#well that’s my single creative idea of the month done and dusted

[study-in--scarlett]

Abner seldom complained, neither of how Christopher lied of his species or name. He would do so occasionally when the hour was late and they had returned to Christopher's small and unfashionable apartment at Little Ryder-Street. Then, Abner would fly away from his jacket lapel (the sound of his wings so similar to the ones he had heard as a child), and land on the mirror, where he would walk around slowly.

Drawlight and Abner! (enlarge the pictures for actual image quality 😉)

For from dust we came by @miserablejester/pixelatedgeese. I am never not in shambles over these two.

details:

[aldieb]

nano for babies mini writing torture experiment complete at 14,025/9,000 words. i am proud of myself. analysis:

before this year, i hadn’t written anything coherent or finished a story since 2020. getting fiction writing back at all was a huge win, but i was curious about whether i could turn it into more of a habit and less of an exciting occasional spark.

i aimed low at 300 words/day (with the most important aspect being writing each day no matter what—no making up words on other days), but it was still a real stretch. it took 16 days before getting started went from a major effort to something i was able to slide into after being out doing things all day, and there was a serious dip at around day 10 where i considered giving up. this is actually pretty similar to how habit-forming for workouts functions for me.

i don’t think the words i produced were very good, overall—i liked about 1/3 of them. i seem to have 2 settings: 1) every few months, randomly sit down and write a scene i’m incredibly happy with craft-wise or 2) grind for a consistent output that is just mid. the second is preferable if i ever want to get anything done, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near as nice as the first.

the cat fic was an outlier in that it was part of the grinding exercise but hit me with the urgency of the random inspiration and did exactly what i wanted it to (it’s my least-read fic by far which is how you know you’re cooking with gas). i need more of that—i have a list in progress of things my brain finds very crunchy in this way that i want to integrate into original fiction. working on dust is kind of complicated rn (a lot of the core emotions that make the story run are things i feel differently about nowadays just bc it’s been quite a while since i generated the idea. also did you know that the original iteration of one of the protags was a trans guy who was closeted for the entire story? girl help) so i’m considering starting a new long-form thing.

i can’t keep up with writing every day. the main barriers are freelance work (which i didn’t have any of this month. but doing it is essential to my well-being not merely on a financial level but rather on a “my soul will shrivel until it is the size of an atom if i am not involved in the trade book business in some way” level) and weekly dnd (which required writing on the full-time-job clock because i don’t have a single spare moment on mondays. the amount of potential creative time dnd takes up is actually kind of insane considering 2 hrs travel round trip + 4 hrs gameplay… but it’s pretty fun…). i do need to stick with the habit, though. 1k weekly word count probably?

i whined a lot during this process. marsh and the roommates may be entitled to financial compensation.

[joaneunknown]

What does it take to be a writer? Well, it is more than just writing...

Maybe you have been thinking that you have the talent and the creativity to become a writer and have been planning to begin your first book. Honestly, being a writer, even if you aren't well-known and you don't have too many readers besides your family and friends, is way more than just writing.

And, as I have been writing for almost two years now and with two books on the market, I have got a taste of how it is to be a writer even if I am part of the writers that struggle building a small heap of readers month by month. With all that has been said, here are ten things a writer must do besides writing

1. Maintaining a consistent reading habit

I have said this a thousand times but reading improves everything you write. It inspires, it makes you create other versions of a situation, it takes you to different worlds and ultimately, reading teaches you how to write. Having a consistent reading habit means, from my point of view, always reading something. Maybe not every single day but constantly having a "now reading" book. Read how many books you can in a month, whether that would be one or three or five or even ten books a month! Reading is your tool as a writer, don't let it collect dust.

2. Daydreaming/Brainstorming every single minute of the day

Daydreaming as a writer is also a vital tool. If you don't daydream, then you won't come up with a book idea or even a short-story idea. You constantly have to let your mind wonder and daydream. Yes, most ideas coming from daydreaming are shit but if you know how to select the ones that are worth transforming into a book, then half of your job is done. If you have an idea, then the rest of the writing will flow right through.

3. Motivating themselves to keep going

Personally, there have been a few times where I found myself lost in a rabbit hole with no exit. I didn't know what to write and how to write it because all the writing I was doing at the time was just flat with no flavors added. And, somehow, I got out of it even when I thought that writing was no longer my calling. Of course, I got over that quite quickly by thinking of what I could write, and the pleasure writing gives me.

4. Thinking out of the box

Now, I consider that writing isn't for everybody because when you are writing you must think out of the box and think of all the stories and plots that exist. Sometimes, that is not as easy as every single one of us (especially the writers that are just starting out) has a larger or smaller fear of being judged. Judging nowadays comes from the tiniest pieces of crap, so I came to the conclusion that no matter what I would write about, people are always going to judge it.

5. Visualizing their story

Mentally, I think all writers visualize their stories and turn them into movies. Visualizing your story should be active most of the time even when you are not writing because it can reveal new ideas and possibilities that you haven't seen before.

6. Being designers

Even if you are a self-published author or a traditional published one, all writers desgin their books' covers. If you are like me, a person with no artistic talent like painting, drawing or sketching, then you will have a problem turning your imaginary design created in your mind into a physical drawing or painting. I did that with both of my eBooks and luckily for me I had such a good designer that visualized the cover of my books better than I did. But, although it may seem like the easy part that comes with being a writer, it truly isn't. Your book must have a cover that relates to it and that could attract readers to it too!

7. Being some good damn researchers

Researching is vital for any kind of book, and, thanks to the internet, you have all the sources to come up with a good research project. Researching ends only when you are done with your book because while writing the book whether that would be in the middle or the end, you still need certain information to make your story more credible.

8. Having managerial and marketing skills

Marketing your book and yourself as a writer is also a part of this job, especially when you don't have a team behind your name. I, for one, understand how hard it is to market and manage your books so that people don't forget about them two days after you release them. Luckily, social media platforms are a great way to market, manage and promote yourself as a writer but it does take a lot of time and patience to build a platform.

9. Being a harsh editor and a pretentious reader

Editing is a very hard job to do that gets even harder when you are editing your own writing. Why? Because as a writer you think your writing is impeccable and to edit your books properly, you must be harsh and cruel. If it doesn't seem interesting to you, cut it. If it is too flat, grow it out. If it doesn't make sense, delete it. And I could go on with such examples for the next eight hours. Being a pretentious reader helps you edit your draft more than any other editorial skills. Having high standards for your writing does nothing but improve it.

10. Being vulnerable

All writers must be vulnerable in their writing. Writing is the place where you let it all bleed and not all people are courageous enough to expose themselves in such a way. I, for one, consider that writing is for people with thick skin because it takes a lot of strongness to put your pain out there. Not only that but you have to dig deep into yourself to make your work heartfelt and emotional and, even if not all readers notice it, there is always more behind a beautifully written story. Beautifully written stories start with a hurting soul and end up with a healed one...

With all this being said, what are you waiting for? Grab a pen and something to write on and begin your writing journey today! Remember, write what entertains you and it might also become something that entertains others!

"Start before you are ready" - Steven Pressfield

This is Joane Unknown, thank you for reading this week's Talking Unknown post and get ready for another one next week. More at the link in my bio👇

[lambourngb]

a skeleton of something more [malex wip]

Inspired by the promo/trailer for season 3. Spoilers and speculation ahead. 

A tumblr work-in-progress

Pairing: Michael/Alex, Alex/Forrest

Summary: Alex goes undercover to seek out Deep Sky. Starts mid-2x13.

Alex leaned his back against the solid wood of his front door, letting the heavy oak take up his weight. He kept making the standard uneven bargain with his body, of giving just a little more, going through the motions for a little longer, and then it would be over. But the tally sheet his body held was long, overflowing with so many unfulfilled promises that it seemed ever more likely he would end this journey in the red. 

If it ever ended.

At least, tonight, he had haggled wisely for some space to breathe. On the other side of the door, he had managed to escape Forrest’s hopeful and not subtle attempts to follow him inside, toward the bedroom for a long-awaited reunion. A reunion that Alex had deftly avoided without a trace of guilt. He had used the bland excuse of fatigue from a long, cramped ride from Holloman Air Force Base to Roswell on a bus that had predated the ADA by a good thirty years. It was transparent but still true, written on every line of pain in his smile as he had said “Not tonight.” that even Forrest could read it, even if only Alex knew the real source of his fatigue. 

He waited several long moments, before turning to look out the peephole to watch Forrest’s Prius silently reverse out of his driveway. Exhaling out long and low, the tension he had started carrying a little more than a year ago slipped away, letting the calm certainty of safety of his house slip down his body as he released the facade. 

Alex was almost done with this assignment, he reminded himself, as he rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, scrubbing away the taste of Forrest Long from earlier. 

Just a little while longer, and he will have enough good will built up to finally meet the leader of Deep Sky face-to-face, after all who could resist the request of a senior member, especially one with the last name of Long? It had been a lucky find that Alex had made in cleaning out his father’s house after his death, a ring and an old photo of the members. In washed out Kodak colors was the cabal of Deep Sky. Former military men with names Alex had memorized off the salvaged hard drives from the Caulfield prison. Linked not by overlapping time on the alien project, but what had become of their careers after their military service had ended. All of them vowing to carry on the protection of Earth against an alien threat, but without the oversight of the government. 

The photo in his dad’s desk had been expected, but the silver ring? He had remembered clutching it, his hands still sore from tearing down the shed with Michael, and feeling the imprint of the symbol press deep into his skin. Searing across what Mimi had called his long-love line, singular and deep on his palm. Searing even deeper inside with the recognition that the symbol matched the ring Forrest Long wore.

The genial historian with the loose-fitting cardigan and blue-streaked hair, who had shown flattering interest in Alex, had worn the same ring. Easy on his hand, flashing in the bright sunlight when he had eagerly met up with Alex at the paintball fields with sharpshooter skills. After that date had crashed and burned thanks to a mishmash of his father’s voice and the feeling he had whenever he thought about kissing someone, not Michael, well, Alex had figured that would be the last he would see of the man. 

It hadn’t been. 

Suddenly, Forrest was everywhere he was, the Crashdown, the Wild Pony. It should have been suspicious to Alex, after months of sharing the same town with the other man without a single encounter. His heart was still bounding uselessly after Michael, while his hands had been full of his suddenly feeble father, and he had missed the snare of the trap. Not just the one his father had laid. Then after his kidnapping, two things had become clear to Alex, his father would never change from the hateful man he was, and Alex’s heart would never change when it came to his feelings for Michael.

Alex pushed his leaden body away from the door, tottering on his feet for a moment before the new prosthesis shored up his balance and he took a deep breath for the strength to move forward.

Fuck. That was a mistake. 

His house smelled like rain. Michael. The unexpected consequence of having Michael watch over his house while he had moved around the country, playing up the role of the grieving scion of the Manes family legacy. After a year of brief trips back to Roswell and long stints on the road, the house now smelled like Michael. 

Alex sucked in greedy gulps of air, chasing the taste of green and petrichor with his tongue to wash away his previous actions at the bus stop. His security system, his reinforced door and window locks, the weight of his gun still tucked in his back holster, none of it made him feel as safe as the smell of Michael in his home. It was the smallest crumb of promise, but it filled him.

Moving toward the kitchen for a drink, he clocked the changes Michael had made in his absence. His heavier luggage, shipped ahead of him, was already stored, including the set of crutches and the charging station for his back-up prosthesis. The lights in the kitchen came on with a single touch, all of them bright. Dammit, Michael had fixed the two burnt out bulbs, along with the slightly weeping fitting on the sink faucet.

There was zero sign of neglect in his house, no matter where he looked. Not even the faintest trace of dust on his guitars. The house looked warm and well tended. Loved. 

The rush of tears welled in his throat, an impossibly large lump, as Alex fought to keep from breaking down. Don’t fucking cry, don’t do it, that’s for at night, he swore creatively at himself. Tears were only allowed under the cover of dark, in hotel rooms or visiting officer quarters, not in the middle of his brightly lit kitchen.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Abruptly, every drop of tortured longing was gone, as Alex straightened his shoulders and crossed the threshold back to the door. He pasted the right amount of faked aspiration mixed with real annoyance on his face as he yanked the door open, expecting to see Forrest back on his step with a weak excuse concocted to overcome the earlier rebuff.

Michael looked up in the porch light, his black hat in hand and his curls wild with nervous raking. “Uh, hi.” He scuffed his boots against the concrete before growing still under Alex’s gaze.

He looked over Michael’s shoulder nervously, for the distinctive truck that everyone in town knew belonged to Michael, but his driveway was empty.

“I parked a few streets over. I don’t think anyone saw me-” Michael’s explanation was cut off short as Alex grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside. Stumbling from Alex’s strong grip, Michael fell forward, and then back as the front door slammed shut with them both safely inside out of view. His mouth was still open in surprise as Alex covered his lips in a kiss. 

The surprise was short-lived. Michael came alive under the kiss, opening and yielding to Alex’s hungry lips and tongue. Alex brought his hands up into Michael’s curls, cupping his head protectively as he pressed Michael firmly against the door, drinking in every sound Michael was making. 

Hours before, he had kissed Forrest at the bus station, playing up the role of a dutiful boyfriend returning home. It was the tariff he paid with his body to get closer to the roots of Deep Sky, but this, feeling Michael whole and safe under his hands, tasting him now, that was sustenance. Lifeblood. There was an evolution of difference between the two, like comparing simple bacteria wiggling toward complexity and the finished product of a man, standing upright. 

It was both a reminder of why he was doing this and a reinstatement of focus, as he slowly broke the kiss with reluctance. Michael chased at his lips, his mouth red and wet, his eyes dark with want. He could feel the heat coming off of Michael’s thin brown shirt, his hands itched to pull it off, to descend back into the physical, but Alex knew that he owed Michael an explanation for earlier.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t know he was going to be there to meet my bus. I thought it would be okay for you to give me a ride,” Alex explained quietly, as he ran his hands from Michael’s neck down to his fingertips, drinking in all the changes that had happened while he was gone. Michael looked thinner to him, as if he wasn’t eating enough despite the healthy amount of work and money. “I guess he wanted to surprise me and thought it would be romantic.” 

Michael made a face at the idea of surprises ever being considered romantic, especially to Alex. He turned sweetly toward Alex’s palm, kissing the center as Alex pushed a stubborn curl out of his eyes. “Are you sure that’s all it was? He wasn’t testing you, was he?” 

“I don’t think so.” Alex couldn’t pull his hands away from Michael, and leaned in to kiss him again. It started soft and shallow, trading breaths with Michael, lips against lips, licking deep into his mouth as his previous weariness disappeared now that Michael was here. “He saw you watching us. Now that I’m back, he’s worried about losing my attention to you. He hasn’t hidden his jealousy that I asked you to watch my house last year.” 

“Did I look sufficiently broken-hearted?” The question was light, but Alex could hear the grain of truth under it.

“You did.” Alex closed his eyes, the guilt of the situation flooded back inside. The statue of his father looking down on him didn’t make him feel nearly as sick as having Michael’s eyes on him as he let Forrest kiss him in front of the town in a cinematic homecoming moment. It was a cruel reminder to Alex that he had never been able to give Michael that, a public welcome that spelled out who they were to each other, not once in ten plus years of deployments and duty station assignments. Trading a glance across the Wild Pony was as close as they came. “I wish it wasn’t like this, sneaking around, pretending-”

“Hey, I agreed to this, right at the very beginning when I was your only back-up. Remember?” 

“We were just friends back then, you couldn’t have known that things would end up like this.”

Michael laughed, his head tilted back against the door, casting an attractive line of his throat to his collarbone. “We’ve never been just friends, Alex, but I knew what I was signing up for when you told me what you planned to do to smoke out Deep Sky. We’re in this together.”

*** to be continued... here

[immortalecstasy-blog]

The Man From Willow Creek - PART ONE Pairing: Mountain Man! Dean/Author! Reader

Y/N isn't in a good headspace, so her publisher sends her off to a remote cabin in the mountains in an attempt to rid her of all distractions and produce the highly anticipated first draft of her last book. But as she battles with snow, word counts, and surprise visitors, she learns that not every battle needs to be won, and that happy endings aren't always what we'd think.

WC ≈ 35,000 Total A/N: Thank you to@redweddingsandbowties for helping me to churn out over 25,000 words in a week and filtering out my typing fails. Warnings: Violence, Recreational Drug Use, 18+ Smut, Pet Death

Read on AO3 or...

“Miss, your total is $426.54. Miss?”

Y/N blinked and looked up at the cashier before taking her credit card out and handing it over.

“Are you stocking up for the end of the world?” The cashier asks as he runs her card. Y/N glances at the trolley loaded with a months’ worth of non-perishables and a dozen crates of beer.

“Something like that.” She tells him as she scribbles her signature on the store receipt.

The trolley is a bit on the heavy side as she heaves it across the car park towards her truck, but she manages it. When she’s got everything all loaded up beside the bags and bags of logs she’s worked up a sweat and has to unzip her coat as she climbs up into the driver’s seat. The truck feels empty without her little border terrier, and she finds herself wishing Harley could have been with her for this new adventure.

It had been her publisher’s idea to go on this little escapade, to get her out of the city, away from all the distractions. He cared more about the lack of pages than her deteriorating mental health, but for the sake of her sanity she had agreed that a month-long retreat into the mountains might do more for her writer’s block than being in her too quiet apartment. Her creative juices had bit the dust around the same time she’d had to make the heart-breaking decision to have Harley put to sleep.

His other idea had been to get a new dog. She’d used some extraordinarily strong language at that suggestion, so… mountains.

She feels fairly well prepared. Provisioned. Whatever. The cabin her publisher had found had been empty for a few years, and she had been warned that it may take a bit of work to get the generator working, and that there would be no mobile signal out there either. But she had been equipped with a satellite phone and the publisher had done some technological whizz-bang magic that meant she would be able to send and receive emails via satellite. She’d also done her own extensive research, which hopefully meant that once she arrived, she wouldn’t have to make the drive back to civilisation until her month was up and her first draft was on its way. She had churned out three books a year at some points, she could manage this.

She reaches over to the passenger seat to pick up one of her many notebooks, this one was her ‘survival plan’. “Snow tyres, check. Firewood, yes. Socks, hundreds…” She went down the whole list, covering everything from dry shampoo to copious amounts of candy and snacks. She’d even found a repair manual for the generator online, and had both printed and laminated it, just to be thorough.

“Okay, let’s do this.” She says aloud, still not used to Harley’s absence. The truck’s engine whines a little as it starts up, and she takes a moment to put the map (also laminated) on top of the paperwork piled up on the passenger seat. She still had a few hours until noon, plenty of time to get to the cabin while it was still light and make some sort of order out of it before dark.

The first two hours of her journey went as expected. She didn’t even miss the hairpin turn she had been dreading, but as the bare trees began to curl over the road and block the sun, she felt a prickle of unease. Wishing again for Harley. What was she thinking? A woman, on her own, hiding out in a run-down cabin in the middle of nowhere, all for a book she was contracted to write but had no heart for.

The last four years of her career had been dedicated to her high fantasy trilogy, the world, its characters, its mysteries. Mystery solved and arcs resolved, her baby was done. Before that she had spent years churning out a crappy serial romance saga before a well-earned break funded by selling the rights to turn them into a television series. That was until the inspiration for The Fallen had hit her. But of course, the publishers were keen to squeeze out more profit, and had coerced her into signing another book deal. They wanted a revival of the romance saga, but after over twelve years of being free from churning out two or three contentless books a year, it wasn’t something she wanted to revisit. Besides, it felt ridiculous to be in her early thirties, and turning back to something she started when she was only seventeen. Something different. She didn’t know how to write different. She had planned to save the existential breakdown until she’d arrived and at least got a fire going, but apparently her brain hadn’t got the memo, and she had to pull over to stumble from the truck and put her head between her knees. She focused on her breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose… “C’mon, you can do this.” … out through the mouth.

As she climbed back into the truck sometime later, she heard an engine and slammed her door shut just in time to see beaten up chevy truck thundering past, black smoke sputtering from its exhaust. The driver beeped their horn at her, and her panic was replaced with annoyance. She’d picked a safe place to pull over, she wasn’t blocking the road. Hell, that dick didn’t even have to move positions from the centre of the road.

Apart from the short break at the side of the road, and a five-minute detour down the wrong lane, Y/N was making good time. The only problem came when the cabin was actually in sight. A tree was blocking the drive, and nowhere on the map could she pick out any way to go around. The cabin looked to be only a ten-minute walk away, but everything was blanketed in thick snow, and she had a months’ worth of wood, food, water…not to mention all her writing stuff, clothes, blankets… beers. It would take an insane number of trips and eat into her daylight. But the tree was huge, and even if she had a chain or ropes to try and pull it out of the way, she had no idea how she’d do so safely. That wasn’t something she had researched how to do.

She climbed out and her legs disappeared up to her knees in the thick snow. Not to be put off by the first hurdle, she found the keys for the cabin, gathered up the only valuable things in the truck (namely her laptop and the satellite phone), and locked the truck behind her. The tree had a tangle of roots, so it seemed to have fallen naturally. Not that she really knew what she was looking at. She skirted around the edge and stomped through the snow towards the cabin, which was bigger than she had imagined. The ‘ten minute’ walk took closer to fifteen minutes, hampered by the snow, and then there was the issue of trying to get the door open. The wood seemed to have swelled, and she had to throw her shoulder against it several times before it burst open in a cloud of dust.

It stank. It had that unlived in smell, like stagnant water, and she kept the door open – not just for the light – but for the fresh air.

It was much as she expected really, a small kitchenette (which really was just a log stove and a cobweb infested sink with a single section of worktop) with a small dining table and four chairs. A mismatched armchair and leather sofa tucked close to a log burner. Two doors stood off the one side, presumably to a bedroom and a bathroom. “Right.” She said, setting her laptop bag down and wondering what to do first.

The owners hadn’t been sure that the water supply would still work, which is why she had lugged her own plastic barrels up here, but if it was working, she wouldn’t have to carry so many.

The pumped the lever over the sink a few times, still flushed from the hard walk. After a few tries, the tap sputtered out a dead spider and rust coloured liquid, followed a moment later by clear, precious water. The initial horror at the colour of the stuff still had her deciding to get some water from the truck, however.

“Okay.” She said to herself, stepping back. “Water, oil, logs, clothes for the night, bedding, cleaning stuff. Food.” She ran through her list again and then nodded, satisfied. On her way out of the door she spotted a big old wooden sled propped up under the window. “Perfect.”

Her second trip took longer than the first, fighting the sled the entire way and almost losing the barrel of water. It slid off the sled and looked for a moment like it might roll clean of the mountain, but the packed snow stopped it in its tracks.

Catching her breath for the next trip, she checked the other side of the two doors. Discovering to her horror that both led to bedrooms, then – to her relief – that the master bedroom had a rather basic en suite. It contained one of those giant clawfoot baths you only ever saw in movies, though this one was an old-fashioned green colour and a bit rusty around the plug. She hoped she could get the generator running to enjoy a soak at some point.

She tested the double bed in the master bedroom, and then checked both the twin beds, testing which of the three was the most comfortable, and therefore the one she would be using. The other bedroom, she would use as storage for all her supplies. The big bed in the room with the en suite was fortunately the comfiest, which meant she could pile all her stuff into the room with the twin beds.

She found an old oil lamp in the kitchen cupboards and a little paraffin heater in the cupboard under the sink. It was the ancient kind with no warning labels. Though common sense filled in the unwritten ‘use in a well-ventilated space or you will suffocate’. She set it up, just to take the edge of until she could get a fire going and put the lamp on the dining table next to her laptop, deciding there and then that this evening would be electricity free. She didn’t want to have to deal with the frustrations of the generator, and it seemed encompassing of her new mountain persona to forgo some of the basic necessities.

Two trips later and her hands are blistered from the friction of the sled rope, even through her gloves. Her legs are screaming at her, and despite the three thick pairs of socks, she would put all her royalties betting on frost bite setting in. There’s one last trip to make sure she has everything she’ll need for the night and most of the next day, and then she covers the flatbed of her truck with its waterproof cover and makes sure it’s stupidly tight. None of her things will enjoy a night in the freezing cold, but as long as nothing gets too damp, everything will be fine.

The door had been open all this time, so the cabin is now just as chilled as outside, but at least it smells fresher now. Her phone – devoid of all signal – becomes a glorified sound system. The oil heater starts to inject a little warmth, and as soon as it’s warm enough to abandon her coat and gloves, she gets to work on making the place fit for habitation.

“…As long as my heart's beating, and these old lungs keep breathing, the highs and the lows, yes and the no’s…” She sings loudly as she sweeps out the log stove of half burnt longs and powdery grey ash.

By the time the sun is setting, the whole cabin is as dust free as it can be without a hoover, the log fire is roaring, the bed is made, and the only lingering issue is the draft from the front door, which – having been forced to open – is now refusing to close properly. Having decided that the back and forth from the truck was enough work for one day, Y/N simply snacks instead of making a dinner and then sits by the fire with her notebook and pen. The flannel patterned throw she’d bought from home depot thrown over her legs.

Nothing comes. Not even a silly doodle in the margin. True, she usually wrote on her laptop. But the charge wouldn’t last long, and she’d been prepared to write this book by hand.

Even with the fire and the blanket there seems to be a wickedly cool draft, and she makes a note to put a makeshift draft excluder together in the morning. Finished with her bag of chips, she stands to select another snack and grab a beer, missing Harley weaving between her legs. She twists the cap of the beer bottle and walks back to the sofa and freezes in surprise.

On the sofa, is a pleased looking black Labrador.

The beer bottle slips from her fingers and shatters on the floor. The dilemma of broken glass and soft paws snapping her out of her shock.

“Hello…” She says slowly, answered by a thumping tail on brown leather. “You stay there. Okay?”

thump thump thump

“Okay, good boy… girl… good dog. Stay.”

Fortunately all the cleaning supplies are in easy reach. Y/N focuses on sweeping up the broken glass as a priority, ignoring the beer sloshing around the stone floor and seeping into the rope rug. Glass sorted; she gets a cloth to wipe the beer up. The front door in ajar, which explains how the dog got in. But it doesn’t explain what they’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere. They seem happy enough, well fed, shiny coat, wet nose. So they’re obviously being cared for by someone.

“Okay, it’s safe.” She tells the Labrador from the floor once she’s sure all the glass is up. They seem to be a pro at broken bottles, because with the all-clear, they jump from the sofa and come greet her properly.

“Oh, yes, hello. Nice to meet you too.” She tells them, trying to shove their face away as their tongue makes a beeline for her mouth. She giggles, giving their neck a good scratch. There’s a chain collar, but no tags. “Where are you from, huh?” She asks, attempting to stand, her knees protesting against the stone floor.

There’s a tremendous bang and the front door flies open. Halfway to her feet, Y/N loses her balance and topples onto her back, staring up into the doorway.

Where a bearded man in a Stetson and a heavy coat is pointing a shotgun at her.

PART TWO

[reaja]

2022 Goals

We love a good list, lads. Oh yes we do. It's that time again! Time for the lofty yet reasonably attainable goals list. I recently went back over my 2021 goal list and was really surprised by how many of the goals I actually fulfilled or made significant progress on. This last year, well couple of years, felt like one big never-ending day where nothing goes right! But then I look at the list and check off the things and I realize: "hey wow actually I did some really difficult and worthwhile things despite all the adversity I faced!" and, friends, it feels good.

So, here we go again. Putting this behind a cut because I'm not a monster.

Fannish

- Take one day a week off entirely from fandom. Brazenly stealing this one from @gracerene, but holy heck it's such a great idea. I run a large fandom community and several events and it's so easy to get sucked in and never take time away to just do other stuff.

- Post recs to tumblr when I read excellent fic. I made new fandom specific banners for this a month ago! Looking forward to getting back to rec'ing more often.

- Comment on every fic I rec. In past years I've put this one as 'comment on every fic I read' or even 'comment on every fic I bookmark' but then I for some reason get big anxiety about it and just fail miserably. I do already kudos every single fic I read, but I am distilling the comment goal down to just ones I rec this year to keep it a bit more manageable.

- Log all the fics I read. By this I mean put them in calibre and note them in my hobonichi so I can do an end of year 2022 reading post. I logged all my published novel reading and comic reading this year, I'd like to add fics next year.

Creative

- Draw for fun again. Being an illustrator has sort of killed my will to draw when I'm not working. I am not going to assign an amount to this and make it a "do it once a week" sort of thing, just... the goal is to start enjoying drawing again. Whatever that happens to look like.

- Pick up oil painting. I used to oil paint a lot, but now all my stuff is digital. I miss it! So this year I am going to get back to doing that sometimes, I think. As a mini-goal under this, I'd like to teach Luna (my daughter) to oil paint as well.

- Try pottery or weaving. I've been thinking about both of these for awhile and they're both pretty spendy to get into so I need to pick one and then do it.

- Put my bracelet crafts on tiktok. Not much to say here. I make bracelets as a de-stressing activity and I think it would be fun to put up little videos of my bracelets when they're done.

Personal

- Read 100 books. I crushed my goal of 52 and left it in the dust in 2021 and I started in July. I think I'll have no problem with this, but I want to have it on here so I keep up my momentum.

- Set up a loose daily routine. 12th year running, let's do thiiiissss. I was looking at my LJ the other day and saw my goal list from 2010 and it had this on it. I am pretty sure every year since has too and I fail it every year. So come on 2022, this is the year. This is the year we stop being a drifting lump of flesh meandering through our days waking up at 3pm.

- Finish up my dental work. I got a great start on this in 2021, but I still have some to go and making appointments and not cancelling them is hard for me.

- Participate in weekly Torah study. I was SO good about this at the beginning of the year last year then just sorta fell off. Maybe I'll tie this in with my day off fandom and take Saturdays off completely and actually go to either in person or zoom Torah discussion.

[yoonia]

❥ Content Creator Year in Review

☞ tagged by @yeoldontknow, @chillingkoo, @inkedtae, @onherwings, @moononthejoon, @kpopfanfictrash (my precious, talented bubs. I love you! Happy almost New Year!) and retagged by @flurrys-creativity @jimlingss 

⇀ first creation and most recent creation of 2020: I kicked off 2020 with the release of Carousel Epilogue (Yoongi). That was a defining moment for me because it truly felt like I was ending one specific era to start another. Which was true, by the way, because Carousel had marked the rise of my blog at one point and it had been a part of my long journey in writing fanfiction that releasing that epilogue and ending the series then had become a true turning point for me and my blog. My most recent creation was Blurred Lines (Seokjin, ongoing). I never meant this one to be a series, but somewhere in the middle of writing it, I felt like the story needed to progress in small paces to build up the momentum. I have always had a hard time writing for Seokjin, seeing the actual person himself has multiple layers that we tend to misidentify him with the persona he normally shows us in public. I simply wanted to show that part of him in this story, while creating a new persona for Seokjin that I’ve had in mind since way back then when I wrote Hazy. 

⇀ one of your favourite creations from 2020: I’ve mentioned a few favourites a while ago, but the one that sticks to me the most personally was Spotless Minds (Hoseok). I wrote this based on my favourite movie, Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Minds, taking the original idea of introducing two characters who erased a part of their past but giving it a more in-depth backstory compared to the movie itself. I still added a few elements that you may find from the movie but written here differently: the beach house, the waiting room, the stages where Hoseok was slowly losing his memory, and I added a few things that may help readers who haven't watched the movie to understand the aspects of the story a bit better without having to go back and watch the movie first. What pleases me most about this fic was the writing style that I used then — the sequences of the scenes, the back and forth between the timeline to reveal all the twists and turns — and then putting them all together. It was just fun creating this one.

⇀ a creation you’re really proud of: Oh, this one is the hardest to decide. I can’t choose between We Are All Dreamers (Jungkook) and Never Falling (Jimin). WAAD was a bit challenging to me. I love soulmate aus and I believe I had gotten stuck on this story right in the middle of it until I decided to add Jungkook’s pov in it to help with the story’s progression. I’m proud of how it came to be (and I can’t wait to share the continuing story for it) and how I’d gotten through the process of writing it. NF took me quite a while to finish, but I love every single thing about it. The story building, the tension, the momentum, and I think the characters I created in this story have become the pairing that I have grown to care the most this year aside from Strip!Jimin and his OC.  

⇀ a creation that took you forever: The Half-Lycan (Taehyung) and Of Bears and Bonds (Seokjin). Both stories took a while to work on due to their part in the Shifters series, which required me to take my time in planning and working things together to make sure that the story and the timeline would line up perfectly with its origin story, Blood Moon Rising. THL was actually planned to be posted on Tae’s birthday last year, but it took me 6 months to finish. OBB was planned to be posted immediately as both stories correlated between each other, but then things happened and what was planned to be an extremely long one-shot had ended up becoming a trilogy (the original word count was 69k words lol). 

⇀ a creation from 2020 that received the most notes: The Half-Lycan, I think? I know it went over 2k notes while the others remain somewhere around 1k or less lol Idk man, I don’t keep up with notes. I’m grateful for all the feedback, the reblogs, and the comments, so I remember those the most compared to the numbers. 

⇀ a creation you think deserved more notes: Ravished by Two (Namjoon, Seokjin), Spotless Minds (Hoseok), Red Series (Yoongi). Seriously, I love writing for Hyung line, but they don’t get enough love from everyone :( I must add Bed & Boyfriend(s) (Taehyung, Yoonkook) too because I worked hard on that one and I need it to get some more love lol

⇀ a new fandom you joined and a creation you made for it: I’m starting to get into Stray Kidz and Ateez more lately. I haven’t made any creation for them aside from adding Wooyoung (Ateez) as a side character in Spotless Minds haha I did write Simon Says for Simon Dominic though. 

⇀ a creation you made that breaks your heart: Slow and Steady (Jungkook) took the front seat on this one. I’ve fallen in love with the original idea when it was sent to me for a commission. I knew it would cause a lot of heartbreak and it did spark some reactions from my readers that I enjoyed reading through once the fic was up. I just didn’t think it would hurt ME in the process as well :/

⇀ a ‘simple’ creation that you really love: Let’s see… Pay By Play (Jungkook), Red Lipstick (Yoongi, from the Red Series), the drabbles I’ve made this year for Carousel and The Stand-In. Can I really call these ‘simple’ tho? Hahaha 

⇀ a creation that was inspired by another one: Strip! (Jimin) was a spin-off for Bad For You. Though I had originally started this series since October the year before, I still have to mention this one because I only began working on the final chapter after I was done with Carousel at the beginning of the year. The Half-Lycan was actually inspired by its drabbles. I’d never intended to expand Blood Moon Rising’s universe into the series you are seeing now, but when I was writing Rapture during NaNoWriMo 2019, I began to imagine Taehyung and his wolf pack to become a part of Jimin’s story. Since I was already planning to introduce the members as a pack in BMR in future chapters, I decided to link the two universes together and have Taehyung from Rapture to have his own story before I get to introduce the others. This decision was what had led me to create the entire Shifter series universe. 

⇀ a favourite creation created by someone else: umm...I haven’t had a chance to actually read a lot of fanfics this year as I have gotten into original stories more and the year has been crazy busy. The ones that I’ve read and shared are listed in my side blog, @diaficrecs. But here are a few that I’ve read but haven’t gotten a chance to write down my comment or feedback on and they are now sitting on my rec blog’s draft until the day I can get my thoughts together T^T — Inner Needs by @avveh, Divine Intervention by @opaljm, Third Wheeling by @untaemedqueen, Molotov Cocktail by @yeoldontknow, Aphrodite in War by @jungblue, Always Trust In Pixie Dust by @readyplayerhobi, daechwita by @ironicarmy, and I have to mention the one I’ve been re-reading the most, When You Watch by @gardentulips 

⇀ some of your favorite content creators from the year: aside from the beautiful people mentioned above, here are my beloved, talented friends — @jamaisjoons @suqakoo @softyoongiionly @randombtsprincessa @hungline @guktro @underthejoon @gukslut @gukyi @floralseokjin @ladyartemesia @baebae-goodnight @hobidreams

⇀ and for good measure, another couple more creations of yours that you love: omg I don’t think I can mention them one by one so let me just drop my masterlist here, here, and here :) 

⇀ tagging: everyone mentioned above who hasn’t done this yet...and if you don’t see your name here, feel free to do this if you want to and add me so I can add new stuff on my to-read-list :)) 

[ravenforce]

Stark Legacy III

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Carol Danvers x Wanda Maximoff x Maria Hill x Reader

Word Count: 2869

A/N: Oh gosh. I’m so sorry I haven’t been updated a lot of fics recently. There’s no excuse except that Animal Crossing New Horizon is taking up so much of my time but I am working on being more productive. Also, it doesn’t help that somehow I can’t seem to come to terms with this chapter. I feel like everything I write is shit. That’s why I’m trying to let the creative energy blockage to pass. I hope you guys like this chapter. Stay safe. xx

Parts: 1 | 2  | 4  | 5 | 6

***

After a week of poking and prodding at the Avengers compound, Fury finally agreed to let you stay off-site. Not that he has any say on your decision, anyway. He’s not the boss of you. You knew it will only cause more valuable time to be wasted if you resist, you compromised by letting Happy be assigned to you. The same way he was assigned to the handle Spider-man before. You felt like a child, it was ridiculous.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take back your position in the office?” Pepper asked as she enters the living room where you’ve been watching the city from its floor-to-ceiling windows. Happy drove you directly to Stark Tower, which Pepper handed the keys back to you. It’s now the Avengers Tower but technically it is still owned by Stark Industries. Thus, still owned by you, Pepper and Morgan.

You took a minute looking out the view before turning back towards your sister-in-law. You walked towards her at the centre of the room and gave her arms a squeeze. “Stark Industries is better off in your hands, P.”

She smiled at you before pulling you into a hug for the nth time since she found out that you’re alive.

“What are you gonna do?” Before you can answer, the door to the penthouse and came walking in is Happy with a beautiful little girl in tow.

“Hey,” Happy greeted. “Sorry, we’re a bit late. Someone made one too many stops at the labs.”

Pepper beckoned the girl over, and immediately she took her mother’s hand. “Morgan, I’d like you to meet somebody.” Morgan took one look at you. A look of recognition passes on her face before she let go of Pepper’s hand to run towards you. She came barreling to your leg.

“Hey,” you greeted while running your hand over her soft hair. You look at Pepper with a questioning look.

“Morgan, do you know who this is?” Morgan pulled away from where she’s perched on your leg and look back at Pepper.

“Yes, mom. She’s Y/N Stark. Daddy’s baby sister.” She turned back to you with a smile.

You crouched down in front of her. You offered her your hand to shake but Morgan had another idea. She threw her arms around your neck and nearly tackled you down in a tight hug. You chuckled. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Morgan Stark.”

She giggled and pulled away. “You’re a silly humanoid.”

Everyone stopped and stared at the little girl. Pepper recovered first. “Sweetheart, how’d you know that word?” She asked. Morgan only looked at you before running her hand over where your ball-joints are connected.

“Dad told me everything.” You rolled your eyes internally at your brother, wherever he is. “I’m not sure how it worked but Dad said you’re the best sister ever, and that when you wake up, you’ll be the best aunt too.”

That got you down on your ass on the floor. You can’t cry, not really but at that moment, had you been human, you would’ve been crying your eyes out. Suddenly, sitting there on the floor with your brother’s offspring in front of you, you were overcome with so much grief. Life wasn’t fair.

Why did your brother have to die, and you, survive? He had more to live for than you. He has a wife. He has a daughter. He was happy. He deserved to live, too.

Morgan cupped your face. She must have seen through your robotic face. “It’s okay Y/N. We’ll be okay.”

You blinked twice at her before nodding. She’s an intuitive, emphatic kid. She is really Pepper and Tony’s daughter. No question about that. Then Morgan started chewing at her bottom lip.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just…” she paused. She looked unsure of what to ask or how to ask her question. So, you run your hand through her hair and assured her that she could ask you anything. “…uhm. I just want to know how your body is operating? Is F.R.I.D.A.Y installed in your core? Or was it J.A.R.V.I.S?”

“Morgan!” Pepper admonished, and for Morgan’s part, she looked sheepish. You can only gape at your eight-years-old niece for a minute. She truly is a Stark and one that hanged out with her dad too much, apparently.

“Well, right now there’s no AI installed in this body but I’m planning to put one on my own. Maybe you could help me name it when it’s done?”

Morgan grinned before launching in a barrage of questions, only child geniuses could ask at that age.

“Excuse me, Y/N.” Pepper cut in through your nerd conversation with Morgan. “Do you mind if I use the kitchen to make us dinner? I don’t think the little one would want to leave soon.”

“Knock yourself out. Happy stocked up before we arrived.” That’s all the answer Pepper got before you and Morgan moved from the floor to your new bedroom to continue geeking out about your robotics.

Happy sidled up to the blonde as they watch you two happily chatting. “It’s a match made in heaven,” Happy teased; earning a soft chuckle from Pepper.

“Yeah. Finally, someone who can keep up with her.”

Morgan and Pepper are really close but Pepper suspects that Morgan misses having someone geeky in the house that can talk to her about engineering, robotics, science, history, etc.

***

Morgan and Pepper stayed for two nights in the tower. You wished they could have stayed longer but Morgan has school but Pepper promised they’ll be back every weekend. Without Morgan in the house, it’s far too quiet even with Happy around. Speaking of the man, you found him after your shower, lounging at the bar over some S.H.I.E.L.D folders. 

“Busy?” you asked as you went to the coffee machine by instinct. Happy watched you freeze for a moment but he didn’t say anything. He understood that you’re still coping with your new normal.

“Nope. Why?” He closed all his open folders but left them on the counter. 

You turned towards him with a smile. “Great. I need your help.” 

When you said you needed his help. He thought maybe you needed help where he can use his talents as an agent but instead he found himself dusting around Tony’s old on-site lab. It looks exactly the same as the last time Tony used it. Not a single furniture and equipment out of place. It was nostalgic and bittersweet to be there again. 

“Ugh!” He groaned after putting one more box in the storage room. You looked at your friend as he sweats through his shirt and stretches his back. 

“Tired already?” You asked in a teasing voice. 

“My back is killing me, and aren’t you?” You laughed and he turned to look at you. For a minute he forgot you are not exactly human anymore. A few nights ago you mentioned, post-human, and he thought it was quite a fitting classification. He decided that’s what he’s gonna use from then on.

“Actually, I can do this all day.” Happy rolled his eyes at you before giving you the finger. You laughed hard before you walked towards him.

“Sit down. Let the one who can’t get backaches do the heavy lifting.” He can hear the joy in your voice as you continue to tease him of his fragility. You handed him your new tablet, while you started carrying the rest of the boxes into storage. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

You stopped and chuckled. You pulled out a folded paper from your pocket. It’s a list of equipment and materials. “Please, purchase everything on that list. You can find most of them from Stark Industries. The rest you can outsource on Amazon.” 

Happy looked at the list and started putting everything in your cart. “Are you building something?”

You dusted your hand and locked the storage room. You plopped down on Tony’s couch and looked at Happy as he concentrates on finding the right items with the right specs for you. 

“Yes.” When no other word from you was forthcoming, he looked up at you. You can see the question in his eyes but before he can voice it out, you threw him a rolled-up parchment. He barely caught it and he glared at you. When he opened it, his eyes almost popped out of its socket. 

“Y/N.” He pause to consider what this little project means.  

“You’re not?” he broke off in the middle. 

“I am.” 

***

The dream team is spending their much deserved weekend off after being away for a month-long mission in Hungary. Usually, they would spend their weekend at home after long missions but they’ve been coup up in the safe house for a month and had only been going out on surveillance twice in every week. So, to change things up a little bit, they found themselves out on a bustling Saturday night. The plan was simple: have dinner on Wanda and Carol’s restaurant of choice, and maybe a walk along the park to aid their digestion.

“Oh, this is so good,” Carol nearly moaned after taking her first bite on the strawberry shortcake they ordered for dessert.

“I’m really glad we’re able to do this.” They all smiled at Wanda before Nat reached out and wipe the icing that stuck on the side of her lips. Wanda blushed. After all this time, Natasha still makes her flush like crazy, and it doesn’t help that she’s the smoothest out of all of them. Except with you, that is.

It’s an observation she gathered from the handful of times they’ve interacted with you in the HQ. Even Carol and Maria agrees that Nat is uncharacteristically a mess whenever you’re around. It’s a topic they have yet the time, and the energy to breach with the redhead.

“To us.” Maria raised her glass and everybody promptly clinked their glasses together. Not a minute after, the sound of sirens was heard along the street. They looked at each other before pulling out their phones, and they were shocked to see multiple miscalls from HQ.

“Shit.” They groaned collectively but before they can even think to stand and bolt, another restaurant patron yelled.

“Missile!”

It’s like time stood still. Even with years of work and training, they were rendered frozen and rooted in place, waiting for the inevitable to hit. After Thanos, they all had to undergo mandatory therapy for PTSD. Nat and Wanda went because losing Clint and Vision still haunts their dreams, Maria for being dusted herself, and Carol for stress management.

***

“Ms Stark that missile is heading straight for Agent Hill, Danvers, Romanoff, and Maximoff.”

“What?” You yelled at your newly developed AI before putting more speed to catch the missile. You can see the four idiots just standing there frozen. You caught glimpse of the missile timer, and you thought you’re not gonna make it into the stratosphere before it explodes. So, you raced ahead of it and triggered one of your suit’s new feature: electromagnet shield before it exploded in your chest.

***

Maria squinted as they watch the missile approached their location. Something else is flying towards them. Something she can’t put a finger on but oh so familiar.

“Is that - ” She wasn’t able to finish the question before Carol and Natasha were tackling her and Wanda on the ground. Then the missile exploded.

***

For a minute, there’s a ringing in their ear, and they were severely disoriented. Carol and Natasha rolled away from their girlfriends and laid their back, feeling the cold, concrete floor. They tried to blink rapidly to clear the white spots that are floating around their vision. Maria was the first to sit up, followed by Carol, then Natasha and Wanda. They looked at each other, making sure everyone was unharmed. 

“What just happened?” Carol asked, with her hand outstretched to help everyone up. 

Wanda was quiet for a moment before she was running towards the balcony, where a few customers are gathered around the mouth of the restaurant, hovering around something. Before they could question her what’s up, she just jumped out of the balcony instead of using the stairs like a normal person. 

“Shit. What now?” Nat followed Wanda over the balcony and landed gracefully at the sidewalk. Carol floated down on her Captain Marvel suit, while Maria exited the establishment through the front door. She walked towards the crowd and whipped out her badge to clear the bystanders. Carol, Nat, and Wanda helped to make a perimeter, so their girlfriend can assess the situation. 

When they saw what it is, they were frozen for the second time around that night. 

“Who is that? Is that RESCUE? Is she gonna be okay?”

An onslaught of questions was thrown to them but they have absolutely no clue how to answer. The suit does look a little like Pepper’s RESCUE but instead of blue and white, this one is pure black. The helmet is unmistakably Iron Man’s original design. 

“It’s Y/N,” Wanda whispered as she and Carol crowd over your body to shield you from everyone’s view. Maria is frantically typing on her phone, asking for a pickup team on their location ASAP. Nat’s crouched down and poking at your helmet. 

“The blast must have knocked her out.” Another poke to the helmet.

“Stop poking me, Agent Romanoff. It’s a rude way to say thanks.” She startled when she heard your voice before the lights on your helmet came back on. She stood up and sidled with Maria. Captain Marvel offered her hand and you took it. 

“Thank you.” 

“No, thank you for saving us back there.” You opted to nod at the Captain since she can’t see you smile and you don’t want to retract your helmet and expose yourself. You hovered over the ground and looked behind them.

Nat caught the action, as small as it. “We’re attracting too much attention. Meet us back at the HQ.”

“The tower is closer.” They all turned to Maria for consent and she freely gave it. 

Before you can fly off, a young boy yelled. “Hey! Are you RESCUE?” 

You hovered back down and crouched in front of him. “No, I’m not but we’re friends.”

“What’s your name then?”

“I’m Phantom.” You pinched the boy’s cheeks before flying back to the tower. You looked back and saw him smiling and waving at you.

[cptnsantiago]

safe in my arms when you finally come

summary: Amy’s afternoon between Wuntch’s funeral, a wonderfully timed meltdown, and arriving home. 7x07 spoilers.

read on ao3

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Amy was frustrated to put it lightly — no matter how high she put the AC on in her car, the sweat was not letting up.

It wouldn’t be long before her entire car was flooded of her sweat. And tears, probably. This wouldn’t be a problem if her stupid body would get pregnant as easily as the rest of the Santiago clan, so she wouldn’t have to stick needles in her back every morning. It didn’t help her frustration that one of her brother’s just announced that their wife was pregnant once again, apparently a total surprise to them.

Amy just wouldn’t get that luck. She was stuck in a stuffy car with soaked with sweat hair and an empty uterus. Surely this wasn’t normal.

She had done her research before agreeing to take these fertility drugs. Possible side effects of course included mood swings, hot flushes among a host of other symptoms, but Amy couldn’t believe that it was normal to the extent of sweating through layers of clothes. It made no sense to her; how she had been taking the drug for almost a month but only now were these symptoms making themselves known?

It sends her into enough of a panic to call her doctor.

Dr. Lowe was a fantastic doctor, she had multiple awards for fertility research, so she was the best of the best and had a great instinct on how to deal with anxious women trying to get pregnant. Her voice is calming, making the loud noises of New York sound like a white noise machine as she asks Amy to describe her symptoms to her.

“Well, I’ve been sweating profusely all day, and intense mood swings, like probably an equal amount of sweat and tears all week… And I know these are normal symptoms, because as you know I did my research, Dr. Lowe, but I really can’t exaggerate enough how much sweat there was.” Amy knows she’s ranting, and probably for nothing but being told that it was completely normal.

She’d heard enough of completely normal. It was completely normal that it took so long for her and Jake to make a baby, completely normal to be sweating out of every single pore of her body and completely normal that she wants to kill the bird that just pooped on her car’s windscreen. Why couldn’t the thing that was completely normal thing in her life being the nausea she feels everyday because she’s growing a baby inside her? But no, yet another symptom of this dumb fertility drug.

“That’s definitely not normal, Amy.” Dr. Lowe begins cautiously, causing Amy’s heart rate to spike to an unhealthy level as she waits for her to speak again. “I do have an idea of what might be the problem here… Well, I wouldn’t call it a problem!”

Amy doesn’t know how to process the next words — Dr. Lowe spitting out a theory that she could be pregnant, causing her to experience double the symptoms from the medication. Amy, you might be pregnant.

The words bounce around her head for a while after she hangs up the phone. Dr. Lowe tells her she’s excited to hear back from her, willing to make time for an appointment as soon as she needs but Amy barely hears any of it as she processes those words. You might be pregnant.

For months on end, Amy had been convincing herself of symptoms that always lead her to a negative result on a plastic stick but now��� Now her own doctor thinks she might be pregnant. Amy really didn’t want to face that disappointment again, and Jake. She didn’t want to disappoint him yet again. He goes on about how it’s okay, we’ll get pregnant and he’s there, always, to pick her up when she’s down but she knows how he’s feeling.

Amy can see the disappointment on her face every time she came back with a negative result, just to disguise it as fast as he could with his supportive words, but she could see it still hiding it. She sees it in the way he talks about Nikolaj, how badly Jake wants to be a dad, how badly he wanted to add a child into their family. He tries to hide his admiration of the couples with strollers on their nightly stroll together, but she can see it, because it’s exactly how she was feeling.

Every stroller, every toddler and every pregnant woman they passed just a cruel tease of what Amy apparently couldn’t have. She was bad at making babies, as much as Jake reassured Amy that it wasn’t her fault. It was almost constantly in the back of her conscience, nagging at her deteriorating patience.

She probably sits in her car for another minute longer before she resolves to go home and just rip off the band-aid and let the scab bleed all over the place. The duration of the car ride is spent debating whether to tell Jake, so he could be by her side. If she didn’t tell him, then she only had to deal with her own disappointment. An instant after that thought she had made her decision; Jake would stay in the dark for the moment.

Jake doesn’t think much of her weird behaviour when she arrives home. Probably because of the extensive knowledge of the fertility treatment that she made him read about, so he shoots her a simple smile she barely sees as she runs straight for the bathroom. Her hand moves to the medicine cabinet like clockwork, her hands shaking as she takes out the pregnancy test.

Keep your expectations low, Amy. She tells herself, but Dr. Lowe’s words ring in her ears, Take the test, it’s possible you’re pregnant and overwhelmed by hormones.

The three minutes pass slower than… Fuck, she’s too nervous to think of a good analogy. But it’s a slow moving three minutes she’s sure of. Looking down at the test sitting in the sink, Amy thinks she might pass out.

Two lines. Clear as day. Pregnant. Amy was pregnant. Her uterus wasn’t doomed to be empty forever. Jake was going to be a dad. They were going to have a baby.

The overwhelming amount of emotions she had felt all day hit her like a fucking train once. Tears were streaming down her face, her hand shaking again as she held the test in her hand and she simply forgot how to breath. She was going to have a baby with the love of her life, after months of struggle and tears, they were going to have a baby. This was her reality.

Amy doesn’t keep track of how long she spends in the bathroom trying to pull herself together, but once she pinches herself and snaps out of her emotional stupor, she’s quickly formulating a creative way to tell Jake. It takes a little while to think it through and compose herself — she had started crying again when she straightened her shirt over her stomach, remembering there was a baby in there and then again as she wondered if their baby would have Jake’s curls — but as she makes her way into their bedroom, her whole plan is thrown out the window.

Jake is cursing Wario once again, and she almost starts crying on the spot again. That man, her husband, was going to be the best dad on the planet. How she gets through telling him without crying is a mystery to her, but now their hug had moved to the bed, she lets the river flow at last. He listens to her anxieties she had been feeling that day, wiping and kissing away every single tear as they come. She does the same for him, heart swelling as his own tears of joy start to pour down his face. Amy couldn’t feel more love for this man even if she tried, his dedication was unmatched.

They come to a point where it was impossible to find the words to express how they were feeling, so outside of booking appointments and taking out her pregnancy binder with a light layer of dust on it, they mostly just smile at each other. That and kissing, there’s a lot of that. Kissing is interrupted by Charles knocking their door in the middle of the night, who makes sure to mention that he tried his best to hold himself back when he woke up and apparently just knew. But he’s respectful enough of the space they need, so he’s soon gone, and Jake is quickly back to kissing Amy.

Falling asleep that night after he talks to her flat stomach for a half hour is otherworldly. Jake makes sure to make her feel more loved than ever, through words, kisses and all. It’s not at all what she expected at the start of the week when she found out that Madeline Wuntch had died, but she couldn’t be happier with the turn of events.

They were finally getting their half-Jake, half-Amy. And as Charles had screamed, their little Peraltiago baby.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot “All that Glitters” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Looking for something to stay connected to the skating world during quarantine, Kurt decided to enter an Instagram contest. Sebastian agrees to help, because he would do anything for his boyfriend ... until they come across something that almost turns out to be a hard no. (1751 words)

Notes: Combining the anon prompts 'The boys during quarantine' (which will be more than just this one one-shot', 'Sebastian hates glitter. That has to come up during figure skating, right?' and ‘Blaine's crush on Kurt is showing'. I did the best I could. I hope you like it :) Blaine friendly.

Part 63 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3.

“Have I told you how much I appreciate you doing this?” Kurt asks stiffly, trying not to move too much and chance smearing the teal liquid liner he’s applying to his boyfriend’s right eyelid.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” Sebastian replies, supremely uncomfortable in his current rigid sitting position, his wooden desk chair unforgiving against his numb behind. Still, he glows beneath his boyfriend’s praise.

“As much as I enjoy getting dolled up, I’m entering seven looks in this ISI performance makeup contest! The wear and tear on my face would have been substantial!”

“Can’t have that, can we?”

“No we can’t. The last thing I need during a frickin’ pandemic is to start developing wrinkles before I hit my twenties. As it is, I’m getting some serious dry patches on my cheeks.” Kurt caps his eyeliner and puts it with the rest of his supplies. Biting his lower lip, he stares at his army of palettes, lipsticks, compacts, and brushes laid out on Sebastian’s comforter, deciding on the next product to apply to his face. “Thank you, by the way,” he says in a softer tone, “for not thinking this is stupid.”

Sebastian tilts his head carefully. Kurt put a considerable amount of highlighter on his cheek over a heavy dusting of blush. He doesn’t want to accidentally smear it onto his bare shoulder, force Kurt to start all over again. Though the thought of another hour spent with Kurt hovering over him, the two of them shirtless, Kurt’s lips kissing distance from his as he stares deep into his eyes has Sebastian seriously contemplating scrubbing his hands down his face and making a mess of Kurt’s masterpiece.

“Why would I think it’s stupid? And even if it was stupid, I’ve done far stupider things … mainly during the holidays,” Sebastian says, hinting at a vague reference to the fact that he’s let Kurt talk him into dressing up as an inflatable snowman for their ice rink’s annual Christmas show … twice.

“I don’t know.” Kurt picks up a spoolie and starts tidying Sebastian’s eyebrows. “We’ve been quarantined for so long. We’ve been good about keeping up our training, staying occupied. We’re lucky. We have your rink to practice in but …” He shrugs “… I miss hanging out with our friends. They’ve canceled Regionals, Nationals, and Worlds, so all those people we only see three times a year? We won’t get to see them. These silly Instagram contests ISI puts on … I feel like they’re one of the only things keeping our skating community together.”

“I get ya.” Sebastian reaches for his boyfriend’s hips, massages with firm fingertips. “On my end, I’d do anything for you. I just want you to be happy.”

Kurt grins. “Well, it’s nice having a sexy male model to play with.”

“Is that why you asked Blaine to join us?” Sebastian asks sarcastically.

“Good Lord! Can we please go back to the part where you want me to be happy?”

“Absolutely,” Sebastian agrees with an easy smile, acting more casual than he feels. He’s not the biggest fan of makeup. He’s worn it before. It’s a hazard of participating in a performance sport. But he wouldn’t choose to wear it otherwise. No hate to guys who do, he just doesn’t like putting things on his skin. The eyeshadow alone is driving him to hysterics! But he loves Kurt.

Besides, after he found out Kurt had also asked Blaine for help and Blaine didn’t hesitate before saying yes, Sebastian couldn’t say no.

“All right-y then,” Kurt says, the smile growing on his lips as he contemplates his work. “You’re almost done.”

“Almost? What else could you possibly fit on my face?”

“Just a teeny bit of glitter …”

“Uh … glitter?” Sebastian backs his chair away with a tight laugh. “You … you didn’t mention glitter.”

“I didn’t mention it because I thought it would be obvious.”

“How? How is it obvious?”

Kurt looks pointedly down at his own bare chest coated in a generous layer of the stuff, then back at Sebastian with an eyebrow raised. “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not like it’s going to hurt.”  

“Isn’t glitter considered the STD of art supplies?” Sebastian says, scooting to the left and dodging Kurt’s glitter shaker.

Kurt pulls a face. “That’s disgusting!”

“Point made.”

“Come on, Bas! It’s made of seaweed. Like the stuff Lush uses. It’s eco-friendly.”

“Glad to hear it but that wasn’t really my concern.”

Kurt puts his hands on his hips, highly offended on glitter’s behalf. “Why don’t you like glitter?”

“Because it’s so … it’s so … sparkly! And it’s like sand. It gets everywhere.”

“Okay, Obi-Wan.”

Sebastian frowns. “You’re thinking of Anakin. Not Obi-Wan.”

“Anakin killed Natalie Portman. I refuse to acknowledge his existence.”

Sebastian stares at his boyfriend, at this stranger he thought he knew so well, but decides to drop this tangential argument and continue with the matter at hand. “Anyway, it’s impossible to get off.”

“It comes off lickety-split in hot, soapy water. I’ll help you take it off.” Kurt flashes a suggestive grin, but Sebastian seems to miss it.

“Please, Kurt? I’d rather not.”

“But … the look is called Summer Sparkle!” Kurt throws his hands up in frustration. “How did you not assume there’d be glitter?”

“Couldn’t you transition this into another look? Something not so sparkly?”

“Like what?” Kurt asks, clipping the single syllables till they’re razor sharp.

“I don’t know. I’m not the creative genius here---ooo!” Sebastian comes up with an idea way too quickly. “How about something along the lines of Lone Wolf at Midnight?”

“So …” Kurt says, followed by a loud click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth “… you’d rather I glue fur to your face than glitter?”

Sebastian swallows hard. He hadn’t considered that as a possibility. “Uh … you see … I’m trying to avoid gluing anything to my face.”

“Ugh! Sometimes you’re such a … a … a …!”

“An ass?”

“That’s the word!”

“Kur-urt …” Sebastian whines.

“I thought you said you’d do anything for me?”

“And if I absolutely have to wear glitter, I will. I’m just asking if I absolutely have to.”

Kurt sighs, his hands falling to his sides in defeat. “No, you don’t. If you don’t want to wear the glitter, you don’t have to wear the glitter.”

“Great!” Sebastian mimics wiping his forehead in relief. “Thank you. You are truly a kind and benevolent dictator.”

“Yeah, whatever … Blaine! You ready for some glitter?”

“Great!” Kurt says with unnecessary enthusiasm. “Thank you, Blaine!”

A shirtless Blaine peeks in from the hallway outside Sebastian’s room. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Going shirtless was a group decision. The focus of the photographs is supposed to be their faces, but they thought they’d take the opportunity to show off their rockin’ ‘made-in-quarantine’ physiques. A little bragging never hurt nobody. It’ll definitely help with the ‘like’ factor, which is how the contest will be judged. Besides, it’s psychological warfare - showing the competition that nothing, not even being locked down for three months, was going to knock them off their game.

“You’re … welcome?” Blaine replies, a little confused.

Kurt turns his jar of glitter over and gives it a shake, ready to add another layer to his own skin out of spite, but nothing comes out. He straightens, lifts the shaker to the light, and peers inside. “Oh no! It looks like I’m out of this one!”

“I think that’s because you’re wearing enough glitter for all of us.” Blaine snorts. Kurt’s nose scrunches when he does. He’d mentioned to Sebastian once that he thought it was cute when Blaine snorted.

Sebastian rolls his eyes.

Kurt taps a finger to his chin, thinking up a solution. One comes to him, lighting his eyes brighter than the glitter on his chest. “Wait a minute! That gives me an idea! Blaine, you’re a genius!”

“I … I am?” Blaine stutters, more than a little concerned, especially since he can feel Sebastian glaring at him, hot enough to melt his foundation.

“Absolutely!” Kurt smiles and throws his arms open wide. “Come here and give me a hug!”

Blaine’s face goes comically blank, but he rushes forward at the invitation anyway, never one to turn down a hug from Kurt. But Sebastian wastes no time blocking him, shooting to his feet and wrapping his arms around Kurt, pressing their bodies together.

“Uh … nope,” “Sebastian says, waving Blaine off. “No, no, no, not necessary. I’ve go this one handled, thank you.”

There’s a lot Sebastian will put up with in regards to his boyfriend’s relationship with Blaine.

Shirtless hugging isn’t one of those.

After a full minute of awkwardly sandwiching their bodies together, Sebastian steps back to survey the outcome … and groans. “Look, now, see?” he comments dryly. “There’s not enough glitter for you, Blaine. Sorry. You’re going to have to get yours somewhere else.”

Blaine chuckles at Sebastian’s discomfort. “I can see that.” He takes a seat on the end of the bed and waits patiently for Kurt to beat his mug. He realizes it will probably happen under the watchful scowl of Sebastian Smythe but it’ll be worth it.

As awful as it sounds, Blaine enjoys getting under his skin every once in a while.

Blaine respects Kurt and Sebastian’s relationship more than anything, even if he can’t help harboring a crush on Kurt. Without the two of them, he doesn’t know where he’d be right now. Honestly, he’d rather not think about that. But a great deal of his safety and security he attributes to Sebastian’s generosity - a generosity that may only exist because of Sebastian’s love for Kurt.

So Blaine’s not about to step on any toes.

But Sebastian makes it too easy to get on his nerves. And the more Blaine does, the more fun it is.

Having Kurt’s full attention, their faces kissing distance the way his was with Sebastian’s? The next hour should be a hoot.

“See?” Kurt runs a light finger over the spattering of glitter covering Sebastian’s skin. “Is that so painful?”

“Yes,” Sebastian mutters, looking down in disgust at the iridescent specks starting to itch. He looks over at Blaine - shirtless, tanned, and muscular Blaine, sitting on the edge of the mattress, awaiting his turn. He’d been so quick to jump on the glitter grenade, which makes this coat Sebastian is wearing a casualty of war. “Yes, it is.”

[yeats-infection]

@sqvalors tagged me in a lil writing meme... if you’d like to participate please do and tag me! 

ao3 name: fluorescentgrey but i also post some things as drglass (dr. glass is the second song on the fluorescent grey EP by deerhunter, so if i make another pseud it will be likenew, then washoff, etc.) 

fandoms: about two thirds of my fics are harry potter or star wars but there are a lot of random little goodies. currently i have shifted into the terror (2018) mode. 

number of fics: 59 right now... i will throw a party when i get to 69... 

fic i spent the most time on: this is funny because some of these technically took me like six months or more of working on them extremely intermittently... namely, bone machine. the series in the garden has taken me the most time generally... and in that, minuet did take me several months of working really hard while i had a schedule / commute that was not conducive to having a creative practice... 

fic i spent the least amount of time on: hilariously, literally my most popular fic by ninety miles, the witcher PWP that i wrote out of spite in two or three hours. 

longest fic: the source codes series... particularly heelstone which is 102k. i wrote these two stories in a single summer like a crazy person and i hate talking about them because i find them WAY too gooey. honestly, that’s why they are so long. it’s all the gooeyness!!!!!! 

shortest fic: yes, the answer is the witcher porn again (this silly thing is going to be the answer for many other questions in this little meme but i’m just going to stop talking about it while i’m ahead). the west end is just about 50 words longer and is much better and is a much better and more interesting story. 

most hits: we’re just going to pretend it’s sex and dying in high society, which has the second most hits. this is certainly due to the fact that @wolfstarwarehouse hypes this story a lot for which i am endlessly grateful! 

most kudos: recovery position has the second most kudos so let’s go with that one! i have been very touched by the response to this story, though i do personally like the sequel beachcoma a little more... i understand why not everyone wants to read it because it is a little more bittersweet. but it also comes from my soul. 

most comment threads: the two stories in the source codes series are leading here, because i only posted two chapters at a time so that i would get maximal validation, lol. 

most bookmarks: in order to talk about a story i haven’t talked about yet, the rosary has the fourth-most. i think this fic is truly my r/s swan song... i said everything i wanted to say and did everything i wanted to do. it’s a really good mystery/noir story that i didn’t think i could pull off until i did! and i love the OCs in it who have sort of manifested these secret headcanons for me that i may expostulate upon someday. thank you to @piovascosimo for the inspiration to write it. 

total word count: 1,000,478. lol! 

favorite fic i wrote: cannot possibly choose but probably the top five in order of date posted are: desperado, a handful of dust, doom town, beachcoma, jump into the fire

fic i’d rewrite / expand on: i already said all of source codes because it’s way too gooey, i also could make hard time killing floor blues a lot tighter, and a memoir of the flesh deserves a way better ending because i was rushing to make the yuletide deadline...

share a bit of a WIP: i was trying for a while to write a band of brothers AU where they are vietnam vets who start growing cannabis... based on the steve earle song “copperhead road.” this could have been SO good but the plot was too huge and unwieldy so i gave up. my roommate is obsessed with this idea and keeps asking me how it’s going so i may yet finish. but there’s a bit below the cut.

The knock at the door in the night was a sharp shock, bright as lightning, that sent them both back to Khe Sanh and before. Nix ducked. Dick went behind the doorframe. They kept low into the kitchen, where Nix took his old officer’s pistol out from where he kept it hidden behind the fridge. Then they went to the door, keeping to the edges of the hallways.

On the porch was Liebgott. He could have made his own way in likely right onto the couch without either of them noticing, so it was something that he had knocked on the goddamn door. It was particularly something given that none of the boys from Easy should have known about the grow operation, or even about Dick’s farm, being as Dick’s address on file at the V.A. was a post office box in town and Nix’s was still in Jersey. These considerations were nil to somebody who had spent the better part of five years in the bush of Vietnam. He took a last draw from his cigarette and put it out against the rubber sole of his boot, then he put the butt in his pocket. As far as Nix knew, he hadn’t said a word since January 1970.  

“Joe,” said Dick diplomatically. He put his hand out and Liebgott took it. Then he took Nix’s. He had handsome dark eyes, but they were full of a wall. You could tell he saw you, but it was like nothing followed the necessary channels to the brain to spur emotional response. It had been like this even while he was still talking, and after a while you got used to it.

“You comin' in,” said Nix, knowing he probably would even if he wasn’t invited.

Inside, they all three sat at the kitchen table in silence nobody was about to break. Finally Dick got up and went to the drawer where they kept the rollies and their share of the product. He passed a sheaf of papers and a film canister full of bud to Liebgott across the table. Nix understood as well as Dick apparently did that there would be no getting anything over on this kid, who had eyes in the back and sides of his head. He’d probably had a nice tour of the property before coming inside. “You hungry, son,” Dick said.

Liebgott shook his head. He extracted one of the buds from the canister and inspected it. They did look mighty good if Nix said so himself. They looked artful in Liebgott’s hand. There were black scabs across his knuckles and a dark rime of filth under those fingernails which still existed. He seemed satisfied enough with what he saw to take a paper out of the sheaf and start shredding the flower into it.

“Captain Nixon calls it Easy Diesel,” said Dick, like he was trying to pretend it wasn’t the funniest thing in the world.

Liebgott looked up and a smile flashed across his face like the savage golden light of a flare falling over the far hills. His smile was sort of brutal, like the edge of a knife in a barfight, or like a seething animal. Luckily it went away as quickly as it had come. He rolled the joint with a quick grace and lit the business end with his old silver Zippo Nixon hadn’t seen since the war. There was a skull engraved on one side and on the other it read IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY, FUCK YOU.

“I don’t know how you found us, Joe,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to… tell us. But we ain’t exactly keen to have just anybody here.” He paused and looked quickly to Nix, who tried to make it abundantly clear by means of eyebrows that he wasn’t sure they ought to go down this road, wherever it was leading. Dick ignored him. Liebgott was watching them, fully understanding their attempted clandestine exchange. “We ain’t exactly keen to have the DEA here,” Dick said at last.

The cherry at the end of the joint atomized with a crackling hiss. Liebgott looked between Dick and Nix with extreme seriousness sullied only by his exhaling a dignified white cloud out his nose. Then he nodded, once, curtly, demonstrating he understood his orders as they had been relayed.

Nix flashed Dick what he thought was a what have you done type look. But Dick looked totally unbothered. He should have gone into this business years ago for how violently unflappable he was. He said to Liebgott, “I’ll get some blankets and you can make up the couch.”

Liebgott shook his head to say no need. He got up, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor, shook each of their hands again, and in less than a minute’s time he was back out the door with nothing more than what he’d come in with except the joint.

Nix and Dick, on the porch, listening to the crickets, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“Are we hallucinating,” said Nix eventually.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dick replied. “We’ve got to ship all that product or we’ll starve.”

-

In the morning Nix was in the field, inspecting the plants. Liebgott was standing there at his quarter for god knew how long before he cleared his throat and Nix jumped about six feet in the air. There was a smirk shifting across Liebgott’s face that he would have been better about hiding when Nix had been his commanding officer. He looked like he hadn't slept. Back over there he had looked like that a lot, but it had been different, because of all the uppers they were taking. He cocked his head back over toward the long driveway and then he was off across the dew-wet grass which had already soaked through the hems of his canvas pants and his destroyed shoes.

Nix followed, like a duckling behind a hen. Liebgott still walked as though there were eyes in all sides of his head quickly processing information as he moved. Nix doubted you ever lost that kind of skill, even if in the real world it made you look like a mental patient. He caught up so they could walk side by side through the dew-wet grass. “What did you think,” he asked Liebgott.

Liebgott passed Nix the universal sign of furrowed brow that meant please clarify.

Nix gestured with pinched fingers to his own mouth as though Liebgott were also deaf. “The grass.”

He shaped his hand into an a-ok sign.

“You get any sleep?”

He nodded an infinitesimal nod, like the answer was a secret just for Nix to know.

“Well if you think it could be better just tell me how.”

Nix had had a high school friend whose sister was deaf from scarlet fever and whom he had watched on occasion communicate with her by means of sign language. Early on, back over there, he had sent off to command for a book, but by the time it came he understood it wasn’t that Liebgott couldn’t speak, he just didn’t want to. It was something like how people’s hair supposedly turned white if they witnessed some evil thing, or how people became ascetics in the name of god. If you were really fucked up on drugs or fear or otherwise, or if the natural magical thinking from childhood hadn’t been fully beaten out of you, you might have seen it as the sacrifice he had given to the forest for letting him out without a scratch so many goddamn times. It had been a bit of a trial to explain this to Spiers, who was practical almost to a fault, sometimes.

Liebgott showed another a-ok sign. Then he did a thumbs up which Nix knew meant it was good.

All in all it was smart. If he was still talking, Nix might have asked him, what have you been up to? You been sleeping on the street? You been to the V.A.? What did they tell you? And the answer would’ve been nothing good. Instead they just walked in the cool grass together in the sunshine and the morning was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It was all lovely until Liebgott had to physically stop him, laughing, somehow silently but also hysterically, from stepping right onto the razor-thin tripwire stretched invisibly across the dark gravel.

In the kitchen, Dick was doing the numbers. He took his glasses off when Nix came in and put the coffee on. “He learned a thing or two from Charlie,” Nix said, leaning against the counters.

“Who, Joe?”

“Our driveway is thoroughly ratfucked.”

“Hmm,” said Dick. He put the glasses back on and turned back to the accounting book. He was going to do this whole thing as above board as was humanly possible. The vivid daylight came through the window and struck the lens of his unstylish Ray-Bans and threw a kind of prism of color upon the white paper and the chicken-scratch sums. Nix felt like maybe this was something you would paint if you had the necessary implements and artistic ability. “Maybe we should see if we can get any more help.”

-

He was mildly ashamed to say it, but the doc had always kind of creeped Nix out. He imagined a hypothetical conversation with Dick, who he knew loved the kid, almost like a son: Listen, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, I owe him my life, yadda yadda. But either he’s dropped the brown acid one too many times or the voodoo exorcism went FUBAR.

The doc had arrived on the farm on the heels of Sunshine and Rainbows, aka Mr. Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, aka one Edward “Babe” Heffron. Nix had written Babe in South Philly, being as he was a connoisseur of bud and once upon a time had been famed among their company for smoking anything anyone put in his hand, often to his own detriment. The operation was getting big enough that Nix needed another pair of hands, other than Liebgott, of course, who was still fortifying the long driveway whilst giving away his cover by playing Led Zeppelin IV as loudly as was possible. It was a tough calculation, because Babe was a genius of pot, but he couldn’t keep a damn secret, and lo and behold he had dragged along with him a dark shadow in the human form of Eugene Roe. They came up the driveway in a big old Ford pickup that rattled its rust off in the potholes. Liebgott had dismantled the traps specially for their arrival when they had called from Williamsport to say they were an hour out.

“I figured we could use a medical professional to lend some credibility to the operation,” said Babe thoughtfully, sparking a joint on the porch over sweating jam jars of iced tea.

Roe snorted or something but it wasn’t really a normal person’s self-effacing laugh. Winters clapped his back. Nixon knew Roe had dropped out of medical school after two years but there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew that. Now he was working construction and Babe claimed to be working as a mechanic in a garage, but this seemed suspect given the state of the car they had driven up in.

“Well we sure as hell are glad you boys are here,” said Dick magnanimously.

Babe exhaled an opaque cloud that rivaled Nix’s own father’s ability with a stogie. “Can we see the bush?”

They went out all together to the field and ducked between the rows of corn. Babe knelt in the soil. It was damp with dew and quiet in here. It would have been almost like over there except it smelled good. “What’s the cross,” Babe said, inspecting the plants.

“It’s an indica blend…”

“Well, I can tell that,” he said.

“So you’re an expert on the plant now too?”

“I’ve just smoked an awful lot of joints in my life, Captain Nixon.”

Roe snorted again. When they all looked to him he said, “You said in the letter there was some kind of altruistic reason for all this.”

“It’s medicine, Gene,” Babe said gently, but also like they had had this conversation thirty thousand times. Nix filed away for later the intimation that Roe had read the letter he’d sent Babe at home in South Philadelphia.

“I guess you don’t remember the psychic break you had at the Do Lung Bridge.”

Babe waved this remark off, even though Nix remembered it too. It threw a chill down his back, like a water balloon had hit him at the base of his neck. “That was laced,” Babe said.

“With what!”

“I don’t know! Something bad!” Babe turned to Dick and Nix. “Gene’s teetotal,” he said, like this was a big old point of contention.

So that counted out the bad acid. Maybe he was just like this. Maybe he had had those big sad bug eyes as a child or an infant or a fetus in the womb. “Good on you, Doc,” Nix said.

“I ain’t trying it,” Roe said, folding his arms over his narrow chest, “no matter what it does.”

The doc was a tough cookie. Babe had claimed, over there, about as high as the Byrds song, that the doc came from a long line of the kind of folks described in Dr. John’s “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” and that, as such, he could heal wounds with his mind. When it didn’t work, as on the night when Jackson died, or the night when Hoobler died, or in the forest when Muck and Penkala died, or the night when Liebgott stopped speaking, he went to sit for a while on the edge of camp until Dick went over and made him eat something. Nix watched them in a state of confused envy, and then he went to write the letters to the families, so that Dick wouldn’t have to.

At dusk, after they ate a light dinner of corn on the cob and rice and beans, he took the boys up into the hayloft with an armful of blankets. “Sorry this is the best we got,” he said. He had said that about a hundred god damn times since they got here.

Roe looked like he wanted to say, you’ve got to stop apologizing for everything. Instead he said, “Where does Lieb sleep.”

Babe perked up. “Joe’s here?”

“You didn’t see him in the driveway?”

Nix sighed. “He’s gonna want to know what he did wrong that you saw him,” he said.

“Does he still — ”

Nix shook his head. “Not a peep.”

In a couple days time, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was hot and tired and stoned, up to his elbows in earth in the field, showing Babe how to replant the hatchlings he’d grown from seed. “You guys room together or what?”

“Me and Gene?” Babe’s eyes were red in the corners from smoking and from the sun. “What about you and Dick?”

Dick, who had the radio on inside turned up as loud as it would go, so that they would hear it in the field, playing Crosby Stills and Nash doing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “What about me and Dick?” said Nix.

Babe was a smart kid. He realized this was going nowhere. With muddy hands he popped one of the seedlings out of its little pot and cradled it into the ground. “Well, I think he thinks he’s looking after me, but in actuality, I am looking after him.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Poison and Wine || Morgan & Miriam

Just two undead gals being pals.

@meflemming

The hide, not yet treated, floated in the water like forgotten flotsam after a wreck, or perhaps a dead body. Morgan had only floated in the deep after coming back from the dead, where she could rise or sink at will. She couldn’t imagine how she might have looked if her curse had tried to drown her instead, if Remmy would have had to fish her out with a hook, or their bare hands, but maybe it would have been something like this. “And you say this helps you feel more alive?” She asked, curious underneath her snark. “Do you think this is like, a thing for people like us? Searching for life in more death?” she mused.”I’ve spent a lot of time this past month watching animals die and thinking about taxidermy.”

Hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up, Miriam added a few chemicals to the water so that the hide didn’t damage while it soaked. It’d be a while before it was ready to go into the liming process, but she had a few pieces in various states of treatment to show off to Morgan since the other woman had been curious enough about the process. “Well, perhaps it’s a thing for you, but this goes a bit further back for me,” Miriam said, lips quirked up. She washed her hands, explaining, “Leatherworking has been in my family since before we moved to White Crest several odd generations ago. Though, I will admit, the process of dying has become much more interesting. I suppose since I can’t do it again…” She raised an eyebrow. “Taxidermy, though? An interesting pursuit. A fun one, too, I’ve heard.”

“I didn’t take you as someone into tradition, Mim,” Morgan said. “You seemed like such a renegade. Still, I mean you’re heading this operation by yourself. And everything here is…” More than a little impressive. Even to her undead senses, the leather workshop was rich with the smell of creation, death into a different kind of life. The tools were heavy, plain, and simple. The tables, spacious. Everything had its place, its purpose, its balance. It looked like the most beautiful puzzle to Morgan. “Yeah, you can’t really watch your own death, you only remember the part where it hurt, and where it was quiet. Or--I mean, do you? Still remember?” She sped along with the other train of discussion, just in case it was too personal, even for the strange bond of undeath between them. “Yeah, well, my girlfriend dabbles and I spent a lot of time in the shed where she works. Playing with glass eyes and small specimens she’s done. It’s kinda neat, how they get suspended in time, sometimes a little prettier, a little happier looking than they were before. Some of them still look alive, if it weren’t for how still they are. It’s...interesting, I guess. I think skinning the critters is going to be the hardest part, if I ever try. I kinda go apeshit for some nice, raw, dead tissue.”

“I have a head for business and a talent for making things, dearest,” Miriam said breezily. “And I put more work into this business than my father ever did. I actually make things. He simply ran them.” She looked around her home workshop, everything neat and orderly and accounted for. Her father had it built for her after… well, after. No windows for sunlight to escape in, and it was connected to the house through the wine cellar. It was the perfect workspace for all sorts of work, and Miriam took more than a little pride in it. She grew quiet, trying to think of her death. The car wreck, the pain and the heat of it, was still fresh on her mind. “I remember it rather clearly, though I couldn’t even begin to tell you when the troubles of my life ended and the troubles of my unlife began. Someone, though, came along, and here we stand. Making leather.” She walked over to a piece that was closer to being finished, the hide already cured and turned into actual leather. She’d been toying around with it, a messenger bag, perhaps, tooling floral designs into the flaps of it. On the table in front of it was the designs sketched out more clearly onto paper, so she had a rough idea on what she was creating. Next to it was a sketch of a pair of heeled boots she thought about attempting, though it’d been quite some time since she’d attempted shoes. “It’s all a bit macabre how we make beautiful things out of death, isn’t it? Jackets, taxidermied animals, it was all living once and we… I don’t guess I could say that I’m doing much to preserve it, but.” She looked Morgan over. “You’re still very new to all of this. Control comes with experience. Until then… Perhaps you can help her with the less bloodied parts?”

Morgan hadn’t considered that Miriam’s work would be a pragmatic choice. But she’d never had anything passed down to her except her curse, nothing she could use or consider her own. She was used to using whatever she had on hand, though. And this, well, she could admit was a pretty good ‘whatever’ to lean on in a crisis. “Do you identify more as an artist or a craftsman?” She asked, hearing Miriam’s pride in doing the heavy work on her own. “Oh, yeah, I think...that’s the hope right now. I haven’t really got up the nerve  to see her while she’s working, but I fiddle with the tools sometimes, the glass eyes. It’s weird, what pains people will take to make something fake look like it has a spark of life. Although,  I think it’s all in the lid sculpting, from what I can tell. Even in people, it’s the skin that signals emotion, or the eyebrows,” She gestured to Miriam’s own expression with a smirk.

Morgan wandered over to the work in progress, ghosting her finger along the shapes tooled into the leather. “With leather I guess it’s different,” she said. “What do you think about, when you’re making it into something? What are you trying to capture?”

Considering the question, Miriam cocked her head to the side, considering her work. “I suppose it depends on who you ask. One of my teachers in college would have said an artist. Between my sketches, and I’ve dabbled in other mediums. But some businessmen I’ve worked with would say a craftsman. All the work that goes into the craft, the labor behind it. But you asked me.” She paused. “I’d say there’s an art to the craft. I can do practical. I made a saddle once. Someone recently asked me for a harness.” Though, that one seemed to be more for pleasure than practicality. “But I like detail, and adding artistic flair to my work. I want it to be personal. When I do something, I like it to be one of a kind. I have two employees for the shop in town. We all work everything by hand, though they rarely cure their own leather. I buy supplies for them, and they make it lovely. They make it into art. So, I suppose it’s all about the piece, really.” She smirked, allowing her face to be more expressive. “There’s your convoluted answer for the day. Though I’m sure I’ll have more. And people don’t want it to seem fake. They want it to seem preserved. A dear family pet isn’t really dead, only sleeping by the fire. They want the illusion of well-preserved life.”

Miriam looked over at the piece, moving a bit closer to Morgan. How strange; she was rarely around other members of the undead. It was almost as quiet as if she was alone in the room. Not a single heartbeat between the two of them. “Mostly I’m trying to capture what the buyer wants,” she said wryly. “But sometimes, I’m simply playing around. I think about what looks pretty. If it’s something I could stand to own myself or not. I might see a design in something and think I can do it better, so I make the attempt. The end result is either something that can be sold at an extremely high price or an extremely low one.”

“You’re gonna hate this, but putting my spin on a commission was my favorite part of the alchemy-crystal game,” Morgan said, looking thoughtfully at the sketches on the table, carefully picking up one sheet, then the other. “Every once in a while I got some really boring, overly-detailed request, usually ugly too. But some people would say, I want an amethyst mirror, I want a smoky quartz ring holder that reminds me of my cat’s left paw, and that was it. That middle space, where what they want becomes part of the challenge, or the fun, was the best. I don’t even know how many sketchbooks like these I threw out.” She brushed her hands on her skirt, as if dusting away the memory, the longing for those hours. “Whatever I do next will be the old-fashioned way, don’t worry,” she said wryly. “A set up like this would be nice. It feels lived-in, for lack of a better word. I bet you could pass a whole day here and not notice a thing. Or maybe that’s just me? Time has a way of getting slippery. I’m not good at coming home when I’m supposed to unless I set an alarm. If it wasn’t for everyone else, I don’t think I’d mind so much. Days and nights don’t mean as much when you don’t sleep. But I guess that’s different for you, you sleep a little, right?” She danced her fingers on the edge of the table, pressing down, testing how much of it she could feel. “Do you have anyone, that makes time matter for you?”

“You were certainly good with your craft,” Miriam said, only a bit begrudgingly. She had the decanter Morgan made in the house, filled with quality bourbon. She’d yet to actually drink any of it, but she stared at it sometimes, torn between being disgusted and impressed. “I’ve always liked it when customers give me that bit of creative license, the freedom to give them what they want without it being too specific.” She did raise a single eyebrow a bit at Morgan’s comment. “Morgan, dear, I know it’s not quite the same,” not as wholly wrong, “as it was before, but, for better or worse, you’ll always be using magic with whatever you apply yourself to for the rest of your days. There’s no more old-fashioned way.” She looked around, taking pride in her workshop, the one place that she felt at home. “I do pass the whole day in here occasionally. Sometimes several days. No eating, no sleeping, no noticing the time until it’s pointed out to me.” She shrugged, leaned against the workbench. Miriam didn’t slump; she was raised better than that, but she did grab a pencil and twirl it between her fingers, thoughtful. “I sleep?” She hated how it sounded like a question. “Not for long, and it’s not… I don’t particularly dream or anything. I suppose it’s just rest. The closest I got to sleeping lasted for several years and was closer to death, I think.” She watched Morgan’s fingers and the slight dent in the table they caused. She didn’t say anything about it, though, too focused on the question. Did she? No. She had acquaintances, occasional dalliances, but no one who made time matter. That had been Theo and his family and her family. They were all gone now. Now, all she had was revenge, and that didn’t make time matter; it just made it drag. “I have my work,” she said breezily, while not being specific as to what work she meant. “It’s no person, but it serves its purpose.”

“What do you mean no more old-fashioned way? Like, because--” Because she was dead? Or un-dead rather? Morgan hadn’t thought of it that way before. Obviously what had happened to her wasn’t the norm. Dead people, generally speaking, did not come back. The soft nothing space she had slept in was the end of all things. There were no more sunrises or lovers or rabbits any more than there was no more sleep, no more taste. And with magic dead inside her, she carried that betrayal. She hadn’t thought that it was keeping her alive, somehow. That it had seeped into her corpse and carried her through her existence. But if it wasn’t her heart, what else could she call it? “Because of what I am? W-what--” She looked down at her hands, pasty and dead and--still, somehow hers. “Does that ever bother you? That you’re a little magic too? That the same energy in the universe that I used to control is part of why you’re still here? I just-- I’ve never even thought of it that way before,” and now that she had, now that she could, her mouth quirked upwards in a small guilty smile of wonder. How could she never have asked herself that before? And how did Miriam know, and want to comfort her with that truth? “I just wonder how you could, much less say it so easy like that.” She looked at Miriam thoughtfully, and wondered if her loneliness had been part of why she’d felt drawn to her before. She’d lost so much, even before she died, and she knew pain well enough to become bent and twisted by it. How heavy must it be to do that? “You should let yourself have people, Miriam,” she said. “Sometimes they’re the only thing that makes a day mean anything.” She held her gaze for as long as she could. Morgan wasn’t sure if Miriam would listen, if she knew that she meant it, but she hoped. Morgan rubbed her hands on her skirt and reached under the table to pop the dents she’d made smooth again. “Is there, uh, anything else I can see?”

“On the nose,” Miriam said quietly. “We’re just dead things reformed by something impossible to truly understand until we’re no longer quite dead.” She’d spent hours thinking on it, fretting about it. What she was, what made her, or, rather, unmade her. She had, for the early years, clung desperately to the idea that she might have survived that wretched car crash. It wouldn’t have killed her. She would have been fine. She’d been resentful of others like her, particularly those who weren’t bound to the town or molded by white-hot revenge. Eventually, she’d come to terms with magic, what it was and what it was for. “I have no problem with magic, Morgan. I truly don’t. It’s a beautiful thing, you know. But it doesn’t belong with humans.” How humans perverted magic. They used it and twisted it into beautiful things, sometimes, like Morgan’s crystals, but also awful, wretched things. “Magic corrupts them all, in the end. Kills them. It killed us.” Miriam places a hand over her unbeating chest. “Only difference is that it keeps us alive as well.” She knew she wasn’t going to get Morgan to see her side. Spellcasters, even former ones, rarely did. Though, she supposed that was usually because the conversation was a bit one-sided; she talked, they screamed. It made it so hard for them to hear her. The last one had screamed until he couldn’t; he’d been about useless, unable to tell her about any local covens or even how to fix her White Crest-locked predicament. He left his shoe, too. She saw it out of the corner of her eye but was careful not to draw too much attention to it. Instead, she met Morgan’s eyes and smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. It’d do me good to have,” she paused, ruminated on the word, “friends. We are so useless alone.” She clapped her hands together and looked around. “There’s not too much else going on in here, but there’s a set of stairs and a tunnel that connect to the house’s wine cellar so I can avoid sunlight. My mother’s idea.” It was also so the staff wouldn’t see the family’s bloody secret lurking around in the dark, but still. It was a nice gesture. “I have a fairly decent collection of alcohol. It’s practically useless unless in large quantities, but it’s pretty to look at.”

“A car killed you, unless there’s more to the story. Not that you have to share either, but—” Morgan shrugged, mouth stretched in a sympathetic grimace. “But my family curse killed me. So you’re not wrong there. I just didn’t think about magic as bringing me back. The magic I did before didn’t really look like this.” She slid off her cuff and showed the scar near her wrist in the shape of Remmy’s mouth. “But you’re right. Nothing else to call it.” She tugged the cuff back down and tugged on her sleeve for good measure. “And I am, about having friends. I don’t know how much you believe me, but I mean it. You should get to have people, Miriam. It means a lot, to be known.” She smirked at the idea of the wine cellar. “Hey, at least you can get drunk at all. I’m down to appreciate the aesthetic though.” She wandered over to the walls, looking for the stairs and room in question. She’d thought there’d be more, but it was almost a relief to see that Miriam held on to some of her humanity, even with the side murder.

“A car headed to confront my husband, who was only using me for money so that he could fund his coven’s magic is what killed me,” Miriam said with a shrug. It was fine. She��d come to terms with it. Her jacket was on the back of the chair she was standing near. She stroked the sleeve gently. “See, it’s magic that’s keeping us alive. Not what human’s can practice, of course.” They were doomed if spellcasters learned how to do whatever bullshit it was that made vampires and zombies. Then again… Necromancers. Miriam fucking hated spellcasters. She smirked, though. “Well, I do thank you for that, Morgan. I should invest in some people. Friends.” She batted her eyelashes, knowing it probably wouldn’t work with Morgan having a girlfriend but not being one to turn down an opportunity. “We can be friends, I hope? Put all the silliness of the past behind us?” She led the way to the stairs, wondering if she should move the shoe but deciding against it. “Have you tried mixing alcohol with, I don’t know, organs? That might get you a little buzzed. Blood always helps me.”

“People aren’t investments,” Morgan childed mildly. “It doesn’t necessarily speak badly of you if things don’t ‘pay off’ the way you want. What speaks well of you is that you try anyway.” She answered Miriam’s fluttering lashes with a coy smile, a roll of her eyes. It was a little late to pretend there wasn’t something of a connection between them. Mriam understood what it meant to walk through death in a way like she did, and without a reason to fear her, Morgan found the return of a feeling she’d had before: a wish that Miriam would let someone ease her pain a little, that she would let go and allow herself a different way of being. “We can be friends, yeah,” she said gently. “And, tragically, no boozy combo I’ve tried yet seems to take the edge off. So that’s one point for vampires!” She followed Miriam towards the dark hall, trailing her fingers on the wall. She noticed a stray shoe strewn absently as she went, pointing to it as she asked, “Do you, uh, get a lot of company down here?”

“Nonsense,” Miriam said. “I was always taught that people were investments. Good ones, if you went about it the right way.” But she could see what Morgan was saying. Relationships were meant to be enjoyed. They were good things, usually. Unfortunately, when all was said and done, Miriam had done a bit too much to allow anyone to get too close. She didn’t regret any of the wretches she’d killed; why, she could barely even remember their faces. Sure, the first few times had been rough, and sure, she ached for something to fill the whole inside of her, the one that wasn’t desperate for revenge and blood. But she was quite good at pushing all of that aside, pretending she was whole. She was still a young vampire, after all, more years in the ground than she’d spent as a creature of the night. Perhaps she’d eventually get used to feeling like this. And, if not, well. She’d read that vampires could turn it all off, if they so desired. Whatever would happen to her if she couldn’t feel her anger and rage? Her thirst for revenge? She didn’t know. Maybe she’d find out. “Darling, you can still go out in the sun. I’d trade all the booze in the world for a nice day sunning down at Dark Score. But maybe we can find something out there for you.” Looking at the shoe, she gave Morgan a wink. “Well, I did say I liked to have dalliances, didn’t I?”

Morgan winced, feeling guilty for bemoaning her eternal sobriety when Miriam couldn’t even watch a sunrise. She couldn’t feel a sunburn or a winter chill anymore, but she could stand in the light and the snow and imagine what it was like. She could remember, at least for now. “What, you mean drinking away the undead existential crisis isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” She asked wryly. “That’s a fair point, you know,” she said. “More than. Sorry. Although, apparently there’s a giant squid in the lake that may or may not eat people, so maybe you’re not missing out on too much.” She really didn’t need to know anymore about Miriam’s dalliances, however charming calling them that sounded in her dated cadence. She scampered down the stairs after Miriam, ready to leave all of that behind and see the rest of her place.

“There’s nothing like a drunken bender every few weeks to destroy your liquor cabinet,” Miriam joked. Though, she wasn’t actually joking, seeing as how she could smell last week’s rage in the form of spilled wine all over the cellar. She sucked in her cheeks frowning. “I forgot about the mess down here. Those undead existential crises tend to end in a bit of broken glass.” She gave a short laugh, but she could clearly smell blood, human blood, underneath all the wine. And if she could, she figured Morgan could as well. “It’s nothing to apologize for, darling. And I have heard about the squid. See, I can’t recall anything like that happening back when I was alive.” Miriam really needed to learn to clean up after herself better. And, perhaps a wine cellar wasn’t the best place to torture a little witch bitch into giving her information on a coven she apparently didn’t know anything about. There’d been some spilled wine, spilled blood, and a new rosebush in the garden. But no cleaning of the wine cellar. It was a shame, too. In her rage she’d managed to break a few bottles of very pricey vintage. It was a waste on all fronts. She walked over to the stairwell leading to the house, a sigh on her lips as she stepped over the mess. Miriam gave Morgan a tight smile. “I’m sometimes unaware of my own strength and anger, these days.”

Maybe if she hadn’t died and made a passtime of stuffing her face with viscera, Morgan wouldn’t have been able to notice the difference between wine and bloodstains on sight. She might not have been able to sense some bits of dead skin, dead something, ground into the floor. But she was salivating in a way that made her clench up with undease. Why was she feeling the hunger pull? Why was there blood mixed with broken glass. Morgan stopped short, surveying the mess. She looked up at Miriam’s thin smile, too sharp to reach her eyes. She didn’t need to ask, she shouldn’t. The whole reason she had stayed away from Miriam for so long was because she knew what she was capable of. She didn’t just carry darkness in her, she had hatred. The kind of hatred that lead to a mess like this. Blood spread in so many directions couldn’t be from anything swift or easy. She backed away slowly. “Y-yeah, um...I can see that. That’s…” The smart thing to do would be to come up with some non threatening question to indicate she didn’t care or at least wasn’t going to push. But as she crept back up the way she came, eyes fixated on the stains she couldn’t un-see as blood she asked, “Who was that? How many...how many people do you bring down here?”

Miriam frowned. A part of her recognized that she should apologize, try to start this over and appeal to the tentative friendship that had been forming between the two of them since before Morgan even died. Miriam wouldn’t lie, she’d grown a bit fond of the witch even while she wanted to kill her, just as she’d always been fond of Theo’s sisters and friends. But Miriam had been raised to not apologize, even before she’d been turned, so she didn’t, couldn’t. Whatever. “It’s mostly just wine, you know,” she said as a way of explanation. But that wasn’t good enough, probably. Readjusted. She smiled, an attempt to soothe. Sometimes, Miriam forgot that she was more bite than bark. “Morgan, I would never harm you, you know. Not anymore. I have no reason to even try.” She adjusted her posture, trying to appear non threatening, but she could no more do that than get Morgan to forget their first encounter. So, she sighed and took a seat near the steps that led to her house. They were on opposite sides of the wine cellar, at an impasse. “I don’t ask for names,” she said. “And she didn’t have any information. Just a drifter, lucky bitch.” Really, Miriam couldn’t be to blame for killing the woman. She’d practically rubbed it in Miriam’s face that she could leave and perform magic while Miriam was stuck in this town as a living corpse. She closed her eyes and took a soothing breath that she didn’t need. “I don’t know. Not many. Wine cellars make terrible places to conduct business, you know. Too many breakable things that I don’t want broken.” She ran her finger through a dark, sticky substance near her heel.

“Miriam--” Morgan began, her voice soft and heavy with disappointment. What had she expected? Where was the surprise in any of this? She stopped, tugging on the roots of her hair as she tried to take in the cold, matter-of-fact way Miriam talked about her killings. It reminded her of Deirdre when she was at her worst, when she was the thing her mother wanted her to be. How could Miriam be this way in so short a time, after one heartbreak? Had she loved him that much, that nothing could exist for her besides that hurt? She let out a long sigh. “I know you wouldn’t, Miriam. I know that,” she said. “But I wish you would let this go. Or at least that I could understand how--why this is so important to you. If it’s so fulfilling, why do you have to turn yourself off like that.” She nodded in her direction, taking in all the signs, the hard lines, the heaviness of the apathy. It was somehow more horrible to look at than the blood. “I just...if it was really that worth it, I don’t think you would have to be like this about it. I think if you understood you can have something besides hating people who never hurt you…” What? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t see another version of Miriam hiding under the darkness, exactly. She knew she was lonely, driven, proud. Sometimes, under the weight of her death and her un-life, she could be funny. But Morgan didn’t know what else. She just wanted to believe it existed. Another breath. It was stupid, she didn’t need to breathe at all, but if she could float some air into her, maybe she could understand why she felt this upset over something she should have known all along.

There was a part of Miriam that wanted desperately for someone, anyone, to understand. She couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t from a lack of trying. After she’d killed Theo, when the high from it all had faded away, she’d cried until she couldn’t. Her mother had been the one to find her, a bloody mess, a shadow of a human being, sobbing over what was left of the husband she’d killed. Her mother, prim and proper, who had left the rearing of her daughter to her stern and more business-oriented husband when Miriam had been more interested in leathers than satins, didn’t know how to react to seeing her child the murderer. The monster. She never did. And yet she’d tried to comfort. And Miriam had let her, had thought this was a one and done situation. But there was no such thing. She couldn’t explain the hunger or rage that was only quieted by others’ screams. Morgan would certainly never understand it. Instead, Miriam kept her face impassive as she licked the blood and wine off her fingers, her eyes flashing red at the taste. She smiled, both sharp and sanguine. “Dearest, I’m only being myself.” She leaned back against the steps. “At least, what’s left of me.” Her hate must be fed to be tempered. She’d learned that the hard way. Miriam would stop if she only knew how.

Morgan lingered in the stairwell, wondering again what in all the earth she had been thinking of in coming here. Why she didn’t have her fill of Miriam from the last time. Had she really set aside the hatred in her eyes over a shared dread of eternity? Was the numbness, the pain between them really enough to scrub away the things she’d done? When she’d been alive, Miriam had sent her to the flipping hospital, of all things. She looked at the woman, resigned and stubborn on the ground. She was so lost she couldn’t even argue with Morgan, couldn’t even fight her.

Morgan crossed the room, stepping over the mess out of respect for the dead. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know sorry’s are stupid, but since I actually know how it is to wake up and feel chunks of yourself missing, I feel like I’m allowed. And--I just don’t think those empty spaces have to stay that way. Not for you, or for anyone else. There has to be something different, something better for you.” She bent down, closer than she had ever been to Miriam yet. She ghosted her fingers over Miriam’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish you would look for it some more,” she said. Then she turned back the way she’d come and left.

Not meaning to, Miriam flinched back from the tenderness of Morgan’s touch. She hadn’t experienced anything like that in so long. Not even the people she’d slept with recently had been tender. But she didn’t cry, for what it was worth. Didn’t allow tears to even begin to well in the corners of her eyes. But she felt worn around the edges and seen. It was fucking with her head a bit. Did Morgan seriously think she could be redeemed? After all that she’d done? There was no redemption for her, only vengeance and the final death that it would bring. This was what she knew, what she felt in the pit of her cold heart. But she couldn’t find the words to say it. Instead, she said, “Shut the door on the way out, sweetness.” It wasn’t loud, and it lacked her usual bravado. She stood up slowly, a phantom feeling in her bones, like her true age’s weariness was catching up to her, and she went in the opposite direction. She was going to have to clean up herself, it seemed. Didn’t matter. She had a bit more time on her hands than she planned for the evening, anyway.

[atsixesandcevans]

All Too Well

Summary: A collection of memories from your time with Steve, and the reality you now find yourself in.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: angst, fluff

A/N: This was written for @yslbuckyx 1k celebration writing challenge, and my prompt was the song All Too Well by Taylor Swift. I had a lot of fun writing this, and although the song is quite angsty, I've tried to make the end of this slightly less so, as well as taking a few creative liberties to make the song work. It's technically also a modern-day au, but its not really mentioned, it just made it easier to make the song work. This also happens to be the first fic I've completed in 2 years, and my first fic for the mcu, so please be gentle, and I hope you enjoy! <3

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You cursed under your breath as you rifled through the storage boxes stashed under the bed, the ones filled with your winter wear, searching for your old scarf – worn and tattered but still your favourite – that you could’ve sworn you had put in there.

It was September, and the temperature had suddenly dropped, the world saying farewell to the long, hot summer, and you found yourself thrust into the chilled winds of autumn.

As you pulled out the last box, you heard a thud come from under the bed, and you ducked your head down to see what it was – a photo album. It sat, lost and forgotten, hidden from view, the memories too painful to look at, and too beautiful to get rid of. Distant sadness flooded through you as you realised what it was; the album you had filled with pictures of your time with Steve.

You reached under, grasping the solid cover, pulling it towards you. Your scarf forgotten, you perched on the end of your bed and started to flick through the pages, memories surging forward at the sight of every one.

The first picture was of you and Steve together, almost two years ago, right at the start of your relationship. You were huddled together, bundled up against the cold, snowflakes clinging to your eyelashes and the hair that wasn’t covered by your beanie. Wrapped around your neck was your old scarf, the one you had been looking for, the same one Steve had used to pull you closer to him so that he could press warm kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your nose. Your faces were bright, happy, the unbridled joy of the very first snow of winter.

In the picture, Steve had his arm around your shoulders, sharing the body heat he knew you needed, and he was looking down at you with the softest look on his face while you looked at the camera – though you couldn’t remember who was taking the photo.

Next to it was another, taken moments after the first, almost the same as the first, except in that one Steve had his lips pressed firmly against your cheek, the cold tip of his nose nudging the side of your eye.

Prospect Park had been beautiful that day, the light dusting of snow making the trees and grass look like something from a Christmas card. Families and couples had gathered all over the park, each with cold-brightened faces. Steve had taken you back to his apartment from the park, refusing to even entertain the idea of you walking all the way back to your place on the other side of town, even with him pressed tightly against your side.

It had been cold when you walked in, though Steve had immediately turned the heating on and gave you one of his sweaters to wear while he made cocoa. It was cold, sure, but you couldn’t help but think it felt so homely; pictures and trinkets placed on the empty surfaces, books lining the shelves, an easel set up in the corner by the window, some drawings and paintings pinned to the wall in an almost haphazard collage of both colour and monochrome.

You remembered, now, how you had left your scarf there that day. After spending the rest of the day cuddled with Steve, you had forgotten about plans you had made it the evening, and so left in a rush, your scarf forgotten on the coat rack by the door. You reasoned you’d take it home another time, but each time it remained forgotten until the warmer weather rolled in and you didn’t need it.

On the next page, there were three photos; one of the view from a hilltop, oranges and yellows and browns creating an autumnal sea as far as the eye could see, one of you in boots and a sweater, leg raised mid-kick through a pile of leaves, hair brushed back by the chill autumn wind, and finally one of Steve, crouched in front of a golden retriever, Charlie, face screwed up in a grin as his new companion gave him endless energetic kisses.

You’d come across Charlie on his walk during a trip you and Steve had taken upstate. On a rare day where you were both free, Steve decided the two of you would go on an adventure, so you took the car and lunch and just drove, not caring where you were going or if you got lost, only that you were together, full of that feeling that wasn’t quite love, but could be one day.

In a rare moment of distraction, Steve almost ran a red light because he couldn’t stop looking at you, the joy on your face as you sang along to whatever pop was on the radio. Steve didn’t care for the music, but it didn’t matter; the pure happiness on your face was all he cared about, and he found himself wanting to make sure you stayed that happy for the rest of your life.

And you were happy, then. Even now you could remember how right it all felt, how things were finally, finally falling into place.

The next page held just one photo – an old image, two young boys stood close together, wearing kid’s baseball uniforms, arms flung over shoulders and wide grins on their faces. One of the boys – Steve – was skinny, his uniform hanging off of his body. His dirty blond hair fell into his eyes, which were framed by black circular glasses. The tip of his nose was shiny and red, despite being in the height of summer, a sure sign of the hay fever he was no doubt suffering from at the time.

Bucky, in contrast, was taller, more filled out, and looked very much at home in the uniform, holding a baseball bat up against his shoulder.

It still baffled you how much Steve had changed physically since then. Obviously, he’d had one hell of a growth spurt, and now stood a little taller than Bucky, while he once only came up to his best friend’s shoulders. He was still the same at heart, though, from what Bucky had told you that day; soft, caring, but not afraid to fight for what was right. Always willing to stand up for the little guy, the one who couldn’t stand up for himself, just like Steve had been all those years ago.

Steve had taken you to Bucky’s apartment, a few months into your relationship, and the three of you had sat around the kitchen counter, box of photographs scattered across the surface, while Bucky told story after story from his and Steve’s childhood. Steve’s cheeks tinted pink as Bucky recalled the time he had thrown up after riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, and how the only real reason he got onto the Tee-ball team in the first place was out of sheer persistence as opposed to actual athletic talent. He really couldn’t play very well, but the coach had taken pity on him and let him on the team, placing him in a deep-fielding position so as to keep him as far from the action as possible (though it didn’t stop Steve from getting bruise after bruise from flying balls).

He told stories about how he had to come to rescue Steve on countless occasions when he got on the wrong side of one or other of the big kids that hung around the neighbourhood. How Steve’s mom would roll her eyes and fuss over him when he came home with yet another bruise or graze, yet how she never once told him to stop standing up for others, only to “be more careful,” quietly proud of her only son’s heart of gold.

It was the first time you had seen Steve truly embarrassed. While they had taught you about Steve’s past, you wondered, now, if they, like you, had thought that you were his future. Judging by Steve’s embarrassment, you had assumed he didn’t involve a whole lot of people in his past, and it broke your heart to think that he might think it was a mistake to let you in.

You’d stolen the picture. Or rather, it was given to you, by Bucky, while Steve was in the bathroom. He’d slid it across the counter with a wink, pressing one finger to his lips with a sly smirk which you had returned. You had never told Steve you had it, instead you’d tucked it away as soon as you had returned home, though you had been oh so tempted to frame it and hang it pride of place in your living room to serve as a reminder of the way your Steve had always been, kind-hearted and true.

That feeling was gone. Now, all the picture reminded you of was an easier time, and the promise of a future that couldn’t be.

A single tear hit the page and you took a deep breath, shutting the album abruptly. The memories were good, but you couldn’t help the way your heart ached just a little at what you had lost.

It had all changed so quickly between you and Steve, and you couldn’t place exactly what it was that had changed. Maybe the communication between you broke down, and Steve had become less open with his feelings, bottling things up like he had done when you had first met. Maybe the blame was yours; perhaps you had begun to ask too much of him, desperate for him to share his life with you. Or, maybe what you had was a masterpiece, a beautiful watercolour of bright oranges and pinks, until it was torn up by secrets and heartache.

Soon, it all became too much. Steve would cancel on plans with last-minute phone calls which almost always ended in an argument that was only ever partly resolved, neither of you wanting to be apart for long. During those arguments, you both became cruel, spouting hurtful things that neither of you really meant to say, but knew were at least partly true. You’d both attributed it to merely being honest with each other, but each time you both ended up feeling like crumpled pieces of paper, laying used and abandoned on the cold ground. Until it became too much, and you’d both finally waved white flags of surrender.

Time flew when you were together. There never seemed to be enough time, and you found yourselves spending as much time together as possible, neither wanting to say goodbye. Perhaps that’s where your relationship broke down; you both fell for each other so hard and so fast, perhaps neither of you stopped to think about whether you were even ready to commit fully to each other.

Now, though, time seemed to drag. You often felt paralysed by it, going through the motions each day with no real goal. You’d changed in the year since your relationship with Steve, you knew you had. The heartbreak had torn you apart, made you more closed off, submitting yourself to an altogether lonely existence.

You were still trying to find your old self again, the person you were – loving, open, optimistic to a fault, the very things that Steve claimed to have fallen in love with – before you dated Steve. Before the days he’d wear his plaid shirts because you’d told him they made him look like a sexy lumberjack, and mornings you’d wear nothing but that after a night full of nothing but love and passion and the promise of forever, forever, forever.

The finality of it all had hit you when you received a box of your belongings from Steve. You hated that you felt hurt by the fact that he didn’t even have the decency to give them to you in person. It had been shoved to the back of the closet as soon as you had opened it, the memories attached to the things inside too raw and painful for your aching heart. The rain poured that day, and where Steve once would have taken you home, insisting that he didn’t want you to catch a cold, you now trudged home alone, rain soaking your feet despite the umbrella clung tightly in your fist.

What you didn’t know was that Steve had kept your old scarf, had it stashed away in his drawer ever since that first week when you left it at his place. He takes it out sometimes, to remember a time when he was so full of light and hope, to remind him of your innocence and optimistic view of the world. It still somehow smelled like you, though the scent was fading, and he refused to wash it, clinging desperately to that last sliver of a better time, before he lost what he now realised what the only real thing he had ever known, the only time he had felt so truly, wholly in love.

Love like that was rare, magical, and although it had hurt when it ended, and still did sometimes, you were both grateful to have even experienced it at all.

It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well.

[side-shawty]

Burn II (Stark!Reader)

II: Elastic Heart

Fandom: Marvel (MCU)

Type: series (?)

Prompt/Summary: Tony Stark’s daughter gets cheated on

Pairing(s): Tony Stark x daughter!reader, Avengers X Reader

Requested? Yes

I was listening to In My Life by The Beatles when I wrote a lot of this. Hope you guys enjoy it!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER 

•

Y/N spent two full hours releasing everything she had been holding in since that phone call with Harley. Her father received a temperature alert from FRIDAY while he was in the lab and waited until Y/N cooled down before he went in.

On his way there he passed the Avengers sitting solemnly in the common room.

“This is bullshit,” he heard Bucky exclaim from now slightly down the hallway, “I say we go teach the kid a lesson,” despite the situation Tony felt the smallest of smiles tug as his lips. Much to his dismay you and Bucky had gotten rather close because you had been assigned to lead the upgrades on the super soldier's arm.

The Avengers all loved and looked out for you. None of them had ever seen you like this. So … broken. You were a light in the tower, both literally and figuratively. They hated seeing you in a state that they didn’t know how to fix.

The door was unlocked when he got to the room. He approached his daughter dressed in his black fireproof suit. The girl's body was still glowing a faint red. Better safe than sorry, he thought.

Tony ignored the ashes surrounding her — he knew exactly what they were from — and sat down next to his daughter, tugging her curled up form into his arms. They sat there in silence for a few moments, Anyone Who Knows What Love Is by Irma Thomas was playing quietly. It was Tony and Y/N’s feel-good song when either of them was sad.

Y/N remembered when she first got her powers and she used to have nightmares. She thought she was dangerous and that she would hurt the people she loved. Her father would come in and sing it to her each and every time and she would always feel better. She had asked her father why he picked that song that night and he told her that was all he could think of.

The two of them had no idea how long they sat there but Y/N was no longer glowing and Tony let his helmet retract into his suit. Y/N let her legs stretch out straight in front of her, turned her body, and held her father’s middle for dear life.

“Is it my fault?” Y/N asked, her voice slightly hoarse, she only cried since she had been in here.

Tony felt his blood boil and had a fleeting thought that maybe he did have something to do with his daughter’s abilities.

“Absolutely not. You did everything you could. But things were … limited for you guys. I’m not saying the kid made the right decision and the last thing he should have done was cheat on you.”

Y/N only nodded before asking, “Will it always hurt this much?”

“No, sweetheart, but the first heartbreak is always the worst. And yours is still fresh,” Tony said and placed a kiss on her head.

“Now how about we get you cleaned up and fed, and we can watch a movie or something, yeah?”

Y/N nodded and Tony stood before helping her up and they walked to her room.

•••

It took another few days of quiet family time with Tony, Pepper, and an occasional appearance by Rhodey and Happy before Y/N left her room. The Avengers were family too but they kept their distance. Each of them did visit at least once, though. Meanwhile, she did she spend a lot of her time in her private lab.

Something she didn’t do before.

Y/N liked to be around people when she worked, always said it made her creativity flow. Her father’s lab was the biggest and became the main lab for her, Tony, and Bruce. Bruce also had his own lab but had come to really enjoy working with the father-daughter duo.

Y/N was on her tenth straight hour in her lab when she got an unexpected visit.

“Mr. Parker is on his way in Miss Stark,” FRIDAY said but Y/N barely registered what the AI had said until the automatic door opened and Peter walked in.

“Hey Y/N,” Peter said walking up to the lab table she was working at. She quickly shut down all of her monitors and holograms and turned around to look at him.

“Hey Peter,” Y/N replied, moving to give him a friendly hug. He had clearly just come from school, he still had a bag from Mr. Delmar’s place in his hand.

When they pulled back Peter shook off the odd feeling he got from her turning off the monitors so fast. It wasn’t his business but that didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned and curious.

“How long have you been in here?” He asked setting the bag down.

“What time is it?”

Peter looked at his phone, “Like 3,” he told her.

Y/N sighed and rubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her Guns ’n Roses sweatshirt, “Coming up on hour eleven,” she said and sat down.

“I brought your favorites,” Peter said pushing the bag towards her. 

When she looked inside it was filled with assorted Swedish Fish and Sour Patch Kids, “You’re an angel,” She told him.

The blush that dusted his cheeks was drowned out by look Peter was giving her, one she had become accustomed to since the article released. It was poorly masked pity. But unlike the others Peter’s didn’t stay, he shook it off in an instant.

“What are you working on?” Peter asked, b-lining into a new conversation.

“Little things and an adjustment to my suit. I’m thinking of changing the color, maybe orange or hot rod red like my dad’s first suit. But I found some nice blues, a few that match pretty well for when my fire goes blue. But then there’s this—“

“Y/N you’re rambling,” Peter cut her off.

“Sorry,” she said and looked down, playing with her fingers.

“Don’t apologize, Y/N, and don’t feel like you have to be strong around me or something. We’re friends, and it’s barely been a week since everything happened,” Peter touched her shoulder and she looked up at him, she looked into his eyes instead of just glancing at them for what felt like the first time in years.

They were silent for a moment. That was all it took for every single one of her carefully built walls to fall.

“Peter I don’t know what to do,” Y/N told him, her voice laced with emotion. “My parents, the team, they tell me it’ll get better but every time I look at my phone and open any kind of social media. I see him…I see them,” She hadn’t even been this honest with her dad. But there was always something about Peter that made her feel like she could tell him anything and he would never pity her the way her family did.

“Give me your phone,” Peter said, holding out his hand.

“Why?” Y/N asked, genuinely confused but unlocks it and puts it in his awaiting palm anyway.

“It’s time for some revenge posts,” he says and Y/N quickly stands up.

“No. The internet already knows more than enough about me. No need to tell them he broke my heart too,” Y/N says and attempts to reach for it but Peter holds it out of her reach.

“This isn’t about them. This is about showing him what he lost,” Peter said scrolling through her pictures, jeez did she take a lot of selfies. He was fending her off with one hand now.

“Peter, no. Bad idea, there’s no reason for all that,” She said, trying to move the hand on her abdomen that was forcing her away.

“Yes, there is. You didn’t block him on anything, right?” Peter asked and shifted in the blink of an eye. Removing his hand but shooting a web at one of her feet.Y/N would’ve fallen forward if not for her reflexes. He smugly walked away with her phone in his hand, still scrolling.

“No, Peter get your stupid web off of me,” Y/N said struggling to release her sneaker-clad foot.

“Perfect. So he’ll see it directly and not through one of his friends. And it’s almost 4, so I know he’s not busy.” Peter was still walking around her lab, tinkering with things with one hand while messing with Y/N’s phone with the other.

“Peter!” She called.

“Y/N, you take a lot of pictures. Nice ones too,” he said, ignoring her. She felt her cheeks heat up ever so slightly at the compliment.

“Take this off of me, I like these shoes. I don’t wanna burn them,” she said.

“I’m almost done, just gotta add a caption.”

“Ugh,” Y/N exclaimed and decided to give up. She pushed her seat over and laid on the lab floor.

Peter walked back over, “Don’t move,” he said, “This is perfect for Snapchat.”

Y/N covered her face frustrated with her hands and heard the camera click.

“All done,” he said and shot something from his wrist. The webs dissolved.

He laid down on the floor next to Y/N and she held her hand out for the phone.

She sighed, “Let me see the damage.”

He rolled his eyes and handed it over, “You’re being dramatic.”

“Mhm,” Y/N hummed as she opened up Instagram.

The first post was from about two months ago. The sun was shining through her window perfectly and Y/N couldn’t resist a quick selfie, the caption was simply “Sunkissed” with a little sun emoji.

“Gosh you’re cheesy,” She told him with a light laugh, smiling slightly.

“That’s a great caption,” he laughed with her.

“Sure, sure,” Y/N said before looking to the second post. It was of the two of them on some random day they had in the city, a candid that Steve took. They were walking down an abnormally empty street and decided to mess around. Y/N had her hands above her head, laughing, while Peter did a handstand in the middle of the road. 

It was lovely but she never posted it because, though he never said it, Harley didn’t particularly like “cute” photos of her and Peter together. The caption for this read “If the Captain ever quit his day job he could be a photographer.” Peter, of course, tagged himself and gave photo credits to Steve.

“Nice shout out Spider-Boy,” Y/N said with an eye roll before opening up Snapchat.

There were also two posts on there, the first was from her camera roll, a picture that Nat took of her laughing in the common room at one of Rhodey’s awful standard dad jokes that uncles end up using. She had a soft spot for bad jokes, this one had no caption but her happiness in that photo was palpable.

The second was her on the floor, hands covering her face and a blue heart over her webbed foot, her hair sprawled out nicely. The caption said, “Genius. Billionaire. Scientist. Area Rug?” And Y/N had no idea why this made her laugh so hard but it did.

Peter joined in on her laughing fit and as they laid on the lab floor Y/N finally felt like everything would be okay. This was the start of feeling like herself again.

When their laughter finally died down they looked at each other. Their shoulders were touching and Y/N thought that Peter had the most stunning brown eyes she had ever seen. Unbeknownst to the girl, he was thinking the same thing about her Y/E/C ones.

“Thank you, Peter,” Y/N said quietly.

“There’s no need to thank me, Y/N. We’re friends,” he says and immediately regrets it because something flashed in her eyes that he didn’t like. It sent a pang through his heart.

“Yeah,” she said and blindly grabbed his hand to give it a warm squeeze before turning her gaze up to the ceiling, but he kept his eyes on her.

They stayed there talking about nothing and everything. She told him a bit more about how she felt about everything with Harley. He told her about the Millennium Falcon that he and Ned were building out of Legos.

“So you’re saying that Nat would beat Clint in a fight even if he had his arrows?” Peter asked.

“I’m saying that she has. They never told you the Budapest story?” Y/N asked.

“I didn’t know there was a Budapest story,” he said, curiosity increasing by the second.

“Well—“Y/N began but was cut off by the alarm alerting all of the Avengers to suit up and head to the briefing room.

“Another time,” Peter said as the two of them shot up.

•

 NEXT CHAPTER 

[blinkingstardust]

thinker

[tw: death, suicide? idk how tws work]

i'm a thinker, so i used to think that thinking is the solution to just about everything.

it makes sense. the more you think, the sooner you'll find a solution that makes sense, a solution that has most pros and least cons, a favourable solution. and most of the time people end up in a completely horrible situation that could've been avoided, had they choose to stop for a moment and think out the entire situation. then again, for people who aren't just natural thinkers, like i am, they'd say that "everything is easier in theory than in practice," which by theory i am sure is true, but i have never tested myself in practice.

then again perhaps that is also the case when it comes to these seemingly avoidable catastrophes in life—perhaps it is because i have never faced such a conflict, that i have never for a moment believed that not everything can be solved with thought. i'd like to think that it's the reverse—i have never ended up in such situations because i use thought, but even i know as a thinker that the theory isn't valid; so much factors come into play in regards to how irregular, out of the ordinary situations occur in our lives. in other words, there are many external factors contributing to the situations i end up in, not merely my thought processes.

so my current stance in life seems to be that i just haven't been hit with a large enough force to truly test the hypothesis that problems can be avoided by thorough planning. regardless, being the semi-realistic person i am, i spend my life planning to avoid these so-called disasters. i learn about everything—from science to humans, to understand the things that pose as risks into my life, so that when the time comes where i have to face something threatening my safety, i'd be able to fight it off. i know how to spot the right people to hang with, so i don't end up being betrayed or being heartbroken by some worthless man. i know what to do to prevent common diseases, and i know to resist impulses such as binge shopping, so i can save money, and drinking, so i don't die early in life. most of all, i learn how others live, so i won't have to repeat the same mistakes people made. and in comparison to these lives i've read about, 17 years is a considerably long period of time to have lived without facing a major disaster caused by my lack of thought.

i'm not quite sure, though, whether 17 years is an extremely late period of time to realise that i haven't been alive at all.

according to some accounts of science, you begin to die right after birth. biologically, the average lifespan of our cells is about 7-10 years, but the shortest lifespan of a cell in our body can be about mere hours. scientifically, the official age our bodies are considered to start dying begins at 25, because before then the rate of cell growth exceeds cell death. by this standard, me being at the age of 17 means that i haven't officially started dying. 

but lately, it's been starting to feel a lot like i'm dying, even to a physical extent. and it has little to do with the coronavirus lockdown. in almost every aspect of my life i'm doing fine—i have no major health issues, i have a pretty content family, a decent amount of friends to rely on, grades that i can get by with, and beginning recently, regained freedom to roam around the country, meaning a nice, independent life. with the gadgets i have and the money i save, i have enough to entertain myself during the holidays. but even so, it feels so empty. i spend my days lying on my dorm bed, which feels so much more like a deathbed these days, thinking of how to remain alive, but not doing any of the things i know i should be doing.

and by this i mean: i should be cleaning my room, at least once every two weeks, windows opened, laundry done, taking care of my hygiene, and subsequently, my health. but i haven't touched the vacuum cleaner in two months, the furniture's piled with dust, as if no one's lived in the room for years, the laundry basket overflows with clothes worn without being washed in weeks, the window never being opened that it's killed even my resilient succulent, the bedsheets as it were months ago, never been changed. by this i mean: i should be taking care of my food intake, eating as much vegetables and fruits, taking vitamins, and watching my carb intake, exercising regularly and sleeping at the right time to maintain not just my physical, but mental health as well. but i order takeout every other day, and when i don't, i eat instant, processed food, consume an abnormal amount of caffeine and milk day and night, never touching the vitamins placed on the nightstand right next to the bed, eating too much at once then some days, not at all, sleeping more than half a day then, in a day, less than three broken up hours of sleep, and when awake, never moving the body other than to go to the toilet. by this i mean: i should be maintaining an active daily routine through which i continue to pursuit mental challenges, and artistic endeavours to keep my brain alive, making use of the free time i have to take some classes to reduce the study load of the future, to read the books i don't have time to read in school, to write stories of ideas i think in the shower, to sing and dance, and even rap, the songs i listen to daily, to draw the people i love, to speak of the things people need to hear, to even design a house, or dress up avatars, feeding off my favourite aesthetics, anything to keep the brain alive. but i do none of these, even when i have my laptop, my ipad with the corresponding apple pencil, my papers and pens, my phone, my newly and impulsively bought nintendo switch, my books, all placed around me, i don't make an effort to open the apps i need, don't make a single effort to use my brain, use the creativity, and keep it running, instead i lie on my bed for hours, just thinking, thinking of what i should do and what i shouldn't do and not actually doing it, and looking at the full length mirror next to me and realising just exactly how brain dead i look, and that it's only about time that the body follows suit.

and many of the times i spend just thinking, i find myself conjuring ideas in my head, wishing for myself to be not thinking. i find myself wishing to feel, without thinking of the consequences, without considering all pros and cons of the situation, just going with what i feel. i want to fall in love with the wrong person so wholeheartedly, even if everyone around me argues that said person will inevitably break my heart. i want to go to the club and dance like there isn't a tomorrow, sing my heart out, drown my throat in burning liquor and perhaps in someone's tongue, only to wake up with no memory of the previous night in some good looking stranger's bed. i want to waste my money on a good camera, plane tickets to countries in various continents, take beautiful pictures of the scenery and of friends who may not stick with me for more than a year, and feel the pride off the pictures i take, and have pictures taken of as well so i can post them in my social media and have people see how beautiful of a life i have. i want to be openly rude to people who disrespect others, look down on condescending people, and land myself in prison for confidently leading a movement standing up against prevalent derogatory beliefs, and again for hacking into rich people's accounts to redistribute the wealth. i want to spend the nights in the beach, regardless of curfew, staring at the starry expanse of black, with people i care about and people who care about me, shouts echoing over the deep blue, gathered around the blazing red and orange of the campfire, pouring every feeling we've ever felt, in laughter, in tears, in anger, in fear, as humans. i want to be struck by lightning, hit by a bus, fall from a building, faint from the heat, shot by a bullet, and land in the hospital, few seconds from death, and be given a stronger reason to appreciate the life i have. i want to feel human. i want to live for once.

i keep waiting for something, or someone out there to bring about these changes to me. i'm tired of waiting. i want to start feeling instead of thinking. but as much as i want to do something about it, it's too late—my brain has eaten out most of my heart, and i don't know if there's anything left of it. i can't cause myself to feel anything anymore, the only feelings i feel left are fatigue, tiredness, emptiness. a shell of a human.

i'm starting to think that the only thing that'll end my endless train of thought is when i finally stop breathing—but i don't feel scared. i can't anymore. if anything, i await the day.

—

//broke my writing streak (and, simultaneously, my animal crossing streak, and my normal functioning life in general) and have been so... lifeless in a week so maybe writing this may bring about something

[takingcourage]

Additions: Part 5

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 3,600

Summary: The adoption is finalized and everything seems to be settling into place, but what surprises wait in the new year?

February, 2028

The studio feels quiet.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, Arden knew today wasn’t any different from the usual. 

There was the ordinary hubbub as their team of writers chatted through overnight developments and new stories that had broken since their broadcast the day before. In the distance, Ellen was delivering a stern warning to one of the interns -- probably another reminder not to turn in work without proofreading. Errors had been running rampant over the past two weeks.

Arden sat up just a bit straighter in her chair as the coffeemaker beeped from the next room over. Her on-air coffee never tasted anywhere near as good as the first cup of the day, but she craved it all the same.  

Feeling Maggie’s brush strokes slow, she questioned when it was that the bustling studio had started to feel so calm. Probably around June of last year, she considered, allowing herself to relax back into the seat.

After the unpredictability of their household, work had become comparatively tame. At home, there were always footsteps rushing up and down the staircase or the strains of Sophia’s flute drifting through the house at odd intervals. Then there were Will’s uninhibited concerts in the shower, Opie’s claws tapping across the hardwood floors as he tried to keep up with all of the action, the quiet, unsteady rhythm of Alex sketching pictures on every scrap of paper he could find...

It was a special brand of mayhem that only families with three children could understand: families like theirs.

“Good day yesterday?”

Arden opened both eyes to see Maggie’s knowing smile. Noting the tiny brush in the other woman’s hand, she pressed them shut just as quickly. “It was wonderful. When you’re done, I’ll show you some pictures.”

Maggie started on her eyeliner. “I’d love to see them! That Will is such a cutie. I think we really hit it off when you brought him into the studio last week...You all must be so excited.”

“We are,” she confirmed, holding off her instinctive smile so the muscles of her face could remain as stable as possible.

When her makeup was finished, Arden swiped through the images on her phone before settling on the one lucky shot where no one had blinked or forgotten to smile. She and Jaime stood on the steps of the courthouse, Sophia and Alex leaning in from either side. Will was situated between them on the step below, back almost arched in his attempt to stand tall.

Even a day later, Arden had to check her emotions to keep Maggie’s work intact. It was incredible that she still had any tears left to cry after the waterworks that had taken place at the hearing, but she still felt the unmistakable prickle in the corners of both eyes. 

“It’s the first official Lewis Family photo!”

Maggie was right. Anyone who looked at the picture would know immediately that they were a family, even with the obvious differences in appearance. Their smiles, the way that Jaime’s arm was wrapped around Alex’s waist, the confidence in Sophia’s bearing -- all spoke of the connections that had been formed over the course of the past eight months.  

It was one of the most beautiful photos she’d ever seen. 

Still, if she’d gone a single picture to the left, the other woman would have seen another image -- one that was equally precious in Arden’s mind.

Sometime between putting on their pajamas and brushing teeth the night before, a folded page from Alex’s sketch pad had appeared under the door to the bedroom she and Jaime shared.

The outside of the paper read simply:

To: Jaime and Arden

From: Alex

Curious, they’d unfolded the thick paper, eyes welling again at the inner contents. There had been so few times in her adult life that Arden had truly been surprised, but this discovery caught both of them off guard. 

Beneath the short inscription, Thanks for taking care of us, they found a carefully arranged portrait. 

People weren’t Alex’s specialty -- he’d had much more experience with drawing dragons and other supernatural beings than he had with human features. Still, it had been obvious to both of them that the five figures he’d committed to paper represented the five members of their family.

Practiced or not, it had been enough to start another round of crying. Their son’s sketch was more than just a picture of a family -- it was their family. And it was starting to feel like something close to perfect.

Fate, of course, had other plans.

_____

June, 2028

The first sign Arden noticed was an acute tenderness in her breasts. It’s nothing, she reasoned, just a sign that my period is on its way.

When a full week passed and her cycle still hadn’t arrived, she began to be concerned. Looking back, she couldn’t say with certainty that it had come the month before either. May had been busy – going to Sophia’s band concert and Alex’s fifth-grade graduation, starting Will in a summer soccer league, covering all of school-related news items that always cropped up at that time of the year...

Until now, a forgotten period had hardly merited a second thought.

She nibbled the side of her thumb and stared at the plastic stick resting on the edge of the bathroom counter. Unsure as she was about the reliability of pregnancy tests, every instinct she had told her that the little plus sign staring back at her was accurate.

It wasn’t that she and Jaime had never thought about having a baby. They’d talked about it plenty during their first years of marriage. But they hadn’t talked about it lately. Since they’d started the adoption process, the whole subject had sort of fallen off their radar. 

Arden lowered her hand and pinched the test between her fingers. Holding it to the light, she fought another swell of trepidation when the intersecting lines remained unchanged. 

After the intentional, very deliberate way that the other three had come into their lives, an accidental pregnancy was blindsiding. And with a soon-to-be eighth grader, sixth grader, and fourth grader, it was just about the last thing she’d expected. 

A fourth child certainly hadn’t factored into the renovations they’d completed on the house little more than a year before. Or her career plans. Or the trip they’d just booked for Disney World over next year’s Spring Break.

With a mounting sense of panic, Arden wondered if a baby could really fit into their lives at all. They were a family of five.

A cold sweat broke over her forehead as she set the stick back down on the bathroom sink. Catching sight of her disheveled appearance in the mirror, she  raised a shaky hand to scrape the dampening hair from her brow.

She left the room, walking halls her feet had memorized years before. As she walked, she counted every room and every door -- desperate for some forgotten space that could be repurposed as a nursery. There was none, of course. 

Building projects took forever. Furnishing a nursery, sorting out things like maternity leave and childcare, getting used to the idea of starting over from scratch with a new baby -- each required the luxury of time. 

A luxury they didn’t really have. 

Her pulse spiked at the thought of the baby’s imminent arrival. She didn’t even know how long she’d been pregnant, but they had seven months, at most, before their world was turned upside down.

Half of her was determined to march into her office and begin shopping for baby furniture. Thankfully, the other side of her was more reasonable. 

I’ve got to tell Jaime. 

Last she’d known, her husband was collecting materials in the garage, hard at work on the summer project he and Alex had started the week before. In a true feat of creative genius, Jaime had turned the boy’s rough sketch into plans for an actual treehouse in their backyard. They’d been working on it almost every morning since. 

As Arden passed through the lower level of the house, she heard Opie pawing at the front door. Finding the garage empty, she made her way across the yard to her husband’s workshop. The whining tablesaw confirmed their presence long before the cloud of dust that assaulted her as she stepped inside. 

Neither occupant looked up at her entry, but that didn’t come as much surprise. The saw drowned out all other sound. Giving them several feet of clearance, she stood on the blank floor before them.

Jaime’s gaze flickered and he motioned for Alex to pause before handing him the next board. He finished with the piece of wood that was already on the saw, laying it aside as he allowed the noise to fade to a dull hum.

“Alex,” Arden began, speaking a few decibels louder than usual. The saw whirred to a halt. “Would you please take the dog out for me? I need to talk with your dad for a minute.”

She didn’t need her powers to know that he was counting to five and considering the consequences of refusal.

“Yeah.”

Arden wasn’t crazy about the edge in her son’s tone, but at least he hadn’t pushed the issue.

“Is everything okay?” Jaime stepped back from the machine, flipping up his safety glasses to reveal a furrowed brow. 

Arden nodded, bringing the pad of her thumb to her lips and biting down on the skin slowly. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, afraid that the fear in her own would transfer.

This isn’t like you, Arden. Tell me what’s wrong.

She looked up from the concrete floor with resolve, but still couldn’t bring herself to go any higher than his chest. “I'm freaking out and I needed to come talk to you before it got any worse.”

“Babe,” he interrupted. He took her by the shoulders, uncertainty swiftly turning to concern as he saw the tears in her eyes. “What’s going on?”

Finally meeting his gaze, she shared the worry that was foremost in her mind. “We’re gonna have to add onto the house again.”

Jaime stared at her, aghast. For a moment, he struggled with the strange expression, fumbling for meaning beneath her vagaries. Finally, he landed on the only necessary change he could imagine. “Did something happen with the boys? I thought they wanted to keep sharing a room...”

“Not for the boys,” she corrected, breath stuttering as she worked up the courage for her next words. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Deep brown eyes grew wide before dropping to her stomach. “Are you serious?” His hands clenched her shoulders a little too tightly, but she was grateful for the reality of his firm grasp. Her mind still swimming with fears and questions, it was a relief to have something stable to hold onto. 

"Uh-huh,” she confirmed with a sullen nod.

“You’re pregnant?”

Another nod. “The test says so, and I was pretty sure even before I took it -- but still. I don’t know what happened -- a mix-up with my birth control or something? I mean, it was an accident. We haven’t talked about babies or-”

Before she could finish the statement, Jaime’s lips were pressed to her forehead, his hands gently cradling her face. Tears flooded Arden’s eyes again at the tender promises in his touch, and her whole body was light with reassurance. Secrets between them had always been a burden.

“Arden,” he started slowly, swallowing against the onslaught of his own emotions. “If it’s an accident, then it’s the happiest accident of my life.”

“You’re sure?” Even in her momentary peace, it was impossible not to think of how much this accident – happy or not – was going to change everything.

He pulled back to see her, but still supported her face with both hands. “I’m positive. Try me. My mind’s an open book.” His eyes were still poring over her with the most intense look of adoration she’d ever known. But as he continued watching, that love turned to concern. “You’re not happy?”

“I’m too shocked right now to feel anything else. The past couple of years, I really hadn’t even thought about the possibility. I sure didn’t expect for it to happen without us planning for it first.”

“But it did.”

“Yeah,” she told him weakly, voice wavering as he combed the sweaty hair from her eyes. 

“Sweetheart, just because we haven’t talked about this baby doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Sure, life’s going to be a little more complicated, but how could I not want to have a baby with you?”

Catching her lower lip with her teeth to keep from crying, Arden ventured  to ask, “We’ll make it work?”

His certainty told her that the question didn’t even bear asking. “You know we will. It’ll be just like it was with the other three – we won’t know how we ever lived without this one.”

She laughed in spite of the tears that still ran down both cheeks. “You’re probably right.”

Jaime gathered her into his arms again, long fingers weaving into her hair. “I know I am. I don’t even care if it means adding onto the house again.” 

“I love you,” she mumbled into his shoulder, holding tightly to the man who seemed to anchor her in any storm. 

“I love you too.” 

Several seconds later, she pushed away with a thought. “I should probably go. Alex will be back any minute and I don’t want them finding out like this.” 

“Good thinking.” Jaime pulled her back for a quick kiss. “But one more thing before you leave.”

She paused, looking to him expectantly. 

“I know I’ve always said it didn’t matter how we got our kids -- I’d love them whether they were ours from the start or not. That’s still true, but Arden? Having a baby with you is going to be pretty damn amazing.”

“It is,” she answered, finally holding back the tears as she attempted a smile. With a nod, she left him alone in the workshop, her hand resting against her stomach as she made her way back to the house. You’ll fit, little one. I promise. I don’t know how, but we’re going to make this work.

_____

Father’s Day, 2028

Melinda Gale had always loved babies. For as long as Arden could remember, her mother would coo at them in grocery store aisles, offer to hold them for family friends or relatives, and spend ages staring at them every time they attended a baby shower.

Arden had never had any such compulsions.

She enjoyed them, sure. They were cute and sweet, and she understood the desire to care for them. Holding them was fun, on occasion, though she’d always found it easy to look away when they were in the room.

But on this afternoon, keeping her eyes from straying to the small face in the infant carrier was impossible. They’d encountered the couple with the baby twice during their hike -- once at the bottom of the trail where they’d stopped for lunch, and now crossing paths again as they rambled upward through the hills. Both times, the pull had been magnetic, uncovering a desire that she hadn’t known existed. 

With a quick check of her husband’s face, she knew that he was met with equal difficulty. Though he was several steps ahead, he tossed a wink over his shoulder once the small family was out of sight. 

I can’t believe we get to have one of those.

Arden glowed at the excitement in Jaime’s thought. He’d been taking everything in stride, his positivity keeping her spirits up even on the days when all she could think of were the ways that having a baby was going to interfere with their plans. Despite her worries, his happiness was contagious.

For now, the new baby was still a secret between the two of them. They’d been hoping to wait for just a little bit longer -- at least until Family Day had passed. They’d agreed without much deliberation that it was best for this news not to overshadow the anniversary of the kids’ arrival.

Earlier in the week, they’d walked out of her first ultrasound appointment with a grainy picture and a projected due date for the middle of January. The car ride home had alternated between thoughtful silences and fits of giggles -- each of them still trying to wrap their minds around the fact that they would soon be a family of six. 

Smile growing as she matched Alex’s pace, Arden remembered the conversation that had followed. 

While Jaime put their lunch leftovers in the fridge, she gathered up the load of clean clothes that had finished in the dryer several hours before. She’d barely started folding before she sensed his familiar presence behind her. 

“You can’t feel anything yet,” Arden reminded as his hand settled low on her belly. 

“Neither can you, but that hasn’t stopped you from touching your stomach every time you think no one’s looking.” 

“Touché,” she relented, shying away from the tickle of his lips at her throat. “Although I’m fairly certain that I’ll be the first one to feel something. And I’ll let you in on it as soon as it happens.” 

“Still, if there’s any chance she can feel it, then...”

“Jaime...” Arden turned toward him, brushing her thumb over the stubble on his cheek. Though his lips were still curved into a smile, his eyes had turned serious. 

“This baby is never ever going wonder whether she’s loved.”

“No, she’s not,” she agreed as she tucked a wisp of hair behind his ear. “There’s absolutely no danger of that happening. But we don’t know that it’s a she. We could be having a boy...”

Arden turned back to the laundry, snagging a pair of boxers for emphasis. He grinned fully and joined her in folding. 

“I can’t help it. I keep imagining it’s a mini-you inside of there. A tiny little girl with your hair and your nose. Your narrow little feet...”  

“It doesn’t always work that way.”

“It did with you and your mom.”

They shared a look, hesitant to delve any deeper into that line of thought. The day had been too full of joy for them to sully it with reminders of sorrow.

“Even if it is a girl,” she continued, “I hope she gets your eyebrows and your smile -- probably your height too.”

Jaime grew silent, slowing in his efforts to shake one of Will’s socks the right side out. Both of his eyes narrowed to slits.

“It’s not selfish,” she assured in answer to his unspoken thought. “You’re not selfish to want someone else in the world who shares your DNA. It’s an instinct you share with most of humanity.”

“Yeah, but it’s been years since any of that mattered. I don’t know why I care again all of a sudden.”

Her own motions ceased. “Because we’re talking about an actual baby now. It’s not a hypothetical,” she suggested, trying to keep her tone light. “And it’s a baby who's going to have things in common with you.”

“I hope she only gets the good parts.”

“All of your parts are good, Jaime. Honestly, I almost wonder if this baby is some divine way of showing that the world needs more of you.”

With a snicker, he shook his head at her assessment. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You've known that for a while now.”

“I married you anyway.”

She raised her lips for the kiss that always followed such conversations, and they quickly found themselves getting carried away with something other than the laundry on the couch.

“Mom! There’s a rock in my shoe!”

The announcement startled Arden from her reminiscing, the flush of heat at the base of her neck the only sign of her wandering mind. 

Will was several yards ahead, continuing to limp along despite his obvious discomfort. Grateful that the brim of her hat cast a shadow over her rolling eyes, Arden lengthened her stride and caught up to her youngest son. “Let’s find a seat, buddy.”

“I can get it myself,” he insisted, still pressing forward.

“Then why’d you call for me?”

He shrugged, plopping onto a rock and yanking off one tennis shoe. Will offered no further explanation as she continued watching, too distracted with his inspection of the small piece of gravel that came from shoe’s heel.

Arden glanced up to see that the other three had stopped to wait for them. Alex had wandered a few steps ahead and was walking across a fallen log with his arms outstretched for balance. Jaime and Sophia were still talking animatedly about something, but Arden had lost the thread of their conversation long ago. As she watched, her husband nodded as if to encourage them to take their time. 

“Can I double knot it?” Will’s fingers were already poised to loop the laces a second time.

“As long as you do it loosely.” 

Will let out a disgruntled sigh before pulling the ties into a second knot. Finished, he hopped up and ran ahead with a sudden burst of energy. Arden hung behind a moment longer, considering the sight in front of her. 

Just days from now, they’d pass the first anniversary of bringing these kids into their home. Life ever since had been full of give and take. Challenging, but fulfilling. Busy, but fun. Heartbreaking, but rewarding.

These kids had turned their lives upside down in all the best ways, and Jaime was right: it was impossible to imagine where they’d be without them. 

Surely they could make it with one more.