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suspendingtime · 6 months

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20 Questions for Fic Writers!

I've been tagged by @stars-of-kyber and @andthebubbles. 😁 So although I feel barely qualified, I guess I best do this...

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

7. 🤗

I started about 2 months ago, so... and yes, they're all Kanthony. Initially just started as a way of contributing to Anthony Week 2023, and I didn't even expect that I'd actually do all 7 days.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

13,370.

Currently ranging at 661 to 3,779 per fic. Rookie numbers!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

So far, just my beloved Bridgerton.

But there have been a couple other shows that have tempted me...

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Astride - 166

Nursery - 118

Hunt - 105

Yours - 94

Temptation - 88

Having published a handful with various ratings, it's quite interesting to see the kudos, bookmarks (private vs public), and subs ratios! Much to think about.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes.

Why... I sort of have a need? Idk, when I see a comment it's hard to just leave it hanging there and not to reply. Like irl if someone looked at something I made and verbally commented on it... and I just stared back blankly not saying anything. 😐 This is how it feels to me on the receiving end at least haha. And my replies saying various forms of 'Thank you!' is probably quite repetitive, but hey ho.

Plus comments give you that lil hit of dopamine; from both povs as a writer or reader. Being on the reader side for most of my Ao3 activities I tend to comment on most of fics I read, I can't help it - I must tell you what I loved about it and why, and there's a pleasure in reciprocating that back too. Look, now I've written half an essay on the subject, gaaah. (I've not been on Ao3 as much as I'd like to recently, and because I opened it to scoop out the stats for some of the questions above I can now see that I have some unreads... and the need is happening.)

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmmm *thinking really hard*, I don't think any of them have an ending that is all that angsty. If I had to choose, maybe Temptation?

The pattern I've shown so far in my posted works is that it's gonna be 90% fluff. Though that is liable to change. 😆

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably Nursery?

I'm not sure, cause they've all ended on a pretty optimistic note so far. But that one has Kate and Anthony with a few of their kids, so it's the furthest on the Kanthony HEA timeline.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not yet...

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Ummm 👀 I may have dabbled in some smut.

What kind... hm, the kind where both people are panting for each other, and end up caving because they literally can't hold their horniness in anymore (this totally explains why I went feral for Bridgerton S2, ha). Another pattern I seem to have is making Anthony a submissive man puddle.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not yet, but I do have some crack ideas I may explore.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, I very much doubt it.

How often does this happen to people?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I'd certainly be all for it if anyone ever wanted to translate any works of mine. 😊

If I was proficient enough to write in other languages, then I would probably try publishing the different versions from the get go.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Kinda?

Nothing formal, but there was a lengthy comment thread on Reddit some months ago where myself and another user went back and forth re-writing the script for that stormy library scene 😅 (not so much re-writing what was already there, bar the last few lines, more of a continuation in a universe where Kate hadn't fled).

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Must I even answer this? Kanthony, c'mon now.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

There's only 1 work that I have, where I've actually started a chapter 2. And I have all the faith that I will finish it. ✍️🤓

Other potential WIPs, that are currently just posted as one shots, only exist in my head... who knows if they will see the light of day.

16. What are your writing strengths?

This question feels illegal to be asked.

I have no idea, I'm very new to this whole writing thing. At least in terms of fiction, so I'm not sure what I'd consider my strengths to be. I feel like I need some more practice before I can get a real sense of this?

I would say that dialogue usually comes very quickly to me, and it's having to fill in the bits around it that takes more brain muscles. So that might indicate something.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Everything apart from the answer to the question above.

But really I think it's remembering that there is a world outside of the main couple happening, and trying to describe the details there. Also other general 'setting the scene' stuff like clothing, weather etc etc. I usually just want to jump straight in with some random dialogue.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

On writing it... no thoughts; not done it yet!

If I needed to for some unknown fic reason in the future, I'm sure I'll be apologising profusely in the author notes for trusting Google translate and probably butchering whatever language it is.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Still just the one so far, Bridgerton. 😌

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Hunt 🥺🥹 I was a lot of feels, and just very indulgent tbh.

I also really enjoyed my shortest one, Obedient, which was in 2nd person (hadn't done that before). The writing of that one was just really fun and I idky but I've reread it quite a bit!

__________________________________________________

I'm woefully looking at my Ao3 bookmarks (which has grown exponentially since joining Tumblr), full of things that I've not got round to reading yet. So I'm tagging partly based on stuff hanging out on top of that pile: @islemeadow, @ladykettlechips, @hydriotaphia, @eleanor-bradstreet, and the smut aunties @colettebronte & @fayes-fics 😋 (if y'all wanna do it, ofc. I tried to find those who hadn't been tagged/done it yet, sorry if you've actually already done this and I've just not found it).

#20 questions for fic writers #tag game #fanfic writing #fan fiction

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italianpersonwithashippersheart · 3 months

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Shipper Tag Game!

I was tagged by @theflagscene thanks for the tag <3

1 - What ship were you completely obsessed with when you were a teenager, but now you don’t care about anymore?

Ron and Hermione. But I was basically offline for most of my teen years so it was a private obssession.

2 - Which ship would you consider your first one?

These two

From the anime Kodomo No Omocha, the anime was called Rossana In Italian, still the best theme song in the world, that song is basically instand magic nostalgia button for me, I was a child and basically the age of the characters when I watched it, maybe a year or two older, they bewitched me body and soul.

3 - Your first fanfic belonged to which couple?

Written, I have never written anything that could be consider fanfic. Maybe once I wrote a single scene fic for an Italian Show but that's it.

Read on AO3: Stranger Things post s1 fics and Still Star Crossed fics were the first fandoms. I don't have the old fanfiction.net account and my shitty memory doesn't let me remeber shit from that time so, I will go with that.

4 - Do you remember the first couple you saw fanart of?

Not really, my memory is bad. Maybe Stydia, teen wolf was my first tumblr fandom along side GMW. Or Shameless.

5 - Did you ever get into ship discourse?

I have been aware of ship discourse. And I once pettily unfollowed someone because they shipped my NOTP at the time. But not really.

6 - Did you used to have a NOTP or have any currently?

I did used to consider ship NOTPs, but I don't currently use that term anymore, I am way into my ship and let ship era. I don't feel like any of the ship I dislike now are strong enough to be a notp. Even if there are a few that almost qualified.

7 - Who were the couple in the last fanfic you read?

Got curious because someone mention some Nick/Sand and some Nick/Sand/Ray stuff on my dash and looked up some Only Friend fics for the first time since the show ended.

8 - Currently do you have any OTPs?

Too many. I have been mostly watching BLs and QLs recently. Honestly shipping as become a little more low-key recently. I can love a ship and even read fanfic for them (although small confession I am becoming far more picky and It's super hard now to read a fic I enjoy especially in the BL sphere). And I am watching so many shows at the same time I don't think any of them could be called an OTP, in that omg I am so obsessed with them way. I feel like my attention is too split for that.

Not that I am not enjoying having so many ships and couples to choose from, I love it here in BL land.

If I had to pick a single ship that is consuming me body and soul like stuff used to I have to go with PheeNon from Dead Friend Forever, because this show put itself in my head and is going to stay there until it's over.

9 - Is there any couple that to this day you are extremely mad about them not getting together?

Does it have to be an old ship?? Because I only rember some recent stuff.

I WILL STAY MAD ABOUT TODDBLACK FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!!!!!!!!!!

10 - Is there any ship that you used to dislike but now you think are kind of interesting?

Not sure, I have come around a couple of BL ships I didn't initially like at first viewing. Nothing special though.

11 - Do you have a ship that in the past was considered ‘normal’ but now you would be cancelled over?

I am not sure, I used to be the kind of person that followed canon and didn't get the appeal of crackships at the time. Or shipping non canon ships.

I guess maybe some het ships that I know now either have a very obviously gay coding (both or just one) or it's more common to put in a gay ship. But I am not sure anything too controversial.

I kind of read some early Mame fanfics and enjoy some of the mame ships does count?

12 - What’s your favourite crack ship?

Taking crack fic too mean there is basically no evidence of this in canon and there is little to no fics about them.

Ming/Yo from 2Moons (the og) I will die on this hill, the actor that played these two had amazing chemestry.

Anwar and Maxxie from Skins Gen 1. There are 3 fics of them on ao3. 3!!!! I feel like the only person that see this.

13 - Who is the couple you’ve read the most fanfics of?

I think maybe it's either Hannigram or Buck and Eddie from 911 a show I am feeling very over right now. So that will definately change.

14 - What do most of your ships usually have in common?

Not much. I enjoy different types of dynamics.

15 - What do you absolutely hate in a ship?

I have come to a point where if I can see the chemestry and I like the characters and I can get into the characters head and I think the relationship is interesting I can forgive bad or clunky writing. Or tropes like miscommunication and noble idiocity.

There is one trope that almost always kills a ship for me. Years long seperation in the final act. This is pretty much a bl only trope. But I have seen it in Het shows before I think.

I can understand a seperation for a couple of weeks or even months due to externel pressures and maybe some noble idiocity, or even something like I need to sort myself out a little first like Until We Meet Again. I don't love it. But it's fine. But YEARS!! That shit pisses me off. That is why even if I can understand the writing decision behind I hold a grudge over Ghost Host, Ghost House. I understand it was a good drama and the writing was good and the ship is cute. BUT I HATE THAT TROPE.

Not sure how did already so I will only tag @respectthepetty and @callipigio @benkaaoi

#txt #tag game

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sazandorable · 4 years

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About moderating and banning content on AO3!

Okay so! I haven’t had the spoons to do this for a while but I cracked and ranted about it on twitter which is... not... conducive to long rants, so!

This is a h u g e discussion part of the l o n g history that led to the creation of AO3, which older, more informed, and more articulate people have talked about at length and can be found around if you look (I reblog some of it in my AO3 and fandom history tags for the curious). So I won’t go into that here, nor into the practical reasons why it’s not even possible to put that system in place anyway.

Arbitrarily, or the purpose of this post, because it’s the biggest topic I’ve seen brought up lately, I’ll be talking about fic depicting underage characters in se*ual situations, but honestly I could hold the exact same conversation on literally any controversial content.

This is about why you, specifically, if you are a content creator and especially if you are marginalised and especially if you are queer and especially especially if you are sensitive to fiction depicting certain things... do not, actually, want a banning system on AO3.

What? Of course we do. There’s a lot of p*do shit on AO3 and p*do shit is gross. No one should condone that, wtf? It would be easy to do — just periodically delete the entire Underage tag!

What will happen if that is done is that people will re-upload and continue to write it, they’ll just stop tagging and you will run into it with zero warning nor ability to filter it out. Again, this is not a theoretical — we know this is what happens. When I was a teen, adult content (all adult content) was not allowed on FF.NET; it was everywhere regardless, and without tags. The exact same thing happened on tumblr when adult content was banned as well. It’s not a matter of “staff not handling it well” — it just doesn’t work.

To keep safe the people who need to be able to exclude that tag, that tag needs to exist and be used.

Well, shucks. A reporting system then?

A reporting system would operate in one of two ways:

-an algorithm, which would delete a lot of stuff we wouldn’t want it to delete.

-humans, which is... the bigger problem.

An algorithm sounds great. We do want it to delete everything.

Okay. What about the daddy k*nk fics between consenting adult characters? What about the fics featuring characters that are children in the canon but are adults in the fic? What about the fics about teenagers exploring their se*uality together, written by adults about the experiences they remember having or wish they could have had? What about the thousands of SasuNaru and Drarry and other shounen and YA fics that will get written, by teens or by people who remember being teens? What about the se*ually explicit fic written by teens who are se*ually active in real life? What about the fics about CSA as trauma, about healing from it? What about the fics written by survivors of CSA to cope about their trauma? What about the fics that clearly show that it’s evil and traumatic? What about the super dark, harrowing, but beautiful and artistic that I’m glad I read even though it fucked me up for days? What about the ones that were really shitty but also horribly hot?

Well, some of these are still not okay, but maybe some might be. It depends on how it’s written. We’ll have humans moderating content and deciding, then.

Okay.

The thing is, I don’t know which of the things I just listed were okay for you to be depicted in fiction and which were too much. Odds are I don’t agree with you. Odds are if I asked 10 people randomly picked off the street, not everyone would agree.

Odds are, even if AO3 arbitrarily decided on which of those are allowed and which are not, you would not agree with their choice, and you would still be unhappy with the decision. (Or you would be happy, but your friends wouldn’t.)

Odds are, different AO3 content moderators might not agree on whether a given fic qualifies or not — is it artistic enough? Does it show enough that these actions are evil and wrong? Can the author prove they’re a teenager? Can the author prove they are a CSA victim? Can the author prove that this is to help them cope with their trauma? The author seem to be functioning alright, they mustn’t really be traumatised!

You know what I mean! There’s absolute, objectively gross shit out there that is not artistic and should not be published.

I agree that there’s vile stuff out there that makes me sick and that I think is very clearly just ped*philic trash. But there is no way to, 1) stop those from getting published anyway, 2) take those down and preserve the safety of everything else.

If we start forbidding some things, there’s two ways to go about it.

One single, clear, arbitrary rule — for instance, absolutely no adult content featuring characters under 18 (leaving aside the fact that this would not even work for the reason cited above). So we lose all the stuff from teenagers, all the coming of age stories about adolescence, all the stuff from CSA survivors; people who need to write it can’t publish it anymore, and people who need to read it can’t anymore either (and as a cool bonus, they’re told it’s wrong and made to feel bad about it). Depending on whether the rules applies to characters that are under 18 in the canon, we lose entire fandoms.

Or, subjective moderation by humans, according to what they estimate to be gross.

Let’s assume all moderators can agree on what’s gross or not.

If there is a system in place to ban some underage works because “gross shit”, then that means other gross stuff can be taken down on account of being gross and harmful.

Yeah! Gross stuff should be taken down! Come on, surely everyone agrees on what’s gross and harmful.

Ah.

But the problem is.

Here is a list of things I have seen — with my eyes seen — called harmful to be depicted in fiction:

Murder

Non-con

Inc*st

Cannibalism

Torture

Self-harm

Mental illness

Drugs

Racism

K*nk

Non-negotiated k*nk, but healthy k*nk is ok

Spanking k*nk

BDSM where the woman is a bottom, but woman top is ok

Healthy depictions of BDSM

Unhealthy depictions of BDSM

Queer people doing bad things

Abusive relationships

Rival/Enemies to lovers

Redemption stories

A happy relationship between a 17 yo and an 18 yo

A happy relationship between a 20 yo and a 60 yo

A happy relationship between a boss and their employee, or a college teacher and a student

A happy relationship between a 14 yo boy and an older teenage boy, because that’s reminiscent of older men preying on younger gay boys IRL

Se*ual content featuring a character whose age is unclear in canon and some people headcanon them as being underage, some as being a young adult

Loving, consensual fluff between characters that are evil villains, because it romanticises them and their actions

Dark content shipping female characters

Fluffy content shipping female characters, because it’s misogynistic to act like lesbians are only soft all the time

Consensual s*x featuring a canonically asexual character, because it implies that all aces can and should still have se*

Fics about the same canonically asexual character hating s*x, because that erases the experience of s*x-positive aces

Shipping a character who is perceived by some fans as queer-coded with a character of a different s*x

The tendency to ship a black character with white characters

Fluffy drunk s*x, because that’s not actually consensual

Sleep s*x, because that’s not actually consensual

Trans characters not experiencing dysphoria, because that idealises the trans experience

Consensual s*x between adults that are not married

LGBT+ content, because kids shouldn’t see that.

I guarantee you: you, I, and 10 random people plucked from the street will not agree on what, in that list, is and isn’t okay to publish and consume fiction of.

So why should your taste be the one followed? Why should it be the taste of mods you don’t know? Why should anyone get to dictate? What if the mods think your OTP is gross and your NOTP is fine?

This is the slippery slope argument.

Yes, it is the slippery slope argument. Because we know it happens. Because we’ve been there, because I’ve seen it happen myself twice already and I’m not even thirty. Because we know people do complain loudly about all of these things.

And because the second there is a banning system in place, assholes will use the system to abuse it and get stuff they just don’t like taken down using the “it is gross” argument, and one day you’ll wake up and the beautiful fic that helped you come to terms with your abuse/trauma/identity/orientation/k*nk for feet will be taken down and wonderful vulnerable creative people will have been harassed out of fandom because they argued with 1 person who didn’t like their foot k*nk fic that happened to also feature, for instance, a CSA trauma backstory.

Again: not exaggerating. Not theoretical. It happens, we know it happens, AO3 was created literally because it happens.

I still fucking hate that stuff.

That is completely fine and normal. No one likes everything. Me too! Most of the dark stuff is niche and the creators know only few people will like it the same way they do.

(For the record, I get grossed out and triggered by fics about an asexual character who does not like s*x having s*x with their partner to make them happy. Deep in my gut everything screams that that’s fucked up, terrifying and harmful, how can people write that. But I recognise that there are people who love and need that, and I leave those people and their content alone.

OTOH, I read a lot of otherwise dark shit and I enjoy it in the same way I enjoyed, say, Hannibal, in the same way some people enjoy true crime documentaries, horror movies or r*pe fantasy k*nk. It helps me explore stuff that I like to see in fiction, in a safe, controlled way. I’m also asexual, 90% s*x-repulsed IRL, and, obviously, I would never abuse a child. For that matter, I wouldn’t kill and eat people, either, nor would I do 90% of the tamer k*nky stuff I read.

Of course, Hannibal was fucked up and lots of people probably think Hannibal was gross and should not have been aired — but as exemplified by the fact that it was created, aired and watched, lots of people thought it was fine, interesting and even fun to watch.)

You can and should curate your experience and protect yourself. The AO3 website now allows you to exclude certain tags, and people have developed tools to help with that such as plugins that save your filters or hide fics that contain certain words.

But no, it isn’t going to, and it shouldn’t, get banned.

#ao3 #fandom history #aaaaand that's all im going to tag

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rose-blooms-red · 3 years

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For the clone prompts: The first time Wolffe is back on Kamino and face to face with Alpha-17 after losing all his men to Grievous and the Malevolence.

[read on Ao3]

Wolffe returns to Kamino with ghosts trailing in his wake and his shoulders weighed down with grief, anger vicious in his chest.

He steps off the ship and 17 is waiting, expression blank and Wolffe wants to snap.

He turns on his heel, doesn’t make it even a step before 17 calls out, sharp and demanding, “Wolffe.”

All of Squad Shebs were assholes, stubborn and irreverent and not prone to listening to authority well.

17 had learned how to work around that as they grew up, knew what things to back down on and let them win, what things to push. 17 had learned how to deal with all of them, both alone and together.

There were tones of voice the Shebs could get away with ignoring, with teasing and pushing and denying.

This is not one of those, this is the voice 17 used when Bly came back from training shaking with red-rimmed eyes, when Wolffe was angry enough to lash out, when Cody was pushing too far and still too young to have figured out to be wary of the trainers.

Wolffe freezes and 17’s hand wraps tight around his arm.

“Walk with me.” 17 says, and Wolffe can’t read anything from him.

He walks.

Kamino is the same as it’s always been, it hasn’t changed, but everything else has.

Wolffe grits his teeth and sets his jaw and the ugly thing in his chest curls up to rest.

The 104th had just been reinforced with a transfer of shinies fresh off Kamino. When the Malevolence hit them, they were a battalion a thousand men strong.

Of the near a thousand men under his command, Wolffe is left with barely enough to qualify as a platoon.

It is a failure on his part, clear and infuriating for all that he could’ve done nothing to stop it.

He thinks of bodies in space and the desperation burning bright in his chest as the life pods started being shot down, thinks of the fact that even having the men left he did was a miracle in the face of all that.

His rage is a vicious thing, and he breathes through it.

17 shakes him and Wolffe realizes that he lost time at some point.

He doesn’t know where they are, just knows that 17’s hand is pressed hard and grounding on the nape of his neck, the other tight around his wrist.

Wolffe grits his teeth, feels like a Little again and is furious.

He speaks, tries for even and only manages strained, “Let go of me.”

17 snorts, face neutral but eyes gentle, “Shut it di’kut.”

Wolffe’s chest is cracked open and he has lost near all of his men and he can’t afford to be coddled.

His shoulders are curled forward and the rage in his heart creeps up his throat, overwhelming and violent.

“Get off me,” he growls and his voice comes out thick, infuriates him further until he wants to shake something or punch something or hide away until he knows he won’t make an embarrassment of himself.

17 hums, lets go of him and raises an eyebrow, eyes searching.

It does nothing for the ugly thing inside of his chest, and he snarls out a curse.

17 cuffs the back of his head gently, “Where’s your head?”

Wolffe breathes and leans forward, knocks his head against 17’s chestplate, feels the hand settle back where it was before.

“I’m not in Crisis.” he says, firm and 17 snorts again.

“Not yet,” he concedes, and nudges both of their buckets to the ground so they can sit down on the crates.

It’s a storage closet of some kind, though Wolffe can’t recognize it right off the bat, doesn’t really care much.

They stay like that for a moment, silent. Wolffe with the anger churning in his stomach, the ugly thing in his chest. And 17 standing steady, feet planted, grounding.

It’s infuriating, it makes him want to shake apart, it makes him want to rage and fight.

He does none of that, closes his eyes instead and lets himself pretend he’s still only second-cycle and stupid and upset about some karking nightmare.

Kamino had prepared him for war, for fighting.

It had never managed to prepare him for loss.

17 squeezes the hand around the back of Wolffe’s neck, let’s it fall away and leans back, asks again, "Where's your head?"

Wolffe grunts, throws a hand out to gesture to the room around them, “Here.”

17 levels an exasperated glare at him and Wolffe ducks the cuff this time.

“Done being a brat?” 17 asks, “Or are you aiming to get some biting in too?”

Wolffe glares, bares his teeth and gets a snort for his troubles.

17 has grown annoyingly immune to some things, it makes getting back at him exceedingly difficult.

“You’ll be ready to ship back out in three days,” 17 says, knows Wolffe well enough to know he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Wolffe sets his jaw. He has three days, and then he will ship back out with the ragged and tiny remnants of his Pack and new men to replace the ones he lost.

“Wolffe,” 17 stresses, slouched easy against the wall, meets Wolffe’s gaze with knowing eyes.

Wolffe twitches, debates the merits of actually biting him before deciding it would just make 17 unbearably self-righteous after the initial round of cursing.

“What?” he asks, voice even.

17 sighs, taps at his arm and his expression is serious, “You keep letting that guilt brew under your bucket and there won’t be room for anything else.”

Wolffe grits his teeth and 17 knocks their knees together.

There is, he knows, nothing that he could’ve done better than he did, no way he could’ve made sure all of his men made it out alive, not when they’d been caught in a trap and left no way out.

There was nothing he could’ve done, and that almost makes it worse in the end.

Wolffe has never handled being left hopeless well.

17 sighs again, sits up and presses forward, wraps his hand around the back of Wolffe’s neck for the third time less than an hour and tugs him into keldabe gently.

Wolffe goes easy into it, feels the last of the fight drain out of him, the ugly twisted up thing in his chest crawling up his throat until it’s hard to breathe.

He closes his eyes and 17 hums, “You’re a piece of osik sometime, but this wasn’t your fault.”

Wolffe snorts and hates himself a little for how wet it sounds.

“Kark off 17,” he mutters and 17 huffs.

“Leave the moping to Bly,” he suggests, acknowledges that Wolffe doesn't want to talk about it anymore, “he’s much better at it.”

Wolffe laughs and it doesn’t make up for any of it, doesn’t fix anything but, he’s steadier, just a bit.

“I’ll tell 6 you were the one who set us on him during our third-cycle,” he threatens and 17 aims a hit to his side.

“Shut it brat, never happened.”

Wolffe’s lip twitches up, and he hums, asks, “Who will he believe though?”

17 pulls back, narrows his eyes and curses, grabs Wolffe into a headlock with a hissed, “Karking pain in my side.”

Wolffe grins sharp and he is still holding the loss of his pack heavy in his heart but, it’s a bit easier to carry now.

The anger in his chest is a simmer instead of an all-consuming roar, and the grief settles for now.

#star wars #the clone wars #tcw #Commander Wolffe #Alpha-17 #soft wars #ro'swriting #mywriting #gobayern16 #ro answers

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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Only Live Forever in the Lights You Make

Hey, remember that time Killian met Meg in some tunnels in the Underworld and introduced himself as “Captain Killian Jones” before he called himself “Captain Hook”? Because I do and, surprise, I’ve got some feelings about it! As always, I am still on my season five ‘ish, so here is about 4.2K of name-based feelings, some out of place flirting and some, surprise, Captain Cobra Swan that I didn’t plan on until I typed it. I hope you guys got all the carbs you wanted yesterday.

All credit always and forever to @shireness-says for constantly telling me to keep shoving words at the internet. Even before she reads said words. (I only listened to Arctic Monkeys and My Chemical Romance while writing this. Take from that what you will.)

----

The words are heavy on his tongue.

Still, as if they don’t belong there, or never really did and the feeling makes him ache. Although most of him aches at this point. Killian is sure his gashes have scrapes and those scrapes have bruises and gaping wounds that are likely far more metaphorical than he’s willing to admit. Staring out at the expanse of Main Street doesn’t particularly help. Hazy air hangs low over cracked asphalt, thin branches and dead leaves that only swirl slightly against the barely-there breeze coming from the Gods know where.

There’s no water here. No hint of salt-tinged air.

Occasionally there are some strikes of lightning, leaving the sky bright enough that Killian swears he can see for miles. He wishes he couldn’t. None of it looks right, feels even more wrong, and he supposes that’s to be expected in a place like this, but it also seems like another metaphor of sorts and maybe the torture hasn’t ceased yet.

Maybe it won’t.

He deserves that, he’s sure.

Darkness doesn’t scare him much anymore, at least the more literal variety — or so he will swear, but this is somehow even worse. Every flash of light that cracks across the sky dredges up memories of the kind of storms that threatened to capsize any of the ships he once called home, and he imagines it’s something about extremes.

Complete darkness can blind a man, but so can light. Stunning him, until he has to blink away the dots that hang in front of his eyes and the dots never entirely disappear.

He shouldn’t have told that lass his name.

Foolish, that’s what it was.

“I can hear you thinking from upstairs,” Emma murmurs, slumped against the side of the railing that should lead up to her room in her parent’s loft. Something similar exists in this place, of course. He can’t imagine the blankets on that bed are as soft as the ones he only barely remembers falling into, what now feels like several lifetimes ago and—

“Might be getting worse now, actually,” she adds, “surprised there isn’t steam coming out of your ears too. Y’know, just for good measure.”

Letting out a breath, he’s all too aware of how slumped his shoulders are when he turns. Emma lifts her eyebrows.

“The streets are already steaming,” Killian says, “anything else seems like overkill, doesn’t it?” “Stupid word.” “Aye, that it is. In poor taste.”

“What are you thinking about?” He tilts his head. Strands of hair fall towards his eyes, but Killian doesn’t make any effort to brush them away. “Did he fall asleep?” “Yeah,” Emma nods, eyes flitting back towards her room and the space she’d marched Henry into nearly fifteen minutes earlier. “About time, too. I think he was half a second away from falling asleep standing, could barely keep his eyes open anymore.” “Stubbornness is an inherited trait.” She clicks her tongue. “You think?” “Rather pointed.” “Nah, definitely round,” Emma objects, “in a circle-type way that could bring us back to my question and what you’re thinking about and—” “—Henry shouldn’t be here.” “No.” Jerking his head up the way he does only guarantees that several muscles in the back of his neck almost audibly object to the movement, Emma giving him a tight-lipped smile that isn’t exactly his, but is at least getting there, and that’s something almost vaguely positive.

Her hair is longer than Killian remembers it being.

He tried to remember that.

Before.

Wandering — stumbling, more like — around those caves, blood dripping down the side of his face, caking the same strands of hair that now threaten to actually poke him in the eye, and all he could think about was the exact shade of gold Emma’s hair turned in the moonlight. Preferably when she was also sitting in the harbor, feet hanging above the waves as they passed his flask between them. Or on the deck of his ship.

He didn’t allow himself that particular fantasy very often, though. Getting both felt distinctly like the kind of selfishness he’s now hoping to avoid.

“Stubborn,” Emma shrugs.

“Something about circles, love.” “And going in them, yeah. But I’m also legitimately worried about that pinch between your eyebrows, so seems like as good a time as any to fess.” “Fess?” “Confess,” she amends, “more slang.” Killian’s smile isn’t really that. Is more a grimace and twist of his lips, and yet the weight he’s only marginally worried has taken the place of his heart lightens ever so slightly. Nothing beats yet. He’s still dead. “I like that one, actually.” “When we get home I’ll make you a list.” “Of slang?” “Whatever you want.” Neither one of them move.

He’d like to move. Would love to, really. To cross this space and pull Emma flush against him until she grumbles about the inevitably uncomfortable nature of her perched on either one of his thighs and how his chin digs into her shoulder when he tries to breathe her in, but something about the overall tension in her jaw and the weight of those yet-to-be acknowledged words keeps Killian rooted to the spot.

Every one of those words came out quicker than the last, as if they were an admission Emma wasn’t entirely ready to make and he’s fairly certain the pinch between his eyebrows won’t ever disappear completely. He hopes she doesn’t cut her hair.

He hopes to get his fingers in that hair eventually.

“I mean—” Emma stammers, color rushing in her cheek. “Within—y’know, within...no, fuck that. Whatever you want. Lists of...I don’t know, movies and books and you’re a giant dweeb right? So you’ve got to like books.” “I do, in fact.” “Yeah, yeah, I figured. I just—do they have holidays in the Enchanted Forest? No Thanksgiving or Christmas, right?” Killian shakes his head. Gets the hair away from his eyes. And makes it easier to see the exact moment Emma starts wringing her fingers together. The railing is very likely digging into her shoulder now. “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” she continues, “but uh...shit, what about birthdays? That’s a thing, right?” “Do you think I get two now?”

One side of his mouth tugs up. Despite any efforts otherwise and his own, rather intimate, knowledge of that edge Emma is quite obviously teetering on.

Killian’s been balancing there for the better part of the last few days. Ever since she appeared in front of him again, magic wrapping around him and making goosebumps prickle on his skin, a low heat that felt as if he’d been put on simmer without any threat of boiling because he’s not all that capable of boiling anymore, just festering and stewing and—

“I told that lass my name,” Killian says, voice hardly loud enough to qualify as any sort of sound. One of Emma’s knuckles crack. “The one in the caves, another one of Hades’ prisoners. I can’t—Gods, I can’t remember her name.” “Megara,” Emma whispers. “Yeah, I know.” He quirks an eyebrow, a sudden retreat back to flirting that’s not entirely honest. It’s very likely he’s something of a cad. And it’s easier that way. To slink back into the role, and the person he was and that person deserves everything he’s gotten and may still get.

Of course, he can’t keep it up for very long.

Not with Emma staring at him like that — far too appraising and understanding, and the whole thing fails rather quickly.

Completely. Immediately. A few other words that end in ‘ly,’ just to drive the point home. “Wow, you totally suck at that.” Laughter rumbles in the back of Killian’s throat before he can even begin to rationalize the sound, rubbing his fingers into the raw skin just above his brace. “Fraid you’ll have to be more specific, darling.” “Low blow.” “Endearments, or…” “It’s not going to work,” Emma objects, rolling her eyes when Killian’s mouth shifts in the very specific kind of smirk he knows has always worked. “You don’t just get to start playing pirate and think I’ll swoon enough to get distracted.”

“Suggests I’m still able to distract you.” “Like that would change.”

Heat ripples up his spine. Surprisingly, so. The flicker of normalcy catches Killian off guard, facade slipping for half a moment, and that’s far more time than Emma needs. His hair is greasy when he runs his fingers through it. “Are you something of a soothsayer then, Your Highness? Good at reading minds now?” “More circles, babe. Open books, and all that.” He hums. Can’t do much else, actually. Emotion claws at the center of him, threatens to take root in that stagnant heart of his, and maybe that will help, but it also feels like it could drown him if it had a mind to. The give and take of all this may very well drive him insane quicker than anything Hades could hope for. “How do you know that?” “Which part?” “About the girl,” Killian says, “did you find her?” Emma scrunches her nose. “Regina and I did. In the forest. There was blood and—” She shivers. Tries to hide it, but open book works both ways and he’s always been able to tell when she’s thinking too. Or being inherently stubborn. “I was...well, I wasn’t cool about it.” “Sounds suspiciously like a compliment.” “Ass.” Staying upright is becoming increasingly difficult. “I believe that’s been well-documented, m’dear. I’m sorry about that.” “My inability to insult you better?” “That you thought it was my blood.”

“Presumptuous,” Emma grumbles, although that sort of misses the insult mark as well and he’s genuinely not sure who moves first. Creaking joints give way to a groaning floor, a tangle of limbs and hands that almost immediately search for skin. If only to remind the other that they’re here and real and at least partially alive.

If Killian feels his pulse pick up, he’s sure he imagines it.

That’s not possible.

“And,’ he adds, Emma’s back against the nearest wall now. He has no idea how his head found her thigh. He’s not going to complain. She doesn’t when she inevitably notices how goddamn greasy his hair is. Fair is only fair, after all.

“And?” Eyes fluttering shut, Killian briefly worries for the state of his muscles. Which appear to be unspooling the longer Emma’s fingers move, tracing over his temple and the furrows of his forehead and it takes all the self control he’s only marginally in possession of not to wrap his arms around her, bury his face in her stomach and sob.

“And,” he repeats, “that you were ever uncool about any of this.” Her body shakes when she laughs — soft and disbelieving, which is another marker in the stubborn column, really. Killian doesn’t mention that. He closes his eyes. Breathes. Counts his inhales and takes his time on his exhales, only a little disappointed that the honeysuckle scent has disappeared from Emma’s hair.

“Can I tell you something?” “Anything.” “Half the reason I think we should make a slang list,” Emma says, “is so you can say more of it. Might be one of my favorite things.” “A slang puppet, huh? Here to entertain you.” “Why are you freaking out about telling Megara who—by the way, was not nearly as snarky as her Disney counterpart would have me believe.” “I’m sure being chased around by the three-headed beast of the Underworld will do that to a person.”

Emma’s thumb taps his jaw. Three times. Exactly. “Ah now I feel like an ass.” “Impossible,” Killian mumbles. Turning his head isn’t easy, but he doesn’t have to worry about the rest of his body when he’s splayed out across the floor like this and the muscles in Emma’s stomach noticeably contract when he noses at the hem of her shirt.

She squirms. Above him and below him, and there it is again. More metaphors. More dichotomy, or some other philosophical bullshit he’s not willing to think about now. When Emma’s breath noticeably hitches. As soon as Killian’s teeth graze her skin.

“Distracting—” Gasping, Emma’s nails drag across his scalp. Which isn’t as unpleasant as it probably should be. “Ah shit, I can’t think of—” “Scoundrel? Miscreant? Blackguard?” “What century is that last one from?” “Not nice at all, love,” Killian chides, but Emma just widens her eyes and perhaps they’re both dancing. Without any music. “Probably around the time the first King George ascended the throne.” “There was more than one King George?” “Several, if memory serves. You know those royals. Can’t concern themselves with naming creativity, have to honor the past and whatnot.” “Whatnot,” Emma echoes with a smile. “You want to tell me now? About Megara and how she knew your name.” “I told her, we’ve been over this already.” “Yeah, but—” The rest of the sentence disappears on Emma’s shrug, her lower lip twisted between her teeth. Nerves radiate off her, falling in waves Killian can almost see and nearly remind him of the real thing.

Time doesn’t mean much here. Days pass on loop, and exhaustion is a guarantee more than an occasional state of being. And yet, somehow — as the last few flickers of warmth continue to lap at the base of Killian’s spine, and Emma’s fingers return to their pattern through his hair, something almost like moonlight casts a welcome shadow across the floor. Stretching over Emma’s outstretched legs and bent ankles, it curls up her arm, lingering at her elbow before it drifts towards her hunched shoulders and the edge of Killian’s wrist and then—

It’s gone.

Disappearing as quickly as it arrived, Killian wonders if he imagined it. He didn’t. He knows, he didn’t. Just as easily as he knows it didn’t happen simply because of him.

He licks his lips once.

“I found her,” he starts, “or she found me, I suppose. Not easy to keep your direction underground.” Glancing up, Killian finds Emma’s eyes on him. Wide, they don’t quite demand an explanation, but they want one and he supposes wanting is half the battle. At least metaphorically. “No stars underground, you see.” “Real confident in your navigational abilities huh, Captain?” “Only if you’ll keep saying that.”

She can’t be comfortable when she bends. Twists towards him, and kisses the top of his absolutely disgusting hair.

There’s a shower upstairs. In the right version of it. He’s not sure what’s here. He can’t bring himself to go up there.

An absolute coward.

“Anyway,” Killian continues, “there was a three-headed monster, this lass, and I—we weren’t both going to get out.” “You let her go, though. Told her to go.” He nods. Talking is something of a challenge once more. “As if you’d ever do anything else,” Emma mumbles, a note of pride in her voice that makes every one of Killian’s internal organs clench. That’s all they can do, really. None of them are working all that great, after all.

“That’s not true.” Tensing, Emma’s fingers still. “That wasn’t really you.” “Ah, that’s not totally true, either. It was at least partially me, all those deep-rooted desires given free reign. But I wanted...she was so scared, Swan.” He doesn’t bother mentioning the rest. Being more specific seems pointless, especially when Emma’s fingers stay exactly where they are. And she knows, anyway. He was terrified. Of what he’d lost and what he’d done and what he’d still be willing to do, if it meant she got out of here.

Safe.

He wants them all safe.

“I told her to find you,” he rasps. “That—I knew you were here, could...feel it, almost. No matter where I was or—” This may be their least organized conversation. Full of tiptoeing and heavy words, unspoken meaning that neither one of them is entirely ready to give credence to yet. “Gave her my name, my—my real name.”

Hair brushes the top of his head, softer than it has any right to be and several things in Killian’s chest threaten to combust. “I was doing a lot of yelling of your name in that bloody forest.” “Joke, or…” “Fresh out of jokes, I think.” He noses at her jeans, not sure if he’s desperate to touch her or the opposite. Desperate to brand himself there, so she’ll remember. No matter what else happens. “I didn’t even think about it,” he admits, “just—I told her to find you, said I was Captain Killian Jones, like that was something I could say, and that you needed to know I was here.” Emma’s silent for a moment.

Another. Two moments. That become three and four and then Killian’s counting his inhales again and doing his best not to stare too intently at her. She kisses his hair again. Luke she can’t help herself.

“Had to use the title, didn’t you?” Killian exhales. “Haven’t in quite some time.” “Did you think I wouldn’t have known it was you?” Emma teases, so the joke-thing was something of a lie. A nice one as far as misplaced lies go. Making another noise, he finally burrows closer to her until it’s closer to snuggling and clinging and another round of goosebumps explode on his skin when her hand flattens against his back. “Or,” she says, “was it something else?” “Several somethings, maybe.” “Wanna ballpark for me?” “Not sure I understand that one, actually.” “I don’t need all the somethings, but a few would be good right now. We can get to the rest of them later.”

Those words don’t necessarily fall on top of him. They’re as heavy as the rest, all that meaning and the possibility for a future that seems as distant and impossible as the past or the overall softness of the bedding upstairs. So, while gravity does its best to pull the words down on top of Killian, there’s an ease to them that makes it feel as if they’re simply resting across his back, a reminder that helps keep him pressed to this plane and this place and Emma’s left thigh.

Which is one of his favorite places to be, quite frankly.

Usually without the jeans in the way, but dead beggars can’t be choosers.

“I don’t know why I did that. The name, I—” “Liar, liar.” “Would you like to talk about pants, Swan? Because I have my fair share of thoughts regarding the ones you were wearing in Storybrooke.” “I didn’t pick that outfit.” “Rather good happenstance, then.” “Is deflection a required pirate characteristic?” she asks. “Distract your enemy with half-hearted compliments and—” “—Oh no, those are full-hearted, I guarantee.” “If nothing else, I did look stupid good in those pants.” “Hair left something to be desired, but the pants fit like a glove.” Her smile almost reaches her eyes. Obvious when light filters through the gauzy curtains, once more. “Flirt.” “Only with you.” Emma’s eyes widen. Not in surprise. Closer to frustration. A hint of impatience. The stubborn sort of determination that requires an answer. “And, I—I wanted it.” “Wanted what?” “To be that. Again, I suppose. After everything. All that I’d done, and how much I’d hurt you, I—”

“—You didn’t…” “Swan, let’s be honest that’s the worst lie either one of us has told.” “Ever?” “If not longer.” Huffing out a laugh, she slides further down the wall, a move that can’t feel good on her spine, but does ensure that she’s closer to Killian and he’s still enough of a pirate to want exactly that. “But I—a very long time ago, Captain Killian Jones believed in something. Wanted something, and thought he could get it. Even if some of it was distinctly lawless.” “Probably a requirement for your line of work.” “Ah, well that king deserved all the insults you could come up with. Stealing from him, destroying everything he’d built. That felt like justice, somehow.” “Should I mention the circular nature of time again or is that redundant?” “Unnecessary,” Killian agrees, his mouth inching further up Emma’s ribcage. The noise she lets out is closer to a giggle than he’s capable of dealing with. In a place that’s always tinged vaguely red. “I suppose part of me wanted to return to that. To the ideals, maybe not the laws or the uniforms, but certainly not the…” He swallows. “Villain. Evil. Wrong.” “I never thought you were wrong,” Emma says, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear. Over the ringing in Killian’s ears. And whatever rushes off her. Magic, of course. Responding to emotion and its innate desire to meet him halfway.

Gods, but he loves her more than he ever believed he could.

“I know that,” Killian promises, “even when I didn’t want to. Especially then.” “Make it sound less like an insult next time.” Tightening his arms isn’t easy when there’s this blasted wall in the way. Killian tries all the same. Emma doesn’t tell him to stop. “You were Captain Hook,” she adds, “when we found you. Buried under all those bodies in the Enchanted Forest.” “Eventually that’s really all that was left.” “I can make some more snide comments on pants, if you want. What’s the flammability of leather?” “I have no idea, honestly.” She smiles. He doesn’t check. Knows, can feel it in the very center of soul. “Ah, well, they can probably catch fire. Regina’s going to teach me how to do those ball things, anyway.” “Absolutely menacing, Your Highness.” “Don’t you forget it.”

The room is getting brighter.

Or Killian’s finally fallen off that edge. Either one seems entirely reasonable and maybe even a little enjoyable and he’s not sure when, exactly, he decides to start talking again. Only that the words arrive without much thought and even more feeling and Emma’s eyes don’t leave him.

“It was a mask. A reason for everything else, an excuse that I’d rationalized so I could fall asleep. Captain Hook was a product of his own misfortune, all those unfair hands he’d been dealt. The loss, the anger, the fury that grew every single time metal found skin. Being that, being him, allowed me to drift further and further into that darkness.” “But?” “But,” Killian repeats. “You found me under a pile of bodies in the Enchanted Forest.” “Oh, that’s kind of nice.” “It kind of was. After you got rid of the blade at my neck.” She flicks his chest. The knot of their limbs is another kind of miracle. “And then everything else that happened. Beanstalks, and Cora, and magic beans and—” “—You came back,” Emma cuts in. “Seems you’ve returned the favor several times over, love.” “That’s how it’s supposed to work, I think.” Maybe he’ll marry her.

The thought strikes him as suddenly as the lightning that flashes outside, a spark that’s eerily similar to the flames Emma was just talking about and there are far too many metaphors bouncing around his skull. He might just have a headache.

And yet the thought doesn’t disappear. Not immediately. No, it settles. Threatens to grow at the forefront of his brain, where the institution of marriage has never been given much consideration. Until now. With his left shoulder close to popping out of his socket, and Emma’s fingers in his hair and her back contorted while half a dozen bruises on his legs refuse to heal.

“I love you,” Killian says, unable to do anything else. Except propose, apparently. He should be alive for that.

And sitting up.

He can’t bring himself to sit up.

Only pull himself closer to Emma, until it’s obvious how much he wants and possibly needs and something about a circle. Coming back. Over and over.

“I know. Which is—” “—Good?” “Better,” Emma says. “I love you, too. Just you, you know that right?” Nodding leads to jeans scratching at his cheeks, but these pants fit fairly well too and both of them flinch at the noticeable creak coming down the stairs. Tufts of Henry’s hair stick up in every direction.

“You ok?” Emma asks her son, only to get a teenage-type shrug and genetically inherited head tilt.

Killian narrows his eyes. “What’s the matter, my boy?” The head tilt reaches an angle unaccomplished by anyone over the age of twenty-five. Killian isn’t even sure he could attempt such an angle. But it doesn’t seem to bother Henry and neither he nor Emma point out the use of those particular words in that particular order. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, already stumbling forward. Falling is likely far too generous a descriptor for whatever Henry does next, another mess of limbs that adds to Killian and Emma’s knot, and there are a few more grunts than there should be.

From all of them.

Until they find something resembling comfort, Killian’s head still on Emma’s thigh and her legs stretched out so Henry can take advantage of her right one and— “Probably should have found a pillow,” Killian mutters, hoping it sounds like the apology he wants it to be. It’s not enough. Nothing ever could be, really. And he’s not all that surprised by Emma’s head shake, the way it makes her hair sway and brighten under the bit of light they’ve probably created just now and she winces when Henry’s chin digs into her knee. He starts snoring five seconds later. “I’m fine,” Emma says, and it’s impossible to argue with her. Even in this impossible place. “You’re comfortable like this.”

His heart thumps.

With wishful thinking or more misplaced hope, but it’s there all the same and he kisses exactly where his lips land.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #laura writes canon #CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP WRITING SEASON FIVE ANGST #i saw some gifs of this moment last night and my brain was like: alright go #also: if the timeline of this doesn't make sense #don't tell me #i kind of looked at some episode synopsis and then decided i absolutely did not care #and if you can't see main street from mary margaret's loft then that's just too bad

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OPEN CASTING CALL FOR STARGAZE: “THE PILOT” EPISODE & TRAILER VISIT: https://stargazetheseries.com/casting-call/ FOR DETAILS OR READ BELOW: A Borken Creative Production Sept 27, 2021 STARGAZE is a queer campy sci-fi adventure short-form adventure series intended for OTT. Executive Producers: Jill Golick, Carrie Cutforth Director: Regan Latimer Writer: Carrie Cutforth Union: ACTRA TORONTO (NEW MEDIA) Shoot: The pilot will begin shooting for 5 to 6 days between October 25-Nov 17th, 2021 Location: Toronto STORYLINE: A disparate group of rookie oddballs join an elite squad commissioned to save the Queerverse (from itself) only to discover the STARGAZE program is a sham make-work initiative to keep the crew from rocking the boat by sending them out on a fool’s quest (led by two elder queer chaperones who despise each other). Think: A 2SLGBTQIA+ The Facts Of Life meets The Breakfast Club in space! *BIPOC STRONGLY ENCOURAGED TO APPLY **MUST BE 18+ TO SUBMIT EVEN IF CHARACTER IS LISTED AS YOUNGER THE STARTGAZE RECRUITS: SAF RON (she/her): Character is 20, cisgender woman, lesbian, open to all ethnicities; some physical comedy required. LEAD. Mad as hell and not going to take it anymore, Saf joins STARGAZE with high expectations. If the adults won’t save the day, she will… and finally get the credit she deserves! But can this lone wolf learn to connect with others, stop being a control freak, relax her unreasonably high expectations of others (and herself), and step into the leadership role for which she is destined? First, she’ll have to stop seeing anyone getting in her way as a mustache-twirling villain, learn to see her crewmates’ value, accept help, and open herself up vulnerably. Gets apoplectic when mad; Has a knack for creating very convoluted protest chants that no one can follow. WHIT SPRINKLES (he/him): Character is 19, cisgender man, gay, open to all ethnicities. Must be able to walk elegantly in high heels. LEAD. A social media influencer famous for his snarky and bitter ’reads,’ charismatic Whit has developed a parasocial relationship with his stans. Living life performing in the spotlight from a very young age, Whit has no idea who he really is, what his real interests are, or his beliefs outside of what his analytics tell him: “My fans are gonna love this!” Only joining STARGAZE under pressure from his stans, his inability to forge true intimate connections is exacerbated by his relationship with his mother/manager Mumsy Sprinkles, a talentless hack/narcissistic stage mother living her dreams through her kid. If Whit was a meme he would be: ‘Bitch, I dun give a fuck!’ But he does, indeed, give a fuck. ESSA T. HATCH (they/them): Character is 18, non-binary or agender, asexual, demiromantic, neurodivergent, open to all ethnicities. LEAD. Adorkable Essa is an introvert who doesn’t really ‘get’ people. The explorer among the crew with an engineering mind and a love of mapping places and spaces, they know every nook and cranny of the ship and are usually the first to forge ahead (i.e. wander off) on every expedition. Essa mostly wants to be left alone to their own devices because they actually prefer their own company (neurotypicals can be so exhausting!). This normally wouldn’t be such a problem except Essa was pressured to join STARGAZE to make friends and widen their social net out of parental concern (‘We won’t be around forever, Essa!’). Loves to knit, make Venn diagrams of relationships; speaks in emojis when emotionally drained. LEW D’SHUS (he/him): Character is 21, transgender man or transmasculine, pansexual, open to all ethnicities. LEAD. When babelicious Lew looks at you with his rapt attention and dreamy eyes, you feel like the only person in the ‘verse until his short attention span snaps away and he forgets you’re there. “Good vibes, only!” Lew will gladly give you your Tarot card reading, but not before taking the negative cards out first. With his strict ‘the universe is love, we are love,’ mantra, Lew never wants anyone to feel bad even when they are deadass wrong! His philosophy of

appeasement can cause conflict amongst the crew and his inability to take sides in crucial moments will often put them in danger. No, we cannot just hug everything out, Lew! CHRYSTRAH SNU (she/her): Character is 17 (must be 18+ to apply), cis-gender woman, identifies as ‘queer’ but just figuring it all out. LEAD. Chrystrah is a fresh-off-the-belt queer who has arrived with big expectations: ‘I’m here, I’m queer! Direct me to my spot on the rainbow carpet!’ The trauma of her homophobic upbringing has left Chrystrah without any real sense of self; her identity loosely held together like a fragile cracked egg. Any criticism, no matter how gentle, feels like an attack, causing Chrystrah to act abrasive, territorial, and defensive. She is always overcompensating in big bombastic ways because she feels so inadequate for not knowing the right words, behaviours, and codes. She is jealous of Saf (some might say obsessed) who does seem to get it all right. Fiercely loyal, Chrystrah is the first to run headlong into danger to save someone. She has a steep learning curve ahead. THE ELDER QUEER CHAPERONES: BAE TORGA (she/her): Character is late 30’s-early 40’s, cisgender woman, bisexual, bipolar, open to all ethnicities. PRINCIPAL. A war hero (or war criminal depending on who you ask), Bae sees STARGAZE as an opportunity to redeem herself in the eyes of former mentor and friend Oracle Cain. She is someone who struggles with self-loathing and self-doubt even though she’s spent her adulthood righting her past wrongs and reining in her bipolar disorder, which contributed to her past rash and reckless mistakes. Possessing a tough, gruff demeanor, Bae is outwardly sardonic but really a bleeding heart who holds back out of fear that any demonstration of affection and empathy will be seen as a commitment. ORACLE CAIN (she/her): Character is middle-aged or older, transgender woman, ambulatory wheelchair user or wheelchair user, open to all ethnicities. *Note, as this is sci-fi, younger than middle age may apply. PRINCIPAL. A founding figure of the Queerverse, Oracle has done her service, done her duty, and now she’s done. She wants a peaceful existence to guard her limited energy and manage her physical pain. Instead, she’s pulled out of retirement to command a ship full of bickering youths. She also has to contend with spoiled brat and former colleague Bae reminding her of the past that Oracle is trying hard to forget. But duty is duty and it’s not like complaining ever got her anywhere. Talking to Oracle can feel like playing a chess game where the aloof commander is always five steps ahead: you never quite know where you stand with her. ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS ELP WHIPP (they/them or xe/xem): Character is middle-aged or older, gender-fluid, open to all ethnicities. Leader of the coalition of non-profit planets (each with its own conflicting Gay Agenda) that rule the Queerverse, Elp Whipp is a career bureaucrat/bean-counter who often gets caught in the trappings of their own political web — meaning much of nothing ever gets accomplished and progress is never made. Elp will appear throughout the series in that ‘Dean of the school’ role, occasionally showing up to demand overdue reports, warn the crew that their funding is at risk, and generally throw a wrench in the works. CARDIGAN JACK (she/her): Character is 30s, cis-woman, lesbian, open to all ethnicities. Cardigan Jack is a ‘pussy-hat’ wearing neo-liberalist feminist with a pirate vibe. She is the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ of TERFs, and Saf Ron’s nemesis. TO SUBMIT: Borken Creative is committed to diverse and inclusive casting. For every role, please submit qualified performers without regard to disability, race, age, colour, sexual orientation or gender identity, or any other basis prohibited by law, unless otherwise specifically indicated, subject to legitimate casting directives. DEADLINE: Oct 8, 2021 EMAIL: [email protected]. SUBJECT LINE: Character(s) Role, Performer’s First and Last Name, pronouns. BODY OF EMAIL: Please provide contact info including phone number.

Please confirm you are 18 or over in the body of email if applying for a Stargaze recruit character. Submit headshot and resume as attachments to [email protected]. Resume should be in a scannable text file format (such as .doc, .pdf, .txt). First round selects will be invited to submit either a video clip audition or zoom audition invite. Only successful candidates will be contacted.

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#lgbtq #lbtqia #lgbtqplus #queer sci fi #casting call #auditions

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softieskywalker · 3 years

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Thank you for tagging me on this one, @tomicaleto!!

1. Do you like answering tags? (Hopefully yes :D)

Yes! I always forget but I appreciate everyone who tags me on them!!!

2. Do you prefer to write fanfiction, read fanfiction, create fanart, make video edits, or none of the above?

I love reading fics, I love writing them as well (even if it's a pain in the ass), I also like drawing fanart but since I'm very new to it I'm deeply insecure about it and almost never post it.

3. Nails painted (include what color) or not?

I paint them occasionally, I really like painting them black.

4. What would your ammortentia smell like? (For those who don’t know Harry Potter, ammortentia is a love potion that smells different to each person based on what attracts them. Basically what are your favorite smells?)

Coffee grounds, wet leaves, dark chocolate and honey.

5. Would you prefer to live in an extremely hot or cold climate?

Probably hot, I could adapt to it. I don't think I could adapt to the cold.

6. Favorite flavor of chapstick or do you not wear any?

I don't wear chapstick, but I do wear lipstick a lot.

7. Enemies to lovers or friends to lovers?

Enemies to friends to lovers thank you.

8. Favorite crack ship (any fandom)?

me looking at the 1k ao3 works in the dinluke tag: does this qualify as crackship anymore?

9. Favorite type of weather?

that end of summer barely beginning of autumn where it's warm but not too hot.

10. Do you use :), :], or :D?

i use :D a lot

11. Tags! (no pressure)

@canonskyrissian @spell-cleaver @25centsoda @sorayumest

#tag games

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legacysam · 3 years

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"#*erases a rant about fandom cas characterization bc god who has the energy*" me. i have the energy. give me the rant.

*cracks knuckles* okay let’s see if any of these particular intellectual muscles still work.

I am always pro-cas-being-canonically-dickish posts (even if they are misleading one way or another, more on that later) because dear GOD this fandom loves to infantalize the man. He’s a “baby in a trenchcoat.” He’s dumb about pop culture and clueless about human things isn’t it adorable? SHUT UP!!!! And pls especially shut up if you’re using his ignorance as a way of making another character look cool or smart by comparison. “it’s a shortened version of my name” was 100% Cas fucking with Dean because he is a dick sometimes! and it’s great! Also: Cas’s indifference to pop culture isn’t a weakness just because pop culture knowledge is a major currency on tumblr!!! It’s indicative of the fact that he’s got much bigger and more important things on his mind. (Also. listen. This trait was canonically erased by Metatron and it was literally the only good thing that fucking character ever did so can we please as a fandom just acknowledge that little slice of canon? pls?)

(Can I also just say.....fish out of water stories are only good when they are on the side of the fish and not just using the fish to make jokes. Just. as a note on the trope in general but specifically re: every time this shows up in fanfic with Cas or any other similar character. Thor comes to mind.)

Anyway Cas isn’t a child, he’s ANCIENT and TIRED and CONFLICTED about major moral issues, which is FASCINATING for an angel character and forces us as an audience to consider more deeply the actual differences between heaven and hell, good and evil, destiny and free will. Is this how we expect an angel to behave? What does this tell us about Heaven? If Cas is an aberration, what does that tell us about Heaven and goodness and God? So his expressions of anger and frustration and his impatience with or indifference to human courtesies are a really great part of his character and people should appreciate them more (and not just when it’s funny!)

(Sidenote bc I always think about this when I think about fandom and Cas, the reductive fandom approach to “””crazy!cas””” (what a fun way of saying “deeply affected by horrible trauma and guilt and trying to repress it so he can function.” thanks for that fandom) as comic relief or a woobified victim is. hm. bad. That’s all I’ll say about that one.)

{ANOTHER sidenote, this one for fan artists in particular but fan writers definitely aren’t free from sin: Cas isn’t pale or short and he isn’t a fuckin twink pls stop projecting weird m/f stereotypes onto your queer ships pls and thank}

ANYWAY about these screenshots specifically: Listen I love this post but the context of these scenes is SO MUCH MORE INTERESTING than Cas being a dick to Sam. They aren’t really about Sam at all, actually. “Don’t ask stupid questions” is such a painful fucking response to Sam asking if he’s okay, because he’s clearly not okay--he’s still struggling with the knowledge that God has given up and abandoned them--but he can’t be vulnerable about it. So he redirects to ask what Sam needs from him because that’s what he does, it’s what he is, he’s a tool. He’s a solution to problems (except his own). And his unwillingness to confront his pain (while also not being able to hide it) isn’t really about his relationship with Sam, it’s about his relationship with God and with himself and his own failures. The visibility of that struggle while he continues to try to help in this episode is just really fucking moving, okay?

Also there’s absolutely nothing hostile about “Sam, of course, is an abomination” in context. Like. Not a damn thing. There’s a task that needs to be performed by a “servant of heaven,” and Cas is explaining why none of the three of them qualify, and we know he feels shame about the fact that HE doesn’t qualify by how he reacts later, calling himself a poor example of an angel. He’s as much an abomination as Sam is in this moment.

Actually you know what? Literally everything in these screenshots that gets interpreted as “Cas hates Sam” is 100% actually Cas hating himself. He hates Sam’s voice while he’s stuck using a human voice himself to communicate, through technology he’s hostile to because it’s limiting compared to angelic communication. He rejects Sam’s compassion because he doesn’t want to talk about his own weakness. He calls Sam an abomination in the same breath that he acknowledges that he isn’t a servant of heaven anymore, and with much less anger than when he later calls himself a poor example of an angel. He sees himself in Sam but he hates himself too much to use that as a point of connection and pushes away from it instead. (I’m not going to go on a shipper detour here but sastiel shippers....you know)

So Cas is angry and complicated and self-hating and yeah, it’s funny, but if you don’t respect those feelings and their complexity, maybe don’t try to write Cas or write about him. Maybe if you only like Cas when he’s making you laugh you don’t actually like Cas.

And this isn’t to be like...”writing fluffy shippy fic with Cas being sweet is bad” or whatever. That fills a need for some people, I get it. I’ve written fic where he’s sweet! There’s a difference between someone lovingly wrapping a character in a blanket and going “nice things will happen for you now” versus using that character for a reductive joke.

There’s also a difference between people who are actually carefully writing fic and people who are, yknow, tagging posts or circulating meme-like gifsets with this kind of commentary. Which, bc I don’t read fic as often anymore, tends to be the most common way anything like analysis of Cas reaches me. I do NOT recommend this method of engaging with fandom because it’s really the worst, unfunniest, most simplistic takes that get repeated over and over again (I would pay money to never see anyone call Sam “moose” or “sammy” again dear lord), and it obscures the actually really good work some folks are doing when they write these characters.

tl;dr 1. Cas is not a child and he is not stupid. 2. Cas doesn’t hate Sam but he DOES project onto him and it’s fascinating. 3. fandom wants to be transformative but bc of meme culture and the way tumblr works it can be painfully reductive and it’s exhausting

ps nb I haven’t watched a single episode since they killed Charlie off and I don’t know much about what happened after that lol. so don’t come at me “well actuallying” bc honestly I don’t care and bc canon has been a dumpster fire for years and all extended analysis of it including my own is really nonsense just by virtue of the source material being nonsense.

pps the showrunners are ABSOLUTELY complicit in this but I can’t. I just cannot get into that. I am too tired.

#i just spent an hour and a half thinking deeply about supernatural you bastard #jk ilu #apparently i still had feelings about this jfc #ALSO (i know shut up mel nobody asked) 99 problems would be one of the best episodes #if they didn't seem to write it specfically for dean to make 'wh*re' jokes #cabalakh #@ everyone who followed me after i stopped watching spn.....#i am so sorry #supernatural #fandom critical #castiel

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heyyyharry · 5 years

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My Girl Series: Chapter 1 - Treehouse

…in which Y/N falls in love with the older boy next door who doesn’t feel the same.

Series description: Y/N falls in love with the older boy next door who doesn’t feel the same, years later they meet again at a funeral.

AU: actor!harry, older!harry, younger!y/n; (4-year age gap)

wattpad link

"Y/N, would you like to go next?"

The little girl lifted her eyes from the pink notebook and looked around to find the whole class staring at her. She saw Melanie George walk back to her desk, cracking a smirk and thanking the other kids for praising her story about the Cinderella themed birthday party.

"Y/N," Mrs. Mai called again, this time raising both eyebrows at the nine-year-old who was slowly sinking into her chair and shaking her head fast.

Before coming to class that day, Y/N had wanted to share her story for the weekend assignment. She had worked so hard on it and she couldn't be prouder of herself. But after hearing all the other kids talk about cool things like trips to Disneyland, family vacations, and massive birthday parties, she was afraid that her story wasn't interesting enough and everyone would start making fun of her for it.

"It's okay, Y/N. Come up here and don't be shy," the teacher said with a smile, leaving the girl no choice but to bring her pink notebook to the front, and finally face her fear of public humiliation.

"I...Uh...My...My story is..."

As Y/N began to read aloud the words on the page, she could hear the other kids sniggering at her. In fact, it was all she could concentrate on as she wished to disappear from the face of Earth and never return again. But she knew it was never that easy. That moment in the classroom was her reality, and she could either face it or tell the teacher she couldn't continue anymore.

Just as Y/N was about to go for the latter option, she accidentally met a pair of blue eyes in the front row. The tiny girl named Celine gave her two thumbs-ups and the brightest smile she had ever seen, and that was all the encouragement she needed right then. Even though she didn't believe in herself, now she knew at least one person in that room might.

Mrs. Mai shushed the whole class, telling them to be quiet so Y/N could begin. "Go on, Y/N," she said. "Tell us, what does true happiness mean to you?"

With a quiet, trembling voice, and eyes on the notebook page, little Y/N began, "my definition of true happiness...is the boy next door. His name is Harry Styles."

Everyone, including the teacher, was taken aback by that intro. They had expected a less interesting version of Melanie George's story, something about tule skirts and pink tiaras, not a boy. But soon enough, the whole class fell to silence as the little girl, now with confidence, went on about the night she first met her lovely neighbor.

Y/N met Harry a few weeks ago on a Wednesday night.

Her mum and dad were fighting again. In fact, she couldn't recall the last time they laughed during dinner or kissed each other on the cheek like the other parents did. She used to wonder about that a lot. But now that she was so used to their daily arguments, Y/N just took it at face value and accepted that not all parents were supposed to love each other.

Sometimes they fought about money, sometimes about people whose names she couldn't recognize. But that Wednesday night, things got so intense that her parents started throwing things, not at each other, but she heard glass shattered against the wall, and remembered how her mother used to say, ' a relationship, just like glass, couldn't be mended once broken.'

The little girl abandoned her room that night and ran to the backyard, where she could escape from the tension indoors, from reality, from all the broken things she couldn't fix, even if it was just for a little while.

Her mother used to try growing a garden out there, but it had been too long since she watered the plants or mowed the lawn. Now it didn't really look like a garden anymore. But Y/N loved it still. She loved how orderly the grass grew without the help of human hands; she loved to spot a few red and yellow wildflowers here and there, like little surprises the neglected garden had for her. Even so, she still couldn't help but fantasize about what was on the other side of the fence.

The Styles' backyard was a dream come true. That family grew all types of flowers you could possibly name; carnations, hydrangeas, daisies, lilies,...they had it all. Their lawn was always freshly trimmed, and the sprinklers came on every morning at 6AM, like an alarm clock for the whole garden. Y/N had always envied the kids over there for that magical place. She had never really met them, but she'd seen them a couple times before, a boy and a girl, both older than her.

But the main reason Y/N was so obsessed with her neighbor's yard was their treehouse. She had never seen the kids next door play in it, and the big tree was leaning towards her house more; so Y/N just assumed it also belonged to her family, therefore also belonged to her. All she had to do was climb on top of the fence, and from there, she could step on the lowest branch to reach for the rope ladder. Ever since the first time she'd discovered the place, it had become her most favorite hideout.

That night, however, as Y/N returned to her tree fort, she found out she wasn't the only one there.

"What are you doing in here, kid?"

The boy with dark brown hair immediately got up from the floor as he saw her at the entrance. He was a whole head taller than her, yet too skinny to beat her up. So even though that was his treehouse and she was the intruder, Y/N wasn't afraid of him.

Instead of apologizing, she put both hands on her hips and raised her voice at her green-eyed neighbor, "don't call me a kid, you're still a kid!"

The boy scoffed as he was surprised by her attitude.

"How old are you?" He asked

"Nine..."

"I'm thirteen. I'm older than you so you're a kid. Now get out!" The boy shouted at her, pointing a finger to the door. But as soon as Y/N burst into tears, he completely freaked out. He thought he was the reason, but it was actually a lot of things. She couldn't go back inside, she couldn't even stay in the treehouse where she felt safe. The girl didn't know what to do next, so she just started weeping.

The boy had never made a girl cry before, and now he remembered how his mother had always said, 'only weak men would pick on women'. So he felt really awful.

"Hey, kid...You know what? Maybe you can stay here for a little while," he said,, with a bit of hesitation and a hand on her shoulder, but somehow those words worked like a charm. Y/N quickly wiped away her tears, and looked the boy in the eyes as she smiled at him.

"You know who you remind me of?" He asked, leaving her confused.

"Who?"

"Bambi. You know, the deer in that Disney movie."

"I know who Bambi is." She glared at him. "But why?"

"You have pretty eyes but they're so sad, like Bambi's," he told her. "I'm gonna call you Bambi from now on."

Y/N didn't know why she felt offended by that nickname he'd just given her. "I have a name," she said. "It's Y/N."

"I'm Harry. Harry Styles," the boy introduced himself with confidence, and smiling, he said, "nice to meet you, Bambi."

And just like that, Y/N and Harry had become friends. They spent the rest of the night there, pretending like they were pirates and the treehouse was their ship, and their laughter somehow brought her gloomy garden back to life.

Harry told Y/N that she was more mature than the kids her age, therefore was qualified to hang out with him, and the girl couldn't be happier about that. Her life had been boring and repetitive before she met him, but that night she couldn't even fall asleep. She lied in bed, eyes opened, wide awake, waiting for the morning to come so she could see the boy again.

Harry Styles, without a doubt, was the definition of true happiness.

"Hey, I really liked your story."

The soft voice pulled Y/N's attention away from her book as she looked up, receiving a smile from the tiny kid named Celine.

"Thank you. Wanna sit?" She said, patting on the spot beside her on the swing, and the curly haired one said yes in a heartbeat.

Y/N had never actually spoken to Celine Fischer before, but she had always noticed the girl, probably because Celine was the tiniest fourth grader she had ever seen. The boys in their class could say anything they wanted about her braces or her short legs, but no one could deny how special Celine was, it was her smooth brown skin and vivid blue eyes that made her stand out from all the others.

Y/N was very jealous of that. She'd read too much about female book characters with blue eyes, fair skin, and blonde hair to believe that someone like herself could be beautiful. But maybe those books had been all wrong. Celine didn't have all of those features, yet she thought Celine was beautiful, so there had to be someone out there who thought the same about her.

"What are you reading?" The tiny girl asked, leaning over to check out the book her new friend was holding.

"A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett."

"Oooh, is it good?"

"It is."

"But there's no picture!"

"That's because only babies read picture books," Y/N said as she flipped her hair over her shoulder, proudly straightening her back when she saw the admiring look on Celine’s face. "You see, Harry is four years older than us. I don't want to act like a baby around him."

"Are you and Harry dating?"

Y/N told Celine to be quiet and looked around cautiously before she leaned in closer, asking her friend to do the same so she could whisper in her ear. "Don't tell anyone or else it won't come true."

"What won't come true?"

"Harry and I," she said under her breath. "I want to marry Harry when we grow up. But my mum said that if you told too many people about your dream, it'd be more unlikely to happen."

"Really?!" Celine gasped, and then swore to Y/N that she would never talk about her dream of becoming an actress again.

"Harry wants to be an actor!" Y/N exclaimed as soon as she heard the girl. "Maybe when Harry and I are married, you could be in the same movie with him."

The thought of that far future got both girls giggling in excitement. They spent the rest of their break-time on that swing, talking about so many other topics. And by the end of the day, they had become good friends.

Despite her complicated family situation, Y/N was very close to her mother, who had taught her everything she needed to know about growing up as a girl. So when she turned eleven and got her first period, she wasn't afraid, actually, she was thrilled! She had been waiting for that day for so long just so she could finally be seen as a grown woman, or at least that was what her mother had told her. The first person she wanted to break the news to, besides her mother of course, was her next-door neighbor Harry.

The girl ran to his house right after breakfast, trying to contain her excitement, as she shouted out loud before even reaching his front door, "Harry, Harry, I got my first period!"

But her Harry was not alone on his porch. He was sitting in a circle with some kids his age, all were boys, and they were fooling around instead of studying like they should be. The older kids turned their heads at once to look at a confused Y/N when she stopped a few steps away from the porch. Then all of a sudden, they burst into laughter, leaving the little girl embarrassed despite not knowing what they were laughing about and why.

Harry immediately told everyone to shut up as he rose from the floor and walked over to take her hand. "My friends and I are busy right now." He leaned down and spoke to her softly, "you go home, alright? I'll talk to you later."

Y/N didn't get the implication so she announced her big news once again, just as loud and excited as she'd been before. "I got my first period! Mum said I'm an adult now!"

"You're ten years old!" Some kid on the porch shouted at her.

"I'm eleven! Get your facts straight!" She countered, causing Harry to snort as he found her angry little face and the way she stomped her feet quite adorable.

"Shut your mouth, Brian! We already know you can't do math!" Harry's remark made everyone laugh, and the chubby kid named Brian sat there in silence as his face turned red from being called out that way. Harry took everyone's distraction as an opportunity to walk his neighbor a bit further away from them, so their conversation wouldn't be heard or interrupted anymore.

He laid both hands on Y/N's small shoulders, then looked the girl in the eyes and started lecturing her, "you shouldn't tell everyone about this, Bambi. This should be personal."

"But..." His advice left a pouty frown on her face. "I thought it would make me cool..."

Fifteen-year-old Harry couldn't help but crack a smile as he heard those innocent words.

"It is very cool!" He said. "There's nothing wrong with it at all, and nobody should laugh at you for it." That was what he'd heard his mother say to his big sister Gemma a couple years ago, and she had also taught him about this kind of stuff. Now he knew enough to not act like an idiot and make fun of girls for the way they grew. "But only people who truly care about you will realize how cool it is that your body is changing. Dumb kids like Brian doesn't know anything and would just be mean to you."

"People who care about me?" She bit her lip to hold back a wide grin. "Like you?" When he nodded she felt like her heart was about to explode. "So...You think I'm a woman now, right?"

For that question, Harry shook his head. "You're only eleven, you're still a little girl. When you're older, like Gemma now, then you're a woman."

"But boys don't like little girls."

"That's not true. I'm a boy and I like you."

"You do?!" Y/N started grinning from ear to ear as soon as she heard him.

"Of course I do." Harry nodded fast, curving his pink lips into a solid smile as he said, "you're my girl."

Y/N didn't know what to reply, she was all flustered and blushing hard. She wasn't sure if Harry could see how happy he'd made her just by calling her his girl. Maybe he couldn't see it. Because her mother had said that boys wouldn't always see what you wanted them to see, like the way you twisted your hair around your finger because you were nervous around them, or the way your smile grew bigger only for them, or the frown on your face when they didn't notice you. Harry was a boy, after all, Y/N didn't expect him to see it. But she hoped that someday he might.

"Now go home, Bambi," the boy said as he stroked her head. "I'll see you later."

"At the treehouse?" She giggled, gripping the hem of her skirt tightly.

"At the treehouse," he confirmed with another smile, then returned to his front porch.

And so little Y/N walked home, humming the song on that cereal commercial her dad found annoying. In her head, she kept replaying the words 'my girl'.

When Y/N turned thirteen, everything had changed.

Harry started spending less time with her and more time with his group of friends. Although she had Celine to keep her company, it would be a lie to say she didn't miss him. Every time she looked out of her window and saw him with his friends, some of whom were girls, all pretty and mature, Y/N felt overwhelmingly sad. She didn't know if it was considered a heartbreak, but she guessed it was close.

Her mother said when your heart broke for the person you truly loved, it would be one of the worst kinds of pain though it wasn't physical; it hurt you to the point you would never be the same again. Y/N knew it was gonna happen to her. What she didn't know, was exactly when.

"Bambi!"

The familiar voice made Y/N drop the book in her hand, and rush to the doorway of the treehouse to look down at a smiling Harry. He waved at her and she waved back with extra enthusiasm.

Seventeen-year-old Harry was a daydream come to life. He had one of the most beautiful faces Y/N had ever seen. She'd witnessed the girls in their town swoon and sigh as he came to Church on Sunday morning, or went for a run around the neighborhood. After all, he had always been handsome. But the older he grew, the more attractive he came to be.

Now his shoulders were broader, his legs were longer, and the features on his face became more prominent, like his high cheekbones and well-defined jawline. Soon he had turned into the perfect male protagonist in every romantic novel she was obsessed with. There were only two things that remained the same: his leaf green eyes, and the dimpled smile that shone like the morning sun.

"Reading?" He asked, looking up with both hands in his pockets, and there came that smile again.

"Yup." She nodded. "You coming up?"

Y/N was grinning from ear to ear. But a simple word 'no' had her torn to pieces.

"I can't, kid. I gotta go to this concert in an hour."

"Oh, sounds cool...Can I come?"

He breathed out a laugh, and the look he was giving her was already the answer she didn't want to hear. He told her she needed to be at least sixteen to get in, and since she was only thirteen he couldn't take her with him.

"But don't worry," he said. "I'll record videos for you."

"Oh...Okay. Have fun then."

Frowning, Y/N intended to turn away, when suddenly he called her by that dearest nickname again. She looked back at where he stood, still the same smile on his pretty face.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? I can help you with your math homework," he said with dimples on his cheeks.

"Sure," she replied, just less excited this time as Harry returned to his house without looking back. Of course, she knew she was just a kid to him. He wasn't hers. He had never been hers. But at that moment while watching him walk away, Y/N began to feel like she was slowly losing him.

After the concert that night, Harry came home very late.

It was nearly 12AM and Y/N was still awake because she, once again, waited until the last minute to study for an exam in two days. She saw headlights pulling over in front of the house next door, and went to her window to see if it was really him.

That was when she saw Harry get out of his car and come to open the door on the passenger side for his blonde-haired date. That girl was a real-life book character, blue eyes, glowing skin, golden locks falling right past her slim shoulders. She was everything Y/N had ever wanted to be. She was what Harry wanted.

Right now, it seemed like they were having a blast as they were both laughing while wrapping their arms around each other. Y/N knew she should just go to sleep, yet deep down inside, she was curious about the girl. So she dropped her homework and quietly left the house, heading to her backyard where she assumed they might be.

From the distance, she could see a light in the treehouse. Her heart was pounding as she had both hands linked and placed against her chest. Nobody else besides the two of them had entered that treehouse before. It was their fort, their hideout, their spot, theirs. But now as she was standing from afar, she saw Harry and the other girl up there. He had his arms wrapped around her waist and hers around his neck, their foreheads rested against each other, and he stared at her in a way he had never, and would never do to Y/N.

The thirteen-year-old felt like she couldn't breathe. She stood like a scarecrow in the middle of her backyard, with pain in her chest, looking at the couple of teenagers who were too lost in their own world to notice her.

Harry sat on the floor, pulling the girl down with him as he picked up the guitar in the corner and started playing her a song. He had told Y/N she was the first and only girl he'd ever sung to. Now, she was just the first. She couldn't hear what he was singing to the girl, but she bet it was beautiful, and her heart ached a little bit more. She didn't know why she was still standing there and torturing herself by watching them; but her feet had been glued to the grass and now she couldn't move.

Harry finally laid the guitar aside as he scooted closer, and so did the girl. They exchanged the same kind of look they had before, but this time he leaned in and gently pressed his lips against her lips.

At that very moment, Y/N's entire world came tumbling down right before her eyes. She felt as if someone had placed hot coal by her heart and left it there to slowly burn her from inside out, and now she was struggling to even breathe. Her tears began to fall and her chest tightened as she ran back inside the house, up to her room, and collapsed on the bed the second she got to it.

It was the first time in a very long time she had cried that hard. She cried like she had never cried before. She cried because it hurt so much. That invisible pain felt worse than the time she crashed her bike into a tree, worse than when she saw her mother sobbing on the kitchen floor and her dad drunkenly shouting at everything in his sight.

So that was it then. That was what it felt like to have your heart broken by someone you truly loved. And it was much much worse than what she had imagined it would feel like. The biggest question then, was how long it was gonna last.

Ever since that night, Y/N had decided to stay away from the treehouse and Harry too. She doubted that he knew the reason she was avoiding him, but it seemed like he didn't care anyway. He didn't even come over to help her with her math homework like he had promised. However, she couldn't blame him. He had a girlfriend and his own life now, and if he didn't want to include her in it, then she didn't want to be a part of it.

"I saw Harry's girlfriend holding hand with someone else today," Celine told her while they were having a sleepover. It'd been two months since Y/N witnessed the treehouse kiss, and as much as she'd like to act calm and cool about this news, she couldn't stop the worrisome from showing on her face.

"Do you think she's cheating on Harry?" She asked, and sighed in relief when Celine said no.

"They broke up last week I think. My brother's friends with that girl, he told me so."

Y/N didn't say anything else and carried on with the book in her hand. Though she never asked Celine about Harry again, she did wonder if he'd felt heartbroken or even cried as much as she had over him. She used to know everything about him and vice versa; now she had to make up her own version of what was going on in his life.

What could be sadder than that?

A year had passed in a blink of an eye and Harry had finally finished high school. Y/N didn't attend his graduation, but Celine told her all about it because she'd come to support her brother. From what Y/N had heard, she wanted to turn eighteen and finish high school as well, so she could finally leave Holmes Chapel for good.

She used to tell Harry that she wanted to become a writer, and one day she would write a movie for him to play the main character. Little did she knew, she'd already written one. He was the main character in every single entry in her journal. After everything, after the silence, the getting over him, the acting like they'd never been friends, she missed him terribly, more than she was willing to admit.

"Y/N! Harry is here to see you!"

Y/N thought she was dreaming when she heard her mother's voice from the front door. She needed to double check by pinching herself to make sure everything was real, and quickly ran downstairs, afraid that he couldn't be patient enough to wait for her.

"Mum, where's Harry?" She asked in shock as her mother walked back inside after closing the door.

"He just left, but he told you to meet him at his treehouse."

Y/N didn't hesitate, not even for a second.

She ran for her life to the backyard, trying to catch her breath as she made it to the big tree. Now tall enough to get on the lowest branch without the help of the fence, the girl climbed up the rope ladder, to their place, where the boy she loved was waiting for her.

Harry turned his head as soon as he heard her voice at the entrance. He got up from the dusty wooden floor, smiling at the girl. Now they were standing in the same spots on the night they first met. His eyes were still as green as she remembered. They were every hue of the summer forest, accentuated by his tanned complexion and his dark brown strands. She had always written about how that beautiful shade of green would bring her home and give her hope no matter what happened. But this time, hope wasn't what she saw. Instead, it was a mixture of sadness and regret. She could only wish that her instinct was wrong.

They sat down side by side on the edge of their little house with bare feet dangling in the air. It was dark outside, and the calming sound of crickets singing was like a celebration song to welcome another summer. It had been too long since the last time they got to be together like that. She stole a secret glance at the boy she loved who was staring blankly ahead, then she smiled, loving how everything still felt the same, at least for her.

The conversation began with small talks about school, about his sister and his mum, about Celine, about her parents' fight every single night. She was waiting for him to mention his ex-girlfriend, or maybe new girlfriend, but he didn't. He didn't say a word about any other girl, and she was thankful for that.

But then, after taking what seemed like the longest pause ever, Harry finally said what he was there to say, "I'm leaving tomorrow morning. To London."

Y/N could feel her entire body turn to stone as those words left his mouth. She released a nervous laugh and asked him if he was only joking, to which he shook his head and confirmed that he was serious.

He told her he'd got accepted into a film school, and he couldn't wait to pursue his childhood dream of being a famous actor. But what about her dream, the one that she had told Celine when they first became friends, did this mean her dream would never come true?

"I'll come back and visit you next summer," he said. But she knew it was a lie. It really was a lie. He didn't come back for her, not next summer, or the one after that. "I wanted to see you one last time before I left...Bambi, say something."

There it was, that nickname again. She used to hate it so much because she didn't want to be that weak and innocent Disney character in his eyes, she wanted to be strong and mature enough for him. But now that she knew she would never get to hear him call her that again, she wanted to burst out crying immediately. Taking a deep breath and holding back the tears that were forming in her eyes, she turned to look at him.

"I'm really happy for you, H," she said with a sad smile. And she believed, as a boy, he couldn't see it.

Harry smiled back at her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He told her to be strong when he wasn't around, and take care of herself even though he knew there was also Celine.

"This treehouse is all yours now," he told her. "Please look after it?"

"I will," she gave him her words, silently swearing to herself that she would never let anyone else enter their place, ever.

It was late, and Harry was about to say his last goodbye, but Y/N cut him off just as he opened his mouth. "Harry...Can I ask you for one last favor?"

"Anything, kid. Tell me."

"Can you...Uhm...Will you..." She exhaled deeply and took his hand in hers. "Will you be my first kiss?"

At first, Harry thought the girl was kidding. However, the look in her eyes told him otherwise, and the grin slowly faded from his handsome face. "I don't think I should be your first kiss, Y/N. You should save it for the boy you like."

"But you...are the boy I like."

That sentence got Harry all tongue-tied.

He didn't know what to say. He was eighteen and she was fourteen. She was too young. Even though she wanted him to be her first kiss, and had kindly asked him to, he didn't think he could do it without feeling guilty. So he just sat there, motionless, while staring at her with his eyes widened and mouth agape.

Y/N, on the other hand, had lost her patience. If that was gonna be their last goodbye, she would make it meaningful. Without saying another word, she cupped his face and brought her lips to his, only to pull away a second later. It was barely what one would call a kiss, but to her it was everything.

Without waiting for his reaction, she stood up and hurried her way down the ladder. She landed on her feet and ran as fast as she could back to her house, away from the tree, away from Harry, and she didn't look back, not even once.

The next morning, when she woke up, he had already gone. She did come over and knock on his door, but his mother Anne answered it and said he had left before sunrise. So Y/N walked home once again with her head hung low. She thought about last night, about her first kiss, about him, and in her head, she replayed the same two words he had said to her many years ago.

His girl.

#harry styles #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfics #harry styles fanfictions #harry styles writing #harry styles series #bestfriend!harry #boyfriend!harry #actor!harry #older!harry #younger!y/n #harry styles smut #my girl series

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essektheylyss · 4 years

Text

(ao3)

the cracked earth yields to skin the warm color of the clay scattered on the wood around him, taupe hair falling longer in his bright eyes than he’s quite used to, light and messy and curled, eyes made for the sun that streams through the porthole of the ship.

he feels almost alone here, knowing what has been done, what he has allowed to happen, but

he cannot bring himself to remember the sensation. this is not a place for loneliness, this well-worn ship docked in a bright harbor, nor this room with a freckled wizard closing a spell book and looking upon this form of his for the first time with a crooked smile, caught between that dangerous pride he recognizes and remorse that he is still learning to know.

“it is not quite you, is it?” caleb asks, but he shakes his head.

“it is still me,” he says, voice unimaginably soft as he sits up and looks upon weathered palms, long elven fingers, runs them over ears that feel like the ones he knows. he couldn’t think what kind of adjustment a truly different race may have been, and opted instead for another elven form, something more suited for the menagerie coast and the sun, the sun.

“well yes, of course,” caleb agrees. the rush of the sea nearly drowns them out, and he can’t say out loud why they are still whispering, but somewhere in his soul he knows. “but it is… very much not you.”

and it is not—intentionally, of course, to make him harder to find. neither empire nor dynasty knows this spell exists, so it is the simplest way to erase essek thelyss from the face of exandria, but it is unnerving to acknowledge that he no longer exists.

if essek thelyss no longer exists, then he is free to do what he wants. and isn’t that a terrifying thought?

“what shall I call myself?” he wonders as he stands, several inches taller now, and brushes the dirt from his limbs.

“ah, names,” Caleb says, and his smile widens again. “you will think of something.”

and as dangerous as it would be, as foolish, as impossible, he longs to wave his hands and change his fate, though he knows it is far too late. the hour that the ritual took was both an eternity and a moment, and it feels as though if he just reached out his fingers, turned the knob that he is so used to, he could change that single decision, alter potentiality to bring him back to infinite possibility rather than one choice as concrete as the clay at his feet.

his hands must tremble as they trace useless runes in the air, words that he can speak in his sleep caught in his throat, because caleb’s hand catches his fingers and then the lines of his jaw, lines that he doesn’t even know now, but he knows those blue eyes, that creased brow, and he brings himself to focus on them instead.

“it is hard to adjust to such a drastic change,” caleb says gently, helping him to a seat on a crate much like the one on which essek thelyss sat and revealed his transgressions. “harder still when it is a change of necessity, not of choice.”

and he wonders if he’s ever truly seen caleb’s face before now, his bright eyes and his messy, frizzy hair, and he glances away before his eyes are dotted with sunspots at how much light is in that face. it is not a face that he should feel so much for, an unspeakable feeling bubbling up in his chest, one like warmth and burning at the same time.

essek thelyss does not deserve this, the compassion that he is being offered, but he is not essek thelyss anymore. it's the only thing that brings him comfort as caleb’s hand grasps his so firmly, an anchor to keep him from drifting away now that he may have found safe harbor.

“you look nice,” caleb offers with that smile that he can’t name, the one that makes it seem as though he has already lost whatever he is looking for.

he smiles back, and the melancholy hangs in the room like a fog. this is not the celebration that veth’s transformation sounded like it inspired—this is survival, nothing more, as much the rest of the party’s as his own. he is putting them in terrible danger by being here, but they do not trust him enough to let him out of their sight. in the end, this was what he choose to do, but not out of any real desire to do so.

caleb, for his part, never tried to demand that he stay, but he almost wishes he had. he’d not have needed convincing if caleb had asked him to stay, but he’d remained silent through the discussion, his brows furrowed and his expression dark, nothing like the man in front of him, staring at him with the intensity of a sun.

“thank you,” he finally remembers to respond, and exhales through new lungs. “it is… strange. not unpleasant. just… strange.”

“yes, I can imagine.” caleb doesn’t let go of his hand, and it is not a comfort he can yet bring himself to accept, but he still cannot let go. “would you like to see the sun?”

his heart leaps in his throat, brand new and untrained, traitorous in its eager beating. it does not yet know what kind of cold soul has inhabited its chambers, and he can’t suppress the hope in his chest—as much as the stranger’s body he exists in now can be qualified as his.

but then, how much had he ever laid claim to his first form? it was merely a vessel for a soul, as is this. his soul has not been absolved of its guilt, as much as he would like to run from it, but at least now he has the opportunity to make up for it in kind.

he lets caleb tug him to his feet—bare and tanned, his whole body just slightly larger than the one he is used to, so he is unsteady as he moves through the decks and up the wooden stairs.

it feels like he is being pulled along by a wildfire as caleb sweeps him onto the deck and into the sun, and he instinctively flinches against it—but even as dim as the ship is below the surface, his eyes adjust much faster than he is used to, and he blinks away the light as the warmth of the sun hits his skin.

it is so much softer than he is used to, and the warmth reaches to his soul like a hand grasping his. it's so sudden and so all-encompassing that for a moment he can’t catch his breath. “oh,” he says softly, so so softly, as though speaking too loudly will shatter this feeling into pieces. the others have left them to get supplies in nicodranas, and they are alone on the deck of the ship, in the light of the sun, and he thinks that caleb beneath it is the most radiant thing he has ever seen, even now that the sun overhead has kissed his skin.

traitorous thoughts, but he is a traitor after all. what more can treason hurt when it has already cost him one life, as it may have been—no matter when he first dies, essek thelyss will never live again.

that’s alright. if truth be told, essek thelyss would never have admitted that perhaps he can see the appeal of the light after all. what need does he have for a beacon, though, when the sun stands before him, and looks at him like maybe, just maybe, he can one day learn radiance like this.

#cr fic #critical role #essek thelyss #shadowgast #cr spoilers #this isn't.... not canon compliant lol #(it's also really only shadowgast if you squint)#what is this? I don't know #fun to write is what it was #also painful! the best combo #started this like a week ago under a different name that I'm now using elsewhere

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loquaciousquark · 5 years

Text

29th Drakonis. A bit chilly, but mostly grey and choked with foundry smoke, so thick this week I’ve been finding soot on all my windowpanes, both inside and out, which is odd now that I think about it

Well, that’s the last sword away for–oh, what’s his name. Taarbas, Fenris tells me: that Qunari warrior who’s been lurking about in one of the Hightown squares for the last several months. The one who wanted the dead Qunari’s swords/souls back so they could be taken care of properly. They were scattered all over the city, the Coast, Sundermount–I don’t even remember any Qunari wandering up that mountain, just Tal-Vashoth!–but my compulsive heroic magpie tendencies have come to bear really meaningful fruit at last, and all dozen swords are now safely on a ship back to Par Vollen, and I no longer must worry I’ll find a dead Qunari warrior on my doorstep some sunny morning.

Well, not Taarbas, at least. Knowing how this city feels about outsiders (and me in particular), who knows what the postman might deliver with the milk one morning?

He gave me a staff in thanks, which I thought was very odd. I may be basalit-an, but I’m also saarebas unbound, so I was rather surprised to be handed one of the most well-made staves I’ve seen in years without even a whispered suggestion of face-stitching or chained collars. (I asked Fenris, a bit masochistically, if he thought I might pull off the style of those collars; got a black look and a very sour reminder that Danarius used to chain him up like a Qunari pet, so he was hardly qualified to comment on their appearance. Damn and blast, even if he was back reading his book in minutes without even so much as a furrowed brow.)

Still, Taarbas said it was my soul now, and I ought to care for it as such. It’s racked by the fireplace at the moment–I can see it if I lean back in my chair–but for something that ought to be a reflection of the deepest part of me, it’s awfully dangerous-looking. And beautiful, too, but that’s as should be expected, aha.

I can’t decide if I should be insulted or pleased. Knowing the Qunari, perhaps both.

4th Cloudreach. Watery sky, watery seas, watery afternoons. Everything is damp and sticky, but at least it’s still cool

Apologized to Fenris this morning over breakfast for that rotten saarebas comment the other day. He stared at me like I’d grown another head–it had passed out of his mind the minute I’d said it, he told me, and he was more annoyed I’d brought it back up, since it made the whole thing bigger than it ought to be. Well, fine, said I, if he was going to refuse to be offended I’d refuse to offer the apology in the first place, and he rolled his eyes so hard I was offended, and then I threw a breakfast roll at him and he took hold of my shirt-collar to kiss me, and we nearly upset the pastry table together before Sandal came in for an orange bun and rather ruined the mood.

Oh, well. Delayed gratification, and all that. We’re to go hunt down some great “ancient evil under Kirkwall” this afternoon anyway. I swear, this city has more ancient evils and lingering blood magic ritual horrors than the rest of Thedas put together.

Later

If nothing else, I’ve learned that any demon who introduces themselves by name gets a fireball right to the mouth.

Hybris, he was called, the greatest hulking pride demon I’ve seen in my entire life. I’ve never feared for all our lives as I did when that thing stood up…and up, and up, and up, and started pulling shades and lesser demons out of the floor not two levels down from my cellar.

Suffice it to say we all survived, but I’m truncating this entry on account of Aveline needing her broken wrist’s next round of healing and my dislocated shoulder is giving me fits.

Awiergan scrolls, pah. I’ll tuck them in here until I decide not to use them for Sandal’s next craft project. That’ll teach you maleficar to leave your fancy scrolls lying about where any doglord can pick them up and sneeze all over them, you clods!

14th Cloudreach. Late. Showers all day, not wet enough to soak, just enough to be irksome

Just got a frantic visit from Pelarie. Her sister is being suspected of harboring demons in the Gallows. Or consorting with, or possibly consulting–Pelarie was understandably distraught and not quite clear on the details. Jule was with her the whole time, holding her hand so tight her knuckles were white. It’s good there’s no question of her support.

Anders and I are going in just a few minutes. I haven’t touched something like this in years–longer since I’ve done it with him–but this one’s different, and I want no chance of another Alrik situation in those tunnels.

Mother isn’t around to need protecting anymore, after all. Orana and Bodahn understand the risks and have given me leave to go. I sent a runner to Fenris’s mansion, for whatever that’s worth. He didn’t come.

I’ve just heard the door, and I can hear Anders’s voice downstairs. There’s already a crackle to it I don’t like.

Well, we’ll see.

Late. Early, rather

Success. Pelarie’s sister and her sister’s only friend, a little boy of fifteen or sixteen, are off with a friend of Isabela’s (Samson refused to meet us so haphazardly) to the shores of West Hill, and then to a family near Calenhad who is known to be friendly.

Thank goodness they weren’t in the cells yet. Nothing we could have done if they’d already been moved. Being in those narrow stone hallways, though, even if only just for a minute or two…

Ugh. All my hairs are standing on end just at the memory of it.

They looked so young, standing on that ship. Her hair was falling out of its plait and his eyes were huge in the dark. Neither of them had proper cloaks for the weather, though the captain said she’d have something belowdecks they could use until they got safely across the water.

Fenris was here when I got home. He and Pelarie and Jule were all sitting in the great room together in silence, looking very tense; though at least Pelarie and Jule grew relieved as I told them how it had gone. No details yet, for their sakes–I’m certain Meredith will hunt this–but I gave Pelarie her sister’s note and the hug she had me promise, and then they went home, much more…well, cheerful’s not the right word. Less afraid she’d be branded by dawn, anyway.

I thought Fenris would be angry. I didn’t want to meet his eyes, even though I could feel them boring into the side of my head. Still, I’d decided I wasn’t going to run away–Maker knows we’ve had enough of that between us–and so for several minutes we sat there like very quiet little statues while he looked very hard at me and I looked very hard at my gloves, which were very muddy but (for once) blood-free.

Eventually, when I thought perhaps we both might really turn to stone for all the good we were doing, he asked if I’d gone alone with Anders.

Yes, I told him. There are very few people left in or near the city that can be trusted with these last paths that go so deep into the Gallows. I don’t think we’ll be able to use this one again, and I told him that too.

I did tell him I’d tried to send for him, but he hadn’t been home. He said that regardless, I hadn’t waited. That was true.

We sat there in silence for another few minutes; then he shifted, restless as a horse, and said he’d realized something was amiss when I didn’t come to Wicked Grace. Anders we no longer expect, not with any regularity, but me…he’d come here after and found Jule & Pelarie in the great room, and Orana and Bodahn sitting solemnly in the kitchen, and he’d pieced together enough to know where we must have gone.

He’s not angry about Pelarie’s sister, not really. I mean, he is a little, because my assertions that her sister is in fact demon-free are not wholly sufficient for him to allow two untried mage-children loose into the world without supervision, but that’s not what upset him most.

He truly thinks Anders is mad. Dangerous–deadly, even, and deadly to me as much as a templar alone in Darktown.

I wish I could disagree. Anders’s eyes were blue tonight at every step through that tunnel, and more than once I saw the reflection of that blue fissured light when the water got above our ankles. I won’t pretend there weren’t times when he’d speak with two voices, and I found myself very much wishing I had Fenris or Aveline or Sebastian at my back.

But when we had those two on the ship, and I looked over at Anders where we stood in the shallows, he… His eyes were the proper color then. He had a faint smile on his mouth, and he looked so much like his old self for the first time in ages, and he looked…

Flames, he looked so tired. Slumped on his staff, his black coat hanging off his shoulders, just…wrung down to the bone. But he looked like Anders, and when he turned to me and thanked me for giving him a good one to go out on, I nearly wanted to cry.

I don’t think Fenris’s opinion was altered by my telling. But I told him the truth, and he does not hate me, and though he did go to his own home tonight to sleep he gave me a rough kiss on the cheek before he left.

I can hear birds outside my window. And the curtains are grey now, instead of black, so it must be closer to morning than I thought. I wish I could sleep.

I keep thinking about how much Anders has changed. I went back to some of my earlier journals and it’s almost as if he were a different person…I can’t imagine him dancing the Remigold with me now, no matter how I might beg. How I miss him! I hadn’t realized how much. Standing next to him tonight in the bay was the first time I’d felt like I’d spoken to him in years. And now I’ve gone and smudged the whole burning paragraph trying to wipe off the snotty tearstains, so serves me right.

It’s not that I’m the same either, I know. Neither is Fenris, nor Varric, nor Merrill, nor anyone except maybe Sebastian, and even he’s talking about returning to Starkhaven now where he’s never before. I can’t even say that we’ve all moved in a positive direction, between my mother and Merrill’s mirror and Sebastian’s business with the Harimanns and even Isabela’s trial with the Arishok. We’re all a bit more cracked, a bit more worn than we were before. We all have scars. But Anders…Anders has made himself nothing but scars. Nothing but open wounds and bleeding Fade out every inch.

Vengeance, he told me. Not justice.

I don’t think I can pull him back from this.

21st Cloudreach. Warmer today, only light mists this morning and not a drop of rain since brunch

Odd missive from Hubert today regarding the Bone Pit. I’m not wholly sure what it means aside from calamity (at least according to Hubert’s skewed scale), but Varric & Fenris & I are going to go meet Aveline at his stand and see what’s doing. I need to go drop off the last of Solivitus’s orders while I’m out anyway, and today’s the day for Gamlen’s weekly basket, so I think we’ll just make a round of it.

Toby has gotten himself into the neighbor’s hedge again. I can see his furry arse sticking straight up from here. Maker, that dog

23rd Cloudreach

We fought a high dragon, and we killed her, because she killed almost every miner left in the Pit.

She was so deadly and so beautiful.

I didn’t want to kill her. But those miners–I told them. I told them they would be safe, and now they’re dead. And I have to write to each one of their families to tell them.

She had to die, I know. But oh, Maker, how much less wonder is there in the world now for it?

26th Cloudreach. Warmer still, sunny, light clouds

I’m having Sol make me an amulet from a drop of her blood. I’ll carry her with me from here on, even if it’s less lofty travel than she’s used to. Fenris thinks I’m being a fool, but that’s only because she shook him in her teeth like a rag doll and broke almost every one of his ribs, so he’s hardly being objective about the situation.

Varric’s been telling the story every time I walk into the Hanged Man lately. I’m in such a knot over the whole mess–I’ve wanted all my life to fight a dragon, and it was a glorious fight, I can’t deny it. My heart still races when I think of swinging up onto her back and getting the staff-blade of my soul (thank you, Taarbas) up under her scales, digging my heels in until I could blow lightning down her spine to make her let Fenris go.

It was a glorious fight, even if the start of it had more death than it ought.

It’s just…I’ve only just now realized I’d rather fly as a dragon than fight one.

6th Bloomingtide. Getting hotter, I can feel it. The promise of heat, the promise of baking like a beached flounder under the northern sun

Odd thing happened last night. And by “odd,” I mean “a crazed dwarf broke in and tried to murder me in my sleep.”

Fenris has been staying almost every night since the dragon–not for prurient reasons, alas for me, but because his whole torso is a glorious purpling green and he can barely walk. For my good fortune, though, that meant he was thankfully there to hear the bedchamber door click, jolt upright, grunt at his own jolt which woke me up, and spur the lyrium bright enough he could reach over and smack the blade that would have skewered me astray. I’ve got a magnificent scrape going down one shoulder where the dagger’s point still caught me, but I’m alive to write this, so it’s acres better than it might have been.

By that time I was cogent enough to roll off the bed and get fire going in both hands. I could hear Fenris fighting through the pain to get himself up on the other side, but now I could see the dwarf in the firelight, and he looked…

I don’t even know how to describe it. He was pale, pale as if he hadn’t seen the sun in years, and he had a black scraggly beard with patches missing. And his eyes were milky grey, all across iris and pupil alike, so dense I don’t know how he saw a thing to stab at. He had no expression. No rage, no fear, no violence. Just a flat mouth and straight black eyebrows.

“I need the blood of the hawk,” he said, rough as rocks, and came at me again with the dagger. Which is rude, if nothing else, because I happen to be using all my blood at the moment, thank you very much.

Anyway, once I was on my feet it was much more an even fight, even with Fenris hardly able to heft his punches. I kept his attention long enough for Fenris to come around and clock him on the temple at the same time he took out both his knees; then I came after and planted my bare hand on his face and held it there until he stopped moving.

I don’t like killing that way. It’s messy and agonizing and it’s a bad death no matter how you slice it, but he was in my bedroom with a knife and Fenris with every rib broken, and I couldn’t take the chance. What made it infinitely worse is that this dwarf didn’t even scream. He just…died.

Ugh, my skin is crawling all over again. Regardless, my arm was the only casualty, so I tore off the rest of my shirtsleeve and tied it up with Fenris’s help, though now that the rush of battle had worn off he was nearly toppling off his feet and he kept catching his breath when he moved. He had to sit on the side of the bed and wait with the body while I raced downstairs and checked on the rest of the household.

And on that note, Maker bless my beautiful, wonderful, perfect dog. He’d herded Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal all into the kitchen, where they’d locked the door, and when I opened it without thinking (and without introducing myself) he came tearing at me like a fiend from the Void to rip out my throat. I’ve never been on the receiving end of that horrible snarl before. Maker, I’m so proud of him.

Toby realized who I was before killing me, which is good, and settled on whipping tight circles around my knees until I sent him up to sit with Fenris. Orana was less panicked than I’d expected–though they were all a bit rattled, as was I–and then I realized with Hadriana’s household, strangers that burst in at night and threatened a slave’s life might not be all that uncommon.

I told them it was safe and sent Bodahn to find a guard so long as he didn’t leave sight of the house. He did bother to put a proper jacket and boots on, though he forgot to take off the tasseled nightcap, which I didn’t realize until I saw him turn out the door around the corner and the tassel flew out behind. Orana made tea for everyone and Sandal immediately went back to bed, though not before murmuring about hawk’s blood and making me a fair way nervous.

So the guard came, and then she went and called more guards, and they went and called more guards, and the long and short of it is I’ve had a half-dozen strangers in my bedroom since midnight and Fenris and I are both still in our bloody pajamas.

I told Brennan not to wake Aveline until a right reasonable hour, so at least one of us will have had some sleep, but the way word spreads in this city I expect Varric has heard already. I’m sure he’ll be along shortly to get his nose in the business if nothing else. The sun’s just now risen, so we can see a fair bit more than the lamplight allows (I forbade them from burning down my curtains with open torches–if I’ve managed to keep them unsinged so far, no guardsman’s errant hand is going to turn them into cinders now). He looks just as pale and eerie in daylight as he did in the dark. Almost moreso.

I don’t know what all this means. I have a feeling it’s more than just one mad dwarf with a vendetta, but until Varric comes I don’t think we’ll glean anything more from his body. There’s no letters, no marks, no tattoos, no orders…nothing. At least, nothing we can find. Maybe Varric will have more luck.

Maker, I’m tired. Fenris is sitting stiff as a poker on the library sofa beside me, but I think that’s the broken ribs more than any pique at the attack. Or, Void, maybe it’s both. I don’t know. He tried to read a bit, but we were both too distracted by the thumps from my rooms, so instead we’ve been sitting here twiddling our thumbs and watching the sun come up. And occasionally making sure the other’s alive, just to check.

He said that it reminded him of Tevinter. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t elaborate, but I know enough about what being Danarius’s bodyguard entailed that my heart cracked a bit. Not that I told him that. Instead I told him that next time someone came for the silver of the wolf I’d be happy to be his beautiful, powerful midnight protector and erstwhile lover in turn, though I couldn’t do much about the lyrium, and I’d even let him kiss me after if he wanted.

He smiled at that, and he did let me kiss him, though he hissed and clutched at his ribs when he tried to lean into it. Poor man. I’m fairly certain this fight re-cracked a few of them, but I don’t dare ask to get a good look until the guards leave. Not that they’d report me (I don’t think, anyway–certainly Brennan and Donnic wouldn’t, and I’ve given the rest enough ginger snaps over the years to win at least some good favor), but the last thing I’d ever do is work with the lyrium while strangers were near. I may have a healthy love of spectacle, but that’s outside even my m��tier.

Well. Sometimes you have rats in the cellar, sometimes you have murderous dwarves in the bedroom. Just depends on your infestation, I guess.

Toby’s come to tug at my pants leg. You don’t need to go outside again, it’s still early. Ah, I hear Varric in the foyer. Now we’ll get somewhere!

Later

The Vimmark Mountains, Varric says, from some notes he uncovered that we missed. Worse, he’s heard from some of his contacts who deal with the Wardens that some of these—these creepy dwarf murderers have been lurking near Stroud’s camps at the base of the mountains as well.

If they’re going after Carver, I’ll scorch every hill and rise bald until the last of them’s flushed into the daylight.

Blood of the hawk. If that’s what they’re after, Andraste, I’ll bring them every last drop.

#fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #dragon age #quark writes #hawke's journal tag #HEY REMEMBER THIS THING #we're actually getting pretty close to the end of the game idek how that happened #but i had a lecture event this morning and this is what i did to keep sane during it #let's see #the other dlc will be next #and then perhaps one or two more entries to wrap up the game #not sure how far i'll go past it #but we're def in the home stretch now my lovelies #anyway have this to tide you over until the other thing's ready to be posted #warnings for mentions of saarebas stuff

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maesterkenobi · 4 years

Text

how I run my blog

Tagged by: as usual I’ve stolen it from @mynameisanakin Tagging: no one, i am too lazy and i follow like 14 people so. just do it if you want to.

SPEED: is not my forte. I try my best, but there are several factors that work against me in this aspect: 1) I’m a chronic procrastinator 2) I’m scatterbrained 3) I have more than one blog 4) I almost never write replies that are less than two paragraphs and I want it to make sense and be good and be enjoyable for my partner, so it takes time. I almost never reply the same day (MAYBE on discord, because there my replies are way shorter and it’s mostly to my best friend), and you’re lucky if I reply within a week. I really try to be faster on this blog because I made a promise to myself (and I was doing okay until the whole virus thing happened and I ran into a bunch of personal problems) AND I am keeping a low profile on this blog so it doesn’t get overwhelming. Long story short, if you are looking for a super active daily replies partner, I am not it for you. If you’re okay with waiting for a while but getting more developed stories and longer replies in turn, then we should talk :)

REPLIES: Are on the longer side on this blog. I don’t really have the patience for one liners because they tend to go nowhere and then feel like bread crumbs of randomness all over my blog. They’re okay sometimes, but more often than not they feel like crack. Writing replies is really exhausting for me sometimes, but I try to force myself because I WANT to do it, I’m just having issues concentrating on one thing at a time so it takes me forever.

STARTERS: I don’t write welcoming starters because 8 out of 10 times they get ignored or are so random that they lead nowhere. If someone writes me a welcoming starter, it depends on the content but usually I’ll try to make it work for me and reply. I don’t often like starter calls because most people write absolutely pointless starters. For example they’ll write a paragraph of explaining what their muse did all day (unrelated to my muse), then walk into some random place they’ve never been to (e.g. a shady bar) and suddenly get surprised by my muse being there, and/or, my personal favorite, say something like “what the hell do you want from me”? Which I struggle with for several reasons. One, if you create a setting but don’t bother explaining why we’re there, you put the entire weight of explaining that (aka creating the actual setting) on ME, but you add an additional complication by making it something that I didn’t come up with, so now I have to introduce a world YOU invented with 0 idea of why you chose that particular location in the first place. Second, you put my muse in a situation that makes no sense for them and again force me to explain that, without even giving me a good reason to. And third, I play very different muses, but most of them are going to lose interest in the conversation immediately if the first thing you say to them is rude af. So, yeah, I actually really struggle with most random starters. Please just plot with me and then I will love you forever for writing me a plotted starter that I know will not create 400 questions in my head that I then have to bother you with, which makes me feel like a nuisance. (Or at least keep the setting neutral? Or try to come up with something that seems reasonable for my muse? I always try to do that and when I am unsure, I message the person who liked my starter calls.) Speaking of which, I rarely post starter calls, because.. well, like I just kind of explained, it’s comes with responsibility and work. And I’m lazy.

INBOX: is open for memes at all times, and questions of any kind. I often don’t get notified, so I sometimes see certain messages months later - when that happens, I usually don’t reply anymore if they’re anon because I’ll assume that person forgot or isn’t even around anymore. Sorry about that! It’s an issue I’ve had on several blogs and I don’t know how to fix it. Anon hate is deleted without comment, unless I feel there’s a point in replying to it publicly, or if it’s entertaining. I don’t roleplay via inbox and therefore any “ic” questions or interactions posted in there will be treated as a one-time meme, if I can reply to them at all. Asks of sexual nature from complete strangers will usually be ignored because Obi-Wan isn’t the muse for that at all. As I’ve stated in my rules I only roleplay with mutuals and therefore won’t roleplay with someone I don’t follow, even if they ignore that rule and start rping with me via inbox. I don’t mean to be dismissive, but I have these rules for a reason and I ask that people read and respect them.

SELECTIVITY: I am selective with whom I follow because I have limited time and energy for this blog (and all my blogs) and therefore find it irresponsible and pointless to accept 600 followers and threads when I know I can’t possibly reply to even 10% of them. Before I follow someone (back) I look at their blogs; in particular at their writing (to see if I like their style and their portrayal), their rules (to see what they like/dislike and if our general understanding of the RPC, roleplay, and in a way social interactions in general go well together), and sometimes their OOC posts to get a feeling of how the other person is. (Obviously I also sometimes don’t follow back when I don’t know the muse or fandom at all.) Blog rules and ooc posts can say A LOT about a person, and there are plenty of people in the RPC (in any fandom) that quickly rose to tumblr fame with shiny graphics and fancy formatting and dozens of well-developed verses and headcanons, but they straight up suck as people outside of writing. My rules state very clearly that I discourage hateful comments, mob mentality and callout culture, and unfortunately many “popular” blogs use exactly these tools to execute their power (which comes from being admired for all the wrong reasons). So, I know many people think being selective means you only pick partners with fancy graphics and poetic writing, but for me it actually means I want decent human beings as partners. I don’t give a shit if you format your posts (as long as you cut them) or if you have a blog with a fancy theme, or just a rules google doc, or if you use icons or not. If I like your writing and you seem like a nice and reasonable person, I’m good to go. If you talk to me about dogs I’m even better to go.

WISHLIST: I always try to have one because I find it very helpful when looking for plot ideas with new partners. I will look at yours if you like a plotting call or something too, but I know not everyone has a wishlist~

HONEST NOTE: I’m not a teenager anymore and I’ve been rping for over 14 years. I work with lots of strangers, I study for a job with lots of strangers. I think about philosophical concepts a lot, about morality and human behavior and I’ve come to the conclusion that kindness, empathy and compassion are some of the core values every single person should focus on to make the world a better place. I have no patience and no interest in engaging in the absolute toxic and harmful hate movement that’s taken over this website (and other social media platforms) in whatsoever way. Occasionally I’ll make a salty comment about it, but only because I’ve had it up to here. I am here to enjoy fandom the way I used to, and the way it used to be meant to be enjoyed - not to completely ignore real issues like world politics, economical and environmental crises, in order to entertain witch hunts on people who happen to enjoy a fictional ship that isn’t 300% approved by puritan statutes of the 1600s. I am responsible for the content I seek out online, and so are you. Does it suck when I see something I dislike? Sure. Is it the fault of the person who posted it? No. Especially not when I read their rules first, like I’m supposed to, and they clearly state that the thing I dislike will appear on their blog. And even if they didn’t, it was my choice to go on their blog and look at their content. If you can’t handle taking responsibility for the content you seek out online, then you are probably not old enough to use the internet unsupervised. I am free to write, read, and post on my personal blog whatever I want, as long as I am not breaking the law. Liking a fictional ship that involves an age gap? Not illegal. Liking a fictional ship that involves siblings? Not illegal. Liking a fictional ship in which one party was abusive to the other at some point? Not illegal. Liking a fictional character who killed your fave? Not illegal. It’s fictional. Get over it. And if you really think that seeing fictional characters or ships online that YOU consider “problematic” is hurting people in real life, then you should join those politicians who burn books that are “corrupting the people’s morals and minds”, who ban video games because they “make gamers violent”, and censor songs from the radio because they “present biased views on people of public importance”. Please reflect on your behavior. Destroying someone’s life because they liked something you don’t, telling them to commit suic/ide, ruining their chance of making friends who maybe share their love for a ship or character.. that’s bullying. Some of the cases I’ve seen on here were so severe, they qualify as serious cyberbullying and should be reported to the police. I don’t give a fuck if you hate Rey/lo or Damon Salva/tore, or the Joker. You don’t go and send someone messages telling them to kill themselves because they RP it. Because that is the real crime. And finally, if you feel the need to “educate” someone you consider “problematic” for whatever reason and you actually approach them - make sure you’re actually there to educate and discuss, not to throw an opinion at them and get aggressive when they don’t immediately magically agree. Because chances are they won’t. If you choose to open a dialogue, make sure it IS a fucking dialogue and not a condescending monologue. Learn how to shape an argument, find evidence to back up your claims - because not only will you become better at talking to people in any kind of situation, you’ll also maybe realize that your opinion wasn’t as well-founded as you thought.

#.tag game #.munday #.ooc

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oveliagirlhaditright · 4 years

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Do you know of any precanon fics in which Sora first realizes he's in love with, or has a crush on, Kairi?

That’s actually a really good question. I feel that I haven’t read many like this? I think I’ve read a few about Sora meeting Kairi... but I don’t think most of them move far enough along to show him falling in love with her after that. Or if they do, they’re AUs. That seems to be a time not really touched on much by the fandom.

Let’s see if I have anything that somewhat qualifies at all...

This fanfiction, https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3131685/1/Melting that’s about what it would have been like if Sora and Riku were stranded at the Dark Margin longer, has some of that. As it has flashbacks about Sora and Kairi’s life. Like, I think there’s a scene where a young Kairi falls asleep in Sora’s arms at the beach. And there’s a line like, “He was holding the girl he’d come to realize he loved, in a few years time”. And then in the next flashback--that’s after that event--I think Sora has realized that.

There’s this cute, one-shot... but I think it’s an AU. Because I think we all know Sora fell in love with Kairi when they were young. But I dunno. With KHIII maybe retconning that, one could maybe see this as more canon-esque now. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6326975/1/Simple-Instructions

This one https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6123196/1/The-Third-Wheel-Effect maaaaaaay does something like that--though full disclosure: I haven’t read it in years, so I don’t remember--as it’s Riku’s PoV after Sora and Kairi get together... and about how he’s okay with it, and thinks it was inevitable, because they were always pulled to each other like gravity. But if it goes any further into it beyond that, I don’t recall.

There was a fanfiction I read years ago--on how Sora and Kairi met--where when they were in kindergarten, Sora saved Kairi from being bullied by these kids saying “People from Destiny Islands don’t have red hair”, but I don’t remember where it is anymore... and I don’t know if it showed them older and falling in love at all. It may be in “V is for Violet” by WishingDreamer5 on fanfiction.net, but don’t quote me on it.

In this story of mine https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/20111551 (that was my attempt at writing Sora saving Kairi at the end of KHIII before Re:Mind came out, that has all the flashbacks in it), I wrote a “what if Sora didn’t at first like Kairi when they were children” type thing, and maybe you get to see the journey of their relationship because of that?

In this story https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773989/chapters/44539129 by ParadiseAvenger, there’s a line about how Sora’s loved Kairi since they were children... but you may not want to go through this whole fic, with many trigger warnings, just for that (I say that with love, as I enjoy ParadiseAvenger’s work. But I also know she’s not for everyone).

And then there’s also White Knight https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6277200/1/White-Knight by aradian nights, who’s an old friend of mine. It’s a canon/AU (that’s technically AU, but has so many canon elements--where it gives you “an I can’t believe it’s not canon” feeling--that it may still appease you. And this is still one of my favorite KH fanfictions of all-time, so I might gush about it here (also, spoilers for this fanfic, if you care). Basically, there’s a Realm of Light and a Realm of Darkness (kind of like in KH, but different. There are also in-between realms, I guess, but we never see them in the fic). Master Xehanort is the Master of the Dark Realm and Master Eraqus is the Master of the Light Realm (and like in canon, they used to be friends... but not anymore). Most of the story takes place in the Dark Realm and with the characters who live there (Sora and Kairi live in the Realm of Light, so you don’t really get to see them much. But more on that later). And Master Xehanort is a full-on dictator--with plans to take over the Realm of Light, of course--and he keeps people in line by taking people’s loved one’s hostages so they’ll do his bidding... And he has gatherings where people who break the rules are whipped or killed, and everyone in the Dark Realm has to watch (so there’s definitely some darkness to this fic. But I don’t think it’s Game of Thrones dark or anything like that. Think The Hunger Games, maybe... though Naminé, who’s insane in this for plot reasons, though still a heroine/sympathetic... can do some off-putting things, where she hurts herself or others. So be warned there). The story mostly follows Terra, Ventus, Aqua, Naminé, and later Vanitas, who all live in the Dark Realm. Oh. And Xion and Riku. And Roxas ends up in the Dark Realm later, too. And the main pairings are Terqua, Vennami (the author of this is actually a RokuNami fan--and there’s even some RokuNami ship tease in here--but she did this to challenge herself to see if she could do a Vennami crack pairing, and thus this whole story was born. And it’s marvelous), and VanAqua. Though there’s some other ship tease in there, too. But back to the SoKai... Both Sora and Kairi live with Master Eraqus (Sora’s trained to be a Keyblade wielder with him, and Kairi also tried to... but was unable to really wield any weapon. But everyone was okay with this, because they sensed she was an important light person they needed to keep around and were happy to protect her). And at one point, Master Xehanort kidnapped Kairi to create Naminé, as Nami’s the key to his plans... and he dropped her back on Eraqus’ door again, half-insane. And while other people who lived with Eraqus (like Roxas) tried their best to make Kairi feel better--and to protect her, because after this, Xehanort’s always sending men to try and kill her, because she’s getting in the way of his plans/Naminé--Sora’s the best at it... and you can sort of see how they’re falling in love with each other this way. And there’s this cute scene where they’re both musing over how their lives are too weird... and I won’t spoil all the reasons as to why they’re having that conversation. And Sora temporarily dies in this, and asks Ven to tell Kairi he loves her... but he’s able to come back in the end. But just note that while this story has its last chapter, it never got its epilogue--and never will (because the author doesn’t like this story much anymore, because she wrote it when she was thirteen/doesn’t really remember what she wrote/has moved on, etc.)--so in some ways, you don’t get full closure (though you still do get closure). At least not on, like, two subjects, so it’s sort of a gut punch in that way. But over time, I’ve come to realize that maybe it was the perfect way to end such a story. Oh. And they’re are Final Fantasy characters in this, too.

Edit: This one by ParadiseAvenger (that I think you can read, no problem, as this one really has no trigger warnings) has Sora thinking about how Kairi had always caught his eye at one part. https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/19324915/chapters/45968650

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kinsbin · 4 years

Text

Hunter, Hunter, Demon

Title: Hunter, Hunter, Demon Ship: Taro/Alexys/Cyril [Self Insert/OCs] Word Count: 2010

Summary: Alexys is demon who has, accidentally or not so accidentaly, fallen in love with a couple of demon hunters. Little does she know that the feeling is mutual.

A/N: Another comm for @space-sweetheart !! This one is more lighthearted than the oTHER I PROMISE BUT THEY’RE ALL VERY CUTE

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“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Alexys paused in her movements about the kitchen of the small hotel room she, Cyril, and Taro had all decided to stop in for the night. Their hunt about the city for a lead on a demonic underground dedicated to selling black market liquid joy to unsuspecting human beings had ended in a cold trail after their lead escaped around a back alley with far too many allure sigils and illusionistic bindings for her to even count let alone warn the two hunters of. Instead she had pulled at the two at her side and forced them to stop, warning with a hiss that they wouldn’t make it. Cyril had gotten angry, of course, claiming that they would. That, with her help, they could do it just fine. When she insisted that she couldn’t unravel all of the sigils at once, Taro was the one to come to her defense, albeit stubbornly, and suggest that they hole up somewhere for the night before other demons caught the scent of their dearest partner in crime.

It led them to the shitty Motel 6 that they were all 3 currently in, the two bedroom area giving away to a small and private foyer right before the bathroom, complete with a barely there doorframe they could slide in place for some semblance of privacy. Of course, what privacy was there between two hunters and a demon? Apparently, Alexys thought with only the slightest hint of bitterness deep in the recesses of her throat, still some. Still enough as the two hunters excused themselves for a private meeting in that hidden foyer, still unaware of how loud they talked as she leaned in slightly to catch the next words that flowed from their lips.

“Things happen, Priest,” Taro’s voice was an easygoing and amused tone, laced with that tangible hint of an accent lingering on the bases of his ‘rs’ and ‘t’s. She found it charming, the way he spoke with those lithe hints. He changed his sentences at times to Japanese, a flawless transformation that could only come with the bilingual abilities of someone raised in a house with two or more languages. The only information she had gotten out of it, though, was that his mother already spoke both just fine and used them in the house. Neither liked to discuss their past with her much. She couldn’t say she blamed them.

Taro continued, though, his laughter that echoed relaxed as she heard the shrug in it, “That shouldn’t be something you’re too surprised about. We lose trails, it happens. We know that the ring is operating within this part of the city and, regardless if we take our time to sleep tonight, they can’t pack up and move all of it out of a certain radius. Demons or no, they possess human forms and human forms are heavy and have lingering effects so-.”

“I’m not talking about the job.”

Cyril’s voice was curt. A sharp sounding thing. It ripped through the conversation like a blade tearing through a flimsy sheet of paper, the noise vaguely unpleasant but necessary to hear as Alexys jumped. She half expected both to come barging out of the area, still mid-conversation, growling and huffing under their breaths at one another as they always seemed to do. Cyril never verbally admitted to liking either Alexys or Taro, but Taro could convince a room full of vampires and demons to find his company enjoyable if he wished to. It was the skill that helped him to survive in the world as long as he did, his phrasing careful and nearly as sharp as his teeth.

Even his words didn’t seem to quell the intensity of Cyril’s tone, however, as she listened in more.

“Oh? Then what, praytell, are you referring to?”

Taro’s tone was easy going still, a lax sort of curiosity lacing against his mouth as she heard him lean against something. Likely the counter of the bathroom, his feet crossing over the ankles as he leaned back and sighed, stretching his neck. He had cracked a bone or two during the run, but it was nothing he couldn’t pop back into place with both of their help. She always worried about the way Taro’s bones popped. He was a bag of rice krispy treats. At her side, the two dogs he kept with him whimpered softly at their owner through the door. She shushed them gently, running her hands over the scalp of one of the rottweilers until it rested its head back down on her lap, licking its lips and staring with her back at the closed door.

“You know what I’m referring to, Taro.”

“Pretend I don’t and refresh my mind. I’d like to hear you say it out loud for once instead of blaming me or God or whoever else you think is up to no good.”

There was a low groan of annoyance, followed by Taro’s delighted laughter.

“Alexys,” Cyril finally admitted in a tone so low that she had to strain to her him, “She wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to be with us! I… We…”

She felt her heart clench at the implication. Did they find her annoying? Was she just an issue to have around rather than a friend as she had considered herself to be to them? Perhaps it was stupid of her, she realized as her hand raised up to bite at her nails nervously, for thinking that something like her could ever befriend demon hunters like them. What was she possibly doing, being with them? Acting as though she could help them in the case that they were far more qualified to do… The doubts rung themselves sharp in her mind as she tried to push them away, her hair shifting slightly with energy as her emotions slowly grew to hold onto her.

When Cyril’s voice appeared again, a whisper of light against a dark background in the back of her mind, her gaze shot open and her jaw went slack.

“We weren’t supposed to fall in love with her.”

His tone was sad. A soft worry coated his voice in a way she had never heard it before. Taro must have never heard it either. She could hear him shift uncomfortably in his spot and not answer, speechless for the first time since she had ever known him.

“We weren’t supposed to… “ Taro admitted back with a slowness in his voice, as though he was trying not to smile, “But we did, didn’t we? There’s nothing we can do to take that back, Cyril. She… means a lot to you and to me. I’ve seen it in your eyes long before you admitted it.”

“When all of this is over,” Cyril murmured weakly, “She’ll go back to Hell. She’ll return to that life that demons have and forget about us. What’s two humans to a creature who can live for eternity, after all?”

His only response was a sad chuckle from the other hunter as they shifted again in their positions, making Alexys wince.

Unable to take it anymore, she flung herself up from her spot on the bed before she could think about it. The dog resting its head on her lap whined at the lack of contact, but watched curiously as the demoness stomped over to the doorway with purpose and flung the flimsy screen open, all but cracking it in the impact her claws had on the delicate surface.

Cyril and Taro turned to face her, eyes wide and faces clearly startled as they took her in. She looked sweet, less than intimidating in her large t-shirt and shorts, but the horns and the fire in her eyes made up for the otherwise casual wear. They cringed back as they realized the situation at hand. She had heard them talking, their voices less than quiet in the passion of their discussion, and the two shared a single gaze of worry amognst one another. Cyril’s squint against his scarred skin was the only semi-glare he offered to the other man before focusing back forward, lips parting to make is case as best as he could to the demon before him.

He got no words out, however, as she ran up to him. Bracing for impact, he expected to die. He was ready to, in a way. The offense he had created must have been horrible to hear for her, certainly.

So when she hugged him, embracing him close to her body, Cyril was certainly confused.

“You’re idiots,” Alexys laughed weakly through the apparent shakiness of breath she experienced, “Both of you… Thinking that I’d leave you… Thinking that I don’t love you back! Of course I do, Hell, of course I do. I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you stupid, ridiculous little humans.”

Behind her, Taro laughed through his shaky smile, a relieved and relaxed sound that echoed its comfort through the acoustics of the bathroom. Cyril stared, wide blue eyes watching the demon hug him, before his own hands rose up. Unsure at first, they hesitated above her body for a long moment before, ever so slowly, they lowered down onto her. When the embrace was returned, Alexys felt tears well in her eyes. The thick black liquid that served as her body’s source of water was discomforting to say the least, but, she couldn’t care. Not when she was being held like this. Not when it was Cyril who was doing it, as he buried his face in her hair and inhaled, tightening his grip as though she would slip from his fingers at any moment. This was, she was pretty sure, the first time they had hugged at all in their relationship. She smiled into his chest as she kept him in place, turning her head slightly to watch Taro in the corner.

Her eyes were an invitation and he smiled at it, approaching the two before opening his arms wide as well. Cyril glared down at him for a moment.

“Don’t you dare.”

“She invited me!”

“No. Wait your turn.”

“Nahhhhh. Group hug time, Priest~.”

And Taro joined in, his long arms enveloping both the demon and the other hunter as they hugged. A kiss was placed on the back of her head, a careful and sweet thing that made her shiver as Taro nuzzled into her from behind, sandwiching her between the two of them. Normally being between two demon hunters like this would be less than pleasant certainly but… with them? Alexys wished the moment would never end for her.

She looked up, gazing into Cyril’s face, and he watched her. He gazed at her so carefully, so delicately, that for a moment she thought she was an angel. This man, with his ability to give demons release from their confines, had found his way into her heart and she felt it fluttering at the sight of him. Taro’s breath was on her neck as he leaned forward as well, laughing behind her with that mischievous smile on his lips.

“You should kiss him now.”

And she did.

Their lips pressed, gentle and soft and carefully together, in fear that she might hurt him in one way or another with her enthusiasm. Instead, after a moment of tense pause, he returned the kiss. Their lips worked together in the most beautiful of ways, her body becoming hotter than it already was as she pressed herself closer to Cyril’s form. This gave Taro the opportunity to lean forward and kiss her shoulder, sighing into her body as the group held one another in the middle of the cheap motel room bathroom in the middle of the night.

This was it, she realized with a jubilation deep in the center of her stomach. This was the thing she had longed for. The situation she wanted. Between these two men, once her enemies and now something more, she had located the thing she wanted most in her life.

This was home.

#kinley writes #self ship #self insert #writing commission #oc self ship #oc writing

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