#these two queers consume my every waking moment

[timekeeper-raccoon]

A huge, HUGE thanks to @noicyleech for allowing me to use their artwork for mon chasseur's cover/still

[dharmas-spam]

In wake of recent events and allegations against Neil Gaiman, I would like to release a statement that I know no one asked for. Because I have not been doing very well as of late, and this was the cherry on the shit sundae.

I hope you all understand that, in doing so, I do not mean to take away any attention from the victims. I just have to get this off my chest and clear the air I feel is polluted at the moment.

Here's my long-winded timeline of my interaction with Gaiman's work. Underneath will be my statement on these allegations and what I will be doing moving forward.

I first got into Neil Gaiman's work in June-July of 2021, around my birthday, although I had seen some of his work unknowingly over the years.

I will never forget the first time I watched Good Omens, and I will never forget the joy it made me feel from the first few frames. I finished the show soon after. The message of the beauty in individuality and the inherent neutrality of humanity made me feel hopeful for the first time in a while.

I read the book in October 2021 and was officially hooked. I started engaging in the fandom and found a place online where I felt wholly accepted. I made fanart, read/wrote fanworks, etc.

I then expanded my Gaiman-Verse knowledge in April 2022 and began reading American Gods, Anansi Boys, Trigger Warning, etc...and found great inspiration and solace in these works as well.

On August 5th, 2022, I watched Sandman the morning it released on Netflix, beyond excited, and then bought one of the large books with the first few comics complied inside after finishing the show.

My love for The Sandman universe only grew, and I gained new outlooks on life inside the character's words and actions. Death of The Endless and Hob Gadling were two characters that helped me better understand how to truly appreciate the world around me and the time I am blessed to have in it.

I received the full collection of The Sandman comics for Christmas 2022 and nearly cried with elation. I read through them like a beast and was given more of the extended works in the series (like Death's solo comic) later that same holiday. I was also given The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, and finished it in two days flat. I loved Mrs. Hempstock and her words on humanity.

As time passed, my passion for Gaiman's literature/media didn't waver.

I started dating my partner on June 1st, 2023, and Gaiman's work was part of what helped us bond, in addition to our already-lovely chemistry.

The EVERY kiss spoiler leaked and sobbed with excitement, lol.

Good Omens S2 was set to be released a few days after my birthday. However, I was very sick on my birthday and was rather miserable.

My parents went out of their way to make me Good Omens cupcakes in secret, and it was one of my best birthdays, purely because my father put in the effort to design them, despite my never letting him watch the show (which has since been amended).

That Christmas, I was given quite a bit of Good Omens and Sandman merchandise and started growing my collection of copies of Good Omens.

On April 25th, 2024, I watched Dead Boy Detectives the day it released, having been excited for it since November 2023, and found another media in the Gaiman-Verse that I adored and saw myself in.

Flash forward to tonight, July 4th, 2024, and I am devastated.

I spent the majority of my teen years consuming Gaiman's content and engaging in the fandoms. During the time, I found true happiness and felt comfortable in my identity, and I refuse to lie and say my self-discovery was not aided by the media he created.

I know this is not about me, but about the victims, and I know the allegations have been brought to light by many shady news sources, but I must finish my piece with this:

When J.K Rowling exposed herself as a TERF, I had not realized I was queer yet, but I was still deeply disturbed for reasons unknown to me. I separated the art from the artist, as I had loved Harry Potter since I was seven, and it was a way my mother and I bonded during hard times. It also helped me get through the height of quarantine and the horrors of puberty.

When I discovered Gaiman's work and the fandoms his work's inspired, I felt relieved: here was a white cishet person who cared for minorities and who created media for minorities.

If the allegations are true (which they likely are), it turns out my hero doesn't deserve his cape.

I will do as I did with J.K Rowling, with a much heavier heart. The fans deserve the joy and inclusion Gaiman's work has created, even if he himself is vile. I will continue to consume his work indirectly and in no support to him.

I encourage everyone in the fandom to stay calm during this time.

It is okay to be angry, sad, and confused. However, it is not okay to ignore the allegations altogether or the trauma these women have experienced at the hands of Gaiman.

This fandom is a safe space for many people, and I beg that it will remain that way.

I send out much love to the women who were hurt, and I hope you both find contentment.

[therealjammy]

After watching Act 1 for the third time this afternoon, and on a much larger screen than my laptop, I can say I've come to like the pacing. It was slower in season one because the audience had to be introduced to the characters and the worlds of Piltover and Zaun and the politics between the two; now we're fully immersed, and the stakes are so much higher, it only makes sense that the pacing is going to be amped up.

Now I'd also like to take a moment to talk about my girl Caitlyn and what her arc looks like so far. She has just lost her mother in an attack by a person from a city with whom Piltover was going to make peace. In the wake of grief, and the weight of the Kiramman name/legacy falling on her, it's so easy to drown in both, and far easier to be consumed by anger and revenge. Over the course of episodes 1 and 2, we see the latter two bubbling to the surface, and by episode 3, it has fully taken ahold of her and given her tunnel vision. Does this excuse her not thinking about recruiting Vi, or releasing the Grey on poor Zaunites, or physically accosting Vi in episode 3? Absolutely not. And I fully believe she's going to realise this at some point during Acts 2 or 3, at great cost. As for her stepping forward and accepting the role Ambessa Medarda literally cloaks her in, we must remember that people in power often prey on the vulnerable, promising that certain actions will heal hurts and restore things to "normal." Perhaps Caitlyn believes this, and believes, also, this is how she'll bring justice for her mother's murder and, by extension, the Kiramman name.

And remember, also, that there are still two acts to go before this story is wrapped up. We mustn't judge too hastily, either.

Finally, there is hypocrisy in stating "We want more nuanced characters" and immediately hating when one, or more, show up on screen and they aren't fitting into the Perfect Mould. Most especially queer characters. How are we going to achieve nuance if every character is "morally pure and good"? How can we achieve it when brilliant animators and writers and creators as a whole are bashed for exploring darker emotions, the darker aspects of the human experience? This is one of the many things season 2 of this incredible show is delving into. Take off the purity glasses. Allow these new perspectives to make you uncomfortable. Sit with it if you have to. It isn't a bad thing for a piece of media and its characters/themes to cause you to do some soul-searching. That's the beauty of art. That's the beauty of this show.

[inairbinad]

Heaven, Indiana

Part one of three | 6.7k | T | also on ao3 | Part Two | Part Three

A re-imagining of season 3, where Eddie and Robin are already looped in on the Upside Down madness, and Eddie joins Scoops Troop. Part of my Barb Lives AU from the Petals Verse, where everyone lives and the timeline gets wonky as a result. Can be read on its own. @steddie-week day 4 prompts: Familiar / Here Come the Tears

Eddie woke with a jolt from the same, familiar nightmare he’d been having since November. The one where he found himself right back in those unnatural, revolting tunnels beneath Hawkins, on the brink of death with Steve Harrington grasping his hands in fear.

On the dark of his bedroom ceiling he could still see the imprint of Steve’s eyes, wide and terrified that they were about to die. Even now that he was awake Eddie could still feel the pit in his stomach, the burning in his calves from running, the ache of wishing he’d kissed Steve in that moment with a stampede of demodogs charging after them both.

Eddie didn’t need to have creative nightmares anymore, not like he did when he was a kid. The reality of what he and Steve had gone through—and Robin, and the kids, and the rest of them—in the course of trying to save Hawkins from a swarm of actual demogorgons and a goddamn Mind Flayer was more than enough to keep Eddie haunted for the rest of time.

It didn’t help that every single one of those terrified, cursed memories was tied up in want.

His desperation to kiss Steve in that moment haunted his dreams nearly as often as the version where they never made it out of the tunnels all.

Or sometimes Eddie would find himself back in the bus in the junkyard, waiting for Steve to come diving back inside the bus with a hoard of demons at his back. This time Eddie would catch Steve in his arms, breathless and sweating from staring down the gaping maw of death with nothing but a nail bat. Then Eddie would slide his hands into Steve’s hair and his tongue into Steve’s mouth, caring for nothing and no one else while the rot clawed and scratched at the door, desperate to consume them both.

Eddie felt so inexplicably deranged for how much of his lust was tangled up in the violence that he wanted to scream.

Instead he groaned, then finally dragged himself out of bed to take a cold shower and get ready for work.

Eddie wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up dressed like a sailor—or rather more like a pirate, considering the tattoos he refused to cover up while he was working, like he was supposed to—and toiling away in the shiny, brand new, and brightly colored Starcourt Mall. But there he was, on time for his shift of scooping ice cream and pretending to be happy about it.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Eddie already knew he’d ended up there because of Steve goddamn Harrington: bane of Eddie’s existence and possibly the love his life, all wrapped up into one monster-hunting, child-defending, short-short-wearing package.

The problem with all of this—working with Steve, being friends with Steve, spending way too much of his every waking moment with Steve—was that now Eddie knew Steve was bisexual, and Eddie didn’t know how to deal with that bit of intel. Because knowing that meant every minute Steve wasn’t kissing Eddie, Eddie was going insane. It was one thing for Eddie to quiet the delusion that Steve would ever look in his direction before, back when Eddie assumed Steve was straight. But once Eddie realized he’d accidentally stumbled into some kind of queer-alliance-slash-part-time-monster-hunters club last fall, he’d been decidedly less capable of coping with his crush.

Sure, learning that alternate dimensions and monsters actually existed was enough of a mindfuck to last Eddie a lifetime. But then he had to go and get clobbered with the news that Steve was bi, and Barb and Nancy were dating, Robin was also a lesbian—and Steve Harrington is bi, dear god does that mean I have a shot?

The demogorgons seemed kind of quaint, after that. Even the ones Dustin tried to raise as pets.

It was nice, though, having more people like himself to hang out with. The thought of ever finding other gay friends in Hawkins used to seem laughable to Eddie, but now there was a whole flock of them.

All of this led to Eddie thinking he would enjoy working with Steve and Robin at Scoops Ahoy for the summer, just to have an excuse to be around Steve all day, every day. In that goddamn uniform, too. But it was only making Eddie fall for Steve harder.

So, yeah, Harrington was undoubtedly the reason Eddie was here. And he was late for his shift.

Rather than daydream about him until he showed, Eddie opted to kill the time between customers by having some fun with Robin.

“What about her, Birdie?” Eddie asked, nudging Robin to look across the food court towards a dark-haired girl near the Orange Julius.

Robin twisted to follow Eddie’s eye line until she landed on the girl in question. This was typically how the two of them liked to pass their shifts at Scoops Ahoy together—by playing each other’s wingmen while pretending everyone in Hawkins was draped in a rainbow flag and available to flirt.

“She looks like Nance,” Robin said, scrunching up her nose.

“Is that a problem?” Eddie asked, laughing lightly. He didn’t have much of a peg-leg to stand on, but he was nearly certain that Nancy was objectively pretty.

“No,” Robin shrugged, then started scanning the crowd for a girl more her speed. “I just wouldn’t want Barb to think I’m secretly lusting after her girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Eddie said, nodding slowly. “I forgot how seriously you took this imaginary game of ours.”

Rather than reply, Robin gave him a hearty shove until he went toppling off the counter he’d been perched atop. Eddie laughed as he stumbled to stay upright, but tripped over his own feet in the process. He was already halfway to flat on his ass, a smart remark about Robin’s clumsiness rubbing off on him already perched on his tongue, when he felt a pair of strong arms catch him around the waist. Eddie knew from the solid feel of the chest against his back who had caught him, but the whole thing was a little too ironic for words.

“Good catch, Steve,” Robin laughed, just as Eddie turned his face back and upward to look into Steve’s. “Thought I might’ve killed our friend for a second.”

“I thought I told you to stop throwing him around,” Steve said with a grin. Eddie was still staring at him, still happily leaning into the feel of Steve’s arms wrapped around him. “He’s precious goods.”

Eddie couldn’t help the swell of satisfaction it gave him to hear Steve say that.

“I can’t stop my clumsy from rubbing off on you two,” Robin shrugged. Eddie grunted when at least part of his brain registered how Robin had just stolen his line.

Reluctantly, Eddie reactivated his own legs as he stood up of his own volition instead of relying on Steve. He brushed himself off and tried to act somewhat normal.

“Thanks for the save, Stevie,” Eddie said, doing his best to put on a charming smile. “And for trying to stop Birdie from trying to murder me.”

“Anytime, Eds,” Steve smiled back at full strength, plopping his sailor hat on as he did. “Sorry I’m late, I forgot where I left my keys again. What did I miss?”

“Robin’s got the hots for Nance,” Eddie said, earning himself a thwack from Robin’s own hat to accompany her squeak of indigence.

“I do not!” she cried, looking between Steve and Eddie—who were both giggling under their breath at her—like she couldn’t believe they’d treat her like this. “Assholes. Stop fucking with me.”

“Chrissy Cunningham’s on her way over,” Steve said next, elbowing Eddie in the side and nodding towards the front of the store.

“Oh, ha ha,” Robin grumbled. “Get Robin even more flustered by telling her the prettiest girl in Hawkins is near by, you’re so hilarious, dingus.”

Eddie, obviously a better friend than Steve, was frantically dragging his forefinger back and forth across his throat, trying to signal to Robin to shut the fuck up because Chrissy was, indeed, on her way up to the counter. Robin noticed too late, though, and Steve was having the time of his life watching her face turn red and her eyes get wide as a full moon.

Chrissy, sweetheart that she was, didn’t do much more than take in Robin’s distressed posture with a look of concern. “You okay, Robin?”

If she’d heard Robin calling her the ‘prettiest girl in Hawkins,’ she was doing an excellent job of hiding it. Eddie still noticed a sparkle in her eye that made him suspect she’d heard every word.

Robin gave Eddie a pleading look, like she wanted him to fix this for her, but he shook his head resolutely. She narrowed her eyes at him, then spun on her heel and beamed at Chrissy.

“I’m great, sorry,” Robin said, recovering impressively. “What’s up, Chrissy?”

“Oh, just shopping with some friends,” she shrugged. “Thought I’d come say hi. So, hi.”

“Hi,” Robin repeated, looking a little thunderstruck as Chrissy smiled at her. Eddie couldn’t blame her. Chrissy wasn’t in her usual cheerleader getup, and ironically enough she was in a rainbow colored t-shirt and jean shorts. But Eddie really knew what was driving Robin nuts was the fact that Chrissy was wearing suspenders, and her hair was loose and flowing down past her shoulders.

Eddie had heard many whiney monologues from Robin about how pretty Chrissy was over the last few months. He knew what to look for at this point.

“So, I’m having a party for the Fourth of July,” Chrissy started, then bit her lip as she paused to assess Robin’s face. Eddie zeroed in on it, wondering if maybe there was something reciprocal there that he hadn’t noticed before. “You should come.”

“Me?” Robin asked, really playing into the awkward teenage romcom angle, even if unintentionally.

“Yes,” Chrissy laughed, then she seemed to notice Steve and Eddie for the first time. “All of you should come.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said right away, elbowing Robin in an attempt to make her remember her words, probably. “Right, Rob?”

“Totally!” Robin finally exclaimed, and Steve stepped back to Eddie’s side again as Chrissy filled her in on the details. They tried to pretend like they were minding their own business, talking shop about ice cream like it was extremely important, but naturally they were eavesdropping half to hell.

“So can I get you some ice cream?” Robin asked eventually, slipping into her professional persona.

“Do you do samples?” Chrissy asked, leaning over the glass container to get a look at the flavors.

“Sure,” Robin said, and Eddie knew she’d break the sample limit for Chrissy in a heartbeat.

Steve finally lost control of himself, desperate gossip that he was, and dragged Eddie in the back with him so he could let loose his own commentary with a breathless laugh.

“They’re like, actually really cute. But I thought Rob’s head was going to explode,” Steve whispered. As Eddie moved to listen just on the other side of the passthrough’s sliding doors, Steve sidled up behind him. Then, just to drive Eddie further into the deep end, Steve hooked his chin into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder and rested it there. A shudder ran through Eddie at the feel of Steve’s breath on his neck, and he did his best to cover it up by telling Steve to shut up.

“Shh, you goober,” Eddie grumbled, despite the fact that he was laughing, too. “I’m trying to listen.”

Steve mercifully quieted down but stayed exactly where he was, making it difficult for Eddie to focus on Robin, anyway.

“Do you have a usual favorite?” Robin was asking Chrissy about ice cream flavors, Eddie had to remind himself. That was the important thing happening right now, not Steve’s mouth in such close proximity to his neck.

“I tend to like the fruity ones,” Chrissy answered, and Steve honest-to-god cackled. Eddie did his best to shush him, but he had to literally bite down on his own fist to keep the hilarity of it bottled up, especially when Steve pressed his whole face into Eddie’s shoulder in a poor attempt to stifle himself.

A thud sounded from the other side of the wall, which Eddie was pretty sure came from Robin kicking it in annoyance. Poor Chrissy was just out there being a normal person, and Steve and Eddie had to go and turn into a puddle of giggles over it.

“I swear to god, Stevie,” Eddie sputtered, trying not to give in to Steve’s contagious laughter. “Stop it before Birdie murders us with an ice cream scoop.”

That only made Steve’s shoulders shake harder, because apparently he enjoyed the threat of dying at his best friend’s hand. Then he rested his hands on either side of Eddie’s waist, holding on in a squeezing grip, until Eddie felt his muscles twitch beneath Steve’s fingertips.

“I’m sorry,” Steve wheezed. “But fruity.”

“You’re fruity,” Eddie said under his breath, which only made Steve double over again, clutching onto Eddie harder.

“No shit,” Robin said, suddenly just on the other side of the passthrough. She slid the doors open and glared at them both. “Chrissy definitely thinks I’m insane now, and you’re lucky I don’t come back there and kill you both with my bare hands.”

“Have you considered using the ice cream scoop?” Steve suggested, and now it was Eddie’s turn to let out an ugly, surprised guffaw.

“I deserve a raise,” Robin deadpanned, then slammed the doors shut again.

Steve pulled away from Eddie then, much to Eddie’s dismay. He dabbed at his eyes with the hem of his shirt, revealing a whole lot of abs and a tantalizing bit of hair disappearing beneath his stupidly small shorts.

Eddie swallowed and looked determinedly away, until his eyes landed on the baffling supply of bananas that were waiting to be hung on the wall. He groaned inwardly and tried to focus on getting through the rest of the day in one piece.

Eddie went from doing his usual amount of pining after Steve and surviving just fine, thank you very much, to decidedly not fine at all when the jacked guy who taught aerobics upstairs showed up in the Scoops line.

Eddie didn’t even know why he bothered coming into Scoops in the first place. All he ever did was order the low-fat bullshit that wasn’t even really ice cream, in a tiny portion, and tip like shit.

And somehow Steve found this attractive.

“Would you like to set sail on an ocean of flavor with me?” Steve opened with his usual, company-approved line that he somehow had turned into a come-on. Every time Steve said it like that, with his hip popped and a charming smile on, it made Eddie want to kick himself for being hung up on him. And yet it was wildly adorable in a terrible kind of way, and Eddie had to admit it would have worked on him in an instant.

The buff one didn’t even appreciate it.

“Just the usual, please,” he said with an easy smile. Eddie hated him.

So he decided to give him some shit.

“How was the Jane Fonda tape today?” Eddie asked, leaning across the counter and definitely not doing his actual job. He heard Steve stifle a little laugh, though, so Eddie figured he wasn’t on thin ice just yet.

The aerobics guy’s face pinched, as if there was something wrong with Jane Fonda. Another red flag, as far as Eddie was concerned.

“It’s Jazzercise,” he corrected in a flat tone. “And it was fine. How’s slinging ice cream?”

“Oh, it’s the best job in the world,” Steve cut in just as Eddie opened his mouth mouth in retort. “Especially when we get such great and attractive customers like yourself!”

Steve winked, and Eddie barely held in a scream.

“Right,” the idiot on the other side of the counter remarked. Then he took his ice cream and fled the store.

“Mark one more in the ‘You Suck!’ column,” Robin announced with fanfare and a uncoordinated drumroll as she whipped out her white board. She also gave Eddie a long, knowing look behind Steve’s back. Steve stayed none-the-wiser to Eddie’s misery or to Robin’s ribbing him over it, since he was begrudgingly digging out the Polaroid that they used to mark such special occasions as tallying the board.

Eddie moved over to where Robin stood, knowing she’d want him in the photo with her, despite the fact that he was all but slumped into a pout.

“Photo evidence, please?” Robin cooed at Steve, positively buzzing with satisfaction. Literally, Eddie could feel her glee just from sitting beside her, as she marked another tally on the ‘You Suck” side of Steve’s exploits in flirting.

It wasn’t as bad as if Steve had finally landed a mark on the ‘You Rule’ column, but it still stung in particular every time Steve tried it (however innocently) with another dude—especially the ones that were nothing like Eddie.

It only reminded him that he never had a shot in hell.

“Isn’t the tally evidence enough of my failures?” Steve whined, but he was already moving to take the picture.

“Nope!” Robin said, smacking her lips for emphasis. “Because you could secretly erase some and we both know I’d forget it. Plus, this is the second time you got nothing but a blank stare outta that guy. So. Photo, please!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbled, then snapped a picture of Robin holding up the board with a broad smile, and Eddie doing his best not to look like a complete grump about it. Somehow, despite this whole thing being at his expense, Steve still managed to drop the camera from his face with a small smile.

“So, what are we doing tonight?”

———

Robin decided she wouldn’t be joining Steve and Eddie in hanging out at the trailer for the night, because she “didn’t care about getting high nearly as much” as they did, apparently. Instead, she was going to whatever Sapphic movie night Barb and Nance had planned, to which no boys were invited.

Eddie didn’t mind, considering that meant he got Steve to himself. Since Wayne was out at his weekly poker game, they opted to give in to Robin’s assumptions and smoke. Not that Wayne really would have cared, but Eddie liked to give his uncle the option of turning a blind eye when he could.

“Since when do you pout in pictures more than Robin or Max?” Steve asked as Eddie rolled them a joint, killing time by looking through the photos from their shift today.

Since I’m sick of watching you flirt with anyone who isn’t me, Eddie answered honestly in his own head. When he opened his mouth, though, lies poured out.

“I’m starting to feel sorry for your lack of game, man,” Eddie said with a blinding smile. “At some point the board just starts to feel like bullying.”

“I’m fine, Eds,” Steve snorted, clearly unbothered. “But thank you for your concern. Now let me get a better shot of you.”

Eddie sighed, but then relented and gave Steve a fond smile. “Fine.”

After his second bout with the creepy crawlies of the Upside Down last fall (Eddie’s first), Steve had taken to photography as a hobby, and started documenting everything he could in film. Steve said it helped with his nightmares, at first, to be able to look back on the group making good memories while trying to work through the shit ones. Eventually he admitted to Eddie that it was also because he wanted to capture everything good, in case they all died tomorrow.

Jonathan still did most of the heavy lifting there, but Steve carried his own camera around with him almost everywhere, now. Then, once they’d all started at Scoops, he’d swiped his dad’s Polaroid specially just to keep it in his work locker over the summer. He spent entirely too much money on film, despite Robin’s frequent protestations.

“Stop wasting all of your money on the same photos of the kids laughing at us in our uniforms,” she’d say every time Steve came back from spending his break in the camera repair shop restocking on film.

“It’s memories, Rob,” Steve would sigh and reload the camera. “You can’t put a price on those.”

Eddie and Robin would usually exchange a glance imparting their desire to give Steve a lesson in being poor, and pronto, but neither of them really had the heart to do it.

Steve loved that damn camera, though, and Eddie had long ago established that he couldn’t deny Steve anything. So Eddie sat back, trying not to be self conscious as Steve once more studied him through the lens of a camera. His favorite seemed to be trying to catch arty shots of Eddie blowing smoke out of his nostrils, and looking like the burnout that he was.

Much like the Scoops Cam stayed at work, the one Steve was using now tended to hang out on Eddie’s nightstand most of the time. It was a testament to how much time Steve spent at the trailer, if anything. The thought made Eddie smile, and Steve tutted happily at however it looked through the viewfinder. Eddie tried not to run away with delusions of grandeur about what that could mean, but he felt all warm over it anyway.

Eventually Steve seemed pretty satisfied with what he captured, so he set the camera aside, presumably for the next time he came over.

“You were grumpy today,” Steve said, waving the post-flirting Polaroid from earlier in Eddie’s face. Eddie slapped his hand away, but couldn’t keep his face straight. He couldn’t keep anything straight.

“I just don’t understand how you find that preppy asshole attractive,” Eddie said around a lungful of smoke, staring Steve down as best he could, considering they were sitting eye-to-eye on the floor.

“What,” Steve drawled, making grabby hands for the joint until Eddie passed it over. He seemed completely unbothered by the fact that Eddie found his crush on the Jazzercise guy distasteful. “You’ve never been attracted to a preppy asshole before?”

Just you, Eddie thought, grateful that the weed hadn’t loosened his lips enough to let the words spill out into the sticky-sweet ether between them. Eddie had been hopelessly in love with Steve for no less than eight months, now. But who was counting?

“Can’t say that I have,” Eddie lied. Though, was it technically a lie, if he didn’t think Steve was an asshole anymore? Eddie took the technicality and ran with it, but he almost thought there might’ve been a hint of disappointment on Steve’s face. Eddie told himself that was just wishful thinking on his part.

“I just think he looks nice in those shorts, is all,” Steve shrugged before finally taking a drag.

Eddie was really starting to think he’d miscalculated, opting to work the summer at Scoops. Not only was the job shit—the only non-Steve-and-Robin related reason he even remotely enjoyed it was because Erica would come in and boss everyone around, and he would give her shit about the evils of capitalism and watch her nose scrunch up—but it also required watching Steve flirt with and ogle all the customers, regardless of gender, and drive Eddie nuttier than a scoop of butter pecan over it.

The only reason Eddie had any semblance of sanity left was because Steve usually struck out. Or, pretty much always. It was almost like Steve was flirting badly on purpose, some days. And then he’d come home with Eddie anyway. They’d watch movies or get high, fucking around and making fun of whoever had worse sailor-hat hair at the end of the day. It was nice.

Eddie was a real goner, was the point, and he resented the aerobics instructor guy. And his shorts. Eddie had shorts, too, goddamnit.

“He’s not even gay,” Eddie scoffed, flopping backwards to lay flat on the floor of his bedroom. Sometimes he and Steve would lay sprawled across his bed, or stay in the living room where things felt safer, but tonight it was too hot to be anywhere but on the floor. At least down there, Eddie could catch a little bit of a draft from the rickety old air conditioner that was valiantly chugging along to cool the whole trailer. “He just likes watching sweaty women bounce around for a living.”

“Don’t talk about my soulmate like that,” Steve scoffed. He nudged Eddie’s hip with his foot, then laid beside him on the floor, facing in the opposite direction as Eddie. Steve propped his feet up on the bed, then twisted is face to look at Eddie’s, practically pillowing his head on Eddie’s chest as he did. He smirked like he was proud of his joke.

Eddie knew Steve was just kidding around. If anyone was Steve’s soulmate, after all, it was Robin. Eddie was almost used to that jealous demon that lived in the back of his brain, resenting his status as the spare friend in the trio. It was silly and Eddie knew it, especially since he loved the fuck out of Robin. But even in jest, Steve’s comment plunged Eddie into a river of envy. What about me? The demon cried, scraping along the recesses of Eddie’s mind and demanding to be acknowledged.

Eddie did his best to shush it, listening instead to the Judas Priest record he’d put on because somehow, someway, Steve had come to love it.

“Take me now, in your arms, let me rest, safe from harm,” Steve sang along to Hear Come the Tears. The lingering smoke made his voice scratch in just the right kind of delectable way that left the demon doing backflips in Eddie’s mind. “Oh I want to be loved.”

Another thing Eddie had learned about Steve, since his reformation of character had started sometime last year, was that he got handsy when he was high. He took one of Eddie’s hands into his own, then firmly pressed the joint into it. Steve didn’t let go when Eddie’s fingers grasped around it, either. Instead he started playing with Eddie’s rings.

“This one new?” Steve asked, voice low and buzzing right through Eddie’s ribcage.

It wasn’t new, but Eddie couldn’t blame Steve for thinking so. He hardly ever wore the bat carved of silver that Steve was still lazily twisting around Eddie’s index finger. It was one of the first rings he’d ever bought for himself, but once he got his bat tattoo, he thought maybe wearing the ring was overkill. Most of the time, anyway.

That all hardly seemed relevant when Steve was basically holding Eddie’s hand, and noticing little details about him that no one else ever did.

“No, but I don’t wear it much,” Eddie answered, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

“Pretty,” Steve hummed. He stopped playing with the ring and moved to tickle the back of Eddie’s hand with soft fingers, instead.

“It’s probably better suited for you, then,” Eddie admitted aloud, and Steve turned a bashful shade of pink.

That was the other thing about Steve when he got high. He was more prone to blushing.

“Alright,” Steve said with a sly grin, before slipping the ring off Eddie’s finger in a rush. Then he sat back up, crossing his legs beneath him as he put it on himself. He held his hand out in front of his face, assessing. “Oh, yeah. I like it.”

Steve had taken things much too literally, and Eddie saw fit to correct it.

“Gimme it back, you thief!” Eddie cried, snatching for Steve’s hand again. Steve was too quick for him, though, and all Eddie achieved was grazing his fingertips across the heated skin of Steve’s forearm as he dashed out of Eddie’s grasp.

Carefully, Eddie snubbed out what was left of the joint in the ashtray, then scrambled upright and dove at Steve.

For maybe thirty seconds, Eddie had the upper hand. He’d managed to get a grip around Steve’s wrist, and the hand that now housed Eddie’s stolen ring. But once Eddie realized he was practically straddling Steve’s lap, knees locked on either sides of his thighs in a death grip, Eddie was momentarily distracted from his goal. He fumbled sliding the ring off Steve’s finger, accidentally tossing it until it rolled under Eddie’s bed.

Instead of going after it, though, Steve took the opportunity to wrestle Eddie to the floor. In half a stuttered heartbeat on Eddie’s part, he was under the whole weight of Steve, wrists pinned in a surprisingly gentle but firm grip on either side of his head.

Steve laughed above him, pressed so close that Eddie could feel the way Steve’s chest contracted and then swelled again as he breathed. Eddie didn’t know where to look first—the flop of Steve’s hair that hung down between them, the curve of Steve’s perfect mouth, curling up in a self-satisfied smile, or the way Steve’s glassy eyes still sparkled as he looked down at Eddie with a quiet confidence that was driving him wild.

Eddie didn’t know how Steve was still this strong while impaired, but if he didn’t get out from under him soon, Eddie knew there’d be a problem somewhere south of his belt loops to deal with between them. He tried not to wiggle his hips too much as he attempted to break free of Steve’s grasp, but it was no use. Steve only smirked down at him, completely focused on Eddie’s face alone.

“I win,” Steve murmured, then deliberately let his gaze drop to Eddie’s lips.

Eddie felt like he might be hallucinating, to the point where he wondered if Reefer Rick had given him a particularly weird strain, or something, last time they did a deal.

Especially when Steve then darted his tongue across his own bottom lip, a brief flash of wet pink that left Eddie floating, despite being pinned to the ground.

“You—” Eddie began, but the creak of the trailer door opening shocked them both out of whatever had been brewing between them. Steve let go of Eddie in an instant, sitting up and running his hands through his hair as Wayne grunted out, “Ed?” from the living room.

“Back here, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie said, sounding completely dazed.

Wayne poked his head into Eddie’s room and smirked down at him, still sprawled on the floor and probably looking—and smelling—high as a kite. Then Wayne waved at Steve, and said, “When you get the munchies, don’t eat my chips.”

Wayne was gone as fast as he’d come, probably to watch TV and have a beer, but he’d altered the vibe significantly. Steve reeled in whatever had started to peek free just a few moments before, sighed, and snatched the bat ring from under the bed. He handed it back willingly.

“You can wear it,” Eddie tried, but Steve shook his head.

“It’s more your style, anyway,” he said, sounding a little sad about it. Eddie didn’t know what to say in reply, so he silently took the ring and slid it back on his finger.

“The chips might be off the table,” Eddie said, feeling a devilish grin creep onto his face and hoping it would draw Steve back out of whatever shell he’d shrunk into. “But he didn’t say shit about his banana popsicles.”

“I like the way you think, Munson,” Steve smiled back, then they both darted for the freezer in perfect sync.

———

For his next shift with Steve, Eddie was trying not to act weird after whatever the hell had happened in the trailer the night before. He was determined not to get distant or awkward about it, or make Steve feel self-conscious. He didn’t want to be too touchy afterwards either, though, and make Steve assume that Eddie was expecting anything from him.

But that didn’t mean Eddie wasn’t flirting. Eddie was a flirt by nature, after all. It would seem weirder if he didn’t.

“Ahoy, sailor!” Eddie heartily whistled in appreciation just when Steve arrived in all of his short-shorts glory—all in the name of keeping up appearances, of course.

Steve shuffled around a little uneasily in response instead of returning the sentiment, like he normally would have. Robin, who was sitting with Eddie at the table in the ‘captain’s quarters’, squinted at him in question. Eddie shrugged.

“Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?” she asked Steve.

“Huh?” he responded distantly, trying to fix his hat to his hair in a gentle enough way so it wouldn’t flatten what Steve thought was his best feature. (Eddie thought Steve’s best feature was probably his perfectly kissable mouth, or his big brown eyes that Eddie frequently found himself getting lost in, or even that little constellation of moles on his neck that Eddie wanted to bite. But that was neither here nor there.)

“You seem…fidgety,” Robin pointed out.

“Oh. I’m fine,” Steve tried for an unaffected shrug, but it looked more jerky and stilted than anything.

Eddie was doing his level best not to assume that was about him. But considering the fact that Eddie was almost certain Steve had wanted to kiss him the night before, even after the haze of smoke had cleared from his judgment making skills, he didn’t really think it was a coincidence.

Robin seemed to agree that this was between Steve and Eddie, as she started eyeing Eddie suspiciously again. If her face hadn’t been full of questions, Eddie would've assumed Steve had already told her what was going on with him. The fact that he hadn’t only worried Eddie further. Since when did Steve not share every thought in his head with Robin?

Had Eddie seemed too eager last night, maybe? Had Steve sussed out how deep Eddie’s feelings actually ran? Maybe now he wanted to put an extra bit of distance between them, because to Steve it wasn’t that serious. Eddie wanted to kick himself at the thought.

If distance was what Steve wanted, Robin wasn’t allowing for it. Her solution was to find every excuse to stick Eddie and Steve in the back room together most of the afternoon, doing tedious tasks while Robin worked out front. Her excuse was that it was a “slow day” anyway.

So Eddie tried to act as normal as possible in the hopes of signaling that everything between them was fine, whatever Steve’s worries might be. But every time Eddie tried to strike up a conversation, Steve didn’t give him much back by way of response.

“Do you know what happened after the kids snuck in to see Day of the Dead the other night?” Eddie asked, hoping the temptation to gossip might spur Steve into talking. One of their favorite topics of the summer so far had been speculating on what seemed like a gay little love triangle forming between Mike, Eleven, and Will.

“Not really,” Steve shrugged noncommittally.

“At the very least you’d think we might’ve gotten some innocent hand-holding,” Eddie mused.

“Maybe,” Steve merely grunted in response.

Eddie bit his tongue for a while after that, and began to consider if whatever was going on in Steve’s head had nothing to do with him at all. Eddie knew Steve’s parents were in town, and that usually led to most of Steve’s grumpiest moods. Maybe all he needed was the promise of not having to go back to a house he hated after getting off from a job he also hated.

“Hey, you wanna come over tonight?” Eddie offered eventually, then wondered if maybe he should give it more of a veneer of friendship, just in case. “We can probably entice Robin into coming if we let her pick a movie. You guys can stay over, even.”

“Maybe,” Steve finally smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Eddie thought he might finally be on the right track, but Steve dipped away again. “I should go check on Robin.”

Eddie tried not to pout in Steve’s absence.

He also wasn’t one to give up in the face of a frowning Steve Harrington, so for the rest of their shift he kept trying to do all the things he knew would make Steve laugh. At first, Steve didn’t seem all that impressed with Eddie’s walking him through the several layers of monstrous traps he was laying for the boys’ first official Hellfire campaign, so Eddie switched to stronger tactics. He moved on to his impersonation of Hopper going full Hulk and threatening to kill Mike in new and creative ways, which did earn a pinched smile out of Steve, at least.

But when Steve’s favorite bit—Eddie’s acting out his own mascot creation, Scoop, who was a pirate with spoons for fingers—didn’t do much more than eke a small chuckle out of him, Eddie was just about ready to throw in the towel and ask what the hell was the matter.

That was when they heard the unmistakable sound of Dustin Henderson’s arrival, however.

Steve turned to Eddie with wide eyes, matching Eddie’s in excitement. If Dustin’s long anticipated return from camp couldn’t cheer Steve up, nothing would.

“Steve, Eddie!” Robin called back to them both. “Your child is here!”

“Don’t act like you don’t love me, too, Robin Buckley,” Dustin said, accompanied by that bizarre purring noise he liked to make.

Steve and Eddie simultaneously sprung into action. Eddie led the way out of the swinging door to the front, with Steve hot on his heels and his hands squeezing Eddie’s shoulders in delight.

“Henderson!” They both chorused, as Dustin broke out in a wide, gummy grin upon seeing them. They all launched towards each other, and Steve quite literally squealed, “He’s back!”

Then the three of them immediately proceeded into their complex secret handshake, while Robin looked on in bewilderment. It didn’t matter how many times she’d seen them practice it in minute detail, apparently, it still made her wrinkle her nose in secondhand embarrassment.

Eddie didn’t care. He’d missed Henderson more than he ever expected he would have of a fourteen year old hellion, but Dustin had that effect on him and Steve both. In the months since they’d tracked down a baby fucking demogorgon together, the three of them had only grown further attached.

So when Dustin immediately jumped to exclaiming “We have so much to talk about,” Eddie and Steve didn’t hesitate to set aside the weird vibe between them and buy Dustin a USS Butterscotch.

Twenty minutes later, the two of them had listened to Dustin talk about his “camp girlfriend” ad nauseam, while exchanging a healthy amount of skeptical looks between them. Steve didn’t entirely seem to believe that Suzie was real, and Eddie was mostly with him, but there was something dreamy in the way Dustin talked that Eddie felt a kinship with.

It reminded him how he felt around Steve.

All that went out the window, though, when Dustin started yammering about intercepting secret Russian codes.

“We can be true, American heroes, guys!” Dustin finished his lengthy speech about saving the world, like he hadn’t done enough of that already.

Eddie was beyond skeptical now, but Steve seemed amused, so he played along.

“Heroes, eh?” Eddie asked, casually spinning his sailor cap around in his hands.

“Yes! It’ll be great, I swear. And once we are, you two can have all the ladies you want, and more. As long as her name isn’t Suzie,” Dustin promised them both. It was sincere, if admittedly a little creepy and off base.

Eddie darted a quick glance towards Steve, who obviously found the irony in Dustin’s promising the ladies to Eddie, of all people. He chuckled lightly as he gave Eddie a knowing look, like he was thrilled to know Eddie’s secrets, before breaking eye contact and turning back to Dustin.

“Yeah, alright,” he nodded. “How can we help?”

(part two should be coming with tomorrow's prompts!)

[PART TWO] [PART THREE]

[nightowlwriting]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

[mimiswitchywrites]

Not A Burden

Totally self indulgent Merlin Fic.

TW: SH references, attempted s****de and references, child/s***al a**se references (not graphic but enough that could be triggering)

"It was on yet another hunting trip that he found her, face pale and crimson pooling under each arm. Percival would later find a small knife under some moss next to her. Sweat covered her face and chest, leaving dark patches on her cotton dress. Her eyes were shut and breathing shallow."

or

A very angsty fic where the Knights find an injured girl in the forest and take her home to heal. Queer fluff with Gwen ensues.

2.5k words.

Masterlist or Read it on AO3

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Chapter 1:

It was on yet another hunting trip that he found her, face pale and crimson pooling under each arm. Percival would later find a small knife under some moss next to her. Sweat covered her face and chest, leaving dark patches on her cotton dress. Her eyes were shut and breathing shallow.

Merlin set to work immediately: pulling fabric bandages from his satchel along with honey and other such ointments to stop the bleeding and prevent infection growing in her shredded forearms. The King and his knights could do nothing but watch, shock drawn on their faces. They had seen blood and death before, but so rarely had they seen someone that had attempted to take their own life.

It was Lancelot that discovered the reason for her considerable sweating and pale face. Wolfsbane. Merlin opened her mouth and found her tongue swollen, further confirming the theory. He leant her forward and, after warning the party to turn around, made her empty the contents of her stomach.

Finally content that he had done all he could, Merlin approached panic mode. He left Lancelot and Elayn with the girl (Percival had left to refill the waterskins and Gwaine had had a ghostly look in his eyes since the discovery and so was left alone) and began pacing.

“We need to get back to Gaius. I can’t look after her on my own.”

“I’m no physician but she doesn’t seem fit to ride, not yet.” His King replied, doing his best to assure him.

“But what if I’ve missed something? I hardly noticed she had been—she had poisoned herself, that was all Lancelot’s doing!”.

“Consider yourself lucky that there are so many of us to help you then.”

“But—”

“You have been training with Gaius for almost a half-decade now, I trust your skills totally. It’s okay Merlin, she will be okay no matter what happens.” Arthur carelessly tacked on the last part, hoping Merlin wouldn’t notice how dark it sounded. He had seen a few of his knights return from their first battle and end up in a similar state and knew too well that most were content with dying if no one could do anything to save them.

“Now, how about you get your mind off this and make us some dinner, eh?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, nudging past. As much as he refused to admit it, he was glad Arthur had given him a distraction, even if it were preparing a stew that he wouldn’t be allowed to eat until everyone else had been served first.

--

As night fell and the fire grew smaller, Gwaine’s mind ran a thousand leagues a minute. It had been years since he had last thought of what that girl had done – around the time he had met Merlin, actually – and yet, after seeing her in that state for only a few seconds, it was all he could think about. All he could see as he closed his eyes. He longed to help her as he needed help all those years ago, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t talk (the others had made comments about how marvellous that was and he wonders, if only for a moment, if they would say the same had they known what was going on in his head.) He could barely breath, only able to let out fast, short breaths. He felt helpless.

As a Knight of the Round Table, Sir Gwaine did not like feeling ‘helpless’. He was strongly opposed to it, in fact.

It was only after Arthur awoke to take next watch that his brain began to slow (or had it sped up so fast that it felt like it had stopped?) and he began to feel tired. After some prompting by Princess, he lay on his roll mat and let sleep take over.

--

As the morning fog lifted, Merlin checked over his work once again. He removed her bandages, careful not to let it pull on her skin, and cleaned the last of the blood off. He envied Gaius’ ability to treat a patient without being upset for them – working with tears in his eyes was making the task far more difficult than it should have.

After wrapping her up once again, he declared them free to take her back to Camelot. He state hadn’t worsened overnight which was reassuring, but she hadn’t much improved either, so he thought it best for his mentor to give her a look over too. He had only dealt with poisoning a few times (and at least one of those times he had been the one poisoned) and so was not as confident in his abilities as his friends seemed to be. It was nice that they had faith in him, but he worried it was misplaced this time.

With Percy’s help, they manoeuvred the girl onto Lancelot’s horse. He had volunteered to take her so Merlin could attend to Arthur, who Lancelot had noticed was missing the young man. He had watched their relationship grow for a few years now and, despite not knowing really knowing what was going on between them, he was glad his friend had someone to be with.

Upon Arthurs command, the troop began moving. Gwaine rode at the back and Arthur and Merlin took the lead. Percival and Elyan rode next to each other, leaving Lancelot to his thoughts of the girl leaning against his chest. She was a young woman really, looking to have maybe 23 summers, but she looked so youthful that he couldn’t be sure. Her hair was braided with red fabric woven in and a few strands framed her face. She had striking black eyebrows and he was curious of her eye colour. He hoped that she would open her eyes again – the idea of someone so young trying to take their own life left him feeling cold.

He, like the rest of them, he was sure, had occasionally thought of doing as she had. Maybe not thoughts they would take forward, but ideations none the less. They had seen such horrible things throughout their travels, things that kept them up at night, things that made them want to stop thinking forever. It often led to a week at The Rising Sun, but sometimes that didn’t work.

He shivered, trying to banish those thoughts.

A part of him wondered what led her to sitting at the bottom of that tree. What could drive a young woman to consume Wolfsbane and mark her skin in such a way. He had noticed scars on her arms as Merlin wrapped her: either she had been in many, many fights before, or she had done something like this before. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

--

Elyan and Percival were concerned. They tended to worry most days, caught up in making sure everyone was okay, but this hunting trip had not been a normal one. It had begun as usual: Merlin sneezing, coughing and stumbling each time anyone went to take a shot at some poor animal, and Arthur having a go at him for it (though everyone knew he wasn’t really angry), and then, after Gwaine finally got a lucky hit on a doe, Merlin found the woman. The light mood soured immediately, doe left on the muddy floor. Everyone went into Knight-Mode, as Elyan liked to think of it. Knight-Mode was when all casual personality faded, and they became formal protectors. Swords were usually drawn but there was no need this time – the woman didn’t look like she would be going for her blade anytime soon. Regardless, Percival kept the blade in his possession just in case.

And now, as they rode slowly towards Camelot, the pair were worrying about the silence. They loved Gwaine – he was great, really – but he had amassed a reputation of not shutting the hell up, particularly on long rides. And yet now, on a trip that would likely take two days, he was silent. Now that he thinks about it, Elyan doesn’t recall Gwaine saying more than a sentence since they had stumbled upon the woman.

On the one hand, it was refreshing being able to listen to the birds and the creek of the trees. On the other, it concerned him. Percival wasn’t much better, turning his head back every few feet to see if there was any change on Gwaine’s blank face. It looked like a part of him was missing, the light behind his eyes seemed to have disappeared. Hopefully, Percival thought briefly, he would be back to his usual blabbering self once they had returned home. Maybe some mead would do the trick. Although he would never say it aloud, the gentle giant quite enjoyed his small friends’ stories. He found they made long trips feel a lot shorter – especially when they were returning from a grave event such as this one.

“Do you have a drink we could give him?” Percival whispered to Elyan, hoping to at least cheer Gwaine up a little before they got back.

“I have water, but I fear that won’t suffice.”

“No, something much stronger seems needed. You don’t know what’s wrong, do you?

The smaller man shook his head, looking grim. The subject of their concern didn’t seem to notice their concerned glances despite their distinct lack of subtlety.

No closer to finding a solution, the pair looked ahead, and continued riding.

--

Arthur had been riding horses since he was 3. He was good at it, great, even, but right now, all he could think about was how much his arse hurt. Turning to his left, he could tell Merlin was on the same train of thought (about his own arse, Arthur doubted his friend thought about his Kings arse unless it was about the trousers that they agreed never to talk about again). After mulling it over for longer than was needed, he raised his hand to warn the others they would be resting for a while. He knew there was a good stream nearby and intended to lead them there first.

‘Intended’ because, before he could lean his horse towards where he was reasonably sure the stream was, Lancelot called out for Merlin. It seemed their guest was waking up.

Merlin quickly hopped off his saddle, barely keeping his legs from buckling after being sat still for so long, and made his way to Lancelot and Percival, the latter of which had also dismounted. They carefully lifted the girl from Lancelot’s horse and sat her against a tree (It looked far too much like the way they found her for Arthurs liking).

Merlin took a waterskin from the nearest horse and gently poured some down her throat. This clearly woke her up more as she began coughing and spluttering, pushing Merlin’s hand away in the process. When her wheezing calmed down, she looked around in surprise.

“Wh—” another scratchy cough, “Where am I? My throat, it’s burn—” more painful coughs. Arthur almost looked away, somehow feeling guilty that she was in such pain.

“You are on your way to Camelot. My name is Merlin, I’m the Royal Physicians apprentice. This,” he gestures to Arthur who decides he should look more Kingly and not cower and the pained sounds she is making “is King Arthur Pendragon and the others are Knights of the Round Table.”

“Oh.”

Merlin rummages in his bag, pulling the phial of honey out again. He pours a little onto a wooden spoon he had in his coat pocket, and hands it to the girl. How Merlin remembers where he keeps all these small objects is beyond Arthur, but he is glad he does.

“Here, drink this. It should soothe your throat a little. It’s just honey but it will do until we get back to Camelot.”

She eyes it, sceptical, but drinks it regardless.

“I am sorry for the burning. I had to make you, you know, get rid of the wolfsbane you ingested.” She grimaced at the thought.

Arthur waited for a short while until he was certain Merlin was done tending to their guest. “There is a stream around the corner. We should stop there to have lunch before we set off again. I am sure we would all appreciate the chance to stretch our legs.”

The knights all grunt in response before they set off again. Merlin and the girl walk side by side – the girl leaning on him a little – while Lancelot takes the reins of Merlin’s horse along with his own. It doesn’t take them long to reach the stream Arthur had mentioned and the relief that they could stop properly was evident on everyone’s faces. Except Gwaine, he hardly seemed to register they have even moved. Arthur furrowed his brows at this but choose to ignore it for now.

The knights sat on a large log, Merlin and Arthur sitting opposite them, as they ate the bread and salted meat that the manservant retrieved upon reaching the stream. The girl sat beside Lancelot looking dazed. The kind knight offers her small smiles and sips of water occasionally but it doesn’t make much difference.

“I’m going to get more water.” Declared Gwaine, picking up his full waterskin, which looks like it hasn’t been touched since yesterday. He left with a nod to his King, not giving anyone time to object. Merlin shot his back a concerned look but stayed, his patient having his focus. No one else made a move to leave, too into eating or watching the girl as she nibbles on her bread and sips of Lancelot’s drink.

--

Gwaine was not a crier. He was not going to cry. He was a Knight of the Round Table, protector to the King of Camelot and, if Merlin’s drunk ramblings had any truth to them, protector to the Once and Future King of the united Albion, whatever that meant.

And yet, as he stumbled to away from the camp, aware that no one was coming after him, he felt a lump in his throat that he couldn’t shove down. He finally didn’t feel numb, but he wasn’t sure this was better. Thinking of how his friends would react to him coming back with red eyes didn’t help the situation, instead making his eyes glossy. He sighed a long sigh, and heavily slid down an oak tree, hugging his arms against his chest and leaning his head on his knees.

A part of his wanted to pull his sleeves back and trace the white stripes that lines his arms. Another part wanted to make them red again. But a more rational part (likely influenced by Merlin, curse that beautiful boy) made sure he kept them where they were, wrapped around his torso. He could feel where each line lay, his mind playing tricks on him as he pictured his little blade drawing against his skin.

Sometimes, often, Gwaine hated his brain. It wasn’t a very nice to him. Though, he thought, he wasn’t very nice to his body so maybe this was fair.

He took a sip of his water, making a face as he regretted not bringing the skin of mead that he had thought about before they set off a few dawns ago. Mead would be very nice right now.

Pouring some water on his hands and splashing his face with it, he stood up, shook his head as if to dislodge the thoughts, and made his way back to the temporary camp. A few paces from his previous seat, he realised that he hadn’t actually filled his waterskin, but it was too late and so all he could do was hope no one noticed.

They had, but they didn’t comment so he considered that a win.

Arthur hopped up again as he noticed Gwaine return (he tried not to stare at the clearly-not-refilled waterskin) and gestured for everyone else to rise too. Time to set off. If they continued at the speed they were at before, they should get back before luncheon the next day and he could have a nice long bath, the girl could be treated fully, Gwaine would go to the Tavern and would return just as talkative as before (though he wouldn’t object if he talked just a little less, the King thought) and everything would be okay.

Just one more night in the woods.

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I hope you liked this! I have a few chapters already written and am expecting it to be about 6 chapters long? It was meant to be a one shot but I got carried away...

If you happen to want to be on a tag list for this then comment/message me!

This is the first fic I've properly written and it's based on a dream I've been having over the last few days. It's not really planned so I hope that doesn't show.

[ofcloudsandstars]

Amber and orchard for the fall asks!

amber - share an unpopular opinion that you may have.

Hahaha this is like cracking open pandora’s box. I feel like I have too many. 

I think my primary one though is I absolutely despise capitalism’s affect on witchcraft. I DO NOT think it’s made it more accessible for people, I feel like the only very minor positive thing is that you can now tell people you are a witch and into tarot cards and they won’t find you as weird anymore. Otherwise people don’t realize how capitalism is a force that actually strips culture of it’s meaning in order to sell it for profit and it’s affects on this practice has left a lot of damage not just to some aspects that are sacred but towards the earth since it’s a practice that works really closely with nature. 

(added a read more to spare you poor scrolling souls from my rant lol)

Anyway what crapitalism does is it takes a culture and turns it into an easily consumable concept- almost like a brand, so that as long as you slap something ‘witchy’ seeming together then it qualifies as that brand. It boils everything down to an aesthetic. And no one has to actually believe in it anymore, or practice it or make any effort towards learning it or incorporating it into their lives. As long as they buy into the brand or embody the aesthetic then they count. Sometimes you can try to express that some traditions and materials and such do have meaning (I mean of course they do no one just sat around and made this shit up) people kind of have this nihilistic view that’s fed from this weird modern capitalist society that like: nothing truly has meaning anymore. But it’s like they are feeding this consumerist culture by repeating this mindset and gaslighting others when they appropriate magical practices or other cultures that are still very much alive and still tended to (often by indigenous people still being prosecuted) that are focused on working with the earth. 

Then you see this ripple effect on places like instagram or the big mainstream like magazines and shit and do not get me wrong cause there are a lot of cool and creative people that practice this that are on there but there is so much cashing into this field now and oversaturation that comes with seedy and shady background stories that show creators being completely disingenuous because they really just want to make money. And then going back to my point that this practice works closely with nature, capitalism exploited the fact that we like working with certain herbs, woods, crystals etc and is overharvesting and mining and tainting the very tools that we want to work with, with greed, pollution, child slavery etc. And it’s irritating cause you can make your own tools and don’t have to import anything and you can tell everyone how bad some industries are but they don’t listen cause they are buying into capitalism’s lie that they can sell you anything at a price, even if it’s sacred. Then if you try to defend your point they tell you that this is the only way it can be accessible to everyone, but it’s NOT accessible to everyone, it strips it away from people that could be working with these tools for generations and protecting the climates that these guides and resources for the tools grow in. It also disempowers people in their craft to begin with because witchcraft is about finding that connection to your own power and magic and the bridge with the universe’s power and magic and when you venture down into this practice you will find tools and guides local to you and find ways to make your own magical tools but capitalism disempowers us by telling us that we are not legit until we can put a price tag on it. So people don’t believe in their ability to find the sacred in themselves or nature, they just keep consuming whatever herb bundle or tool capitalism spits at them because it’s the only way to feel legit in this culture. 

And then since it’s seen more of a title or aesthetic and less of a way of life or set of ethics or practice, you have people interested in this spiritual or witchy community that don’t do any work or want to work on themselves that bring their shadow baggage into it. So you get racism seeping into it, homophobia, I also am so fucking confused how TRANSPHOBIA has made its way into here like transfolx are magical by just existing they are walking manifestations and works of alchemy like wtf; and like if you guys were friends with any queer people and hung out with them, they get the idea of magic, ritual and manifestation so well cause so much of their daily life already embodies some of that. But that’s a whole other topic. I vibed well with my queer friends on this and they were the only ones I could talk to about it before witchcraft became mainstream. 

 Then in general it’s seen as like radical if you tell people that are supposedly practicing witches that our energies should be focusing on restoring balance and we should put our energy towards healing nature or towards human rights (since humans are apart of nature) you will literally have witches being like: don’t tell me what to do!!! Like!! Gurl wtf lmaoo I don’t know how people claim to be empaths or into this but they don’t see that maybe if there was a so called “Great Awakening” to “Empower Ourselves” that’s probably what the fucking point was? Not to say that you need to spend every waking moment protesting (another contribution of capitalism- showing some kind of documented proof on social media that you stand for something instead of little daily actions embedded into your everyday life) but you can find ways to change your daily patterns to make space for the societal change that’s coming to bring in a more compassionate world and better community. But since we are so indoctrinated in this consumerist culture, so many people don’t know how to incorporate their values into their everyday lives anymore. It’s all about quantity and showing off on social media. And that negatively impacts witchcraft cause witchcraft is a daily practice you do little things for everyday that just gets embedded into your everyday life, but people get confused and think to be legit it’s something you gotta buy into or show off as proof with stylistic rituals and of course for many people that’s exhausting or financially inaccessible. 

And for the sake of clarity cause the internet hates using critical thinking sometimes, of COURSE you can have a fun and flashy craft I’m not saying you can’t, but there is a massive imbalance here I am pointing out with how people are developing insecurities because they cannot attain this aesthetic overnight without dropping a shit ton of money. Yes witchcraft is very aesthetic-heavy but that’s because it’s a really creative practice that people pour their creativity and energy into and capitalism saw a way to put a price tag on it and now it’s confusing everyone else that’s mistaking this as something else to consume in exchange for money. 

And then I hate that I feel often I cannot talk about this cause instead of people using their critical thinking braincells and realizing how bad capitalism is, they somehow turn this conversation into thinking that I just don’t like when a culture becomes mainstream cause not everyone should enjoy a culture or whatever and it’s like fucking hell of course I would LOVE more witches and to have more people into celebrating nature or finding their own magic and connecting to the universe and whatever, but capitalism isn’t helping at all. It’s separating us from it’s connection and the meaning behind it’s practice. (Also one day I dream of living in a witchy town or community so yeah, the more the merrier, but right now with capitalism, this method is not the way to get into this practice lol). 

You really see the negative effects of capitalism marketing witchcraft because people now treat it as like this commodity they can jump into without finding a way to genuinely connect with it cause it’s all just a gimmick until the next zeitgeist. This either manifests in two ways where they think they can just buy a book or read some posts and not do any work on themselves or thinking on stuff like cultural appropriation so when they start experimenting they might bring harm to themselves by evoking spirits that do not want to work with them, or taking in some sacred herb or substance that can fuck them up leaving deep psychological damage or death- or they can harm others in a myriad of ways. 

Then the other way it manifests are people feeling like witchcraft is suddenly inaccessible because you need money to practice it because capitalism put that veil over their eyes. It’s now another thing gatekept by money. So they try to reclaim it by being like: it’s just a title you can slap on yourself; but they give capitalism more power because that’s what capitalism was doing all along by stripping the meaning. Stripping it down to a concept that only matters as a label that evokes a brand or idea but not an actual practice. In a way it’s very counter culture to not buy into the aesthetic or put in effort anymore. Even if you want to put in effort you feel like you are not good enough cause you will never fit capitalism’s standards of quantity and money to spend to showcase it on the internet to feel legit. So people develop this no-effort approach to it. And ONCE AGAIN for clarity for the internet’s lack of critical thinking and jumping to conclusions I am NOT referring to anything like spoony witchcraft or energy based witchcraft (I am an energy witch primarily thank you very much) I am talking about people calling themselves witches but then when you want to sit down and chat about the craft they have a blank stare cause they were never serious and sometimes judge you for how much you cared about it cause they don’t really believe in it anyway. Not even cause it’s woowoo it’s cause capitalism doesn’t make you believe any anything anymore. The only thing it wants you to believe in is money and what you can consume with it.  

And then when people online try to talk about this and point out it’s a practice these guys get angry with you like you are gatekeeping but it’s like BITCH it’s a FREE FUCKING PRACTICE like GO TALK TO A TREE go COLLECT A ROCK YOU FOUND IN THE CLEAR STREAM OF A BABBLING BROOK and maybe you’d CALM THE FUCK DOWN. Capitalism making it seem like you gotta buy all this shit to be seen as legit is not what this practice is about and it makes me upset how there is like this massive group of people that want to access this culture but are so lethargic about actually doing anything because they are disenchanted and it’s really because they are mentally bogged down by capitalism’s grip on it making them feel like they aren’t shit cause they can’t afford all that bullshit that ain’t gonna help them anyway so they just call themselves witches to get them 2 drops of serotonin and feel included but never really go anywhere beyond that cause capitalism strips the fucking joy and meaning out of everything. The only reason why this bothers me is cause I could be staying in my lane drinking my herbs and shit and chilling but then people either judge me for the effort I put into my practice’s aesthetics thinking I am shallow and buying into this or they think I am being reckless and dangerous believing in something not real by practicing a craft that tbh has a lot of dangerous aspects to it so it’s not rated E for everyone. Like you can fit it to what you want it to be since it’s your journey but it’s always been a bit edgy in some ways and it’s annoying when you get people judging you now for your lifestyle or they wonder why you are so invested cause they don’t get it. 

Anyway that was a rant but you asked for it lol. 

orchard - share one thing that you’d like to happen this autumn.

Get some more weed 

Thanks for the asks lol. Kept the last one short haha but it’s true I have been trying to manifest for a while after my quarantine rations went out. Here are the autumnal asks if anyone else wants to ask or reblog them!

[marikafromcincy]

“For All Mankind: Ellen and Pam”

So, this is my fic about Ellen Waverly and Pam from For All Mankind. Because you can’t combine women driven historical workplace dramas with queernees and anything related to “Bomb Girls” without me showing up. So I really connected to Ellen Waverly, as the queer, Sally Ride-ish astronaut, who is far less bold because the subtle sci-fi elements of the show upped the timeline for th space race

Anyway, here is my fic about For All Mankind:

Ellen Waverly knew she was having a nightmare.

For as long as she could remember, she could tell in the nightmare that she was having a nightmare. It did not make it any better during it, but it was easier when she woke up sometimes. She had been having the same one since she had taken over command of the Jamestown base. It always started with Deke in the Apollo 25 ship laughing at her after she told him about Pam. It was so strange and out of place that she didn’t know how to feel about it, not in the actual situation or in the nightmare. But in the nightmare, sometimes while he was saying his last declaration to her, he morphed into Frank.

She would then launch herself out of the hatch with the clip in her hand to latch onto the tanks Ed had mis-thrown over. Most of the time the tanks morphed into Pam, dressed for a shift at the Outpost and not wearing a space suit. One time she was in a spacesuit and that made if even worse that so often she wasn’t. Ellen would watch her be affected by exposure to deep space in all its incredible and terrible detail. She then usually woke up.

On her 40th day at Jamestown, Ellen started awake violently. Thankfully she had learned to stop jerking up in her sleep after banging her head on the bunk above her the first few nights.

There was a crackling coming from the communications and video-link booth near the shower. Ellen groaned as she pulled the screen covering her bunk down toward her feet but continued laying on her back with her eyes closed.

“Broadcasting live on Jamestown Radio 1, it’s everyone’s favorite astro-husband and wife duo,” Gordo’s tinny voice said as it filled the base.

“The Stevens!” Tracy chimed in. “And a wake-up call and good morning shout out to our favorite listener, Ellen Wilson. Wake up, darlin’. We got an update for you.”

Ellen smiled and shook her head to herself on her bunk as she rubbed her face and jumped down. She placed the nearby headset over her hair, which she had taken to keeping in a ponytail as she slept since the shower was so finnicky.

“Long time listener, first time caller,” Ellen joked at the audio-only connection to Houston. “What’s the update?”

“We regret to inform you that Apollo 26, your relief mission, has been delayed,” Tracy told her slowly. Ellen could almost imagine the her biting her lip as she reluctantly gave her the information.

“Two weeks?” Ellen asked shaking her head. She had heard from Gordo, Dani, and Ed that it was always two weeks.

“Two weeks,” Gordo confirmed. “But for some good news, your supply transport should be arriving in a few hours.”

“Good,” Ellen replied nodding to herself. She was down to her least favorite food packets.

“There’s some exciting stuff in there,” Tracy told her.

“Oh, really?” Ellen replied, assuming she was joking.

“Don’t ask me how she did it,” Gordo explained sounding impressed. “But Dani managed to get you six episodes of ‘MASH’ and a copy of ‘Robin Hood’.”

“Well that’s better than the single Frank Sinatra record that Ed left here,” Ellen stated, drawing a laugh from both of them.

“And even I don’t know what magic she used,” Tracy began, matching Gordo’s impressed tone. “But Karen managed to get two care packages in there.”

The three of them were all silent for a moment.

“You doin’ alright there, darlin’?” Tracy asked seriously.

Ellen was relieved that they could not see her. “Yes,” she lied to them. “I’m fine. 40 days, just me and two Soviets on the moon. What could possibly be wrong?”

Down in Mission Control at JAC in Houston, Tracy motioned to her husband beside her with a serious expression. Gordo nodded to her, for she of course was right.

“You, uh, know, Ellen,” Gordo began with an awkwardness that his wife could clearly see but Ellen could only slightly hear. “Trace is only here because Dani is getting’ her cast removed today. So…um…if you want to just talk with other Jamestown vets, we can set that up for you. We all went through some shit up there and…and we’ll get you whatever you want regardless of it is.”

Ellen felt all her emotions rise painfully to her chest. She covered her mouth and silenced her reaction from the Stevens for a moment, she just needed a little bit of processing time.

“I’m fine, Gordo,” she lied. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, okay,” he replied. He waited for a moment as if he was waiting for her to say something else. Ellen was thankful that he did not force her into anything. “Houston, out.”

“Jamestown, out,” she replied.

She pulled off the headset and peered around the empty base. She was utterly alone. At first, she thought she might enjoy the aloneness, but having aloneness on Earth was not the same here. She could spend endless nights alone in her apartment but call her friends or brothers or Pam, when she was willing to speak with her, if she wanted to. But she had no such options at Jamestown. She was alone and there was no escaping it.

She consumed her food packet and then prepared to head out to the ice mine. It always seemed like such a slow and starkly beautiful yet boring rover ride to the crater. She often wondered if Ed ever imagined if he had been in his flashy corvette as he did the desolate drive. She had taken to imagining herself in the passenger seat of Pam’s orange Volkswagen Passat. It was such an average car for an average American girl and in so many ways that was all that Pam was.

Ellen knew that. She knew that in her heart and her soul and that was part of why she loved Pam so much. She had always thought she had to be extraordinary in every single aspect of her life to ever matter, but then after a few months of intense friendship Pam began displaying that she loved her. It was almost too much for Ellen at first. She was beginning noticed by someone who finally truly saw who she was and none of it matter. She still wanted her, even though she was going to disrupt her perfectly average life forever.

Ellen laughed at herself. She was worrying about ruining a gay woman bartender’s life as she mined ice on the moon. It was absurd. That was why she ended it, right? The whole goddamn thing was impossible.

Once she returned to Jamestown, she ran through her list of experiments inside the base. While she was writing an update on Dani’s ants while listening to Frank Sinatra, the communications booth began to buzz with an incoming video call. Ellen sat on the stool in front of it and placed the headset over her unwashed, greasy hair.

“P-Pam,” she shuttered in surprise at the woman on the other end of the video call.

“Hey,” the bartender said with such a normal and casual smile, Ellen almost forgot that their main conflict had been caused by her being on the moon.

Ugh, stop that, Ellen scolded herself. Her being an astronaut or stationed on the moon was never the main issue between her and Pam, she had realized during her isolation. She had been a goddamn idiot. A beautiful, understanding, accepting woman, who even knew a shit load about her career, loved her and was never even nervous about what their gender or sexuality would mean to their communities. Maybe it was flippant and careless, but it was also brave and bold, and Ellen only ever wanted to be that. But it seemed like a far cry from her stool in front of the video link at Jamestown

“Hi,” Ellen told her awkwardly. “It is good to see you.”

Pam scoffed. “You really mean that, Ellen?”

[ruoyeming]

My Fav Books, another chaotic list

Another quarantine review fest! I know I ranked my top anime but this is seriously too hard so I’m just going to list them to avoid hours of debate. Enjoy!

1) The Skulduggery Pleasant series

This whopper of a series (now at 15 books jesus christ I didn’t know there were that many I’ve only read about twelve) has a special place in my heart. I was FULLY obsessed with it throughout my tween - and teen - years, and for a reason. This shit just butters my bread like nothing else. The story follows a young girl Valkyrie Cain (who eventually becomes a young woman through the series) and her partner in crime, a fashionable living skeleton called Skulduggery Pleasant. They’re MAGICAL DETECTIVES!!!! Bitch!!! They use elemental magic - water, earth, fire, air - to fight off magic-wielding bad guys and look good doing it. The duo is hilarious and seriously shaped my sense of humour, the dry wit and comedic writing style stuck with me and influenced my own writing style to this day! As the series progresses we get a massive cast of characters but to me they’re all memorable, likable (mostly) and well-developed so that’s not an issue. I have no fukcing clue how Derek Landy comes up with his stories because every book in the series has an absolutely wild (yet unique) plot with its own twists and turns. It gets REALLY dark and depressing at times, gory, brutal etc etc especially in the later books I have no idea why this is labeled as a kids series.

10/10 for badassery, humour, and MAD codependency issues

2) The Feverwake series

This bitch is one hell of a YA series. It’s actually only a 2 book-series which is rare, but that’s not the only thing that sets it apart from other creations of its genre. It’s hard to explain the setup without waffling so I’ll just quote the blurb of the first book: “In the former United States, sixteen-year-old Noam Álvaro wakes up in a hospital bed, the sole survivor of the viral magic that killed his family and made him a technopath. His ability to control technology attracts the attention of the minister of defense and thrusts him into the magical elite of the nation of Carolinia.

The son of undocumented immigrants, Noam has spent his life fighting for the rights of refugees fleeing magical outbreaks—refugees Carolinia routinely deports with vicious efficiency. Sensing a way to make change, Noam accepts the minister’s offer to teach him the science behind his magic, secretly planning to use it against the government. But then he meets the minister’s son—cruel, dangerous, and achingly beautiful—and the way forward becomes less clear.”

As you can tell from this, the series is heavy on its politics but in a grounded, realistic and relevant way which is different to many other YA series. Marxist theory is brought up, and you can make some pretty strong links between the books and real events. The magic also has a semi-scientific explanation which is cool and adds to the realness. Anyways this series is action packed and full of twists, plus there’s a bisexual main character and queer romance at the core!! Wig!!! Very good for moral debate - how far is it acceptable to go to protect the oppressed before you become one of the oppressors? Dark and exciting series.

10/10 queer representation and political themes.

3) Spin the Dawn

It’s probably obvious that I’m biased towards YA books but they’re just so exciting and cool! Anyways this is about a girl living in a kind of alternate universe ancient China where magic exists. Maia Tamarin is a skilled seamstress who dreams of being the Imperial Tailor, a position that can only be held by a man. She poses as her brother to go to the royal palace and enter a competition full of skilled tailors, all vying for the role of imperial tailor. She also meets Edan; a mysterious, annoying, but SEXY mage who seems to know her secret identity? Oho? IMO this would be an elevated book if Edan had been a girl but that’s just me being gay. As the final challenge Maia is tasked with making 3 dresses from the sun, moon, and stars - a mission that takes her to the ends of the world in search of these magical materials (obvs Edan goes with her and they kiss kiss fall in love). It’s a fairly classic YA plot and characters but the combination of Project Runway, Mulan, and kind of Lord of the Rings(??) vibes makes for a very entertaining read. It’s also really fun to imagine what the clothes look like, plus the romance between Maia and Edan is very cute. Second book is yet to be published but sounds lit.

10/10 magic fashion and romance (despite its heterosexuality)

4) Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

Usually I steer clear of angsty gay stories because I’ve consumed too much of the depressing narrative which is all about suffering because of being gay, but fuuuuuuck this book is like the definition of bittersweet. Mostly bitter to be fair but it has a happy ending which was lovely after the emotional torment of the book. It’s about two teen boys - Aristotle is angry and repressed, Dante is eccentric but kind, and the two eventually form a strong friendship after meeting at the local pool. It’s kind of obvious that Ari is in denial about a few things, which leads to some real sad boi hours. There’s also a devastating moment around halfway (not sure) through with a car accident which makes the whole thing 10x heavier. Despite all this, the book has its sweet moments - parents play a big role, but not in the way they usually do in queer stories - and like I said the ending is the bandage for your broken heart. I’m not sure what it is about the writing style, maybe the way it just cuts between scenes randomly or perhaps the way the dialogue and actions are so realistic, but it’s so different to any other book I’ve read that it’s stayed in my mind for a while after reading it.

10/10 really good philosophy plus supportive parents

5) The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue

Okay if this was a ranked list, this bad boy would be on its way to the top spot. It’s got everything: historical setting, gays, pirates, alchemy, humour, adventure, angst, character development, and some healthy second-hand embarrassment. It’s not complicated or philosophical but reading this book all in one go is like taking five shots and diving into a pool. It’s exciting and witty, but deals with darker themes like child abuse too. One of the MCs also has a disability and doesn’t treat it as something to be cured, which is a lesson our protagonist has to learn. Speaking of protagonists, Henry ‘Monty’ Montague is a great main character. He’s obnoxious, oblivious, and hedonistic yet quick-witted and passionate, and he has a good heart. Sometimes you just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him for being such an ignorant idiot, but throughout the book he grows and learns to open his mind more (as well as becoming more humble). He’s a great example of a flawed yet likable main character. He is also a bisexual icon.

Oof forgot to even talk about the story. Monty embarks on a tour of Europe, usually taken by lads his age to get all cultured before they settle down and inherit the family company or whatever. With him are his younger sister Felicity, a girl with a brilliant mind for science who isn’t taken seriously by anyone because of her gender, and the lovely Percy, Monty’s lifelong best friend (and crush). Monty ends up stealing a very valuable object that turns the Tour into a manhunt across Europe, and drags the trio into a big ol’ conspiracy involving something that may or may not be the philosopher’s stone????

Issues of race, gender, and disability in historical context are really well done, and it’s an absolute banger of a book.

10/10 very exciting adventure, plus GREAT GAY ROMANCE

6) Heaven Official’s Blessing

HOOOOOO BOY. This is probably my absolute fave on this list. It’s a webnovel (originally Chinese but the full translation is online). Set in ancient china in the cultivation world (difficult as shit to explain if ur not into all of that but I’ll try), basically there’s three realms - the heavenly realm, the human/mortal realm, and the ghostly realm. If a mortal reaches a certain point (good deeds, power etc), they ascend to become a god - or if they fall far enough, they become a ghost. 

I’ll just quote the author’s description again cause I don’t have the brain cells required:

 “Eight hundred years ago, Xie Lian was the Crown Prince of the Xian Le kingdom. He was loved by his citizens and was considered the darling of the world. He ascended to the Heavens at a young age; however, due to unfortunate circumstances, was quickly banished back to the mortal realm. Years later, he ascends again–only to be banished again a few minutes after his ascension. Now, eight hundred years later, Xie Lian ascends to the Heavens for the third time as the laughing stock among all three realms. On his first task as a god thrice ascended, he meets a mysterious demon who rules the ghosts and terrifies the Heavens, yet, unbeknownst to Xie Lian, this demon king has been paying attention to him for a very, very long time.”

It’s hard to describe the enormity of this story and all the emotions it encapsulates, you really have to read it for yourself. But bitch the undying, pure, Hozier-devotion-level LOVE is by far my favourite part of this story. If you’re looking for an epic, god-tier gay romance, then this is it baby!! This story has comedy, action, and downright harrowingly depressing moments, but throughout is this achingly beautiful love between fallen god and last believer.

I don’t wanna give too much away cause there are some big ol’ plot reveals, but oooh this shit made me cry. The protagonist is MY FAVOURITE EVER I didn’t think it was possible to like a protag so much!! He’s legit my fave character! At first he seems oblivious and carefree but he’s just doing his goddamn best after all he’s been through and he’s so fukcing kind and just wants to help everyone for fuckcs sake excuse me I need to go have a breakdown.

Okay I’m back, anyway there’s a great cast of characters, even the background characters are all incredibly memorable and all given their time to shine and develop. My faves include Quan Yizhen, a rowdy himbo who just wants to fight, and Shi Qing Xuan, a friendly genderfluid god who controls the wind. Read this shit I’m not joking it’ll change your life. 

10/10 for everything

[ladyofpurple]

answer all of the questions!!

holy SHIT ok bless you omg

(sorry it's a full day late i took this shit SERIOUSLY. don't ask me how many hours this took, i was in A Mood™️ last night. removed the ones already answered xoxo)

angel; have you ever been in love?

yeah. didn't end too well, but i loved him.

petal; favorite novel and author?

this is like asking me to pick a favorite child. i guess favorite author would be stephen king, if only based entirely on the sheer quantity of his books i own alone. favorite book would probably be special topics in calamity physics by marisha pessl, and i'm only saying that because it's been my go-to response for years. i have lots of favorite books. ask me again in five minutes and i'll give you another one.

honey perfume; favorite perfume/scent?

freshly made coffee. lilacs. jasmine. cut grass. the ground after it rains. chocolate chip cookies in the oven. cigarette smoke on skin. my mom's shampoo. my grandma. my dog when he's just had a bath. thanksgiving dinner. acrylic paint on canvas. sawdust. that one cologne i can't name but can smell on a guy from a mile away. mulled cranberry and apple juice. vanilla. coconut. fresh laundry. peppermint.

sweet pea; what’s your zodiac?

virgo sun, pisces moon, scorpio rising ✨

softie; talk about your sexuality.

i'm biromantic asexual, primarily attracted to men more than women (but have had too many crushes on girls to consider myself het), generally sex repulsed when it comes to the thought of having it myself. i prefer to call myself queer in passing conversation, it's easier than explaining asexuality and the differences between sexual and romantic attraction. if someone asks more specifically, i'll usually just call myself bi for simplicity's sake, even though the ace part is a much more important (to me) part of my identity. monogamous as fuck.

i'm still struggling with internalized homophobia and a lot of "am i even queer enough" thoughts, which is super fun. took me a long time to even consider the fact that i might like girls at all. i'll probably never come out to my parents. not that they'd, like, disown me or whatever, but they're juuuuust homophobic/transphobic enough that my few attempts to educate them when they say something A Little Yikes have shown me that i should probably just stay in the closet unless i absolutely have to come out. like i'm getting married to a woman or something.

sugarplum; what’s the color of your eyes and hair?

i usually say my eyes are green because it's easier, and they mostly are, but i have rings of greyish blue around the irises and sometimes they're more hazel in the middle. they always have a green tint to them though, even if the intensity of the green varies.

my natural hair is brown, a little on the darker and slightly ashy side of completely generic. currently a former blonde, although i'm hoping to bleach my fucking YEAR of growout soon, and then go some crazy color as a last hurrah before i have to go dark again. being broke fucking sucks.

wings; coffee or tea?

tea!! black tea. chai, to be specific, with an irresponsible amount of milk and sugar. chai lattes are a fucking drug okay? coffee makes me sick (not a judgement, a literal fact. last time i tried some i threw up).

fairytale; are you a cat or dog person?

cat!! but my family has a chihuahua named sonny and you can pry that little monster from my cold dead hands ok i will fight you.

snowflake; favorite time period?

okay, i wrote and rewrote my answer to this about 10 times. then i tried to divide it up into categories (aesthetics, history, fashion, vibes, geographical location, etc), but that didn't help. so basically: i don't have one, because i have too many.

i like the american 20s-60s for the aesthetic, music/movies, and the fashion. i also like the european 1600s-1800s for the interesting history and also vibe. i love the french and russian revolutions — the fashion! the art! the wars and political upheaval! I FUCKING LOVE HISTORY. then, of course, we can't forget the rennaisance. or the witch trials (pick your continent). and ancient greece? the roman empire? hello?? did i mention empires? how bout we mosy on over to south america — can i interest you in the mayans? incans? aztecs? what about china and japan? korea? vietnam? and don't even get me fucking STARTED on the black plague.

ancient egypt? sign me the FUCK UP. vikings? yes please. the celts? oh boy. the MYTHOLOGY. the ARCHITECTURE. the LANGUAGES and POLITICS and LITERATURE and REVOLUTIONS and GOD HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CHOOSE BETWEEN ANY OF THESE

i uh. might have gotten a little excited. basically i like history a lot. and mythology. and linguistics. and cultural practices. and the politics and prejudices behind wars and stuff. and learning in general. moving on.

vanilla; do you believe in ghosts?

let's put it this way: i don't not believe in ghosts??

listen. we don't know jack shit. we don't know what happens after we die, there are constant scientific revelations that turn our understanding of the universe completely upside-down, and there is literally no way to know which religions or myths or urban legends could have some grain of truth to them. like, dude, i've literally thought i was haunted before. psychology is bananas and the universe is infinite.

demons could be real. ghosts could be real. what if we just haven't invented the necessary technology to prove it yet? what if we never do, and they just fuck around alongside us, moving furniture and making shadow puppets on the walls just for kicks until the earth explodes? what if that one tumblr post was right and ghosts are actually real people from alternate universes or timelines that we see accidentally bc some cosmic wires got crossed? who fucking knows.

i love horror movies and scary stories and ghost hunter shows just as much as the next gal. but listen. psychics? mediums? people who accept every single creepypasta retold third-hand from their neighbor's kid's classmate's second cousin who "totally knows a guy"? doubt.jpeg

i don't understand the sheer amount of assumptions made willy-nilly about the nature of ghosts and demons and things that go bump in the night. the assumption that "oh this machine that totally doesn't look like a coathanger taped to a walkman will work because ghosts have this temperature and can always communicate like this and are electromagnetic" or whatever just baffles me. to a certain degree, following a general consensus is one thing — some basic things everyone can agree on? that's cool. ghosts can walk through walls and are probably dead people or whatever. but oh my god, taking every single story as absolute, undeniable proof?? taking these stories and expanding on them to infer intentions and scientific facts to something that by it's very nature is unknowable and assuming, like, every spirit is created equal?? and yeah, ghost hunting shows are fun and campy and kinda creepy but like. you really, genuinely don't think any of them have ever faked anything at all??? even if ghosts are real, it's fucking reality tv, my dude. it's the entertainment industry. at least maintain the slightest ounce of critical thought before taking zak bagans' word as the goddamn gospel.

and sidenote, maybe it's just my limited exposure as a white woman in the western world, but of all the shows and podcasts and movies and documentaries and whatnot i've been able to find and consume, there's the constant use of christian ideology applied to every situation that just really burns my bacon. what, there's never been an atheist ghost? if you see a shadow person and you don't know the lord's prayer by heart, are you automatically fucked? why are there never stories about, i don't know, viking ghosts? does your religion in life preclude you from becoming a ghost in the first place? is that why people never mention buddhist ghosts? i don't get it, and that's why even though i'm self-admittedly the most superstitious person i've ever met, true believers make me roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out. makes me come across as more skeptical than i theoretically am. I HAVE VERY STRONG FEELINGS ABOUT THIS OK

but like, you couldn't pay me to fuck with a ouija board. i'm not stupid.

delicate; diamonds or pearls?

both have their appeal and their place, but diamonds, i guess. i like the sparkle. but fake ones!! or synthetic. diamonds are overpriced and artificial scarcity is a scam and i don't need a dumb rock that some poor person in a mine somewhere was exploited and possibly died for. no blood diamonds in this house, thank you very much.

if i ever get engaged, i don't want a diamond ring. i'd want something cool, a little unusual, like a ruby or a sapphire or some other sparkly gem that isn't literally shoved in your face every waking moment as the expected standard symbol of True Love. they're cheaper, they're cool-looking, as a ring they still hold the cultural symbolism of an engagement/wedding ring. and honestly, as long as it's well-made and durable, whatever hypothetical gem it is doesn't have to be real either. i'm a woman of simple needs and demonstrably low standards. no point in going into debt for a fucking piece of jewelry, regardless of ~tradition~.

lavender dream; favorite album?

oh lord. welcome to the black parade, i guess. or anything by panic! at the disco. there are dozens of possible options — my interests are mercurial and my memory is garbage. but i'll always be an emo little shit. black parade and vices and virtues were also the first two albums i ever listened to where i loved every single song on them, and i happened to listen to them for the first time at around the same point in my life (i got into mcr super late. like, 2012 late. rip).

silky; what’s your biggest dream?

it's cheesy but i guess i just want stability and, by extension, happiness. emotional stability, mental stability, financial stability, stable living situation, stable routines, stable relationships... you get the idea. i have ambitions and passions, of course, but my ultimate goal is happiness at this point in my life, and i'm pretty sure stabilizing all those things would go a pretty long way in achieving that goal.

a little apartment with walls i can paint because white walls make me angry. bookshelves and posters and fandom merch on every wall. a computer i can actually play games on again, and somewhere i can paint and draw and record my podcasts. someone who loves me, maybe. a cat, if i'm stable enough. space for people to come visit me, and a place for them to sleep if they need. a tiny balcony, if i really want to shoot for the stars. a job i don't hate. the spoons to hang out with my friends, and the money to not worry about buying little presents for the people i care about sometimes. i don't need much.

strawberry kiss; do you have a crush right now?

nope.

glitter; favorite fictional character?

another loaded question. like books, if you ask me again in five minutes i'll probably give you a different answer. but in this particular moment, caleb and jester from critical role (please don't make me choose between them). i won't go full shipping mode rn, but jester is so funny and silly and sweet, so much more complex than she seems, and she tries so hard to make everyone happy even when she's so sad inside. the healer who treats healing as an inconvenience in battle (she's so fucking valid and also mood), the glue that keeps the party together. and caleb learning to trust again, facing his trauma and coming out of his shell. he loves his friends so much he plays wizard as a support class and i love him so much.

i love the mighty nein in general, of course, and all the guests/honorary members they've had. pumat!! pls don't be evil reani!! keg!! shakäste and grand duchess anastasia!! cali!! kiri!!!! the brotps! empire siblings! chaos crew! nott the best detective agency! i still love molly and all his assholery to bits (fight me), and mourn his lost potential. i adore yasha, even when she's gone; fjord has grown so much; beau and nott and caduceus — i love all their flaws and disagreements and their character arcs and the excitement of watching them grow and learn. but if i had to choose, caleb, jester and molly have always been my top 3 since day 1 and, well, molly isn't really an option anymore.

but like i said, ask me again in a minute. i have a fucking list.

swan; share a quote or passage that means something to you.

a collection of things off the top of my head:

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. — Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

a tired feminist Mood™️

"What I say is, a town isn't a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it's got a bookstore, it knows it's not foolin' a soul." — American Gods, Neil Gaiman

i got my love of books from my grandma — some of my favorites i got from her. sometimes, as a treat, she used to take my sister and i to bookstores and we'd stay there for ages, getting to pick one out, roaming the shelves, the mental torture of having to choose. the peace of being surrounded by thousands of potential worlds, so much information, so many stories just waiting to be told; being surrounded by strangers who share that same wonder. the anxious drive home so we could read them, being unable to wait that long so i inevitably start reading in the car and make myself sick. telling her in excited detail all my favorite parts. if we were lucky, maybe we got to split a bear claw, or she'd drive past starbucks and get us something there too (tall vanilla soy steamer with one pump of vanilla syrup, whipped cream on top that always melted too quickly and squirted out the hole in the lid, so hot it burned my tongue but so good i didn't care). i have never felt more at home than i do when i'm surrounded by books.

"There are a lot of different types of freedom. We talk about freedom the same way we talk about art, like it was a statement of quality rather than a description. “Art” doesn’t mean good or bad. Art just means art. It can be terrible and still be art. Freedom can be good or bad, too. There can be terrible freedom. You freed me, and I didn’t ask you to." — Alice Isn't Dead, season 1, chapter 2: Alice

as cringey as it is to admit it, this line made me cry a lot after my breakup.

"So you aren't American?" asked Shadow.

"Nobody's American," said Wednesday. "Not originally. That's my point." — American Gods, Neil Gaiman

[side-eyes white america real hard]

there's more, of course. there's always more. don't even get me started on song lyrics, we'll be here all day.

lace; what’s your favorite plant/flower?

lilacs and roses.

mermaid; do you prefer the forest or the ocean? why?

both, i guess. but in different ways, and in different circumstances.

the sea is wild. it is endless and deep and unknowable. it is beautiful and dangerous. i am terrified of the ocean, and yet my favorite place in the world is an empty beach on the oregon coast. i have picked sand from between my toes for days with hair crusted in salt, danced around bonfires and watched the stars while marshmallows burn, gotten pulled under the waves as a child and nearly swept out to sea. picked starfish and crabs from small pools in the rocks, and swum (accidentally) with wild sea lions. in a long skirt, too early in the year to be swimming, i once took off my shoes and waded fully clothed into the water to my waist and just... danced. splashed and kicked and laughed with a boy i barely knew until our throats were sore and our toes were numb, walking home hours later with our soaked clothes clinging to our legs, shoes squelching, dripping algae as we went. the ocean is freeing and overwhelming all at once. i love it and am petrified by it in equal measure.

the forest is beautiful in a different way. it is silent and dense and serene. you are surrounded by life and yet, somehow, completely alone. there is magic in the forest, and history, and even when all else dies, that will remain. the trees grow from the corpses of their ancestors, and some have lived dozens of our lifetimes — with luck, a few dozen more. it is quiet there, peaceful, even the tiniest wood in the middle of a city muffling the outside world through the trees. you can feel the ancient ways deep in your soul as you follow winding paths strewn with fallen leaves, the mystery and wonder and superstitions of your forefathers. you wonder what it would be like, to run your fingers over the moss, to take off your shoes and socks and just run, leaping and dancing over rocks and roots, hair wild and air filling your lungs in deep, pure gulps as you shed the responsibilities and struggles of modern life, for just a moment remembering what freedom tastes like. it is primal, this connection to nature, one we have nearly forgotten over time. and as the sky grows dark and the silence of night presses against you, shadows looming, every footfall deafening, perhaps you begin to understand why some believed in monsters.

honeymoon; do you keep a journal?

i used to. honestly, that's a good idea, i should start doing that again. lord knows i have enough empty journal-type books.

starlight; do you believe in love at first sight and soulmates? why/why not?

i want to. i want to believe there's someone out there for me, the love of my life, someone to whom i'll be the love of their life, and that when i meet them i'll just... know.

but when i met my ex, i didn't really look twice at him for a while — no love at first sight. and when we were together, when i loved him and he swore he loved me back, i thought he hung the stars in the sky and knew i would marry him someday. couldn't even consider the idea that that wouldn't happen. and then when he broke up with me, he ghosted me so suddenly and thoroughly that he even preemptively cut contact with every single one of our mutual friends he thought might side with me in the breakup, before anybody even knew we'd had a fight. so, not soulmates either.

i really want to believe that someday the perfect romance will just fall into place and i can have the happily ever after i've always dreamed of. but the reality is i might never even have another s.o. for the rest of my life. maybe i'll get hit by a car tomorrow, or my hypothetical soulmate moves to argentina to become an alpaca farmer on a mountain somewhere and we never even meet. maybe i'm so traumatized by the betrayal and lies that i'll never have the courage to even try again.

and even so, happily ever after doesn't have to include a fairytale romance, regardless of whether i want it or not. i still like to cling to that hope though, deep down.

princess; what do you value most in people?

i'm going to assume you mean "real people" as in people i have positive relationships with, and not random strangers on the street.

loyalty. kindness. support. humor. similar values. patience. being able to grow together and teach each other things, so we can make each other better. honesty. trust. compassion. confidence. emotional vulnerability. communication. intelligence, or at least a willingness to learn. strength.

[leepace71]

LEE PACE AND HIS NEIGHBOR, JESSICA LANGE, CATCH UP ABOUT WILD FANS, THE WILDERNESS OF EMPTY HOTEL ROOMS, AND NATURE ITSELF

The first time I met Lee Pace, we were outside, next to the East River in Brooklyn, and I was a little stoned. We had just been introduced through a mutual friend, and within minutes of speaking to one another, he invited me up to “the farm,” a country house with five fireplaces, about two hours north of the city. The farm has played an important role in Pace’s life, offering him a retreat from Hollywood, but also purpose; there, with his own hands, he built a rustic barn, in which he lived until he bought the property adjacent to his from his then-neighbor, the two-time Oscar-winning actor Jessica Lange.

It makes sense that Pace feels at home outside of the city; the actor, now 40, was born in the small town of Chickasha, Oklahoma. He gained a modest, albeit devoted following by appearing on two beloved but short-lived TV series: Wonderfalls, in 2004, and, three years later, Pushing Daisies. His star, however, shot into a whole other orbit beginning in 2012, when he joined what seemed like every franchise at the time by starring in The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 2, all three of the films in The Hobbit series, and Guardians of the Galaxy—as the hooded, blue-faced villain Ronan the Accuser. His recent role as the closeted Mormon Joe Pitt in the Broadway revival of Angels in America was magically exhausting and eloquent, and it coincided with a public truth of his own—or, as a headline in The New York Times put it, “Lee Pace Came Out Seven Times a Week. Then He Came Out for Real.”

The actor’s two upcoming projects reemphasize his dual—perhaps dueling—interests in entertainment and art: He reprises his role as Ronan this spring in Captain Marvel and, later this summer, he’ll play John DeLorean, opposite Jason Sudeikis, in Driven, a biopic about the controversy-courting automobile tycoon. In anticipation of both films, Pace invited Lange to his apartment in New York’s West Village to talk about moviemaking, marketing, and, yes, the farm. She did a slight twirl upon entering the main room and, as one might expect from the queen of elevated shade, said, “Not bad, Lee—for a pied-à-terre.” —NICK HARAMIS

———

LANGE: Should we jump into acting?

PACE: Let’s start with the farm.

LANGE: I remember the first time I saw you, I had walked down to the pond and I looked across, and I saw somebody in that next field over there to the right. And I thought, “Fuck, I’m going to have a neighbor.” But then it turned out to be you, and that was swell.

PACE: I can’t imagine what you saw because those first few times, I was camping out there in a tent to try to figure out where I was going to build a house. I remember that first night, it was about four o’clock and it must have been early March or something. I had made camp, but I didn’t have enough time to make a fire before it got dark. I got into the tent, and I opened up my roast beef sandwich and start eating it, and then all around the quarry I heard the coyotes. I swear I heard one of them sniff the tent just right outside that nylon. So I made a ton of noise and ran back to the car.

LANGE: The land up there is haunted, but beautiful.

PACE: One of the things I’m most proud of is building that old frame out of raw timber on the edge of the woods. Then, right before Thanksgiving, I got a bunch of my friends together to push it up.

LANGE: It was like an old Amish barn raising. I remember because Sarah Paulson was staying up with me that weekend. I baked a pie and walked across the field with it wrapped in a linen basket, thinking, “This is something from another time.”

PACE: That farm has become such a big part of my life.

LANGE: As an actor, most of the time you’re staying in a hotel room in some strange city somewhere.

PACE: I do love seeing the world, and being in those hotel rooms. It’s such an incredible thing playing a character all day, and then at night you go home to this hotel and you wake up in the morning and you don’t quite know where you are.

LANGE: I think the part of it I’ve loved the most, and the part that’s been most difficult, is that nomadic life. When my kids were little, we were like a caravan. We moved dogs, birds, cats, kids, tutors—and that was great. But when you’re by yourself doing it, it’s incredibly lonely. Being an actor is an inherently lonely life.

PACE: It really is, isn’t it? It’s kind of disorienting in that way. It’s like having this sheet of thick glass between you and everyone else.

LANGE: Do you think in some way actors are already lonely people, who are then drawn to this life more than others?

PACE: There must be something.

LANGE: That and a traumatic childhood make a good actor.

PACE: Check.

LANGE: Tell me about Captain Marvel.

PACE: I’ve never read the script. I was doing Angels in America when I shot it.

LANGE: How in the hell did you do that?

PACE: That whole time of my life was insanity, so it just added to it. I basically did a matinee on Sunday, flew out to L.A., got painted blue, and put on a costume. Then I stood in front of a blue screen, and they’re like, “Okay, there’s a hologram in front of you and they’re saying this.” It’s so surreal in a way. I did two days of that, and then I was back onstage playing Joe Pitt in Angels in America.

LANGE: Well, that kind of covers acting A to Z, doesn’t it?

PACE: So many people see those movies and they entertain so many people, and I guess I’m an entertainer, so I embrace that. But if I’m being honest, it’s disorienting.

LANGE: When you were in Angels in America, you stepped in for another actor, right?

PACE: Yes, they had rehearsed it and had a whole run in England, so when they brought it back to Broadway, I was the only one who was new, so I was playing catch-up. As with all big experiences, life informs the situation, and it informed the interpretation of the character. When I read the play in high school, I understood this cognitive dissonance of Joe feeling like an alien in a world full of humans. I wanted to advocate for his point of view, because as a queer person, I’m seeing everyone behave as human and I feel like I’m painted blue. And the character really just goes through hell. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done because there was no pulling the punch going onstage. I was terrified about it every day, about walking through those shoes in that public way, because the character has just stripped off his skin.

LANGE: Sometimes those are the best acting moments, don’t you think? It confirms all the reasons why we do this. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but in that production your performance was by far the most moving.

PACE: That means so much to me. I just felt so cooked by it, do you know what I mean? I think Tony [Kushner] knew it was coming to me, because I ran into him in Provincetown and he was like, “Hey, would you consider doing this?” I think he knew it was coming, and I’m glad I didn’t know.

LANGE: You don’t have to answer this, but how does it feel when there’s a certain discord—and I’m putting it lightly—with an actor opposite you. How do you find your way around that?

PACE: Well, I guess you’ve just got to show up for that first moment, right? You make your entrance, and that’s all I could do, really. I had to love this woman deeply, profoundly, unconditionally, and I did not. But the play does the work, really. Some nights, it hit such beautiful notes. Then there were times when I would look across at her, and I was like, “This isn’t the play we’re doing. You’re angry at someone else right now.” But there’s no redoing it, so yeah.

LANGE: This summer you’re going to star in a film as John DeLorean. How is playing an actual person different than playing a fictional character?

PACE: I love playing real people. You just get so much more color. The thing that was so fun about learning about John DeLorean is that no one has the same story about him. He left such different impressions on everyone he came into contact with. There are people who thought he was a visionary of a certain time. There are people who thought he was a crook.

LANGE: What ever happened with that car company of his?

PACE: There was this whole house of cards where he needed money to keep the business running, and so he got involved in a coke deal. But the FBI was setting him up, and they got video of the whole thing.

LANGE: If you could play anyone in the world, who would it be?

PACE: Putin? Trump? Let’s stick to mega-villains. I don’t know. I want to work with a good director who will pick for me.

LANGE: Is there a part you want to do onstage again?

PACE: I’m not 25 anymore, but I would love to have played Romeo. That’s a character I find so interesting and contradictory. I would also like to play Uncle Vanya. I think I could still play him.

LANGE: I think you could, too.

PACE: I can’t wait to get onstage again.

LANGE: I’ve found that with series, you get to have longer to develop a character. For all the disadvantages of doing a series, that’s one advantage.

PACE: There’s also the writers. I loved our writers on Halt and Catch Fire, because they watched us and saw things in us that they brought out of the character.

LANGE: They see you and know your strong points.

PACE: I think the writers in our room were like, “He’s going to hate this,” because my character gets dragged through hell. For the first few seasons, I was like, “This isn’t fair.”

LANGE: How much do you think an actor owes his fans? Is that even part of the way you think?

PACE: I think that’s a very contemporary view. Social media creates this call-out culture where people can view something as being problematic. But I don’t really consume a lot of media, so I don’t really pay attention to it much.

LANGE: Do you have—what are those sites called? Twitter?

PACE: I have Instagram. But it’s not really the media outlets on it that I find interesting. I just find cool people doing interesting stuff. To be honest, I look at very dumb memes.

LANGE: What’s a funny anecdote you remember from a fan approaching you?

PACE: I once went up to the farm—this was after I bought your house—and I saw this rotting bag of dumplings outside, along with a ticket to Shen Yun. Do you know that Chinese dance?

LANGE: Yes.

PACE: And there was a note that said, “I know you like dumplings, please come with me to Shen Yun. I’ll be waiting with a ticket for you. By the way, you have a beautiful farm.” [Laughs] I’m so grateful that people like the work that I do and that they respond to it. Twenty years ago, I never would have dreamed that people would have felt strongly about the work that I do. But one of the lessons I learned playing that role in Angels in America is that approval is really not what it’s about. Understanding is what it’s about.

LANGE: I’m so far outside the realm of social media, but from what I’ve heard people say, your presence—or following, or whatever—now adds to your bankability. It’s insane. I passed by somebody on the street today who was talking on her phone, and she said that she had 20 million followers.

PACE: I wonder who has the most. Would it be Selena Gomez? Let’s see how many she’s got—145 million followers.

LANGE: What does that even mean?

PACE: If she posts a picture, 145 million people will see it on their feed. I mean, that’s more than a movie.

LANGE: That’s a lot of people. It feels dangerous to me. I don’t mean to be a conspiracy theorist, but do we really understand what any of this stuff is? It makes you want to retire to the farm.

LEE: I love those days when you wake up and just make coffee, then walk out into the fields.

LANGE: Do you remember that one beautiful coyote that used to cross the field?

PACE: Yes.

LANGE: He was gorgeous!

PACE: I remember one time, the pond had frozen over and these coyotes chased a doe out onto the ice and then she slipped and fell, and they ripped her up. There were tracks going back into the woods where they took a piece of her. The next day, it thawed and it all disappeared like it had never happened.

x

[timekeeper-raccoon]

mon ange is now finished! now that both have been recorded and have a music video as well, I'm going to work on getting them to Apple Music/Spotify so you all can listen to them wherever you listen to music!

[purplesurveys]

556

What's something that means a lot to you? My dog. How do you like your potatoes? French fries, baked potatoes, baked chips, and mashed potatoes. Who's your best friend? My girlfriend and Angela. What was on the last sandwich you ate? I don’t eat a lot of sandwiches...I think the last one I bought was a Monte Cristo from Starbucks andddddd Google says it has ham, cheese, and egg batter in it. Who was the last person you talked to? Personally, my sister. In general, it was Gab.

What's a TV show you never miss? I don’t like watching shows as they air because I HATE cliffhangers and waiting entire weeks for new content, so I can’t really answer this because the shows I watch are either over (Breaking Bad, Friends) or they roll out full seasons of it on Netflix (The Crown, Queer Eye, Black Mirror). Who stars in your favourite movie? Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney. Do you think Lady Gaga will ever become an actress? Well, she is now. She even won an Oscar – granted it was for a song, but still. Who sits beside you in your period 2 class? I have different classes everyday and I barely know my classmates in all of them. I never was the kind of person who minded being alone in my subjects. What movie did you last see in theaters? Hello, Love, Goodbye. What would you do if someone ran up and hugged you? If it was a man that I didn’t know, I would probably just look at him in fear and be petrified. If it was someone else I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and ask if they knew me from somewhere. Do you like the band Train? I just like the one song of theirs, Hey Soul Sister. I’m not really interested in their other songs. Have you ever lied about your gender? No. What was the last alcoholic beverage you consumed? Rum and coke, but there was definitely more rum in it than coke. Are you funny? I can be, if I’m with the right people and in the right disposition.

What are you planning on doing on your next birthday? 22...I dunno really. Dinner with my girlfriend would already sound wonderful. What words can make you happy every time you hear them? Last-minute “There will be no class today/tomorrow” emails from professors. Have you ever been to Las Vegas? No.  Has a movie ever made you cry? Of course. Do you smile open-mouthed or closed-mouthed? Open-mouthed if the camera is a little far away or if I’m in a group shot; closed-mouthed if the camera is near or if I’m part of a selfie because I’m conscious of my teeth. When was the last time you went outside? Yesterday I went to school. What gaming systems do you own? The only one we regularly use is the PS4, but we had had a lot of consoles in the past because my dad, sister, and brother all play video games. Do you know anyone else with your last name other than family? Sure. It’s not very common, but not completely rare either. I’ve seen a handful of people with the last name. When was the last time you wore a bathing suit? Last week of August when we went to Nasugbu for a day trip to the beach. Does anyone have a crush on you? I would hope Gab still has one on me. What's your best friend's ex's name? Angela hasn’t had an ex. She’s had crushes and almosts before, though. When was the last time you laughed? Not sure. Maybe a few minutes ago looking at memes on Facebook. Do you like fish & chips? I don’t really like fish, so no. Is your favourite band still together? They are but they haven’t been making new material. Are you a trekkie? I thought this referred to a person who liked trekking lmaoooo but looking at the definition, I am most definitely not. Any movies you’re looking forward to seeing? I know it’s not supposed to be a groundbreaking piece of cinema but I cannot wait to watch the new Charlie’s Angels with Kristen in it. Where do you see most of your concerts? The shows I go to are typically at the Mall of Asia Arena. The two times it had been in a different place was for Coldplay and One Direction, but even those shows were held in the Mall of Asia Concert Grounds, which is in the same complex, just outside. What color do you wear most? Black, I think. What's your mom's name? Her nickname is Abby. Have you ever had escargot? I’ve had snails in the past but not escargot. What do you think about the recent discovery of water on the moon? I think any discovery in space is breathtaking. What ad is on the side of your page currently? There aren’t any ads on Tumblr at the moment. I’m not so sure if they entertain ads on this side at all, actually. Do you use Google every day? Yeah, I use Chrome. What's your favorite kind of sandwich? Monte Cristo or banh mi. How many cavities do you have? I dunno. But I have to go to the dentist soon for sure because I’ve been getting the WORST, head-splitting toothaches in the last couple of weeks. Do you have braces? Nope. But I used to have them. What time do you wake up on an average day? This semester, it’s either 5:30 or 7 AM depending on my first class of the day. If I can sleep in I usually fully wake up by 8:30 at the latest. Do you take foreign language classes? I don’t, because in my curriculum I don’t have to. Do you like facial hair? If it’s taken care of well, I don’t mind it. Any closing words? Bring on the surveys.

[yvaquietdays]

Deciding to be happy.

Sometimes meditation doesn’t work.  Sometimes being mindful of your downfalls doesn’t work. Sometimes yoga doesn’t work. Sometimes writing doesn’t work. It’s a little hard for me to describe how I’ve been feeling the last month or so. Of course I’m going to try, that’s why I write a blog. *sly face* So I’ve talked about cycles before. Being aware of the small turnovers of life makes the every day manageable; being aware of how our emotions and vibrations fluctuate certainly makes everything seem a little less daunting.

I’ve been conscious that I’m entering a new cycle of my life. I’m not so far away from turning 28, an age I’m told is the beginning of the fourth cycle in life. And whether you buy into the hokey-pokey, it makes sense if you suspend your disbelief for a moment. Apparently you have the first 7 years, the years of your childhood and innocence, of unadulteratingly questioning and experiencing the world you live in. Then the second stage, taking you to 14, where you’re contemplating adulthood and experiencing massive physiological changes and all the outcomes of that. Then to 21, where all the shit hits the fan and explodes outwards all over you and the people in your life. I’ve been dealing with the proverbial shit of this third cycle for a while, experiencing existential fear and anxiety for the first time, sorting through the people in my life, assessing how I relate and love, seeing my familial relationships through new eyes, shaving off the bits of me I don’t like. Essentially, the un-conditioning of myself and becoming a new person. 

The last time my life seem to change, there were signals. Life threw me signs that I was about to turn things upside down for a bit. I emotionally and spiritually gave up on London and I lost two friends to the music industry; its hold over all of us to get as much out of our creative outputs as possible (i.e money). This is important enough to mention because it damaged me a lot. It affected my trust with people and I felt so betrayed and let down. I’ve made my peace with them and with the situation, but I’ve learned from it, because at the time, it was just another knife in the side, and I didn’t want it happening again. From that point though, I headed steadily downhill somewhere close to the bottom, where I was thinking of jacking it in altogether. I considered going into property with my savings and my Dad. I considered opening a home-brew shop with my partner, who really was my anchor when I was close to floating off unmoored. I didn’t though, because my other anchor was my own spirit, the relentless resilience I seem to have inherited, that I’m sure I don’t deserve; my music and my innate and absolute desire to howl at the moon. Nitin played a huge part in getting me through this phase. Had I not worked with him, I might have forgotten how important singing was to me. He was a kind of the lifeboat that kept me chugging along in the rougher waters for a while; I was desperately unhappy but those days of rehearsals, shows, and being involved in the dance piece were all life rings that I could swim to and gradually get closer to solid ground. At this point, I believe I was shedding off the things I didn’t need to prepare myself for this next stage.

And this time, I’ve also lost two friends. I’m not going into any great detail about this, only that I believe it was for the best and ultimately the whole experience told me a lot about the people in my life, who I am, and what I stand for. It had a lot to do with how I’ve allowed people to take advantage of me for too long. This ties into one of my previous blogposts about saying sorry and not wanting to rock the boat. I have been conditioned to be nice and I am actively changing this. I have Jameela Jamil to thank for opening my eyes and forcing me to see that it doesn’t make me difficult or manipulative to call out the truth and stand strongly within it. They ended up deleting me from their life because of it. But I hated the entire situation. It hurt. Needless to say it had a big affect on me. That combined with new opportunities taking a while to come to fruition seemed to trigger my anxiety and low mood for the first real time since I wasn’t well. It brought back a lot of bad feelings about inadequacy, self-doubt and the need for external validation that I’ve worked so bloody hard on eradicating. 

Validation is the key word here. I believe it is what most of us struggle with going into our adult lives. I’ve worked very hard to not rely on other people’s voices to bolster my own self-esteem. I’ve done my soul-work, I only listen to my own. I’ve learned to tell the ignorant slut (pls read past post re this: it’s what I call my anxiety) in my mind to shut up when she’s being unkind. But over the last few weeks and returning from LA, which now seems like a dream, the voice has elbowed its way in and I’ve allowed it to have an affect on me. I’m waiting; waiting like I did before, waiting for good feedback, waiting for someone else to come at me with the next opportunity. Stagnant. Waiting for the world, looking for someone to blame.

So what the fuck am I doing? I mean, really. I have been arranging my own sessions, writing my book and flirting with a second, being open and vulnerable about my talent and about my humanness. I’ve been rocking it.

But recently, the difference was that I was doing my yoga, not practising it. I was forcing myself to set an intention of success, orienting everything around my goals. I meditated just to check it off the list. But you can’t apply mindfulness with brute force, with a shotgun to the head and your arm twisted behind your back. What I was doing went hand in hand with the thought that, “If I don’t, I will fail.” Before I knew it, I was telling myself I wasn’t worth it. I’m not creative. I don’t have any ideas. I don’t have an emotional scale. I feel nothing about anything. Have a baby, do something else. You don’t belong in that world (LA). You don’t know who you are. You’re not passionate enough about your art. You’re not passionate about anything. Why is nobody getting back to you? You’re forgettable. It’s because you’re not assertive enough. They deleted you because you meant nothing to them. They didn’t apologise to you because they don’t value you.

The rabbit hole is deep and it is wide. Once you’re on that slope, it seems pre-destined that you’ll end up at the bottom before you even notice you slipped. But I noticed. I’ve my best mate and flatmate to thank for a conversation that made me realise what I was doing, ‘cos I was feeling pretty low there for a minute.  The truth is that it takes real mental effort and strain to drag yourself up the mud slide back to even ground. When I was feeling pretty bad, I used to dream about doing the same thing over, and over, and over again and never reaching a resolution. I dreamt that I was at the bottom of the muddy bank and I could not get to the top where the grass was still green. So doing yoga and meditating over and over to force wellness doesn’t work. Negativity does not beget negativity. You have to accept your feelings and do the work to counter-argue with yourself in a gentle and loving way. I am worth it. I am creative. I feel everything, that’s why it hurts. I know who I am, more than ever. I’d be a great mum, but if I have a baby now I’ll probably forget about it and leave it in the washing basket. I am passionate. I am open and patient, and I trust that things will work out. I am hardworking. And they deleted you because they didn’t value you. That says more about them than you, you stone cold, lovely, bad ass bitch. 

Bye felicia.

I am entering a new chapter of my life soon, and I feel my world shifting to allow for it. It isn’t waiting if I regain control and organise my life. Just because someone is giving you an opportunity doesn’t mean that the work is done. It means that you’re just getting started, and you have to work, now more than ever.

Last week I wrote a song on the guitar. This has not happened in a long time. I was consuming a lot of emotional TV (Queer Eye, k thnks), and I was inspired to assess my own mental health. I got complacent, and the doubt got in. It never really goes away, and just because I was feeling better there for a hot minute in LA, doesn’t mean that the work is done. It continues. Always. I don’t want to wake up one day and realise I’m missing something vital because I looked to others to tell me what I’m worth. Everyone else wants as much as possible for themselves. If that means cheapening you so that they’re worth more; that is what they will do. Know. Your. Own. Worth. ‘Cos even your friends will undervalue you.

Self doubt waits at the door, constantly. It wants to be let in, but you keep it at bay. You nod to it, but you don’t allow it across the threshold.

After I recorded the song idea into my phone, I sobbed. Hard. I cried my eyes out. And then I was done. I let the tears come out, unbidden, because I needed to feel it. I think I needed to remember the power of that musical release, why I do what I do. Sure, I’m not like other musicians or singers. Maybe I am depressing, but I’m communicating something that is honest and what we all go through. I am me. And that is enough. It doesn’t matter, all that other stuff. It doesn’t. What matters is how I feel about my music. 

I’m getting to my conclusion, I promise. I meditated earlier this week, and the lovely Andy Puddicomb at Headspace told me to see my mind as the sky. Behind all the clouds, there is always a blue horizon. Just like when you’re on a plane and you finally get above the candy cotton clouds, and in your head you do a little Peter Pan style bounce across them. There’s a soft kind of release I get when I see that. Peace and quiet. Space and breath. Everything else; feelings, thoughts, how we dress, what the world might think...they’re the clouds. When I feel low, my mind seems like an overcast horizon that will not break. An endless, grey, unfeeling cloud of bleak whatever. When I feel good, it’s a summers sky with fluffy white clouds rolling through; you know they won’t stay forever. Meditating is grounding, and reminding yourself with nothing more complicated than breathing that your default setting is a vast blue sky. Warm and peaceful. It might even feel like nothing, but that’s ok too. Everything else is temporary. Clouds are impermanent. The sky is always clear.

So this is my point. I set my intention that day to have a good day. 

Enjoy the little details, enjoy my trial shift at the cafe, enjoy the look on southerners faces when I have a bit of craic with them. Enjoy cooking, enjoy the process, enjoy the walk between here and there, the blossoms, the warmth of the sun on my face. Choose happiness. Choose the blue sky. Decide to be positive. It’s not always easy, and maybe it doesn’t always work. After all, life throws us curveballs and it hurts to get whacked in the face, but it’s a damn sight better than choosing to be an arsehole about it. Try it.

Decide to be happy. 

xxx

[milkboydotnet]

On Aloneness

I wrote this over a year ago but it feels relevant so -

Sometimes I feel alone. Like there’s something wrong with me. Like I’m a bad person, too broken – not fit for friendship. I feel that way tonight. I feel bad.

I think it’s because I’m remembering.

I grew up in the Unification Church. We believed that the Reverend Sun Myung Moon was the second coming of Christ. We were called Moonies.

My parents dedicated their lives to the cause of Rev. Moon – a man I called True Father. Their lives were directed and commanded by leaders in the church, and their marriage was arranged by Moon. Our church community was tight-knit, and even though my life was mostly normal, my identity as a Moonie was central.

Growing up, every morning started with a full bow to a picture of Moon and his wife. I would read his words. When Moon was in the States, we’d go to his mansion in New York and listen to him speak. To make space for all the members to fit in the room and to be as close to Father as possible, I’d sit seiza-style, legs folded under the thighs. I made several pilgrimages to Korea, the Fatherland. These trips cost thousands of dollars. I believed they were worth it. Someday, my parents would arrange my marriage to another member born into the church. Together, my wife and I would join in the work of building God's kingdom on earth.

At least, that was the plan.

I cut myself off from the church when I was 16.

I let go of friendships I had formed. I refused to bow to the portraits hung up throughout my house. I spoke out against the church, anonymously running a blog exposing the corruption. I was threatened by members of Moon’s family, but I thought that speaking out in this way might make me free. I don't know what I thought freedom would feel like, but I didn't think the church would haunt me the way it does – the way it always has.

This is how religious trauma works. My family’s isolation in service to the church shaped my entire childhood and my identity.

I have friends who eventually left the church, just like I did, and they understand me better than most. Sometimes, when I have a chance to see them, I imagine what it will be like to be with people who know how it feels, and I find myself hoping each time that I might feel OK when I’m with them, that I might feel whole. Sometimes, I just want to process with them what I was never able to process on my own – to make what we went through make sense.

But it doesn’t make sense.

And they don’t want to talk about it.

It makes me feel even more isolated, and in times like these, I remember how frequently we were told, growing up, that the outside world would never understand us, that we needed each other.

It’s true. We need each other. But this is how religious trauma works. It takes away your people. It leaves you alone.

I remember what it was to feel alone even when I was still in the church. Monitoring my behavior, trying not to give anything away, restricting my queerness. But I couldn’t do it, and I felt like a failure. A mistake.

At some point in my sloppy transition out of the church, I fell in love with Jesus. I remember the night I said yes to him. I fell to my knees, captured and intoxicated by grace. I prayed, and I felt heard. I remember how my feeling of aloneness fell away that night. I felt seen. I felt known. I felt loved.

Eventually, though, the aloneness crept back into my life.

I graduated from high school and enrolled in an evangelical Christian college, where I hoped I might find a fuller sense of belonging. I believed that Christianity was a glorious circus of mismatched, complicated people who were swooped up by this same grace that overwhelmed me. I expected a permanent sense of excitement on campus, an inextinguishable joy. Because we knew Jesus.

But my zeal made people uncomfortable. Also, I was still not at peace with my queerness. I did all I could do to shut it out. I had friends lay hands on me. I had a mentor to help me navigate my “same-sex attractions.” I went through a deliverance ministry. It didn't work.

I began to experience intense social anxiety. There were several points in my second semester that I didn’t leave my dorm room for over a week. I ate a spoon or two of Nutella a day, cried, ignored phone calls, and slept.

I was afraid, I was tired, and I was alone.

Sometimes I still feel this way. It happened recently. I’d been sick off and on for several weeks, and I was exhausted, so I slept in, hoping I’d wake up refreshed. Even my bones felt tired. Eventually, I shuffled up to my kitchen to make some food, but as I attempted to make packet ramen, I started crying. I felt so impossible. I felt so overwhelmed. And I returned to that place of feeling like I couldn't make sense in this world. And then my boyfriend held me, as I broke down while boiling water, as I shook and struggled to breathe. He told me he loved me, that he was proud of me. And I felt less alone. I felt at home.

Do you ever feel this way? Do you ever feel haunted by aloneness?

Because this is what I’m remembering. In those moments of feeling alone, people sometimes show up and embrace me. They tell me that they love me, that they’re proud of me.

One time when I was in the midst of a mental health crisis almost five years ago, I moved to Memphis to start a Christian intentional community, and almost immediately, it fell apart. I fell apart. And my two friends, who hadn't spent more than 24 hours with me, held me, kissed my head, and prayed all day long as I sobbed. I was consumed by this love. I felt like I was waking up. I felt less alone.

When friends show up in those moments and share my aloneness, I can’t help but see God. I remember how it feels to be made for another world, to feel the Way of Christ pushing me forward and carrying me through.

For years, I've tried to edit myself to fit a spiritual community. To make sense somewhere. But these spaces mostly don’t have room for me, and they’re largely unwilling to change. Feeling alone has helped me to sense where I don’t belong. There are so many places where I don’t feel welcome, and it’s hard. But I know that God is pushing me forward, urging me on, as I seek my people – yielded to the movement of God's love, willing to share their aloneness with one another.

God kisses every part of who we are, bringing us together, and we will join God in building her kingdom on earth – a kingdom where people are seen, where people are valued and treasured, where a people seeking might finally find.

Where we are no longer alone.

[abigailzimmer]

Top 2018 Reads

I am immensely grateful for writers this year and the weird and difficult and beautiful and eye-opening worlds they take us. 

I was delighted with the elegance of Ada Limon’s poems in The Carrying; and Megan Stielstra’s humor and optimism about creativity, community, and Chicago in The Wrong Way to Save Your Life; and the utter joy of language and love and owning who you are exuded throughout Jordy Rosenberg’s Confessions of the Fox; and the imagination of Octavia Butler, whose work I finally read (consumed? there is no one else like her! The Parable of the Sower had me in her world for weeks); and that’s basically one list of favorite reads. Here’s another:

1-2. I wish that Getting Dressed by Amy Lipman and Starfish by Sara Goodman were on every top list of 2018! I am biased, I suppose, knowing them and being/writing in community with them, but I truly believe that if you are craving that feeling of being welcomed into intimate moments via reading, these are books that will gift you this. Sara’s book takes you on a walk as she wanders Chicago in the winter and thinks about climate change and stars and woolly mammoths and queer identity. Amy’s book invites you into her home as she examines the relationships between objects, people, her patterns of thinking, shifting your own awareness of self: “The senses aren’t reliable / they’re flat until / someone walks in.” Both writers bring a sense of amazement and curiosity about their world that makes you see your environment differently. 

3. The best word to describe Wild Milk by Sabrina Orah Mark is delicious. I tried to savor this book story by story so it wasn’t read up too fast. There are particular writers whose voices feel like a blanket tucked tight around you or like stepping into your own skin or anything else that is warm and holding and feels like entering home, and Mark’s characters and whimsical dialogue and sentences that repeat over and over like they’re weaving a basket--another container to hold you--does that for me. I have too many metaphors going on. Here are Mark’s own sentences: “Mrs. Horowitz always refers to her husband as Mr. Horowitz should they ever one day become strangers to each other” and “‘Could Gloria come to you?’ ‘Her magnificence makes this impossible.’” If you like very short stories which slip into fabulism, humor, and poignancy without you fully understanding how you got anywhere, then you should read this book. And, lucky you who hasn’t read her first two collections, continue on to read her other work.

4. God Was Right by Diana Hamilton. I can’t remember in what journal I first came across a poem of Diana’s which led me to follow her on social media about the time she announced a forthcoming book of “arguments” from Ugly Duckling Presse which I immediately preordered (what a century we live in!). But thank goodness it happened, because these are delightful essays / poems / arguments about kissing and cats and being bi and teaching consent and reading books for the second time. She writes about the pleasure of the familiar and about freely contradicting herself (or rather evolving in thought) throughout the book, as poems allow us to do. So begins one argument:

It is stupid to imagine that cats, or really anything, are perfect. 

Sure, you are, and I am especially, occasionally stupid,

and it is right to be this kind of stupid when a cat is standing on your shoulders.

But when given the opportunity to reflect more calmly, in the absence of cats, it should be clear that there are ways cats could improve.

5. In The Word Pretty, Elisa Gabbert reflects on all the things we think about as readers and (for some of us) as writers but don’t articulate, such as how we picture descriptions or the point of titling work and how we interact with the front matter of a book or the ways in which the meaning of pretty has changed. Her short and funny(!!) essays remind me of grad school—not the rigorous work of academia itself (which isn’t to say there isn’t rigor in these essays, just that it flows effortlessly) but the late night musings between friends on what their favorite books are doing and how they do it. In reading this one book, you are immersed in dozens. 

6. An empty pet factory and moons orbiting dumplings in a restaurant and god inventing a more flexible forgiveness are just some of the worlds Matthea Harvey has created in Modern Life. She breaks up her playful prose poems like the one below with a running long poem, a kind of alliterative abecedarium, on love and war and healing that begs to be read aloud, read slowly.

7. Tell Me How It Ends by Valeria Luiselli is great reading and background on the journey and challenges migrant children face when seeking refuge from violence in their home countries, told by a translator/interpreter in the US immigration court who is familiar with our limited system in providing refuge. I can't talk it up enough! It's a good place to start if you're wondering how we got here and what we can do, because as Luiselli states, it is “not some distant problem in a foreign country, but in fact a transnational problem that includes the United States."

8. Carmen Maria Machado’s debut of short stories, Her Body and Other Parties, is everywhere and for good reason. Women are sewn up in clothes, a plague moves through the United States while a narrator reflects on her past sexual encounters, and, In my favorite story, Law & Order episodes are retold with a cast of otherwordly victims which makes you question how much women are valued in our world.

9. Tommy Orange’s debut novel, There, There, is a story of several Indigenous people whose lives eventually intersect at a pow-wow in San Francisco. Orange’s characters are so vivid, real with their struggles of pain and addiction, and his writing retells the story of generations from the side of the oppressed. “This was the sound of pain forgetting itself in song,” writes Orange. I couldn’t put it down and wandered aimlessly after I finished it, wishing I was back in this world. 

10. I can’t recommend Rebecca Solnit’s work enough, and while she came out with a fantastic book this year on activism and recent political events, it was an older book, The Faraway Nearby, that I couldn’t stop thinking about. She writes about the stories we tell of ourselves and the legends that have shaped our communities, of caregiving and memory, the states of emergency and becoming. Her essays wander through ice and a mountain of apricots and the story of Frankenstein, somehow threaded together because "all stories are really just fragments of one story." If it had been my copy, there would have been underlined portions on every page. As it was the library's, I just wrote down passages such as this one: 

"Listen: you are not yourself, you are crowds of others, you are as leaky a vessel as was ever made, you have spent vast amounts of your life as someone else, as people who died long ago, as people who never lived, as strangers you never met. The usual 'I' we are given has all the tidy containment of the kind of character the realist novel specializes in and none of the porousness of our every waking moment, the loose threads, the strange dreams, the forgettings and misrememberings, the portions of a life lived through others' stories, the incoherence and inconsistency, the pantheon of dei ex machina and the companionability of ghosts. There are other ways of telling."