

“Yeah, but that was…” he trails off and scratches his head, “kind of my fault.” 

“You can’t be serious. You… didn’t know.”

“That might be true, but I still hurt you, and I’d like the chance to continue making it up to you. At risk of sounding really cheesy… Part of my job as a KATUSA is to be a symbol of the friendship and mutual support of our two fine countries... To learn from and assist each other... I don’t see why we couldn’t do that too...”

“That… really was cheesy, Namjoon,” you chuckle.

He smiles down at you, and your heart skips around in your chest. When he speaks again, he draws out the first word, clearly in a teasing mood now.

“Okay, but… did it work?” he teases with a sly grin as he side-eyes you.

Part of you wants to tell him no, but he does deserve honesty after all. At least mostly honesty. You want to reveal to him that you know who he is, but you’re unsure of the words to say. He seems eager to stay in your life here, for whatever reason. Compared to what you’ve just been through, nothing can really hurt you again. So what’s the harm, really? It’s not like you have anyone else to spend time with. 

“Yeah,” you confess. “It did.”

“So,” he begins, “does that mean you’ll let me show you the museum you haven’t been to yet? There’s this once piece in there that is spectacular. You have to let me show you.”

After a considerable silence, he looks at you with soft, begging eyes and lets out a soft “Please?”

“Okay, Namjoon. You got it.”

You cannot say no to this man.

“Saturday then? In the morning? We’ll want to beat the crowd, especially if you want to explore the whole thing!”

“That works for me. You know, I’m actually looking forward to you being my personal tour guide.”

“Great! I guess you really must be from Georgia. You’re sweet, just like a peach.”

[reallystellacadente]

A Fresh Start

This was supposed to be part of a longer work that I won't describe because maybe it will eventually get written. But I'm testing the waters of this fandom again, working on various WIPs (AU story We Belong will be completed!!) and felt like I should just get this out there. It initially had an edgier title but I got distracted and forgot it.

Content warning for brief violence.

Find it on AO3 here. My epic take on the Quinn/SW story is here.

================================================

Two heavily bearded prisoners, one reeking of piss and shit, the other a bit better kept, were dragged before the magister’s desk.

He was a civilian advocate, a military retiree compelled to return when asked to serve in this role. His sole job: to pass judgment on errant military personnel. On occasion, his rulings were dictated from on high. He did both with all the brains and heart he could stomach.

And he did so from behind a simple wooden table behind a meter-high plasteel panel in a cold, steel gray room.

Today, it was two officers. He hated this part of the job. Because either they were guilty and a shame upon the service, or they were innocent and being framed to protect someone higher up who actually was guilty. So still, a shame upon the service.

Today, he had one of each. The first case was open and shut: A young lieutenant had gotten drunk and forced himself upon a barmaid. Normally, such a thing would be overlooked, since the young woman had not been severely injured, except she was the niece of a prominent Sith family. Human, but still Sith. He’d appealed, saying his drink had been spiked by a spiteful colleague. There was no way to prove it.

“Gorbinn, step forward.” The young man was clearly too weak to escape the guards holding him, so they dragged him to the front of the table. “You must stand to hear your fate, son.” The guards stood him up and then backed away.

“Jamith Gorbinn. The Military High Tribunal has reviewed your appeal. Your appeal has been denied. The sentence of death stands. It will be carried out immediately.”

The young man opened his mouth to protest, but one of the guards pointed his blaster at his head and fired before he could say anything. His body slammed forward to the duracrete floor and a pool of blood began to form.

A doctor walked slowly toward him, gave him a quick scan, and pronounced him dead.

The other officer somehow managed to pull himself up and the guards released their hold on him. He stayed in place, but stood up fully and attempted to straighten the dirty prison uniform he’d worn for the past three weeks. There was nothing he could do about the blood spatter on his left side. He assumed the magister would understand.

He’d last been given a clean uniform for his appeal hearing, brief and bewildering as it had been. He knew the process – all the arguments were laid out before the military court without the accused present, unlike the grueling court martial he’d been through the month before. Then the accused was brought in for a final statement, and questions if necessary. There had been none, but the officer had been certain that some of them looked upon him with pity and not scorn. It had been his only hope for these past weeks that somehow, his life might be spared.

Two young enlisted troops ran forward with a tarp and rolled the body onto it. The two guards who had escorted Gorbinn in lifted the body and dropped it onto the tarp, rolled it up and carried him away. One of the enlisted men went to the back of the room, just beyond the officer’s sight, and came back with a vibromop and a towel, and quickly removed any evidence of the justice that had just taken place.

Now it was obvious what the plasteel panel was for.

“Next. Prisoner Dorn-37652, step forward.”

Malavai Quinn, 27 years old, had been stripped of his captaincy and left without rank or even a name for the past three months since he’d taken it upon himself to countermand a moff’s misguided and cowardly orders. Reversing the retreat had saved hundreds of thousands of Imperial troops and hundreds of ships. It had been a glorious victory for the Empire, but it had come at a severe price to him personally.

He hadn’t regretted it until the court martial, when one of the judges remarked he had known Quinn’s father, who had died months earlier at Rhen Var, in service to Darth Mekhis. “You bring great shame upon a glorious military family,” she spat.

“I would not change what I have done, your honor. My actions were for the good of the Empire. We won the day and thous…”

“You disobeyed orders. There is no excuse.”

Quinn bowed his head and remained silent. The proceedings stretched on for three days, rather long for an Imperial court martial.

==

The young man bore a strong resemblance to his father, who the judge had researched while awaiting the decision he was to present as his own.

“Malavai Quinn. I have reviewed your appeal. The appeal of your death sentence has been approved, and the Military High Tribunal concurs. You will be returned to custody until such time as your final sentence has been determined and you are released.”

Quinn felt his stomach fall and then return. “Thank you, your honor. Sir.”

The judge rose slowly, picked up his datapad, and turned to leave. Quinn stood still, waiting for a formal dismissal.

“For the record, son, my granddaughter was at Druckenwell. She’s at home with her son now. I had no part in this decision, but I’m glad of it,” he said, turning his head back toward the defendant.

Quinn stood at attention and then nodded. “Sir, I may no longer be in service, but I am grateful nonetheless.” The two guards motioned toward Quinn, who followed them back.

As he retreated, Quinn figured he’d be dishonorably discharged, banished from Dromund Kaas and made to feel lucky he’d been left alive. There was nothing remaining for him here anyway. His mother had disowned him, whether she was still grieving for his father or worried about his sisters’ career and marriage chances, she hadn’t said. She was incensed he had refused an offer to simply leave the service without an official trial as part of a plea bargain. “You’re just being difficult, Malavai. You’re always difficult. You don’t think of anyone but yourself.”

“I’m thinking of the truth, Mother. It needs to be heard. Moff Broysc was …”

“I don’t care. Why should I? You don’t care. About anyone except yourself and your impossible standards. You’re worse than your father, and he’s a full colonel.” She brought a handkerchief to her eyes and mumbled into the cloth, “He was a full colonel.”

Quinn could never bear seeing her cry. “Mother, I’m sorry. I have to see this through.”

“Then you see it through alone. I’m done with you, Malavai. I have no need of a son who gives no thought to his family’s shame.”

And she cut the transmission. As a prisoner, Quinn had no way of contacting her, so he begged his advocate, who said they’d been unsuccessful at reaching her.

So this was it. Quinn followed the guards back to his cell. Two hours later, a fresh prison uniform was delivered and Quinn was ordered to the showers to clean up and shave.

He was escorted into a small workroom with a tabletop holo. A few minutes later, a large figure appeared and addressed him as “lieutenant.”

Quinn bowed, assuming he was addressing a Sith of some stature by the man’s dress and battle mask, and the high-end computer terminals behind him. “My lord, I have been stripped of my rank as a …”

“I know why you’re in there, Malavai Quinn. My name is Darth Baras. I have asked my master, Darth Vengean of the Dark Council, to spare your life in exchange for a new start with the military. You are to be transferred to Balmorra, where you will serve as my eyes and ears.

“Trust me, Quinn. Your talents will not be wasted.”

Quinn wasn’t sure what to say. He’d just been granted a new beginning. A humbling one, being returned to the rank of lieutenant when he was all but assured of a promotion to major before Druckenwell. And exiled to Balmorra, still a fresh warzone. But he was alive. And he was still Malavai Quinn.

He stood at attention, then bowed his head in deference. “Thank you my lord. I shall serve you faithfully for as long as I am required.”

The impassive metal face gave Quinn no clues as to the man behind it. It wasn’t even particularly frightening, like many Sith masks. His round figure likely meant the man was no fighter, or at least, had not been one recently.

“You will receive your official orders and a new uniform shortly. The shuttle to your new post leaves in two hours. You had best be on it. I will contact you again when I receive word you have arrived. Baras out.”

The holo went dark. Quinn was both elated and terrified. He was back in the service, his mind already calculating his newly possible futures: put on hold for a few months on Balmorra, a year at most, able to transfer back to a more relevant assignment after that. He’d be spending this time serving a Sith lord, a darth no less. As his father had done.

And look what that had gotten the man. Quinn vowed to do his father one better. Even disowned, he would make his family proud.

[f-nodragonart]

Worldbuilding, briefly

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I approach worldbuilding in my own work, and how worldbuilding appears in the media that I admire, and just want to share some thoughts

so, y’know how lot of writers admit that it feels like their characters end up writing themselves? hijacking the creators’ brains and acting out their own lives? I feel the same can be said for settings, if they’re given the chance to breathe freely

suffice to say, a setting should feel dynamic-- a living, changing thing that affects (and is affected by) characters/plot/etc., and has solid internal logic. I think the two central concepts which make for good worldbuilding, in this respect, are:

a sense of history 

holistic integration with all other story elements

History

when a setting only exists in the present moment, it comes off flat and static-- merely a cardboard set-piece that could fall over at a gust of too-strong wind (or critical thought). settings need history to feel vibrant and alive, just as any individual character needs history to inform their actions and beliefs

essentially, good worldbuilding answers the question of, “How did we get here?”

in practice, having a sense of history helps a great deal in predicting and designing how a setting looks at the present. think of it like following branching pathways back to the source-- the main divergence(s) from real-life. as humans living on planet Earth in our particular sociocultural environments, whatever we create will automatically borrow from what we’re familiar with, so it helps to track down where we may be subconsciously starting at. once we find that initial divergence, it’s a simple matter of following logical stepping-stones from that source, up to the present point 

thus, you can break the broad question of, “How did we get here?” down into smaller, more manageable chunks by carefully tracking along a path of history

some examples of what I’m talking about here: 

need an explanation for the current geopolitical climate? trace back the basic history of all the countries in question, follow it back to basic sources (fighting over resources/territory, power/ideological struggles, etc.), to figure out why the geopolitical landscape looks as it does today. want to figure out how a particular culture came to their current beliefs/practices? look back to the history of their land-- what resources do they use, what ecological cycles impact them, how much cultural overlap do they have with their neighbors, and how does this impact what they most cherish in themselves and others? want to figure out how/why a creature exists in your world? map their evolutionary taxonomy and ecological relationships back to a point that connects to the other creatures on your planet-- where exactly did they “start” out and what pushed them to evolve the way the did?

most of these sub-questions will likely never be directly answered in your story, and you don’t even need to have detailed answers for most of them. but trust me when I say that YOU knowing the answers (even answers that you may consider broad and simple) will affect how you craft the present setting and its sense of history

of course, the level of divergence from real-life will impact how much reworking a given setting needs in order to feel self-sustaining and whole. a world where political history diverges from real-life only a few years previous is going to have different needs than a story whose very life-forms are built on different molecular structures than Earth life, for example. it can be intimidating in some cases, but if you’re willing to put in the work and research for it, you can make some pretty incredible discoveries

Holistic Integration

I’ll fully admit, Folding Ideas’ video on Ludonarrative Dissonance is what rly got me thinking abt this topic (and more deeply abt my own thoughts on stylistic/tonal consistency). his central idea about how we can approach story elements as separate or integrated rly clarified some of my vague opinions/feelings on certain media

essentially, worldbuilding shouldn’t be treated as separate from other story elements like plot and themes, if you want it to work holistically in your world. otherwise, your worldbuilding may start telling a different story from the plot/themes/etc. you’re consciously trying to craft. in fact, I’ll even argue that it’s impossible to treat worldbuilding separately, on a fundamental level

let me focus specifically on themes for a moment when I say, humans don’t create objectively. we don’t craft worlds or stories without automatically inserting our own beliefs and ideas into the settings. to say that a setting is free of theme in particular is highly arrogant, imo, and a sign that the creator likely thinks their own views are simply the “norm”. a magic system will reflect a creator’s views on souls and energy and existence; creature designs will reveal the aesthetic and types of animals a creator gravitates towards; various political systems will reflect a creator’s background and assumptions about the power/morality of said systems

in this way, I think it’s downright impossible to craft a world without themes in the first place. so it just makes sense to recognize and lean into that, while crafting the more deliberate themes of a story

but even if we do assume, for sake of argument, that worlds COULD be crafted objectively, I just don’t understand why they would? why/how a world functions the way it does will affect the ways characters move through that world, and how they experience their arcs and subsequent themes. like, it’s genuinely baffling for me to imagine crafting a story without every element organically weaving into and affecting one another, it just doesn’t feel like it would even work

because when an element of the story doesn’t exist in service of the other elements around it, that element becomes a useless distraction rather than an asset. folks complain all the time about useless characters-- people that take up precious screentime without moving any other element (plot, character arcs, tone, etc.) forward. yet the same can absolutely be said for settings-- settings which just exist as spaces to set characters while they experience a plot, separate from that given setting. when these settings don’t touch any other element of the story in any meaningful way (or vis-versa), they become distracting and useless, and ultimately destabilize/undermine the other elements

like, when we’re told a setting is rough and dangerous, but the characters that live there don’t act like it (no street smarts, no sense of caution towards their environment, no sense of where they are and how to get where they need to quickly--), it undermines the reliability of the characters’ personalities/arcs. when we’re told a setting is full of casual magic which affects everything, yet we’re shown a 1:1 picture of real life with no sign of how people using magic, how tech may integrate with magic, how magic affects aesthetic or history, it distracts from and undermines the fantasy/escapism. when we’re explicitly told that a story’s themes center around defying expectations/roles, yet the setting we’re supposed to root for only reinforces pre-defined roles and rules, it completely undermines any of the deliberate themes the creator intends. when we’re following a plot through various environments meant to showcase the variety of culture and aesthetic a world has cultivated, but we’re merely shown variations on a very similar theme, it’s distracting and boring

worldbuilding should not feel like a dissonant piece from other story elements. worldbuilding should harmonize with and enhance all other story elements, and those elements in turn should enhance the worldbuilding. while it absolutely is useful to tackle or talk about certain elements separately (I mean, I am taking a whole post to discuss worldbuilding, specifically), ultimately a good story is a whole whose parts can’t be fully removed from one another

Internal Logic

you may be wondering why I have yet to make any real mention of “logic” up to this point, since that’s how most folks analyze worldbuilding. hell, even I usually judge worlds based on how well they stick to their “internal logic”. but I think focusing on a vague sense of “logic” puts the cart before the horse, so to speak

if you don’t know the history of a particular setting, how can you track any cultural/political/etc. logic to its source? to say that logic “pre-establishes” certain rules is to admit that there is a sense of history there in the first place, thus specific events preceding the present text which explain why the present exists as it does. like, the big bang is a historical event that’s set up the logic of our entire universe, the same way a war sets up the political logic of a nation going forward. thus, history precedes logic

but before history can set precedents in worldbuilding, it’s really the other story elements which decide what history is important enough to establish in the first place. a story whose themes center around biological imperatives and ecology will need worldbuilding with a strong biological history; a story whose plot centers on political intrigue will need a world with a strong political history; a story with characters ranging across all different cultures will need to establish history for those cultures, etc. you aren’t obligated to establish the history of every single aspect of a setting, merely the parts that are actually relevant to the rest of the narrative in some way

this is how the internal logic of a story is established: by knowing exactly what history needs to be established to enhance the other story elements. logic should organically follow, once you have a strong grasp of history and holistic integration

-Mod Spiral

[heartstelltales]

Emma Durand Professor Shupe ENG 3803 April 16, 2020

The Tell-Tale Heart: Literary Criticism Full Text

The Tell-Tale Heart

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly[1] I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture[2] --a pale blue eye, with a film over it.[3] Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen[4] know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye.[5] And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand[6] moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity.[7] I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! [8]--it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?[9] --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve[10] would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings.[11] I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear?[12] I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.[13]

No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God![14] What could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Works Cited

Dern, John A. “Poe's Public Speakers: Rhetorical Strategies in ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’” The Edgar Allan Poe Review, vol. 2, no. 2, 2001, pp. 53–70. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41508405. Accessed 19 Apr. 2021.

Poe, Edgar Allen. The Tell-Tale Heart. I, James Russell Lowell, 1843.

Shen, Dan. “Edgar Allan Poe's Aesthetic Theory, the Insanity Debate, and the Ethically Oriented Dynamics of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’” Nineteenth-Century Literature, vol. 63, no. 3, 2008, pp. 321–345. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/ncl.2008.63.3.321. Accessed 19 Apr. 2021.

Tucker, B. D. “‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and the ‘Evil Eye.’” The Southern Literary Journal, vol. 13, no. 2, 1981, pp. 92–98. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20077666. Accessed 19 Apr. 2021.

ZIMMERMAN, BRETT. “‘Moral Insanity’ or Paranoid Schizophrenia: Poe's ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’” Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, vol. 25, no. 2, 1992, pp. 39–48. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24780617. Accessed 19 Apr. 2021.

________________ [1]  The narrator suggests that the calmness with which he can narrate the story serves to represent proof of his sanity. [2] Vultures are creatures which feast on the dead. Here, Poe alludes to the tale’s heavy focus on death. The focus on the vulture’s eyes, which Poe historically used in tales like Ligeia and The Black Cat to represent power and moral authority, further suggests the narrator’s murderous coping mechanism as a reaction to his fear of being exposed. [3] The cloudiness of the symbolic eye suggests that the author believes the man’s sense of morality is blurred. [4] The only indication of the narrator’s gender suggests they are male. [5] The symbol of the Evil Eye dates back to Ancient Greece and is a stare that is believed to bring bad luck for the person at whom it is directed for cause of envy or dislike. [6]  Here, and three times again afterwards, Poe uses references to watches to indicate time as a function of increased tension. [7] Meaning foresight, keen perception; the ability to make good judgments [8] Poe relies heavily on using dashes throughout this paragraph. The overuse of dashes within the depiction of the old man’s final moments encapsulates the sporadic and garbled thought processes of the fearful old man and contrasts them to the sporadic and garbled thought processes of his hysterical murderer. [9] The narrator is aware of the madness he is projecting, and thus, continuously aims to convince the reader otherwise. His need to quell the audience’s skepticism explains his obsessive attempts at getting readers to not only trust, but also revere him. [10] Meaning to breathe or to live. Derived from Hebrew. [11] The narrator’s decision to hide the body beneath the floorboards metaphorically suggests the guilt he is attempting to smother in his subconscious. [12] The narrator’s misconstrued perception of his own reality creates situational irony. [13] Here, Poe's narrator suffers from a paranoid misperception of reality, which is a trait characteristic of schizophrenia. [14] Throughout the text, Poe relies heavily on exclamation points as tools of conveying the narrator’s heightened emotions. In the final paragraph, the use of twenty five exclamatory statements is used to further depict the narrator’s increasing levels of guilt-induced hysteria.

[simplewritingtips]

How To Stay Focused On Your WIP

So. You’ve decided you’re going to write today. It’s easy enough opening that word document but staying focussed enough to actually write something ??? Impossible.

Or is it? Here are some of the things I do to make sure that I actually write something instead of just procrastinating:

Stick on my headphones and listen to a playlist. Yeah, sounds pretty straightforward right? But don’t fuck around trying to find the perfect songs. Beforehand, devote some time into making a playlist that suits the feel and vibe of your WIP so you can truly get into the zone.

Focus Mode on Microsoft Word. This little button on the bottom right hand corner of your screen removes all distractions from your laptop screen and puts only your word document in full screen.

If you’re like me and have the urge to compulsively check social media every ten seconds, I would recommend an app like Seconds. This time interval app available on your phone allows you to split up your time so you can focus on different tasks. So, for an hours session for example, I set my intervals to writing for 20 minutes, having a ten minute break, writing for another 20 and then having another 10 minute break and so on. My brain physically can’t focus on doing one task for an extended amount of time and these little breaks in between allow my mind to refresh and be able to focus even better.

Change up the font. Arial and Times New Roman reminds me way too much of writing essays. Blegh. Switch it up a bit. Write in your favourite font. Some people choose Comic Sans but I prefer to use Roboto Lt because I just like the way it looks! That helps improve my productivity a lot cause it just looks so nice.

Get your phone away from you. Oh my god. Get it away. When it’s sat right there, staring you in the face, it’s so easy to be tempted to look down and scroll mindlessly through social media. Wireless headphones are more ideal if you want to listen to music, but if you can’t then you can restrict your access to social media in your settings for however long you want to write for to prevent temptation.

Reward yourself. Say “if i write X amount of words, I’m going to eat a chocolate bar” or “for each X words I write, I will take a bite of my cake.” Positive reinforcement. It’s a thing.

Remind yourself why you’re doing this. Why do you want to write this story in the first place? Think of how good you’ll feel when this story is out in the world and you’ll be able to share it with people. Thinking about the effect that your piece of art will have on the world will motivate you to complete it.

[lovingkaneko]

Ch.4: Temptation (Colt x MC)

Summary: Ellie tells Colt that they need to cool off their sexual relationship, but is it for the right reasons?

Author Note: People are starting to find my stories, I’m so excited <3 Part three here

Book: Ride or Die: A Bad Boy Romance | Choices: Stories You Play (AU)

Pairing: Colt Kaneko x MC | Ellie Wheeler

Word Count: ~2.1k

Rating: N*FW (sex, swearing, angst)

“We can’t keep doing this,” Ellie moaned as I trailed hot kisses on her neck.

“Why not?” I asked, breathing on her.

“Colt...” She whimpered as I proceeded to suck on her collarbone, “Please listen.” I slowly detached myself, realizing her urgency.

“I’m serious,” She pulled her hair back as she collected herself, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

“What-- What is that supposed to mean?” I asked as I felt my heart pump angrily. We had been seeing each other for three months now, visiting every week. We would only have sex every now and then, it wasn’t our main purpose anymore. I wanted to know everything about her.

“I-- I have a big job coming up and I’ve gotta focus,” She finally said with a sigh, “It would be best for us to... Have some space from each other.”

“How does that correlate at all?”

“It does... I can’t be distracted,” She explained as she bit her bottom lip nervously. I scanned her expression in hopes to find a cheeky smile to tell me she was kidding. But she wasn’t joking at all.

“So you’re... Dumping me?” I scoffed.

“I don’t know if that’s what you call it, since we were never official or anything.”

“Right,” I clenched my jaw and looked away. Her hands found their way to my face, cupping it, she brought me closer to her and gave me a gentle kiss.

“I just can’t risk anything,” She gave me a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Something was definitely wrong.

“Where do we go from here, Ellie. We already said we didn’t want to stay away from each other,” I asked, my voice cold.

“I wasn’t planning on letting you go completely, I’m just saying that you’re free to... You know-- Be with other girls,” She stated in an awkward tone.

That made me angry, I didn’t want to be with other girls. None of them have ever been able to satisfy me and I knew who I wanted. Nobody else could drive me crazy like Ellie could.

“That’s fine, thanks,” I nodded, blankly staring off into space. Ellie frowned slightly and I felt my heart tighten.

“So... Friends?” She asked.

“Friends.”

A month passed by and I hadn’t heard from Ellie at all. Of course I missed her, fuck, I had never felt myself this deep in the gutter. Everyone around me seemed to notice that I was a thousand times easier to irritate, Logan just stayed far from me. I pulled out my phone, tempted to text her.

But the sound of a loud engine stopped me from doing so. I could recognize that motorcycle anywhere. I quickly left my room and made my way outside, eagerly scanning the area. It took everything I had to not wrap my arms around her and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. Although she had given me the opportunity, I haven’t even looked in the direction of another woman. Ellie smiled brightly as she took her helmet off. 

“Kaneko,” She greeted me and I felt at peace once again. To say I was attached was an understatement, this girl had a place in my heart that I didn’t know existed. All anger built up from these thirty days subsided.

 I quickly realized that her smile didn’t look genuine, she bit her lip nervously. I’d only seen her cry once, she never wanted me to see her as someone weak, but I hadn’t even considered it. She was the strongest person I knew, but I would never tell her that. It was too late now, she had made her decision. Her eyes were watering as she looked me up and down.

“Hey,” I stumbled with my words, not knowing how to comfort her, “Come on, follow me.” I took her hand into mine and walked her into my room. I sat beside her on my bed and she pushed all her sadness away.

“I didn’t come here to cry, I’m sorry,” She angrily wiped at her eyes and I placed a hand on her knee, unaware of what to do. She gave me a gentle grin, reassuring me that I was doing alright at consoling her.

“The job is tomorrow and I’m just...”

“Nervous?” I asked warily and she laughed.

“Me? Never,” Her sudden burst of happiness faded away soon, “I’m ready to go, just waiting. That’s the worst part.” I nodded at her words, understanding.

“Is it dangerous?”

“You think? Everything we do is dangerous, Colt.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I wasn’t acting like myself, something was off, I felt like this was going somewhere I didn’t want it to.

“I don’t know why I’m even here,” She shook her head at herself, looking at the ground, “I just needed to spend time I guess.”

“Okay,” I said, hoping to recollect myself.

I stopped looking at her and we sat in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the calm atmosphere in the room. I couldn’t help but turn to look at her, only to catch her already staring at me. There was a look in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before, her cheeks were red and she looked like she was battling with herself.

“Ellie?” 

We both knew what we wanted, we had been apart for too much time. It was obvious that we could never be just friends. That was simply impossible. The question now was, were we going to fall into temptation? Clearly, I was the only one here certain about my feelings. I wanted her desperately, stupidly, but I wouldn’t force her into anything.

“Just... One last time,” I heard her whisper before her lips landed on mine. I felt my body light up with fire, feeling complete again. Ellie would usually take control in these situations and I was more than glad to let her. She made her way onto my lap, straddling me and wrapping her hands around my neck. I held her waist as she moved against me.

I couldn’t hold back anymore, I quickly removed her black t-shirt and pressed my lips to her chest. She tangled her hands in my hair as I unclasped her bra, peeling it off of her. I moved my mouth onto one of her nipples, licking the bud. She was happily sighing above me and it was music to my ears. She pulled me off to get rid of my jacket and shirt. Her hand traveled down my body, feeling my muscles, as she always did. 

She got off of my lap and took off the rest of her clothes. She unbuttoned my jeans, pulling them off along with my boxers, leaving us both nude in front of each other. 

I had seen Ellie naked before, of course I had. But the sight of her always took my breath away, I adored every feature of hers. She’s perfect in every way possible, I wondered if I was dreaming. She rolled her eyes playfully as she noticed me admiring.

“Why do you always stare at me like that, this isn’t the first time,” She asked with a smirk as she pushed me backward onto my bed.

“Because you’re still just as sexy,” I answered. She pressed a kiss to my erection before climbing onto the bed, putting her legs on either side of me. I sat up, holding her waist as she lowered herself down onto me.

“Colt,” She moaned as she pressed her chest against mine, I captured her lips with mine as soon as I caught my breath. I gave her a few seconds to take in the feeling of me inside of her. She rolled her hips and I knew it was time.

I began to thrust upward into her, making her throw her head back and moan. Everyone had gotten used to the noises we’d make, it had been a long three months. They had gone sleepless, because nobody could pull us apart.

I just loved how she felt on me, her hot walls clasping around me as I fucked her senseless. Sometimes she’d speak, but I wouldn’t understand what she was saying. Often, I’d hear her moan my name. Other times she’d just whisper profane words. Usually, I would admire her body covered in the dark hickies I’d left the day before, but there were none there today. I felt content, knowing that I had been the only one to recently place my lips on her skin.

I had no idea how long we’d been having sex for, time was irrelevant when I was with her. I grabbed her waist and helped her ride me, this was our favorite position. Her breasts were pressed against my chest and my lips kissed her neck. She was making noises that I adored, nobody could fuck me as good as this girl could. Ellie Wheeler was the best I’d ever had, the best I’ll ever have.

I felt her become weaker, her moans getting louder. We were both close, after a few more moments, she let out a last scream and her body went limp against mine. I came inside of her, knowing she'd be on the pill. As always, she whispered my name over and over as she sank her face into my neck. But this time, I felt something wet on my shoulder. I picked her up and off of me, placing her beside me on the bed. I pulled the covers over her, noticing that she was crying. I wiped her tear with my hand.

“Did I do something wrong?” I searched my brain for something that could’ve caused her to cry.

“It’s not you, Colt,” Her voice was thick and pained, “I just-- I missed you.”

“Likewise,” I answered as I scolded myself mentally for sounding innocent and confused after fucking her.

I watched her stare at me with tears in her eyes, her gaze was so intense and full of emotion. There was no sound in this room besides our breathing. She looked so beautiful, her hair messy, her mascara running, and her lips sore. There was something I felt in that moment, this was the moment I was terrified of. Usually, she would just pick her things up and go, we had never laid beside each other. Tonight felt different, I wanted her here more than anything. 

All these years, I had forced myself to believe that becoming attached to someone was a bad idea. I wanted to follow in my dad’s shoes, not wanting to owe anything to anyone. My pops had every right not to believe in me, he could call me weak and stupid, I wouldn’t stop him. Nothing mattered right now, nobody mattered to me. I felt only one thing and I was sure of what it was. That unmistakable feeling took over me, making me vulnerable.

“I love you,” I said, breaking the silence of the room with my whisper. Ellie didn’t react the way I thought she would, she didn’t smile... Instead, her mouth gaped open and she took a deep breath.

“No, Colt, please don’t,” She stood up, quickly picking her clothes up off of the floor, dressing herself.

“Ellie,” I called for her but she was heading out of the door already, I put on my articles of clothing back on and ran after her.

“That’s not what was supposed to happen,” She sobbed, turning to look at me as I caught up with her in the garage, “You can’t care for me.”

“Why not?” I asked as I felt my world spinning.

“You just can’t!” She yelled and I froze, her voice had never raised at me, “Forget me, please... That’s all you can do.”

She left before I could say anything else, I called her name over and over, but it was too late. She was gone.

Thankfully, the room was empty and nobody had witnessed what happened. Well, at least that’s what I thought. When I turned to go back to my room, I stared directly at my dad.

“Son,” He began to speak.

“Save the ‘I told you so’ conversation. I don’t want to see you right now,” I tried to push past him but he grabbed my arm, “Get your hands off of me.”

“Listen to me, I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me?” I scoffed, “When did you start caring? I hook up with one girl and suddenly you’re my loving father. I don’t get it.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” He sighed and continued, “I warned you to stay away from her, but now you’re attached. I won’t let you suffer over her death, you have to stop her.”

“Her death?”

“The Wheelers started open war with the Brotherhood.”

---

Tags:  desireepow-1986

[chipsterai]

Prayer for You

“Pronoia is the Antidote”

This is a perfect moment. It’s a perfect moment because I’ve been inspired to say a gigantic prayer. I’ve been roused to unleash a divinely greedy, apocalyptically healing prayer for each and every one of you—even those of you who don’t believe in the power of prayer.

And so I’m starting to pray right now to the God of Gods…The God beyond all Gods…the Girlfriend of God…the Teacher of God…the Goddess who invented God.

Dear Goddess, you who never kill but only change:

I pray that my exuberant, suave and accidental words will move you to shower ferocious blessings down on everyone who reads this benediction.

I pray that you give them what they don’t even know they need—not just the boons they think they want but everything they’ve always been afraid to even imagine or ask for.

Dear Goddess, you wealthy anarchist burning heaven to the ground:

Many of the divine chameleons out there don’t even know that their souls will live forever.

So please use your brash magic to help them see that they are all wildly creative geniuses too big for their own personalities.

Guide them to realize that they are all completely different from what they’ve been led to believe about themselves, and more exciting than they can possibly imagine.

Make it illegal, immoral, irrelevant, unpatriotic, and totally tasteless for them to be in love with anyone or anything that’s no good for them.

O Goddess, you who give us so much love and pain mixed together that our morality is always on the verge of collapsing:

I beg you to cast a boisterous love spell that will nullify all the dumb ideas, bad decisions, and nasty conditioning that have ever cursed the wise and sexy virtuosos out there.

Remove, banish, annihilate, and laugh into oblivion any jinx that has clung to them, no matter how long they’ve suffered from it, and even if they have become accustomed or addicted to its ugly companionship.

Please conjure an aura of protection around them so that they will receive an early warning if they are ever about to act in such a way as to bring another hex or plague into their lives in the future.

Dear Goddess, sweet goddess, you sly universal virus with no fucking opinion:

Please help all the personal growth addicts out there to become disciplined enough to go crazy in the name of creation, not destruction.

Teach them the difference between oppressive self-control and liberating self control.

Awaken in them the power to do the half right thing when it is impossible to do the totally right thing. Arouse the Wild Woman in them—even if they’re men.

Dear Goddess, you pregnant slut who scorns all mediocre longing:

I pray that you will inspire all the compassionate rascals communing with this prayer to kick their own asses and wash their own brains.

Provoke them to throw away or give away all the things they own that encourage them to believe that they are better than anyone else.

Show them how much fun it is to brag about what they cannot do and do not have.

Give them bigger, better, more original sins and wilder, wetter, more interesting problems.

Most of all, Goddess, brainwash them with your freedom so that they never love their own pain more than anyone else’s pain.

O Goddess, you wildly disciplined, radically curious, shockingly friendly, fanatically balanced, mysteriously truthful, teasingly healing, lyrically logical master of rowdy bliss:

Cultivate in yourself a fervent yearning for the intimate companionship of these budding messiahs. Play with them every day. Answer their questions. Listen to their stories. Inspire them to love you so much they lose all their hatred forever.

Dear Goddess, you psychedelic mushroom cloud at the center of all our brains:

Bless the insanely poised creators out there with lucid dreams while they’re wide awake. Provide them with their own spin doctors and vacuum cleaners for their magic carpets, and solar-powered sex toys that work even in the dark.

Give them a knack for avoiding other people’s hells, and a thousand masks that all represent their true feelings, and secret admirers who are not psychotic stalkers.

Arrange for a racehorse to be named after them, or an underground river, or a thousand-year-old storm on Saturn.

Teach them to be their own prophets and pray to themselves and right their own wrongs and sing their own songs and be their own wives and save their own lives.

Dear Goddess, you riotously tender, hauntingly reassuring, orgiastically sacred feeling that is even now running through all of our soft, warm animal bodies:

I pray that you provide all the original sinners out there with a license to bend and even break all rules, laws, and traditions that keep them apart from the things they love.

Show them how to purge the wishy-washy wishes that distract them from their daring, dramatic, divine desires.

And teach them that they can have anything they want if they’ll only ask for it in an unselfish way.

And now dear God of Gods, God beyond all Gods, Girlfriend of God, Teacher of God, Goddess who invented God, I bring this prayer to a close, trusting that in these mysterious moments you have begun to change everyone out there in the exact way they’ve needed to change in order to become the gorgeous geniuses they were born to be. Amen. Awomen.

And please also give them each an emerald green parachute, ruby slippers, a canoe covered with jewels, a black market orchid and a bouquet of organic broccoli, a donkey clown piñata full of crickets, a protective gargoyle lifted from the Chartres Cathedral, a guitar string actually played by Jimi Hendrix, a strawberry chocolate cake baked in the shape of a question mark, a human DNA map drawn up by the Human Genome Project, fistfuls of sparklers, a bottle of holy water from the River Jordan, photos of lightning on a giant poster, a refrigerator magnet cast in the likeness of the Dalai Lama, and the key of life accidentally placed inside a box of Cracker Jack.

[kdtheghostwriter]

SNK #119 - Jaeger ni Kissu

Let me get some Fs in the chat, pls.

So, what the hell? Shiganshina am I right? What’s the deal with that crazy place, huh?

You would think this fandom, more than all the others, would be used to getting the slider when they expect a fastball. (That’s right! I know baseball stuff!) Even I have to admit, though, Isa got me with this one. It’s all pretty thrilling to me as a reader. I’ll explain why later but first, some housekeeping. Remember when I said this a few months ago? That Eren’s expression was less relieved and more shocked leaning toward concerned? Welp.

Arm extended; mouth agape. The universal signs of “No, not that you asshole!” It’s also masterful paneling to have Colt’s cry of “Wait!” superimposed onto the Attack Titan, which we know can’t speak. Eren was mortified by the idea of his hometown being overrun with Titans yet again. That was hardly surprising. What did surprise me was Zeke’s look of shock as the Grice brothers revealed themselves. He still screamed, of course, as should have been expected. But that moment of hesitation…hmm. I guess he really did like Colt. It’s not out of the question. He just liked his plan more.

And since we’re on the topic, I’d like some words about this panel right here.

Dammit all, this one hit more than any of the others for me. See, Zeke, it’s not just you who understands the joys and the sorrows and the burdens of being an older brother. I do myself. Falco realized what was about to happen and tried to save his brother’s life by pushing him away. Colt refused and held him tighter.

Don’t worry, Falco! Your big brother will always be with you!

Fuck me, how am I supposed to keep my chill after a scene like that? Sure enough, Colt was scorched as his brother transformed into a mindless, lumbering monster which transitions me nicely into something else I said in the aftermath of #117. Someone did indeed have to die. I only guessed wrong who.

Reiner is going to survive this manga whether he wants to or not. More importantly, what a champion Porco is. Knew he was cooked, so he put all his energy into healing his body. Then he left the cockpit to distract Falco’s Titan and save two people. The fact that he did this right after seeing the memory of his brother confessing to Reiner that he lied is no accident. He wasn’t just proving to Reiner he was better; he was getting one back at his big brother. It’s equal parts heroic and tragic which is par for the course of this series. He died in almost the exact same way Marcel did all those years ago – saving Reiner’s dumbass from being nommed up. I’ll miss you Porco, but at least you’ll live on in the memories of the little one.

 Speaking of little ones: maybe we should start calling her “Deadeye” Gabi Braun. This was such an inspired choice. Not just because of who pulled the trigger in the end (and partly because of whose gun she used), which got the intended reaction, but also because of who she hit. I thought for sure she would have taken aim for Zeke. It would have made sense. A wounded, stationary target is a lot easier to mark than one sprinting at full speed. (That’s what MGS3 taught me at least.) She’s a soldier, though, and the main reason she hijacked the blimp in Liberio was to kill The Usurper. It’s unclear to me if Magath’s mission here is strictly Dead or Alive or if they were trying to capture him but either way her mission, for now, appears to be accomplished. I say “appears to be” because it’s time for my favorite monthly mini-game:

WHY, SWAY, WHY??

There’s a lot we don’t know yet about Titan powers, Eldian biology and the transference from one vessel to another. If Marley’s goal specifically was to recapture the Founder instead of simply stopping Eren from using it, this is what Zeke would call a miscalculation. We know that Titan Powers get transferred Avatar-style to a rando newborn Eldian when a Shifter dies before succession. I actually believe there’s a lot of story left to go. But! There isn’t enough left to now try and track down, out of all the Eldians still in the world, which one holds this terrifying power. (That would make a great AU, though.) Not to mention, we don’t know what happens in the case of a Shifter holding more than one power. Do all three Titans go to one child? Do they get split up back into three by the P A T H S? We don’t know. All of this is reason to expect some chicanery in the next few months or so. Besides any of that we are no closer to knowing what Eren’s true intentions are in regards to why he wants to use the Founder. Isayama Hajime is absolutely the kind of author to blast his main character into oblivion before the story has concluded. He is not the kind of author to leave a stone unturned. We found out about the Shifters and we found out about the basement. Whatever knowledge was revealed to him will not be kept secret, even if it isn’t by his own hand.

Sidebar: decapitation is weird, even in messy circumstances like this one. The electric signals in the brain often keep firing for minutes after the head has been removed. This is how beheaded snakes continue to hiss and bite after the fact. My troll prediction would be Eren’s head landing in Zeke’s hand like so many baseballs in his lifetime; the Coordinate is activated and Shiganshina proceeds to have a bad time.

I don’t know, folks. I couldn’t help but think of one very important rule as I read the closing pages.

Always Double Tap, dude. Gabi just had to go for the swag. See, if she had popped Eren’s head like a bloody firework I would have said, “Welp, you had a good run, kid.” But nope. You went and left the most powerful being in existence an outside outside chance of survival, and if he does, even for a few seconds more, everybody is screwed.

No segue, I just love these two teaming up. It makes sense that Mikasa and Armin have gotten closer as Eren has gotten more distant. I think seeing how that dynamic evolves as the story builds to its conclusion will be very important. For now, on the surface level, they just really care for each other.

 The last time I got a feeling like this, I was a young lad watching Samurai Jack in the early 00s. I would watch every week without fail on the Cartoon Network, engrossed for the entire runtime. And then, oh, the long and nagging wait. I can admit that having most stuff On Demand is impossibly handy for this particular moment in history, but goddamn do I remember having to wait a whole ass week for my favorite show to come back. Fans of Shingeki no Kyojin don’t realize how good they have it.

Replicating that feeling is almost impossible, not just because of how product is released now. Every story has been told before, in some way. Sometime in the last Millenia or so, our slimy lizard brains have come to expect certain beats and structure from stories. It makes the stories good, but also predictable. I can tell you as a writer, it’s so very difficult to find a way to surprise people in a genuine and engaging way.

This is going to sound more cold and callous than intended but, it does involve manipulating an audience to achieve your desired outcome. You want to lead them to the place you want to go and let them think it was their plan all along. This is the Art of Storytelling: I know what you want better than you do. This involves knowing your audience, and I think it’s safe to say after his “I want to hurt people with this,” comment that no writer on the planet right now knows his audience better than Isayama.

Fans of SNK should be happy. I’ve said this before: it isn’t the best book out right now (that’s still OPM, read that shit) but it is the most unpredictable. That doesn’t always make a story good, but in this case, it’s the greatest factor. Feel free to speculate and discuss. That’s what fandom is for. Just give up now on trying to work out what comes next. Only one person knows that. Isa has had this story plotted out for years with diversions here and there. We won’t know until it all ends. Enjoy this ride now. I can promise you we will never see anything like this manga ever again.

  Stray Thoughts

- Still no Kyomi. Still no Tiny Queen. I know the main character just got his head yeeted but let’s get some deets now, pls.

- I was so looking forward to the memes and am happy to report that I wasn’t let down. Well done, friends.

- The 104th Squad continues to persist, as does Yelena. We’ll earmark this for later.

- The fact that both the Jaeger Brothers got shot before Floch Forster is high dark comedy.

- In a battle this chaotic, things like skill and experience are often nullified. It makes perfect sense that Eren would be caught off-guard by a soldier he didn’t even know was there, child though she may be. Right place, wrong time. These Things Happen.

- Armin taking out the Cart’s turret gun was a slick little callback to when he bought time for Eren to take down Bertolt.

- I’m interested in Armin’s game plan here. Marley’s infantry is about to be overrun by Titans, so what else does he aim to do? And how will Yelena interfere?

- Nile said he wouldn’t see his family again. We all knew he was right but man, the look on his face when his number was called. That’s tough. Shout-outs to Pixis, getting one last sip in. You a real one.

[blushingjared]

Can Anybody Hear Me?

We Get What We Deserve Prequel: Can Anybody Hear Me? (Eventual Sam x Dean x Reader x Castiel)

Square(s) Filled: Forced to Watch @badthingshappenbingo  Ship: None Yet Characters: Season 14! Chuck, Reader, Reader’s Parent’s, Dean, Sam, and Castiel (Briefly Mentioned) Rating: Mature Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: Death of Parents, Religious Upbringing, Slight Torture, evil Chuck, Spoilers for the end of Season 14, Melodramatic Chuck

We Get What We Deserve Masterlist

Summary: You’ve grown up hearing stories of a vengeful God. How his wrath is mightier than anything known to man. You counted yourself lucky that you were never the reason for God’s Almighty Power; except now, you were. After losing your family and being forced into a permanent dream like state, by God. You’re used as distraction for Team Free Will, the three men that you’ve fantasized about for years. You know them as the saviors in your favorite books, but now they need to focus and try their best to save you.

A/N: So...I don’t know what else to say really. Let me know what you think and if this series interests you. Let me know and I’ll tag you. Beta’d by @sweetness47

A mother sits alone in a dark hospital room. To her right, her daughter sleeps peacefully in the hospital bed. Gentle sobs from the lonely mother mix with the continuous beeping noises of the machines that are keeping her daughter alive. The woman begs, pleads, with a trembling voice as she recites her prayers. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. I beg you Lord. Please release my daughter from this pain. I-I know you have your reasons Lord.” Her tearful eyes linger on her daughter for another moment before her hands drop from her prayer to gently take ahold of her daughters hand.

“If this be your will Lord, then give me the strength to withstand it.” She takes in a shuddering breath before slumping back and wiping away at her tears with the back of her hand. Minutes tick by as the mother becomes exhausted and falls asleep in the hospital chair, hand still clasped around her daughters.

One of the nurses in the ward glances up at the clock on the wall. She needs to make her nightly run through of the patients, mostly the ones with critical conditions. Grabbing her clipboard, she goes to stand and head to her first patient. Someone catches her attention though.

The man looks average in most ways, he isn’t too tall or short. Neither too handsome or too unattractive. He’s got soft eyes and a gentle smile as he wears a red suit jacket. She can’t put a name to the face, but assume he’s a family member of someone in her ward.

“Can I help you?” She asks, tilting her head as he steps closer. Though he looks average, the nurse feels some sort of energy radiating off of him and she isn’t sure how to place it.

“Yes,” The man clears his throat and rocks back on his heels. They must have been behind his back because almost out of nowhere the man produces a bouquet of flowers. “I’m looking for my niece, Y/N Y/L/N.” That name she recognizes, but gives him a sad smile.

“I’m sorry sir. Only family members listed on their contact information are allowed past visiting hours. I’m happy to take them to her though.” She reaches out to take the flowers, but Chuck pulls them closer to his chest.

“I think you’ll find I’m on the list. Chuck Shurley.” After a bit of hesitation, the nurse pulls the clipboard from under her arm to take a look through Y/N’s file. Right underneath  the girl’s mother and father, his name is listed. She could have sworn it was only the two.

“Well then, right this way sir.” Chuck follows close behind as they maneuver their way down the corridors.

“I didn’t hear much about what happened. Do you mind telling me how Y/N ended up here?”

The nurse gives a small ‘tsk’ before shaking her head. “It’s such a shame, really. The mother comes in with her daughter and husband, blubbering about..” She pauses to look back at the notes within the file. “That’s right, about Angels. Woman believes one of them came down and tried to take the three of them up to heaven.”

Poking her head inside, the nurse looks around the room to see if Y/N’s mother was asleep. She shakes her head slightly and sets the files on the table, Turing back to face Chuck. The name suited him, she thought, before performing her routine check up on the girl

“They were ready to be taken to heaven, until he just stopped and let them go. Apparently, her husband had already died and the angel was in the midst of taking her daughter. As far as it goes medically, their bodies were perfectly fine, they just stopped working. At least her daughter’s body was able to recover most of her bodily functions. Most of  her brain shut down though, not long after she was brought here. Sort of like a coma, but more like she’s in a really long nap.”

Chuck cleared his throat as he set the flowers down. “How’s the mom?” He asked as his gaze lingers on you, his head tilting as he narrows his eyes slightly.

“Inconsolable. She keeps begging for Heaven to come back down and finish what they promised. It’s insane, really.” A heavy sigh leaves the nurses mouth. “I feel bad. I really do.” With that said, she finishes her check up and heads to the door. “It’s good that they have more family. You need that in times like these.” Turning back around, the nurse shuts the door and leaves the room to go check on other patients.

Chuck snaps his fingers and locks the door, head turning to the mother and stepping closer. He smirks slightly as he snaps his fingers and both women awake.

Your eyes fly open and you struggle to breathe, with the tube that had been helping your body only moments earlier, still stuck in your throat. Though it’s barely there, you notice a sick and twisted smile on his lips. You try to call out for your mother, although nothing comes out.

Your mothers eyes lift to Chuck and before she can form words, she’s on her knees. Hands on the edges of his pants, pleading once more like she had during her prayer. “Oh Lord. You heard my prayer, you came back. I..I cannot thank you enough. Please, finish what you started. Take us with you.”

The man you knew as your Father’s murderer was standing right in front of you. You recognized him now. You knew what he was, but it all seemed impossible. It couldn’t really be him.

“Oh I will,” he grinned as he looked down upon your mother. He let his smirk drop to a frown as he snapped his fingers. You cried out, trying your best to do anything but something was forcing you down, an invisible pressure making you unable to sit up or pull the tube out to call for help.

Chuck was forcing you to watch as your mother’s body dropped to the ground, lifeless and nothing more than an empty shell. It only caused more tears to stream down your face, more pain to fill your heart. Not only had you been forced to watch your father die, now he had made you live through the same thing with your mother.

Taking a step over your mother’s corpse, he stepped towards you and smiled. With a snap of his fingers, the tube was removed from your throat, but the force was still there, still pining your body to the hospital bed.

“You...You can’t be real. This...This is just a dream.” You sob, knowing deep inside this was real, but unable to come to terms with what was happening.

“We both know that’s not true Y/N. This is real, all of it.” He grins and runs a hand over your face. “Oh don’t worry, I’m going to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

Resisting the urge to spit on his face, you stay calm and snarl at him instead. “I want my parents back.” A wave of sadness washes over Chuck and you half believe it’s because you’ve made him realize what his actions are. Of course he doesn’t and instead he pulls away from you, sighing in disappointment before ranting.

“No! Don’t you see? You and The Winchesters won’t fall in love unless you go through the same trauma of losing your parents to something supernatural. Think about it!”

“Sam and Dean aren’t real! They’re just characters from a book.” Chuck simply shakes his head, clearly you don’t understand.

“You lack imagination Y/N. I would have thought all that fanficition you write about my world would have made you more open to the fact that there’s more out there than you realize.” You desperately want to think he’s crazy, but the part of you that knows this might be true is growing more confident that..Supernatural was real.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You beg for an answer. “I’m nothing special.” A pained noise leaves your throat as he shakes his head.

“No, you aren’t, but I’m gonna make you special. Sam and Dean will be so busy dealing with you that they’ll forget to even come look for me.” Chuck grinned as he watched you look at him in horror. “Now, go back to sleep.” With a snap of his fingers, you fall back on the bed, asleep like he wanted.

Chuck picks you up and snaps his fingers, taking you away from the life you had once been apart of, and bringing you with him the the one you’d always dreamed of. He needed to bring you to Sam and Dean, but he also needs to plan things out, figure out the full plot of the story. Figure out where he wanted the story to go next, now that he had you.

So, he dropped you off in Lebanon, not five miles from The Bunker, right at the nurses station and then disappeared. He was confident in the fact that you would be found and then placed back under the care of doctors. He had things to do now, but he was certain you were going to enjoy your first dream.

Dean doesn’t ever really have good dreams. More often than not, he’ll have nightmares. It’s just something he’s had to deal with ever since he can remember. Tonight is one of those good nights. He dreams of saving a cute girl from a witch and getting a more than deserved thank you. It’s nice, the girl is pretty and more than eager to give Dean whatever he needs.

His eyes snap open as he hears voices begin to talk outside of his room. He grumbled and turns his body onto his side. “Do you think he’s ok? Dean didn’t say much on the drive back from the cemetery.” Sammy’s voice cut through the wood of the door as Dean pulled his pillow over his head to try and block out the noise.

Soon enough, Cas and Sam had walked away and Dean could sleep in peace. He remembered the girl’s face and her name from the dream. He didn’t know why she stuck with him, but it didn’t matter. When he drifted off and back to sleep, Dean thought of Y/N again. There was just something about her that made him feel that whatever God had planned for them, it would be ok.

[letmehearyousayyeahh]

Postage

Another Brittana attempt to keep writing. Also on FF.net.

The recesses of the half-open curtains did let the golden glimmer of mid-afternoon sunlight into the room. Bright roads where flecks of dust flew, fluttering in a circular dance, over the scene that was unfolding in that room, where a blonde, blue-eyed woman, sitting on the floor in the Indian style, reviewed belongings and junk surrounded by cardboard boxes and souvenirs.

Brittany, 29, struggled to focus on the mechanical task of pick-examine-save/throw-repeat, trying not to think about why she had to do it, or the consequences of recognizing the reality that lived in the form of memories between those papers. Her aunt Stephany, the woman who had raised her after her parents' death, had passed away after a long and painful illness; and it was Brittany's job, as the only family she had left, to take over her belongings; the one who had the job of determining what was going to the trash and what was left, in the form of a memory, to torment her.

Cleaning was, however, the least important thing. Once finished, the boxes would return to the storage room from which they should have never left and Brittany would try again to live in the new reality that the death of her aunt had created: an empty apartment, a lounge without an armchair under the spring sun (she had found her sitting there, already corpse, a few weeks ago very early in the morning; after her aunt, that chair was the next victim), and, ultimately, a new life marked by loneliness and a house too big for a single woman and so many memories of other times; if not happier, at least more in company.

Brittany was not what what we could define was extrovert, no: in her 29 years she had managed to gather a brilliant record of friendly failures, some failed attempts of romance; and a noble but sensitive heart that had to cover itself with a thick cloak to emerge more or less unscathed from the life that she was told to live. Brittany, however, was pragmatic: she did not disdain good company when she had the opportunity to take advantage of it; it was simply that the blonde had more appetite for a quiet afternoon with a good book or playing cards with her aunt than for nights full of bustle, strobe lights and sharp screams, meaningless exchanges and empty conversations. It was not isolation, it was ... well, maybe it was, she sighed inwardly, closing the box on which she was working, already full of unnecessary papers, but which she had decided to keep nontherless; and moving on to the next one.

This introversion had not been a problem for his professional career; On the contrary: Brittany was good at what she did, whatever it was, because she took each job with passion and dedication, and her desire to do it well, whether it was washing dishes, serving tables or correcting manuscripts; That ended up by attracting the attention of her bosses and guaranteeing her good job prospects. "Whatever you do, do it well", her aunt always told her. She allowed herself a small smile as she opened the last box, but quickly busied herself erasing it from her face and concentrating on the content of the last pitfall between her and the empty room next door. Seeing its content, however, she could not prevent the smile from returning to her face, and this time she did not fight against it.

In that cardboard box her aunt had kept her collection of comics: Batman, Spiderman, X-Patrol, you name it; all the comics her aunt bought for her every and other week, as a reward for her good behavior. Brittany loved to review those old pages, full of characters so familiar to her, but at the same time so old, much more than her; and it comforted her to think that she somehow connected with other worlds while she navigated between their pages, thinking of all the boys, now men; who they had also laughed and cried with the adventures of their favorite heroes.

Following this impulse, her hands went unconsciously to the first section that she always read as a child: correspondence. Tradition today disappeared, these old youth magazines were accompanied by a section where their young readers could send letters, poems, riddles or little jokes to be published in the section; and Brittany was sure that many of them still kept, with secret pride, that particular comic book where their small contribution was published.

Her favorite part of this section was always the exchange of letters: a piece of paper, an address and an universe of possibilities available to anyone's pen. At that moment, Brittany sighed. She had never been encouraged to write to any of the addresses that appeared in her comics, either because she never connected with any of the letters that were published there; or in some other case, out of shame, and fear to express her illusions of finding a related soul in a paper and that the letter would return unopened. Or worse, to never get a response.

Remembering those doubts, which made her debate in front of blank sheets of paper that eventually never took the form of a letter, Brittany noticed one of the columns of the magazine in front of her. There, one Marvin W. Hodges wrote to the world to offer his friendship to everyone who shared his passions for Batman (the best detective in the world), videogames and reading. Being fifteen years old at the time (Brittany verified that the publication date of the magazine was 1985, right now that Marvin was already a man about her own age), the letter and its contents were quite the use of a teenager in general; but it was the last phrases that caught the attention of the blonde beyond her memories: "Although I like to read everything and give any story a chance to conquer me, I never read or read better or bigger phrase than" In my world, Great Expectations only live between the pages of a book. ' A literature lesson in the heart of a few letters. "

Brittany was not ten years old anymore, shame was the least of her worries now. But the death of her aunt Stephany had left her in a state of emptiness, of emotions contained by the thickest of walls to keep her from falling into utter despair. That phrase, well known to Brittany as a young woman and even as an adult, got what her aunt's advice had not achieved during all the previous years: that those feelings of modesty before the rejection of a stranger seemed the biggest nonsense . Recognizing in other letters the words of one of the lines of her favorite book, Brittany thought that she had finally achieved the impossible until now: find someone like her, with whom she could connect through some letters, or some notes, or the simplest nonsenses that the brain invents. Someone like her aunt. Someone she knew it was out there, but who insisted on not letting herself be found. Until now?

Determined, she squeezed the magazine between her hands and lifted her chin, a resolution gleaming in her cerulean eyes that had not been there since the morning of Stephany's death. Why not? The worst that can happen is that nobody answers, she told herself as she got up effortlessly from the floor, still holding the magazine, and went to the desk under the window to start a new adventure. Which, she hoped, distracted her from the pain of Stephany's absence for a while, before she had to get used to living without her.

The sound of the closing door echoed through the walls of the empty apartment. With a sigh, the brunette woman left her keys on entrance's table and balanced herself to remove her coat without releasing what she was carrying in her hands. If she left the bag full of groceries on the floor, she knew that she would end up dragging them through the floor to the kitchen later. Practice makes perfect, and she managed to keep the bag and the correspondence that she had just picked up from the mailbox in one hand still stable, while with the other she hung the coat on the coat rack; and went to the kitchen to release ballast.

Once she had crossed the threshold, she carefully placed the bag on the table and went to the other side of the counter, where the only window in the room was, to quickly review the contents of the mailbox. The placement responded to a double motive: March in Lima was beginning to behave as usual, and at 4 o'clock in the afternoon the storm could be chewed in the air. The dark clouds obscured the little light that the twilight already left on the city, and the kitchen was almost in complete darkness; but the brunette refused to spend energy on the five minutes that would take to verify that the letters were either advertising or bills. After this, she would throw them into the trash can that she had right under her eyes, the #2 for her placement in the kitchen. Review-wrinkle/save -repeat, simple. Then, since it was still early, she would have a good shower and then dinner.

Thinking about whether the aubergines would not be too heavy for the last meal of the day, she left the last cable bill on the countertop to keep it in place with the others later and then noticed the next letter, one of the two they had to look. Suddenly, she forgot about the shower and the aubergines when she opened the envelope and took out the cardboard card, broken white color and full of printed pink ribbons, that was addressed to her in printing calligraphic typography and exaggerated italics. To Santana Lopez / +1.

Unconsciously, she rolled her eyes before finishing reading the invitation to the wedding. Right now she did not remember who she was exactly, but the name tickled her memory, they were classmates at some time in the past. Middle school? High school? It couldn't have been at college, I would remember ... or not? I can't put a face to the name either... it can not be that chubby girl...? She whispered, to herself, while reading that Mindy and Hugh were happy to invite her to celebrate with them the happiest day of their lives, and urged her to be at the Lima Presbyterian Church on Sunday, May 5 at 11:00 o'clock in the morning. to be a witness to their liaison, and later attend the meal that will take place to commemorate such a great event for the couple, relatives and various friends. Many greetings from Mindy and Hugh. RSVP.

She had a few seconds of hesitation, she had to admit it. But finally the impulse got the better of her and she broke the card in four before throwing it away. Maybe it was the remorse, or simply that the day invited to melancholy, but she remained for a long time looking at the broken cardboard, which seemed to shine against the black plastic bag. She could not explain why, but that invitation had given her a good kick in the ass. She had even left her for a while without air in her lungs. Why? If she did not even remember that girl anymore, she did not care at all if she got married or pierced her nipples. Then why? Having answered no to the invitation would have been enough. May you be very happy and all that, and we will see each other in the next life. At that moment, Santana sighed. Without wanting to do it, she had found the why.

Wish you happiness. May it go well for you, I wish you a prosperous and happy marriage. Blah blah blah. And after the parade, back home, alone. To work; to decide if the aubergines are good at night. If she should turn on the light or not for ten minutes she'll be in the kitchen. To live with a lot of room in the closet and a bottle of pills in the first drawer of her nightstand to close her eyes and not feel trapped in a life that no longer recognizes as her own..

When is that you get used to be accustomed to life? It is a question that Santana asked herself many times. When does you stop believing in the stories of the books, full of decisions and consequences? Full of something, period? And when you get used to the fact that life really is a succession of days, with its nights, in which the emotion of decisions and mistakes come out of yourself, instead from coming from the outside? Where the hell was that succesion from which everyone leaves and enters at will around her? College, work, house, marriage, children, grandchildren? And the weekends out? And the retirement in Florida? I had the college degree, I had the job, I had the house, and I had a succession of minutes and hours as my life, nothing more. What it's left for me to do?

Sighing, she allowed herself one more moment of tribulation before moving on to the next letter, the last one; to throw it away, whatever it says, to start your shower plan, dinner and we will see next. Strong emotions, indeed. What Santana still did not know, while opening an envelope that she had not noticed too much, was that this letter was not for her. And that, even so, it was going to give her what she had been asking for so long in silence.

Dear Marvin:

I hope you do not get scared when you receive a letter today, after so many years, but it was precisely today when I found an old copy of the #35 Detective Comics where your address came from; and when reading your letter to the magazine I have needed to write you these words. I do not even know if you will receive them, maybe you are dead, or you no longer live there... but I had to try. Because in fifteen years it has been passed, your letter has managed to encourage me to write to other people, something that fills me with fear, but at the same time it moves me, thinking about all the possibilities that this can entail; and why did you end your letter quoting one of my favorite writers, David Martín; and, by its mouth, the great Zafón, in The Angel's Game. Marvin, my great expectations also live between the pages of that book, and I only hope that this letter, in some way, reaches you; and feel the same thing that I felt when reading your words: that, somehow, having found us, even if only through an old magazine, we could get to exchange some thoughts or ideas, to try to get those hopes from between the pages and bring them to the real world.

Again, I'm sorry if this catches you outright, and I understand if you do not want to answer; Even so, I wish you all the best, and I hope you have found some hope, however small, outside the books.

Take care,

Brittany

After reading the letter, Santana blinked slowly. Once. Twice. One more time. I still did not understand very well what I had just read. Disconcerted, she took the envelope from the counter and searched for the sender. That was it, she had opened the envelope without realizing it, and that letter was not for her. Marvin W. Hodges. 154 S Metcalf Street Lima OH 45804. She had been living in that apartment for at least five years, and she knew from the real estate agency that it was been in the market for so long, so that Marvin must have lived among those walls more than twenty years ago.

To think that she had a personal handwritten letter in her hands, after years of not receiving any (although this one had not been for her either, really? Would this be a crime?), that stirred something inside her chest. A rare ... emotion? Yes, to think that someone had been rummaging through some old magazines and had found something that had turned her insides up so much, to take her to write to a stranger ... It was something new, something she would never have expected. Something that removed her insides too.

But what caught her attention the most, that managed to put a sincere smile on her face, was the literary reference. God, how many years had passed since I read that book ... It featured one of her favorite characters, which she counted among her most intimate friends, and she continued to identify strongly with her, her strong will and the courage she displayed throughout the series to pursue her destiny. Although, Santana thought with some bitterness, imitating her with fifteen years seemed easier than now with 30. Distracted by her thoughts, she went to the living room without paying much attention to the shopping bag she was waiting for her at the kitchen table. She had more important things to do. How to get rid of the idea of answering that letter that was not addressed to her. Or convince herself to sit at the table, take the paper she had and the first pen available and vomit over the paper all her thoughts: that this stranger had achieved, with just one letter, stir all the sadness that had kept inside her chest for years. She did not really know which of the two she would choose at the end.

Dear Brittany:

I apologize for my audacity in answering this letter that is not addressed to me, but seeing the effort you have put into your words, I felt responsible in some way, so I have decided to answer you. Marvin Hodges no longer lives here. I do not know what happened to him, because I came to this apartment five years ago, and from what I know of from the real estate people, it took a long time between rentals, so I guess it would have been the house of his parents at some point, which Marvin left after putting your contact address in the magazine. I'm sorry if this disappoints you, but the truth is that I can not say the same. Brittany, reading your words has been like opening the window to a new world that I thought was buried in my memories. I have also read Zafón's books many times, and many others later, but Great Expectations quote is still the best for me, because it is still the one I identify with the most.

I apologize for this diatribe, in which a bored thirty-something years old complains about life is going and going around her, while she remains stuck in her memories of other happier times, but somehow I know that you will forgive me and, I hope that, somehow, you understand my desire to start living and stop surviving.

I know I'm not Marvin, and we really do not know each other and surely this will seem crazy, but I think that even with all this, we could try to catch some of those great expectations from those pages and try to mash them together, see if is there is something worthy in them for us.

Again, thank you for your letter ("your letter." Anyway, I hope you are ok with this, wherever you are, Marvin), and I sincerely hope to read you soon.

Sincerely,

Santana Lopez.

Three years later…

Brittany was busy closing the last boxes. She still had to collect half of the bookshelf, pack the rest of the books and take down the boxes, so that tomorrow they moving guys would pick them. Taking a breath, she passed her forearm across her sweat-beaded forehead and sighed, tired. The summer sun fell on her because it was coming in full force through the windows, sans curtains anymore. It had been the first thing she had packed, and now she was paying for it suffering the heat.

After hearing the front door close, the noise echoing through the walls of the almost empty apartment, she got up quickly and went to the bookshelf to finish emptying it. While placing ordered by size and weight the volumes on the floor, next to the box where they tended to fit; she took one in her hands which she had not read in a long time. Standing there, she smiled nostalgic. It had always been one of his favorite books, but for almost three years now it had another meaning, much deeper than her teenage readings and the memories of distant days that those pages brought her.

Keeping her smile, she turned with the book still in her hand when she felt a presence behind her. There, at the door, Santana was waiting, leaning against the frame, with one hand holding her six months bump. She could not help but smile when she saw her wife, it was automatic since that distant afternoon when she received the first letter and Brittany disarmed her for the first time. But now the smile widened when she saw what she had in her hands.

No words were needed. Many had already been said. Brittany simply put the book back on the shelf and approached her wife to kiss her gently on the lips, and caress her belly with one of her hands, which entwined it with her wife's at the bottom of her belly.

It had been years since their Great Expectations no longer lived among books' pages.

fin.