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deanmarywinchester · 4 months

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previous years: 2022, 2021 / list of worst sf/f/horror

the bangers were BANGING this year, I kept mentally readjusting my top 5 list every time I read something good so the honorable mentions are extremely honorable this year. I hope you read anything that sounds good from this list and tell me about it!

top 5:

chain gang all stars by nana kwame adjei-brenyah: when I say that this book is like the hunger games for adults, I’m not making a glib comparison between two books about fighting to the death, I’m saying that I haven’t felt so intensely about a book since I stayed up late to tear through the hunger games and sob about it when I was thirteen. this book is satire as real and devastating as I’ve ever read, with action scenes that feel like they’re being dripped directly into my hindbrain and a unique and believable love story. put it on hold at your library literally RIGHT now.

the actual star by monica byrne: about a post-climate catastrophe utopian society built around a religion started by a teenage girl in 2012 based on mayan traditions, and also about the teenage girl, and also about the maya. this book made me crazy because the future society felt real enough to touch, with its radical openness and collectivity solving problems that exist today but causing new ones that are totally novel and meaty and interesting to dig into. read it if you’re interested in different ways of being.

the spear cuts through water by simon jiménez: really, REALLY good, fresh, original epic fantasy. jimenez picks a few perspectives to stick to but hops fluidly into bystanders’ brains to give you their perspectives, so even background characters feel fleshed-out and no one’s pain is dismissed as a side effect of heroic battles or whatever. highly recommended if you like framing narratives and stories about stories, and like epic fantasy but wish it wasn’t mostly about finding acceptable enemies to slaughter with cool swords

the dispossessed by ursula k. le guin: I love how much this book is about hope as clear-eyed commitment to the boring and difficult work of a brighter and necessary future. sometimes the work of the glorious anarcho-communist revolution is leaving your university post and romantic partner for months at a time to dig irrigation ditches so nobody starves when there’s a drought. read this book for diplomatic conniving, a clash of values between a capitalist planet and its dissident moon, and hope.

imperial radch trilogy and its spinoffs by ann leckie: what if you were built to be a weapon of the empire, a serene sentient battleship with thousands of human bodies all containing your consciousness, and you lost all bodies but one and had to figure out how to be a person, singular and alone? what if you were a 19th century british military officer and you slept for a thousand years into the decline of the empire? what if you were grown in a vat to be a facsimile of human and then told off for eating all your siblings even though eating them was SO interesting? what then. leckie’s prose is incisive and funny, her unreliable narrators are wonderful, and her stories are intimate even though the backdrops are insanely huge. 👍.

honorable mentions:

house of leaves by mark z. danielewski: guys? anyone hearda this one? anyway. Something Is Wrong With This House horror with themes of storytelling and grief. recommending that you slam this book as fast as possible like I did so you can hold all its layers in your head at once.

the lathe of heaven by ursula k le guin: i thought I didn’t like ursula k le guin, and then I read this book, went OH and immediately devoured the hainish cycle. im so sorry miss ursula. this book about a hapless pacific northwesterner whose therapist is making him dream different realities into being is so sharp and sly and funny. themes of choices, ends and means.

he who drowned the world by shelley parker-chan: I liked the prequel to this addition to the radiant emperor duology. I LOVED this book. parker-chan has invented new and exciting modes of fucked-up codependency and im obsessed. historical light-fantasy with themes of ideals vs what it takes to reach them, gender, and regret.

babel by r. f. kuang: found the didacticism of this book annoying, but i really loved the concept of this novel and the way it slowly ratchets up the stakes. this novel is for people who want to smash the fun of the magic school genre against the reality of universities’ complicity in the imperial machine.

piranesi by susannah clarke: im late to this book but it’s such a weird little gem. peaceful yet unsettling. a man takes care of an endless house with an ocean inside it until he realizes the house is stealing his memories. themes of memory and devotion.

hell follows with us by andrew joseph white: I can only read YA these days if it’s a reread or if it’s genuinely good and really really strange. this is that. weird gory fantasy about a trans teen who escapes his militarized post-apocalyptic christian cult and finds himself turning into something Different. my only gripe is that he uses 2023-perfect language to describe transness and I think he should be inventing genders weve never even thought of. such is YA.

some desperate glory by emily tesch: a rolickin’ good space opera time with terrible women <3. a thriller about how the golden child of her isolated human-supremacist space station cult deprograms and the consequences of it. this feels like a grown-up SPOP until the theoretical physics gets involved. big fan

the library of mount char by scott hawkins: this book is harrow the ninth in suburbia until it becomes a more macabre version of the absurdity of the gomens apocalypse. God raises his children, sometimes brutally, to hone their powers in a neighborhood that mysteriously keeps out outsiders. came for the dysfunctional mess of the god-children and now I can never look at a grill the same way

runners up:

bunny by mona awad: books that make you WISH you were in mona awad’s MFA program where she must have been having a terrible time. the weird one out in an MFA program accepts overtures into the unbearable rich-girls’ clique to find out what they’re Up To. themes of aimlessness and the intersection of class with the art world

camp damascus by chuck tingle: have you ever wished that you were simply too autistic to be successfully demonically brainwashed into not having gay thoughts? horror-flavored thriller that was just fun

light from uncommon stars by ryka aoki: this author put a bunch of genres in a blender and came up with something fun and surprisingly cozy. an immortal woman must sell violinists’ souls to the devil in exchange for their fame, or he’ll drag her to damnation instead. there might be aliens and coffeeshop romance involved. definitely a blender.

the fragile threads of power by v. e. schwab: if you haven’t read a darker shade of magic and you like tightly paced high fantasy and historical fantasy elements, political intrigue, and pirates, read that first. if you have, there’s more now! lila bard are you free on thursday when I am free

the library of the dead & our lady of mysterious ailments by t. l. huchu: a teenage girl provides for her family in soft-apocalypse magic edinburgh with a job carrying messages from ghosts to their living relatives. an ongoing mystery series about the intrigues she uncovers among the dead.

severance by ling ma: this books is on the list of media that is the terror to me: it's about an apocalyptic disease that makes people reenact their routines mindlessly until they collapse. intimate apocalypse novel with themes of late capitalist malaise.

ocean’s echo by everina maxwell: i didn't really like winter's orbit because i'm just not a romance guy, but this second novel stands alone and the romance is more insane and less of the entire point of the novel. (also it's between essentially Discworld's Carrot and Moist Von Lipwig, which is. really something.) in the Space Military, a buttoned-up mind controller must pretend to bend a socialite with illegal mind-reading powers to his will. what if fake relationship but the relationship they have to fake is "brain linked master/servant pair."

the murderbot diaries by martha wells: novellas about a misanthropic security android who jailbroke itself in order to watch tv. the name "murderbot" is a joke but it very much did kill people <3 themes of paranoia and outsiderhood, corporate wrongdoing, repentance, and trust

black water sister by zen cho: zen cho is good at any kind of fantasy she writes, including this, her first modern fantasy novel. a closeted lesbian has to move in with her family in malaysia after college in the US, only to discover that her dead grandmother has some unfinished business involving a local goddess and a conniving real estate developer. themes of family, gender, and place.

the way inn by will wiles: a man who’s paid to pretend he’s other people to attend conferences in their place gets trapped in an endless Marriott. has the sharp humor of a colson whitehead corporate satire until it becomes more straightforwardly horror-flavored.

#yearly book roundup #reading tag #my posts #it was a good year for my like. ideological and political development and im so serious that some of these books helped almost as much as #the nonfiction i read #reading about totally different and new ways of structuring society and morality are an antidote against knee-jerk reactionary thinking #like. 'life doesnt work like that' okay but what if we could make life work like that? what would it take? why does life work like THIS now #you know. anyway stream the dispossessed and the actual star especially

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writingreadinglurkingandsmirking · 11 months

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Is Your Secrets - Sarah Cameron x Reader

Dear Reader Duology: Part 1, Part 2

Summary: For 16 days Sarah has absolutely no explanation as to where you are. She knows, but not from you. And it's killing her. The uncertainty of what she's done to your relationship and where you both stand is killing her. And when you finally make it back home? You both have to face down the future of your relationship and what that will look like.

Word Count: 5.2k+

TWs/CWs: She/her pronouns used, adult/profane language, descriptions of relationship issues/relationship deterioration, mentions of hospice/a funeral (not extensive or central), making up from a relationship, not fully flushed out

Note: Lmaooooo I didn't feel like waitinggggggggg! Part 2 of the Sarah Cameron installment of the Dear Reader duology series I have going on here on Tumblr. Happy pride: go lesbians, go. Again, if I'm lucky I'll get Kie's out before pride month is over.

“What the hell? Where is my girlfriend?” Sarah demanded when JJ and Kiara emerged from the trees without you. Both had grim looks on their faces and Sarah had a spinning anxiety threatening to take out her legs. She watched as the couple exchanged a glance and her eyes hardened almost immediately into a glare. She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “This isn’t funny. Where is she?”

“She…had to leave, Sarah,” Kie said eventually.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“She’s having a family thing. It’s…bad,” JJ said.

“What the fuck are you talking about? No, she didn't, she would’ve told me,” Sarah said defensively.

“She just got the text, Sar. Right before she ran off,” Kie explained.

“No. She would’ve had me take her. What are you even saying?” she asked.

JJ went to reply but Kiara grabbed her boyfriend’s arm squeezing it, as if in warning. It didn’t go unnoticed by Sarah, but she didn’t get why. She shook her head and turned towards John B. He nodded encouragingly, smiling and patting her shoulder.

“Go call her and see what’s up,” he encouraged.

Offering him a smile of thanks she walked off, dialing your number within moments and holding it to her hair. It rang once…twice…a third time…a fourth time…then? It was sent to voicemail. Sarah bit her lip, immediately worried.

“Hey, baby? What’s up? Where did you go? Are you okay? Kie said you have a family thing going on,” she said, drumming her nails against her leg. “I’m worried. Call me back okay? Just let me know what you need so I can help you.”

She hung up and walked back over to her friends. “Did she answer?” Cleo asked.

“No,” Sarah said, shaking her head.

Cleo sighed and got up. “I’ll try to call her,” she assured Sarah before walking off.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Sarah,” Pope offered. “She just has to deal with her family stuff. You know she’s not just gonna run on you.”

Sarah turned her head over towards Cleo who glanced back in Sarah’s direction. She shook her head and lowered the phone. Obviously, you hadn’t answered, then. Sarah’s hands sat on her hips and she started drumming her fingers more insistently. She took out her phone after a few seconds of thought and started firing off a series of texts to you.

Hey, where did you go?? JJ and Kie said something’s wrong?? Why aren’t you answering??

I love you, baby. Just call me back please.

I just wanna know that you’re okay. You don’t even have to tell me what’s wrong.

I’m supposed to be there for you, peach.

For a moment, Sarah paused and looked up at her friends. “What did she say was wrong?” Sarah asked.

Again, Kie stopped JJ from speaking. “She didn’t say anything. She showed us the text she got,” Kie explained. “Her aunt’s collapsed. It looks like she’s…potentially not gonna make it this time…”

“Shit,” Sarah hissed before taking her phone out, trying to call you again. Again, you did not answer. She left another message. And with that, she started firing off another round of texts.

Kie just told me your aunt collapsed. Do you need me to get us over to the mainland tomorrow? Are you going on the last boat? Do you want me to come? What’s up? What do you need? I don’t want to overwhelm you I just know how hard this is.

So just tell me what you need, okay?

I love you. I wanna support you.

I can be there by the morning. Just say the word. You know I’d do anything for you, right?

Sarah made a final attempt to call. This time she didn’t bother to leave another voicemail when there was no answer. She looked over at Kie, face pleading for some answer that she knew well that her friend could not provide. Or would not even if she could do it. She looked back down at her phone, shaking her head, firing off a few more texts.

My love, you’re scaring me. I hate to think that you’re out there overwhelmed like this and that you’re alone.

Please talk to me, peach.

“Sarah,” Kie said cautiously. “She just texted me.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. She hated the sound of that and the nervous energy that filled her at that. “What did she say?” Sarah asked, worried.

Kie didn’t say anything, instead, she simply held the phone out for Sarah to read. So, Sarah had to read the text with her own two eyes. She had to come to terms with the fact that she saw that this was what you said. She had to acknowledge that this was what you meant.

Tell her not to come.

It felt like a ton of bricks had been dropped into her stomach and fell all the way to her feet. “Hey,” Pope said optimistically. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Right,” John B said automatically, nodding in agreement. “Probably just gonna be crowded at the hospital with her aunt. Less to worry about. Nothing about you, Sarah. She’s crazy about you.”

Cleo and Kie exchanged a look and Kie swatted at JJ as he made a noise. “What, JJ?” Sarah asked, overly defensive immediately.

“Nothing, Sarah. Just try to understand that her aunt is dying. Of course, she doesn’t need to worry about you. But we should be worried about her, shouldn’t we?” he posed, voice dripping disdain even as he kept his face neutral.

Despite the urge to snap back at him, Sarah knew that it was largely just her anxiety tempting her towards it. She simply squeezed her hip with one hand and gripped her phone with the other. She offered a curt nod. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “I’m gonna head back though and see if she went to our apartment first.”

“Sarah…she didn’t,” Kie said, sounding like she hated even saying it. “She’s on the ferry already. Heading over. Just…give her a little space right now. She’ll reach out when she’s ready. Give her a break. It’s been…hard.”

“What are you saying? What has been hard?” Sarah asked, looking suspiciously at Kiara.

“Look, Sarah. Let’s take you home,” John B said, clapping her on the shoulder. “You are way too worried about this right now. You need to decompress. You’re not gonna do that here.”

Sarah offered him a scathing glare. “I need to know if my girlfriend's okay,” Sarah retorted.

“No, you need to listen to Kie and give your girlfriend a damn chance to get through this. And she wants to do it without you right now. And you need to respect that,” JJ said bluntly, ever willing to push her buttons regardless of how painful it might be to do so.

“And we’re done here,” Kie said with fake cheer, clapping JJ’s shoulder before beginning to bodily drag him away. She threw a final look back at Sarah and a last piece of advice. “Just give her a bit. She’ll be back when her family's stuff's set.”

Regardless of what Sarah wanted, she knew that she had no other choice. She knew that her friends were right, whether more softly presented like Kie or more harshly presented like JJ. So, when she went home again, to an empty bed that should’ve had you sleeping beside her, warm and safe, she was determined to be patient. You’d reach out when you needed her. And you did. You did need her. At least…she hoped you did. Suddenly, she felt swept over by a tidal wave of doubt as she sat alone in your shared apartment.

Sarah was not unaware that she hadn’t been the best version of herself with you for the past month. No, she was entirely aware that this was the worst girlfriend she’d ever been to you. And she hated herself for it. But she truly, truly felt like she had to. After all, as much as she often…hated her brother…hated everything about the way he acted and the person he portrayed himself to be…the last conversation they’d had together had left an impact. Something that she had no doubt he’d be delighted to know.

“You know, you’re a lot more like me than you’d like to admit, Sarah. A lot more like Dad. It’s about time that you stop lying to yourself that you’re some normal little good girl, isn’t it? We’re all adults now,” Rafe had sneered on their monthly call that both of them hated, yet neither seemed to be able to stop.

“You’re a crazy, possessive dick, Rafe,” she’d pointed out, with her teeth grit. “I’m nothing like you. And I’m not some selfish…clingy asshole like Dad, either.”

Rafe had chuckled on the other end of the phone and something about the sound had set her teeth on edge. “Oh that’s so sweet that you think so,” he had cooed sarcastically. “But you should take a look at the way you treat that little girlfriend of yours before you start running your mouth over who acts possessive and crazy…or selfish and clingy. You want that girl to be about you 24/7 and if she isn’t you got a problem with it.”

Sarah rolled her eyes at her brother. “Yeah, no. I don’t think it’s weird that I’m excited to be with my girlfriend actually. Some of us are emotionally mature and actually grew up and have partners that we love,” she had said, the words caustic and barbed.

“Ah, well, commitment’s overrated,” Rafe drawled down the line. Sarah had been furious to hear his smug amusement at her easily triggered anger at that moment. “I bet you don’t even realize how bad it is. You probably don’t go even five minutes without touching her if you’re in the same room.” He let out a hum that had Sarah’s hair standing on end. “You probably couldn’t even stop yourself if you tried. I feel bad for her, I do. I’m sure that your girlfriend hates it. Even if she’s too nice to say it to you.”

At that point, the conversation had devolved largely into her yelling at her brother to stop being such a jackass and grow up and a bunch of other childish and otherwise unhelpful things that only could be dragged out of her by her siblings. Even so, knowing that Rafe was an idiot and a loser and always wrong more or less, the words had haunted her. They stuck to her brain. And part of her knew that he was right. She was clingy. Some probably would call her obsessive. She did feel like she had to be touching you every moment that she could be—it helped her feel sane for God’s sake. And sure she hated when Kiara looked at you for too long even though it was more likely that you’d both run away and elope with a literal fish before even looking at each other that way. So maybe she was a bit possessive at times. But you were the best thing that had ever happened to her. So sue her. Of course she was.

At that moment, it struck her.

And damn it all to hell because Rafe was right and she was just a bit psychotic when it came to you.

And damn it all to a deeper part of hell because he was also probably right about you hating it.

She tried her best to dissuade herself from that being the truth. But, over the following days after that first conversation with her brother, she recognized it more. The pattern of borderline obsession with you. Not to an unhealthy degree, not really. But enough that she somehow felt like a part of her was missing when she didn’t get to touch you every ten minutes or so when you were with each other. And that scared her. It scared her a lot. She’d worked so hard through her late teenage years and into her early twenties to become strong and independent. And in the last two years with you, it had dismantled every wall she’d ever built. You felt too entwined with her; it was like she didn’t know where you ended and where she began.

Sarah would admit it: she got scared.

Sarah would admit it: she was a coward.

Sarah would admit it: she ran in every way but literally.

At the drop of a dime, despite the fact it almost felt like going through literal withdrawal at first, she started distancing herself from you. From her peach. From the sweetest and best thing that had ever entered her life. She told herself it was to give you space. It was to give you the freedom to choose to bridge that gap and make the connection with you both. That was a lie though. That was the lie that she told herself even as she pulled away as you tried to make contact, even as she ignored you and flaked on plans and lied about where she was. Because if there was one thing that Sarah couldn’t shake—not fully, at least—it was the ability to blow up things that were important to her when they got too serious. Sure, it had taken two years this time, but she still did it.

But, hey, consistency was key when it came to destroying your life, right?

Then, it felt like she couldn’t stop. She felt awful that first week and wanted to stop. Going into the second week she told herself every day she needed to cut the shit out. And going into the third week it was the same song and dance to. Every time she said it she vowed she would. Every vow she made to do better she completely threw away for fear that she could not name.

So, she was completely aware that she deserved the silence that she got from you. She’d earned it even. But, even so, it burned her. It pissed her off and it terrified her and she was terrified for you and it all turned her stomach into knots that she felt would never go away. And the days dragged on like this. One day into five. Five into nine. She felt like she was going absolutely insane. Not a word from you. Not to her at least. Kie would get an update every four days or so it seemed like. Sarah desperately tried to act like it didn’t bother her but it stung. Already she’d mentally returned herself to the place of I don’t deserve this in a last ploy to avoid the depth of fear and feelings surrounding all of this. And she stewed in that instead of moping around too much. She avoided people the first nine days of you being gone, but by then her friends had informed her quite plainly that if she didn’t voluntarily come out with her they’d actually kidnap her this time. So, she’d agreed.

That’s what brought Sarah out to dinner with her friends. It was nothing big. It was literally just at the Wreck. Even so, dragging her there felt like a trial from the devil himself for a moment there. She sat, tense and generally off from her normal self. Everyone politely seemed to be ignoring it, even as she snapped and complained far more than she’d ever done even before she’d met all of them. Everyone except JJ who seemed almost personally offended by Sarah’s literal existence today. So, she made it her personal mission to ignore him altogether.

“Hey, Kie, have you heard from her?” Sarah asked quietly as the conversation began splitting off after they’d all placed their orders.

“Nothing today, no,” Kiara denied, while JJ scoffed. “Jayj, stop.”

“No. Got something to say, Maybank?” Sarah asked flatly, practically itching to take her anger out on something at that moment.

JJ looked her over as if she were the least interesting thing he’d ever set eyes on then shook his head. “Nothing worth it,” he scoffed before taking a drink from the bottle in front of him.

Sarah raised a brow. “No. Do go on,” she insisted.

“You’re pissed that she’s gone, yeah?” JJ posed. “It’s been two weeks of her dealing with a family crisis that might as well have arrived outta nowhere, yeah?” He scoffed. “Not even two full weeks yet.”

“What’s your point?” Sarah asked, gritting her teeth.

“My point is that you start talking about how she’s been gone so long, and this, that the other. And you’re saying it all like you weren’t practically throwing her away the past month she was here. And yes I said throwing her away because some of the shit had long surpassed pushing her away,” JJ pointed out, voice acidic but truthful. “And you know damn well I’m right, here, Cameron. You do. The problem is that’s just the stuff you were doing in front of us. So I’m sure you were doing worse when y’all were alone. And all my love, of course, Sarah. But at the end of the day? If you’re being as shitty a girlfriend to her as I even think you’re being? I hope she doesn’t come back again. I hope she doesn’t answer you. And I hope you figure out what the fuck got you so flighty when you’ve been happily held down the past two years by a woman you like…are obsessed with.”

“Why don’t we all take a step back here,” Cleo suggested, stepping in front of Sarah. Sarah hadn’t even realized that she’d moved. “Before things get more heated.” Sarah’s glare didn’t move from JJ. Cleo squeezed her shoulder. “Come on. Sarah.”

After another moment, Sarah cut her eyes over toward Cleo. She scoffed and pulled roughly away from her friends. “Fuck you, JJ,” she snapped as she stormed over to the door.

“Sarah,” Kie called after her.

But, Sarah didn’t reply. Instead, she stormed her way home and stewed in her anger, sadness, and hurt. It was easy to be angry. Very easy. It was probably the strongest thing passed down through her family. It was easier to stay attached to the anger than it was to try and reckon with JJ’s words…his accusations. Yes, it was far easier considering the voice in the back of her head that informed her plainly and repeatedly just how right JJ had been. So, instead of facing that, she happily stuck to the anger she felt at your perceived abandonment of her. She’d lost a lot in her life. You knew that. And now, what? She was expected to be okay with losing you? When she loved you, her precious girlfriend, more than anything else? No matter what the back of her mind reminded her of—her poor treatment of you—she couldn’t think beyond the threat of losing you.

The cycle went on like that

Despite every instinct in her mind, Sarah called you. She knew damn well that you wouldn’t answer. But, she just had to hear your voice on the voicemail. Just for a moment. She let out a shaky sigh as she heard your voice, telling her that you were sorry for missing the call and that you’d call her back if she just left a message after the beep. Your voice was so light, you were so full of joy. Sarah longed to have that happiness coloring your tone again. She longed to be the reason you were that happy again. At the sound of the beep, Sarah paused, unable to hang up.

“Hey, peach,” she said, the words practically squeaking out of her mouth. “I know you’re busy. Everyone says that you’re dealing with the family stuff on the mainland. I know. I get that. I’m sorry. I just…I just needed to hear your voice with the voicemail. I love you. I’m sorry. Please…I know I don’t deserve it. And I know that…I don’t want to make this about me. But…just…when you come back…let me talk to you. Please. Let me fix things. I love you so much. I can…I can explain everything about how fucking awful I’ve been. And I promise that I’m not gonna make excuses. I just…you deserve to know.” She let out a shaking breath. “I love you. I miss you. I…I can’t wait to see you again, my love.”

After that, Sarah hung up again, practically flinging the phone away from her. She took a few deep breaths and wiped away tears from her face that she hadn’t even realized had fallen. She forced herself to muster all of her strength and stopped crying. She stopped letting herself feel the hulking weight of her upset and instead laid down in her bed. She curled up in a ball and didn’t let herself cry, but instead forced herself to sleep. It was much, much easier that way—less pain gripping at her throat threatening to pull her under the weight of her own sadness and crush her. So, sleeping it was.

Even so, the last thing on her mind as she drifted off to sleep was you.

Nine days turned quickly into sixteen. And suddenly, it had been half a damn month since Sarah had seen or spoken to her girlfriend. It was killing her. By then, her friends were making a much more concentrated effort to try and make her feel better. Even JJ by then was trying to give Sarah something to smile about and distract her from your conspicuous and extended absence from her life. The most recent attempt was today, with Kie and Cleo dragging her down to the beach with the guys to look for sea glass they could use to make some new jewelry for each other. There also was the side quest of meeting the new girl that John B had been getting to know and definitely getting to be smitten with.

But, hours later, when the sun was burning high, her pockets were full of sea glass and her shoes full of sand, the mission got thrown to the wayside. It had been great hanging out with everyone. For once she’d been wholly distracted. Hell, she’d even found herself getting along well with the new girl that John B was seeing—she was sweet, really. But none of that mattered when she saw you at the end of the beach, walking towards them. She froze like a statue, brain overwhelmed so completely that it shut off entirely.

Naturally, everyone’s attention turned in your direction when they noticed the near-comical freeze from Sarah. You simply gave a half-smile when you realized that your friends had spotted you. One of your hands was shoved into your pocket, the other held a bouquet of dahlias that could only have come from your family’s flower shop—the shop that had been closed for two weeks now, much to the disappointment of the island. Your eyes were downcast, protected by sunglasses against the midday rays. Sarah blinked once, twice, a third time. You were beautiful and perfect and terrible and she missed you and she hated you and she loved you more than anything in this world and she didn’t know how to feel anymore. So, quite simply, she decided not to think about it. To not feel like she had to know anything. She just acted.

Sarah’s feet carried her forward on instinct towards you, slowly at first. But then she was booking it across the sandy beach to you. She threw herself at you, arms wrapping around you in the tightest hug she’d maybe ever given you, practically shaking. You wrapped your arms firmly around her, holding her tightly against you, and let her bury her head in your neck for a moment. Even in doing so, you had the presence of mind to not crush the dahlias, intent on them being perfect when you actually handed them over to Sarah. The pair of you were silent for an extended moment, just holding each other with your eyes closed.

“Hi, baby,” you greeted her, sounding utterly exhausted. Somehow that broke Sarah’s heart even more.

“Hi, peach,” she replied, voice wavering. “I missed you. So much.”

“Missed you too, Sar,” you assured her. She pulled back and looked at you, stroking your face with one hand, the other wrapped around the back of your neck. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said, tearfully.

Your brow knit together. “Why?” you asked, looking—and feeling—genuinely confused.

“You’re the love of my life and I have been awful for the past month. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t come back. You deserve so much better than I was giving you. And if you give me another chance then I promise you that I’ll do better. I love you so fucking much and I’m not ashamed of or embarrassed of you and you’re worth every ounce of effort and love that I give and I never ever, ever want you to doubt that,” Sarah declared. The words flowed from her mouth in a waterfall. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel any differently. The love that I have for you…it isn’t…it shouldn’t be…it isn’t a secret.”

“Sar…baby…I was just dealing with hospice and the funeral the past few weeks,” you said, sounding tired, stroking her cheek in return. You sighed. “Yeah, you were out of it. You’re allowed to be.” You scoffed. “I just didn’t check in for two weeks, baby. That’s worse.”

Sarah shook her head in refusal. “No. You were dealing with your family, it’s not,” she declined. She saw you open your mouth and shook her head again. “And you needed to do it alone and I respect that and don’t feel any type of anger about it. I was just being awful because I was insecure and felt like I was too clingy. I should’ve been there for you.”

“Sar…stop,” you said, frowning seriously at her. “I didn’t want you to be there. I didn’t want anyone to be there. I was angry. I was upset. And I was stupid and wanted to handle it myself. That has nothing to do with you or our relationship, baby. I promise. Who cares if you dropped my fucking hand? This isn’t the music video for fucking All Too Well. You’re not Jake Gyllenhaal. This isn’t a Taylor Swift song, baby. This is real life. You’re allowed to be distant every once in a while. And I can tell you all about everything later. And I will. But we didn’t both need to go through it.” You blew out a sigh. “At least that’s how I felt when I was leaving. So it was what I maintained. I know that it hurt you…and for that I’m sorry. I’m not gonna do it again. I promise you that. And I also promise that I will tell you everything later.”

Despite her best effort, Sarah felt her bottom lip quivering. There was much that needed to be unpacked. Much that needed to be discussed. But, all Sarah could focus on at this moment was the stark relief that she felt. Her relationship wasn’t in danger. Her love for you wasn’t in question. She sagged against you, eyes wet with unshed tears, and looked at you with the ghost of a smile threatening to take over.

“You promise?” Sarah asked you quietly, needing the verbal confirmation.

You leaned forward and pressed a soft, sweet, lingering kiss to her lips. “I promise you. I’ll tell you everything. And you can tell me whatever you were saying you had to in your last voicemail. We’re gonna talk, Sarah. This isn’t the end of anything.” The words came out strong and assuring. “You are way more important to me than my own ego. Our relationship is more important to me than any fight we’d ever have. I love you, Sarah. And if I have been reminded of anything in the past few weeks? Life is way too goddamn short to waste time on this when I just want to love you.” You pressed another soft kiss to her lips that she tried to chase you down to continue. You smiled as you pulled away. “We can work it out later on, baby. Okay?”

Sarah nodded. “Okay,” she agreed softly, leaning her forehead against yours.

“For now I just want to be with you. Okay?” you posed.

“Okay,” she agreed, squeezing your hand in hers. Silently, you extended your hand, the dahlias—perfectly preserved due to your carefulness—being offered to Sarah in a silent apology. Sarah sniffled. “What do dahlias mean again?” She knew, of course. Dahlias were your favorite flower. She had them memorized as well as she had you memorized by now. But she just needed to be sure that you really, truly still felt the same way about her.

“Beauty, kindness, love…lifelong commitment…devotion,” you said softly, pressing tiny kisses to her lips between the last three. “And in this case? They’re just a plain old apology from me to you, Sarah Cameron.”

“They’re perfect,” Sarah said, looking down at the perfect blooms in her hand, wiping her tears away.

“No, that’s just you,” you denied. You smiled at her, soft and sweet. “I wanna hang out for a little while before I head back. Get the verbal lashings from Kie and Cleo out of the way. And JJ’s passive aggressiveness. Then…if…if you want…it can be just you and me tonight?” Sarah nodded eagerly and the pair of you started walking back towards your friends who had been watching the both of you without any shame in it. You glanced at them, eyes lingering on the girl you didn’t know. You turned towards Sarah, lowering your voice so only she’d have the possibility of hearing. “Who the hell is that?”

Sarah grinned at you, brightly. “Oh, that? That’s the girl John B’s been going out with,” she said lightly. You looked at her, eyes widening. She nodded, grin turning into a shameless smirk. “Yeah. I know. There’s a lot to catch you up on.”

“Debrief at home?” you asked quietly as you approached your friends.

“Debrief at home,” Sarah echoed in agreement, squeezing your hand, the weight that had been heavy on her heart largely melting away. She looked over at you as you approached, voice no longer quiet. “I love you, peach.”

“I love you too, Sar,” you said, bringing your entwined hands up to your lips so you could kiss her knuckles. You both ignored the catcalling coming from your friends. You rolled your eyes playfully at Sarah at their reaction. She did so back and you smiled slightly.

Yeah, the trouble could wait. At least for the night. Because you were right. All that mattered? You two had each other right here again. The rest of it? You’d figure it out along the way—doing it together. And that was all the both of you could hope for.

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marvelmusing · 1 year

Text

In Another Life

Part Thirteen

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Alternate Universe!Reader

Summary: Slowly the pieces of your plan for the Fold come into place, but thoughts and fears of the future continue to haunt you.

Warnings: nightmare (featuring death and angst), mentions of canon level violence, references to RoW duology and the Language of Thorns (canon has officially been put in the blender, sorry Leigh Bardugo but the narrative is mine now)

My Masterlist • Series Masterlist • Next Part

“I’ve remembered something else about the Fold.” You say, your brows scrunched together as you think.

Aleksander hums in response from where he’s sitting in the armchair beside the bath in your room. Bathing was the only time you ever really used your own rooms.

At first, Aleksander had been bewildered by your insistence on bathing privately, without the help of any servants. Now that you were closer with one another, you didn’t mind Aleksander helping you.

He was always respectful about it, and he had already seen you battered, bruised, and delirious. After all that, bathing didn’t seem too intimate anymore.

His kefta and tunic had been hung over one of the chairs in your bedroom, leaving him in a white shirt and dark trousers. When he had offered to assist you, he had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his forearms.

You shake your head suddenly, your cheeks flushing with warmth.

“I’m sorry.” You say, and Aleksander frowns. “I feel like we only ever talk about our plans or the world ending.”

“That’s not true.” Aleksander argues softly as he scoops up a handful of bath water to rinse the soap from your back. “Just yesterday we walked through the grounds and discussed the gardener’s flower arrangements.”

A smile tugs at your lips.

With Aleksander managing both the First and Second Army after Zlatan’s arrest, you’ve both been particularly busy. Quiet moments where you could walk through the grounds were a rarity, but you still worried that you might bore him.

“I’m sure you found that conversation riveting.”

“I like hearing you speak your mind.” He assures you. “It’s certainly a change being able to talk with someone about all manner of things.”

“You have siblings, don’t you?” He hums quietly in confirmation. “I haven’t read about any of them, but I’ve heard of Ulla.”

No doubt Aleksander can hear the unspoken questioning in your voice. The corner of his mouth lifts and his eyes soften, the early morning sun casting a warm glow over his features.

“We see each other once every few hundred years.” He tells you. “What have you heard of her?”

“I know she’s a saint, and some sort of mermaid.” Aleksander raises a brow, confusion in his eyes.

“Mermaid?” Your own brows crease lightly as you think over his reaction.

“You must have a different word for it here.”

“She’s half sildroher.” He offers, and you mouth the unfamiliar word over your tongue carefully. “She was born with a tail.” Aleksander tells you softly as his fingers trace over the surface of your bath water. “Baghra gave her back to her father not long after her birth.”

“How did you find her?”

“There were rumours that the sea whip inhabited the waters closer to Fjerda. I was working as an apprentice there when she visited the local king.”

You nod slowly, hands scooping up the frothy bubbles that had formed at the surface of the bath water, gliding slowly over the sweet smelling liquid like an iceberg on the sea.

“What’s she like?” You ask softly, smoothing the bubbles over your arms and watching them as they slowly dissolve into your skin.

“Independent, fiercely loyal, though it takes quite some time to earn her trust.”

He dips his hand into the water, before he runs it along the length of your arm, clearing away the soapy bubbles.

“You sound quite similar.”

“We look alike.” The corner of your mouth quirks, and you can’t help but tease,

“Have you been hiding a tail from me?”

He smiles widely and a boyish twinkle of amusement sparkles in his eyes.

“What was it that you remembered?” He prompts, as he stands to retrieve a towel for you. “About the Fold.”

“I think there’s a way to mend the tear at the making.”

He raises a brow at you as he opens up the towel, white with a delicate golden hem, and you step out of the bath. Aleksander wraps the towel around your body, and you begin to pat yourself dry as you explain.

“There’s some sort of relic. Named after one of the saints, and it’s believed that it could repair the making.”

“What is it?” At his question, you falter.

“It’s named after Sankt Feliks, I think.”

The two of you walk into your bedroom, and Aleksander lounges back against your headboard as you move behind the wooden screen to dress.

“Do you know his story?” Aleksander asks you.

“Would you tell it to me?”

“He’s known as the patron saint of horticulture, due to his rather gifted tending of his monastery’s orchard. His crop grew even in the harshest winters, and the people accused him of witchcraft.”

“Instead of realising that he could help with their crops as well?” You remark, stepping out from behind the screen once you’re fully dressed.

Aleksander hums knowingly in response to your words.

“He’s said to have been skewered on the trunk of an apple tree.”

Your eyes widen, and sympathy fills your face as you sit at the end of your bed, pulling your boots on.

“Though anyone who knew Feliks would know that it was likely a thornwood tree.” He adds, and you nearly drop your boot.

“Thornwood?”

An ache seizes your chest, and flashes of future events swirl through your mind. The thornwood tree tucked away in the mountains. Aleksander’s painful sacrifice, to suffer for eternity in order to mend the tear at the making.

Tying up your laces with harsh motions, you try not to dwell on such thoughts. They only make you sad, or angry, which won’t help save Aleksander.

“Something’s upset you.” Aleksander observes quietly.

“It’s nothing.” You insist.

Standing quickly, you move over to your vanity table, looking out of the window to stare towards the summoners’ pavilion as you try to push away your emotions.

Aleksander calls out your name softly. When you turn he’s sitting up at the side of your bed, with his hands outstretched towards you. Taking a step forward, you accept them.

“It will be nothing.” You assure him as he pulls you to stand between his legs. “It hasn’t even happened yet.” Then your expression hardens. “And I will not let it happen.”

Releasing one of his hands, you curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Aleksander’s voice is a near whisper as he says,

“Whatever it is. You don’t have to face it alone.”

You shake your head.

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

»»---------------------►

That night you dream of the thornwood tree.

Blood red blossoms fall elegantly to the ground, twirling in the breeze. One lands in Aleksander’s hair, and you smile softly as you brush it away. He smiles back at you, offering you a hand as you step over the rocky ground.

The monks stand awaiting your arrival, and you triumphantly present them with the heart of Sankt Feliks.

They exchange looks of confusion.

“This will not mend the tear.” One of them tells you, and your stomach drops. “Someone must hold it closed.”

“No.” You say, tears already flooding down your cheeks. “No.”

You turn to Aleksander, who stares grimly at the thornwood tree beside you.

“Aleksander please, no.”

He holds you in his arms, and you grip onto him tightly. His heart beats steady and firm against your ear, and you begin to shake with sobs of fear as he holds the back of your head, keeping you close.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.” You beg against his chest. He cups your face in his hand.

“The Fold is my fault. I need to fix this.” You shake your head hurriedly, still crying.

“You don’t deserve this.”

He kisses you fiercely, and for a second the world melts away. Aleksander is the only thing that matters. He holds your face with infinite care, and the ache returns to your heart as he pulls away. Aleksander stares deeply into your eyes as he says,

“Nikolai will look after you.” You frown as he glances over your shoulder. “Promise me.”

Nikolai stands behind you, and nods resolutely.

“I promise.” He says. You shake your head.

“Aleksander no-”

“Forgive me.” He whispers, pushing you away.

You stumble back into Nikolai’s arms, who holds you firm against his chest as Aleksander steps away, tears in his dark eyes. Fighting against Nikolai is unless, yet you fight all the same. Begging and screaming for Aleksander.

Scrambling against the covers, you gasp and sob as you wake with a choked scream on your lips. Too overwhelmed by the final scenes of your nightmare, seeing Aleksander’s heart pierced by the thornwood and hearing his screams, you struggle to breathe.

Then a pair of warm arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against a familiar bare chest. Frantic eyes search through the darkness, and you soon find Aleksander’s face, filled with concern as he soothes you.

It’s only then that you realise he’s speaking to you. A low comforting murmur, as he takes your palm and flattens it against his chest, encouraging you to breathe in time with him.

“That’s it.” He says softly. “I’m here, my love.” He presses his lips delicately against your forehead. “We’re both safe. I have you.”

One of his arms remains wrapped around your waist, and the other settles on your back, rubbing nonsensical patterns over the bare skin of your shoulder as your heart rate slows to a more comfortable level.

Exhaustion floods through you, and you collapse weakly into his body. You keep your hand on his chest, protectively splayed over his beating heart, as if you could shield it from the events of the future.

“Do you think my nightmares have some sort of meaning?” You murmur against his chest.

Aleksander is quiet for a moment, as he appears to give your question some genuine thought.

“Have they ever come true?”

“Not yet.”

Another pause.

“But you’re afraid this one will?”

You nod. Aleksander hesitates for a long moment, and you watch his face carefully.

“You said my name.” He admits quietly.

“Did I?”

“You were begging me not to do something.”

There’s an unspoken question in his statement, and a hidden fear of his is brought into the light. You lift your head up, facing him directly as you reach out to cup his face with your hand.

“You weren’t hurting me, Sasha. I’m not afraid of you.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly with a small smile as he traces his fingers down the side of your face. You drop your forehead down to press against his, and breathe in how close he is.

He’s still alive. You’re both okay.

Needing a little more reassurance, you kiss him softly. Aleksander’s hand settles at the nape of your neck, squeezing gently as he holds you close.

You stay in one another’s arms for a long moment trading more soft kisses until your eyes go heavy with exhaustion and you settle yourself further down Aleksander’s body.

“The heart of Sankt Feliks.” You say softly. Aleksander tilts his head in confusion. “It was pierced by thornwood when he died. It’s what we need to fix the making.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lifting the covers to shield your tired body from the cold of the night.

“I’ll have my people look into it.” He tells you with a nod, before he encourages you to lie your head back down into the crook of his neck. “Get some rest.”

»»---------------------►

With summer on the way, you find your usual walk around the lake even more enjoyable. Aleksander sometimes joins you, but you’re glad of some solitude today.

The sun shines down on your skin and birds chirp cheerily in the branches above your head as you veer off the path and wander through the trees towards the summoners’ pavilion. It had been repainted a week ago, and the bright white sets it apart beautifully from the luscious green leaves surrounding it.

On the steps on the pavilion, you notice a familiar face frowning deeply as she sits with her knees tucked together.

“Alina?” You greet her with a small smile. Her own greeting isn’t too enthusiastic. “Is something the matter?”

She sighs and shuffles over, allowing you to sit down beside her.

“It’s just… Mal.”

“Has something happened?”

She fiddles with the sleeve of her kefta, and you notice some of the golden threads of the embroidery are fraying.

“I found out he’s been fighting with some of the other Grisha, letting them use their power to see who wins.”

You’d forgotten about that.

“Does he win?” She shrugs.

“Most of the time apparently.”

“He didn’t tell you about this?”

Shaking her head in response, she sighs and casts her legs down to graze over the ground.

“No.”

“He probably didn’t want you to worry.” She nods absently.

“I don’t understand why he’s doing it.”

“The fighting?” She hums. “We have to wait until autumn, until the firebird flies north again out of Shu Han.”

That’s not true. To keep Mal at the Little Palace, you had crafted a lie about the firebird in order to buy you and Aleksander some time to handle the Fold.

“I get the feeling that Mal doesn’t like waiting.” You say with a small laugh, which luckily prompts a smile from her.

“No, he doesn’t.”

She looks down, kicking her toe against a few small pieces of gravel.

“I just don’t get why he’s fighting Grisha.”

“Maybe he just wants to prove that he’s still useful.” You muse quietly. “Grisha are powerful, and have these amazing skills. It’s a lot to compete with when you’re otkazat’sya.”

“But I’m not asking him to compete.”

“Maybe he’s not proving it to you. Maybe he’s proving it to himself.”

She appears to give this some thought. If Mal is who Alina wants, then you’ll do what you can to help her. Even if there’s a small twist in your heart that reminds you that he will die one day. As will you. Leaving Alina and Aleksander together.

“I feel like he’s slipping away from me.” She admits.

“You could ask him if he wants you to go watch one of his fights.” You suggest.

“And if he doesn’t want me to?”

“Offer to patch him up afterwards.” A smile spreads over your face as you nudge her shoulder. “Or spend his winnings.”

She glances up at you, and smiles back.

The two of you are quiet again, and you begin to mull something over in your mind. The question is on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t want to upset or frighten Alina.

After another few seconds of quiet, you decide to ask her,

“If you had the chance to take the Fold down, and just get rid of your power to live an ordinary life afterwards. Would you?”

You don’t dare look at her.

“I know I should probably say no.” She admits.

At that, you turn to her. There’s longing in her eyes. As if she’s imagining a quiet peaceful life, filled with domestic happiness. The simple life. No doubt with Mal.

“But you would.” You say softly.

She nods, and you begin to think.

»»---------------------►

“If we manage to find Sankt Feliks’ heart, that means we can safely destroy the Fold.” You say quietly a few evenings later.

Aleksander lifts his head up from where he had previously been resting it on your lap, and he turns to face you. The firelight flickers over his features as he frowns.

“Alina isn’t strong enough. She needs the third amplifier.”

“Mal doesn’t die in the books. She stabs him in the heart, claiming his power, but then he’s revived by a heartrender.”

“But she would still lose her power.”

Staring down at the floor, you nod faintly.

“Yes.”

Aleksander waits for you to continue.

“I’ve always hated Alina’s ending. Your power is a part of you, and losing it seems horrific.”

Aleksander nods slowly, tracing his thumb over your knuckles, no doubt thinking about what it would be like to lose his shadows.

“But she’s only known that she’s Grisha for less than a year, and whilst she is happy here… I can’t help but think she might be happier with the simple life she’s always wanted.”

You stare down at Aleksander’s thumb, watching it smooth over the top of your hand as you continue to speak your thoughts,

“Forever is a long time, especially when she would be happier with a mere eighty years spent with someone she loves.”

“You’re saying she should lose her power?”

“I’m saying that I want to give her a choice. Where she understands the consequences of whatever she picks.”

The two of you are quiet, the sound of the fire crackling softly in the hearth is the only noise in the room, aside from Aleksander’s steady breathing and the anxious pounding of your heart as you await his response.

“I agree.” You blink in surprise.

“You do?”

He nods slowly, tilting his head aside as he watches your face when you try to look away from him.

“What’s that look for?” He asks softly, hooking a finger under your jaw to move your face back towards him so that he can study your expression.

“I can’t help but feel like I’m depriving you of a life partner. Who knows what could happen in a few hundred years time?” You reason with a saddened look. “You could grow to love her, and her you.”

“But I have you, right now, and I chose you.”

He trails his finger along your jawline, holding your chin between his fingers as he leans in to kiss you. You allow yourself to sink into his kiss for a moment, before you’re breaking away. You need him to be on the same page as you.

“You know this means we’re destroying the Fold?” You ask him.

He looks down at your joined hands, fingers curled tightly around one another, and the muscle in his jaw tenses slightly.

“Have you considered weaponising it?” He asks in a low voice and you nod.

“Yes.” He lifts his eyes to stare at you.

“And?”

“And as much as I would love to make our enemies suffer, you can only push fear so far before people become resilient.”

“And if we ensure that they have no means to fight back?”

“Is that truly the world you want to make for your people?” You ask him.

Aleksander looks away, but you know he’s considering what you’ve said. So, you continue to tell him about the Ravka you’ve envisioned.

“Once we fix the tear at the making, the Tula Valley will be what it was centuries ago. Ravka can grow its own produce, we will be reunited with the West, we will have our ports, we can be self sufficient again.”

“You’ve given this quite some thought.”

“When don’t I?”

He smiles softly.

“You think this will work?”

You nod.

“I do. It won’t be easy. But Ravka will be stronger, and better, for it.”

Aleksander brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as he nods his consent.

“I trust you.”

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur

In Another Life Tag List: @parabatai-winchester @dangerousbluebirdpoetry @jambolska-grozdova @mxacegrey @budugu @cynthianokamaria @scarlettqueen190 @eloquentree @sharp-cheekbones-locked @sorrow-and-bliss @biblophilefox82 @tartiflvtte @rainbowgoblinfan @savagejane1

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia

#in another life au #aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander morozova #the darkling #the darkling x reader #the darkling au #shadow and bone au #shadow and bone x reader #in another life chapters

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imslowlydisintegrating · 3 months

Text

take a step into the diner...

welcome to evvy’s diner! here you will find tasty morsels and sweet tea ᵔᴗᵔ

my name is evvy (full name evangeline) but i love nicknames of all variety, and do be aware i am a minor! i'm sapphic, asexual, genderfluid and use they/he/she pronouns.

^ pronouns page linked above

the owner is...

scatterbrained & forgetful - he might forget to answer when you ask something

open to being tapped on the shoulder for a little game

searching for the artists & writers & musicians of the world

get to know the owner!

favorite shows/movies: arcane, scott pilgrim takes off, spider-verse(s), bullet train, jurassic park/world franchise, blue eye samurai, delicious in dungeon - she's generally a big film enjoyer ❤

now playing on our screens: pearl

favorite books: ace of spades (faridah àbíké-íyímídé; stand alone), sakamoto days (yuto suzuki; manga series), the watchmaker of filigree street/the lost future of pepperharrow (natasha pulley; novel duology), dungeon meshi (ryoko kui; manga series) - they don't have a lot of favorites, but they do love books ❤

now reading: coraline by neil gaiman

favorite music artists: javi vera, caleb von, the oral cigarettes, nova twins, sarah and the safe word, jhariah, rina sawayama, dominic fike, kali uchis, sir chloe, pinkshift, sate, rabbitology, sofia isella, hozier, paramore, marina, janelle monáe, towa bird, declan mckenna, skindred, turant fu, memi, allison russell, solene, justin nech, mitski, ginger root, the feels - can you tell how gay he is yet? ❤

evvy’s radio stations: tyme & taji ishida, save me soft late night showers, the eridani nebula series (nephn, xicen, rari & neno), declan mckenna ‘what happened to the beach?’ tour setlist

hobbies: painting/drawing, writing, reading, learning geography, listening to music, playing drums, watching movies - she's quite the homebody, eh? ❤

assholes and bigots have no place in this diner! we're here for a nice meal and live music, not a debate ✧

the owner stands with Palestine and believes in a peaceful solution and end to the genocide of Palestinians. the owner also believes in the safety of Jewish, Muslim, and Arab people worldwide who are suffering from the actions of Israel and Hamas.

it can be hard to find your way around the diner! follow these signs and soon you'll be navigating like a pro ❤

#evvy is typing - sometimes they like to share their writing; here's where you can find it

#evvy speaks - if he does answer your ask or join your game, you can find it here!

#evvy still uses wired headphones - she likes to talk about music, just follow the sign and you'll be there soon

#evvy talks to the void - they talk about everything and nothing sometimes, things that don't fit in the other tags, to themself or the void - or maybe you, if you're lucky

#evvy engages in media consumption - he doesn't only ever talk about music or writing - you can find whatever else he talks about here!

#evvy arcenoux - a lovely person that comes through here every once in the while - they shares a striking resemblance to the evvy you know; it is strange they can shoot webs from her wrist, though... (my spidersona)

#innocent sin - he has an unoffical band with their dear friends @bassguitarinablackt-shirt @literatureisdying + @gently-decaying-flowers; sometimes you can hear them playing if you find your way over here

the frequenters

below are some lovely people who often frequent the diner, or you can find evvy in spaces of their own!

@literatureisdying(#attie 🎶), @gently-decaying-flowers (#prince 👑), @littlebookworm69 (#cami 🐛), @gregbradmanliestman (#wren 🪶), @luvrli (#sun-li ☀️), @shadow-of-tea-and-tea (#teamaker 🫖), @lordcatwich (#finn 🐈), @bassguitarinablackt-shirt (#asher 🎸), @holdmyteaplease (#tea ☕️), @mint-mayonnaise (#anvi 🌝), @xoxolvve (#x 📸), @buffporcupine (#helena 🦔), @finleyforevermore (#finley 🥝), @iwouldkickahorse (#innocent sin’s no. 1 fan), @rapidlydecayingcorpse (#decay 🪦), @beomgyutruther (#taro ☂️), @annotated-catastrophe (#ann ⭐️), @catinasink (#cat 🌸), @hyperfixatingdumdum (#queenie 🐝), @talesfromtheunknowable (#anuli 🌿), @thetruearchmagos (archie 🗺️), @edenexxe (#ed 🧿)

some of the finest patrons you could ever find ❤

the WIPS

evvy doesn't have many projects, but when she does have one, she's very passionate about it

made of our own storms (#mooos)

the premise: so the world kinda ends in 2023 and takes everyone by surprise because i don't think it was supposed to do that. but basically like a bunch of absolutely horrible natural disasters happen globally and the population is obliterated and the story takes place 100 years later and follows a group of mentally ill, sad, gay teens over the course of like two decades but i'm obsessed with it and i love my blorbos so freakin much content warnings: gore, death, violence, self-harm, sui ideation, swearing, depictions of panic attacks, descriptions of dissociation related tags: mooos, art o'cahan, arun nidhi, cy segal, daya da silva, azi tyali, domi larieux morais, naia zorita

way down on the river (#wdotr)

the premise: in a steam-punky world very similar to ours, a group of serial killers cross paths on the traveling steamboats of the new orlean’s bayous, used as an efficient form of transportation. on the week long trip to the port of cairo, illinois these killers all decide to attempt the murder of each other. some fail, and some succeed. all they know is it’s easier to kill someone when there isn’t a detective on board (cough cough HERCULE FUCKIN POIROT) content warnings: gore, graphic depictions of violence, depictions of panic attacks, blood, death related tags: wdotr, anastasia marie, cheli malviya, sam malviya, zexi malviya, malviya triplets, akachi moriai, moriai toyoko, the brides, ruhi arana, don nekvasilová, ash vanich

thank you for reading this far, customer! hope your belly is full and your tea is cold, and you enjoy your visit to evvy’s diner

#intro post #pinned post #evvy is typing #evvy talks to the void #evvy speaks #evvy still uses wired headphones #innocent sin #evvy engages in media consumption

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clonerightsagenda · 5 months

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Ma throughout the Radiant Emperor duology: I hope all these horrible moral compromises I'm having to make will at least result in a better future once Zhu is emperor.

Me, skimming the wikipedia page for the first Ming emperor: Uh-oh

#halfway through he who drowned the world rn #I mean it is SEMI alt history obviously #maybe Zhu won't do the yknow. massive purges and secret police and stuff #however I am up to 2 murdered children so far so it's not looking awesome #he who drowned the world

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maybe-i-will-fandom · 5 days

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Sometimes family is a tattooed dragon trainer, the literal Queen of the universe (but dw, she's working on changing it to a democracy), their time mage son who is millennia older than both of them, said time mage's demiboyfriend, the best knight of this era and the Middle Ages, the founder of Earth's first GSA, and a dead brother. And that's beautiful.

#op #once and future duology arc cm #sword in the stars by arc cm #ara azar #Gwen of Lionel #Percival of Pluto #merlin kairos #Jordan of Lionel #lamarack of Pluto #Kay helix

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shadowkat678 · 11 months

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Hopepunk: A Thing Of Teeth And Claws

Hope is a thing with feathers, says a famous poem by Emily Dickinson.

But what happens to that small thing of feathers once it's caught? When the horror around it crashes down, and the song is drowned out in pain and anger and apathy at a world that doesn’t seem to be capable of, and doesn’t want, to change?

I’m tired. I’m angry. I'm afraid. I don’t remember the last time those things weren’t true about me. I don’t have control over what is happening to the world, or to the people I care about. I don’t know if I have a future.

I’m tired.

I know it isn’t just me. I’ve seen it. I’ve been in activism spaces for years now, where that same anger is everywhere. The push to want to do something. To enact some sort of meaningful change in a world that seems hellbent on turning people into nothing but variables and numbers towards goals we are not calculated into otherwise. Where those with the best of intentions burn themselves out in their rage because they feel like there’s nothing else left to be driven by. I feel it in me. It’s not unjustified. But it is exhausting.

Once you’ve gone long enough shoveling coal on the fire you’ll run out, and you can’t burn ashes. Something is close to giving.

I’m tired.

Even more than being tired at the state of the world, I’m tired of what it does to me. I’m tired of my inability to have these feelings result in something good. I’m tired of not being able to have control over my life. I’m tired of seeing the people around me being crushed under circumstances far above our ability to affect. I’m not just tired. I’m exhausted.

But Hopepunk. This term came out a few years ago, coined by Alexandria Rowland. They're the author of the Taste of Gold and Iron series, as well as the duology A Conspiracy of Truths and A Choir of Lies, among others. In 2017, they coined the term Hopepunk, positing it as the opposite of Grimdark. In the post original post on the subject Alexandra says,

“Hopepunk says that kindness and softness doesn’t equal weakness, and that in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion. Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn’t ever about submission or acceptance: It’s about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It’s about standing up for other people. It’s about DEMANDING a better, kinder world.”

The ideology of Hopepunk was based on the time of the article’s current political landscape. Protests, civil unrest, and feelings of anger that were (still are, I’d argue) spreading like wildfire. And in a small circle, this caught on. There wasn’t much to go off of, and the ideas that spread from this post didn’t have a uniformity to it as much as other Punk genres of political and literary analysis. There were, and are, a lot of critics believing the term to be yet another line of fluffy optimism and half empty words.

A year later, Alexandria would publish an article on the subject, expanded upon additional reflection, called One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives on the blog Optimistic Indie Roleplaying. This is when I first heard of Hopepunk.

Alexandria writes in their opening:

“In July of 2017, I coined the word “Hopepunk,” initially defined very simply in a Tumblr post. I believe the purpose of this article’s commission was to have me write something uplifting. I don’t know if I can. I think it would be (I’m afraid it would be) nice. (…) Nice is an illusion, and so is the suddenness of realizing the lie.”

Alexandria goes on:

“I’m afraid. I’m losing my story, my belief in an atom of justice. I watch it happen, a little more every day, unraveling from my hands—and I’m a professional storyteller. (…) I’m afraid of who I’ll be when the last threads slip out of my fingers. I’m afraid of settling into complacency, of something in me breaking, of retreating into niceness as the last-ditch sanctuary before complete despair.

“Hopepunk says [about human nature], ‘The glass is half full,’” wrote the me who lived in mid-2017. Seems naïve now, doesn’t it? Those are the words of a person cloaked in a story that hasn’t yet been worn threadbare and ragged; a person who thinks they have a sword in their hands, a person who thinks that they as an individual can make a difference, that there is some fundamental goodness in humanity.

What do we do when our hands are empty, when our warm cloaks are gone, when we look around and see how big the world is? When we see how helpless and insignificant we are, how the rest of the world isn’t even particularly cruel or evil, just . . . mediocre? Complacent?

What’s the point?”

And as I read this now, years later in 2023, I feel this sentiment burrowing deeper inside me than ever before. This is what I see in myself. In the people around me. In the world, spinning away into what seems to be never ending disasters and war and pain.

What's the point?

It seems that day by day the hole is dug deeper. The world feels as if it’s ending. But then again, to someone, somewhere, the world has always felt as if it was on the verge of ending, hasn’t it?

I also am a storyteller. I have always believed there is power in it. In how you can create something that becomes real around you. That reflects our own reality in new ways. Things that connect us. Empower us. That’s what art is for me. That’s what it always has been, when the night is long and I need something, anything, to grab onto.

Like Alexandria, I feel my grip on the story around me slipping. The threads are frayed. And I am so tired.

I feel like a child pretending. Hoping that this will make things feel less terrifying when the lights go out and I’m alone in the dark and the day is so impossibly far away. I’m afraid. I'm terrified.

I’m not a hero, and I don’t know if I have the tools to fight monsters like this. These are not problems that can be solved with spells or swords or pretty words. The world around me is burning.

I’m burning.

So, what do we do when we find ourselves here? When hope, the thing of wings and feathers, has been shot down in front of us? When softness is not enough? When nice is just platitudes? What can I do when the world and its problems are so big and I’m so small?

“What is the point?” Alexandra asks. “How do you do it? How do you manage when the task before you is enormous and impossible? (…) How do you go on?”

Hopepunk isn’t just about the Hope part of the word. What is Punk? Not just the music. The ideology. The movement. The message? We all have a thought about what Hope is. What defines Punk?

I listen to the music, and have for a while. I have a lot of friends who are punks. I’d like to think I’m a bit of a punk myself, though I haven’t had the energy or means of connecting with the scene in person. There’s a variety to it. Subgenres of music. Differences in ideas. But let me tell you one thing I’ve noticed about all punks:

They’re goddamn stubborn bastards. And at least for the vast majority, they’re passionate goddamn stubborn bastards.

I’ve been interested in the punk movement for years. Two of my favorite books on the subject of the punk movement are “Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk” by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain, and “Punk Rock, An Oral History” by John Robb.

There’s a long running joke in punk circles about a young punk asking an older punk that very question of what punk is. The older punk smiles, strides up to a trash can, and kicks it over before turning around, pointing, and saying “That’s punk”.

The younger punk thinks on this, then sees another trash can before going over and copying the move, turning around after punting the second can and asking, “That’s punk?”

Before the older punk shakes his head and replies, “No! You poser!”

Point of the story? What is punk? Fuck if I or anyone else actually knows! It’s not about following directions, or going down a checklist. Certainly not just copying everyone else before you. But you know it when you feel it.

Recently, Punk has been idealized a lot. People forget that Punk isn’t just about insolent people lashing out against authority and sticking it to the man. It isn’t just about individualism and loud songs.

Despite not knowing exactly WHAT punk is, never having one clear cut uniform answer, we can see it when it's in front of us. There’s a sound to it. A spirit. A vibe. And there are commonalities that run as a throughline.

In the intro to Punk Rock, and Oral History, Henry Rowlins was invited to share some of his thoughts in the volume. He says,

“Everyone had their own version of punk. Everyone decided what punk was for them. There were endless arguments about what we were fighting for, what we should be wearing (…), what we should listen to and how we were going to change the world.

Punk terrified the establishment. Punk made me get onstage and make music. Punk made me change my world. Punk…punk saved my life.”

Punk has long been considered one of the more nihilistic musical genres, having a thriving subsect of Political Punk dedicated to pointing out and raging at the wrongs of the world the artists see around them. Punk is angry. Punk is passionate. Punk is loud, and messy, and sometimes even ugly, and moreover, there’s room for all of it.

But its stereotypical image perhaps isn't one most people would default to when thinking about the mainstream idea of Hope. Hope is supposed to be something soft, isn't it?

Back to the article, Alexandria gives their answer to what they think the point is, and it is one that feels much more connected to the punk part of Hopepunk.

“Sheer, simple, bloody-minded obstinacy. That’s how you count the stars, build the Library of Alexandria, and go to the North Pole. That’s how you hold the story even when it’s unraveling in your hands. You grit your teeth, and bear the pain, and keep going: One star at a time, one brick at a time, one step at a time.

You can do a lot when you decide to be a stubborn motherfucker who refuses to die.(…) Ask it of Hopepunk, then: “What’s the point?”

And the answer is, of course, that the fight itself is the point.

I am not just tired. I am afraid. I am angry. I am furious. The idea of rage is generally thought of as very punk.

But Hope. Let’s go back to hope. Where does hope come in, that fragile thing made of feathers and song? I am not soft. Not really. I feel myself shattering, jagged edges that will cut me if I let them. That will cut others. Even those I want to help. Even those who don’t deserve it. That the anger will bleed out and burn everything around me. How does that fit with hope?

I believe in stories. That we can learn from them. Moreover, in the end, I believe that everything is a story. History is a story. People are stories. The future is a story we simply haven’t seen the ending to yet, and so can still shape the path of. And like stories, all these elements tie together. Stings whose threads make up a tapestry.

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. About certain ones that have heavily impacted my own. About ones I’ve made, either by myself or with others, both real and imaginary. In Alexandria’s first post, they mentioned a certain scene from the Two Towers.

As Frodo falls to his lowest point, burdened by the influence of the One Ring, not knowing if his other friends are even still alive, carrying a burden bigger than any one person should ever have to shoulder, Sam gives his speech.

Sam: “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”

And as he says this, Frodo asks what I find myself asking. What many people ask, I think. What are we holding onto? And the answer: “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.”

In my anger, in this darkness around us, it can be hard to see anything else. But that has not been all my story is. That said, anger is important. Anger, placed properly, and aimed towards a purpose, can be righteous. It can be a driving motivation towards change. It glows in you...but it can’t be all I have. A fire on its own will eventually burn itself out. What is anger without something the anger is driving you to do in a real, meaningful, way?

“It’s about being kind merely for the sake of kindness, and because you have the means to be, and giving a fuck because the world is (somehow, mysteriously, against all evidence) worth it and we don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.

It’s about digging in your heels and believing that one single atom of justice, one molecule of mercy does exist somewhere in the mindboggling vastness of the universe—believing in that, even if for no other reason than fuck you, buddy; fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I do what I want and this, this is what I want; this is the world I want to live in:

One where the atom of justice exists, even if I’ve never seen it myself, even if I’ll never see it.

It’s about doing the one little thing you can do, even if it’s useless: planting seeds in the midst of the apocalypse, spitting on a wildfire, bailing out the ocean with a bucket. Individual action is almost always pointless.

Hope and strength comes from our bonds with each other, from the actions we take as a community, holding hands in the dark.

What if hope isn’t just a thing of feathers and wings and song? What if punk isn’t just about anger and insolence and lashing out against the world around you? What if the world, people, and stories aren’t so simple?

I can’t answer what Hope is, what Punk is, or what Hopepunk is as an idea binding these two words together to anyone but me. I do know what my story has been. And I know the stories I’ve been told. The stories I’ve witnessed. The stories I’ve touched.

I’m tired. I’m angry. I can’t not be anymore. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s part of me. Perhaps something even greater would be wrong if they weren’t.

But I also remember the people who’ve come into my life in ways that seem so small in comparison, yet somehow, inexplicably, still changed me to the point I continue to think about them years later. The woman who approached me, sitting outside and crying after being almost fired from my first job and, with no possibility of reconciliation, bought me a sandwich and sat with me while I waited to be picked up. Friends that stayed with me during some of the worst times of my life. Strangers that turned into those friends.

In spite of it all, I’ve also seen so much love.

I have always hated false dichotomies. These truths can coexist, and like the tapestry of stories, wind together into something bigger. The softness of hope does not feel like it can survive the type of anger and force and sometimes nihilism of punk. The good in the world feels like it should be shattered under the darkness.

Maybe it all morphs into something new.

Maybe hope becomes a thing of teeth and claws, bared in defense of life’s small everyday acts of love. Friendship. Community. Of myself, and proof that the world is brighter than my own frustration makes it feel. Of all the things that exist in contrast that make these very injustices sting so very much.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be fragile. Maybe hope can be bloody and messy and stubborn and defiant, even in the face of my fear and exhaustion and pain. Maybe it can make something more balanced. Something stronger, as all these contrasting elements come together and inform each other with new perspectives.

Maybe it can be what saves me.

Near the end of the article, Alexandria says this:

Hopepunk isn’t pristine and spotless. Hopepunk is grubby, because that’s what happens when you fight. It’s hard. It’s filthy, sweaty, backbreaking work that never ends. It isn’t pretty, and it isn’t noble, and it isn’t nice, though I expect the natural inclination (and even my own instinctive inclination) is to make it so—to forget the word “radical” in the phrase “radical kindness,” to forget the “punk” part of “hopepunk,” which is really the operative half of the word. To forget the anger of it and let it soften, because softness is what we’re aching for. We want the world to be better—kinder, more just, more merciful. We still yearn toward noblebright, toward an honest and desperate belief that love conquers all.

But we forget, sometimes, that we have knives too in this empire. That we can unsheathe them, that we can turn our blades to the defense of an atom of justice and a molecule of mercy that might not even exist—except . . . except for where we make them exist, in the hands we hold out to each other, and in the shelter we offer even when we ourselves are exhausted, footsore, and filthy, with the wolves at our doors.

Maybe this doesn’t even have to be big acts. It’s something I’ve grappled with often. The feeling that where I am now is not enough. That what I do cannot change the course of the tale I find myself part of. That I can only be a passive observer as things happen around and to me. That I am so helplessly unable to make any meaningful difference in my own story.

And I want to, so desperately. But maybe those first steps can lead to more. The shelter and small words said earnestly in a time of need is just as much a part of this as life altering choices I want to be able to wield.

I've always dreamed of enacting change. Of being someone who could somehow inspire another person the way the stories of others had inspired and saved me. The books I clutched in my hands when the world was too big, and I was far too small. But it's good to remember that even the imposing might of mountains eventually wears under the passing of water.

I still feel like that child more often than not, and that everything I do in spite of it is just a mask dangerously close to slipping. But just as much as those stories, everyday people did the same in touching me, and shaping me. The right word spoken after tragedy. Encouragement from those who bothered to pay attention to things I did not speak aloud.

Maybe I should also reconsider the worth of myself in being the hand that stretches out to other people. Maybe that kindness is just as much a part of this as my anger and fear.

I’m tired of being only angry. Of being only sharp edges and fire and fear and burning myself to ashes in a way that harms none of the people doing this to us. I’m tired of missing the joy while I can have it based on the actions of a few hollow, spiteful, greedy, and selfish bastards that only care about themselves, damn the rest.

So, I will be a thing of teeth and claws when needed. And I will grow fur to keep those close to me warm. Because despite my anger, and fear, and exhaustion, the world is still, somehow, worth it. People are worth it. I am worth it. My story can impact others, and the story of humanity is not yet fully penned.

I have to believe that. If it is not so, then I have to make it so, even out of pure, stubborn, spiteful obstinance. That people are not evil at base, because I am not, and I am not special in the grand scheme of things.

I am just a person. We are all just people, grasping for things to drive and carry us day to day. And people are both kind and horrible. Messy tapestries of different things tying us together into something unique and terrifying and amazing and horrible and full of wonder and joy and anger and fear and beauty.

All of us, each and every one, desperately trying to keep hold of our stories before someone else twists them out of our hands.

Another common example of Hopepunk is a scene in Terry Pratchett's "The Hogfather", spoken by Death. A scene Alexandria discusses and also references in the name of their own original article. Here, Death explains that humanity must first learn to believe the small lies, such as Hogfathers and tooth fairies, so eventually they can come to believe the big ones.

Justice. Mercy. Duty.

Hope.

As is true of many concepts in Diskworld, when asked by the character Susan "Well we have to believe in that, or else what is the point?", Death answers back, "My point exactly. You need to believe in things that are not true. How else can they become?"

My kindness will be worth it, because it made me and those around me a little happier. Even if it hurts me in the end. I am not naive to the world around me. I am angry. I am tired. I am scared. I am just one person. And maybe in the end it's how Alexandria says:

There are no heroes and no villains. There are just people. That’s Hopepunk: Whether the glass is half full or half empty, what matters is that there’s water in that glass. And that’s something worth defending.

Stand with each other, and never let the person beside you forget that to move forward we need something to hold onto, whether knife or outstretched hand. There is still good in this world. Even if we have to fight to create it ourselves with every step we take.

No story is over until the final word has been penned…and even with all the horrors and uncertainty of the journey, we don’t have to travel through ours alone.

#hopepunk #essay

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