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imawkwardlysoc · 1 year

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you wonder how he got his call sign

Song: Don't Blame Me by Taylor Swift

Paring: mickey garcia x reader (afab)

Warning(s): None, just pure fluff!

Word Count: 2,767

Summary: A little story on how Mickey got his call sign.

Call signs. No matter if you’re in the Marines, Navy, or Air Force, you get a call sign. Some badass ones like Iceman and Maverick may have a cool background if you assume, but in reality, most of them come from pretty embarrassing things. Like Payback for example and the amount of bets that he lost. Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia, on the other hand, has another story.

The first of artists covering other artists' songs first came out in the 1950s. Soon over half a decade later, cover videos started to come out more on YouTube. Singers like Sam Tsui, Christina Grimmie, Conor Maynard, and many others have risen to fame with their covers coming out in the late 2000s/early 2010s. Some have also got the chance to be signed to record labels and winning awards like Y/N L/N. To Mickey though, he doesn’t think of Grammy Award winner Y/N L/N, he thinks of Y/N L/N who he used to help record her cover videos in her bedroom or the backyard of her house.

Every Friday since meeting each other freshman year of high school, Y/N would drag Mickey out of their last period class and out of their high school in Miami to her house to start recording cover videos. As she uploaded her videos onto YouTube, her views went from a few hundred to a few thousand until one day.

“Mickey! Mickey!” The junior yelled her best friend’s name as she ran down the school hallway. “Where are you?”

“Yo! What’s going on?” Mickey closed his locker after grabbing everything he needed.

He turned to face the singer whose face was all red from the running as the screen of her BlackBerry Bold was in his line of sight. Squinting his eyes a little, he looked at the screen which showed one of the recent covers she uploaded.

“Holy shit!” He exclaimed. “One hundred thousand?”

“I know right!” The two of them started to jump together in celebration, ignoring the looks they’re getting.

“This is crazy!” Y/N said, still not believing that her cover of Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood reached that many views.

“You know what this means?” Mickey’s eyebrow was raised. “The chance of you getting signed to a record label.”

“Yeah, not happening,” Y/N let out a laugh. “Never in a million years.”

“Hey,” he gently squeezed her shoulder. “It’s going to happen. I have a good feeling.”

Y/N shook her head at her friend’s nonsense and dragged him to their first class of the day.

Years passed and their friendship grew even more. They shared homecoming and prom dances together. They had many all nighters studying for the AP tests they signed up for and working on college applications. The both of them dated people but their relationships only lasted for three to four months max because they both were missing something. Mickey still continued to help Y/N post her covers on her channel which grew after that one day.

Towards the end of the summer break after they graduated, the duo had to head their separate ways for college. They still kept in contact though by the emails they sent each other and visiting each other in Miami during breaks. With every visit, their feelings grew more without them realizing it.

Mickey had achieved his dream of getting into the Naval Academy and became a weapons system officer, getting the callsign Fanboy from his classmates seeing him geek out and watch Y/N’s covers. Y/N continued uploading her covers onto YouTube while studying literature at the University of Miami. It wasn’t until her senior year of college she got the best news of her life.

The sound of her sandals slapping the concrete sidewalk boomed as she ran down the concrete path which led to the park her and Mickey would sometimes hang out at. With his back facing against her, she leaped on his back which took Mickey out a little.

“Hey, you missed me that much?” Mickey laughed.

“Yeah, but I have some news,” Y/N answered.

“Which is?” He asked.

She didn’t verbally answer but she handed him the small stack of papers. Going through the papers, she saw the look on Mickey’s face as his face lit up with each page.

“No, you’re joking.” Mickey pulled her into a hug.

“I’m not,” she confirmed. “You’re looking at the newest artist signed with Atlantic Records.”

“You’re not going to forget me when you become famous right?” Mickey joked.

“Are you kidding? I won’t forget my best friend.” Y/N lightly punched his shoulder.

“Yeah, best friend,” Mickey sighed.

“What? Are you okay?” A quizzed look formed on her face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mickey brushed off his emotions.

“Hey Mick, tell me what’s up.” Y/N held his hand which sent sparks through the both of them.

“You’re going to hate me when I do this,” he said.

“Do wh-” Y/N was interrupted when Mickey’s lips touched hers.

Butterflies and fireworks exploded inside them as their lips moved in sync. Detaching their lips from each other to catch their breath, they looked each other in the eyes questioning what just happened.

“Did that just?”

“Yeah.”

Kissing each other again, they confirmed that their feelings for each other were true. After the second kiss, Mickey decided to take Y/N for an early dinner to celebrate her getting a record deal and have a pre-first date date.

More years have passed with the both of them graduating with their degrees. Their relationship grew more as they became official. Mickey was out doing the five years required to serve after he graduated after the academy. Y/N on the other hand was busy writing and recording her first album. Constant filming for her music videos and traveling to promote her album.

Despite them being hundreds or thousands of miles apart, they managed to keep their relationship alive. They had many video calls together and if she toured in an area where Mickey was at, he would watch her concerts with Reuben “Payback” Finch, who is the only person that knows her and Mickey are together other than close friends and family. When Y/N started to become more well known, she wanted to keep her personal life private. She did post pictures of her and Mickey together on her social media accounts but they didn’t show Mickey’s face.

On the eve of Mickey’s last deployment, she came back home with the living room of their shared house decorated with flowers and lit candles. In the space where their coffee table used to be, Mickey was on one knee holding a velvet box in his hand. With a short and sweet speech as tears ran down their faces, Y/N nodded her head saying yes to his proposal. A few months after Mickey came back from his deployment, the two had a small private ceremony with their close friends and family in a cabin up in the Santa Cruz mountains. Reuben as Mickey’s best man and Y/N’s college roommate as her maid of honor.

Luckily for Y/N, she could travel and stay anywhere with her job. With Mickey being moved from base to base because of his job, she would follow him while still making music while renting a house off base. From time to time she would have to travel and stay in New York for a little bit for meetings and to record her music. Thankfully when Mickey got called back to Top Gun, they resided permanently in a house that was only a fifteen minute drive away from base after the Dagger Squadron was made permanent in San Diego. Many dinners with her, Mickey, and Reuben were shared as they told stories of the other squadron members they met for the mission. Y/N continued to make music and released her next album which caused her to be away from Mickey to promote it and tour around Europe and North America.

After a day of training, the Dagger Squad decided to head to the Hard Deck for some drinks.

“Amelia has been depressed since the LA tickets for Y/N sold out,” Rooster said before taking a sip of his beer.

“Really?” Mickey raised his eyebrow.

“Yeah, Y/N is one of her favorite singers. Ever since those tickets sold out the first day, she’s been blasting her music in her room and headphones,” the aviator answered.

The WSO nodded his head and excused himself. Taking his phone out, he checked the time to see that Y/N wasn’t on stage yet. Calling her and waiting for a few rings, she answered her husband’s call.

“Hey baby, what’s up?” She asked. “How was work?”

“It was good, got our asses handed by Maverick but that’s normal,” he chuckled. “How are you?”

“I’m good, just two hours before we head onto stage,” she replied. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, but hey can I ask for a favor?” He asked.

“What is it?” She said.

“You know Rooster right?” Y/N hummed in confirmation. “Well, his little sister wants to see you in LA but the tickets sold out immediately. Is there any way you can get a ticket for her?”

“I’ll check, give me a minute,” she told him. “Stay on the line.”

Taking a sip of his drink, he waited for his wife while admiring the cooling winds of San Diego while the sun setted.

“Hey, you’re still there?” Y/N voice popped into his ear.

“Yeah, so what’s the verdict?” He replied, mentally crossing his fingers.

“Yeah, how many tickets do you need?” The singer asked. “Twelve plus your captain, his girlfriend, and daughter, that would be fifteen. Is that good?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, we have more than enough tickets. Just tell everyone and I’ll send you the info. Also, all of y’all need a break from training.”

“Wow, I’ll tell everyone. Thank you for doing this. I love you.”

“I love you too. You can thank me later when you get to LA.” Mickey could already imagine the smirk on his wife’s face.

Hanging up the phone with a grin on his face, Mickey headed back into the bar and stood next to Rooster.

“I managed to get a ticket for Amelia,” he told the pilot.

“Wait, how?” The pilot questioned.

“I know someone who’s one of the guitar techs on her tour. I managed to get all of us plus Maverick and Penny a ticket,” he told everyone.

“Wait, we’re seeing Y/N in LA?” Phoenix started to fangirl a little. “Don’t mess with me Fanboy.”

“I’m not, I’ll text you the information into the group chat,” he confirmed.

“We’re going to see Y/N baby!” Coyote cheered.

While everyone celebrated, Reuben sent his WSO a smirk knowing who gave them the tickets.

*Concert Day*

“Mick, are you sure we’re supposed to park here?” Maverick asked as he got out of Rooster’s Bronco.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Mickey answered his captain.

“Because we’re by where Y/N L/N’s tour bus is,” Rooster added.

“Trust me, we can be here,” Mickey reassured them while pulling out his phone.

Making the call, they waited for a few more minutes before Y/N’s manager came out of the Forum with VIP passes in hand. Mickey greeted the manager and they handed Mickey the passes. All of the members were shocked when they saw the passes they got, questioning how Mickey managed to get these. All of them thought they were getting tickets up in the nosebleeds, but they were mistaken.

“Mickey!” The singer jumped into her husband’s arms when she saw him.

“Hello my love,” the Navy man mumbled before kissing her.

Everyone except for Reuben was shocked at the sight they were seeing. They couldn’t believe that one of their WSO’s was kissing the singer they would soberly and drunkenly sing out the lyrics while doing karaoke.

“I missed you,” the singer wrapped her arms around Mickey’s neck.

“Me too, four weeks is too long.” Mickey moved a strand of hair out of Y/N’s face. “Everyone’s here already.”

Y/N moved away from Mickey and saw his pilot standing there with a grin on his face. “Ru-Ru, it’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you again too,” the pilot returned her hug.

Letting go of the hug, Y/N looked at the rest of her husband’s squadron who had shocked expressions on their faces. “Hi, you must be Mickey’s squadron and you must be Amelia, is that right?”

“Y-Yeah,” Amelia stuttered as her idol stood in front of her.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Y/N smiled at her and looked at Maverick who stood behind her. “You must be Captain Mitchell. Mickey and Reuben have been telling me great things about you.”

“It’s a pleasure meeting you m’am. Thank you for inviting us,” Maverick said.

“Anything for Mickey's adopted family,” Y/N smiled. “Also, call me Y/N.”

“I will if you call me Pete or Maverick,” Pete smiled.

“That’s a deal,” Y/N chuckled and faced the squad again. “Mickey, wanna introduce me to your team members?”

Mickey nodded his head and introduced his wife to the rest of the Dagger Squad. After the introductions, everyone headed to the greenroom.

“So, you’re telling me that Reuben knew that Fanboy over here is dating Y/N?” Hangman asked. “The same Y/N who won a Grammy and many Billboard Music awards?”

“Not dating, we’re married,” Y/N corrected the Texan.

“What!” Everyone yelled/exclaimed.

“Married for almost five years.” Mickey and Y/N looked at each other in admiration.

“You knew that already didn’t you?” Halo asked Reuben.

“He should, he was my best man,” Mickey answered for his pilot. “Also, who do you think Don’t Blame Me is about?”

“And I thought Bob over here had secrets we don’t know about,” Omaha chuckled.

“Nah, she’s the only secret that I have.” Mickey tenderly pressed his lips onto his wife’s.

Soon after that, the topic of conversation changed, promising them the couple would host dinner to get to know Y/N more.

After spending an hour or so in the greenroom, Y/N had to start getting ready for the show. Giving his wife one last kiss, he met up with the squad following one of the assistants to the VIP booth Y/N set them in. The booth provided food, snacks, and drinks for them while giving them a view close to the stage.

The lights in the venue started to dim down as the crowd’s cheers started to rise. The band started playing the introduction and the cheers from the audience elevated as Y/N rose into the stage.

Throughout the concert, the energy was amazing. Everyone was screaming and jamming out to the lyrics. All of the Dagger Squad and Penny and Amelia were enjoying the time they were having and thanking Mickey for the tickets. Mickey was pretty sure he saw Hangman and Coyote doing the choreography to I Did Something Bad.

“Alright, before we do this next song, how is everyone doing?” Y/N asked the audience as they replied with cheers. “That’s good. Fun fact, the person that I wrote this next song about is in the crowd tonight with his friends. This song is dedicated to him. Love you darling.”

Y/N sent him a wink and he winked back at her. The band started to play Don’t Blame me and everyone was taken to church by the way she performed it. The singer got down on her knees, belting out the high note which caused Mickey to form a proud smile on his face.

After a few songs and the encore, the last show of the tour was finished. Mickey and the gang headed backstage to see Y/N in a pair of sweat shorts and one of Mickey’s old t-shirts.

“You were amazing.” Mickey picked her up and spun her around.

“Thanks,” she laughed. “So, what did you guys think?”

Everyone started to compliment her performance at the same time. Y/N blushed because she wasn’t used to compliments they were giving her and let out a laugh.

“So, instead of driving back to San Diego this late, my producer is out of town and allowed us to use her house to sleepover,” Y/N told them. “What do y’all think?”

Everyone nodded their heads in approval and started to leave the venue.

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matan4il · 6 months

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Daily update post:

An armed drone hit a school in Eilat. Seven kids had to be taken to a hospital. We still don't officially know who sent the attack drone, or how it wasn't intercepted. The options are that it was either sent from Yemen (less likely), from the ISIS terrorists in Sinai (Egypt) or from Jordan. Just a reminder: Eilat has a population of 51,000 and it has absorbed at least 60,000 of the evacuated Israelis who had survived Hamas' massacre.

In an independent terrorist attack, Palestinians fired at an Israeli car, wounding two adults (one severely and one moderately), but thankfully missing the baby who was also in the vehicle.

The Mossad (the Israeli equivalent of the CIA) helped authorities in Brazil prevent a Hezbollah terrorist attack against Jews there. In 1994, Hezbollah successfully carried out a terrorist attack against a Jewish community center in Argentina, killing 85 people and injuring over 300. Hezbollah is currently still attacking Jewish communities in Israel's north with rockets and drones.

Yesterday, for the first time in decades, Jews prayed in the ancient, 1,500 years old synagogue in Gaza (yes, older than the Arab colonization of the Land of Israel). Here's a delegation of archeologists examining the mosaic floor of the synagogue:

The mosaic includes the image of the Jewish King David, playing a lyre, with his name appearing in Hebrew letters.

The IDF has explicitly put out the message for Gazans today, that if Hamas is stopping them from evacuating, they can turn to the Israeli army for help.

Hamas' second in command in Gaza, Khalil al-Haja, told the New York Times, that the purpose of the massacre wasn't to bring prosperity to Gaza, it's to create a permanent state of war for Israel on all of its borders (meaning by facilitating a regional war, forcing other Middle Eastern elements to join the war against Israel).

HonestReporting is an NGO that was established in 2000 to combat the anti-Israel bias in many news outlets (it happened because a pic of an Israeli policeman saving a Jewish American tourist from Arabs attacking him, was published by the New York Times as the pic of an Israeli policeman attacking a Palestinian).

Now, HonestReporting has published a report on Gazan journalists, who provided materials for Reuters, AP, CNN and the New York Times, and were there for Hamas' massacre, on the border of Israel, early in the morning on Saturday (Israel's day of rest). HR is posing the question of how did these journalists know to be present there, at that time. HR is also pointing out that they entered Israel together with Hamas' terrorists, raising ethical questions about their presence and inaction at the scene of these horrors as they were happening. Following the report, HR was also sent a pic of one of these journalists been kissed on the cheek by Yahya Sinwar, the head of Hamas in Gaza.

I find it so touching when people from backgrounds hostile to Israel, still manage to look beyond that, and see us as people. This is the bridge to the peace that I personally still wanna believe we'll have in this region one day:

Israeli police is putting together a case against the Hamas terrorists who executed the massacre, and who were caught alive. So far, over 700 testimonies of survivors have been collected, as well as tens of thousands of digital files. The terrorists' interrogations will also be included. Some of these have been published. One thing that they recounted is that they were given religious permission to murder women, children and babies. They also said that the purpose of the rapes and beheadings was to terrify the Israeli public. Lastly, they admitted that the plan was to make it from southern Israel to the central region, too (where Tel Aviv and Jerusalem are).

This is Avihu Mori, he was recognized as a mental health patient, due to severe PTSD. Every time Palestinian rockets were fired into Israel, his family said he would start falling apart, and acting illogically. During the current war, it happened again, he ran away, crossed the border into Gaza and was killed there.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #israelunderattack #terrorism #anti terrorism #antisemitism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish

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lesbienyu · 3 months

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another female ancestors art find. we have thousands of slides like this from my late grandmother, my dad's mom. she never stepped foot in minnesota, but we inherited her old photographs. there's boxes of these and developed photos. we still have her camera from the fifties. she went to college, uncommon for women at the time, esp of her social standing. she kept geese, longhorns, snapping turtles, and mean little dogs- all were hell but the cattle, but they loved her and no one else. she gave me her violin, because our family always plays music. it was a big compliment- I was ten, couldn't play a damn thing for shit, and she thought I was smart enough for the violin. I wasn't lol, music gene skipped me, but it meant a lot to her and a lot to me that she gave it to me. she also gave me my first poetry books. she was smart as a whip and everyone always calls her mean. I don't think she was mean, so much as fed up, from what I remember of her. her husband ran a machine shop, but she insisted on running an antique store "in case he fudged it." she kept all the antiques when she retired.

my uncle bought he a rifle every holiday of the year for decades. my sister and I would stand and play "spot the rifle" when we visited as kids. incredibly texan child's game, for sure. my family acts like she was just a paranoid gun nut (which she was), but she also spent decades taking thousands of pictures of everything she thought beautiful. for every five family pictures she took, there's a good twenty of landscapes, of animals, of storefronts and scenery, that looked beautiful to her. photography wasn't cheap back then, and the pictures she took make me think back on my interactions with her, with the books she gave me. she gave me Tennyson, and, when I look at her photographs, I wonder if she thought of the Lake Isle of Innisfree. shed stare at her cattle for hours, looking at the live oaks and the small pond and tumbleweeds. she'd sit with a pile of disposable cameras when I was a kid and would snap random tree branches and flowers. I thought she was wasteful- it was the early 2000s, and it still wasn't the cheapest to develop disposables, especially on the same tree you see every day. I think I was missing the point

women's art, even if it's "mundane" as some landscape photographs, speak to their mental state. she liked looking at nature. she wanted to document it. she never took pictures of anything beyond the desert, the plains, the harsh, hot environment she grew up in. she liked reading poetry about it, so she handed down books. she liked animals that didn't like people, with her geese and snapping turtles, and took them into her home. there was something there that adored hostility, that loved the coarse, roughness of nature. but, of course, she was just a cranky old woman, a mother and a wife. not someone with a camera, looking at cacti and barren fields and seeing beauty.

#diary #gyns I'm connecting w my female ancestors through art tonight #radblr

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dethkomic · 8 months

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On Army of the Doomstar Day - And Remembering Jon Schnepp

Hey Goofballs. I didn't really have anything like this planned until the moment hit me, spontaneously. Today's a very special day, as Dethklok the live band gears up to go on tour, we've been blessed with not only a new Dethalbum, but a conclusion to the whole series. This being a momentous finale, over a decade in the making, I again wanted to take a minute to remember someone, just as I did last year..

Jon Schnepp was a guy you could pick out, even if it weren't for the fact that he was usually the tallest dude in any given crowd. He loved comics, music, good vegetarian food that didn't suck, and loved meeting his sweaty nerd fans. As a comic book artist myself, I had the rare privilege of meeting Jon on several occasions through the years at various comic conventions. We also kept in touch on social media, leaving likes and words of praise on each other's projects. Genuine to a fault, Jon was always the biggest fan of anything his friends were doing. He had impeccable comedic timing too. I'll never forget the message he sent me on Facebook when friends and I attended the first ever 70,000 Tons of Metal Cruise:

"I want to go... :("

For as big a Metalocalypse fan as I've been through the years, Jon absolutely eclipsed me in all ways. He loved the show, loved talking about the show, loved discussing production and animation and the characters, whose likenesses he himself designed. One of my prized possessions is a comic book Jon signed and drew a Murderface on the inside frontispiece of. We all agreed that triangle-hair was the pinnacle of good character art.

When he died in 2018, I remember he was either going to be at, or had recently attended a convention in my former hometown of Columbus, Ohio. I remember letting him know I wasn't going to be able to make it, but promising to catch him on the next one. I never got the chance.

Jon Schnepp left behind a hole in the cartoon and comic industry that has yet to be filled to this day. But he also leaves a hell of a legacy. I've been in comics since the early 2000's and one thing I can guarantee you readers is that the rarest thing in the entertainment industry is this: Getting the ability to see a story through to its conclusion.

As artists, it's a sad fact that we don't always get to see what we create come full-circle. We're extra-super lucky still, to have that circle continue on after we're gone. Regardless of what you believe, I bet it would do Jon proud to know his work lives on, today. I bet he'd love the movie and it's wild animation and incredible art and music and story. I bet he'd be happy to have that closure. I know he'd love hearing how much we all enjoyed it, knowing the wild ride we all took to get here.

Jon, we miss you, man. Brendon, Tommy, writers, artists, animators, and any and all sweaty nerds reading this -- you did it. We the fans love you and we'll see you on the road. Hold your heads high. You carried the torch across that finish line.

We'll take it from here.

#dethkomic speaks #metalocalypse #dethklok #mtl #army of the doomstar #metalocalypse movie #jon schnepp #in remembrance

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slavghoul · 1 year

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Today marks the one year anniversary of Impera. What are your thoughts on the album a year later?

I think in light of its predecessor, Impera was a bold move from Tobias. Prequelle was something of a pulled punch, a good album overall but sorta missing, well, the punch. It was nice and safe. I enjoyed it, but secretly wished for a record that would kick my ass a bit more thoroughly. And Impera managed to do just that; it waltzed in like Jim Steinman possessed by Satan and the spirit of 80s hard rock, overflowing with so much decadence and pizzazz that it left me reeling. It's so unapologetically large and audacious. It doesn't give a fuck. It kicks you in the shin and runs away laughing, but instead of feeling angry, you can't help but shout "thank you" in response.

Tobias has a remarkable talent for crafting very multilayered compositions with intricate structures and melodies that demand attentive listening to fully appreciate. It's almost like a game for me sometimes trying to decipher and appreciate each layer individually. Impera is abundant in those intricacies, with every next listen I always find something new to appreciate in each song. Respite on the Spitalfields is a good example of that, but also Call Me Little Sunshine and Darkness At The Heart Of My Love. The latter may appear simple at first, but they're actually quite complex and thoughtfully crafted.

It has its weaker moments too, of course. Personally, I find the guitar work in Kaisarion to be a bit too reminiscent of 2000s pop punk, a genre that I'm as allergic to as Tobias is to nu metal. The lyrics of Twenties verge on being cartoonish and not in a good way, and I'm not sure if that was the intended effect. However, musically it's one of my favorite Ghost songs, and I wish they would explore that sound further. Hunter's Moon feels somewhat out of place as well, almost as if it was a last-minute addition to the tracklist. But overall, I believe it's an absolutely stellar record and it will go down in Ghost's history as one of their best.

#Slav be concise for once challenge (impossible)

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darkkbluee · 7 months

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What are your lawlight headcanons?

Oh, an ask? In my inbox? It took a while to realize there really was something in the inbox and it wasn't a bot this time. Anon, this is my first real ask, I'm so touched <3

To the topic! Lawlight headcanons! I have so many, I don't even know where to start. Some of them are AU genre specific, some are based on which arc/timeperiod it is. So many thoughts, how to summarize...

Warning: Below is a long ramble of a few headcanons and why I think that way. They're headcanons, and don't need canon or authorial proof to exist, thanks. Some of them might be AUs too, oops.

For AUs set in the early 2000s, where Light is first arc age. L realizes he's in love first. Not because L's older. Because of the circumstances Light grew up in.

Light is the eldest (and only) son of his family. He had his life figured out since childhood and never doubted he would do anything other than follow that path: Become a detective, chief, and eventually director. Get a girlfriend, buy a car and a house, marry said steady girlfriend, have two kids, the whole traditional family thing. You can even see hints of that in second arc.

When I first read the manga, I could see it in manga!Light. It seemed that way to me because it is sort of a common cultural thing between some Asian countries. Not anime!Light though, which is interesting, but not the point here.

So, Light does not realize he's in love, because he's never had the question of whether he's gay, because he never thought the reason he can't keep his eyes off L is because he's attracted to L, because 'attraction to L' is a non-existent concept in his consciousness.

Light is not dense, nor homophobic or anything. He recognizes when other men are attracted to him, he accepts that people can love whoever they want. He just never superimposes that image on himself.

It takes a whole long while for his brain to cook enough, to separate himself from the image he has in his mind. Then, he questions his sexuality and realizes he is, indeed, attracted to men as well. Or rather, one specific man. He has no sexual and romantic interest in anyone else and by that age, Light has experimented enough to know that.

Between Older Light and L, Light would be the first one to figure it out. But between 18 - 21 year old Light and L, it would L.

2. L is very specific about textures. His favorite, the one he discovers when he meets Light, is Light. Light takes very good care of himself, his face and body being as much a resource he uses as his brains.

Cue touchy L. L likes to run his fingers through Light's hair, he likes it when he can touch Light skin-to-skin, likes it when Light touches him back with his fingers.

As much as L likes watching Light (because L will freely admit he is a shallow creature and Light is very attractive to watch indeed), L loves touching Light more. He may or may not miss body language cues if he's too close to observe the full picture, but the trade off is worth it to L.

3. Light's long list of ex-girlfriends and admirers has stumped L many times. Especially when Light admits they all knew about the others. And that they don't begrudge Light for not committing 100%. And that they still happily help Light with whatever he wants them for even decades later.

Sometimes, it makes L wonder if he is just another victim of Light Yagami's charisma. Then he discards that thought because it doesn't matter. He has Light and Light is just as obsessed with him right back. L is the eventual winner and it doesn't matter who caught whom when they're both in it together.

4. They're both highly competitive. It translates over to board games as well. It's a Rule TM, posted on the fridge, notarized, signed and stamped by their friends and family, that they are never allowed to play Monopoly. And Uno. And Catan. And- [an increasing list of trade focused games].

Addendum - Twister should only be played in personal space, behind closed locked doors! — Sayu and Mello

Addendum 2 - Light is forbidden to play Jenga with Near. — L

That's all for now! If I continue, I'll never stop XD

Thanks for the ask, Anon!

#lawlight #death note #light yagami #l lawliet #asks #ask: lawlight headcanons #my first ask!

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warsamongthestars · 1 month

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Okay, now its not just my grievances, but legit "what the fuck are you on about" and "What the fuck are you doing" with the TBB Writing.

( Sadly, I was Xpecting something like this. )

S3 - Howzer said something about Crosshair killing some of his squad. On screen, we all saw the episode, they were arrested. We saw no execution. I'll get to why this is an issue.

S3 - Where the fuck did you get AZI again? Did you kill Cid off screen? Wouldn't that call for a, umn, Fucking episode?

S3 - Crosshair is told of Tech's death... Off Screen. Y'know, the death of your batchmate, the closest you have to Brother-Squadmate-Best Friend Foreveries, is kinda of a big fucking deal. y'know? Big enough that, by showing the death of that Squadmate, you generally want to show the IMPACT of an IMPORTANT CHARACTER'S DEATH to the AUDIENCE. But no. There really wasn't, was there. Maybe a line here or two, but is that the kind of impact you want to the important character? 2 Lines?

Don't get me started on the "Blame the VIctim' shit. I'll get there.

S2 - Echo randomly Leaves... and then Randomly appears. So, an Important Character Leaves... Out of the blue. Y'know, if your important main character is going elsewhere, you generally want Set Up. If I can point out how Butterfree from the Old Pokemon Anime, had the saddest Epsiodes in existence--simply because he Left. But then I see Echo's and I'm going "Where the fuck did this come from", there's a Problem. And then he randomly appears again like... Why did you even leave if you were going to Come Back. Where the fuck are the conversations here, that actually walk the audience through the Character's thought processes?

S2 - Crosshair was apparently on the Platform or a Month. ... HOW? Seriously, How, that thing would sink without a ship, we saw it rise up for a ship. Kamino is infamously, in lore, for 2 decades now, Stormy as Shit. And who picked him up. Did he fucking teleport back to the Empire? Wouldn't that call for an Episode so that we can see what the fuck is going on?

S1 - Crosshair's Chip So a Tweet from Xitter, is apparently more important than placing what you want in your fucking story. And more, You show that this Chip was Enhanced, repeatedly, it GREW IN HIS BRAIN THIS WAS ON EPISODE 1, and suddenly, NOPE not there not effects no idea what you're talking about. THAT CHIP IS A BRAIN TUMOR, FOOL. So instead all those evil actions, caused yb the chip that was GROWN IN HIS BRAIN BY AT LEAST 3 SIZES, apparently were just CROSSHAIR ALL ALONG--WHAT BRAIN TUMOR. Do you see where I'm calling Victim Blaming.

S1 - Omega is Older! Cool. Where is this going to be relevant. why would we need to know? Its been over a season now, why is this fucking important. She met Emerie in late S2! Emerie is a clone now, how come she didn't know about that. Clearly this wasn't fucking important.

S1 - At no point did they talk about their missing batchmate. SO YOU'RE JUST SILENT ABOUT YOUR BATCHMATE, YOUR SUPER IMPORTANT CHARACTER YOU LITERALLY GREW UP WITH, WHO HAD YEARS WITH YOU, AND YOU'RE JUST NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT IT. If its not on Screen in front of the Audience, it Didn't Fucking Happen.

S1 - Episode 1 Now for the Meat. The start of all this shit. Overwhelming amount of "Guest star" characters, Guest start being "any other famous Star Wars character that isn't the Main Characters". An introduction to a kid character, one that is a Super Duper early 2000s Fanfic.net Totally Original Character Donut Steel. Who's... there to take importance away from the other characters. Repeatedly teasing the Chip, but no confrontation of Crosshair. Repeated shooting at Children, and no confrontation of Crosshair--arguably more important th an the above. That is definitely a What the Fuck Man, and it happened din the first Five minutes and nobody did jack shit. No trust or conversations between characters who are "Batch-mates"--implied in Star Wars to be the closest thing to family, and given the battlefield nature, would have to communicate behind closed doors or they might Die on Mission... No Communication has been had in 3 fucking years--expect to make Hunter or Omega right in every situation. A lot of talking, not a lot of doing or showing.

This episode only works, if you are not here for the Bad Batch. Because the writers have not done anything to the Bad Batch but cause problems that weren't needed, solutions that don't matter, because the problems are unneeded. They do not allow the BBs to Talk To Each Other (If its not on screen where the audience can see it, it didn't happen). Clear character derailment for a Fanfic.Net OC. And S3 shows evidence of AI writing. Conversations without context, shallow (if not insulting) character development in the face of Very Important Topics (Such as Family Member Death and Tumors / Drugging / Cult Manipulation), events that don't make sense in the telling.

( They have the animation budget to show things, and then they don't. They have the money to craft this, and they're not. )

S2 showed the same issue.

Unfortunately, we did see this coming since the Writing Strikes.

( Addendum, post-posting edit--sorry, I had to take these steps just in case, cos rage blinds me. )

So now, Clarification without all the swearing and general fan-rage.

They would see the victim blame himself and be blamed by the story, than take the steps to examine the problem They Clearly Showed, and instead decided to ignore the problem that Caused all this... And it is Victim blaming, because other characters have experienced the same problem, but are totally forgiven because its "not their fault".

THey would rather have characters walk in and out at random, diminishing if not removing the impact those characters have. Nothing Echo does now is of importance because they're barely showing it, and not dedicating time to Echo to build either his new posiion or his leaving--and they barely dedicated character time to Echo, by leaving him as the "bitch side character". The same goes with Tech, Tech's death has no impact anymore because they are ignoring it, maybe dedicating 1 or 2 lines and maybe a small moment of drama, but ultimately the impact is gone because they are not dedicating any real focus to it.

They would rather tell you what "actually happened"... when on review, what they just said didn't happen at all. If you do not show the audience what is in your story, then your story is literally hearsay. And in this day of AI writing, this context defiance has to be caught.

There are writing problems here that wouldn't have happened with a dedicating writing team. And there are more dedicated writers in the fandom, than there is in the Multbillion Dollar Publishing Corporation...

... and that is a Problem, because if you're being paid to do this and have a team, shouldn't this be seamless?

#star wars #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #the bad batch season 2 #the bad batch season 1 #the bad batch season 3 #The bad batch season 3 spoilers #tbb s3 spoilers #critical analysis

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faffreux · 7 months

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can you tell us about when you fell in love with fawful? :)

Yep. In fact, I'll write a whole mini essay for you so I can add it to the FAQ section of my website coming up shortly LMAO (SINCE I NEED TO FULLY ANSWER THIS QUESTION FOR THERE ANYWAY, RIGHT???) CLICK UNDER THE READ MORE TO SEE IT BECAUSE THIS IS GOING TO BE THE LONGEST THING I'VE EVER POSTED HERE, LMAO.

To preface, I have been a fan of the M&L games going back to the early-mid 2000s when I was a kid. I had no involvement with fandom or anything of the sort back then but I used to hop on my mom's bulky computer and look up fanart and other related content as early as 2004/5 and as a result, ended up captivated by the characters long before I knew who they actually were. (As a result of this, I have the names and art styles of various old M&L fandom creators permanently ingrained in my head and often wonder where they are today since a good deal of them vanished..!) It wasn't until 2006 that I got my first handheld console (DS Lite) and of course, what did I do? Immediately begged my mom to order me a used GBA copy of Superstar Saga.

When I finally had the game in my hands it was like coming home to a colorful world that I'd been captivated by for so long but never gotten the chance to actually explore until now. The characters felt like old friends and the Beanbean Kingdom as a location felt familiar and comforting to me. (As a side note, Popple quickly became my favorite. Shocker, right?)

I used to sketch various beans in my notebooks as well as on printer paper we had lying around the house. Long story short, I finished Superstar Saga and then a few years later in 2010 I picked up Bowser’s Inside Story and THAT’S WHEN THINGS SHIFTED–

BIS brought Fawful and his personality to life in a way that captivated my imagination like nothing else had prior. He quickly overtook Popple as my favorite character from then on forward… and that’s where it ends! Or.. is it?

Nah, that’s where it gets funky. Life got a little chaotic after that and not only did I stop playing video games altogether for many years, but I also almost completely gave up on art - the one thing I was most passionate about above all and thought I would make a career out of someday. A series of depressing events caused me to lose all hope and motivation for anything I created and the spark I’d kept inside of me for so long all but died out as a result.

We’re going to timeskip again, this time to late 2019. I’d just moved away from home permanently for the first time and had been getting settled in and no matter what I did to make my new apartment a cozy place it always felt like something was missing. My mind would keep wandering to the fact that I never made art anymore despite it having been such a key part of my life when I was younger. I so desperately wanted to change this and over the next few months the frustration only kept growing until on January 1st, 2020, I sat down in the living room with a pencil and paper in my hand and shut my eyes tightly before saying under my breath:

“I do not care what it is, I don’t care how it comes. Just please… PLEASE send me something to bring my art back. Anything… anything at all. I don’t care what I draw, I just want to be drawing again.�� And with that, I placed the lead onto the paper and began to sketch…

And from there… a familiar face appeared!

(Now I could ramble to you about how much I do NOT like this drawing and how off model it is from how Fawful actually looks… but I’ll forgive myself since I hadn’t touched the M&L games in over a decade at this point and had forgotten most of Fawful’s character. And yet?? Here he was.)

How else can I explain it except that in that moment it felt like the pencil in my hand had suddenly become one of these:

A joy that I hadn’t felt in SO long suddenly filled my entire being and without wasting another second, I immediately went online and ordered both Superstar Saga and Bowser’s Inside Story to replay again. In the time waiting for the games to arrive I had started drawing daily again - sketching out various old characters of mine with dozens of doodles of the bean man stacked in between them all.

There he was… always smiling, always happy to see me, and oftentimes with his arms outstretched as if to give an encouraging hug. When the games arrived I worked through them quicker than I ever had prior - finishing up Superstar Saga in less than a week and subsequently moving onto Bowser’s Inside Story with a LOT of excitement built up for it.

It was my first day playing and I was having the time of my life! The way Fawful looked in his little grey cloak with that enormous, charming grin of his as he bamboozled Bowser into eating the Vaccuum Shroom had me giggling with joy while words repeated in my brain over and over of: “I need to draw this later, I NEED to draw this later!!!” I WAS EXCITED ABOUT ART AGAIN… AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. I was practically hopping in my seat from the happiness I felt in my heart and chest every time Fawful appeared at this point!

This was how it felt until the moment I arrived at the Fawful Theatre and watched as he began dancing on the stage floor. THIS time.. something different came over me. If you’ve felt it before, then you’ll know what I mean when I say that it was like my entire body turned warm all at once, like some sort of flame had been lit inside. I’d never felt it for anything or anyone prior to then, and that's partly why it hit me as hard as it did. I was practically sweating.

Heck, I was so absorbed in my feelings that I had forgotten there was anyone else in the room with me! That is.. Until my roommate at the time spoke up:

Her: Are you alright? Me: Uhhh… yeah, why? Her: You’re red as a beet. Are you sure you’re okay?

By this time I had realized what was really going on so I reassured her I was fine, grabbed my 3DS, and ran to my room to finish the playthrough on my own so I wouldn’t embarrass myself any further, hahaha.

In the days, weeks, and months following that moment I became dedicated to drawing the best art of Fawful I could possibly create! What started as a challenge to myself to ‘give back’ to the person who’d given me back the ability to create again turned into someone I genuinely could not stop drawing for how much fun I was having doing it. The desire to make better and better art in order to honor him drove me to improve at a speed I never had prior, and soon thereafter I created Jolligig as a way for me to be in this colorful world with him and to express the deepening affection I was feeling for him with every day that passed by.

By some miracle, my prayer had been answered and here it was in the form of a grinning lima bean.

[End of Part 1. Interested in the rest? Yes… there’s more, I’m sorry. Please let me know in the comments. This took a while to write so I thought splitting it up would be best if folks are interested, LOL.]

#ASKS #MY GOD I AM SORRY (no i'm not)#fawfultalk #important

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dewitty1 · 6 months

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Fic Recs Wrap Up - October 2023 ꐑ(ꐌ◡ꐌꐐ)࿐࿔࿓[¬º-°]¬･*ᕐ ̆̈͜͡ ᕐ ોु✩°｡⋆:.｡. .｡.:*･ཥ•̬͡•ོཤ゜ﾟ･*☆ʔ•̫͡•ཻʕ

Nothing Like the Sun by Lomonaaeren

Harry finally realizes that he has trouble keeping lovers both because of his looks and because he isn’t very good at sex. He does what he can to alter that, but it seems he’s never going to be good enough to satisfy a wizard lover. When Draco Malfoy offers, Harry thinks a casual relationship with him might be the solution to his problems. But he should have remembered one thing: when it comes to Harry, Malfoy has a problem staying casual. Rec Post

And Still I Dream by greenmegsnoham, Yoro_Kobi @greenmegsnoham @gaudium6191

Draco was beyond frustrated with the school’s preferential treatment of sports programs over the arts. Determined to collect what is due, Draco must come toe to toe with the ever incessant thorn-in-his-side, Varsity Basketball Captain, Harry Potter. Though Draco may not receive the financial support he’d been hoping for, he just might get a boyfriend out of it instead… OR When you Dream a Dream, it just may come true… Rec Post

Curiosity, Wonder, Spontaneous Delight by cloudings

After Harry hears some rumours about Malfoy, he becomes more and more curious until he just has to get some answers. Malfoy is more than prepared to give him anything he needs, just as long as he gets something back in return. Harry’s not sure why he’s surprised that it’s something moderately illegal. In which Ron continues to get far too many eyefuls, Hermione has had quite enough with everybody, and Harry’s not sure why enemies to friends to friends with benefits isn’t enough for him. OR Harry becomes incredibly curious, and somewhere along the line ends up accidentally falling in love with Draco Malfoy. Because of course he bloody would. Rec Post

Romp and Circumstance by wolfpants @wolfpants

Since the war, Harry Potter has gone from Saviour to Scoundrel—not that he’s complaining. With a schedule full of gorgeous men, alcohol, and late nights, why would he want to change? Enter Draco Malfoy: beautiful, sharp, and completely untouchable. When Draco comes to Harry with a proposition to help him attract an engagement, Harry’s up for it—after all, how hard can it be not falling for his former nemesis? Very hard, apparently. Rec Post

A Shower, A Meal, A Nap, and A Shag by chickenlivesinpumpkin

Harry’s supposed to be alone in Grimmauld Place…so why is there a Malfoy in his shower? And what’s Harry going to do about it? Rec Post

Sunseeker by shiftylinguini @shiftylinguini

Harry is a struggling writer. Namely, he is struggling with: writing his next book, dealing with his agent, finding a decent tea strainer, fielding his friend’s concern over the aforementioned book, and figuring out who the cat loitering in his garden belongs to. He also has a slight liking-Malfoy problem. Okay, he has a massive liking-Malfoy problem. Rec Post

A Life Worth Remembering by Writcraft @writcraft

Severus Snape wakes in St Mungo’s, to discover that a potions accident has wiped the last forty years from his body and mind. Just twenty-five years old, Severus is reliant on Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, now both in their forties, to help him fill in the missing decades. As Severus tries to navigate a much-changed world, Harry and Draco struggle with a secret of their own. Rec Post

New Message by Mosrael @mosrael

Harry Potter has a crush on his roommate–like, a BIG one–but he can’t say anything to him, can he?! Naturally, he does what any early 2000s young adult would do and asks the internet for help, and gets a lot more back than he expected. Rec Post

Life skills outside the curriculum by Endrina @llendrinall

It was "Witch Weekly", of all people and organizations, the first to notice and comment on The Boy Who Lived’s absence from the ranks of first years at Hogwarts. The magazine went on to elucubrate that the young hero was studying at a foreign school, possibly Beauxbatons or Holzschuhkäse. Rec Post

Here are a few more fics I've read recently that y'all might like to check out as well!(ノﾟ∀ﾟ)ノ━☆ﾟ･*:.｡. .｡.:*･.*･｡ﾟ*:・ﾟ✧

Howlr by partialtopotter @partialtopotter

Howlr is the new dating application enchanting Witches, Wizards and Everyone in between. Are you looking for the one or a one-night stand; it’s all here folks. Howlr is sponsored by Weasley Wizard Wheezes, the same team that brought us the Spellular just two years ago. Ginny Weasley, famed chaser for the Hollyhead Harpies, swears by the app, ‘guaranteed to make sparks fly,’ she says. The magic awaits you!

where all the veins meet by eight_of_wands @saxamophone

It's the summer of 1998. The battle is over, and Voldemort is dead, but Harry still has more questions than answers. Who is he without a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head? What is he supposed to do now? His friends try to help, but the only thing that can hold his attention—one of the only things that ever has—is Draco Malfoy, out on parole and weirdly hanging around the British Museum. As they keep running into each other, Harry sees that Malfoy is different, and he wonders if he can be someone else, too. Featuring rumpled band shirts, poker games everyone hates, fumbling sex, and a Harry going a little mental over how wands even work.

The Secret's in the Telling by Verayne @veraynes-blog

Draco Malfoy suffers the unthinkable when he is turned into a werewolf. How is he supposed to live any kind of life afterwards, especially when Potter continues to stick his unwanted nose into things?

Wherever You Go, There You Are by Anonymous for hd-fan-fair/HD Career Fair 2023

Four years after the War, Harry still fights to save the wizarding world. Only, he’s traded prophecies and duels for fundraising and politicking. Worried that he’s burning himself out, his friends sign him up for a week-long muggle relaxation retreat in the mountains of Snowdonia. The last thing he expects to find there is Draco Malfoy, his old school rival, working as a yoga instructor. How on earth is he supposed to learn to relax when Malfoy’s meant to teach him? Rec Post

Connecting Lines, Connecting Crimes by Anonymous for hd-fan-fair/HD Career Fair 2023

Magic is going haywire after ley lines all over the world are mysteriously failing. A cross-border Task Force is set up by the League of Wixen Nations with Expert Cartologist Draco Malfoy and Ley Line Specialist Pansy Parkinson being called in from Britain to work with Magi-Geographers Harry Potter and Parvati Patil in India. But can they get to the root of the issue before it’s too late? Rec Post

Full Fathom Five by Anonymous for hd-fan-fair/HD Career Fair 2023

“Draco Malfoy is not a merman, and he does not perform for an audience in a tank,” Hermione said crossly. Harry had thought this would be just an ordinary holiday… Rec Post

( •ॢ◡-ॢ)-♡ I hope you enjoy these fics as much as I have! Happy reading, y’all! xoxo, Carey (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*💜💙💚💛❤💗💕💖

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unichrome · 6 months

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AI and the value of labour (but only if it's yours)

Few of you have missed the whole AI/AI-art/ChatGPT-debate by now and even though few have the technical literacy to actually know what it is and its implementations, it hasn't stopped people from having opinions on it, and wow they sure are Opinions. It's mainly about how it's art-theft and will put already struggling artists out of business because now there's a chance that their dandelion found in a deviantart furry artwork they made using GIMP once will now be seen made sort of in the same style on a 250x250 pixel generated picture from a free online generator. And now I'm going to be snarky about it but also highlight a problem seen from the other end of this - the value of labour, and I'm not talking about the artists labour here.

But first let's look back a little bit for some well-needed perspective:

The logic for this is nothing we haven't seen before; you can't copy art and have it made available for just everyone to use like this! In the early 2000's it put musicians out of business and destroyed music forever with the introduction of napster. Pirate bay is why movies no longer are being made. It has destroyed art as we know it when people tauntingly right-clicked on a cryptobro's NFT and clicked "save as" (which I assume is also very problematic for the people who are vehemently against AI art? It's a literal 1-to-1 copy of your work). Media corporations are dying because intellectual properties are no longer protected under the copyright laws after 70 or so years. In the 90's there was even some video star who literally murdered a radio star. With the introduction of vinyl, it even killed live music forever.

So technology has been destroying just about all forms of art as we know it for a while now and each time it's the same doomsday predictions from the newly formed kind of art-christianity where some art has soul (Good, Skilled Laboured artists) and others hasn't (Evil, of course).

Now for the informative part of the post:

In the 1970's, computers as we know them today began forming, and with it, the value of a computer programmers skill and labour. Alongside with this, they saw a growing problem: Corporations owned everything they made, and corporations will also have the whole say about what will be present on a computer and the price of everything present on it.

This was not very appreciated by neither the programmers, and nor the customers (although few saw this growing problem coming). So in a weird twist of fate, programmers became one of the most left-wing labour-rights occupation you could find by forming Free Software Foundation, GNU, and essentially setting the stage for you to be able to use the free GIMP software instead of buying a staggering price for Adobe's Photoshop. It enabled you to download firefox instead of buying a copy of internet explorer. Because yes, before this kind of software activism formed, and the general environment of software development became to make it as freely available as possible - and having an outright despise for corporations like Novell and Microsoft for taking such huge amount of money to their own pockets instead of the developers, literally every piece of software cost money. A LOT of money.

This kind of 100% for free software usage we're used to has also led to us no longer being appreciative of the work and skill that goes behind keeping a software not only developed and updated continuously for decades, but also spending money on keeping it hosted and delivered to you for free. We even joke and scoff about the mere thought of having to pay 0.99 Euro for an app we'd use daily and a developer spent 2 years in the making. Meanwhile, when someone offers to pay someone merely 10 euro or so for a handmade blanket, there's an outrage about the value of labour and skill. And rightfully so! I support that, and so should you, even if it's labour that you weren't the one making.

And it doesn't end there either - we all know corporations has no trouble finding new ways to charge you money. Organisations like Free Software Foundation, various Linux projects and Mozilla have campaigned for a freer usage in general, leading to fair-use laws, campaigning for the right to repair your technology instead of having to buy new one all the time, as well as preventing corporations from banning every other piece of software on a computer that they don't want you to have (from a competitor or free alternative of their software).

I mentioned Adobe specifically, because in the wave of anti-AI-art outcry, artists are campaigning for a ban on making software that uses other peoples artistic similarities (not copies mind you, similarities, meaning making it a copyright infringement to have art that is similar to yours, since that's what AI-art algorithms create), and I'm sure right off the bat many of you can see the huge problem with that, but Adobe sure isn't. They're also gladly in on this, because that would mean that free alternatives of Photoshop like GIMP would also become a copyright infringement. So would a lot of our other free software we use daily and take for granted.

That's all I wanted to say about this I think. The TL;DR version is basically to value labour even if it isn't yours, and to not take it for granted. As a final part to remember about AI is that it is a tool, and like any tool it can be used for good or evil. AI is what made it possible for us to make sense of the large hadron collider data and made enormous leaps in scientific discovery in just a few years, that would otherwise had taken 500 years to sort through by humans, and with a much higher rate of error.

#datatag #AI #computer science #labour #copyright

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stubblesandwich · 6 months

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Return To Me - Chapter 4

A/N: It was requested I post this here, as well, so here ya go! (Sorry if I double tagged anyone.) I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you endlessly to anyone still following this story. You have all my love.

Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.

Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. Find on A03 here

++++++

Chapter Four - Don't Get Around Much Anymore

Three Weeks Post-Op

Emma had been called a cynic plenty of times in her life. As it turned out, being pushed through the foster system for a decade and a half hadn’t exactly turned her into a beaming optimist. Like most cynics, she claimed she was actually a realist. She planned for the worst, because things tended to not work out that great for her, and hoped for the best. Sometimes she was pleasantly surprised.

But in the litany of potential outcomes Emma had been preparing herself for, a new heart had never actually made the list. It was akin to winning the lottery, in her mind. Life had not been particularly kind to her. Yet, she had always taken her blows in stride, and she never took handouts. And the prospect of finally making it to the top of the transplant list at the age of twenty-six, after almost a decade of waiting, felt like a handout from life.

Emma Swan had never been one to sit around waiting for handouts.

There were other things she had prepared herself for. Increasing the handful of pills she took each day to keep her body from failing on her any faster. Moving from her full time job and supporting herself completely on her own to working part time, then very part time, to not at all. Getting on a government disability program. Each new punch to the gut from life she took in stride, as best she could.

And through it all, righting her each and every time she stumbled, were David and Mary Margaret. They were some of the best, most genuine and caring people ever to be placed on planet earth. She didn't deserve them—there was a small, cruel voice in the back of her head that affirmed this for her every day. But they just kept showing up for her, and they wouldn’t leave, and they wouldn’t let her quit.

As it turned out, after the first week, getting a whole new vital organ sewn into her chest wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. By the third week, the pain was starting to subside, transitioning into a residual soreness, and her biggest struggle currently was not clawing at her incision every time it itched. When the skin itself didn’t feel like an odd mixture of both tight and numb, it felt ablaze with itchiness. It was all she could do not to scratch at it. (Every time she did, Mary Margaret would bark at her to stop it, or David would throw a random item in her direction. Most recently, it had been a box of tissues that had narrowly missed her head, and he threatened to get an extendable fly swatter to swat her with, as needed.)

For the first time in her life, Emma was well and truly doted upon. She had family members who inarguably refused to leave her side. That is, of course, until Mary Margaret was forcibly removed by way of her impending school year start.

She’d had almost a month left of her summer break when Emma had had her operation, and she had been able to push almost all of her classroom prep off until the very last minute. David helped her ready her room when he could, but Emma knew her friend was fraying at the seams from trying to do so much in such a short span of time. Mary Margaret had a handful of vacation days, but she hoarded them like a dragon for true emergencies, and worried constantly that if her students started off the school year with a substitute teacher, they would just end up watching movies all day instead of actually learning something.

This was their last weekend before the new school year started and Mary Margaret went back to working full days. Emma was lounging on the couch, dozing, lidded eyes half focused on the episode of Friends quietly playing on the living room TV. She and Mary Margaret had just finished putting together twenty-five “Welcome back!” folders for her incoming students, as well as a second set for their parents.

“Why couldn't they have been ready for you to have the surgery during the start of summer?” Mary Margaret lamented, as she plopped her last folder down on the pile. “I would have had three months off to be here with you!”

David glanced over at them from the pile of pans he was washing at the kitchen sink and gave his wife an odd look. “You do realize you're wishing the woman whose heart Emma has now had died earlier in the year instead of later, right?”

Mary Margaret looked aghast. “No! Of course I don’t wish that. I didn't... I just meant...”

David raised his eyebrows at her, but by now he was smiling gently at his wife. Mary Margaret huffed. A slightly awkward silence settled between the three of them. The fact that another person was dead and Emma was still alive because of it was something they all knew but typically left unsaid. David had said it out loud, and now the strangeness of that fact settled over them all heavily.

“I wonder what she was like,” Emma murmured from her spot on the couch, puncturing the silence. “They couldn't tell me much. Well, couldn't or wouldn't, not sure which. All they said was that she was older than me, but not by too much, and in great health. Obviously we had to have the same blood type. But they couldn't tell me how she died, just that it didn't affect her heart.”

“Probably head trauma,” David said sagely. Emma winced at the thought, but he was likely right. He had seen enough as an officer to know. Especially working night shifts, when the majority of car accidents took place in the area.

“That sounds awful,” Mary Margaret said quietly.

“I'd never say I was glad someone else died,” David said after a while. “But I'm glad Emma's still with us.” The fact that these things were one in the same went unsaid. Mary Margaret reached over and squeezed Emma’s arm in gentle agreement with her husband. Emma glanced over at her and offered her sister-in-law a small smile, trying to convey to her without having to say it aloud that it was okay.

But in truth, Emma was uncomfortable. It just made her feel so strange, knowing that for every happy moment she now got to have here with her family, someone out there was living new moments, making new memories, without their own loved one to share them with. Someone out there was grieving a tremendous loss—had lost a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife. The woman whose heart Emma now had could have been any one of those things, or all of them at once. She was presumably loved, adored, missed dearly. And Emma just didn’t know what to do with that information, how to carry these feelings with grace and proper gratitude. Often they \manifested in the form of guilt. David and Mary Margaret were quick to talk her out of that whenever it came up. That woman’s death meant something, they assured her. Part of her lives on, and part of her saved a life. That has to mean something to her family, right?

They were right, Emma knew. David saw so much meaningless death in his line of work that she inherently believed him when he told her that it was a gift, her being able to use someone else’s heart. (She didn’t have the courage to ask him how he would feel about any of Mary Margaret’s vital organs going to someone else, if she died.) It was a guilt she carried nonetheless, and she carried it poorly. It was an awkward shape, this guilt, and heavy, and she didn’t know how to carry it well. It all too often made her fumble.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said Mary Margaret looked over at her sharply, instantly suspicious that Emma was still feeling off from the previous conversation, but Emma was quick to wave away her worry. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “Really. I just feel grimy, and I don’t want to taint the epicness of Last Dinner with my stink.” This was their last evening—Last Dinner—before Mary Margaret returned to work full time, and they were marking the occasion with David’s mother’s famous lasagna recipe, a favorite from David and Emma’s semi-shared childhood (and coincidentally the only meal David really knew how to make, but that was beside the point).

“I second the vote for a shower,” David said, raising his hand in mock vote.

“You would,” Emma said with a roll of her eyes that David didn’t even need to see to know was there. Mary Margaret started to rise with her, as if about to help her to her feet. “Relax, woman,” Emma said, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder gently to stop her. “I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.”

“Jury’s still out,” came David’s response.

Emma looked at Mary Margaret, half expecting her to admonish her husband, but Mary Margaret just stared up at her with poorly veiled anxiety. “I’m not!” Emma said. “Guys, it’s been almost a month.”

“Three weeks,” Mary Margaret corrected. “Since you got a new heart. Not since you got your tonsils removed.”

“Okay,” Emma said, stretching out her back a bit as she stood there, chasing a kink out between her shoulder blades. “Sure, it was a big surgery.” David scoffed from his place by the sink, and Emma shot him a warning look. “But the doctors even said I have to try to do more on my own. I think it’s safe to say that includes showering.” There was no argument from David on that one. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, looked unconvinced.

“What if you slip and fall?”

“I’ll be sure to have my Life Alert button handy,” Emma retorted wryly. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. I can handle showering.” Before they could argue any further, Emma slipped away, locking herself in the bathroom.

“Let me know if you need any help, okay?” Mary Margaret called through the door in a singsong voice only a few moments later. Emma swore she heard the doorknob jiggle, like her friend was testing to see if it was locked or not. It was, thankfully. Emma was already halfway undressed, and the last thing she needed was for her brother to get an accidental peep show because his wife thought Emma had already gotten stuck behind the toilet and died or something. “Emma?”

Oh, my God, Emma mouthed to herself. “Thanks,” she called out. “I will!” That seemed to appease Mary Margaret. But the faint squeak of the bar stool at the kitchen island assured Emma she hadn't gone far. It was endearing, how much they worried about her. At least, that's what she told herself in the moments like this, when it was almost impossible to find even just two seconds of privacy. Sometimes, she really did feel like she was a little kid again. Only now, she was re-living a much different version of her childhood. A sweeter, kinder version wherein people actually wanted to take care of her and didn't think of her as a monumental burden.

The tub's faucet squeaked shrilly as she turned on the water. When she’d first gotten home a week ago, just that motion, gripping the handle and giving the antique metal a yank, had left her arm feeling like a limp noodle. She was doing much better now, but she still felt pathetically weak and exceptionally out of shape. At one point, long ago, she had been fairly strong. A thin child, but always scrappy. Now she was a pale waif, muscles atrophied over the years as she'd gotten sicker. She vowed to herself that was going to change. Despite how frail she was, at the same time, she legitimately felt like she could take on the world now, with this new heart. She could finally breathe, take a breath fully in and out, without feeling lightheaded. That alone was a miracle.

Gingerly, she lifted her tank top up over her head. Her scar, where a surgeon had cut into muscle and bone and forcibly ripped open her sternum, stood out, an angry red slash against alabaster skin. For the first few weeks, it had been concealed by gauze. By this point, it was still tender, but her doctor encouraged her to air it out often. She even had some skin mobility exercises she was supposed to be doing daily, to help the layers of tissue beneath the scar not permanently adhere to one another. The scar itself stretched from the top of her chest, dropping down in between her breasts, all the way past her sternum bone. It was a thick, gnarled thing, aesthetically ugly; but she found herself overwhelmingly grateful for it the longer she looked at it. As ugly as it was, this scar meant she was going to live to see her next birthday.

Washing herself was still a slow, cautious process, but much easier than it had been when she’d first gotten out of the hospital. She took the time now to do her full, luxury, self care princess shower routine, something she hadn’t had the strength to do in months. The venting system in the loft's tiny bathroom was terrible, and by the time she stepped out of the shower, steam cloaked the room like a fog. The sheer dampness of the air made her cough when she inhaled. Emma didn't care; she felt amazing. It was easy to underestimate how much better a good shower could make a person feel. She felt human again, instead of the fresh-from-the-hospital, invalid goblin she’d been feeling like for the past few weeks. Humming to herself, she dried off, turbaned her wet hair, and started to dress.

David had the water running at the sink, and the apartment’s ancient radiator had kicked on next to the bathroom; when Emma finally opened the bathroom door, her brother and sister-in-law didn’t hear the faint creak of the old wood on its hinge as it started to open.

“But you love your classroom.” David was saying in a low voice. It was clear he was trying to be fairly quiet, but this felt like intruding in on a conversation that had been going on for several minutes. Possibly the whole time she’d been in the shower.

Emma didn't hear Mary Margaret sigh, but she could tell by the tone of her voice that her words had come on the end of one. “Of course I do,” she said, “And I really do miss my kids. But Emma needs me here. I can't just leave her! She just got a new heart, David. A heart. It's not like she had her wisdom teeth removed and just needs a day or two to get back on her feet.”

The aforementioned heart skipped a beat in Emma's chest. A familiar, sinking feeling of guilt settled low and heavy in Emma's stomach.

“But she will get back on her feet,” David said gently. “You know she will. She just needs time.”

“Exactly! And she needs me here to help her until she does.”

“No, she doesn't.”

“David—”

“Mary Margaret,” David interrupted lovingly. “She's going to be okay. Better than okay. This is the day we've all been waiting for, don't forget. She's getting a second chance at life here.” Unexpected tears welled in Emma's eyes at that. “And Emma knows that,” David continued. “You and I both know she's going to be chomping at the bit to get back out there. It's going to be hard enough keeping her here the six weeks it'll take for her to heal. She's not going to need our help half as much as you think she will.”

Mary Margaret started to respond, but Emma couldn't take it anymore. She took the bathroom's old doorknob in her hand and gave it a good rattle, like she had just started to open it, and the door creaked loudly as she pushed it fully open. David and Mary Margaret grew hush until Mary Margaret piped up with, "Oh, hi Emma!" a little too brightly. David noticeably busied himself with cutting the garlic bread he’d pulled out of the oven moments before. The guilt at having eavesdropped coiled in Emma's chest like a snake ready to spring, and she swallowed around the lump that had grown in her throat. “Hey,” she said, trying her best to sound normal.

“Everything go okay?” Mary Margaret asked. “No dizziness?”

“I didn’t hear the Life Alert alarm go off,” David said dryly, shooting his sister a wink.

“I feel amazing,” Emma said earnestly. “Seriously.” She sidled up to her brother and successfully bumped him out of the way, taking over the cutting of the garlic bread despite his weak protestations.

“Oh, good,” Mary Margaret breathed, and the relief was evident in her voice. She shared a glance with David, which Emma pointedly ignored, and moved to grab the stack of dishes waiting on the island so she could start setting the table.

“I was thinking,” Emma went on, “Maybe I could come help you set up your classroom later today. If you think you need the help. Or I could just come keep you company, get a change of scenery.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” David said, as he watched his wife’s expression.

“That would be great, honestly,” Mary Margaret said, but was quick to add, “As long as you’re feeling up to it.”

“I mean, as long as you don’t have me lugging around twenty-pound carts of Crayons or something,” Emma laughed, “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Do fourth graders still use crayons?” David asked, as he popped open the oven one final time and withdrew the lasagna. The cheese on top was browning and bubbling and a minute away from burnt, just the way his mother had always cooked it, and the whole thing looked wonderful.

“Not really,” Mary Margaret said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. I have a big, handsome deputy to do all my heavy lifting for me.” She batted her eyes at her husband a few times, who grinned back at her.

“All right, lovebirds,” Emma said, as she clicked the salad tongs at them a few times in playful warning. “Let’s eat. I’ve got my appetite back and I’m actually starving.”

“Jeez,” David said, “You’d think she’d gotten a new stomach with the heart. She’s gonna eat us out of house and home now.”

Table set, food out, they took their respective seats. David uncorked a bottle of red wine he’d been saving for a special occasion, which Emma was definitely not allowed to have, but she told Mary Margaret to enjoy it for her.

As Mary Margaret spooned squares of lasagna onto everyone’s plate, Emma took a moment to try to find the right words to say to convey how she was feeling to these people who would seemingly do anything in the world for her. But what she wanted most is for them to get back to living their lives, too. They had put off so much for her sake, and she was more grateful than she knew how to say. But it was time to move on now, to heal, for all of them.

“I know it can suck, having such a huge surgery,” Emma started, pausing to clear her throat. “But this is different.” She glanced up at Mary Margaret, who was watching her closely. “I mean, a month ago, I was dying. I never told you guys this, but it just felt like the end. I was working on drafting a will.”

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly.

“That’s so morbid,” David said.

“I know it’s stupid.” Emma toyed with the end of her napkin as she stared down at her plate. “I don’t really have anything to will to anyone. I was just going to leave anything I had to you guys.” She cleared her traitorous throat again and took a moment to blink back some tears. She needn’t have bothered; when she glanced up at her family, they were both openly tearing up as they looked at her. “Okay, stop,” she said, pointing her fork at them, “Or I’m going to lose it. Absolutely no crying in baseball.”

“Got it,” Mary Margaret said, her voice watery and absolutely unconvincing.

“Just… Thank you,” Emma said, when she finally got her voice back under control. “I don’t want to think about where I’d be without you both. From the bottom of both my hearts,” she said, with a wry little smile she couldn’t keep at bay, “Thank you.”

David chuckled, wiping at his eyes, and Mary Margaret continued to stare at her, smiling and barely holding back the floodgates. “We love you, sis,” David said, and a moment later he raised his wineglass. “To Emma’s new lease on life.” Mary Margaret’s wine glass followed, and Emma clinked her water glass with theirs.

“And Mary Margaret’s new school year,” Emma added.

“Hear, hear,” Mary Margaret agreed. “I’ll take prayers, good vibes, anything you’ve got.”

“You’re going to do great,” David assured her, as he put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer to kiss her cheek. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”

Dinner was splendid, and the company even better. It was the first full meal Emma was able to enjoy without feeling nauseated, which was a win in her book. She literally couldn’t think of the last time that had happened. Mary Margaret did indeed have Emma’s wine, and was perhaps a little tipsy when they later ventured out to put some finishing touches on her classroom, which just made it all the more enjoyable for Emma and David.

And as Emma settled into bed that night, for the first time in a long time, she felt well and truly good. She felt full, warm, strong, and loved. And she knew, felt sure in her bones, that this was the start of one of the best years of her life.

+++++

The funeral went as well as a funeral could--especially considering there was no actual body to bury. Milah had set it up long beforehand that all salvageable organs were to be donated to the nearest hospital at the time of her death, then the rest of her body donated to science. This made planning her funeral and memorial service a unique affair, as there was no body for a wake, no urn of ashes received. That he would receive later, whenever the hospital saw fit. So Killian honored his wife's memory the best way he could.

Everyone who had ever known her in the past few years since she and Killian had moved Stateside was crammed into a small funeral home to celebrate her life and speak well of her. Her parents were long dead, but he had managed to get his hands on some childhood photos from her aunt who still lived across the pond; a small smattering of her extended relatives had sent cards to pay their respects. But the room was filled primarily with her coworkers and friends she’d made in the few years they’d lived in Boston.

Milah had been a truly gifted photographer, both in her work and personal life, evidence of which sat neatly framed and displayed on nearly every available inch of table space in the room. All the best photos Milah had ever taken through her work had been printed and framed and displayed, tucked neatly between bouquets of flowers. One table was so long, it took up the entire back wall.

Killian had almost, almost, completely lost the last tenuous grip he had on his sanity when the wrong flowers had come in that morning. He had distinctly ordered stargazer lilies, his wife’s favorite flower, for the table arrangements. Instead, what had been delivered to him were a rainbow assortment of Gerber daisies, of all things, which he viewed on this particular day as nothing short of an abomination. As it turned out, there had been a mistake with the delivery trucks, and his order had been sent to a birthday party instead. It probably should have embarrassed him, how angry a simple mix up of flowers had made him. But as he had very little pride left, he was literally seeing red, until Robin showed up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently steered him out the side door and outside for some fresh air. Will took over, his general belligerence a helpful and actually useful tool that day, and tried to get the flowers sorted out with minimal shouting.

As Killian stood now, gazing down at the myriad of perfect photos his wife had taken over the course of her career, he belatedly realized he had been the star of many of them, unbeknownst to him. His wife had apparently been a ninja behind her viewfinder when he wasn’t paying attention. It should have made him feel awkward, being the focal point of so many of her photographs; the last thing he wanted now was attention. And yet, he couldn’t help but smile at most of them. One of him leaning over the railing of a dock, for instance, staring pensively out at sea, squinting slightly in the light of the sun. Another of him from behind, a shadowed figure standing on the beach with his toes buried in the sand and his hands in the pockets of his shorts, staring out at the red slashed sky of an oncoming storm. He was the blurred, black clad figure in the background or at the helm in several photographs of the ships he and his brother had helped restore.

It was visible, tangible proof of how much she had loved him, how often her camera found itself pointed in his direction, focused on him. And God, if that didn’t make him miss her all the more. His heart was an open wound, and he was never going to be able to staunch the flow from it. Day by day, he felt like he was bleeding out, until soon there would be nothing left of him.

One photo, his favorite, and one that was already framed in his home, stood out prominently. His and his brother, Liam, in front of their first real score for the ship restoration foundation, a beautiful, towering piece of history in the form of a stunning antique merchant vessel. Liam’s arm was thrown over Killian’s shoulders, his face alight with absolute joy (and possibly the buzz from the beers they’d had over lunch). They were both squinting, laughing like fools at having finally pulled it off. Towering behind them, not to be overshadowed, was the ship, herself: the Jewel of the Realm. Milah had been sent by a local paper to get photos of the ship, and her new owners, as a focal point for a story on local maritime history.

Killian felt fortunate he remembered that day so well. It had felt like the best day of his entire life, at the time. Seeing his brother so elated, after everything they had endured together, had been enough to send Killian to the moon. It felt like things were finally, finally going their way. He had taken to Milah instantly, and spent the hour regaling her with the history of the ship. A merchant ship, originally, but thought to have been used for piracy at one point. He leaned heavily into the implications of the latter fact, as he felt—rightly so—that it added intrigue, and Milah had been enamored with the Jewel. He'd joked that day about renaming it the Jolly Roger, much to his brother's chagrin. She’d had other work to get to that day, so she hadn’t stayed long, but she’d given him her business card, which he still carried in his wallet. Liam had been killed shortly after, on one of his last missions with the Royal Navy before his scheduled retirement. Everything had changed, then. But Killian had always felt especially lucky that it had been Milah that day who had come to take their photo. For one short hour, she had been able to meet his brother, before Killian had lost him forever. The stars had aligned, and for one short span of time, the man who had meant the most to him and the woman who would come to mean everything to him had met, briefly. It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, but to Killian, it had to be enough.

And then there were the glorious photos of the rest of the ships he had brought on through the years. He had always marveled at Milah’s skill behind a camera, her ability to find just the right angle, at just the precise time of day, to truly capture the essence of the ships he restored. Through her eyes, even the in-progress pictures never made them look like pieces of floating shit, which some of them very much were at the start of the process. She managed to make them look like hidden treasure, just waiting to be uncovered. Pieces of history waiting to be lovingly restored to their former glory. That’s what he’d felt like, with her. She’d been the one to see past his flaws after the death of his brother, to see something worth loving in him, something worth restoring.

And now what was he, without her?

The frequent looks of sympathy that came his way over the course of the memorial service were one of the worst parts of the day. Each and every concerned glance that flit in Killian's direction was threaded not only with heavy condolences, but something much worse: pity. And he knew he was a pitiable sight, indeed. He was dressed well enough, in a deep black suit Milah had bought for him after his business had another big break. But, his arm with the broken collarbone was still in a sling and had no hand at the end of it. Dark circles cradled his eyes, which seemed to be permanently bloodshot these days. He had given up almost entirely on sleep.

Sleeping felt impossible, an insurmountable task despite its simplicity; the bed was too big, too cold, and too empty when he was the only one in it. He tried—really tried. Each night, he made a valiant attempt to sleep in his own bed. He'd toss, turn, and generally do a lot of staring up at his ceiling. Eventually, he resorted to Netflix. But his “recently watched” list was full of her favorite shows, episodes half finished, series just begun. It was a terrible distraction.

The first week after he arrived home from the hospital, his recliner chair in the living room had been the only place he could comfortably fall asleep with his arm in a sling. It was a lumpy, unsightly thing he had inherited from his brother (it was this reason and this reason alone his wife had allowed him to keep it.) Milah had called it his old man chair. These days, he’d often fall asleep in the chair, wake up with a start an hour later, and make his way to the couch, where he’d try to fall back asleep, but would mostly lie awake, staring into the dark, letting his mind off its leash and letting it wander to dangerous places.

Often these thoughts centered on what he would do if he could track down the driver who had hit them head on, then fled the scene. What he would do when he found him or her varied. Sometimes, he pictured lighting him on fire. The next moment, he'd revel in the thought of running him through with a knife, watching him slowly bleed out on the floor. Or he’d take his hand from him, too. Such thoughts kept him company and carried him through until morning.

Now, with the lack of sleep and the general dissociation he felt, he often didn’t feel cemented in reality. When he looked around the room, taking in the funeral parlor, it felt like this was happening to someone else, and he was merely observing. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by a sea of people who didn't know what to say to him. The moment never came that he was spared the awkward indignity of a conversation with someone who had little else to say other than I'm sorry.

She was a lovely person.

(Each time, he bristled at the use of the past tense.)

She'll be missed.

Pity had overtaken the room, lingering like a dense fog. Everywhere he turned, his friends, her friends, co-workers, even a handful of people he had never seen before in his life, were all wearing the same expression on their faces. It transcended simple pity. It was next-level pity, flashing from their eyes and those slight down-turned corners of their mouths like a brightly-lit billboard in the night that read "YOUR LIFE DEPRESSES ME."

He couldn't blame them. He pitied himself, too, when he wasn't numb, pulled down so deep into his own despair he could no longer think straight.

At least the food was decent—or so he had been overhearing. One quick glance over at Will Scarlet in the back of the room, face stuffed with h'orderves, told him the funeral parlor's appetizers couldn't have been terrible. If there had ever been a time he appreciated his friends more, he couldn't think of it. Of all the people who had shown up to the service, Locks and Scarlet were the only two who didn't make him want to scream. Or run. Or throw a punch. All of it, all at once.

Will and Robin sat apart from the rest, in a pair of wingback armchairs in the corner of the room. Killian hadn't had a chance to speak to either of them, apart from initial hellos and quick hugs when they'd first arrived, and of course the ordeal with the flowers, but somehow, he knew without even asking they intended to stay for the entire affair, likely planning to take him out for a drink when this was all over.

What else do you do for your best friend after his wife's funeral?

All in all, it wasn’t a very hopeful affair, and too often bordered on bleak. Killian had no words in honor of Milah he wanted to share with a roomful of people who didn’t know her very well, and he didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down. So, people ate, drank, and made a reserved and somber form of merry. They swapped stories back and forth, each offering up little pieces of the woman they had known.

Milah's parents had died years ago, and she had no siblings, so the room was occupied primarily by people she had thought of as friends. That was a nice thought, and in the coming weeks, Killian would be touched by the food, flowers, and cards that continued to arrive on his doorstep in memory of his wife.

But here, in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to find hope in anything.

+++++++

One Year Later

Was a house truly haunted if you didn’t mind the ghost?

It felt like a haunting for months after Milah’s funeral, this limbo state he found himself in, where he couldn’t bring his heart or his brain to fully comprehend that she was gone. They traded shifts in misunderstanding, his heart and brain. There were days where, logically, he understood his wife was dead. And yet, his heart still leaped at the sound of a car door shutting outside, or an imagined creak in the floorboards that sounded like her coming around the corner in the hall. Other days, his heartache was so profound, he could barely muster the strength to get out of bed. All too often, he’d forget, and for a few blissful minutes, reach for his phone to call her and ask her a question. Those were beautiful moments, the forgetting. But the remembering that followed took his breath away.

Then there were the things around the home he couldn’t bring himself to toss. Notes she’d left on the fridge, a grocery list on the table. Leftovers from her favorite meal at their favorite restaurant he couldn’t bring himself to throw away until they were fouling up the whole kitchen. Her phone was recovered from the accident and eventually made its way to him, via the detectives working the hit and run case. He went through her email drafts, texts, anything he could get his hands on that held pieces of Milah. He'd saved every voicemail she'd ever left him, had them memorized, and he'd play them when he missed her most, poking the bruise in his heart over and over until it numbed and didn't hurt so much. It all felt relatively harmless, like doing this to himself couldn’t possibly be a bad thing.

Until he found himself practically sobbing the floor of the shower one morning over a soggy clump of her hair he’d pulled from the drain.

He just couldn’t seem to pull himself together.

How do you bring yourself to purposefully excavate traces of someone from your life, after they’re gone, until it was like they weren’t even there at all, the life you shared existing only in snapshots and memories? How exactly does one get to that place, force yourself to loosen your grip on all you have left of the person you love, the person you’d give anything to see one last time? Killian couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t picture himself ever ridding himself completely of Milah’s memory.

But he could stop leaving land mines for himself.

He’d always run a tight ship at home, in terms of cleanliness. He had never had much, by way of possessions, and wasn’t sentimental about keeping things. Now he found himself debating whether or not he should keep a note in the bathroom his wife had scrawled out for herself to remind herself to order new contacts. These were the silly, useless things he stared at for minutes on end, debating what to do with. This little scrap of her pretty handwriting he recognized and loved. The thought of it winding up in a landfill somewhere made him ill.

Eventually, he gathered these random scraps and pieces of her he’d found (except the clump of hair from the drain—that one did make it into the waste bin, thankfully) and gently shepherded them into a large Ziploc bag, which he kept in a box on her side of the closet.

Robin and Will called often, texted even more often, and even dropped by now and again. They offered their help constantly, gladly would have helped with menial tasks like this (like throwing away scraps of paper Milah might have touched, God, he was a mess), but he turned them away each time. He just wanted to shut the world out, encase himself in a tomb of his own grief.

He hadn’t even been able to see her, to say goodbye to her, because he hadn’t been bloody conscious for it. He had no memory of Robin telling him of her death; in the week following the accident, he left a slew of traumatized nurses in his wake as people had to tell him again and again for what felt like the first time that his wife was gone.

Milah, bless her ever-loving soul, had signed herself up to be an organ donor. Of course she had. On some level, he knew this. It was marked on her driver’s license, and it was surely something they had talked about at one point. But now he resented it, resented the whole idea of it. He resented anything that didn’t allow him to see his wife one last time. One doctor had had the absolute audacity to tell Killian that he didn’t want to see his wife, anyway; the damage from the accident had been too great, the brunt of which had gone to her head, and that it was a miracle her heart was still beating enough to allow for any organ transplants. Killian, for his part, had an entirely different definition of the word “miracle”.

So he waited to receive her ashes, held a funeral without her body. But he certainly didn’t wait patiently.

He wonders sometimes what she would think of what he's become. No doubt there would be times she'd laugh at how ridiculous he was being, debating on keeping an old, wet clump of her hair like some kind of serial killer, and the subsequent guilt he felt at throwing it away, this gross little piece of her DNA.

And yet, he reminds himself that there is, oddly, more of her DNA out there somewhere. Somewhere, out in the world, a select few of her vital organs are in new bodies, presumably thriving and keeping their hosts alive and well. Presumably, there are people out there who will be forever grateful for these pieces of his wife. Actual, living pieces of her. Killian has no idea how to feel about that, truly. There will come a day, when he is able to pull himself out of this darkness that perpetually feels more crushingly inescapable by the day, that he is able to see the true and abundant beauty in it. Milah, gone, but literal parts of her living on, providing life-giving support to someone else’s body and soul. That's the true miracle, really, and something he’d know she would be proud of.

For now, in the depths of his despair, he feels annoyed, indifferent at best. Her benevolent medical and scientific donation was, for many long months, the thing standing between him and a proper burial for his wife, the thing that stood in the way of closure and him being able to say goodbye to her properly. This is the thing his mind latched onto, chooses as a target for his blame.

Closure arrives on his doorstep one afternoon, boxed and bubble wrapped, in the form of an unassuming black urn. When he finally received her ashes, half a year after her death, he knew what he would do with them, knew immediately what she would want him to do with them. But he can’t yet bring himself to say goodbye, and the urn sat above their fireplace for months. This is the moment it hits him, truly, that she is gone. This is what it takes for it to finally sink in. He spends a long time building up the courage, brick by brick, to do what he needs to do. And as what would be her 37th birthday approaches on a warm July day, he finally gathered the strength to lay his wife to rest and honor her the way she deserved.

What he doesn’t appreciate about the day, however, is the weather, which turns out to be an absolutely perfect New England summer day, which Killian very much resented.

It was almost like it was mocking him. Jabbing a bright, sunshiny finger right into his face and laughing at his grief, which still, even almost a year after the death of his wife, was still a wound that had left him hollowed. When his brother had died, suddenly and with too much life left unlived, he'd felt like the ground itself had been pulled out from under him, and he'd been left in free fall. Now, with Milah gone, it felt as if his heart had been ripped right out of his chest and crushed in front of him.

How did people live like this?

If he were truly honest with himself, Killian wasn't certain what he was doing each day could actually be called living. He was alive, sure. Most days, the only thing that kept that from being true was the unknown lurking behind the veil of death. He had his own theories, his own hopes, for what awaited in a possible afterlife, but of course, no one really knows for sure until their time comes. He couldn't be sure what would happen to him, whether or not he'd see Milah, if he died tomorrow. Hell would be dying and not being reunited with her. And that was a hell whose existence he was not quite ready to test.

The closest thing he had to his wife now was resting in his lap, ashes encased in ceramic. He had taken a small, private sailboat out to sea, sailed until there was no one else in sight, trying to find a good spot to release her ashes to the ocean she had loved so much. It had been close to two hours, now; he knew he was putting off the inevitable. If he didn’t do it now, he feared, with good reason, that he never would.

The best part about giving someone’s ashes to the sea was that there wouldn’t be one particular spot where her body would be laid to rest. The waves would take the dust of her and spread it for him, from shore to shore, just like they had taken his brother’s ashes. There would be no headstone, but the ocean itself would remind him of her, and he could visit her anytime he liked on a sea that had always brought him a sense of serenity.

Killian Jones had never believed in soul mates until he’d met Milah. And he still didn't quite believe in them, in the traditional sense. He didn't believe in a ready-made mate just waiting for him to find her. No, in his experience, life was far from ever that easy or that simple. But things had changed for him when he'd met his wife. Then, with her love, the broken pieces in him, irrevocably shattered the day his brother had died, shifted together into something that could almost be held together again. With her, he’d felt more whole than he could ever remember feeling in his life.

She had been married at the time, when they’d met. Daydreaming of leaving her terrible husband, dreams which grew in intensity with each passing day. And while she hadn't exactly left him for Killian, she may has well have. Everything had changed for her that day, too.

For while Milah had been his partner, they hadn't met each other and been perfectly content. But they had made each other stronger, in all the ways that counted. Now he believed wholeheartedly that soul mates existed. But they weren't found, ready made and prepackaged. They were made, forged through love and hard work working hand in hand.

These were the things he thought, as the gentle salted breeze ruffled his hair and brought stinging tears to his eyes. As he looked down at the urn that held the last physical piece of the woman he’d loved, would always love, was lost and adrift without.

“I love you, Milah,” he whispered to the wind. The tightness in his throat and jaw wouldn’t let him say more, but he knew he didn’t need to. She’d known how much and how fiercely he’d loved her, and he had to think that wherever she was, she still knew the hold she had on him.

He held the urn against his chest with his prosthetic hand, working to unscrew the top. The breeze calmed at just the right moment, and as he leaned over the side of the ship to release Milah to the sea she'd loved, the dust of her settled gently down into the water.

=========

gonna tag a few folks who I think might care this is up (again, sorry if I already tagged you!) @spartanguard @sunbeamsandmoonrays @caprelloidea @kmomof4 @queen-mabs-revenge @ahsagitarius @galadriel26 @t-tamm-

@lavendersoapsuds @its-imperator-furiosa @midnightswans @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky @withheartfulloflove @captainswan-middlemist @sarahreadsff @princesseslikepirates @winterbaby89 @pirateherokillian @wordslovedreams

@hannah-mic @thecraftyartist @blackwidownat2814 @once-uponacaptain @kylalovesbabeme @swiftmicheles @emmaswanstlk @captainswanslay

@the-tones-of-wallflowers @kday426 @krystalsficpage

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #cs fanfic #cs au #captain swan fanfiction #return to me

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hit-song-showdown · 11 months

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Year-End Poll #54: 2003

[Image description: a collage of photos of the 10 musicians and musical groups featured in this poll. In order from left to right, top to bottom: 50 Cent, R. Kelly, Sean Paul, Beyoncé, 3 Doors Down, Matchbox Twenty, Chingy, Aaliyah, Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow, Evanescence. End description]

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As I alluded to yesterday, ringtones became one of the record industry's strategies for raising profits in a post-Napster world. Two of the songs on today's poll are notable for this reason, with 50 Cent's In da Club becoming the first number one song on the Billboard Ringtone Charts in 2004 (the first song to reach this achievement) and Beyoncé's Crazy in Love becoming the best selling ringtone in the United Kingdom that year.

We're also starting to see the south start to take over the sound of rap in the mainstream. Groups like OutKast, Arrested Development, Three 6 Mafia, and Geto Boys already helped to put the south on people's radars (note: these artists are all from different regions in the south so their music branches off from different styles, so I'm not lumping them together for any of those reasons). But in the early 2000s with the mainstream popularity of crunk, the south was going to define a lot of what rap sounds like to people this decade. With all of the R&B fusion gaining popularity in the genre, crunk helped to serve as an alternative sound. There isn't any crunk on this poll (sadly Get Low by Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz missed eligibility by one slot), but we'll definitely see its presence later on.

Today's chart also features the posthumous release of Aaliyah's Miss You. Aaliyah, singer, actress, "Princess of R&B", was killed in a plane crash in 2001 when she was only 22 years old. For the music video, artists like Jamie Foxx, Queen Latifa, Lil Kim, DMX, and Missy Elliot made appearances to pay tribute to the late artist. The video also opens with DMX reciting a poem he wrote after the news of her passing. During her short life, she helped to define an entire generation of R&B and her influence is still heard and seen today.

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venjamin-kingdomhearts · 5 months

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I have an idea, but I don't know if it fits the 2000< requirement, but what about Ventus talking to Roxas about his time in daybreak town and how alone he used to feel?

OK hello first off. THANK YOU for the prompt!! I kinda. branched off from what was asked a bit cause i got ✨ Inspired ✨ SO I hope you enjoy regardless! I also got another prompt from @/fangirling-heart that I'm working on SO in case they see this 👋🏻 hi! That one will probably be a LOT shorter. If anyone else is interested in throwin some ideas my way check out this post and then feel free to hit me up in my inbox 💚 No beta, only one or two re-reads, so if there's any mistakes here... pretend you didn't see them LOL Summary: Roxas is sent on a quest into Ventus' dreams, and makes a new (?) friend Word Count: 2892 Relationship: Roxas & Ventus (friendship)

Others had volunteered to go there, to the space where the Sleeping Realm and individual Dreamscapes met, but in the end, Ventus had chosen Roxas to investigate his dreams. Not Terra or Aqua, nor “literally-a-Dream-Eater” Riku, but Roxas. Sure, he wasn’t alone -- this experiment required a Dream Eater to accompany him, so Sora’s Meow Wow was by Roxas’ side -- but he’d been picked by Ventus above anyone else to literally walk into his mind and look around. Him! They hadn’t even been friends for that long, with the battle against Xehanort having been just over a year ago, yet here Roxas was, standing on the edge of Ventus’ subconscious mind, petting his Dream Eater companion.

“. . . I don’t know if he’s really dreaming yet,” Roxas admitted. “This is dark. Ventus’ dreams can’t be dark.”

The “world” around Roxas currently was nothing but an odd black void. There was no true ground, nor walls, nor sky, which was all a bit disorienting. But there was something beneath Roxas’ feet, or else he and Meow Wow would be drifting off somewhere. Roxas chose to focus on that feeling of standing, ‘cause he was pretty sure if he didn’t, he might feel so disconnected from this reality that he really could drift away.

Roxas had a job to do. He couldn’t let himself get too intimidated by all… this.

This was to help Ventus recover the memories he’d lost, that were apparently buried so deep than even Naminé and the scientists working in the Radiant Gardens couldn’t reach without some help. Admittedly, Ventus wasn’t really gung-ho about remembering anything (apparently the last time he’d touched his forgotten memories, the migraine he’d been left with was enough to make him scream), but he had to put that fear aside for the good of the mission.

(Of course, Ventus had still been scared. An hour prior, he’d been laid down in a hospital bed and told that he’d be put to sleep. That’s not exactly easy for someone who’d spent 12 years in a magical coma to chew. Certainly not someone who’d developed insomnia because of the fear he might fall into another decade-long sleep. Ventus was clearly miserable, but it was getting to the point that Ventus’ memories might be the missing key to finding Sora after his disappearance a year prior. Ventus may have been scared, but when it came to Sora… he’d do almost anything to help him.)

(Roxas remembered catching a glimpse of Ventus holding Terra’s and Aqua’s hands tight as Dr. Even and Ienzo prepared the sleeping spell Ventus would be put under. The magic was distributed to Ventus as if it was anesthesia, as a clunky plastic dome had to be put over his nose and mouth. Roxas and Meow Wow had watched from behind glass doors as Ventus’ chest heaved slower, as his eyes grew heavier, until finally his hands went limp and Aqua pressed a kiss to his forehead.)

Roxas had 24 hours. That’s how deep the spell was. Hopefully he’d be able to get a good lead sooner than that, but he had a lot of leeway. Okay. Ventus and the others were counting on him… especially since Ventus wouldn’t be able to wake up until Roxas and Meow Wow were outta his head.

“...C’mon, Meow Wow,” Roxas whispered, standing up straight and taking another good look at the empty space before him. “We’ve gotta find where Ven’s dreams are. Or… something.”

“Meowf!” Meow Wow barked, and Roxas couldn’t help but laugh.

With that, their mission officially began. They walked off into the darkness, steps echoing as though they were walking on glass. It really was unsettling, but Roxas kept his nerves under wraps. What an interesting place this was, this time between sleep and dreams. Mysterious. Dark. But not too cold.

Slowly, some semblance of color and light began to seep into the world. Ventus’ dream began forming, and suddenly Roxas was inside the Land of Departure’s castle. Of course, things weren’t even close to being a perfect recreation. The stained glass windows weren’t symmetrical, and the colors of their glass kept shifting, meanwhile some of the thrones making up the throne room were replaced with bean-bag chairs. It was almost like looking at one of those “spot the difference” puzzles, as dream-oddities popped up left and right to add differences between reality and dream.

Okay, this is definitely a Ven-dream, Roxas thought as a small herd of numbered sheep crossed a distant hallway. Meow Wow went up to sniff them, but that just frightened a majority of them into running into the throne room.

“Meow Wow! Over here, buddy!” Roxas called. “Those aren’t Tama Sheep. Don’t bother them!”

Meow Wow waddled back to Roxas’ side, sniffing his shoes. Meanwhile, Roxas gave the room another look-around. Okay, now he just had to… find anything that might not belong. Anything that could be a hint to where Sora was, or something from Ventus’ past. Anything Naminé could use as a branching-off point.

He chose me for this. Ventus chose me, ‘cause he trusts me to see all this.

Honestly? That was still a pretty big deal. There was a chance Roxas could come across anything here, even stuff Ventus wanted to keep a secret. It was a bit more responsibility than Roxas really wanted, but at the same time, being picked out at the one to take care of all this was oddly flattering. It was ike Roxas was being handed a part of Ventus no one else had access to.

(“It… kinda came down to you or Xion,” Ventus had admitted before he’d been put under. “You two… I mean, I know we’re not all connected in the same way, but I know you guys would understand if you saw anything weird, in my head.”)

(Ventus had taken a shaky breath, trying to get his thoughts to words. Eventually, he just settled on smiling up at Roxas, and thanking him.)

(“I know you’d be the best fit. You’re the best at figuring out stuff like this. If anyone could find out what secrets I’m hiding, it’d be the guy who always calls me out for lying, eheh!” Ventus laughed and gave Roxas’ arm a light punch. “Just promise you’ll… stay with me, when you get back, if I’m still sleeping. I don’t… wanna wake up all alone.”)

Roxas took note of a sheep labeled ‘7’ sniffing around the thrones/bean-bags at the north of the room. Number 9 was lying under the shifting stained glass window, while sheeps #3 and #14 were munching on a patch of grass that had spawned on top of wood flooring. Meanwhile, one of the dream-sheeps decided that Roxas was of interest, and approached to nuzzle his leg.

“...Course. Number 13.”

Roxas gave the animal a gentle pat on the head. Okay, if all the sheep are numbered… maybe this is a test. You count sheep to get to sleep, don’t you? So….

“Great. All the sheep are outta order,” Roxas muttered. “Maybe we should--”

“GO AWAY!”

Oathkeeper and Oblivion appeared in Roxas’ hands reflexively.

Who the hell was that? Roxas thought, sending Meow Wow a glance. The Dream Eater had its back arched, growling lightly and staring ahead at one of the unchanged thrones across the room. Roxas crouched down, ready to stealth his way across the room.

Meanwhile, the mystery voice snapped again:

“Get outta here! L-leave me alone!”

Sheep #7 gave a startled “baa!” as it dove past Roxas, who was already on his way towards the center throne. This voice wasn’t one he recognized right away, so Roxas’ first thought was Nightmare, though he couldn’t sense any Darkness lurking around the corner. Regardless, Roxas snuck up to the chair, while Meow Wow prepared a bouncing attack.

On three, we attack. One, two--

Roxas held his blades tight, listening for that mystery voice. He could hear some light breathing, so unless this was a trick of Ven’s mind, something had to be hiding behind that throne.

Three!

Without a sound, Roxas dove out from his hiding spot, Keyblades in hand. He didn’t make any move to strike, not yet, but he did hold his Keyblades offensively, ready for whatever he found--

“A--ahh!”

--well, he certainly wasn’t ready to realize he had Oblivion raised in the face of a child.

The boy yelped again, raising his arms to cover his head. Roxas felt his heart drop past his stomach, to his feet. That was a kid! That was an actual child! For a moment, all Roxas could do was freeze.

“Please-- don’t hurt me!” The child cried out. “I-I didn’t do nothin’!”

Roxas had never seen a child before, not really. Not this close.

Actually, Roxas hadn’t even been one himself. A Nobody came to life the same age their Somebody had been, and with Roxas’ strange state of being, that meant he couldn’t even remember what it’d been like to be any younger than 16. So to see someone so young (Roxas didn’t really have a great judge of age, but this boy was younger than a teenager) with blonde hair the same style as Roxas’ own, and big green eyes that reminded Roxas of Ven, was a bit disorienting.

Oblivion shook in Roxas’ hand, and he lowered the blade.

“Please, please, please…” the blonde child whimpered. “Don’t… don’t hurt me….”

In two flashes of light, Oblivion and Oathkeeper vanished.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The child didn’t seem convinced.

Alright, off to a great start already, Roxas thought sarcastically. He took a breath and a knee, holding his hands up in surrender, to show he wasn’t making any moves to lash out. The mysterious child looked between him and Meow Wow suspiciously, then scooted back. He’d been hiding behind this throne, hadn’t he? Poor thing.

(Funny, how the throne he’d hid behind was the dream’s reflection of the chair Ventus had slept on for 12 years….)

“Hi,” Roxas started simply. “I’m Roxas. Sorry I scared you; I thought you were a monster.”

Was he doing this right? Kneeling down to be at eye level, keeping his voice soft and being honest. Was that how people talked to children? Roxas licked his bottom lip in thought, furrowing his brows. Meanwhile, the little boy hugged himself tighter, glaring up at Roxas.

“Monster? I’m not a monster! I’m just… me. ‘M just Ventus.”

Roxas’ eyes went wide. “Ventus?”

“Umm...m’yeah?”

Of course. That explained the resemblance. Roxas felt something odd stir up in his heart. This kid… was Ventus. Or at least, who Ventus had been, as a child. Roxas had never been a kid, and Ventus had no memory of his past. So to see someone so young wearing the same face they shared was odd. It almost felt like looking at a stranger, and the feeling reminded Roxas of what it was like to meet Sora for the first time, and realize “this is who I used to be a part of?”

“Ventus,” Roxas echoed. “You’re Ventus.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” the child affirmed, before he suddenly grew defensive. “I’m-- wait! You-- you’re gonna make fun of me, aren’t you?”

“Make fun of you? Why would I--’

“Because everyone does. All the Big Kids, in the other Unions!” That look of fear the child had been wearing earlier was quickly replaced by an angry pout. “W-well, I’ve had it! If you’re gonna try anything….”

The child lifted his hand, and in a flash of light, summoned a Keyblade Roxas hadn’t seen in a while.

“Missing Ache?”

“That’s right! If you’re gonna be mean to me, or call me names, or anything, I’ll fight you! I’ll… I’ll….”

But as quickly as the determination had come, the fire began to fade. The young boy’s lip trembled, and Missing Ache grew heavy in his hand. The boy scooted back, pulled his knees to his chest, and became shy once more. He didn’t say anything, didn’t raise Missing Ache again, he just hid his face and hugged himself with one arm.

. . .Oh.

Roxas felt a rush of something between pity and affection. He had to put aside how weird this was (but it was a dream! Dreams are meant to be weird!). Roxas bit his bottom lip, trying to plot out how to go about this. A kid… what was he supposed to say to a scared little kid?

Well, he should be gentler than the Organization XIII members were to him when he joined. That was the closest he’d ever been to being a child, so it was his one point of reference. The only other experience he’d had was seeing Peter Pan’s lost boys playing from a distance, or being harassed by Locke, Shock, and Barrel in Halloween Town. But Roxas wasn’t sure he could count any of that as actual experience taking care of a kid.

“. . . It’s. Nice to meet you. Ventus.” Roxas took a moment to let that name settle. To let that identity settle.“I’m here on a mission. I’m looking around this drea-- this place with my friend, Meow Wow.”

The “Little Ventus” didn’t react with the same excitement real Ventus would’ve. He just peeked up, looking from Roxas to Meow Wow. Roxas watched as the little boy’s brow furrowed, before his eyes lit up with recognition.

“A Dream Eater?”

“That’s right. How’d ya know…?”

Before Little Ventus could answer, Meow Wow bounced up eagerly. The little boy held his arms out, sitting cross-legged, as if opening up to give Meow Wow a hug.

“Bwarf! Mrreowf!” Meow Wow leapt onto Little Ventus, giving him a ton of slobbery “kisses”. Despite his previous hesitance, Little Ventus laughed. It seemed the focus keeping Missing Ache by his side was diverted, so the strange Keyblade returned to light, while Little Ventus pressed his face into Meow Wow’s fur.

“Smells like cotton candy….”

“Haha… yeah,” Roxas said, scooting a tad closer. “I think Meow Wow just had a bath too, so his fur is extra soft.”

Roxas rested a gentle hand on top of the Dream Eater’s blue fur as if to demonstrate. Little Ventus watched shyly. Roxas tried to keep a small smile on his face as he pet the cat-dog, hoping that maybe he could earn the child’s trust by showing that Meow Wow trusted them both. Green eyes followed Roxas’ hand…until eventually, a small hand joined him in stroking through the Dream Eater’s fur.

“You’re right!” Little Ventus’ voice was an eager gasp. “So soft….”

Roxas felt a smile tug at his lips, but he said nothing. Maybe it was nerves, or just his quieter nature coming out. He tended to let Ventus fill the air when the two of them were together. Guess that instinct kicked in around Little Ventus, too. The two sat in silence for a moment, while Meow Wow began to purr.

Little Ventus gasped. “Just like Chirithy!”

“Right. Just like Chirithy.”

“...Roxas.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s your name, right? It’s weird. I’ve never met a Roxas before!”

“Well I don’t know many other people named Ventus,” Roxas smirked. “Only the one….”

“W-well, that just means I’m u-unique.” Little Ventus mispronounced the word as if it rhymed with “quiche”, and that made Roxas laugh. “Hey! What’s so funny? You said you weren’t gonna make fun of me!”

“I’m not! I’m not, I just… I think Ventus is a nice name. Weird. But nice.”

Little Ventus huffed, and Roxas had to hold back another laugh. Were all kids this… funny? Was that the word? Roxas didn’t know how to describe this. He just felt happy, in a very curious way.

“Well, I guess Roxas isn’t a bad name, either. Weird. But… not bad.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!”

Another moment of silence, but there was something warmer to it. By now, Meow Wow’s tail was wagging so hard, it was thumping against the floor.

“Are you a cat or a dog?” Little Ventus asked the Dream Eater. “Anyways… what Union are you in?”

…? Was Little Ventus talking to Meow Wow, or--?

“Hello? Roxaaas. Roxas! What Union are you in?”

“Union? Uh. None?” Roxas shrugged. “I don’t really know what you mean.”

“You don’t have a Union?! Like some… some wanderer?” Little Ventus leaned over Meow Wow as if the pet were a pillow, and he didn’t seem to mind. “Well, I’m in the Leopardus Union! And I’m the fastest member there. Honest!”

Roxas chuckled. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm!” Little Ventus was looking more eager by the second. “I’m gonna be the best runner in Daybreak Town! Faster than the wind!”

Roxas had a feeling there was a bit of a story to this. He also had a feeling that it’d be a lot of work convincing Meow Wow to leave this spot. It looked like they’d have to put a ‘pin’ in their mission for now.

…Well, Roxas did have 23 hours before Ventus would have to wake up. Maybe he could spend a little longer in this dream, not just to figure out more, but to keep this forgotten part of Ven company. He’d promised Ventus he wouldn’t leave him alone… and that applied to all parts of Ventus. Even the ones that were exceptionally well-hidden.

“Tell me all about it,” Roxas said gently. “I’d be happy to listen.”

‘Cause that’s what a good friend does.

#kh #my writing #ventus #roxas #ventus and roxas #SORRY THE ENDINGS A LIL RUSHED this was mostly a challenge to get myself to write something #....this concept is just so cute to me.

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