#I SPENT WAY TOO LONG TRYING TO GET THE RIGHT FONTS AND SIZES WITHOUT CHANGING THE TEXT BELOW OR ABOVE AND EVENTUALLY GAVE UP

[ltbarnes]

Back to December (1/2)

Summary: Your new job as an assistant for the CEO of a big, shiny company was supposed to be a good thing. Instead your ex from uni who completely ghosted you out of nowhere several years ago happens to be one of your superiors. It doesn’t help that he’s only gotten more handsome over the years. But you hate him for leaving without an explanation, and he seems to hate you too. Everything is just fucking great.

Pairing: ex!Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

Word count: 6.9k

Warnings: OFFICE AU (Ghost is not ceo but he’s up there in the company somewhere), exes to enemies to lovers, harassment, past emotional violence/threats, ghost was a rugby player in uni lol, blood

A/N: I’m finally dipping my toe into another fandom 🫣 I’ve been obsessed with the cod men for months now so I suppose it’s time. this is the first part of two, maybe three. we’ll see where my imagination takes me!!

Part 2

Masterlist

So many years spent wondering what the hell happened that night, and there he is on the opposite side of the meeting room table gathering his papers into a neat pile. Simon always was organized, you remember.

He hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he doesn't recognize you. You don't think you have changed that much, but you never know. More as a person than your appearance, you guess.

Maybe that's why you haven't fell down to the floor crying yet—you would have just a few years ago. Seeing your ex-boyfriend for the first time since you were 20 might do that to you.

But you just feel anger. Anger over the fact that Simon has the audacity to have grown into his looks that way, and that he's successful and has this great scruff on his face and that he just left and never said a word to you again. How dare he have a good life when he just abandoned you and your relationship that night all those years ago without giving you a reason for it.

Your new boss clears his throat, sitting down at one of the ridiculously expensive chairs right next to you. You didn't notice him come in, and you certainly haven't gotten used to his intimidating presence yet.

"Garcia, you have about...fifteen minutes to go through your presentation. I have another meeting with Hill soon." Mr. Price pauses to look down at his wrist watch for two seconds in the middle of his sentence, before nodding towards the beautiful redhead standing with a small remote in her hand.

For some reason this company seems to be where models who get tired of their careers come to work. You didn't exactly get that memo. It's only your second day here, and you feel intimidated by everyone. Maybe that's the way an assistant should feel.

"Y/l/n, you keeping notes for me?" Your head tilts up dangerously fast at the mention of your name, taking a few seconds too long to process his request, before nodding obediently.

"Yes, sir."

Your fingers click too loudly against the keys as you frantically try to draw up a document with the correct font and size. It's too quiet in here. You haven't done anything wrong, yet it feels like everyone is waiting for you to misstep. Your anxiety is a bitch.

"Riley. Riley, what the hell?" you hear someone whisper angrily. It's not until you hear a pen clatter to the floor that you dare to look up his way.

Honey brown eyes stare right into your goddamn soul. Your breath hitches, speeding up the pace of your anxiety-ridden heart even further. More than what's acceptable for sitting still in a work meeting. But your momentary weakness over catching his attention soon disappears, to be replaced by your anger again.

You look away with a clenched jaw, focusing on the keyboard right beneath you. Simon is still staring at you. You can feel it. Feels like it always used to do, but this time you don't want it. In your ideal world Simon Riley would not sit opposite you, would not stand up to join the beautiful, model redhead to hold a presentation where he keeps stumbling on his words all the time because of your presence. At least you think it's your presence, but you're not sure if it's in a good or bad way. For you it's bad.

But it does make you feel good that he keeps having these space outs—tripping over his words, forgetting them all together. It is not a good presentation on his part, and Ms. Garcia is getting increasingly more irritated at him for his lack of delivery. You hope she scolds him for it afterward. God knows you would like to throw every curse word you know at the man.

Should you be this angry after all these years? Should you have let it go a long time ago? Should you have stopped acting as if being with another man after him is betrayal? Probably. The last question is probably the answer to why you haven't really moved on from your hurt.

It just makes you so mad—for a year he was your entire world. Simon hugged you from behind each time he encountered you out in public and played with your hair as you fell asleep in his arms and woke you up with his fingers tracing patters on your hip. He fucked you until your bed broke and made love to you so gently you might as well have been made of glass to him. Two weeks from your anniversary he stopped talking to you. Not one thing of his was left in your dorm the next morning, and you didn't see him on campus even once during the term he had left of school. The few friends you had in common didn't talk to you anymore.

It broke your heart, to be abandoned like that. That night was already shit, and Simon just decided to make it ten times worse. You were in shock and all you wanted was his comfort. To find out he had left? You barely made it through that next semester.

For years you have pondered over what part of you was so unlovable that Simon couldn't even bear to say another word to you. Maybe his inability to function properly during this meeting wasn't due to shock, but instead disgust over having to be in the same room as you. Fuck, you are mad, and yet so scared that you have to meet him every single week from now on. You're not strong enough for that.

"That was...something. I expect you to be better prepared next time I see you, Riley," Mr. Price says, clicking his pen while pointing it towards Simon. "Don't know what the fuck that was," he mutters under his breath while rising from his chair.

You follow swiftly. The chair is too loud as it's pushed back. You cringe. Gathering your laptop and your papers is ungraciously done. Price still waits for you though, for some reason, but he sighs and puffs while doing so. Everyone else is quiet, besides the slap to his arm Simon receives from Ms. Garcia. They're probably dating. Two perfect, good looking people having perfect sex in their perfect apartments. You hate them both.

You try not to look at him as you walk out behind Mr. Price. But you still say a 'have a good day' that is too quiet to the room, answered with a few nods and some 'you too' back.

A small squeak of surprise escapes your lips when your boss comes to an abrupt halt in front of you. A millisecond is all it would take for you to have crushed into him, and that squeak leaves heat travelling to your face. He turns around, facing the room once again, with his usual glare.

"Don't bloody stare at my new assistant. I don't want another HR-situation with this one. Especially talking to you, Riley."

Price pins his glare on Simon, who gives him an equally harsh glare back. You are just about ready for the floor to break so you can fall through to the bottom level and run out of here. But you're frozen in your place, clutching your belongings to your chest tightly enough to make a computer-sized dent in your skin.

Without another word, your boss turns around and heads out of the room. You couldn't have moved any faster if you wanted to—already tight on his heels while your heart rate desperately tries to calm down. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. What the hell are you going to do? Ignore Simon and hope that you manage to avoid him for however long you'll work here? It feels kind of impossible, but the last thing you want is to talk to him. You couldn't.

You've just put down your things on your desk right outside of Price's office when he speaks again. His voice always manages to make you jump in your place, head flying up to meet his gaze.

"If Riley, or anyone else, gives you any trouble—you tell me," he says, unflinching and stoic.

You gulp, frozen in your position. "Oh—I, okay. Thank you." The words come out quieter than you wanted to.

"You seem like a good kid. Don't want these fucking fools to chase away 'nother one of my assistants."

The door to his office is closed the next second. You just stand there, dumbfounded and a little confused, but still flattered in some way. A good kid—you'll take that.

Popcorn crunches underneath your sneakers as you push yourself past the people going up and down the stairs, trickling out of the stadium with happy smiles on their faces and lively conversations exchanged now that the game is over. They won. The players are still out on the field, celebrating their victory with slaps to each other's backs, jumping up and down, impromptu attack hugs. You are giggling too, watching them.

Simon has torn his shirt off, sweaty, blond hair a mess as he shakes his head. Johnny just poured water all over him—the guy always gets so overexcited. And goddamn, your man looks good as he has that rare smile on his face.

The game was a really good one on his part. Everyone in the team calls him 'Ghost' because of how quickly and seamlessly he moves despite his size. And the big tattoo of a man wearing a skull mask on his arm. But once  he's out on the field, the players never expects his speed. At least one player during each game runs right into him, as if he was invisible. A ghost.

He hasn't noticed you yet, where you stand leaning against the railing. It's freezing out. The first really cold September day, and you didn't think to bring a proper jacket. But you don't really care, because seeing Simon and your friends this happy has plastered a permanent grin on your face.

"Riley, your girl!"

Someone shouts and points at you, alerting your boyfriend of your presence. His head whips in your direction, brown eyes pinpointing you in your place before a 6'2'' man starts barreling towards you. Simon throws the water bottle in his hand away carelessly as you giggle furiously over his excitement.

"Fuck, love," he says as he reaches his hands out, lifting you over the railing within a second. You yelp in surprise.

"Wha—Simon! Put me down!"

Simon just holds onto you tighter, pressing you close to him with your feet still in the air. How is he this strong? "Not a chance, Princess. We fucking won. I'm celebrating with my girl."

You chuckle, holding onto his shoulders while looking down at his sweaty face. "I know. I'm so proud of you."

A shy grin grows on his face, slowly setting you down onto the fake grass. "Really?"

"Really. It's the best you've ever played. Wanted to shout to everyone that it was my boyfriend doing all the best throws out there," you tell him, now looking up at him instead. God, he's tall.

Simon's mouth comes crashing down onto yours, giving you a sloppy kiss that makes you laugh.

"I lov—I loved having you here." Simon pauses in the middle of the sentence, as if he was supposed to say something else. "You're my fucking lucky charm, you know that?"

"I'm not so sure about that. You have lost quite a few games with me here as well," you tell him, ruffling his messy hair with your hand.

"Don't matter. I feel lucky anyway." A boyish grin adorns his face as he leans down to press a kiss to your head. "Now, tell me why in the hell my little lady is out here freezing her arse off 'cause she didn't bring a jacket? Like I told her to do?"

You groan, giving him a glare. "Stop. I should have listened to you, you were right, and all that. I know."

"Well, better for me, 'cause I get to rub my sweaty arms all over you now to warm you up."

"Go shower, you idiot." You push at his chest gently, rolling your eyes. He pretends to stumble backwards, holding his hands up.

"I will. Just wait a few seconds here, will you?"

Simon keeps walking backwards, waiting for your nod of confirmation, before breaking out into a jog towards the locker rooms.

You embrace your torso with your arms, rubbing up and down with your hands to warm your skin. There's so many players left on the field, still messing with each other like rugby teams usually do. Some you recognize—like Johnny and Gaz. They're your friends too. Others you have seen in passing at parties, in class. Some you only know because Simon complains about them to you. The fly-half never was his favorite. Graves, something? They're constantly at each other's throats.

Simon comes running out onto the field once more, this time with his jacket in hand. You sigh, scratching the skin above your eyebrow with a small smile.

"Si—you didn't have to. I'm fine," you say as soon as he's within earshot.

"Shut up. I'm being a bloody gentleman, just like my mum taught me."

The jacket is laid gently around your shoulders. You tug it tighter around you, because despite your words it is cold. And you love his jacket.

"Look at you. So fucking adorable."

You smile up at him, scrunching your nose. You love this fool. You love Simon Riley, have done so for many, many months. Haven't told him yet though. But it can wait—you have all the time in the world.

Simon is avoiding you. A week of not seeing him even once, despite the fact that you work on the same floor. You haven't attended any more meetings since your second day, but you still would have expected to run into him in the break room, or in the hallway. Hell, you've even delivered paper copies to his office and still haven't seen him.

You don't know what you feel about that. You are mad at him and you definitely don't want to be forced into an awkward encounter with your ex-boyfriend, but still not knowing why he left has chipped away at every ounce of confidence you had in yourself. Even now at your grown age. It's been several years since. It's pathetic. Maybe Simon realized that on a Friday night in December during his senior year of college—you are pathetic.

God, why are you still that 20-year old girl? Why are you sitting at your desk, 3:30 PM on a Wednesday, obsessing over every flaw you can come up with all because of a stupid man?

The anger you held towards him last Tuesday has morphed into deep self-hate. You begin to understand his perspective. He doesn't want to interact with the silly little girl he broke up with ages ago in her silly little assistant job. Simon is a senior executive in this company, for god's sake. He doesn't even have to send a second glance your way.

"Y/l/n! Coffee!" your boss yells from within his office. But the yelling and cold tone still doesn't offend you like it would any other person—it's just the way he is. Price has actually been pretty nice to you. You like him as your boss, despite his less than chipper attitude.

"Yes, sir," you shout back, rising from your seat.

You smooth down your dress, fiddle with your hair in the reflection of your laptop, before taking a deep breath. It's just a short trip to the break room. No big deal. Nobody actually cares that you are the new girl.

It's practically empty as you arrive, besides a man reading his newspaper in the corner while seemingly on an important call. Seems a little arrogant, but you know he's high up in the company. At least you think he is. Price doesn't like him. He told you so the first day.

A sigh of relief escapes your lungs as you walk to the expensive, Italian coffee machine. You press the double espresso button. No sugar, no milk. Just straight, black coffee for your boss. Kind of reflects his personality. It buzzes loudly as coffee drips into the cup, you standing there waiting patiently. It has started raining outside. You'll probably be soaking wet tonight once you come back to your apartment.

Someone comes standing beside you, taking a mug off the highest shelf. You catch a glimpse of his expensive suit before glancing upwards. Your lips part, almost just as shocked as you were last Tuesday. You can't catch a fucking break, can you?

"Johnny?"

The now bearded man, with a full head of hair as well, which he definitely didn't have when you last saw him, turns around towards you with a stoic expression. It doesn't change once he gets a good look at who said his name.

"You work here too?" you ask before gulping.

"Y/n," he says, a frown growing in between his eyebrows. "I work here, yes." The Scottish accent that you used to like listening to is now impossibly deeper.

"Uh, I—how you doing? It's been...a while." You glance away, cowering under his gaze. Soap always used to be so kind to you, treated you as if you were one of the boys. Insisted you call him Soap, something only his friends were allowed to call him. Now there is a hidden undertone of distaste in the way he looks at you. "See you've gotten rid of the Mohawk."

"I'm alright. Good to see ya', Y/n, but I gotta go back," he tells you. For some reason you feel like he's actually not all that happy to see you.

"Oh. Okay." The disappointment in your voice is clear. "We'll probably see each other again soon, I guess."

Johnny has already started walking away when the words leave your mouth. You hear him mumble a halfhearted 'Take care, lassie" before leaving you there dumbfounded and upright hurt with your boss's coffee cup. What was that?

You always knew Johnny was as loyal of a friend you could be, but...you didn't know he hated you that much. Especially when you didn't actually do anything against him. Not that you did anything against Simon either. That you know of. But, you know.

The short interaction leaves you jarred for the rest of your work day. You still get things done, but the look on Johnny's face is in the back of your mind the entire time. What did you do that was so bad that John goddamn MacTavish hates you for it?

It wasn't enough to work with the man who broke your heart, but your ex-friend as well. His best friend. You will never be welcomed here if half of the company leaders consist of people who have a grudge against you spanning years.

When the clock strikes 6, Price sends you home. He will probably stay for another few hours, you think, because there has been empty takeout containers in his office the morning after every day this week. You tell him to have a good night, he answers with a grunt, and then you and your bag take off through the hallways.

Your heels click against the floor as you walk through the mostly empty office space. Some rooms still have their lights on, casting shadows over the mahogany desks and the important people sitting behind them.

You halt your steps as you hear two voices wrapped into a conversation with each other. Someone must have left their door open. You don't want to eavesdrop, but it gets hard to resist when you recognize Johnny's voice from earlier.

"You can't avoid her forever," he says.

"Well, don't you think I fucking know that?"

You freeze as you instantly recognize the deep, rumbling timber of Simon's voice answering Soap. Fucking hell—they're talking about you. You can't not eavesdrop now.

"It's just—it's fucking hard, you know? She just walks in here all..."

"Met her in the break room earlier. Making coffee for Price."

"Yeah? She said somethin'?" Simon's voice sounds curious, eager almost.

"Asked how I was doing, the usual. Didn't know I worked here, it seemed like." A sigh sounds from the room, and you press yourself even closer to the wall. Please, for the love of god, don't let anyone walk by. "I couldn't just act like normal. I can't be fuckin'...nice to someone like that. When I know your past."

"What—you were fucking rude, or what? Just ignored her?"

"No, for fuck's sake. Left pretty quick, though. I just don't have any respect for things like that. You know that."

"Yeah." Simon lets out a bitter chuckle. If you could see him, he'd probably be shaking his head now. "I'm still fucking angry, you know? Can barely stand to be in the same room."

You bite down on your lip, shaking your head to yourself. You can't listen to the two of them talk about how much they hate you. How they don't have respect for 'things' like you. It's nauseating. Your limbs shake with poorly contained anger, but still the urge to cry is even stronger.

But there's no other way out than past his office. So you brave it—practically sprint by with your hand covering the side of your face in hope that they won't see who it is. You don't think they do. The blinds were down.

A single, pathetic tear slips down your face as soon as you exit the building. Cars fly past you, lights blaring everywhere, noise unending. You just want to go home. But you know the overthinking won't stop there.

As the obnoxiously loud alarm disturbs your sleep that finally came about three hours before, you groan into your pillow and wish for it to be anything else but Thursday. You want the weekend. You want to sleep in and wallow in the fact that you probably won't have this job for very long after what you heard Simon and Johnny say about you yesterday.

You don't even bother putting on heels this morning. An old pair of ballerina shoes and a thick, fuzzy sweater over your dress is what you drag yourself to the office in. It's cold and you're exhausted and sad. You can't stand people not liking you—it takes over every part of your being. And when it's Simon...

There's a meeting going on. Price gave you a list of everyone's coffee orders and made you run over to the shop across the street. You see Simon's name taunting you at the top of the list. A cortado, extra sugar. Fuck, he's still the same.

It takes twenty minutes of queuing before you manage to get to the counter. Another ten to have everyone's order ready. The bag is ridiculously heavy as you carry it out of the coffee shop. The meeting will probably be over by the time you arrive, and then Price will curse you out and you will cry, because today you cannot handle even the smallest criticism.

You're a little sweaty by the time you reach the fourteenth floor of the building, which is fine, but the panting doesn't exactly add to your charisma that somehow seems to repent your coworkers from your person. For a minute you stand outside the meeting room, gathering yourself enough to be somewhere near presentable. Not entirely, but as close as you will get.

The door is shouldered open with a little force. More than you thought it would take. Nobody really gives a thought to your presence—they continue the meeting as if you weren't there at all, and you like it that way. You try to match each coffee to the right person on the list. But there's thirteen of them, and you have yet to learn everyone's name.

You feel Simon's eyes on you the entire time you spend in that room. He's anything but subtle, staring right at you without shame. He doesn't even answer as someone calls him by name. And it's pure spite leaving him for last. His order is the only one you know by heart, but keeping him waiting for a few extra minutes is deserved, you think. Maybe it just gives him more fuel to hate you, but if he's going to hate you, you might as well give it right back.

His ring-clad fingers clasp around the paper mug, slowly bringing it up to his lips as if taunting you with the existence of them. God, they are so full and pink and—no. Don't even go down that route. It'll all make it so much harder to live like this if you keep thinking about how fucking attractive Simon has become with his still blond hair slightly unkept from running his hand through it during the day and how his shirt strains against his muscles and the fact that he is still so, so tall.

"This is cold."

The room falls silent, at least you think it does, as Simon's harsh voice echoes throughout the confines of the four walls. The coffee belonging to the person sitting beside him is steaming. You know he's lying. He sets down the mug on the table, glaring up at you with such distaste in his eyes. You never thought that look would be reserved for you.

"Can't even get a bloody coffee order right, can you?" Simon's chuckle is deprecating, shaking his head to himself as if his irritation almost amuses him.

But you just flinch. He doesn't see it, but you think the rest of the room does. His tone fucking hurts. And that he would publicly humiliate you like this?

"Oh, uh..." You want so badly to have a good comeback, something that will make him shrink in his chair, but all you can get out is a stupid 'oh'. Standing there all small and speechless makes you feel dumb. "I'll get a new one."

Your response seems to catch his attention. His gaze flickers up, back to you, and the cruelty falters for a few seconds to be replaced by something likened to...regret? Probably not.

"Riley can drink his cold goddamn coffee. He'll survive," Price chimes in, waving with his pen as a signal for whoever was speaking before to continue.

You nod, clenching your jaw to stop the trembling, before escaping out of the room as quickly as possible without it seeming suspicious.

A shaky, deep breath is inhaled and exhaled as soon as you get out. It was already a bad day, yes, but nearly crying because Simon told you his coffee was cold? That's just childish. You need to pull yourself together if you're going to keep this job. Price clearly doesn't like weakness.

The rest of the day is calm. Mostly you're reviewing Price's schedule, emailing people back and forth about changing meetings and setting them up. He even gives you an extra break, which is so well needed and probably out of pity, but you'll take it.

You realize that you are so fucking petty when your final task of the day, once again, is to deliver some kind of contract to Simon's office. You know he's out on a meeting with a client—you heard him walking past earlier, talking to that client on the phone. You gather your belongings, say goodbye to Price, before heading towards Simon's on your way down.

Stepping inside feels like walking right into his arms. His cologne hangs heavy in the air. Fuck him for still using the same scent.

The entirety of his office is neatly organized, everything in its place. So you move things. A sharpener gets to change its designated spot from desk to shelf. Files labeled under 'F' gets shoved in between 'S' and 'T'. You even go as far as taking out some of the files from one folder, placing it in another. The printer gets unplugged.

Doing something to his old copy of The Fellowship of the Ring that stands proudly on display in his bookcase crosses your mind, but you do want to stay alive long enough to see the end of the week, at least. You remember one time when he slept with it as if it was a stuffed animal. You're being petty, not suicidal.

Your final masterpiece in your rampage is the unscrewing of a wheel on his desk chair. Just the thought of Simon pushing his chair back only for it to suddenly tilt makes you giggle. God, you really are a child.

Any sane person wouldn't even notice half the things you've done in here. But Simon is not sane. This can throw off his entire day, week even. You know from firsthand experience.

Yeah, Simon goddamn Riley broke your fucking heart and now has the audacity to punish you for it. You won't take that.

Simon has been in such a bad mood the entire day. You heard him cursing all the way from his office. Some poor intern got yelled at in the hallway (you really are sorry for that), and you overheard a few of your colleagues mention that he didn't speak to anyone during the entire morning meeting. Price apparently cursed him out for it in front of everyone. That's a little funny, at least.

On one hand you feel proud of your ability to still piss him off without him knowing. On the other hand, you're not too happy yourself. Your situation hasn't exactly changed—half the office still hasn't talked to you, and the ones that do keep strictly work related conversations. You're lonely.

Despite it being Friday, you get off when the sun has already set. It's pouring rain outside and you don't have an umbrella. You really don't have the energy to deal with that as you gaze warily out of the window from your desk. You could take the subway instead of walk all the way home, but you would still get soaking wet during the trek to the station.

"Goodbye, Mr. Price. Have a good weekend," you say, popping your head into his office with a sweet smile on your lips.

"Call me John," he answers without even looking up from whatever report he's reviewing. Still that monotone voice as if he's always tired of hearing people talk.

"Oh. Uh—okay, John," you stutter out. What? He never lets anyone call him by first name.

"Get home safe," Price tells you. Has he grown soft? What's happening? "Have a fuck load of reports needing organization on Monday." There it is.

You smile to yourself, shaking your head lightly, before mumbling another 'bye' to your boss. He lifts his head in a subtle nod as answer. Actually, you might have a chance to stay here if he likes you. He is the CEO after all.

The hallways are dark except the few offices still lit up like every night. These people barely have a life outside of work, it seems like. It's kind of sad. Then again, you don't either, if what counts as a life is having friends and significant others and people who care about you. But at least you have time for doughing in your couch and taking a walk around the neighborhood.

But your daydreaming and overthinking of course leads you into trouble. Rounding the corner forces you right into another person, making you stumble backwards a few steps before a clammy hand grabs your arm to stop you from falling.

"I'm so, so sorry," you say, looking up at the man standing in front of you. It's that executive-something Price doesn't like. Shepherd? An American.

"Don't worry that pretty little head of yours, darling," he says, without backing away from you. He keeps that close distance, letting you feel his dank breath properly.

You gulp, before attempting to release your arm from his grip. He doesn't budge. Your heart rate speeds up instantly.

"Haven't talked to you properly before, sweetheart. Just seen you strutting 'round these hallways in your dresses." He looks down at your wide eyes, before they slowly rake over the rest of your body. Your chest starts to heave up and down as if you've just come back from a run. It's clear he wants something more than just a simple conversation with the new assistant.

"I'm—I'm sorry. I have to go. Train," you stutter out, attempting to tear yourself away from his harsh grip around your arm. You can't.

"Don't be like that, darlin'. I just wanna have a talk, that's all," he tells you, his warm breaths hitting your face.

"Please, sir, I really have to go. We can talk on Monday."

Shepherd raised an eyebrow, gaze flickering down to your chest again as if you can't see it clearly, before tapping your cheek condescendingly with the palm of his hand.

"Alright, sweetheart. Come into my office on Monday. Appreciate it if you'd wear one of those pretty dresses. Makes my day much better, having somethin' sweet to look at."

A wet kiss is pressed to the back of your hand—something that he might think is gentlemanly, but sends shivers down your entire spine out of disgust. You're frozen still as he squeezes your hip before he leaves, leaving you to hear his dress shoes clink against the floor.

The further away he gets, the harder it gets for you to breathe. Panic grows in your chest, tears already threatening to fall as you finally get yourself to move, rushing towards the elevator and pressing the button too many times.

He was so close. And the way his grip tightened as you tried to step away, the squeeze of your hip. It's too much like last time. Too much like that fucking December night all those years ago.

Clear pictures of Philip and his friends flashes past the forefront of your mind as you rush from the elevator, already heaving from your tears. It's empty, thank god, since the guards are posted outside of the main entrance. Philip morphs into the man from just a minute ago. Pushing you against the wall at that party, grinning right in your face as you tell them to stop.

The backdoor leading into the alleyway beside the building is where your feet leads you towards without consulting you. It's better, maybe. You don't want anyone to see you like this.

But those goddamn revolving doors acting as the main entrance starts to move, you hear that, and soon enough someone steps inside with haste in their walk.

"Y/l/n!" someone shouts angrily. You know exactly who it is. "Why the fuck did you move all my stuff? I swear to god—"

Your back is facing away from him, but maybe he still sees the way your shoulders shake from behind. Maybe that's why he falters in his steps. Maybe that's why he decides to cut the first real sentences he's said to you directly since you started working here short.

The last crumb of composure turns to dust, and your hand flies up to your mouth to muffle the first real sob from your lips. You escape through the door, out into the cold, rainy alleyway as your cries turn too forceful to stop.

It's wet and dirty and crawling with grovel as your knees hit the ground harshly. You manage to turn yourself around to lean your back against the cold brick wall instead. It'll all bring you grief later, but right now your legs can't carry your weight.

With a bang, the door flies wide open once more. Long legs bend down, big hands on your arms.

"Y/n. Y/n, c'mon. Why are you crying?"

Simon's voice is drowning in urgency, his shakes of your shoulders almost forceful. But you can't stop crying. And you're still so fucking angry with him.

"Don't touch me," you sob, pushing his hands away from you. The rain grows heavier the same second, soaking the entirety of you as you sit there on the dirty ground.

"Alright, alright. I won't," he breathes out, holding his hands up beside him. Those big, veiny fucking hands that you have missed every day since he last put them on you. "But you gotta tell me what's wrong."

"Why?" you almost yell, tilting your head up, away from the palms of your hands previously hiding your face. You get raindrops right in your eyes. "You hate me, don't you? Can't even stand to be in the same room as me!"

"Y/n," he growls, as if he's scolding you with the simple mention of your name. "You know bloody fucking well I don't hate you. Now tell me what the hell's making you sob like this. You're sitting on the ground, for fuck's sake."

You dry away your tears, despite it being so futile in this rain, while letting out a bitter chuckle. "All due respect, you're the last person I wanna talk to."

Simon lets out a shaky breath, one filled with frustration. "So fucking stubborn..."

He shakes his head. "Just—just let me drive you home, at least, okay? The trains from this station are cancelled. Blowing up to a storm."

The words you were about to force out through your tears disappear completely. Instead you just stare at the man now looking down at you with something likened to concern. Still has that frown in between his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to get in a car with you, Riley," you mumble out. If you had your way it would sound angrier, more assertive, but your voice fails you.

"Riley, huh? That's where it's at?" Simon scoffs, as if he didn't call you by your last name a few minutes earlier. "Just get up, c'mon."

"No." You shake your head, looking down in your lap. In reality you're not just apprehensive because of your anger towards him—he's a man at the end of the day, and you are his ex-girlfriend who he dislikes very strongly.

"Are you—for god's sake." He shakes his head again. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/n. I would never harm you. Not any woman," he tells you. How can he still read you this well?

You don't answer. Just take your wet sleeve to dry away even more tears. How to stop crying in front of your ex seems to be an art you haven't mastered yet.

"Okay, I'll make you a deal. You let me get you a taxi home, after you get out of this fucking rain and step inside. That alright with you?"

You nod with a sniffle, reaching for your bag beside you.

"C'mon."

Simon nods towards the door, reaching his hand out. You take it, because there's no chance you would manage to get up all by yourself. But that's the only reason.

He holds the door open for you, letting you slip inside again. Exactly how much the rain soaked you hits you as you step inside, instantly freezing cold and uncomfortable. And goddamn your right knee hurts. Falling down to the ground did come with consequences, it seems.

"Fucking hell," Simon mutters under his breath as soon as he gets inside, dripping water down onto the shiny floor. His suit is entirely soaked too.

You see a glance of yourself in a mirror as you take off your heels. There's mascara underneath your eyes. You try to remove it furiously with your fingers.

"Don't have to do that. Nothing that I haven't seen before," Simon speaks up from behind you, looking at you as well through the mirror.

You glance up at him, just for half a second, before lowering your arms slowly. And then you rummage through your bag with trembling hands, finding a napkin you kept from a restaurant. You dry away the mascara with that instead.

Simon looks at you, really looks at you, as you stand there dripping water onto the floor and makeup ruined and your clothes dirty. You feel so vulnerable underneath his gaze. What is he trying to find?

"Bloody hell, Y/n. You're bleeding for fuck's sake. That's a fucking gash."

He points at your knee. You look down, seeing the outpouring of blood running down your leg from the open wound right below your knee. It does look very, very bad. Like, you're slowly becoming nauseous by looking at it. How didn't you notice it earlier?

"Oh."

"I'm driving you wether you like it or not." Simon stalks up to you, grabbing a hold of your arm to put it around his shoulder. His arm sneaks its way around your waist. Fuck.

"Do I get a say in this?" you ask. You know what the answer is, but you also don't understand. What is this? Why is he doing this for you? A few days ago he was talking shit about you with Soap and humiliated you purposely in front of your co-workers. Now he's getting worried about you crying and driving you home from work?

"No."

Part 2

#cod mw2 #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost fic #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #back to december

[dduane]

Status report: less cranky now

...So I did my time in the Vale of Tumblr!CSS, and now return bloodied but unbowed. 

First of all: a few of you who read my earlier post concerning the problem I was trying to solve with my Tumblr theme (like @legowerewolf​ and @iheartvelma and @toreblogallthethings) absolutely correctly ID’d, without even seeing the code, the problem most likely being one that involved the “font:inherit;” property. Commenting that phrase out immediately cured the lost-italics problem. So thank you all for that, and for saving me a ton of time that would have been spent inelegantly hacking at the theme more or less in trial-and-error mode.  ...I also made some other minor tweaks, like font and text-size changes.

...This still leaves me with some other problems that have to be solved (image and video display, for example), but that situation’s entirely on me. Because the single thing I missed doing when I purchased this theme was to check its “last-updated” date. (sigh) 2013. Can you imagine how many times Tumblr’s API has changed since 2013? The mind boggles.

(more sighing) I can’t imagine how many times now the currency of a theme has become an issue for me. (Right now we’re up against this issue on EuropeanCuisines.com -- getting ready to move the entire install off Drupal and onto WordPress, because Drupal’s contributed modules [excellent as they are in many other ways] are simply not up to dealing with Google Ads’ current structure. That being what pays for EC.com’s server space and other running expenses.)

...Now, I come from a long history of coding my own themes (indeed, my own websites) by hand. So I could spend hours and hours and days and days poking and prodding at this theme to get it to work with here-and-now!Tumblr. And you know what? I think I’d rather be writing. And frankly I think most of you would rather I was writing, too.

So, as it is said by the wise, F*ck THAT Noise. This theme will stay more or less as it is until I find another one that I like to replace it, and buy that in. In the meantime (as the commercial used to say), “Thank You For Your Continued Support.” :)

...Now back to figuring out what I’m supposed to do with these guys. (eyeroll)

#websites #CSS #and other problems #like not reading the small print #and trying to pull together the plot elements of a screwball space opera #at least I have a title now #no I'm not telling you what it is #:) #Sherlock Holmes #John Watson #and a sabertooth #oh and the cat #not sure if that's a character or not #he may just live in the bar

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

*sneaks into your asks* ok I’ve been having such bad SE brainrot, I just want to sit in his lap and play with his hair in silence as he grows sleepy. He looks so nice to nap with ;;; and his hair is so *grabby hands*

Oh no need to sneak in, bestie, the window door is wide open

fluffy tomato… soft,,,🥰

SE Saeran x gender neutral reader | Words: 809

It was quiet. A comfortable, peaceful silence had filled the air that day. Perhaps a little uncharacteristic for at least half of the occupants of this household, but it was… nice.

Saeran was a tired person, exhausted in every sense, and at times he would only have the energy to do little more than gaze at the sky with a faraway look in his eyes — mint eyes that no longer constantly bore such a sharp, saturated intensity but had seemingly faded to a watery blue-green that reminded you of the ocean.

One of the best aspects of this new home was the plethora of windows in comparison to the dark bunker underground. It had been your idea to position a sofa facing a particularly large one, and it warmed your heart to see him sitting here, tiny smile on his lips, blanket draped over his shoulders, watching the clouds lazily traverse the cool, light slate blue of the sky. A dim, white light spilled into the otherwise unlit room.

You noticed the lightest pattering on the glass and the ground outside; it was one of those wet autumn days where the sunlight barely peeked out from behind the cloud-filled sky and the grass and the earth was alive and the trees were truly breathing and the flowers outside each window frame looked rejuvenated, covered in gleaming pearls. There was a slight chill sneaking through the closed windows, hence the blanket (he was always cold), but you didn't mind and he didn't seem to either. If anything, it was refreshing.

You gazed at the man with a fond smile. You couldn't help but note how cosy he looked.

Slowly, not wanting to interrupt the quiet atmosphere, you paced across the room to stand directly behind him. He didn't respond but you knew he'd heard you. He always did. You placed one hand gently on his shoulder, feeling him tense slightly before immediately relaxing into your touch, knowing it was you. You moved your hand to rest in his vivid curls, and when he didn't resist, you took to combing your fingers through them, careful not to let them tangle too much.

His hair had always been a striking feature (strikingly beautiful), along with his eyes (piercing your soul), but over time it had grown out, healthy and red and so satisfyingly soft.

At first, he'd been far too exhausted to keep dyeing it as he had done in the past. That and in those earlier times, his brother was far too paranoid to let anything remotely, potentially dangerous into Saeran's vicinity (and for good reason, you had thought sadly).

Now, he keeps it this way by choice, because he likes how it feels. And even more, because you like it and he loves how it makes him feel when you pet and play with it, though he never admits this out loud.

He sighed contentedly as you stroked his soft locks and you could imagine the peaceful look on his face. He only turned his head to look at you when you unraveled your fingers from his hair to circle around the side of the couch, taking a seat by his side.

You nudged against him and tenderly placed the back of your hand on his knee, meeting his gaze. His eyes seemed to soften further as he gave you a small nod, as if knowing exactly what you wanted, and you carefully climbed into his lap. He wrapped his arms and the folds of the large blanket around your frame, huddling you closer to his body, craving your warmth. You happily snuggled into his chest, swinging your legs onto the sofa and placing your feet by his side under the blanket. He was wearing a thick, knitted sweater and he smelled like autumn air.

He leaned his head down slightly and you returned one hand to his hair, feeling his breath on your wrist and the slow movements of his chest. It made you happy to know that your presence relaxed him so much, having met him as someone who was on high alert most of the time. The feeling was mutual, though he never understood why someone like him would make you feel safe and calm, like you did for him.

Nowadays there was ample opportunity to allow yourself to be vulnerable in his space, to remind him that he was not only loved but trusted. It confused him still, even after all this time, but he welcomed the feelings that came with knowing this.

No words were spoken, but you don't need them. Slowly but surely, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep, secure in the feeling of holding onto you. You are his sanctuary and he is yours. You feel the weight of drowsiness, and soon you too are sleeping soundly in his embrace.

#I am so sorry this took SO LONG to get around to love #I've been very busy T-T #but this was truly a delight to write #I imagine you both woke up just staring outside for a while qwq #oh and apologies to everyone else waiting on request writing #I'm working on all of them I promise it's just gonna take me some time #lots going on rn #and I want these to be good #ty for the request milky!! <3 I'm slow at answering atm but I rll appreciate getting them u guys tysm #UH YEAH SO WHAT IF I WANT TO NAME A FIC AFTER A DELTARUNE SONG #gdit formatting posts on desktop is SUCH A NIGHTMARE #I SPENT WAY TOO LONG TRYING TO GET THE RIGHT FONTS AND SIZES WITHOUT CHANGING THE TEXT BELOW OR ABOVE AND EVENTUALLY GAVE UP #HENCE WHY THE TITLE IS W/ THE DETAILS #amee writes #requests #gender neutral reader #saeran x reader #saeran choi #saeran choi x reader #se saeran #se saeran x reader #this is going off the hc that the bois move at some point #prob sometime in the future after they expose the pm #smth I like to think about #also I wrote this w/ the idea in mind that reader was the assistant #but it doesn't have to be read that way #omg now I'm imagining mirae picking up knitting again post-se but properly #and she knits sweaters for all 4 of them and they're so warm and his is the one he's wearing in this scenario #I ended up taking off the title bc it makes the word autumn feel too repetitive #but just know that in my docs this will be labelled 'Quiet Autumn' :)

[join-the-joywrite]

Hamish & Vera soulmate au headcannons

Here's another first words au, but with some key elements suggested by a literal ball of sunshine and a source of incredible joy for me

So anyway, I spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about this one and whether to do it as a non-magic/knight au or stick somewhat to cannon before finally coming to a decision -- and I'm not even sure it was a good decision sksnsjwn. Geronimo!

You're born with a tattoo on your arm, the first words your soulmate says to you.

Vera's born with her arm bare. After searching the rest of her, the midwife confirmed that no, the baby girl has no markings at all, no shrunken words that will grow to readable when she grows, no hidden words tattooed where everyone else's wasn't. It was believed that perhaps her soulmate hadn't been born as yet. That happened, right? Soulmates could change, right? It didn't mean she'd be alone for the rest of her life, right?

Vera grew up with the lack of a soulmate being a key factor to how people saw her. Other kids didn't bother with her because who wants to be friends with the girl who doesn't even have a soulmate? Vera hardens up from a very young age, pissed at everyone around her for trying to dictate her life and her choices around a stupid tattoo.

So what if she didn't have a single word etched on her body? It wasn't going to stop her from living a full and happy life. Vera's happy little life is shattered the day she tells her boyfriend she's pregnant and she never hears from him again.

But that's okay. It's not like he was her soulmate, the one person who was supposed to be with her no matter what. It's okay. She'll be fine. She'll manage.

Vera's very last bits of positivity and hope dies with her daughter. The world sucks and everyhting in it sucks worse. Bitterness starts to grow, from being born with her skin bare to realising that she was going to have to look out for herself always. Alone.

If she can't have people and love in her life, she's going to have a name and money. So she goes after it like a moth to a flame. She throws everything that she is into her studies, makes sure she gets all the right grades. She studies people, too. She knows when to smile, when to laugh, when to tear up. She knows what to do to get reactions she wants.

Vera learns how to dominate a conversation and she knows how to always seem like the most intelligent person in the room. She's yet to meet anyone who sees through her pretty lies.

Hamish is young. He's planned to get into law and he's convinced he's going to be the best out there. The only thing he's not certain about is the fact that the words on his wrist reads "oh shit-fuck you're sorry I'm hot"

He's hoping it's a misunderstanding of some kind.

It's his second or third month on campus and he's walking with his nose in a textbook when he collides with another book-sniffer, only Hamish meets the ground and decides to lay there for a minute.

The girl he bumped into quickly starts mumbling curses to herself as she gathers up her book, then his. "Oh, shit-fuck," she says when she realises he's still laying on the floor. He squints in the sunlight. "You're sorry, I'm hot."

There is a brief pause. "I mean! I'm sorry, you're hot! Wait, that's not much better."

Hamish laughs. "That -- that makes a lot of sense."

"Wut?"

Hamish accepts her hand up and shows her his wrist. She gets excited when she realises it. She starts talking about how she's wondered for so long what the hell could've possibly been said to warrant the words on her wrist.

A minute and a half later she realises she hasn't actually introduced herself yet.

It's a few months later, maybe four or five, when Hamish visits Cassie at the den instead of the usual places -- the bar, the grounds, his apartment, her dorm, even a few classes. The guy she's staying with, Nico, introduces himself as Cassie's brother.

"I didn't know you had a brother." "I don't. He just drinks my beer and passes out somewhere in here. Anyway, Nico, this is Hamish."

"So, you're the little shit that's got all my sister's attention." "I would hope so."

Nico takes to Hamish immediately. He thinks Hamish is hilarious and a really great person. Nico pressures Cassie into telling Hamish about the Knights. Eventually, she chooses to listen and the two of them take Hamish down to the hide locker.

"There's three hides in there. Silverback, Tundra, and Greybeard. Good luck."

Tundra's the one that chooses Hamish and it just feels so wonderful to have a family -- a pack.

Nico is the first to die. Cassie is devastated. Even Hamish, who'd only known Nico a month, maybe two at best, is struck hard by it. Nico goes out protecting the pack -- as Midnight often does.

For a long time, it's just Cassie and Hamish. The den gets really quiet and on those days, they sit just as quiet, lost in their thoughts. Cassie rarely ever speaks to anyone but Hamish. He's the only person that could even begin to understand how she feels about losing Nico. Despite all her talk, she loved him as one loves family.

It's almost a year later when Hamish becomes the only Knight.

Hamish stops talking. He never asks questions in class anymore. He never answers any either. Cassie was his whole world. He loved her more than anything or anyone in his life. He should have been there. But she'd wanted to go alone. She said she could handle it. She couldn't and Hamish sat alone, toasting to Cassie's life by himself as he looked at the lockers.

Do you know that feeling when you're just so fucking hurt and sad, that even opening your mouth to breathe is exhausting? It takes so much energy to speak. Why even speak? Who's going to listen? Do you know that hollow feeling after you've cried for what feels like hours? That emptiness that follows when you realise that what you had is truly gone and you are never going to get it back?

Hamish hasn't felt any different since Cassie died.

Hamish doesn't look at his wrist anymore. He's certain by now the words have faded. He can't look because looking means he'll see the blank wrist and seeing his blank wrist means Cassie is really truly gone.

Hamish drops out of law school and picks up something else. Something that requires less talking. Somewhen along the line, a TA position for a lecturer of his opens up. Hamish ignores it.

Hamish has been at Belgrave for three years and Vera for seven when they finally collide. Literally. Hamish recognises her. She's some super smart final year student or something. He's pretty sure she's trying to take over the university and he's pretty sure no one's going to get in the way trying to stop her.

He means to apologise but like every other opportunity he's faced with, the words don't make it past his throat.

"Fuck this bullshit," Vera says to herself before deciding she wants to relax on the grass for just a moment. The busy life can wait a while. She glances at the tower of a man. "Don't make me look like an idiot, get down here."

Hamish doesn't know why he sits. But when he does, he realises it's quite peaceful.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" Hamish shakes his head. "Can't or won't?"

Hamish opens his mouth slightly, inhales, then closes his mouth. He turns his head the other way.

"Won't, I see. That's fine. Some quiet is welcome."

They lay on the grass for a few minutes, avoiding the sun in the shade of a large tree. The grass is soft, the air is light, the shade is cool. For the first time in what feels like forever, both of them feel peaceful.

"This is nice." Hamish nods. "I'd love to do it again. Here." Hamish frowns at the phone she hands him. "Put your number in. Even if you won't talk, I'm sure you can text, right?"

Hamish nods slowly.

Three days later, he gets a message: I need to rest but there are too many other students and I don't want to look like a lonely loser. Followed by a location link.

They lay on the grass until Hamish has to go to class.

Hamish doesn't visit the bar anymore because he can't go in there without seeing Cassie and Nico. Both are equally bad. He didn't deserve Nico's sacrifice. He was supposed to look after Cassie for Nico. Vera doesn't visit the bar because there are too many people in there and she'd really rather not get distracted by another breathing thing.

But she goes to the library and there's Hamish, sitting alone, head in a book. Vera takes the books she needs and sits across him. She doesn't say thing. She doesn't need to. Hamish usually drowns out the sounds in the library, but theres something soothing about the rhythmic clacking of the keys on Vera's laptop and the odd turn of a page when she pays attention to the book beside it.

It's almost thirty minutes later when she nudges his foot under the table and turns the laptop to him. In a bright pink font at the top of her essay is: Check for me, please?

Hamish can't help the small grin of amusement as he sets his book down and pulls the laptop towards him. Vera reaches over and pages through Hamish's book, making sure not to loose his bookmark.

They do this often. So often, that they've learnt each other's schedules without even realising. Sometimes Vera will go to that spot under the tree and pull out her phone to text Hamish, only to already see him approaching. Sometimes Hamish walls into the library wondering if perhaps, he should send Vera a message, but she's already there, working on some assignment or something with a deep frown on her face that vanishes when he sits down.

Hamish is walking Vera to class one day and she says, "You know, for a guy who doesn't talk, you sure find a way to say a lot of things." Hamish is confused because he's literally never said a single word to her. "Ex-girlfriend?" she asks, pointing to Cassie's favourite ring on a chain around his neck. Nico had given it to her for her birthday but he'd got it a size too small so she wore it on a chain. Hamish looks away. Vera studies him. ".... dead . . . girlfriend?"

Hamish nods very slowly.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Hey, have you ever been to a PR Management class? You'll like the lecturer. Come on."

The next time Vera is walking him to his class, he pauses before the door, holding a hand out to her. "Psychology 212, why not?" Vera spends the entire lesson drawing flowers on the back of Hamish's hand.

It's that night, when he's sitting at the den, that he looks at his hand. The flowers are already fading away, but they're so pretty. For the first time in years, he turns his arm over. He kind of hopes to see his wrist blank, because he's starting to really like Vera and he doesn't want to stay hung up on Cassie. It wouldn't be fair to Vera.

His wrist isn't blank. Instead, clear as day, the ink reads: Don't make me look like an idiot, get down here

Hamish's phone rings. Had Vera's name not been flashing, he wouldn't have answered.

"I know you won't say anything but I need someone to talk to. Someone who'll listen." And then Vera tells him about her day. Even if he did plan to respond, Vera didn't even pause for a breather. She tells him about this stupid professor that was hitting on her and she tells him how she thought about kicking him in the nuts but the classroom still had a few other students and she didn't want to gain a violent reputation. She tells him about how she went to the library to study but some fucker stole her desk. She tells him all sorts of trivial things. And then she starts. She's tired. She's exhausted. Not to mention, being in the Order is hard work and that's the one thing she's not going to tell Hamish about. She doesn't want that sweet innocent boy tangled up in the Order's drama and danger. But she tells him how everything else is weighing on her and she's set impossibly high standards for herself and people expect her to meet them and she's just tired. "I'm going to send you an address. Please come."

When Hamish ultimately decides to go, he isn't sure what to expect, but it certainly isn't five boxes of pizza, four two-litre bottles of soda, two wine bottles, and a list of three movies to choose from.

"I'm breaking up with my degree" Vera says when she answers the door. Hamish nods. Yeah, he can see that. Hamish doesn't think he's ever seen Vera in sweats and with her hair untidy. "You gonna help me eat all this or stand in the doorway forever?"

They end up watching all three movies. Vera says she'll clean up when the sun comes up. She burrows into her blanket and curls up against Hamish. "As far as first dates go, this was kinda nice."

Everything gets easier. They know where to find each other. Vera's even learnt to speak Hamish. She says she's naming the language after him because no one else can speak with the strange gestures and eye movements. Hamish thinks she's adorable.

In the second semester, they share a class. Hamish is taking it for the degree he's currently doing and Vera's taking it for credits and because Hamish is. They cheated on almost that entire exam because no one realised they were communicating.

It's a quiet day on Vera's couch when Hamish shows her his wrist. "Isn't that what I said when. . ."

Vera shows him her bare wrist. He kisses her forehead and pulls her close. She smiles. It doesn't bother him.

She tells him about her daughter one day. She doesn't even need him to say anything. Just knowing that he's still sitting with her, still holding on to her, is enough.

They're watching some movie. Well, neither of them are actually watching it. Hamish has Vera in his lap, his chin on her shoulder. Both are watching Vera's thumb make small circles on her bare wrist. Hamish kisses her cheek. The first words out his mouth since Cassie are a soft whisper against Vera's ear. "I love you."

And Vera watches the words ink themselves into her wrist, clear as day. It wasn't that she didn't have a soulmate. It was just that hers didn't speak. Until now. She turns halfway to kiss him. "I love you, too."

And we're going to stop there because the next bit is cannon territory and we all know I'll probably handle that with angst :)

Part 2

@gingersimasnapsandvermishthings I kinda got u sis

See the other soulmate aus that kept me awake at night until I wrote them down

#hamish x vera #hamish duke #vera stone #vermish #the order #the hermetic order of the blue rose #the knights of st christopher #the knights of the blue rose #the knights of saint christopher #netflix #soulmate au #soulmates #please just give me the soulmate au i want

[catchweightstudio]

The big Conscript accessibility + options update!

Hello everyone, hope you are all doing well. I’ve been hard at work getting a new demo revision ready for mid-October. 

MAIN MENU

Here’s a look at the initial main menu for Conscript. I find it quite atmospheric and have found myself just keeping it on in the background while I work. The last menu for the previous demo was quite rushed so I’m happy with how this one has turned out. 

ACCESSIBILITY

Recently, the topic of accessibility has been on my mind. As a developer it’s easy to find yourself resisting against a player’s ability to alter your “vision” of the game. I can understand this sentiment - as I’m somebody who holds my project VERY close to my heart. This topic was inspired by a conversation on the Conscript Discord where I was asked how accessible the game would be. My immediate internal reaction to any questions relating to adding a new unplanned feature is generally “isn’t my damn Trello board already big enough??”

After some reflection and research however, this is a silly way to look at things. Yes, any new feature takes hours or even days to implement - but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing. For example, as a developer I end up putting in many extra days and weeks trying to get the game on different online storefronts or even other consoles, all in hopes of trying to expose the game to more people but I would never question this time as anything but time well spent. 

Accessibility is the same thing really. There are extra hours of work I can put in to ensure that MORE people can be exposed to the game and enjoy it.  So that’s what I’ve been doing, even if it has meant putting extra work hours in every day for the past few weeks.

PAUSE

First, you can now visit the options menu at any time without having to go through the inventory.  A tiny change, but it was requested quite a few times.

VISUAL OPTIONS

 Something I wanted to solve was text readability. There are now a variety of settings to adjust different properties of the text in-game.

You can now choose between HD and pixelated fonts. Even though low-res pixel font is coherent with the general art style, it is not the most legible typeface to read. Now you can have the option to “HD-ify” the font, which makes for greater readability. 

For those with dyslexia who may have trouble discerning between serif style characters, you can now opt for a simple sans-serif font style. This can also be toggled between HD or pixelated. 

Text colour can also be changed between white, yellow, green, red or blue.

This is applied to all standard text throughout the game! 

And finally, the background opacity of the standard textbox can be customised from 0 to 100. If you are struggling to discern between the text and background it may be easier to have this on 100 so the text stands more.

I feel like all these extra little options will solve the text readability issue for the majority of players. Any colour specific elements will also have non-colour related visual indicators. They are small changes but hopefully go a long way for some.

There are also some extra little visual accessibility options for those who may have trouble focusing on certain elements of the game’s artstyle. You can now zoom the camera in up close to our protagonist, and also alter cursor, crosshair and interaction icon properties such as size and colour. HUD opacity can also be lowered, but it is set to 100 by default. 

The screen blood that appears when you take damage can also be turned off now, as can any bright flashes in the game for those who are photosensitive or epileptic. For those who don’t enjoy screenshake, that can be turned off too. 

It hasn’t been implemented yet, but I am working on having brightness and contrast settings too in the future. Even though the game won’t feature much voice acting, I am going to work on having subtitles available not just for voices but also for any kind of hard-to-read environmental text. 

AUDIO OPTIONS

Nothing too fancy, but you can now adjust SFX, music and master volume all independently. This required a rework of the audio system so it was actually quite challenging, but happy to have it completed and working.

BLOOD TOGGLE

Blood and gore effects can now be toned down substantially, although it will be left on by default. The reason I decided to include this is because there may be some who are more interested in exploring the history of Conscript without the intense and bloody combat . In my opinion, Conscript is equal parts a history game and a survival horror game, so there will be cross pollination between those two demographics. Most of you will probably leave this on but it’s nice to have it there anyway. 

DIFFICULTY MODES

During the Kickstarter campaign, we reached the stretch goal for two difficulty modes but I am going to include some extra ones in the final game. There will now be six difficulty modes in total.

Training (Assist Mode)

This mode will feature checkpoints, increased health capacity and player damage will be increased. 

Recruit / Soldier / Veteran

These three will be the standard easy/normal/hard sort of thing from every other game in existence. Enemy damage and item quantity variables will be the main differences between these modes.

War Hero

This will feature more “realistic” elements from modes like Resident Evil Remake’s “Real Survival” difficulty. Item boxes will be unlinked from each other and limited saves will be mandatory. It will contain the same gameplay modifiers as Veteran mode.

Grognard (French for “old soldier”)

This ultimate challenge will include all the features of War Hero mode but with PERMADEATH. Yep, you heard right. 

LIMITED SAVE TOGGLE

Limited saving has always been controversial. The reason I opted for this old-school survival horror mechanic is because it introduces a risk/reward style of gameplay where players generally try and squeeze in one extra “task” before the next save, leading to extra hard decisions being made during gameplay. Understandably, not everyone wants to deal with this though. Despite this being the intended way to play, it will an optional toggle at the start of any Conscript playthrough. Note that on the very hardest difficulties it will be mandatory however. 

Here’s a look at the game parameter screen before you start a new save:

You will also have the ability to toggle off Kickstarter backer easter eggs if you so wish. 

CONTROL SETTINGS

Any action that requires you to hold a button - such as aiming and running - can now be toggled with one button press instead.

Also, I’m going to implement both a quick melee and quick heal feature so that you don’t have to go into the inventory just to break some barrels or use a healing item.

You can also turn off mouse support to play the game with a keyboard only. 

CONTROLLER REMAPPING

Full control remapping is now available for both keyboard and gamepad control schemes. This was a complicated and time consuming thing for me to implement but I’m glad to finally have it available. 

Hang on a second… did the inventory just change? 

BAG STYLES

By far the biggest feature in Conscript history....

This was a fun little extra I decided to make when I was testing out the flexibility of the new options menu. Admittedly it has nothing to do with accessibility, but it is related to the options menu! You can now change the colour of the inventory background. You will be spending a lot of time there so I figured it would be cool to give some small level of customization... there may even be some extra unlockable styles in the full game! Any ideas for patterns or designs? 

So that’s what I’ve been working on the past two weeks! What do you think? I know menu heavy things aren't exactly the most marketable features, but I felt it was important to share. Are there any other reasonably in-scope accessibility options you all would like to see?

#gamedev #indiedev #accessibility #indiegame #survivalhorror #horrorgame #conscript

[sunbellylou]

ask for writers !!

thank you @tomlinvelvetfics​ for tagging me! and thank you @soldouthaz for making this tag!

1. describe how you first started writing and when you first posted: i’ve been writing for years now, i started with het (ew!) 1d fics in portuguese back in 2011, it was actually those little imagines we used to write, don’t know if anyone remembers hehe. i posted them on a facebook page i was part of and i remember the first thingy i wrote was something with niall, but i really don’t remember any details (but was probably bad as heck since i was 11).

my first larry fic i probably wrote around 2012 when i found out the gay fanfics world haha, i don’t remember what it was or anything tbh, in my head i always wrote and posted gay fanfic.

my first fanfic in english was a little one shot (like 400 words honestly), it was a translation of a previous work i wrote portuguese. i posted it a year and a half ago and it’s called playground love (please don’t look).

2. which of your characters do you typically resonate most closely with? do you base any characters off of yourself?:  i usually write from harry’s pov because i love love l o v e describing louis and how angelic he is, so usually i tend to see louis as this ethereal ish character, cause it’s usually about harry falling in love with him. so whether i like it or no, i tend to be closer to harry’s characters in my fics, i always like to put a bit of myself on him and make the character real, you know?

3. where do you often find inspiration?: honestly? anything! i’ve written fics inspired by tumblr posts, tweets, pictures, songs, movies, things that happened in my real life, books. i literally wrote a pwp because i couldn’t stop thinking about leather pants (go read my robin hood au).

4. has quarantine helped or hindered your writing process?: in the beginning it was really helping me, i’d stay up till 4am everyday just writing like crazy, but then i got into the worst writer’s block and didn’t write shit for months. (and of course right when i started getting new ideas, i started working so i have no free time).

5. do you listen to music/noise while you write or do you prefer silence? always listen to music, all the time. i can’t do anything without music. mostly because my brain is a mess and music helps me concentrate. i usually go for some chill songs, some indie pop and stuff.

6. what is your biggest writing pet peeve in your writing or in general?: oh my god, when i’m writing and two or more paragraphs start with the same word, one after the other. it drives me crazy!!!! and sometimes i spend hours looking for ways to word differently the sentences, just so i don’t have two paragraphs starting with “the”.

also when my paragraphs are two (or one) lines long, i can’t! it has to have three or more lines.

7. describe your ideal writing setup: at the dining table, in the middle of the night, with some soft music playing in the background and some popcorn with me!

8. favorite time of day to write?: well, just said it hehe i like writing at night.

9. favorite genre to write + one you’d like to try writing in the future?: woah, that’s tough because i literally write any genres! i really love writing fantasy and horror stuff, but i feel like it’s not really well accepted in the fandom? (spec horror). and when people like it, they only read from bigger authors so i usually keep myself from writing those. aaand tbh i probably already wrote most of fic genres out there, so there isn’t much left to try.

10. do you struggle with writer’s block? how do you typically overcome it?  i’m writer’s block bitch and i do not know how to overcome her

11. what is the easiest part of your writing process and the most difficult? outlining tbh, i usually don’t (and it comes back to kick me in the ass). i always have too many ideas at the same time and can’t stick to one, so outlining and finding the right plot is really hard.

12. how do you come up with original characters? (if applicable): lately i haven’t really had the chance to come up with ocs, but when i wrote original books (not fanfics and stuff), i usually started with the gender and one outstanding personality trait and went from there.

13. what is your favorite and least favorite word?  i love the words ethereal and breeze, omg you’ll find them A LOT on my fics. and my least favorite word is growl.

14. what is one thing about your writing that you’re really proud of and one thing you hope to continue working at?: i think i describe the vibez in the scene really well, it’s my favorite thing to do. and i need to work more on building my sentences, because theyre always supermessy.

15. what work of yours has your favorite ‘verse/world building? how did you come up with it?:  definitely the fic i’m working on right now! i’m putting so much work on the world building since it’s a fantasy fic, so i’m planning every little detail about it. i hope other people like it too when they read it !!

16. what font and size do you write in? single spaced or double?: comic sans, 12pt, single spaced. don’t come at me.

17. what is a typo(s) you find yourself making consistently?: because english isn’t my first language, i always change like ‘th’ for ‘d’ (because it has a similar sound in portuguese), so catch me typing ‘de’ instead of ‘the’ or ‘dey’ instead of ‘they’.

18. (if applicable) do you separate fic writing from fandom?: i didn’t understand the question so i’m pretending i never read it hehe

19. what emotion is your favorite to write? which is the most difficult?: my favorite to write is probably,,, love/adoration, like harry looking at louis like he’s the whole world and thinking about how amazing he is? i love it.

and the most difficult is probably anger, i find it really hard to write like fights and stuff like that because usually i make the characters sound more sad than angry.

20. what is one thing you hope readers always take away from your works?: i never thought about that but,,, i hope they start finding joy in small things that happen in their day. that’s something i use a lot in my fics and i think it’s very important to bring it to real life. like enjoy that late night tea, showering in the morning, spending a summer day in the house, cleaning, etc.

21. what is the best and worst writing advice you’ve ever received?: i think the best advice is one i got from someone i no longer talk to, they told me this when i first started writing in english and it is to stop trying to write fancy or like native english speakers, because it’s much better to write simple sentences that i’m confident about than write sentences with words i barely know how to use.

and the worst advice is TO OUTLINE! i know i should maybe i dont know but leave me alone, i hate outlining bye

22. which one of your works would you most want to see turned into a film/television show?:  ok so,,, it’s a book i wrote like three years ago with original characters. it’s called great evil and i wrote it in portuguese. it’s full of violence and acid humor, about a very evil and sarcastic demon and an angry hunter. (one day i’ll translate that book and turn it into a larry fic)

23. do you write scenes chronologically or out of order?: chronologically. always

24. how do you handle criticism?: really bad. please be careful with what words you use. i’m already really hard on myself when it comes to my writing, so sometimes someone says something and (it might be dramatic but) i feel my world crumbling and i want to stop writing right away.

25. what is the advice you would give to someone who is looking to start writing?:  just,,, do it. there’s no right or wrong way to do it. there’s no such thing as too much or too little, bad or good plots. every idea is a good idea. write it for yourself, write something you like. go ahead and just do it. there’s always someone out there who will enjoy your work, no matter what.

26. what kind of feedback on your work always makes your day?: any comments make my day tbh, if you comment on my fic i’ll be forever grateful and will be smiling like a fool the whole day. honestly, even a “omg i loved it” comment can make my day.

27. which fic ‘verse of your own would you most like to exist in? which fic’s characters would you most like to befriend?: the one i’m writing 100%, please i want to live in a fantasy world. i wanna live in the water kingdom and have faerie louis as my king please.

and i’d like to befriend louis from my fic kiss me in your chevrolet, he’s a sweetheart and i must protecc.

28. what do you always enjoy getting asks about/wish people would ask about more?: anything! i rarely get asks so anything is good hehe

29. what has writing added to your life? how has it changed you?: it’s such a big part of my life, i spent all my teenage years writing and it really is what built my personality. it helped me being more creative with all aspects of my life and take life lightly, enjoy little things and moments. 

30. why do you write?: i just love having ideas and putting out there, playing with words and finding new ways to describe daily things.

boost yourself + tags!

1a. share the last sentence you wrote:

The path through the dense forest, covered in slippery rocks and burning trees is already difficult enough, but it becomes ten times worse when you’re being pestered by small, demonic creatures. 

2a. describe the wip you’re most excited about:

i’m honestly only working on one fic right now and i’m super duper excited about it

3a. share the piece of dialogue from one of your works you’re most proud of:

"I mean, I still don't plan on watching Star Wars, so…" 

The boy groans playfully, throwing his head back and Louis' eyes are suddenly really interested in the column of the guy's throat. 

"Americans really have no culture." He shoulders Louis slightly, warmth spreading through Louis' dainty shoulder and making him trip to the side lightly. With a faux outraged scoff, Louis waves a dismissing hand. 

“What do British people know about culture? All you do is drink tea and talk about the weather all day,” Louis teases with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Also, Star Wars is American, just so you know.” He rolled his eyes playfully, feeling surprisingly comfortable in his presence.

Skater Boy sighs comically, shaking his head, his wavy locks falling gracefully on the sides of his face and Louis can’t stop thinking about how soft his hair must be. 

“You got me there.”

not posted but i kinda like it (i’m not really good with dialogues, so it was really hard to find one lmao)

4a. share the best first and last lines from your work(s): I will do only those that are already published:

best first lines are from a halloween fic i never finished: 

Louis’ blue eyes snap open. His heart pounds fast inside his rib cage, making something as easy as breathing almost impossible. Sweat drenches his body and he feels like drowning. He feels too awake and wary as his breathing calms down, as well as his grips on the sheets under him loosen.

best last lines are from my 2019 BLFF there’s more than one place to call home: 

Their life was utter chaos, and they were definitely complete opposites, and sometimes Harry wished Louis would just shut the hell up, but at the same time, Harry wouldn’t change a single thing about his life, because he had Louis, and that was all that mattered to him. 

5a. link the last fic you read: it was the devil's in the details by @raspberryoatss​

6a. link the last work you published: you could take a lick (but it’s too cold to bite me)

7a. link to your ao3 (if applicable): cinnamons

8a. someone that inspires you: louis hehe 

9a. a comfort fic/work that you’ve been grateful for this year: tbh i don’t read a lot of fics, but there’s this work a friend of mine wrote. it was in portuguese and she ended up deleting it but it’s amazing.

10a. other writers that you’d like to tag! @bottomlwt @raspberryoatss 

[npmjs]

Next Phase Montage

tl;dr -- Good news!

npm, Inc., is being purchased by GitHub.

The public registry remains public, free, and as available as ever.

npm as you know it continues, and in fact, there is good reason to believe that it'll only get better.

I'm still going to be working on npm (but with the luxury of more resources and less stress).

I'm really excited about the stuff we're going to do.

It is customary for a founder, in the closing chapter of their startup, to ruminate in a blog post about their incredible journey1. When we founded npm, Inc., I knew that I was signing up for a post like this someday. I'm extremely thankful that this is the one I get to write2.

history and origin

Back in 2009, after too long without a vacation, I quit my job, in hopes of discovering what happens when I untether my creativity.

What happened is I wrote a package manager.

I created npm with the goal of sharing modules in a tiny group of nerdy weirdos who'd decided to write web servers in JavaScript. From that niche beginning, npm grew, slowly but surely, the background project I'd greedily steal away time for.

At the end of 2013, npm hit a rough spot and we had to make a decision. This was the first big bookmark in the npm story, when the project could no longer survive on donations. We made some slide decks and raised an amount of money that seemed enormous at the time, but inevitably got spent really fast.

the part where i talk about startups

Running a company is hard. It is grueling, unglamorous work.

I don't want to make it sound completely terrible. There are definitely a few awesome parts. But once is enough for me.

Throughout this journey, our north star has been the mission that we founded this company with: reduce friction in JavaScript software development.

I have a set of goals that I wrote down back then, and have shared openly with the team. They haven't changed much.

Keep the npm registry running forever (not only for the life of the company).

Be a company that we can all enjoy working at, and do the best work of our careers up until now.

Get a big enough exit that I can quit my job and see what comes out of me a second time.

Share the rewards equitably with the people who got npm to where it is.

There are few unmitigated successes or failures in the real world. But this is a win, and a good one, for me and the team and the entire JavaScript community.

We have made tremendous progress on (1), and that's the thing I'm happiest about in this. As far as (2), there's been ups and downs, to say the least, but the bright spots outshine the dark. I've lost some valued friendships in the process, but made a few as well. On (3), well, I'm still working a jobby job, but I always knew that was a long shot, and "make npm a better package manager" is a job I enjoy. And as for (4), I'm proud of the deals that we've been able to negotiate for the team.

It's not a kajillion billion dollar 10x startup cinderella story, and we've taken our hits, but in the end we've done right by our community, team, and careers, and I'm extremely proud of what we've achieved.

the part where i talk about the company buying us

One of the questions founders get asked a lot is "what might your exit look like?" I always mentioned the big tech companies as possibilities, and GitHub as a sort of "wishful thinking" option.

I've been following GitHub's trajectory closely since they came to Yahoo! to give a talk about git and social coding way back in 20093. It's been a huge part of my life ever since I dove head-first into open source as a lifestyle choice.

When I saw the GitHub Packages beta announcement and demo at GitHub HQ in San Francisco, I remember turning to Shanku Niyogi and clumsily blurting out, "Why aren't you trying to buy us?"

It seemed so maddeningly... obvious. Forget about whose logo is on which webpage, just... if you're going to do this thing, do it right, ffs. This clearly needs to be integrated with the actual registry in a very deep way. "I mean... You see that, right?" (I think he probably did. And if he didn't, then props to him for taking my reaction as flattery or a good idea, rather than condescension.)

What I didn't really expect at the beginning of the acquisition process was how much I'd genuinely like everyone I met at GitHub, starting with my initial conversations with Nat, as well as all the people on the team he's built. As we dug into the technical and strategic plans for how npm would fit into the vision of GitHub moving forward, it became clear that this isn't just a good option for the JavaScript community -- it's significantly better than what npm, Inc., can provide on its own.

There are not many companies that can claim to have the kind of fanatical commitment to open source that GitHub does. In the track record of Nat and the team he's assembled, there's really something special here that I'm thrilled to be a part of.

I've said countless times before that I wouldn't let the registry go someplace that won't take care of it. (See goal (1) above. I've sacrificed years of my life and put a strain on many personal and professional relationships in pursuit of that goal.)

As GitHub has branched out into other aspects of the end-to-end developer community experience, it's natural to see how the JavaScript package management process fits into that story. It's not a loss leader or an experimental add-on or a way to quickly hire a team. Rather, the npm registry is a significant and concrete strategic asset serving GitHub's mission of eliminating transaction costs in software development.

That's important.

the part about what comes next

Today, npm serves over 1.3 million packages to roughly 12 million developers, who download these things 75 billion times a month, and all of this is growing at a rate that ensures these massive numbers will seem small in a few years.

Our commitment to that community is to keep the npm registry free for open source development for the foreseeable future, and continue to improve the npm CLI. At GitHub, npm will have the added support and backing of one of the world's largest companies, behind the world's largest community of developers.

There are some awesome opportunities for improvement in the npm experience, to meaningfully improve life for JS devs in countless large and small ways. We'll be making things more reliable, convenient, and connected for everyone across our vast interdependent JavaScript ecosystem.

For six years, in the grind of a startup, we've had dreams too big to dare hope for. This next chapter is a chance to realize those dreams.

This is the end of "npm, Inc.", the Delaware C Corp. But it's an exciting upgrade for npm.

[1]: Reference joke Our Incredible Journey

[2]: It's also worth noting that GitHub allowed such a long, nuanced, and candid announcement as this one, and didn't push for a watered down corporate version. Cultural alignment is a good sign.

[3]: Check out the date on the post for that talk. Then note the date on this commit. It's like some kind of cryptic message from the past, and it's weirding me out, tbh.

#startup life #exiting #entering #phase shift #narrative arc #chapter and act delineations #retrospective #not-retro-spective #i guess that'd be just spective #wagon fulla pamcakes? #in the champeenship? #showdown #put your nose down

[drawinginwater]

EVALUATION

Given our project was based on a book, mine was “The Figure In The Carpet” the project was more digital based with the way we created most of our final outcomes. 

We researched a multitude of artists some stood out more to me than others. Starting with Frank Moth, though his work style did not translate into my final outcomes, I loved how his work stood out gave a new perspective and a futuristic feel to it, his work almost feels nostalgic like someone looking back on the life they had. His work greatly inspired a lot of my drawing sessions making connections to the future hidden meanings and messages. The simplicity of his work only combining a few images as well was a great inspiration to one of my final pieces.  David Carson, his method of work and use of typography greatly influenced a lot of my outcomes including a few of my final ones as well.   He uses a lot of overlapping techniques in this image which reality distorts the text, making it difficult to read, this technique I wanted to include into my own work especially in parts I wanted to make stand out.  His work and style had a massive effect on my work especially the typography aspect and whether I should include serifs or non-serifs, there were so many different font options I could use to make my work stand out. Such as overlapping fonts and lettering sizing just like he did. Finally, Annegret Soltau, her work impacted my traditional work more so with her use of stitch transforming collages and work. Taking her approach with stitch and thread work I added it into one of my final outcomes stitching her mouth shut and stitching all the lettering I thought it would be much more impactful.

MY INITAL IDEAS & CONCEPTS 

While it took me quite a long time to grasp this topics concept and ideas. Once I did I came up with varying ideas on how to approach it.  We made mind maps about typography, hidden meanings analysing our books. In short, the book I was given was about a book with a hidden meaning no one could figure out. So, I took that basic meaning and applied it to my work giving all my pieces quite a twisted outcome.  Taking quotes from our books we were told to create post cards or art based off theses quotes phrases etc. the words that grabbed my attention were usually quite dark imagery ones. Quotes I could do a lot with visually. My colour scheme initially was to be reds blacks and vibrant colours keeping a sinister approach to it.  

Why I came up with this approach.

After reading the book and analysing it, the book was all about secrecy and hidden meanings so taking that I translated that into my own work creating ideas and concepts based on that. I loved the twists and turns as well as the madness the characters ended up having desperate to find out this books hidden message. 

Main things I learnt 

The main thing I took away from this course is my photoshop skills, starting from scratch to being able to edit and develop pieces and create art and animations just from photoshop!

It is a skill I will be trying to develop further as It is something that has proven to be useful. While photoshop and all the skills I learnt from that have been extremely useful, I also experimented with many new drawing techniques. 

Such as, tracing paper layers making it look like the background was furthest away, giving depth to the drawing. Another process I really enjoyed was the stencil screen printing technique it was something completely different it proved quite challenging to get right especially with all the fiddly parts and all the details. However, the outcomes turned out awesome I loved it!

Thursdays sessions 

Thursday’s drawings lessons have always been one of my favourite parts of the week. This term we focused on lots of different techniques such as asemic writing, which was the typography aspect part while at first, I did not enjoy it as much once I got round to completing the outcomes from that lesson, I ended up loving them. One of my favourite techniques we learnt as I mentioned was the tracing paper one, we focused on depth and layers within a drawing making it look almost apocalyptic.

A few pieces of the work I created over this project I feel has been impactful to my learning are any of the photo shop work & the printmaking work as these things I had no idea how to without the class and being taught how to do it. So, I am thankful I had the opportunity to learn as I love the outcomes of all of them. From the colours I chose to the layout of each piece. So, from not knowing how to producing good quality work it is something I am quite proud of.

my journey creating my final pieces 

From initial ideas and the final outcomes, I have learnt a lot from the history of typography to how to use font properly and including all this knowledge within my work.  I also learnt about colour theory and what colours mean what and If I wanted a darker presenting collage of work, I should use blacks’ reds and greys etc. Though I already knew this is was interesting to learn about why.

I ended up creating 8 outcomes 4 digital 4 drawn, they all share similar colours and themes.

I was inspired for the 4 drawn ones by music I listened too as well as quotes from the book. The images it gave me in my head which were all creepy and dark. My main idea given from the book was hidden meanings and secrets, so I applied this to my work by giving all the pieces hidden meanings which only I know. Though the 4 drawn ones if you line them up right will make one giant image which I thought was cool. 

The 4 digital ones were based of collages and dark imagery from quotes within the book these ones were interesting and slightly challenging to make taking inspiration from many artists in the process learning about all the different techniques I could use to create the works. Overall, I am really pleased with my outcomes they all worked well, and all have the intended reaction to them it makes you think and question the work etc.

If I had to list 10 words describing the overall outcomes it would be

·       Creepy

·       Dark

·       Sinister

·       Repetitive

·       Secrecy

·       Intriguing

·       Busy

·       Sombre

·       Overwhelming

·       Thought out 

 sound track

If I needed a soundtrack for this project, it would be a soundtrack from a horror film as the pieces I did are creepy and dark it would fit well and would make the pieces even creepier to look at. it would give the pieces a whole new meaning and would make you look at them differently maybe even creep the audience out more. 

hours spent on it 

I spent a long time on this project, it would vary how long I spent on it each week. However, on average I would spend maybe 10 hours to 5 hours each week depending how much I had planned for myself to do and what I had planned if it were an extensive amount of research and analysis then it would take me 10 hours+ a week to do. If it were drawing or finishing off work, I could do that relatively quick and get it done within 5 hours + a week. So, it really depends on the week I had planned for myself.

I work at my desk either at my mums or dads, it has all the supplies and tools i would need though digital tools and software are limited all non digital tools i basically have access too. 

My final outcomes in my opinion turned out successful with lots of interesting aspects to them. Artists that helped me with my work are, Annegret Soltau. Her work inspired me to use stitch within my work and it turned out well in the end its one of my favourite pieces that I have done for this project. 

Artists that helped my digital work are David Carson & Peter Bankov as their use of typography and collage really inspired my final digital outcomes, they really helped my ideas flourish and make my work what it Is now. 

My original idea of secrecy and hidden meanings never changed I made sure to include that in any piece of work that I could but over learning about all the artists and techniques it just evolved and became really cool to draw and create work for.

[bruciewayne]

bent

happy steve bingo fill (window shopping), stevetony, angst with a happy ending

-

“We should stop seeing each other.”

Steve stills, still half asleep. He snatches back the hand that had been around Tony’s waist and sits up.

“Any reason?” He asks casually, as though his entire world isn’t shattering right in front of him. And isn’t that a scary thought? In mere months Tony had gained the ability to utterly destroy him in six small words, and Steve had thought, naively, he supposes, in retrospect, that he just wouldn’t. Presumed, really, taken for granted, more accurately. 

Because couples choose to break up or stay together, day after day, and some take the latter for the rest of their lives, Steve never, not even if it would save his own life, chose to break up, the love he had for Tony felt strong enough to power their relationship over the multiverse, for thousands of generations, and up ‘til now, he’d always thought that Tony, brilliant, bright, incredible, far too good for this earth, Tony would choose him, naively, stupidly, idiotically.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Tony says, with his back to Steve. He realises belatedly that he should be getting dressed. Should be leaving.

But he can’t stop himself from pleading, any facade of casual falling away, “Then don’t. Don’t-don’t break up--”

“I have to,” Tony insists, “we have to.”

“Do you not like me anymore?”

 There’s a pause, barely milliseconds, barely long enough for a breath, but it may as well have been another century. And the resounding silence is answer enough.

His world goes from shattering, suspended in question, reversible, to shattered, scattered on the floor, a dying man’s breath away from floating away.

So he goes. Like he should’ve five minutes. He leaves the Tower, but even in the dark, pre-dawn streets of Manhattan, everything he sees reminds him of Tony. The worst part is that even though he knows, with startling clarity, that Tony doesn’t love him, never did and that Tony hurt him, he can’t help but think good of him, Tony in the morning, soft and pliant, in the evening, loving and gentle, so, so unrepentingly bright all the time.

He walks and walks and walks, no real destination. He doesn’t get stopped, the low cap and hoodie disguise hadn’t failed him yet.

He realises he’s in Brooklyn, a stone’s throw from where he used to live, when he walks past a pawn shop with the borough emblazoned in bronze on black in that Old English font. He doesn’t think much of it, nothing past recognising that he should probably head home back and deal with the aftermath. He indulges himself in the very real reality of the fact that he’s going to have to resign from the Avengers as he spins on his heel.

That’s when he sees it. A ring, simple, practical, gorgeous. Never worn, a size 9, with an engraving thrown in, on the house.

He tamps down the irrational desire to buy it (who does he have to give it to?) and sprints back to the Tower.

“Where were you?” Tony asks as soon as he gets to the kitchen. Steve hates how perfectly fine he looks. He hates even more how much seeing him makes him want to run all the way back to that shop and fall on his knees.

“Do you care?”

Tony seems taken aback at that. “We were friends before we started any of this, of course I care,” he says, softly, “you didn’t take your phone.”

“...Thank you for your concern.”

Steve drinks a protein shake and walks back to the shop.

He stands outside it long enough that the owner, an elderly gentleman, tells him to buy something or stop scaring off the potential customers. Considering the fact that it’s almost closing time, and the sun is setting, he doubts he was really hurting business, but he leaves anyway, making another promise with himself to just let it go.

He breaks it four times in two days. 

When he’s not walking, he’s in the gym, or at SHIELD, or on his old floor. Anywhere without Tony. Not that that stops him from thinking about him. Or wondering where he went wrong.

He thinks back, on his fifth walk back from the shop, over the happiest months of his life, and takes every single second he spent with Tony, all in excruciating detail, and scrubs through every frame, for any time where he failed him, every time where he wasn’t good enough, every time he could have, should have been better.

On that day, he destroys so much gym equipment that JARVIS kicks him out of the gym. 

He adds that to the list of why he failed, and seems to still be failing, Tony.

He doesn’t see him at all, Tony doesn’t seek him out (why would he?) but he still misses him, so goddamn fiercely. He’s never thought that he’d ever live in a world where he didn’t have Tony in his life somehow.

He realises now, that’s awfully codependent, and another thing to add to the list.

They don’t tell the team, or maybe Tony did, he’s not too sure, because they never told the team that they were together in the first place (+1 list) but he’s pretty sure that they all knew anyway. Nothing changes, either way, not really, they’re still planning movie nights and training sessions (the latter, Tony only comes to when Steve’s not there. Which hurts, but Steve gets. He does. He swears.).

On the third day, the ring is gone.

The walk to get there was cold, which shouldn’t have been a surprise in the slightest, what with the Christmas songs sneaking in on the radio and the trees and lights going up in the shops, but it barely crosses his mind until he’s halfway across Williamsburg Bridge and by that point, there isn’t any need to go back.

He wishes he never met Tony, he wishes, for such a short moment that it’s almost as though he imagined it, that he never fell in love with him, because in some long, twisted way, he’s the reason that he’s three hours away from home, and cold.

He feels offended, almost, that the ring is gone, but that falls away the second he realises that ultimately, that’s a good thing, whoever bought it, he hopes them the happiness that he doubts he himself will ever find again. And Steve has no reason to walk all the way to Brooklyn any more.

As soon as he gets back to the Tower, he goes straight for the roof, and rummages around behind a panel until his hand closes around a box and a lighter.

He should stop, he knows that, it causes cancer and lung and heart disease and all the other things he can’t get, but it’s always been relaxing to him, even those asthma cigarettes, which would definitely be so many levels of illegal these days, were relaxing. He’s found that reminiscing is never a good look on him, and, if he had a choice, he wouldn’t go back to the forties, but he likes to indulge in it, every now and then.

Tony never liked it, claimed that it made it horrible to kiss him (“Which should be so illegal, Rogers,” Tony teases, plucking the cigarette out of his fingers and stubbing it out, “because kissing you is something I want to spend my whole life doing.”), so he didn’t do it as much, only when he was out of the country, or on the bad days, and even then, only a couple.

He gets through half a pack before he’s interrupted, long after the sun has left and the stars, only the brightest, and the crescent moon hang in the sky.

“I made a mistake.”

Steve wants to turn around, drop the cigarette, but he stops himself and just hums his agreement, still facing outward, still smoking.

“Steve?”

“Tony.”

He stubs the cigarette and turns around to look at Tony for the first time in almost a week, and everything comes rushing back, full force.

Tony steps closer, but stops, maybe a meter out, much farther than he used to. Distancing himself.

“Steve, I-- I’m sorry, I was dumb, and I was scared, and that’s no excuse for what I said--”

The sirens and sounds of the city fade away until all he can hear and see is Tony, flooding his senses.

“Did-- did you mean it?” Steve’s voice cracks, and he knows that he must look utterly pathetic and needy, but he has to know.

Tony shakes his head before he can get a word out, “No, not, not at all. I-- it, it just, you, you know what I warned you about, when you asked me out, that I’ll do something outrageously stupid and probably try destroy the best thing in my life? Yeah. I, uh, that.”

Tony drops to his knees and there, in his shaky hands, is the ring.

“Take me back?”

-

tell me what you think?

#steve rogers x tony stark #stevetony fic #stony fic #steve x tony #steve rogers #tony stark #stevetony #stony #happystevebingo #happy steve bingo #srry if ive missed out any html tags

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 2

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo has just turned six. He’s been at the castle for most of a year.

Aeleus is icing the simple white cake when Even goes to get his morning coffee. “You’re spoiling the boy,” he says in lieu of greeting. “Ansem gives him more than enough sugar with all the ice cream.”

Aeleus shrugs. “It’s not a birthday without cake.”

“Indeed, when presented with such things when I was younger, I nearly went feral,” Dilan says. “Though sugar does not seem to affect his countenance.”

“Not much does.”

“It’s worth celebrating, that he’s speaking,” Aeleus says. He puts the frosting knife in the sink. “Maybe we can encourage him to talk more.”

He still does not speak much, even now. His sentences are short, plain, often monosyllabic. At least they no longer need to rely on the whiteboard.

But now that he speaks, his nightmares have heft, sound. Even can hear him cry for them. It never hurts any less.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Dilan says. Ienzo appears, still in pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Happy birthday.”

He blinks. “That’s today?”

Even chuckles. “I figure today we can do something you like. Play, or perhaps go outside?”

Ienzo opens the fridge door and takes out a juice box. “No thank you,” he says politely. “I want to finish my book.”

“Anything for the prince, eh,” Dilan says. He’s taken to calling Ienzo that; despite the fact that he and Ansem have no blood ties and that “king” is an elected title. “If you go outside you can get more books, you know. Not just this dusty old tosh.”

This grabs his attention.

“I’ll even buy you one as a present.”

Ienzo turns pink. “Thank you.”

Dilan smiles. “Why it is my pleasure. Go get dressed. We can leave after breakfast.”

He retreats to his room quickly. Even puts up oatmeal. “That’s kind of you,” he says.

“He needs exercise. It’s not normal to be cooped up all day.”

“Dilan spoils the boy, but I can’t?” Aeleus asks dryly. “The double standards.”

Even laughs a little. “Such is the way of life.”

He returns to his lab. He had success with another fertilization; this one actually divided twice before dying. What was the difference? He doesn’t think he did anything differently. During all of his medical school studies, he did not recall IVF to be so finicky.

This isn’t the same thing. It’s a vehicle.

He studies the corpses of the cells under blacklight, trying to find anything that might illuminate the truth.

---

Ansem approaches him now, not the other way around. Even would be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy the power. “Sorry to intrude,” he says.

Even looks up from the chaise and decides to be nice. “Nothing to intrude. I was mending Ienzo’s coat. He’s growing so quickly, I had to let down the hem.” They can buy clothes at the shops, but not many vendors sell lab coats in children’s sizes. They’re teaching Ienzo general chemistry; he needs to have protection.

“You’re sure? He’s awfully small.”

He hums idly. “He’s on the bottom end of average,” he admits. “I have a feeling Ienzo will always be relatively petite. But he eats plenty, and Dilan introduced him to the library in town, which is an incentive to walk.”

“...He goes on his own now?” Ansem asks. He sits without being invited.

Even pauses slightly in his stitching. “How old were you when you ran your first errand?” he asks instead. “He has to be back in half an hour, otherwise we take away the books. Funny. For most children reading is punishment.” He holds up the jacket, checking for evenness. “Can I help you with something?”

He picks up the book he’s carried in. It’s an odd size, old, the cut of the paper uneven. “I… admit I still do not know anything about which you’re working. But I know you have a body problem. I wonder if this might help.”

He eyes it derisively. “Not exactly cutting edge science, is it?”

Ansem chuckles. “No, but… I’ve spoken with a new… friend, and I wonder if this is food for thought.”

Even takes the book from him. The font is ancient, hard to read. “ Mysticism of the Heart? Sounds a bit… Romantic.”

Ansem shakes his head. “It’s nothing to do with feelings. Well, not quite. The author was a sorcerer… oh, many years ago. She studied the heart.”

“...As have I. As have we all.”

“The metaphysical heart, Even.” He seems exasperated. “I find myself… intrigued, as well. I was up all night reading it.”

“...That so?” He strokes the cover, the soft, crumbling leather.

“If you… want to make something living, you have to understand the forces behind it. At least, that’s how I see it.”

“None of this is proven,” Even says, but despite himself he can feel his mind stirring, the block loosening.

“Maybe not with science. Maybe not with black and white.”

“Consider my interest… piqued.”

---

Like Ansem, he finds himself engrossed in every page; he takes copious notes. The text is hard to read, from the font to the fact that it is an older dialect of their language. But the ideas behind it are fascinating, and not just from a scientific standpoint.

Everyone knows a person is made of a body, heart, and will; but nobody understands the latter two, how they function. Nobody can test something so abstract. But if he can figure it out… or at least start to get there… maybe it will mean something for the dying cells smeared on his slides.

He can feel an excitement rising in him, an eagerness, a passion, that he hasn’t experienced in some time. He’s finally getting somewhere. He photocopies the book to have as reference, and without a word, gives it to Aeleus.

Within two weeks none of them can shut up about it. Ienzo watches them discuss it, warily, another fantasy story in his hands. Even finds himself digging through the libraries all throughout the castle for more--there has to be more. But everything else he finds about the heart is vague, at best. Limited. A single line in a dictionary. He bites the bullet and begins looking towards texts of religion and philosophy as well, but unlike Mysticism of the Heart , it is all waffling.

The sorcerer who crafted the book spent her whole life studying the heart. After apprenticing under a master magician, she spent years crafting spells to look within--to feel the heart, what it might mean. She asked as many people as she dared (it was a time and place where magic was viewed as heresy, so Even can’t help but admire her nerve) if she, too, could look within their hearts. She wrote out each as a case study, but her major conclusions were as follows:

Hearts are not mere physical matter. They are made of two forms of metamatter, heretoafter deemed “light” and “darkness.” Like yin and yang, they were not necessarily good and evil, but rather seemed to have certain qualities: light was associated with feeling, healing, and nurturing, while darkness was associated with power, knowledge, and a desire to better oneself rather than the collective.

Hearts are about “feeling”, about aqueous aspects of identity.

The presence of bonds seem to make a heart stronger or weaker, depending on their health.

Stronger individuals could always produce more and fulfill themselves more.

Even had, of course, studied darkness and light; but they had been viewed mostly as pejoratives, things that were intangible. If this is right--this dusty old tome from who knows how long ago--it’s so much more literal than they ever could have guessed.

---

He is trying to draft ways to explore this more clearly when Ienzo finds him. Without a single word, he places a book on Even’s lap. “...What’s this?” Even asks him.

“It talks about hearts.”

Even examines it. It’s a fairy story; one from Ansem’s study. He feels a swell of something like pride when he realizes that Ienzo likely took it without permission. “A fantasy story?” he asks.

Ienzo shrugs. “They talk about dark and light.”

There’s no point on waiting for him to elaborate. “I will… examine it in more detail,” he says, shunting it to the bottom of his list.

Ienzo begins to leave, but then turns. “And magic,” he says.

Even furrows his brows. Acting on impulse, he opens the storybook Ienzo left behind.

Well, hell.

---

It all causes a massive dissonance; how much lore, nebulous and malleable, actually has more truth in it than they all think?

As a man of science, and yes, he thinks, reason, how can he possibly believe it, when this whole time he only believed what could be proven with numbers?

Even’s mind slivers into pieces: the part of him invested in his experiment; the part of him beginning to play into this heart nonsense; and the part of him that looks after Ienzo. Because the boy really does need looking after.

He’s still not well--with the absence of proper treatment, he can never be well. No longer trusting only Ansem’s word, Even takes a look at his predecessor’s reports--Ansem’s office is so disorganized, he will never notice if these things go missing for a few hours--and discovers to his horror that Ansem wasn’t embellishing at all.

The shift in Radiant Garden’s economy from manufacturing to STEM brought unprecedented progress. It increased their food yields, meaning nobody went hungry; it gave them technology and medicine to save lives, to make life in general easier. But with that shift meant a loss in other ways of other studies; they became neglected. Namely, the humanities. And under these older referendums, psychology was not deemed a hard science.

The people are feeling the strain. This, on top of the cultural stigma that comes with seeking help. Not so many students are studying the subject--none that will pursue the accreditation, anyway. Meaning with a dying and retiring population of therapists, there’s increasingly nowhere to turn to.

It isn’t just psychology, either. Even doesn’t have the time to crunch the numbers, but with the arts and humanities slowly being neglected, Radiant Garden is going through a slow cultural death. It upsets him more than he thought possible.

Perhaps this is why, after one of Ienzo’s nightmares, he does more than leave him be.

It’s almost a routine at this point. It’s clear that Ienzo has no control of himself during these spells; as soon as he wakes up, he tries his utmost to quiet the cries, so as not to disturb the rest of them. More upsetting yet.

Even brings him a cup of weak tea with honey, a cool cloth for his face. “...Are you alright?” he asks the boy. He has no idea where to begin. “How do you… feel?”

Ienzo looks at him as though he couldn’t have asked a stranger question.

He tries again, feeling rapidly out of his depth. “Are you afraid?”

He sniffles. “No. I… see them.”

“In your dreams?”

“All the time.” His small hands tremble when he takes the teacup. “I know they’re… dead.”

“Yes,” Even says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t… remember. Except for…” He touches his shoulder. “Did I make it up? Those monsters.”

“...No.”

He considers this. “They ate them?”

Even flinches without meaning to.

Ienzo interprets this as a confirmation. “They ate them.”

“It is never… easy, to lose someone.” The ever-present ache around his heart tightens. “We’ve… tried measures, to get rid of them.” It doesn’t help that the Unversed population is almost impossible to track; but this isn’t Even’s purview. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I know,” he says.

“It’s okay to miss them,” Even says. “You know this, yes?”

Slowly, Ienzo nods. “Where are they?”

“We… had them cremated shortly afterwards. While you were recovering.”

He shakes his head, and repeats the question.

“Oh… well… there’s no clear answer.” He clears his throat. “Some people believe that they go to a heaven, or an afterworld. Others believe that their souls are reincarnated into other people, or animals. Some think that they… merely go to sleep.”

He thinks about this. “Is it peaceful?”

Even’s heart about breaks. “Yes,” he says softly. “It’s very peaceful.”

“...Okay,” he says, and shrugs. “As long as they’re okay.”

“If you would like, I can… make a space for you to mourn. With the… mortuary tablets.”

“No thank you,” he says. “I’m tired now. Good night.”

---

Even does not know how else to broach the subject, but the conversation reveals him to be something of a hypocrite. How can he possibly teach Ienzo how to grieve when he refuses to grieve his own losses?

But he can’t begin the process and not end it; it would be continual, it would take work. It would distract him for his research and possibly incapacitate him for some time. He couldn’t give in to that urge now, not when he is so close to a solution. This is what’s been missing, he’s sure. Something… that can’t be created literally. But to move forward first he needs to understand more about hearts, and how they relate to their people.

“Master? Forgive me for intruding.”

Ansem looks up at him wearily. “Oh… hello.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, without meaning to.

“I’m merely tired. I’ve got… more arguments on my hands. It’s hard to find the budget to jumpstart a mental health program without taking away other things--and none of my colleagues can stand any of my suggestions.”

“I’ve no idea why you decided to go into politics.”

“Consider me a fool for trying to enact change.” Ansem sighs. “What is it you need?”

Even folds his hands together. “I don’t need more resources, but I was hoping to�� reallocate some things,” he says. “We--Aeleus and Dilan too--would like to investigate the matters of the heart more scientifically. It would mean certain projects would have to wait, but… we all feel a passion for it, and I can’t pretend that’s meaningless.”

“...Yes,” Ansem says. “I… feel the same way about it. Finding truths about life itself… would make my work feel a lot less frivolous.”

“I can draw up a budget--”

“No need.” Ansem smiles. “Do what you must.”

---

So that’s it, then.

They need a workspace, one where they could all gather. There’s space in one of the lower levels, near the castle’s CPU; the maintenance techs will not be happy to deal with their comings and goings, but Even could care less. It is a bit isolated, but that also means it will be quiet.

It has been a long time since the four of them worked together on something, since shortly after graduate placement. And truly they had never done it like this.

Dilan surveys their office space with distaste. “...Quite sterile, isn’t it? No natural light.” Aside from two offices, the space is completely open; Ienzo spends quite some time running to and fro, and as he scarcely does this, they indulge him.

“...Is it? I could rather care less about decor.” Even opens one of the boxes and gently begins unpacking his gear into a cabinet.

“I’ll bring some plants,” Aeleus says.

“Well, we have what we need; where do we begin?” Dilan asks.

“Ansem started this. Maybe he has some clue.” There’s a loud crash; Ienzo ran clean into the sharp end of one of the metal tables and clutches his knee. He does not cry, but grits his teeth in silence. “Oh, goodness. What have you done to yourself?” At least he had the good sense to place his first aid kit towards the top of the pile. He tends to the small cut. “Be careful, alright? There are more dangerous things in this room than just a table.”

He shrugs, and drops his eyes. “I got excited,” he says.

---

It is all terribly exciting. It shouldn’t feel this strange to have Ansem back in the room with them. They sit clustered around the worktables, brainstorming or trying to; Ienzo studies, supposedly working out some math problems Dilan set him.

“There must be a way to unify these two methods,” Ansem says. “The science, the magic. Why shouldn’t it be some combination of both of them?”

Dilan all but rolls his eyes. “That’s all fine and dandy, if it were not for the fact that none of us have any training.”

“Couldn’t we learn?” Aeleus asks. “The… manuscript details how these things were done.”

Dilan twists the ends of one of his braids. “...Teach a machine how to do magic,” he says slowly. “It’s so insane that it might actually work.”

“A machine?” Ansem asks.

“Well, the manuscript also mentions how exhausting such spellwork is--not to mention, how advanced. We can’t afford to wear ourselves down. Nor do we have the time to study such things for so long.”

Even thinks about it. “You may be onto something.”

---

It takes time, and it takes all of them; fall wears into winter. The castle has always been drafty and damp, but here in the basement it’s basically unbearable. They huddle around space heaters, wander around in too  many layers. Dilan spends hours--weeks--poring over page after page of blueprints, trying to figure out how to make it work.

It isn’t as if Even can sneak away to try to work on his own projects, so he focuses on Ienzo. The boy isn’t perfect; he does trip up and make mistakes and occasionally can’t wrap his head around things. He has more aptitude for some subjects than others, favoring biology over chemistry and psychology over math. Even can’t help it; maybe he can’t give Ienzo the help he needs, but maybe he can give the boy the tools to eventually help himself.

Intellectually, he’s more advanced than many. But he’s still a child, with all the trappings of one. When he sees the snow on the ground, he’s tempted. So Aeleus takes him out to play. He returns delighted, pink-faced and soaked, and for the first time Even can recall he doesn’t have a nightmare.

Then he gets sick.

The castle’s something of a germ vacuum. Of course the moment Ienzo’s vulnerable something sneaks in. At first it seems merely like a cold; he sneezes over his studies, needs to be reminded to cover his mouth. Even gives him cold medicine, keeps an eye on him; all he knows is that he can feel this is something more, and his reliance on that instinct embarrasses him. When the boy begins audibly shivering Even takes him upstairs to bed. Ienzo’s fever rises dramatically--he’d forgotten how bad, how terrifying it can be in small children. Even plies him with fluids, with an antiviral. He just has to wait, to mop the poor child’s sweaty brow and hope it gets no worse.

“...How’s our patient?” Dilan asks. He carries a tray with soup for the both of them. “Don’t protest. This is for you. You’ve been up all night.”

“It’s the flu, I’m afraid.” He’s just dipped this cloth in cool water, it’s warm already. “Thank goodness he’s sleeping. He’d be miserable otherwise.”

Dilan stares down at the lump that was Ienzo, barely visible below all the blankets. “...How bad is it?”

Even checks his log; he’s been taking his temperature every two hours, in the vain hope that it’ll break sooner rather than later. “Hovering around 40.5.”

“...Goodness, that’s…”

“If it gets higher we can chance an ice bath. But I’d rather not do that if I can avoid it. He’s already so sensitive--odds are his mind would interpret the cold as pain.”

“Couldn’t you simply… put the boy to sleep?”

“As if the ice water wouldn’t wake him up?”

Dilan puts a hand to his forehead. “Forgive me… my head is rather foggy.”

“You must be exhausted.” Even rewets the rag and places it back on Ienzo’s warm little face. “Get some rest. The last thing we need is for you to get it as well.”

He nods. “Should I… call someone?”

“Like who? Dilan.” He chuckles. “I’ve seen many sick children in my day. I promise I’m qualified.”

“I know you’re close to the boy. That can cloud things.”

“...We’ll be just fine. Your concern touches me.”

He stays with Ienzo that night; Ansem comes in and out, bringing them food, blankets, tea. He makes Even go sleep for a few hours. Even hopes his own exhaustion is just that. The last thing he needs…

Ienzo’s fever drops from 40.5 to 39. An improvement, but not much of one; now instead of being asleep, he’s conscious and miserable and the cold medicine only makes him irritated. He still can barely keep anything down. Even tries not to worry--it takes much longer than two days for the flu to pass--but inside a web of anxiety is spinning, gently, what if he doesn’t get better, what if the fever suddenly worsens in the night and he seizes, isn’t there something else I can do? He almost has to force the boy to drink, considers starting an IV line. After a few hours Ienzo sleeps, fitfully, shivering hard. Despite himself, Even drifts too, jolting back into consciousness every time his head nods. He knows he should ask for someone to relieve him, at least temporarily. But who?

During one of these sleepy waves, he hears it. “Daddy?”

Even blinks hard. “It’s Even, little one. Go back to sleep.”

He takes a shaky breath, one full of phlegm. “Where is he?”

He cracks a little. “I’m sorry. He’ll be back soon.”

“He’s supposed to--” Ienzo’s reeling a little, his eyes rolling.

“What, love?”

“The song to make it go away--” He shudders, propping himself up.

“Lay back down. It’s alright.” His family must have had rituals, Even realizes, just like any other. “I can read to you, would that help?”

“Why did they leave?” His voice breaks.

“Oh, love. They didn’t want to.”

Ienzo bursts into tears. It’s not the same as the nightmare-induced panic attacks; there’s a cold sentience to this. Almost instinctively, and against his better judgement, Even draws him into his arms. He’s unsure of how Ienzo will react to the touch, but to his surprise he feels the boy clinging to him.  It feels so familiar. The weight of him is almost exactly like--

Anything but that.

He tries to focus on comforting the boy, but all he can say are some variations of “it’s alright.” It seems to take a very long time for Ienzo to calm down, settling down against Even’s chest in an exhausted heap. He dares not move, lest he disturb him more.

The next thing he knows he’s waking up, the boy still asleep in his arms. As gently as Even can, he lays him back down and tucks the blanket more securely around his shoulders. He checks the boy’s fever. 38, only a touch higher than normal. They’re out of the woods. Or, he notes with a groan as he feels a sudden ache in his back, Ienzo is. He makes his way slowly out of the room and sees Dilan. “Don’t come any closer,” he warns. “I believe I’ve caught it too.”

Dilan sighs. “I’ll bring you some soup. Best get to bed.”

“...Right. Never a dull day around here, is there?”

“If only.”

He is beginning to feel the brunt of it in earnest; he shivers as he bathes no matter how warm the water, and the blankets do not seem to be enough. Dilan, in a mask, brings him medicine. Even tries to read for a while, but nothing has straight lines anymore, so he succumbs to a restless sleep.

Of course he’s aware delirium can twist the mind, can weaken it, can lower one’s defenses. That doesn’t make him prepared for the onslaught that follows. He can see their faces clear as day as desperately as he tried to forget them--he can hear their voices--

Dad, look! Look, I got it! The boy, hanging determinedly from a set of monkey bars.

Please be careful--oh, love--

Even, kids get hurt. Let him have his fun.

He ran out of time. He should’ve been with him. If he’d’ve been there maybe none of this would’ve happened. They’d still be--

Officers in deep blue uniforms--

An electrical failure--

Transformer blew--the place likely went up in minutes.

They probably didn’t feel much of anything.

He wasn’t there, making his imagination work all the harder--did they cry? Were they together when it happened, holding one another? Did they think of him? It has to have been awful--to feel oneself be torn apart--no matter how quickly it happens--

Something cool pats his face, bringing him almost, but not quite, to consciousness. He feels horrifically nauseous. “Go back to sleep,” says the voice.

“I have to… check on him,” he mumbles.

“Ienzo’s doing much better. His fever broke. You, on the other hand--” A wry chuckle. A sound like woodsmoke.

Smoke? “I should’ve--”

“Nonsense. You took excellent care of him. Now you must look after yourself.”

“He could’ve fallen.”

“Ienzo’s going nowhere.”

Even’s feeling increasingly woozy. “He feels like him. Why did you do this to me?” And then it’s happening, he’s crying again, a sensation that physically hurts. He feels a hand on his back above the blankets.

“Why do you feel you must suffer alone?”

Darkness, for a long time. When he wakes he still feels horrid, but at least things are beginning to sharpen again. His head’s pounding, and his muscles feel like lead. He groans a little when he tries to prop himself up.

“Even?”

His head snaps up; the sudden movement worsens the pain. “You should go, you needn’t see this.”

Ansem looks exhausted. His hair is unkempt, his beard needs trimming, and the circles under his eyes are nearly comical. “You’re too unwell to take care of yourself. I was near Ienzo, so if I’m already infected, no point exposing the others.” He pours Even a glass of water and hands him a few pills. “Your fever’s not so terrifyingly high, but you were quite delirious for a while.”

“I am… aware.” He scowls. He’s so thirsty. The moment he sets down his empty glass, Ansem gets more. He’s dragged a chair to Even’s bedside; it’s here Ansem sits.

“I wish to have… a word,” he says, with difficulty.

“While I’m essentially a captive audience? Not very sportsmanlike, is it?”

“Well quite bluntly otherwise you’d flee. Because you’ve been avoiding it like the plague.”

Even lays back down with a huff.

Ansem scratches his beard. “Kick and scream, I don’t care. We’ll chalk it up to your illness. You’re clearly suffering. Pushing it away isn’t going to  make it any easier. You’re living in a state of quasi-denial where everything’s fine. Everything needn’t be fine, Even.”

“You think this is denial?”

Ansem looks him in the eye. “Yes. I do. The longer you put it off, the more you don’t have to face the fact that your life is forever changed, that your residence in the castle is no longer a temporary one. You have to grieve them, Even. It’s been almost two years.”

He looks up at the ceiling. The dome light, a moth flickering around it agitatedly. “...Has it been that long already?” he asks. “I… hadn’t realized.” He’s again exhausted but can’t find the energy to be angry.

Mostly  because Ansem’s right.

He feels Ansem’s warm, dry hand slide over his. “I do not expect you to be the same. But I would like you to let me help you.”

“What could you possibly do for me?”

“Listen.”

“With all your free time?”

“Even.”

He exhales shakily.

“Bonds can make a heart stronger,” Ansem says. “That’s what you need right now.”

How very like him, to frame it in context with Even’s work. “Where would I even begin?”

“You mentioned that Ienzo feels the same.”

It’s hard to breathe. “...Yes,” he says. “They’re about the same size. He was, rather. My son.” Saying it feels like getting stabbed. It’s easier not to look at Ansem, so he doesn’t.

“I… remember. But he never had an aptitude for the sciences. A gentle soul, that one.”

“Incredibly. Dare I say it, too fragile to last very long. Almost like we were tempting…” He trails off.

“...Fate? Even, I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

“Ansem, I’m not certain of anything anymore.”

“...That’s quite alright.”

“I had wanted to make things better.”

“It’s not too late.”

“It always will be, for them.” He closes his eyes. “As for me…” He doesn’t know what else to say. “Other than my work, truly…”

“What is there to live for?”

“...I’m frightfully pathetic.”

“No. You’re in pain.” He adjusts his grip on Even’s hand. “Closing yourself off to the world won’t heal your heart.”

“I suppose it won’t.” It’s an emotion he’s unsure of, fragile and pale. “Why is it you care?”

“Even, I’ve known you since university. I’ve seen your brightness, your hope. I know you can find it again.”

“I’m afraid your certainty must be enough for the both of us.”

“I will try my best.”

---

He feels a bit different after the sickness, like he’s shifted a bit to the left. It takes a while to regather his strength, physically and otherwise. He spends this intellectually useless time with Ienzo, in the large library; the boy can’t seem to believe there are so many books. The excitement of it soothes Even. He wishes he could feel the same, that he could go back to the point where he, too, saw so much wonder.

Truthfully, other than his size, Ienzo bears no resemblance to his son. That child was an artful soul, constantly drawing; Ienzo never picks up a marker unless it is to write. That child loved to play; Ienzo would much rather read and seek stimulation more quietly. Were he older, Even thinks, Ienzo might have been a peer to himself. He surely must eventually go to university, to meet more people his age like him. Scientists are poor excuses for friends.

“So that’s him? Cute kid.”

The voice startles him; his heart jolts unpleasantly. He turns and sees a man he can only vaguely recognize, in the castle’s deep blue guard uniform; his short dark hair is slicked back, and a red kerchief covers his collar, breaking protocol for sure. “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

The man puts a hand on his hip. “Heard you guys are cooking up a project, and could use the extra help around here.” He sticks out his white-gloved hand. “Name’s Braig. We’ve met.”

Even glances briefly back at Ienzo, who has barely moved. Braig’s glove is a little dirty, and after he shakes his hand he makes a note to wash his own as soon as possible. “Then surely I needn’t introduce myself. That boy over there’s Master Ansem’s ward, Ienzo.”

“Figured. Everyone’s been talking about him.” Braig observes him for a moment. “You’re Ansem’s right hand man, aren’t you?”

“Master Ansem,” Even corrects. “And I’m one of his science officers, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

The man shrugs. “So then why are you on babysitting duty?”

Even takes a breath to compose himself. Braig’s manner is most unbecoming to a supposedly-stoic castle guard. “I assist with the boy’s education,” he says instead.

Braig chuckles. “If you want to call it that.”

He tries to bite down on his temper. “Don’t you need to return to your rounds?” he asks, politely.

He shrugs. “I’m off the clock. Just taking a look at my new digs. Only saw it briefly during orientation, which was a lot longer ago that I want to admit.”

So he doesn’t even have newness as an excuse for this behavior. “I see,” he says distastefully.

“Can I introduce myself to the kid? Don’t want to freak him out if I’m going to be around.”

Even blanches. He hates to admit Braig has a point; Ienzo needs to be familiar with those around him. “...He is rather shy. Don’t be surprised if he simply ignores you.”

Braig shrugs. “Eh, I’ve had worse.” He approaches him slowly. There’s something lazy, almost cat-like, about the way he moves. Even watches him warily. “Hey, kiddo. Whatcha reading? Doesn’t look like a whole lot of fun.”

Ienzo looks up at his assailant with an expression of dull disappointment.

“Name’s Braig. One of the castle guards. ‘Fraid you’re going to be seeing this ugly mug a lot.”

“Okay,” is all Ienzo says. He goes  back to his reading. Braig crosses back over to the door.

“Not a people person, I guess,” he says. “Be seeing you, Even.”

Even bristles when Braig doesn’t use his title. “With all due politeness, if we’re to work together you must be respectful.”

Braig smirks a little. “Sure thing, Doctor. ” When he leaves, his tread is nearly soundless. Even sighs a little out of frustration.

“Ienzo? We must go get some lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” he says, turning the page.

“You lost weight when you were ill. The last thing we need is for you to get sick again.”

---

“...I admit he’s… a character,” Dilan says, his lip curling.

“Is there no one else?” Even asks. “If this is to be the constant,  I wish for it to be someone who’s… more in line with decorum.”

“Ansem does not seem to mind,” Dilan remarks. He looks pale, the skin under his eyes the color of a bruise. Even’s not sure which cup of coffee he’s on, but he’s also sure he doesn’t want to know.

“I understand the… trepidation,” Aeleus says slowly. He searches through the tome he’s holding slowly. “I worked in tandem with him for some time. Braig is very experienced, and the people like him. That’s not for nothing. Have you truly never met?”

Even feels his face reddening. “Not that I can recall.”

Dilan chuckles. “Perhaps he’ll respect you if you respect him.”

“Of course his labor is valuable.”

“...Not what I said.”

“How are things going?” Even asks instead.

He takes off his reading glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Feels I’m running a fool’s errand,” Dilan admits. “I consulted with the wizard Merlin, as Master advised, yet…” He digs something out of his pocket and sets it on the table between the three of them; it’s a blistered, patinated bit of scrap metal, its edges splintered. “This is all that’s left of my prototype.”

Ienzo hops down from his chair to investigate. He reaches up to the table to take the piece of metal, his arm too short to reach the center of the table.

“No, child, that’s quite sharp,” Dilan says.

“I just want to look at it,” Ienzo says, with a hint of a whine. Aeleus hefts the boy onto his knee. He peers through the curtain of hair at the metal. “Not aluminum.” He pronounces it like “lumininum.” Even corrects him gently.

“No. It’s… it was an alloy,” Dilan says.

He shakes his head. “Needs to be something flexible.”

They are all silent for several moments; Ienzo cocks his head slightly.

Dilan scoffs a little to himself. “The boy’s right. Good on you, Ienzo.”

Ienzo beams at the praise, revealing his missing front teeth--the milk teeth fell out some two weeks prior.

Dilan drums his fingers on the table. “But if not metal, then what?”

Ienzo shrugs. “Master says gummy.”

Even raises an eyebrow. “What, rubber?”

“Gummy,” he repeats, slowly, as if that makes it any clearer.

“Ienzo, we’ve no idea what you’re talking abou--”

He turns red. “That’s what his friend says!” He’s almost yelling. Ienzo’s temper is a new development.

Aeleus rubs his shoulders gently. “Calm down and think about what you need to say,” he suggests.

He’s tearing up, sniffling in frustration. It’s clear Ienzo occasionally has difficulty stringing together his thoughts, especially as he becomes more verbal. “His friend, his friend speaked about it--”

“Spoke,” Dilan corrects.

Aeleus tucks a strand of gray hair behind the boy’s ear. “What about this friend?”

Even’s almost sure the conversation’s meaningless until Ienzo says, “His friend has a star. He’s little, not like me. And he has a…” He shapes something with his hands, something long and thin.

Aeleus offers him a pencil and some graphing paper. “Why don’t you try drawing it?”

The boy begins sketching dutifully, the lines messy. It looks almost like a sword, or a bat, but he adds something to the tip of it, something like--

Even’s heart all but stops, and from the looks on Aeleus’s and Dilan’s faces, theirs do too. “Are you… quite sure of what you saw?” Even asks gently. Ienzo is not a particularly imaginative child, but this seems more plausible than the truth on the paper in front of them.

He nods. “I see… I saw it.”

There, in the horrible fluorescent lighting, is a drawing of a Keyblade.

---

There are so many thoughts going through Even’s mind, he doesn’t know how to keep track of them. He honestly isn’t sure if he feels sick or exhilarated.

They always thought that Keyblades were legend. But considering Ansem’s fascination with other worlds… Has he, privately, tried to contact them?

Is Ienzo merely lying?

The boy is not a liar, but it makes so much more sense if Even believes he is. Well, there’s one simple solution to all this. He may make a fool of himself, but he has to pursue this feeling.

During a break in Ansem’s schedule, he goes to see him. He considers bringing Ienzo too, as a sort of collateral, but Aeleus is in the middle of a biology quiz, and Even knows how busy Ansem gets.

He feels breathless, and sweaty. “I must have a word.”

Ansem’s head snaps up. “My friend! Are you alright? Please, sit.”

He does, sinking first down onto a pile of files before he remembers to remove them. Ansem pours some water from a decanter and hands it to him. Even watches the light refract off of the crystal glass, trying to gather his nerve. “You had Ienzo in on a meeting,” Even says.

Ansem looks more confused than anything. “I never involve him in city work.”

“A visitor, then? Some friend of yours?” He sounds a bit wheezy. “The boy is either… telling tales, or you’ve been up to something.”

Ansem hesitates, and this hesitation tells Even everything he needs to know. “I did not intend for Ienzo to be there, but he just so happened to arrive when--”

 “Who?”

Ansem sighs heavily. It’s a sound of getting caught.

---

Forty-five minutes later, Even has a splitting headache. He may, he reckons, be going completely insane.

Apparently out of the blue one day a mouse king arrived from another world, teleported willy-nilly via something he called a “star shard.” Even does not know how to begin unpacking this. Mouse? Child-sized, sentient, speaking their language? And of course Ansem immediately started asking him about this--the two spent some hours talking about their worlds, the commonalities, the differences. Which of course Ansem kept to himself. Only then the mouse (mouse!) king returned, during one of Ansem’s tutoring sessions with Ienzo. This time he brought books, books from this other world, and some aqueous cubes of material he calls “gummi blocks.” And he was very pleased to tell Ansem he’d become a Keyblade master.

What in the world is going on? Nobody has ever believed Keyblades were real , and here the proof is in the pudding, so to speak. It’s all true, which makes Even feel even more mad; it seems like everything he’s learned is a lie.

In it all, a glint of hope.

Ansem lends him the books. Here there’s more information about light and darkness--well-reasoned studies proving, more than anything, that it’s a whole lot more literal than any of them have ever thought, and provides them with building blocks on how to seek it out in the environment.

The gummi material is exactly as alien as Even thought; immensely mutable, easily replicable. He spends hours subjecting the stuff to tests--extreme heat, liquid nitrogen, stress, impact, gravity. It can hold shape with ease, hardening to become like glass, its texture scrambling to become whatever they urge it to conform to. And it seems to be extremely durable.

“Something flexible,” Dilan says with awe. “This must be what Ienzo meant.”

It seems to be exactly what they need to move forward with their research. Now that he knows he’s not suffering a mental breakdown, the possibilities excite Even, actually make it difficult to sleep at night.

They create something like a pod, with the hope of being able to isolate the light from the darkness. They need something living, to study; they examine mice, reptiles, insects. While these things do seem to carry light and darkness in their own way, they also lack hearts--the real, intangible, metaphysical hearts. The proper thing to do would be to study people. The machine seems to do no harm to the lesser animals, but the moment humanity comes into it, it gets intensely more complicated.

“It will take… quite some doing,” Ansem admits. “You have to create a risk impact statement, and that statement has to pass the board of ethics. And I need it to. I will not have anyone getting hurt. We know so little about these forces.”

“Of course we will obtain informed consent,” Even says. “We merely wish to examine them, and to ask them questions about the more… mythical things. Like bonds, or memories. How do we measure these things? We can only figure it out by gathering data.”

“I warn you, this may take some time,” Ansem says. He crosses his legs, looking towards the machines--Dilan has made two more. “The typical amount of time it takes things to pass the board is six months--something like this? Perhaps longer.”

Even curses his own lack of foresight. He should have drafted something earlier, before they got swept in this nonsense, to avoid these roadblocks. But who, says a small voice inside of him, would really stop them? Who would inspect them? After all, this would all be so harmless. “...Of course.”

“I will try my best to force it past them--but they must carry out their own studies, and observations. The people have a right to know what happens at this castle. Especially if it may-- however nebulously--impact them.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m sure you have other things to pursue in the meantime.”

“I suppose I could… spend some more time on Ienzo’s education. I fear in all this excitement it’s been rather neglected.”

He smiles, but it’s tired. “I’m sure the boy learns much more than you think merely being around you.”

“It was his idea to use the gummi blocks,” Even admits. “I think he intuited their use before we even experimented on them.”

Ansem stares at him. “Is that true?”

“Children often have fresh, blunt perspectives,” he says. He goes to adjust the band in his hair, but again, the elastic breaks against his fingers. “...Blast.”

Ansem chuckles. “If it bothers you so much, cut it.”

“It is rapidly getting to that point.” He takes the band and tries to tie it around the mass. It holds, barely. “As I was saying. Ienzo’s intellect here pairs well with that freshness. He can see things we’re too stubborn to see, in a way far less complex.”

Ansem twirls a pen. “Would it do him good to continue to observe your work? Does he enjoy it?”

Even thinks. “I believe so. It started this way out of necessity--if he’s not with you, he’s with one of us, and this is where we’ve all been.”

“If it’s as harmless as you say… I see no reason why it shouldn’t continue. So long as he still gets sunlight, and the like.”

---

For a while they all slip into a sort of lull. Even takes Ienzo to town with him, hoping to enroll him into some sort of activity that would encourage him to make friends; but the stimuli of the city actually reduces Ienzo to tears, and Even ends up carrying the boy home. It’s strange; Ienzo’s always been able to make it to the library, but the library isn’t in the dead center of town. He puts him to bed, lays a cool cloth over his eyes. “We can try again when you’re ready,” he says softly.

Soon, though, Ienzo disappears again, for more than his usual trip to the town library. Even tries to be more rational about it this time--the boy probably lost track of the hours--and he finds he doesn’t have to go very far. He’s merely in the square, near a blonde teenage boy wearing odd clothing (the fashions these days). He must’ve been bringing Ienzo home. “Ah, there you are. Didn’t I warn you not to wander off, child?” Ienzo gives a small shrug. He turns to the blond boy. “I see we owe you our thanks. We have done our best to raise the boy, since his poor parents are not here to do it.”

The teenager stares down at Ienzo. “Oh, you’re on your own, huh?” Then, to Even--”Sir, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s a tall guy dressed kinda like me. Have you seen him?”

Even would not have expected such politeness from someone dressed so. But he knows a gaggle of teenagers gathers on the outskirts of town. “Perhaps I did see him in the outer gardens. Just follow this road.”

“Thank you.” Something about this boy’s face is familiar. Who knows--such kindness and eagerness to protect might make a good guard out of him.

Even smiles a little. “No, thank you, for keeping Ienzo out of harm’s way.” He pauses. “And… well, let’s just say I have a feeling we are destined to cross paths again.”

The boy seems unsure of how to respond. They part on that note. Even notices a sudden vacantness in Ienzo’s eyes.

“How kind of that young man to bring you home,” he says. “Then again, I suppose everyone knows who you are.”

“No,” Ienzo says.

“No, what?”

He looks up. He squeezes his shoulder once. “Nothing. It was by chance. Do you think you’ll meet him again?”

He blinks. “I think anything’s possible. Don’t you?”

---

He’s finally fallen deeply, blessedly asleep one night several weeks later when he’s being woken. Aeleus, urgent and flushed. “We need you,” he says.

“What? This late? Why?”

“It’s Ienzo.”

He doesn’t bother putting on his formal clothes and follows Aeleus in his dressing gown. The air’s cool, dry; it smells like ozone. Even notes that outside it’s storming. They go down to the new lab. Even can taste his heartbeat, knowing all too well that nothing good has happened here. Braig, of all people, is cradling the boy; he’s in an odd state of quasi-consciousness. Even notices for the first time that the man’s wearing an eye patch, one he most certainly did not have several weeks ago. What did that miscreant do? Well, it’s not important now.

“I was doing my rounds down here when I saw him,” Braig begins. “I asked the kid what he was doing but he just stared at me. He was standing over there--” Braig points to one of the machines. Aeleus darts over to investigate. “I dunno. He started breathing all funny and then dropped like a sack of potatoes.” He lays Ienzo down so Even can examine him. His pulse is elevated, and he’s nearly hyperventilating. A finger of panic threatens to overtake Even, but he swallows it down.

“What is it, Aeleus?” Even hedges.

“Come here,” Aeleus says in an odd voice.

“I’m tending to Ienzo, Aeleus, he needs--”

“You really have to see this.”

Braig shakes his head. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid,” he says.

Shakily, Even joins Aeleus. Instantly he can tell what overtook Ienzo; the strong scent of chlorine gas makes his eyes water before he can turn away. The ventilation is good enough that it shouldn’t affect the rest of them now; but for a small child, one good lungful is enough. A hole has been burned clean through the ersatz gummi glass; something’s a molten lump inside, pinkish and still smoldering. More alarming than this, though, are the thin purplish tendrils rising from it.

“Chemical smoke?” Aeleus asks.

Even knows this is not the case. He isn’t sure how he knows--it’s just a certainty deep inside.

The gummi block drips darkness.

---

He tells Aeleus to put on protective gear and seal the block somewhere safe so they can observe it. Meanwhile, he has more important things to deal with. He brings Ienzo to the med bay, decontaminates him in case the chlorine got on any other parts of his body, and starts him on oxygen. He does not need to be intubated, thank the stars, but it takes much too long for his breathing to sound less labored. In all this, the poor boy falls asleep.

He sees Ansem’s face peeking in through the glass panel on the door, but he doesn’t dare intrude until Even gives his approval. He rushes over to Ienzo, pulls him close; Even’s shocked to see a tear run down his face. Once he seems to assure himself the boy’s stable, he turns to Even, danger in his rust-colored eyes.

“A word,” is all he says. A command, not a question.

Even stands and glances over towards the bed.

“Aeleus will keep an eye on him. Come.”

Even follows several paces behind, his heart pounding dread. Once they’re well out of earshot, in the breezeway, Ansem speaks, his back turned to Even, his hands held behind. None of the affable friendliness of their normal interactions--no longer just Ansem, but Ansem the Wise, King of Radiant Garden.

Very well.

“This must not continue,” Ansem says. His voice is soft, and low, barely audible above the rain pattering loudly on the crystal ceiling.

“Do not blame this on me. The boy went down there on his own.”

“Of course he did! He’s a child, a curious one. We’ve done nothing but enable him, and now we’ve put him in danger.” Ansem looks over his shoulder. “I forbid him from observing this research any longer, at least until he’s old enough to understand consequence. I figured that you of all people would know better.”

It feels like a barb, rendering Even’s retort useless. He doesn’t catch his breath for a full moment. His heart is full of ice. “What are we to do, then? Have him under lock and key? Am I to keep twenty-four hour surveillance on him?”

“I mean you need to be careful.”

“I am nothing but careful.” He should feel enraged, but all he feels is a strange, cool distance. “We are all careful with him. Moreover…” A breath. “He’s your son. We did not collectively agree to raise him. If you’re so concerned about his wellbeing, perhaps you should have a more active role in his life. I can’t do everything, Ansem.”

He turns. Even holds firm.

“You prattle on about my recovery, and yet, you’ve no idea of the weight of the responsibility you’ve placed on me.”

“You think I do not know responsibility? ” There’s a sharpness to his tone Even’s never heard before.

“Abstractly, yes, of course. But when faced with it in the flesh, you--”

There’s a splitting crack outside, a crack of thunder; a shockwave cracks the crystal window closest to Ansem, and they both jump. “What on earth?” Ansem spits. “Even--dear god, look out the window.”

The sky is swarming with darkness--luminous pink and violet and black tendrils. “We must get inside.”

“Get Ienzo. Go somewhere safe, all of you. Go. ”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to go out in this?”

“Even, I must see what’s to be done. The people may be in danger.”

He takes a breath. Be careful, he nearly says. “...Alright.”

Ienzo’s conscious when he gets back to the room.

“What’s happening?” Aeleus asks.

“I’ve no idea. The three of us are going down to my lab. There’s--” He feels Ienzo’s eyes on him. “Something’s going on outside. A bad storm. Best keep away from windows. No need to worry.”

Aeleus knows he’s lying for Ienzo’s benefit. “Can you walk?” he asks the boy. “You know what? Here.” He hefts him into his arms. “You’ll soon be too old to be carried around, yes? Might as well enjoy this small luxury.”

They go together, Even carrying the oxygen tank. Ienzo still seems limp, tired, though his eyes betray something else happened down there. What on earth had the boy done? Melted down a gummi block? But how? Nothing Even did to them had that reaction. Something that resulted in a production of chlorine… unless the gas the melting block emitted simply seemed like chlorine? They do not truly know what the blocks are made of, just that they can make themselves into any substance.

And how did it produce darkness in its rawest form?

Ienzo’s staring at him, so he tries to smile. “You, little one, are in a lot of trouble,” he says jovially. “What were you doing in the lab on your own? You know it’s not safe! It’s a good thing Braig found you. You could’ve gotten sick.”

Ienzo says nothing. Again, he’s limp against Aeleus, but his breathing’s not audible and his pulse feels more or less normal, all things considering.

“We will talk about this,” Even says to him sternly. “Once you’ve rested.”

In the lab, they rest the boy on Even’s cot, the one he uses when he’s simply too exhausted to walk all the way back. He tucks the blanket around the boy’s shoulders. “Try to get some sleep.” He sits with Ienzo until the boy’s drifted off. The thunder’s much quieter here, but still, to the listening ear, audible--even through all the stone.

Aeleus wordlessly hands him a cup of coffee and nods his head towards the supply pantry. Even follows him inside and shuts the door most of the way. "Have you any idea what this is?" Aeleus whispers.

"I… almost feel as if I imagined it," Even says in an equally soft voice. "The sky was full of color--of darkness. But I don't know--where would it have come from? We've no idea what so much of it can do--the myths all point to destruction. I was told to come here with you and protect the boy." He feels his lips curl into a sneer. "And of course I must follow orders."

Aeleus sighs. "He blames you?"

"Of course he does. I'm afraid I lost my temper."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"We have to figure out whatever Ienzo was doing," Even says. He fusses with the dry ends of his hair. "Not just for his safety… for our research. And why he decided to do this on his own."

"He likes independence," Aeleus says simply.

"Well. There's plenty of time for him to be independent when he's older--"

"Even?" They hear him call from the other room.

He crosses over to Ienzo; he's fiddling with the oxygen mask, unable to get it off of his face.

"Little one, you should leave that on. You breathed in some nasty business."

He blushes, then admits, embarrassed, "I need the washroom."

"Oh--of course." Even takes it off, points to the door where it could be found. "But it goes on the moment you're through."

They wait for him. Aeleus pulls a puzzle charm out of his pocket and begins working on it. "Can't solve this one. I've been on it for weeks."

"You and your games."

"It keeps the mind limber. You should keep neuroplasticity in mind. We're at the age where we begin to lose such things."

Even looks into his half-drained coffee cup. "I'll ignore what you're implying," he says.

Aeleus chuckles.

It seems like Ienzo's been gone a long time; is his stomach upset? Even debates for a moment or so on checking in. Or--more insidiously--was he overtaken again by faintness? He can't help himself; he knocks on the closed door. "Ienzo? Are you alright?" He hears what sounds like muffled breaths. "You sound like you can't breathe, child." It's the silence that worries him. "I'm sorry, I'm coming in."

He finds Ienzo curled opposite the toilet, rocking a little. If Even hasn't seen this before, he'd figure it does have to do with his breathing. He kneels down next to him. "That was scary, yes?" He says gently. "You're safe now." He flinches away from Even's touch for the first time in a long while. "Ienzo?"

He's sobbing a little, a sound that hurts to hear.

"It's safe here," he reasserts, only to immediately be contradicted by the loudest peal of thunder yet; they both jump, and Ienzo continues to shudder. "It's merely a storm."

It takes a long time for the boy to calm. He's shivering; Even drapes his robe over him, but it doesn't seem to do much good. He wants to go get a blanket, or better, get the boy back to the cot, but he's also unsure of leaving him alone. He's on the verge of asking for Aeleus to get it for him when he hears a small "I'm sorry."

"Oh, child, it's alright."

He shakes his head. He uncurls a little, revealing that he's wet himself.

"No matter. Happens to the best of us. I'll get something clean for you to change into, yes?" Privately, he's concerned; how deeply shaken was Ienzo, in order for this to happen? He goes to prop himself up, only to feel a small hand grab at his. "I promise I'll be right back. Aeleus is nearby. You're safe."

Aeleus does give him an odd look; all Even does is shake his head and press a finger to his lips to tell him not to speak of it.

“I need to go get a few things,” he says instead. “Wouldn’t hurt to check on the situation, either. Perhaps we can go back upstairs, to bed. I’m exhausted. I’m sure you are too.”

Aeleus shrugs. “We’ll be here.”

It seems like a very long walk back upstairs to their residences, but it isn’t. Even’s endlessly troubled; first and foremost to what is obviously a trauma response in the boy, and also to the unearthly cataclysm going on outside. Never, as long as he’s been alive, can he recall ever experiencing something like this. Radiant Garden is prone to violent outbreaks of wind, but only in the winter. Climate change is the only thing he can think of, but they moved away from harsh fuels long ago--before he was even born. And truly carbon dioxide cannot cause this.

And why is this happening only after they’ve had contact with an outside world?

Even gathers some dry pajamas and a blanket from Ienzo’s bedroom, and one for himself and Aeleus while he’s at it. He hopes that, wherever Dilan is, he’s safe. Dilan may be occasionally foolhardy, but at least he’s practical. He chances a glance out the windows in his quarters. To his immense relief, the sky is no longer dark in that abnormal way--the rain now seems normal. But is it only temporary?

Where is Ansem in all this?

He returns back to the others. “Things seemed to have calmed,” he says to Aeleus. Ienzo still appears to be hiding in the bathroom, door cracked slightly. “I’m sure you’d rather be in your own bed,” he adds, for Ienzo. He hands him the dry clothes through the crack and gives him privacy. Aeleus bobs his head towards this, and Even just shakes his head. After a moment Ienzo emerges, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Shall we go?” he asks the child. He nods.

Even is finally able to put the child to bed, and insists he wears the oxygen, at least until morning.

“I know it’s not very comfortable, but humor me,” he says. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Ienzo clings tightly to his small stuffed cat, a relic from his parents’ home. “It hurts,” he says, his voice muffled through the mask.

“What does?”

“The… the noise,” he says. “I can--” He glances towards the window.

“The thunder?” It becomes a little clearer; he’s sensitive enough as it is, all of the noise must have been internalized as pain. “It’s rain now, little one. Hear how it’s letting up?”

“I… I heard …”

“What did you hear?”

“Someone was angry. Screaming.”

“In the lab?”

He shakes his head. “In the sky?”

The darkness? Has the boy sensed it? Is it possible? More likely, this is part of that same trauma.“Is it still happening?” Even asks.

“No,” the boy admits.

“Perhaps you had a nightmare. You know how those bleed into reality sometimes.”

“It wasn’t ,” he insists, with more anger. Then, “Darkness.”

Even exhales. “Let me look into this for you. It’s possible you’re sensitive to it. In the meantime, you have to rest. Things will be clearer in the morning.”

“Believe me?” Ienzo asks.

“Of course I do, little one.” He squeezes his hand. “And should you need to get out of bed, you can take the mask off by pulling this tab.” He stands.

“Can you leave the lamp on?” he asks.

He tries to smile. “...Certainly.”

He knows he needs to sleep as well. It’s getting light out at this point, and the covers of his bed feel heavy, nearly alien. Even drifts for a while, fighting the worry that’s swelling in his chest, only to be fully roused by the soft creak of the door opening. He huffs. “Can’t a man have an hour’s worth of peace?” he asks.

Ansem is standing there, soaked to the skin, his red stole hanging limply against his jacket. “I apologize,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask for your assistance if it weren’t warranted.”

Even could do without his tone. “What is it now?”

“Dilan and Braig found a boy--a young man--in the square. Seems to be injured and reeling.”

“And? Can’t he go to the hospital like everyone else?”

Ansem frowns. “We believe he arrived with the storm.”

Despite himself, it all makes sense--he read however nebulous about darkness’s ability to transmute, to transport. “I will dress and be there shortly.”

The young man’s about eighteen, and unconscious. They found him facedown in a pool of rainwater in the square. One of them has changed him into dry clothing. Braig and Dilan hover nearby; Dilan exhausted, Braig vaguely pained. Even examines him and notes that aside from some a few nasty scratches that require stitches, he seems to be alright. His hair isn’t gray like Ienzo’s, but a much more violent shade of silver; his eyes, when Even opens them, are a glistening gold. But the young man won’t wake. “Well he has no brain injury,” Even says. “No fever. I’m not sure why he won’t rouse. Was he conscious at all?”

Ansem sighs. “But for a moment.”

“Did he say anything? Did he give a name?”

He looks towards the young man. “Xehanort.”

#beyond this existence: atonement #even (kingdom hearts) #ienzo #ansem the wise #aeleus #dilan #beyond this existence

[evesbeve]

Tongue Tied (Prologue)

gUESS WHO IS WRITING A MULTI-CHAPTER BRUISE FIC? IT'S ME!

This was part of the Ninjago Valentine's Week Challenge I hosted on tumblr. The final prompt was 'Favourite Non-Canon' ship, and well, it's now a fanfic :D

I have not set on update dates yet, but I am going to try to update once a week (most likely on Saturdays)

Also, there’s a quick mention to @ninjagoruinedmylife‘s OC Ange! She won’t be part of the story, but I still recommend checking her out, since she’s amazing ;w;

Thank you so much to everyone who has taken part in this event!! Ninjago Valentine’s Week was amazing, and once again, I’d like to thank Ver and Ali (@clumsinessinperson) who helped me with the prompts, because if it wasn’t for them, this wouldn’t be a thing now!

Without any further ado, let’s cut to the chapter!

Franchise: Ninjago

Pairing: Bruiseshipping (Jay x Cole)

Summary: When Cole first receives that anonymous love letter, he decides to ignore it. However, as more and more letters come his way, he becomes obsessed with figuring out who the mysterious writer is. It's too late to back down when he realises he might be falling for the person behind the letters...

Word count: 1,244

Find the other chapters here!

Read this chapter on AO3 and FFN!

'Cole,

There are so many things I want to tell you, and honestly, I don't know where to even begin.

For as long as I can remember, I've admired you, but only recently did I realise it was something romantic. I guess I just needed to spend some more time with you. And I did. And it was great.

I love the way you mumble under your breath when you think that no one is listening, or the way your eyes sparkle when you're excited. I love listening to your laughter, and seeing your smile.

I know I'm supposed to be able to stand for myself, but when you're here, I don't want to. I want you to hold me, to keep me safe.

I want to keep you safe.

This is why I won't reveal my identity. It's better that way, so none of us get distracted by these feelings. Well, me. You'll be fine.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Sincerely,

Someone Who May Or May Not Be In Love With You'

The words were printed on a yellow A4 sized paper, in the Gotham font. At first, Cole thought the letter was from a fan - it came with the rest of the mail after all, and he wasn't the only one on the team getting letters like these from fans.

On second thought, there was no way. The way the writer described Cole's habits was accurate. Way too accurate.

So who was the writer?

Cole decided he'd investigate later, as he was called for breakfast. The smell of pancakes had spread across the entire Monastery, and the master of earth was looking forward to a festive breakfast.

The others were already in the kitchen when he got there. Kai, Jay and Lloyd were throwing sugar cubes in the air, trying to aim at their mouths. Meanwhile, Nya and Zane were chatting about some blueprints or who knows what, and Sensei Wu was observing them all, quietly sipping his tea.

"Morning guys!" Cole greeted.

"Cole!" Jay said excitedly, accidentally throwing a sugar cube at Kai's forehead.

"Watch it, Jay!"

Nya shook her head. "You're finally here - I don't think the others could have waited another second. Um… Me included."

Zane had gone overboard, as expected.

There were seven plates on the table, and each one had a short tower of pancakes covered in maple syrup, with strawberries and berries to the side. The nindroid had also made sure to prepare fresh orange juice, and had just placed the coffee maker in the middle of the table.

"Gosh, Zane! These look delicious!" Cole said, sitting on his usual spot at the corner of the table.

Over the course of the years, everyone's spot around the table had changed. However, Cole always went for the top right corner from the door.

The most current patern went as followed; Kai was next to Cole, followed by Lloyd. Across of Cole sat Jay, next to whom was Nya, and Zane - unless Pixal was joining them, in that case Nya went to the side. Master Wu always went for the side too.

"Thank you, Valentine," Zane winked at Cole jokingly, and everyone laughed.

Cole was caught off guard however.

"Woah, you okay there Cole?" Lloyd asked.

"Yeah, sorry," Cole shook his head. "I just received this letter this morning, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

"Pff," Kai huffed, "I got like, a dozen of those-!"

The master of fire was hit with a sugar cube once again, this time by his sister.

"Hey!"

"Show-off," she commented.

Maybe Kai had received admiration letters too, but Cole still wasn't reassured. "It's not just a fan, Kai," Cole tried to explain. "What this person wrote, it was… Well, personal."

"Really?" Jay asked, with his mouth full of food. "I mean, we're practically famous, right?"

Nya nodded. "Yeah, which means that Jay and I keep receiving Valentine's wishes, even though we're not together anymore."

Cole still couldn't believe that Nya and Jay were no longer a thing. It had been around three months that they told everyone they broke up, yet it still felt odd. Apperantly they had stopped seeing each other romantically in a long time, but decided to give it another try.

In the end, they decided it was better for everyone if they officially ended things. There were no fights or anything, which Cole was greatful for, and the two of them were still pretty close and comfortable with one another.

Cole couldn't help but wonder how he would have reacted if this had happened the previous year, when he still had feelings for Jay.

But not anymore, he reminded himself. Cole Brookstone was a free man.

"Perhaps it is one of the other elemental masters?" Zane suggested. "We did spend last weekend together."

"True!" Lloyd said. "Gosh, I can't believe how nice Metalonia was."

"Speak for yourself," Kai mumbled. "If I have to spend another second with Karlof's family, I think I'm going to lose it."

"Oh come on, they're good people!" Lloyd disagreed. "Besides, how awesome was the festival?"

In celebration of defeating the Oni for good, the elemental masters had gathered at Metalonia, Karlof's homeland, and spent the weekend there together. Metalonia was at southeastern Ninjago, and even though it was isolated, it was very much alive.

Despite looking ferocious, the people of Metalonia were very good hosts. They lived simple lives, and valued Ninjago's traditions a lot. What Cole enjoyed most was the food - it left a nice spice in your mouth.

"The festival was delightful," Zane said. "But Kai does have a point - Karlof's daughter didn't seem so fond of you, Lloyd."

"She's… Okay." Lloyd was clearly trying to deny Zane's comment.

"She calls you broccoli," Kai insisted, earning a groan from the green ninja.

"I'd love to sit and talk about Karlof's goth daughter for the rest of the day," Cole interrupted, "but who of the elemental masters would write me a love letter?"

"I don't know, Ash?" Jay shrugged. "Chamille?"

"Chamille wasn't even there," Cole said, "And no offense to Ash, but he's so not my type."

"How about Bolobo?" Zane suggested.

Kai shook his head. "Don't take it personally, Zane, but it sounds as if you're trying to cover up your crush on Cole."

Cole couldn't help but laugh, and soon everyone on the table - except Zane - joined him.

"I have a girlfriend, Kai," Zane said, with a dead serious tone.

"He's joking, Zane," Nya patted his shoulder. "But hey, at least you can cross our nindroid friend out of your list. And while you're at it, cross me out too. I don't think I'm ready for a relationship at the moment."

"Oh, same," Lloyd agreed. "No offense, Cole, but I could never see you as anything other than family."

"Me and you both, buddy," Cole said, smiling at Lloyd. He had grown so much, yet nothing had changed.

"Why don't you just cross everyone here out of your list?" Jay said. "I mean, it's a start!"

Cole shook his head, chuckling. "What makes you think I have a list?"

"This is nice and all, my students," Master Wu said, placing his cup on the table, "but don't you think time for training has arrived?"

"Yes, Sensei," everyone said in one voice, starting to put away their plates.

Soon they were all outside, doing their warm-up exercises. Yet, one question remained in Cole's head;

Who had sent the letter?

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago valentine's week 2019 #ninjagovalentinesweek2019 #bruiseshipping #jay x cole #cole x jay #jay #jay walker #jay gordon #cole #cole brookstone #cole bucket #evelina nonesense #eve's writing #writing #fanfic #fanfiction

[libertyreads]

Book Review #19 of 2019:

Nevernight by Jay Kristoff. Rating: 3.25 Stars.

Read from February 16 to February 19.

For this review, I had to actually sit down and write a pro/con list. I didn’t even know what to rate it when I first finished the book. There were so many things I disliked about it--including getting a headache every time I sat down with this book for more than half an hour--and, yet, there were things I really liked. I think I’m one of the few people in the book community who falls right in the middle with this one. I don’t hate it, but it is no where near my favorite book.

The idea of someone going to assassin school to avenge their parents is just a cool idea to begin with. Grab an orphan and stick them into a wizarding school or an assassin school or any school located out of the way with a whole wealth of knowledge to explore? *grabby hands* Give me 12. I will never not be there for that story. I loved seeing the classes and the competition a la Divergent. Seeing the class size get smaller as people die and trying to workout Spiderkiller’s riddle or steal from the Reverend Mother was all really good fun. Plus being inside a mountain with all the ever-changing staircases and the library with literal bookworms who will eat you for being bad to the books? Be still my heart. I really felt like I was living in Mia’s room and moving throughout the mountain with her. The Red Church is just so atmospheric.

I enjoyed the theology of the god of the sun and goddess of the night. I enjoyed reading about the ins and outs of their religion. It felt like Kristoff put a lot of work into ironing out the religion and its impact on society. I also really felt like he took the idea of living in a world with three suns and explored it. We got to see how sun sickness could take over and how hard it would be tracking days when there’s not really a night and seeing how the world might operate without that hard, set schedule.

However, there were quite a lot of things I had to push past to even get to those things I really enjoyed. It started with the jarring format of the novel. I don’t like the footnotes in this one. They feel tedious, especially when there’s more footnote than the actual story on a page. Also, the writing is tiny in this book. I don’t know who decided to use that font at that size, but they need to have their arm ripped off by Shahiid Solis. If this book was in a more standardized book format, it would have been at least 500 pages long, probably longer. I don’t know if it was because of the formatting or because of how dense the book was, but I would get a headache nearly every time I read from it. I’m prone to headaches so it could just be me, but you really don’t want to pick up a book again after reading it for several hours with a headache.

We also got a lot of writing that I just thoroughly did not enjoy. Like I said, the writing is dense and hard to get through. It took me twice the amount of time I normally allot for a 450 page book to get through this one. It has a lot of metaphors that don’t make sense. So, you spend a lot of time trying to figure out what the author meant. It also gets really repetitive. I don’t need you to explain for the fifteenth time that Mister Kindly is a not-cat with not-eyes...etc. I got it the first time you explained it. Thanks.

I didn’t enjoy the graphic nature of this book. I know that this book is sold as Adult for a very solid reason; however, the sex scenes just felt like porn for the author. It felt very unrealistic (I’m reading a fantasy novel about assassins...of course it is) and felt more like something a guy would want and enjoy rather than what a woman would. The blood and gore and all of that was far less gross and disturbing when compared to how the sex scenes (of which there are many) come across. I don’t know if it’s because there’s this middle age man writing sex scenes with a 16 year old girl....but they all grossed me out.

With everything shaking out the way it did, I couldn’t bring myself to rate it below a 3 because there is a lot of good writing and good plot. I also couldn’t bring myself to rate it a 4 or higher. I spent too much time just detesting this book to rate it so highly. I ended up giving it 3.25 which feels fair considering. I won’t be continuing the series in spite of the rating.

#nevernight #jay kristoff #the nevernight chronicles #books read in 2019 #2019 reading challenge #booklr #bookstagram #books #bookworm #bookworms #book dragon #book worm #book worms #Goodreads challenge #Goodreads reading challenge

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

When We Were on Fire

Hey everyone! Here’s part VIII for the Chaos and the Calm series! I wasn’t planning on having it out this early, but I finished it and wanted to get it out to y’all as soon as I could! As always, don’t forget to like and reblog- it lets me know you’re loving reading the series as much as I am writing it! And please always feel free to pop into my inbox about WHATEVER, series-related or not! Here’s the chapter, please enjoy!

When We Were on Fire

January 2020

Head down, headed underground feeling wasted/Cold to the bone, so alone I can taste it

“Hey, Alex, are you feeling okay? You don’t look so good.” The voice of Ryan, one of Alex’s coworkers and friends, snapped her out of the trance-like state she had lulled herself into.

She blinked a few times, nodding. “Yeah, thanks for asking. I’ve just been super tired lately. Trying to work out times to FaceTime and call Harry when he’s on the other side of the world takes a lot out of me, you know? The only time I can get him when I’m not at work is really late at night, and it’s been pretty rough.”

“Yeah, I can get how that would be draining,” he responded.

“Enough about me, you don’t really want to hear about my problems,” Alex said with a chuckle. “How are you and Noah? Wedding’s next Saturday, yeah? What time do you think we should get there?” Deflecting was a long-time bad habit of Alex’s. She did genuinely care about the wedding, and did want to know what time she and Harry, who was returning later that week, should show up. That being said, talking about herself had never been her strong suit, and she sometimes struggled to accept that people were genuinely interested in what she had to say.

“5 or so? Ceremony starts at 6, that would give you plenty of time to find seats and settle in.” Ryan’s eyes narrowed slightly; he could tell that something was off, but didn’t want to pry. That was one of Alex’s favorite things about him, he didn’t push something when it was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it. But the same thing that she loved about him could also prove unhelpful at times. Sometimes what she needed was a friend who would push her when she didn’t want to bring something up.

Alex huffed as she opened the door to her and Harry’s apartment, hefting her backpack onto the couch and heading to the kitchen. She had been feeling dizzy for the past week or so, something that generally happened right before her period. Grabbing a glass from the drying rack, she opened the fridge, pouring herself water and pulling out a container of leftover Chinese from the night before. “It’ll be fine cold,” she muttered, grabbing a pair of chopsticks and sticking them in haphazardly. Fifteen minutes later, she had finished, and turned on the TV to watch the news. It didn’t hold her attention for long, and as the clock struck nine, she turned it off, heading into the bedroom to go to sleep. It wasn’t uncommon for her to stay up past midnight, particularly on nights when she talked to Harry, but she was absolutely exhausted and couldn’t stay up any longer. Sorry if I miss a call, love. Not feeling well, so I’m going to bed now. Alex sent a text to Harry, hoping he wouldn’t be too disappointed.

Grimacing, Alex rolled over in bed, pressing her phone screen to get the blaring alarm to cease. Throwing the covers off, she padded out to the kitchen. Yesterday’s headache persisted, so she opened the bottle of Tylenol kept on the counter and swallowed a pill, opening the pantry. She really didn’t have much time to eat, so two slices of toast were it. Checking her phone, she saw a text sent by Harry late last night. Don’t worry about it, love. Feel better, and go to the doctor if it doesn’t get better, okay? Grabbing her backpack and MetroCard, she sent a text back. Will do.

Walking into her office, she saw Ryan at his usual spot in the desk next to hers. He raised a hand in greeting. “Feeling better?”

She wiggled her hand. “So-so. Headache isn't any better, but I’m a little less tired.”

“Any idea what could be causing it?”

“No clue,” Alex said, exasperation evident in her voice. “Could be my period, but it’s usually not this bad. H made me promise to go to the doctor if it doesn’t get better.”

“Good man,” Ryan said with a smile.

“The best.”

It wasn’t until three days later, when Alex was working on a new project, that she considered it could be something else. While adjusting the font size on the logo for a new maternity boutique in Midtown, the wheels turned in her head and her finger froze above the trackpad of her laptop. Oh shit. Oh shit. Pulling out her phone, she quickly navigated to her and Julia’s texts, shooting her a quick message. Hey Jules, I need a favor.

Drifting apart, getting harder to hold you/Days getting dark and the nights are growing cold/Are we burning out?/Swept out of sight, rolling out on an ocean/Let's cut all the ropes and get lost in the moment/If our hearts are alive, maybe then they might/Send us back to the sun

With Julia’s bag shoved hastily in her backpack, she unlocked the door. Five minutes and one glass of water later, the door once again jiggled, causing waves of concern to run through Alex’s mind. They were alleviated, for the most part, upon seeing that it was none other than Harry walking through the door. “I thought you were coming in later?” Alex asked, confused. “I would have picked you up from the airport.”

Harry dropped his duffel bag on the floor, clearly exhausted. “Flight got in earlier than I thought, didn’t want to bother you.”

She couldn’t decipher the tone of his voice, unsure if it was meant as caring or annoyed. “H, I’ve got something we should talk about.”

Signing, he ran one hand through his slightly-tangled hair. “Can it wait until later, Alex? I’m ridiculously jetlagged.”

Alex picked at her nails. “I don’t think so. It’s important.”

“How important can it really be?” Harry asked, raising his voice. “I’ve been touring for close to a month, have hardly had any time for myself, and now when I finally get a chance to sleep in my own bed and be with my own girlfriend, all she wants to do is talk?”

“It’s important!” She responded, close to tears. She hadn’t been feeling well for a few weeks now, and being the subject of her boyfriend’s frustrations wasn’t doing anything to help the situation. She had learned her lessons from past failed relationships, and they had never really struggled with communication or making feelings known in a constructive and mature way. Fights weren’t really something they did, aside from surface-level spats over who was going to take out the trash or where they were going to go for breakfast. So needless to say, she wasn’t sure what to do, or how to react, or what to say when Harry was acting like this. She knew that he had been travelling for weeks and was incredibly tired, probably wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep, but sometimes there were things that had to take precedence. And now was one of those times. “It’s important,” she said, quieter this time, voice breaking. A crack in Harry’s tough exterior appeared, and he took a step towards her as if trying to comfort her. “I think I’m pregnant, Harry.”

Out of all the things Harry thought Alex would say, that wasn’t one of them. “Yeh what?” He said, although he had heard her perfectly well. It was like his ears could hear the words, but his brain refused to process them.

“I think I’m pregnant,” Alex repeated.

“How?” Stupid. He wasn’t seven, he knew how.

“Er,” she started, clearly still shaken and trying to collect her thoughts, “I think right towards the beginning of your break before Australia? I think I hadn’t gotten to the chemist to get my birth control refilled yet, so we just used a condom?”

He sat down, trying desperately to comprehend what Alex had just said. “You said you think, have you not taken a test yet?”

She shook her head, fumbling with the buckles on her backpack and pulling out the plastic bag that Julia had picked up from the chemist on her lunch break. “I had Jules pick one up for me. I didn’t know if I could do it myself, and I didn’t want any photos to leak before I got a chance to tell you myself.” She paused, and Harry felt guilty. It was his fault that these were her worries, his fault that she now had to be so concerned about fans and photographers tracking her every move that she couldn’t even go to the chemist without looking over her shoulder. If he was normal, it wouldn’t be like this. If she was dating someone normal, it wouldn’t be like this. “I didn’t want to take it without you. I didn’t want to do it alone.”

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “D’you… d’you want to take it now?”

She fiddled with the knot on the plastic bag, pulling out the cardboard box of the pregnancy test. “The sooner we know, the better, I think.” She walked down the hallway to the bathroom, Harry trailing behind her and waiting outside the door. It was the first time he had a chance to be alone after she had told him, the first time he had a chance to process by himself. What would they do if it turned out positive? As if she read his mind, Alex opened the door just then, drying off her hands on the hem of her flannel. “Says it’ll take three minutes. H?” She asked timidly. “What will I… What will we do if it turns up positive?” With that tiny, seemingly inconsequential change in words, Harry was reassured. He may have been scared, she may have been terrified, but they were a team. Had always been a team. Nonetheless, she looked small, and scared, and there was nothing more Harry wanted to do in that moment but comfort her, so that’s what he did. Nestling his chin on top of hers, he responded.

“I don’t know, love. I think we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, if we come to it.” Harry loved kids; that was a given. Two of his best mates had children of their own, and he loved getting to interact with them, and Adam’s kids on tour, and any others he was lucky enough to spent time with. He did want to be a father, someday, but being in the middle of his career, just shy of 26 was not where he anticipated it happening. Practicality-wise, he figured they would probably be able to manage a baby; he certainly had enough money, their apartment had two spare bedrooms, and Alex’s design firm had excellent health insurance. But, perhaps more importantly, he wondered if they were ready, emotionally and psychologically, for a child. And any doubt and stress he was feeling, Harry realized, were more than likely compounded for Alex; it was her body, and Harry knew that the ultimate decision of what to do— if there was anything to do— would be up to her.

Sniffling against his chest, Alex responded in kind. “I really don’t know what to do. This isn’t what I planned for, we’re not even married, I’ve got so much left I want to do before I become a mum…”

Resting one hand around the back of her waist, Harry rubbed the other across her back. “I know, love. I know. I know you’re scared,” he gave a teary chuckle, “and, if I’m honest, I am too. But we’re in this together, you hear me? Whatever it says, we’re in this together.”

She leaned into his touch for a few moments, giving a slight start when the alarm on her phone went off. “Should be ready now,” she murmured, holding onto Harry’s hand like a lifeline. The two tests were face-down on the counter, her hand hovering over them but not touching, like they were a bomb that would explode if she so much as nudged them the wrong way. Each gingerly taking hold of one, they flipped them over.

Negative.

Street's are alive now and everything's bracing/You're on my mind, running in my veins/Fueling the flame, let's start it again

Breathing out an enormous sigh of relief, Alex brought her hands up to her face, letting out a not-so-small sob of relief. “I wasn’t ready to be a mum,” she said through her gasps. “I wasn’t ready.” The four hours where she was in limbo, when she didn’t know if or how her life was going to change, had been some of the most terrifying of her life. Alex, by nature, was a planner. She liked to have a schedule, liked to be prepared, and liked to know what was coming. She was the type of person who had her life mapped out by fifteen, and who hated for anything to disrupt that plan. And being pregnant would have been just about the biggest possible shift in that plan. She didn’t know if she would have continued the pregnancy or not, and she was so grateful she didn’t have to make that decision.

Harry brought a thumb up to the exposed skin of her wrist, rubbing it soothingly. “‘S okay, love. ‘S all okay. We don’t have ‘t dwell on it anymore. We’ll have it all one day— marriage, kids, a house— but it doesn’t have to be now. It doesn’t have to be now.”

Alex looked up at Harry, a bit startled but not surprised. This was the first time he had really spoken, in concrete terms, about his plans for a future together. There had been little bits, of course, passing comments to relatives at dinner and whispered words to the other under the false cover of night, but to hear him speak about a life for the two of them with such finality brought an unexplainable sense of peace and joy to her heart.

Sometime last July, Harry and Alex had taken a trip back to England to visit family. His family liked to do a big picnic-type thing every year for all the relatives in the area, and he had missed it the past two years due to touring and recording. He was free this year, and his mum had insisted he bring along Alex for the festivities. “She’s been a part of the family for fifteen years, Harry,” she had said, “she’s coming.” So they had hopped on a plane to London and driven the rest of the way. It was a bit of a trip but neither of them minded too much, they just rolled down the windows and plugged in the aux cord. Just shy of four hours later, they pulled into Harry’s childhood home, with Anne coming out to greet them.

A few hours later, everyone had unpacked and were settled in, and the couple went out to the backyard, where twenty-odd relatives, most of whom Alex recognized, were gathered. After greeting a few cousins and catching up with one of his uncles, Harry’s grandmother walked up to the couple. Smiling warmly, she said, “Anne had told me you two had finally gotten together. I’m glad to see it, I always did see it coming,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Have you two given any thought to where this might be going— marriage, kids?” Alex blinked a few times, thankful when Harry picked up the conversation.

“Nan!” He groaned slightly, taking Alex’s hand by way of apology. “Just because you and Grandad got married after knowing each other a year doesn’t mean that’s how it’s done anymore.”

“But—”

“Yes, nan, okay? That’s where it’s headed.”

There was something comforting about those memories, something nice about knowing that both she and Harry were genuinely in it for the long term. Looking back at her, Harry spoke, choosing his words carefully. “I’m sorry that I snapped at you love, you didn’t deserve that. I was tired and fed up and drained, but it didn’t do any good to let it out on you. It wasn’t right to let it out on you.”

“You’re not perfect, H.” Alex said. “You’re human, and sometimes you’ll say or do the ‘wrong’ thing. You don’t have to carry the whole world on your shoulders, and I wouldn’t want you to.

Harry kissed her forehead. “You’re out of my league, aren’t you?

“Very.”

#Harry Styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #one direction #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry fanfic #harry fanfiction #one direction fanfiction #one direction fanfic #one direction fluff #1D #1D fluff #1d preferences #1d imagine #harry fluff #harry styles fluff #harry smut #harry writing #harry imagine #harry imagines #harry styles imagines

[lavieendonna]

Brushwork || ArtMajor!Calum AU (Chapter 25)

Summary: An Art Major AU where Dallas - third year gawky art student at VCA -  makes a deal with Calum - her cute new neighbour and project partner - and they spend the semester learning that the perfect masterpiece takes a whole lot of brushwork.

Date: 26 June 2018 Requested: lol     Pairing: Calum + Dallas Words: 3.3K Warnings: whole lotta swearing but thats it i think (blood TW) A/N: this is beyond late but i’m really freaking happy with this chapter. please, someone, anyone, let me know what you think. Big Love xo 

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Chapter 25: I Was Frowning So Hard I Thought My Forehead Might Actually Crack and My Brains Would Seep Out of My Head

Polly was calling again – this was like the fifth time in the last half hour. She never left any messages or texted me whatever she wanted, she just kept calling. I assumed it was because she was still trying to find her footing with me after our conversation the other day, but either way it wasn’t really helping me come up with a decision.  The Showcase had literally started already without me and I was still naked in my bedroom wondering if it was going to be worth going.

Well, I was half naked. I was wearing a towel. And underwear – but that wasn’t the point.

The thought of me showing up at the Showcase in front of all of those people and revealing a half-finished mural kinda made me wanna throw up. But then again, the thought of not showing up and letting Calum reveal a half-finished mural in front of all of those people by himself made me want to curl up under the spray of the shower and just melt away down the drain.

Luke and Michael were seemingly taking turns to call and text me as I rifled through my clothes agonisingly slow. Ignoring them was making the anxiety worse but I knew that if I spoke to anybody about why I wasn’t there yet then I would just break completely. This was something I had to do on my own – it just so happened that it was taking longer to come to terms with that than was convenient.

After what felt like an eternity, I finished brushing my hair back into its ponytail and smoothened out the fly-aways with pin before sighing a long sigh while I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked normal, and it felt weird. Black skinny jeans – no rips and no paint stains. Fresh V-neck tee – but it was just grey. A soft grey that hugged my body but didn’t feel like any hug that felt good.

I was about to give up when a flash of colour in the reflection behind me caught my eye. I spun around to see what it was, kind of surprised to find a light blue denim jacket slung over the back of my desk chair. The back was covered in hand-made patches of flowers and bees and one particularly big one that said ‘Bite Me’ next to a picture of a cherry.

It was Mali’s. I’d mentioned to Calum at some point months ago about how I’d always wanted a jacket like that but didn’t think I could pull it off, and a few days later he said that Mali had sent hers in the mail. The idea was for me to borrow it and see if it was the right size. She knew somebody, apparently, who made the jackets custom and Calum knew a girl that sold the patches. I’d never gotten around to putting it on, it’d been sitting on the back of that chair intimidating me for days. Weeks even.

Nevertheless, I inched my way over to the jacket and pulled it off of the chair as gently as I could, almost as if it would fall apart with any sudden movements. Carefully, I threaded my arms though the sleeves and felt the weight of the denim rest on my shoulders when I let it go. I stared at myself carefully, when I turned back to the mirror, and waited. For what? I wasn’t sure. Maybe I was hoping that some of Mali’s confidence might soak into my skin or something similar, but for whatever reason, I kept it on and hoped to God something good would come of it.

With a final huff I grabbed my bag and keys and stalked off out of the apartment before I could think too much and change my mind. I was teetering on the verge of another panic attack as it was, I didn’t need to be thinking about what fate had install for me down in the atrium.

There were more people gathered inside than I had seen since orientation. By the looks of things, and the way the sun looked as though it was setting everything on fire with the angle it was setting, ours was the last reveal. And, by the sheer number of people still hanging around, it was about to happen. Up ahead, near where our mural was standing behind a big, red, temporary curtain, one of the head art professors was talking into a mic and giving some last announcement about our mural. I weaved slowly between students and parents and tried not to alarm any of the staff members I was here, just yet.

The closer I got, the more I could see and the shakier my hands became. I caught a glimpse of brown hair and sun-kissed skin between the heads of some of my classmates in the front rows of the crowd and nearly choked on thin air. Slowly and carefully I made my way to the right, finding myself at the front of the crowd but off to the side just enough that nobody up ahead in front of the mural would notice me.

“Hey, you made it.” Someone tapped my arm with a feather light touch, and when I looked up (with a small jump) I was greeted with Polly offering a shy smile. She took her hand away as I tried to smile back, but then she pulled at the sleeve of Mali’s jacket lightly one more time. “Nice jacket.”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” I pulled at the hem gently before folding my arms across my chest. “Uh, thanks for coming.” Polly pursed her lips at my gratitude but smiled nonetheless.

“Almost thought you wouldn’t show.” She said with a small, pointed nod to the front of the atrium. I couldn’t bring myself to reply, I just followed her gaze and tried hard not to throw up while sucking in a deep breath as Calum stood forward as he was handed the mic.

He looked restless and more nervous than I’d ever seen him before. Black t-shirt looked too big on his limbs, dark circles made his eyes look slightly sunken in. But his jeans were still black and they were still ripped at the knees, and he still looked like Calum and it made my heart ache just a little.

“First of all,” he spoke into the mic clearly, the sound of his voice sounding like it was right in my ear (considering I was less than four feet away from a speaker). “I just want to thank everybody for sticking around this long to see this last mural. It’s been a long day, you’ve got better things to do I’m sure. It, uh. It means a lot to me… to us… that you’re still here.”

I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat when Calum corrected himself even though he was clearly under the impression that he was doing this reveal on his own. I watched as he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder to the curtains that concealed our unfinished wall garbage and then back to the audience. There was a gentle hum buzzing around the atrium, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was a good buzz or not – I was too nervous, unable to take my eyes off of Calum and the wall.

“Uh, truth is that Dallas and I…” Calum cleared his throat, pausing his speech yet again, and I felt my stomach lurch. This was it. He was going to sell me out – or worse, confess what I’d done to everybody in the room and make them all want to bring back Capital Punishment so I could Fry like the Good Lord intended.

“Dallas and I struggled a lot trying to come up with something to paint for this piece. By the time most of the other groups had half-finished, we were still brainstorming and trying to figure out the colour schemes and font types. Like, you know, every student ever, we left things to the last minute before we finished –” the hum became a uniform laughter from everybody in the crowd, but I was still too caught up in Calum’s speech to really notice. “– but in saying that, the fact that we struggled so much… it really… that captures the point we were trying to make with this piece. The idea was to, like, get across to all of us kids at VCA – and any other student or person who looks at it – that… the pressure on us to be perfect all of the time, it doesn’t mean that we have to struggle to be everything all at once. Dallas… she came to me one day told me about this quote and I knew straight away that it was going to mean something to more people than just me so… I don’t know, I think that’s all we wanted to do – to get a message across to even just one person, you know, and even if that one person is just ourselves.”

Calum cleared his throat one more time, offering a stiff nod to the professor as he stepped to the side. I was holding my breath at this point and on the verge of just blacking out entirely but somehow, I was still slowly – inch by inch – gravitating forward. I’d moved maybe a foot and a half by the time the curtains dropped, and as soon as they did I let out the breath that had been making my lungs ache.

Well, one thing was for sure. The mural was finished. And for the first time since we started the damn thing, I really fucking wished it wasn’t.

It was stunning, don’t get me wrong. The colours looked exactly the way we’d pictured them and you could see every single detail that Calum had slaved over in the tutus. The problem, though – the thing that made me feel completely and utterly defeated, was that it was Polly.

Calum had clearly spent the time we’d been apart finishing the rest of the mural on his own, and for some God forsaken reason, he felt the need to fill the void of our ballerina’s face with Polly’s green eyes and full lips, hair shiny and long and black just like the real thing. I turned to look at the real Polly standing next to me and her mouth was gaping, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Dallas…! Dal, I –” She was spluttering, and all I could do was blink away tears I didn’t know I had left and turn away from her. “Dallas, wait! Please!”

I was already weaving back through the applause, sniffling and trying to hold myself together until I was out of the crowd at the very least. It wasn’t working so well, and the stupid jacket wasn’t doing me any favours, so I powered forward as fast as I could with Polly still calling for me behind all of the noise.

Usually when this happened, when I got upset, it felt like the world was caving in and I could never breathe right. But this time was different. Yes, as always, I was crying again. But it was that kind of crying that was just numb, because this was the end. I was done, and I didn’t want to do it anymore.

I burst through the doors of the atrium and rounded the nearest corner into a darker alley way where the buildings blocked out the last of the sun. It was cold, and Mali’s jacket wasn’t doing much to keep me warm, but it didn’t really matter when Polly come skidding to a halt right behind me

“Dallas!” She panted, though it seemed like the heavy breathing was for show. She was a lot fitter than me, I knew that for a fact, and also her cheeks weren’t red and she wasn’t sweating.

“Just go, Polly.” I sniffled, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand while I kept my back to her.

“Dal, listen to me, please!” Polly reached for me, grabbing me by my arms and spinning me around so I had no choice but to look at her. The green orbs were still wide with what looked like complete horror, and her face was screaming at me to listen. “I had nothing to do with that, D, I promise. I had no idea he would paint me, you haveto believe me.”

“I…” I sniffled again, staring into Polly’s eyes and trying to convince myself that she didn’t have all the answers this time. But I couldn't not believe her, that much was clear. If Polly had orchestrated all of this and somehow convinced Calum to paint her as the ballerina we’d been slaving over all semester, there was no way she’d have been standing here and grabbing hold of me like her life depended on it.

“Pleas, Dal, I swear.” Polly’s bottom lip quivered. “I… I know we haven’t been okay for a long time but I wouldnever do that to you. Please believe me.”

My lip trembled and my throat was so tight that I couldn’t form any kind of English words.  So, I just cried, letting out a loud sob and falling into Polly, not for the first time in my life. She held me so tight I felt like I might burst, and if I didn’t know her better I would have thought maybe she was crying too.

“I’m so sorry Polly!” I sobbed into her shoulder, arms circling her waist so I could squeeze her back just as hard as she was squeezing me. “I was so shit to you, Polly I-I –!”

“Hey, no D, stop.” Polly was crooning in my ear as if I wasn’t bursting her ear drums with my hysterics. “Dallas, it’s okay. It’s okay, I promise.”

“I-I’m just so sorry!” I wailed. “It’s not okay, P, I-I should never had treated you like that! You needed me, P! A-and I didn’t –! I wasn’t…!”

I couldn’t finish whatever it was I was trying to say, but Polly just keep whispering in my ear that everything was okay while we sank to our knees on the concrete.

“Come on, Dallas,” She gave me a final squeeze before she pulled away from me, holding me at arm’s length and brushing away a strand of hair from my face. Polly ran her thumbs under my eyes and caught the tears that were still falling while I struggled to catch my breath. I squeezed my eyes shut, chest rising and falling about as quickly as my heart was racing. “D, look at me.”

When I opened my eyes, Polly was giving me a soft smile, a few tears escaping the corner of her eyes too. She took a big breath, green eyes signalling for me to do the same. I copied her obediently and as Polly inhaled again I did the same, both of us breathing in sync for, probably, the first time all year.

“Dallas, it’s okay.” Polly told me again, more seriously this time and her eyes demanding that I trust her words. “You don’t have to worry anymore.” I sniffed, a couple of sneaky tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

“I-I just…” I inhaled mid-sentence, really trying my hardest to keep a hold of myself. “I should have known that you needed me, P. You were right. A-and I don’t want you to leave here thinking I don’t give a shit about you because I do. You’re my best friend and I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Polly’s smile was sad and she pulled me in for another hug, one that was gentler and held more emotion than even the one that had just happened before now. It was all she needed to do for me to know that she was going home.

“I forgive you, Dallas.” She whispered to me so softly I nearly missed it. “Now you need to forgive yourself.”

“What am I going to do without you, P?” I asked her when she pulled back but before she could answer, someone else’s footsteps echoed into the alley and a voice interrupted.

“Dallas.”

It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t even surprised or angry. It was just Calum, and he stood a few feet away, achingly still, while Polly and I hauled each other up off of the ground.

“Let’s go.” I huffed gruffly as I dusted off my pants. I made a move to drag Polly away but she anchored her feet, the sleeve of her sweater slipping from my fingers.

“Dallas.” She said, nodding gently. “I’ll let you guys talk alone.” I made a face, but Polly shook her head at me before taking a step back, and another, until she turned on her heel and patted Calum’s arm on her way past him.

Even after Polly left us alone, all Calum and I did was stand miles apart from each other and stare. I couldn’t place the expression in his eyes, but all I could feel bubble up inside of me was fear and anger and hurt. New tears pooled in my eyes, but I held as strong as I could as I let them fall on their own.

“Why would you do that to me?” I was the first to speak, and as soon as I did Calum practically leapt toward me at lightning speed.

“Dallas, please.” He started to speak but I shook my head at him.

“Were you still pissed about what I said to you?” I shot at him.

“No!” Calum’s lips were upturned in the corners, brow furrow deep. His hands clenched at his sides, one slightly raised as if he was fighting the urge to reach out to me.

“What, did you want to teach me a lesson or something?” I pressed, frowning so hard I thought my forehead might actually crack and my brains would seep out of my head.

“No!” Calum nearly wailed again.

“You knew how I felt about Polly, Calum!” I wailed back. “How did you think I would be okay with this?!”

“Because it was youridea!”

I stood in front of Calum with furrowed brows and mouth agape, hurting but most of all, confused as hell.

“It was your idea to start with, Dal.” Calum’s voice softened, and so did his eyes. He looked sad, but he also looked guilty. And sorry. “Polly was the one who gave you the idea for this piece in the first place. And when… when you stopped talking to me, all I wanted to do was make it up to you. And I thought…”

Calum trailed off for a moment, taking the time to take a breath and run his hands through his hair and over his face. He paced for a few seconds before making his way over to me again, stopping when he was just a couple of feet away.

“I just thought that maybe… maybe if I painted what you saw in your mind way back in the beginning, then maybe you’d see that you’re not as hopeless as you think.”

My lip quivered, but I held strong. Calum shuffled forward close enough to wipe away another tear that escaped the corner of my eye, but he let his hand drop and the contact was over almost quicker than it happened.

“I never meant to hurt you, D.” He said softly. “I just care about you, so much. And I wanted you to feel like you could let me in, and that you don’t have to be so afraid.”

Calum touched my face again, thumb tracing an absent pattern on my cheek while his eyes seemed to flicker from mine to my lips. But when I didn’t say anything for a while he dropped his hand and turned away from me, walking out of the alley without so much as a second glance back.

#only a few more chapters left and this shit is DONE #i sooooo can't wait til it's over #this is a good chapter tho #i think so anyway #anywho #mine #ch au #au #writing #calum hood #calum hood au #calum hood fic #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fanfiction #calum hood imagine #calum hood blurb #5sos #5sos au #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos imagine #5sos blurb #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer au #5 seconds of summer fic #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fanfiction #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer blurb

[shystoryrebel]

GONE WITH THE WIND

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It happens only with dreamy Indians. Children are the happy dreams of their parents. To fulfill their dreams, I had obtained B.Tech. degree in Computer Engineering, from I.I.T... After B.Tech. I acquired masters’ degree in Management from I.I.M... After working for few years in India, like any other Indian, I joined a multinational company in USA.

America is now treated as a dream country especially in India. It is the cherished dream of every Indian to touch the soil of that dreamy land, the land of braves, patriots and vast opportunities. Americans are born with three Ts in their mind; TRY---for better future; TRUE---To your nation, religion and work; TRUST---in God and self. So in my case also that long cherished dream had come true. My parents were very happy on this achievement.

Every entry point has an exit point, so I resolved to make my exit from my dear motherland to enter into the land of dreams as a wonderful experience, with lots of joys and graceful achievements. Here at last I reached a place where I truly deserved and where my merit and talent has got respect. Here I saw a beautiful world, waiting for me. I decided to walk with an aim. Bubbling with happiness and confidence I planned to stay in this country for about five years in which time I hoped to earn enough money to settle down

comfortably back home in India.

We belong to a Brahman priestly family. But my father did not have any interest in our traditional profession because in our country it was almost a

secular and intellectual fashion to abuse and curse Brahmans and Brahman priests. In some states like Jammu & Kashmir and Tamilnadu, Brahmans are treated worse than slaves and animals.

As a result of this scenario my father preferred to be a teacher. As honesty, hard work, patriotism and Sanskars were in his blood which he inherited from his parents. He could not do much for his family and his economic condition remained grim through out his life. Only after his retirement he could purchase an ordinary one bedroom flat in a slum type locality. More over he had to pay hefty bribe to government babus to get his day today work done in government offices. Even still he has to pay bribe to get his PF and other dues cleared and get his monthly pension from the same department which he served for thirty five years. But ambitions could not touch him. He believed in,” When nails are growing, we cut nails, when ambition is growing; we cut ambition but maintains relations and character.

I wanted to do much more than my nationalist father. I wanted to earn and earn like secular leaders of the country. But in AmericaI could not adjust comfortably and started homesick and lonely as the time passed. My patriotism and love to my roots always troubled me there on the foreign soil. Moreover in America, Indians were not treated respectfully. As upper castes Hindus are insulted and abused in India, in the same manner Indians are treated in America as a community who are there only to mint fast bucks only,

come what way. There too I saw each heart had pain, only the way of

expressions were different; some hide it in tears in their eyes while others’ hide it behind their beguiling smile.

I used to call my parents almost once a week using low cost international phone sim cards. In this manner three years passed and my contract with my employer was over but my employer extended my contract for another three

years as in Americaperson is recognized by merit, talent and work where as in India quota castes, minority religion, language and region are recognized and not the merit, talent and work.

Another one year passed on burgers, pizzas, chowmin, potato chilies etc... Years and months passed, watching foreign currency rates and getting happier whenever the value of Indian rupee went down. One thing I learnt from Americans that getting upset would not help. Always getting up, to set the things right.

The problem of marriage always was a big issue for my aging parents. Finally I decided to get married and gave nod and told my parents that I had

only ten days of holidays and everything must have to be settled down within these ten, very important ten days of my life. I got my ticket booked to India in

the cheapest economic class. I was on seventh cloud and was actually trying

to purchase gifts from the cheap duty free shops, for all my relatives and friends back home. If I fail to do follow this custom, there will be talks because in Indiait is believed, if one is in America, he must be rolling in money. Right from the babu at the airport to the dancing terror eunuchs, this great Indialoot is a part of life.

After reaching India, I spent some time at home with my parents. All the time we all were involved scanning photographs of girls and as the time was very short I was almost forced to select a girl as my future life partner. Bride’s side was in much more hurry as they did not want to let out this America settled son-in-law. They told that I had to get married within three-four days. After the marriage, my departure time to U.S.A.was very close. After giving some money to my parents I again had to leave India and requesting my relatives and neighbor friends to look after my parents. We both returned to U.S.A.

In the beginning my wife was very happy in America and she enjoyed her stay here. But after some time she started feeling lonely. Her frequency of calling her parents, back home in India increased and sometimes almost everyday. As a result of her extravagant nature my savings started vanishing rapidly. I tried to get some job for her but I failed and could not arrange a job for her. She used to receive wise upbraiding from her parents especially from

her mother every day. In my case it was very true, “If the first button of your shirt is wrongly stitched, all the rest will definitely be crooked. So always be careful on your first step, success will automatically follow you”.

Although she was Ph.D from Gazab Singh University, India, but to my horror I came to know that she was not capable even to write a letter. All her degrees were almost manipulated through corrupt methods. Her father was a judge and her mother was a professor in Gazab Singh University, India. She boosts of guiding forty five, Ph.D.s to her credit, through lifting, scissoring and pasting methods. This university was notoriously famous for selling fake degrees.

In this way two more years passed, and we were blessed with two lovely kids, a daughter Ganga and a son Brahmputra. Every time I rung to my parents, they asked me to come to India so that they could see their grand children before their eyes are closed for ever. But work pressure coupled with difficult monetary conditions, I could not visit India. Months and years passed and visiting Indiato see my aging parents was a distant dream.

Then one day at around mid-night, my phone rang and I got a message that my father was seriously ill. I tried to get leaves but failed to get the leaves

sanctioned, to go to India. The next message I got was the death of my

father. As there was no one to perform the last rites, the close relatives helped by the neighbors performed the last rites.

The death of my father shattered me and I was badly depressed. My father passed away without had a glimpse of his grand children.

One day he came to me to meet me in my dream and cried at me:

Three, four years passed. I decided to return to Indiaand to settle down there. This decision was not appreciated by my children but my wife was very happy on this decision. I started to look for a good and affordable property. But now here Dr. Man Mohan Singh was the Prime Minister and to my shock my savings and pocket were much short and the price of property gone up very high during all these years. I had to again return to the USA.

But this time my wife was very intelligently tutored by her mother. She was not ready to come back to USA with me nor was ready to live with my aged mother. On the other hand I and my children were not ready to live in Indiaunder these circumstances. I, with my two children returned to USA after promising my mother and wife to come back within three years. Every thing about our future was uncertain but God has arranged every thing for our tomorrow. You just have to trust Him. He grants us the power to accept things you cannot change.

Time passed by and my daughter decided to get married to an American on her own. Neither due to financial constrains, my wife nor could my mother join us to bless our daughter. My son was happy living in USA because he was very comfortable with American life style. Suddenly I received the news of the death of my mother due to heart failure.

Now I was fed up with this type of life. It was enough and decided to wound up every thing and returned to India. Relationship is like fragrance, you can never touch it but you feel it. Now I had just enough money to buy a decent three room flat in a posh colony in India.

With this vagabond type of life I became sixty years old. Beaten from all sides I became highly religious and a regular visitor to the near by temple. My faithful wife was still living with her parents. She was not ready to leave me nor was ready to leave her parents. I was a cash card to her and her family. As her father was a judge he knew the hazards of filing and settling divorce cases. So my wife was happy living as a married lady but her parents’ daughter, financing her rogue brother by the money I used to send her as a peace package. She was like Stephen Blackpool’s wife in Charles Dickens’ Hard Times:

Again another mishap happened in my life. Papa’s daughter, but my faithful wife also left me high and dry and gone to the last abode from where no body returns. Now I started wondering the meaning of life. Is it worth all this? My father, even after staying in this country as a poor teacher, had a house to his name but he never was alone. I too have the same, nothing more. But I have lost every thing, my parents, my wife, my children, my mental peace and near and dear ones. Life is like onion which has many layers of relationships. If you do not cut it adds taste to life but if you cut it, you will get tears only.

Looking out from the balcony I see a lot of boys and girls riding on bikes and dancing. This modernization and liberty has spoiled our new generation and these children have no values in life. I get occasional greeting cards from my children on different days. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hug some one dear, but no dear ones were around. You cannot hug yourself, you cannot cry on your own shoulder; perhaps life is all about for living others. So live with those who love you, not with those whom you love. World’s happiest relations never have the same nature. They just have the best understanding of their difference, which we missed in our life.

Now perhaps I will also die and my neighbors again will be performing my last rites. God bless them. At least this one thing is still there that at least last rites are performed with full honors. But again the question remained unanswered, is life all this worth? A failed son, who could not serve his parents, when they need him most, a failed husband, who could not be with his wife, a failed father, who could not continue the legacy of a family…and a failed Indian who could not serve his nation. Whatever life throws at us: it will be easier to comfort if we feel loved.

My children and the grand children will not realize this pain and pain of losing my culture for ever and for ever-----is it really worth so many souls alienated. On a one fateful morning I was reading the divine Bhagavad Gita. My phone rang. From the other side I was overwhelmed to listen the sweet voice of my dear son, hello papa, can you give me an appointment to bless your grand child, mothered by a close friend of mine, means born out of wed lock.

Shocked, I sank into the chair on which my father used to sit and teach. Slowly and slowly darkness gripped me, perhaps I shall never be able to give an appointment to bless my grand child and its mother. But my question remained unanswered; was life worth this? With this I lost somewhere and sagged down.

Know that all beings have their birth in this. I am the origin of all in this world and its dissolution as well. All things are dissolved in me.

(The Bhagavad Gita, Ch.VII. Sl.-6 (Trans.))

[imagines-corner]

Risks: Isaac Lahey

requested by: @mummy-woves-you​

pairing: Isaac Lahey x Reader

word count: 2.3k

summary: You and Isaac were brought together by chance. After a year of traveling the globe, Beacon Hills brings you even closer.

a/n: Can you tell I’m in an Isaac mood lately? I’ve been watching the originals and it’s making me miss him more :( I’ve got a week before classes start, and only a few days before I return to work. Send your requests in while I still have time!!

“Beacon Hills?” You asked, “Where even is that?”

“California,” Isaac replied, closing the driver’s side door of the truck after climbing inside.

“What are we going there for?” You asked, crossing your arms as Isaac pulled out of the gas station.

“My pack is in Beacon Hills,” He answered, “I got a call from them asking for my help. They’ve got a bit of a hunter problem.”

“What do you mean by hunter problem?” You asked, watching as the gas station faded in the distance. Isaac remained quiet, staring at the road as he merged onto the highway. “Are we going to get ourselves killed?”

“No,” Isaac sighed, “Well… Maybe. Hopefully not.”

“Answer my damn question,” You begged, “What do you mean by a hunter problem?” “As in, some ancient thing is causing the entire town to start hunting down supernaturals,” He declared, gripping the steering wheel, “I’ve been gone for too long, avoiding any problems that arose… and now all of my friends are probably going to die. I can’t let that happen.”

“Then let’s go save your pack,” You whispered, grabbing his hand as it sat on the shift. Isaac turned to you, a weak smile on his face, before his eyes returned to the road, prepared for the hours of driving ahead of you.

When you finally arrived in Beacon Hills, it was 3 am. The two of you were exhausted, but this wasn’t a feeling you weren’t used to. For over a year, the two of you had been traveling all over the world, trying to find an explanation for the mysterious changes you were experiencing in your powers. These experiences had brought the two of you together, closer than anyone else had ever been in your lives. At this point, Isaac felt more like family than a travel buddy.

“So,” You spoke, rubbing your sleepy eyes, “What now?”

“It’s too late to head to Scott’s house,” Isaac answered, “I guess we just sleep in the truck.”

“There’s not a motel near here or something?”

Isaac shook his head. “Nobody ever really visits around here. They generally come and stay with family or friends.”

You nodded. “Small town.” You reached into the backseat, grabbing a couple blankets for the two of you. After pushing your seats down and trying to get comfortable, you feel asleep almost instantly.

Unfortunately for Isaac, he couldn’t sleep. As the two of you sat in the back of a 7/11 parking lot, your chest rising and falling as sleep claimed your mind, He sat staring off into the darkness, contemplating what it meant to bring you here. A lot could change in a year. A lot had changed in a year. The two of you had gone from awkward acquaintances in a diner, to travel companions, to best friends. Isaac had never been this close with anyone in his entire life. Though he cared greatly about his pack, he knew that was more of an instinct. His care for you was a deep emotion, something he never knew he was capable of. What if he had just brought you into a war zone? What if he had just brought you to your death?

He sighed, throwing himself back down onto his makeshift bed. Unlike you, he was too tall to curl up in the seat, his legs preventing him from truly getting comfortable. Regardless, he closed his eyes, begging for sleep to come.

“(Y/N), wake up. We’re here.”

You opened your eyes, staring at your surroundings. Despite the many nights you two had spent in this truck, you always forgot where you were when you first woke up. Isaac sat in the driver’s seat, the bags under his eyes dark. He clearly hadn’t slept. You looked at the clock, finding only about 4 and a half hours had passed since you arrived in Beacon Hills. You sat up, staring at the scenic little house.

“Is this where Scott lives?” You asked, “The alpha?”

“Yeah,” Isaac nodded, “You ready?”

Nodding and rubbing your eyes, you threw the blanket into the backseat and prepared for whatever was to come.

Before Isaac could even ring the doorbell, the door was pulled open to reveal the person you could only assume was Scott McCall. He was a little shorter than Isaac, with short, dark hair that matched his dark eyes. He had a tattoo on his arm of two bands, something you thought you had seen before in a dream.

“Isaac,” He smiled, hugging your friend before turning to you. “You brought-“

“This is (Y/N),” He smiled, “She and I met in Europe.”

“Cool,” Scott nodded hesitantly. “Why don’t you two come on in? The others are coming soon.”

Isaac followed Scott into the house, and you were close behind. He brought you into the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the stools around the island counter.

“So,” Scott spoke, “What have you been doing the last year and a half?”

“Mostly traveling,” Isaac answered as Scott grabbed the two of you some water, “We met up about a year ago in Europe and have been trying to find answers to her condition ever since.”

“Condition?” Scott asked, furrowing his brows as he returned to his seat.

“I think you can do a better job explaining,” Isaac spoke quietly, turning to you.

“Right,” You nodded, “About two years ago, I started noticing that I could do things that no other witch could.” You held your hand out, extending your fingers while focusing on the water in the glass. You bent your middle finger slightly, turning your hand upwards to lift the water out of the glass. As you moved your fingers around slowly, the water moved around before you returned it to the glass. Isaac watched with wonder, while Scott sat across from you, confused.

“I’m sorry,” He shook his head, “I don’t know anything about witches.”

You smiled. “That’s fine! I should’ve asked.” You nodded before continuing. “All witches can perform spells and rituals, create potions… but none of them can do what I just did. Not without a very complicated spell.”

“So far, we haven’t found an explanation for it,” Isaac added, “But we have eaten at a lot of fantastic diners.” He smiled at you before returning to Scott. “So, what are we dealing with?”

“The guidance counselor,” Scott answered, “She’s building some sort of army with all of the terrified civilians.”

“Ms. Morrell?” Isaac asked.

“No,” Scott shook his head, “She left when you did. It’s Ms. Monroe now.”

Isaac nodded. “And who exactly is in the pack now?”

“Well, the only people here right now that you would know are Lydia and Malia,” Scott answered, “The rest are new.”

“What happened to Stiles?” Isaac asked.

“He’s at the FBI training facility,” Scott answered, “In Quantico.”

“You mean to tell me that one of your friends is training to be an FBI agent?” You asked, “That’s so cool.”

“Yeah,” Scott smiled, “It’s perfect for him.”

“Did you call Derek?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied, “He’s been a little hard to track down, so far.”

There was a knock at the door, and Scott left.

“He doesn’t trust me,” You whispered, “I can tell.”

“What?” Isaac asked, “Scott trusts almost anyone.”

“Not me,” You spoke, “He seems skeptical.”

“I think you’re fine,” Isaac replied, “You haven’t even met everyone else yet. It’s ok.”

You nodded, turning towards the door. “Yep.”

Shortly after, you had met everyone, including the three younger members of the pack that Isaac hadn’t met yet. During the pack meeting, everyone discussed the threat that the Anuk-Ite posed, and the threat of the hunters.

“They’re getting their weapons from somewhere,” Scott explained, “But… we don’t know where.”

“I can find out for you,” You explained, wiggling your fingers.

“Are you sure?” Malia asked, “She doesn’t know anything about this.”

“Maybe that’s better,” Liam mumbled, “We can tell she isn’t lying that way.”

You glanced at Isaac before continuing. “I need some candles and something to write with.”

Soon, you sat at the kitchen island with several Yankee Candles and a legal pad in front of you. You lit the candles, positioning them in front of you, before taking the pen with the chewed cap and the legal pad.

“I need silence,” You spoke, “It’s better if most of you leave the room. Scott should stay.”

Everyone headed into the living room while Scott sat in front of you. “How long does this take?” He asked.

“It shouldn’t take long,” You replied, throwing your hair up to keep it out of your face, “I need you to prompt me.”

“Prompt you?”

“Describe something significant to the situation to me.”

Scott nodded. “Okay,” He breathed, watching as you stared into the fire, “You’re in a parking lot, outside the Sheriff’s Station. There are cars everywhere, with guns pointed at you. They have bright lights, preventing you from seeing any of their faces, and there’s one woman standing in front of the crowd, staring at you. She’s the leader…”

Within seconds, you drifted into a vision.

You’re in a room, surrounded by shelves of guns and other weapons. They’re professional grade, something you can only get if you have a very special permit or some sort of connections. Walking around, you notice that there’s likely hundreds of weapons, waiting to be used.

There are voices. An older man, one that sounds like he should be dead but continues to defy death. Another, a woman, younger and full of anger. She’s the leader, but he’s the boss. He’s the one with the connections, the one with the plan, the one who is able to use everyone who could pass through this room for his master plan that has been years in the making. Turning the corner, you see them, the man looking older than he sounds. He’s frail, but fighting. You watch his eyes, learning his name from them.

Breathing heavily, you snapped out of the vision. You glanced at the notepad, words written all over the page in various handwritten fonts, sizes, and directions. There was a name that repeated all over the page.

“Do you know anyone named… Gerard Argent?” You asked, looking up at Scott.

His eyes grew wide. “Yeah. We know him.”

“Isaac, I need you to understand,” Scott spoke, standing with him in the living room, “How do we know we can trust her?”

“Because,” Isaac exclaimed quietly, “I trust her.”

“Isaac-“

“I trusted Derek before you did, and that worked out.”

“Isaac, she’s not a liability we’re willing to take.”

Isaac breathed. “She could save everyone here. You just need to take a risk-”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Scott sighed, “I need you to understand, Isaac.”

“Fine,” He nodded, “We’ll leave then.”

“Thank you,” Scott sighed, “I’m sorry.”

Isaac shook his head, heading up the stairs. He stopped, staring you in the eyes. You had heard their entire conversation, not surprised by what Scott had to say.

“I’m packed,” You informed him, “Let’s go.”

Isaac nodded, walking with you towards the room you shared. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a hug before grabbing your things and leaving.

On the drive out of Beacon Hills, you and Isaac were silent.

“I’m sorry,” You mumbled.

“Sorry for what?” Isaac asked, “It’s not your fault.”

“I can’t help but feel like it is,” You sighed, “I dunno.”

“It’s not,” Isaac reassured you, “Trust me.”

As he drove, you spotted something far away.

“Oh my god,” You whispered, “Pull over there.”

“The high school?” Isaac asked, “I know you said you dropped out, but-“

“Pull over!” You exclaimed, “It’s them!”

Confused, Isaac pulled into the parking lot and stopped. In the distance, on the field, there was a lacrosse game going on - or so it seemed. At this point, the crowd was gone, the lights were on, and the field was deserted. Closer to the parking lot, several hunters stood with guns pointed at two figures, appearing to be Scott and Liam.

“Wait here,” You told Isaac, climbing out of the truck and sneaking over. You stared at the hunters, pulling their guns out of their hands with one swift motion. Looking shocked, you pushed them into the ground, forcing Ms. Monroe and everyone else to groan in pain. “His truck’s over there! Run!” You exclaimed, motioning for Scott and Liam to head behind you. You backed up, throwing the guns onto the roof of the building after crushing them, making them unusable. Scott and Isaac climbed into the backseat, while you threw yourself into the driver’s seat.

“Holy shit,” Liam mumbled, “That was amazing.”

Isaac sped down the road, driving in the direction of Scott’s house.

“Thank you,” Scott spoke, breathing heavily, “I- Thank you.”

“No problem,” You nodded, facing the road.

That night, you and Isaac sat down in the kitchen while everyone else was asleep all over the house. It was safer to be together, making it harder for the hunters to pick anyone off and kill them. Scott had decided after you rescued him and Liam that you were an asset, not a risk. With your help, the pack had a chance to take back Beacon Hills.

“Nice job out there,” Isaac whispered, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. This wasn’t a new thing he did, but the feeling was different. At this point, the two of you felt a bond stronger than anyone else’s. You turned to him, smiling as your eyes met. Before he could say anything, you pressed your lips against his, pulling him closer. His hands drifted to your face, the two of you exploring a new side to your relationship.

He pulled away. “What was that?” He asked, his cheeks red as he smiled.

“Sometimes you’ve gotta take a risk,” You smiled as Isaac wrapped his arms around you, kissing you once again.

#isaac lahey #isaac lahey imagine #teen wolf imagine #daniel sharman imagine #teen wolf