#all it takes is a few summary executions dang

[veliseraptor]

got tagged for two fic writer memes yesterday! the one from @ameliarating first:

How many works do you have on AO3?

509.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

3,432,24. dang! that’s a lot of words

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

I have written for...counting the MCU as one fandom, on AO3 I have written for 32 fandoms, including at least one work in:

MCU, The Sillmarillion, Caliban Leandros, both DC and Marvel Comics, the book Barebacked by Kit Whitfield, Doctrine of Labyrinths, Doctor Who, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star Wars, Black Jewels, Dragon Age, Lucifer, Dexter, Temeraire, Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Supernatural, A Song of Ice and Fire, Greek Mythology, Lymond Chronicles, Merlin BBC, Code Geass, Good Omens,  Death Note, and White Collar.

this is not a comprehensive list of every fandom I’ve ever written for, because it is not including ones that live only on FFN or Livejournal.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Life In Reverse tops the list (11066), aka my 200k Loki-centric post-Thor AU fic that I wrote between 2012 and 2018 and with which I have a decidedly complex relationship at this point. I love it but also I no longer think it’s my best work but also I credit it with teaching me a fuck of a lot about writing and writing longer projects in general.

With Absolute Splendor is rapidly catching up, to my astonishment (6559), despite having been posted for less than half as long. Aka the wedding planning fic that’s really just me mucking about in my Jiang Cheng and my Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian feelings, at length.

some good mistakes (4618) was my first foray into the Untamed version of “characters who hate each other going on resentful roadtrips together, feat. Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng.” I have gone on to write others and will continue to write more.

Unraveling (3069) is a little bit of a surprise but also not - it was originally just sort of WWP stuff for my ‘what if people remembered that blunt force trauma is a really bad thing actually’ problem that pops up sometimes, re: Loki at the end of The Avengers, and then it kind of turned into a whole thing. I personally think it’s the weakest of the installments of the series it belongs to, but it is the first one and also the one that gets least into the broader family dysfunction and depression stuff that probably is less everyone’s thing (but is what came out this fic that mattered more to me, personally).

I am a little surprised to see Steve Rogers’ Halfway House for Notorious Supervillains (3068) here too! I was expecting one of the more...idk, mainstream concepts from the MCU to win out? But I also wasn’t expecting two Untamed fics to make it here, either. But I am stupid proud of this fic even if it is very extraordinarily unfinished. This is one of those unfinished fics that will nag at me unless and until I finish it, at least a little, because the concept - if I do say so myself - is so goddamn good and I think I was executing it pretty well, too.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Pretty much never. I was never very good at it and now I’d feel like I had to go back and reply to all of them and I just. I can’t do that. and when I do try to just start at the beginning I get overwhelmed very fast and start avoiding it.

Basically I decided that if it’s a decision between wrestling with myself to reply to comments versus actually doing more writing I’m going to end up landing on the latter as feeling both more doable and more productive.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

probably it’s The Worlds Forgotten, the Words Forbidden for sheer level of “so then what was the point” of it all. but like. I’ve definitely written a few extraordinarily miserable fics, and by “a few” I kind of mean “a lot.” Other nominees I’d put down might be nor autumn falter (for currently personally making me suffer most), once there was a way to get back home (for I think having the ouchiest summary), and Waiting for the Summer Rain (which remains one of my personal favorite Supernatural fics I wrote).

but like. there are 43 fics I have marked with Major Character Death warnings and every single one of those, pretty much, has a downer ending.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I have written several though not in a long time! My craziest probably remains the Morgoth/Cthulhu short I wrote that actually got sporked because someone took it seriously (???) enough to do that. But the craziest that actually has any merit, (I’d argue) is probably the Maeglin/Viserys one.

not linking to either, if you want to go find them I don’t think it’ll be that hard.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yeah, a few times on a few different things. More if you count “people who seem to like the fic but love telling you how much they hate the female characters you’re writing about in it” as ‘hate’ which I would but isn’t, you know, quite as straightforward. If I had a nickel for every time someone bitched about Jane in Life in Reverse, though...lots of nickels.

Do you write smut? if so what kind?

Sure do! But what does ‘what kind’ mean, I don’t know how to answer that question. I feel tempted to just put in my “Mike’s Hard Kinks” image edit in this space.

I guess usually I tend to write smut that at least involves a little bit of a kink? I don’t think I’d feel comfortable writing entirely kinkless smut. I think I’d feel weird about it, the same way I do when I write really nice fic, generally.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I think I did back when but I don’t remember anything about it. I feel like it was one of those mass data scraping things where my fic happened to be among those caught up in it.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! several actually, mostly into Russian and Chinese. every time it happens I’m immensely flattered that someone wants to put in that kind of work on something I wrote.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I think I’d be very, very bad at it.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Depends on when you ask me! I could probably give you a top five but then I’d remember six that I forgot to mention five minutes later. I guess if I were to think about ships that feel like they hold very special particular places in my heart... Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen, Steve Rogers/Loki, and Min/Rand come to mind.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

oh god do you want the whole list cause honestly I could just like. screencap the entirety of my “in progress” folder with a crying emoji watermarked over it. and that’s not getting into the fics that are like...half formed babies in my consciousness but not anywhere on paper.

and also I just hate to admit that I might not finish something.

you know what? the Lucifer/Good Omens crossover I started would’ve been a lot of fun. I’m probably never going to finish it, but it would’ve been great if I had. I know other people did it too but my contribution could’ve been amazing.

I can say this very boldly with the near certainty that I’m not going to finish the fic so no one will be able to disagree.

(...also the Last Herald-Mage fix it. that was going to be a good fic too, and also will probably languish unfinished forever.)

What are your writing strengths?

I’m pretty sure dialogue is my strongest point. Dialogue and emotions, which is why I always end up just wanting to write about characters talking and having feelings at each other.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing action sequences throws me into conniptions every time I have to do it and I will take drastic actions sometimes to avoid doing it at all, which probably weakens the work as a whole.

Also, I don’t plan ahead and this means I write myself into corners kind of a lot. If I wasn’t writing long, dense fic it wouldn’t be a problem but here we are.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I tend to avoid it unless it’s in the context of, as in CQL/MDZS fic, leaving certain terminology untranslated. I’m pretty sure I almost never write full exchanges of dialogue in a different language than I’m using for the narration within a fic, and generally speaking my reaction to other people doing it is at least mildly negative.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter was technically the first fandom I wrote for, but it was a crack fic I wrote to make my friends laugh more than anything; I tend to count Wheel of Time as my first actual fandom for which I wrote my first actual fic.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

some days the answer is “all of them” and some day the answer is “I don’t like anything I’ve written in my entire life” and I never like giving this a definitive answer. yesterday I reread efforts in a common cause (the bound copy!! thanks @spockandawe) and you know what, that was a good fic and I’m proud of it, so I’m going with that one, for this meme, today.

tagging: @mostfacinorous, @jaggedcliffs, @silvysartfulness, @mikkeneko, @kasasagi-eye, @curiosity-killed, how many people am I supposed to tag for this one anyway

#lise memes #confessions of a frustrated writer

[androcola]

Desperado

Summary: Mike runs to his aunt Kates ranch for the night.

Trigger warnings: running away, implied abuse, dysfunctional family, guns.

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July 15, 1959.

Another hard day at home had him exhausted, yet unable to sleep. His parents had been at each others throats all day since he got home from school. His father was angry and drunk today, but then again, what was the difference from any other day? He got his fair ear full as well, and he didn't know how much more he could take.

He often found himself fantasizing about leaving this horrible house and finding somewhere else where he felt he belonged, a place where we didn't feel like a faceless stranger.

By now, the night was fading and the early morning was already creeping along, but he hadn't slept a wink since he had gone down for the night a few hours ago. His mind was occupied with a thought that always seemed to be in the very back of his mind, but that he never acted on or even thought of acting on, but he was getting closer and closer to giving in.

Something he often fantasized about was running away, but to his aunt Kates ranch out of town. It was out in the boonies, a small little town of gun slingers, horse back riders and ranchers. The first thing that would come to a northerners mind when hearing the name Texas.

It was the only place he really felt at home. The few times he's visited over his childhood were the best times. Aunt Kate and her husband John felt more like his parents than anyone, and he wanted nothing more than to be with them, far away from his father.

He had an idea of how to get out there, but it was a reckless idea that would certainly get him killed, not by execution, but by fall out. If he could pull it off just right, there may be no fall out. He weighed his options over and over again in his mind, ending up closer to executing this dangerous task.

He sat up in his bed and looked around his room. He stood and threw on appropriate clothes. Tonight was the night, and although he was nervous, he had to do this. He packed a bag with a few items of clothing and left off. He navigated the dark house very carefully and quietly, searching for his fathers truck keys. Finding them on the table by the door, he grabbed them, making sure to take them in his fist so they didn't jingle.

He stood in front of the door with his bag and his fathers keys, his mind racing. Did he really want to go through with this? Was it really worth it? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening the door and slipping out. He made for the Chevy truck in the driveway. He jiggled the faulty handle for a moment before finally swinging the door open. He tossed his bag into the passenger side seat and slipped into the truck, closing the door as he did so.

He was glad his uncle John taught him to drive when he was younger, otherwise he would never be able to this. He stuck the keys into the ignition, turning the truck on. He pulled gently out of the driveway and headed out of town. By now, his heart was racing and his stomach was in knots. He felt so stupid for doing this, but he was desperate. He took another deep breath to calm himself.

“I can do this.” he muttered. “...I can't believe I'm doin' this.” he followed up. He kept going nice and steady, trying his best not to go under or over any speed limits. He was completely unlicensed, if he were to blow by a cop, it could be detrimental to his escape. The drive will be an hour or two, so he would just have to remain as careful as possible.

His paranoia was high, he felt like every car that passed him knew just what was going on. It was irrational, but for some reason didn't feel out of reach. The farther into town he got, the more nervous he became. He thought that maybe he should turn back while he still had the chance to go unnoticed. He shook that thought, he felt like it was too late now, he had to keep going.

...

About an hour or two into the trip, he spotted the sign telling him he was entering town. A sight for weary eyes. He just had to find the ranch. That shouldn't take too long. As he drove, he looked around the small run down little town and he smiled. Coming upon the ranch, he parked in front of the little dirt pathway that lead to the back. He opened up the door and slipped out, closing the door behind him.

By now, it had to be four in the morning. No one was ever up at this time, he thought maybe he should've tried to come at a later time. He wandered down the dirt path and stopped in front of the big heavy metal gate. He hated that thing and dreaded having to open it. It was loud and always squealed being opened.

He popped his knuckles in his fists and grabbed the gate and very slowly pulled it open. A loose chain clattered upon falling into the dirt and dragged as he pushed the gate open. It was startling but he hoped it wasn't that loud. Surely no one inside heard it.

After getting the gate open, he walks through and closes it just as carefully. He walks around the back and wanders around for a moment. He smiled seeing the hen houses with the sleepy chickens and the big old hayloft. Maybe he could just hang around until the morning. He crept around the area quietly, hoping not to disturb the chickens. They could be very loud when disturbed.

Suddenly, the back door bursted open, scaring him nearly out of his skin. A few of the chickens began to cluck and holler.

“Alright, who's there!?” a rough voice called, he suddenly heard the cock of a rifle. “Stick 'em up! There ain't no use in runnin'!” the man yelled. Mike threw his arms up immediately, in fear for his life. A bright white light suddenly blinds him and he squints, looking into the source of the light. It's a flashlight. “Bobby?...” the man suddenly said before dropping the rifle to the dirt.

“Uncle John...” Mike muttered as he slowly lowered his arms as the man approached slowly. “Bobby.” he said as he placed his hands firmly on his nephews shoulders. Mike lowered his head. “What on earth are ya doin' out here, boy? It's four in the dang mornin'.” he said quietly. Mike was hesitant to answer. “Do your parents know you're out here at this time?” he asked softly.

“...No.” Mike replied. Uncle Johns expression turns to concern. “Bobby...” he uttered. “I ran, uncle John. I took my Pas truck and I ran. It's only a matter of time before he finds out.” Mike said with his gaze to the ground. “What were you thinkin', boy?” uncle John asked. “I guess I don't know. I guess I wasn't.” Mike replied. Uncle John sighs.

“Why'd you come here, Bobby?...” he asked. “...It's the only place I know.” Mike replied without missing a beat. His uncle tightened his grip on his shoulders very slightly. “Look at me, Bobby.” he said firmly, but Mike kept his head down, too afraid that if he were to make eye contact, he may break and dissolve into tears. They both stood quietly in the night by the hayloft.

“John? Who's there?” a womans voice suddenly asked from a distance. The two looked over to see Kate, she had thrown on a blouse, a pair of pants and boots. It wasn't her typical attire, it must have been in the moment. Mike quickly looked down again. He didn't want to meet her gaze in fear that it may be judgmental.

As she approached the two outlined in the moonlight, she began to make out the others image. “Michael?...” she said. Mike didn't respond. “John, what's he doin' out here? Did his mom drop him off?” she asked, bewildered and worried. John looked at his confused wife for a moment, not quite sure what he'd say. He then looked back to his nephew whom was now looking to him. His eyes pleaded desperately.

“Er...” John muttered. Mike sighed and hung his head once more. “Just tell her...” Mike spoke. “Tell me what?” aunt Kate questioned. Her husband looked back at her again and dropped his shoulders. “He ...” he said. Mike tensed. “He ran away from home, Kate...” John gave up. Mike then pulled away from his uncle and crossed his arms.

“Oh, Michael...” Kate said. “Can't I please just stay here? Just a few days?” Mike pleaded. “Hun, your momma's gonna be worried about you. I'm gonna have to make a call.” Kate replied. “No!” Mike blurted suddenly. “I mean ...can't it just wait a few days?” Mike asked. She reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder and he recoils slightly.

“Michael... Why did you come here, hun?” she asked softly. Mike wrapped his arms around himself and kept his eyes averted. “Michael?...” she probed. “Because.” Mike stated. “Because why, hun?” she continued to question. “Because I can't be there anymore!” Mike shouted in a tremulous voice.

Kates heart dropped. She unfortunately knew what he meant. She looked at her husband and he looked back. “Michael...” Kate said. “Go ahead. Send me back. Make me drive back there.” Mike huffed. Kate stepped in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Michael... Listen to me” she started, but Mike wasn't having any of it. “No!” Mike shouted. “Listen to your aunt, Bobby.” uncle John interjected. Mike pulled away from his aunt. “No! I don't–” He was stopped as his aunt took him by the shoulders once more. “Michael, listen to me.” she demanded firmly. Mike went silent and hung his head. “Honey, you're sixteen... You can't be runnin' away like this.” she told him in a softer tone.

She heard him sniffle very quietly. “...You don't understand.” Mike said quietly. “Honey...” she said softly as she took his chin into her index and thumb, pushing his head up slightly. “Look at me.” she said. And he did. He looked at his aunt, tears in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. They glistened in the moonlight.

Her heart dropped lower. It wasn't often she saw her nephew cry. He was a tough kid who didn't believe in crying, but here he was. Suddenly, he threw himself into her and let out a shaky and breathy sob. Kate looked to her husband again and he approached them.

“C'mon, now, Bobby...” John said, trying to console his troubled nephew. “I don't know what to do...” Mike sobbed. His aunt wrapped her arms around him. “It's gonna be okay, honey...” she assured. “No it's not...” Mike wept. “I took the truck...he's gonna find out in the morning...and you're gonna call home...and you're gonna send me back...and he... he's...” Mike rambled and sputtered.

She patted his back as he sobbed. “Please don't make me go back...” Mike sobbed. “I don't know what to do, hun...” Kate replied. “I'll do anything...I'll clean the hen houses, take care of the crops, clean up after the horses, anything...if you'll just let me stay...” Mike pleaded, his voice cracking occasionally.

Kate pushed her nephew from her shoulder. His face was stained with tears. “What would I tell your mom, hun?” Kate asked. “...Tell her you don't know where I am. That you never saw me.” Mike replied. “I can't do that, michael...” Kate replied. Mike turns away. “Of course you can't.”

The three stood there quietly, only the sound of crickets and the gentle breeze through the trees was present. None of them knew what to do. Mike looked around before spotting the path through which he had came.

Suddenly, he broke into a sprint, catching his aunt and uncle off guard. He ran back through the pathway and headed for the truck out front. “Bobby!” his uncle called to him before chasing after him. Kate followed behind him. “Bobby!!” he called louder. “What are doin'!?” he shouted.

“I'm not goin' back there! I'm gettin' outta here!” Mike called back. He looked back for a moment only to see that his uncle was nearly on his heels. He faced ahead and tried to speed up, pushing through the fire flies that surrounded him.

He stopped abruptly at the big metal gate, nearly crashing into it. He looked back to see his aunt and uncle coming right up on him. He used his whole body and pushed the big heavy gate door open. After pushing through, he swung it closed violently, hoping that would buy him some time. He proceeded down the dirt path.

There it was, the old Chevy truck. He stopped and frantically jiggled the fidgety car door handle before being grabbed and pulled away by his uncle. “Michael! What were you thinking!?” his aunt scolded. He pushed his uncle off and turned and faced the two adults.

“If you two aren't gonna take me, I'll find someone who will!” he yelled. “And if no one wants me, fine! I'll live on my own! But I'm sick of bein' at home! I'm sick of Pa! That place ain't a home, it's a nightmare! And I'm sick of livin' in it!” he continued, fresh tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. “Lower your voice, boy. You're gonna wake up your cousins.” his uncle said in a hushed tone.

“Go ahead and send me back home. But know that I'm not gonna talk to either one of you again.” Mike hissed. The two stood quietly as the boy stared them down with contempt and fear. It seemed they were at an impasse. “Come in, Michael.” Kate said suddenly. Mike's eyes widened and his tone changed immediately. “What?” he asked as he wiped away his tears. “What?” John asked as well.

“Come in, Michael. You can stay for a few more hours. But then you have to go home.” Kate replied. Mikes hope was smashed and he almost felt it physically. He gave up. “Fine.” he said, defeated.

Kate pulls her arm around her nephew and her and John lead him inside for just a little while.

#tw running away #running away tw #tw implied abuse #implied abuse tw #tw dysfunctional family #dysfunctional family tw #tw guns #guns tw #writing #m&m headcanon #monkees headcanon #the monkees #no this fic isnt meant to be cute or romanticize #this came outta nowhere i started writing it listening to the desperado album #long post #so we know theres aunt kate in the show but like i headcanon that she has a husband named john #gonna go ahead and put the full tag on here just in case #tw abuse #abuse tw #i just dont want anyone getting upset. i tag the best i can #the reason his uncle calls him bobby is cuz his first name is robert and a lot of his family probably calls him that #some call him mike or michael too

[eponymous-rose]

(I’d rather this not be reblogged, just in case!)

I’ve had a funny conversation a couple of times this week, once with my cousin and once with my physical therapist, so I thought it might be fun to go over this: when I mentioned I wasn’t teaching this quarter, they both stared at me in shock and said, “And you’re still getting paid?” To be fair, I absolutely would’ve asked the same question before I started. This job is so weird I never would’ve guessed what all falls under it! 

So here’s a little glimpse into what goes on in this particular professorship:

So, hey, there are different ranks of professor. I’m an “assistant professor”, which is about as junior as it’s possible to get, but I won the dang lottery and somehow finagled my way into getting the words “tenure-track” tacked on before that. This means that over the next six years, everything I do will be scrutinized (culminating in a "summary” of several thousand pages reporting on every single aspect of my job performance), and at the end of it, after about nine months of progressively higher-ranked people in the university voting and deliberating, I have a chance to be granted tenure, which comes with a promotion to associate professor rank and Extreme Job Security. The criteria here are basically being able to prove that I’m one of the foremost experts in my field in the country and hitting research/service/teaching goals, and I’ll talk a bit about that in a second here. Promotion (often many years later) to full professor requires proof of being one of the foremost experts in the field on the planet.

Also, if you don’t get tenure, you get fired after that six-year period. Some universities are dicks and hire three or four assistant professors for every tenured position they want to fill and just fire the spares after getting six years of work out of them. My university has an extremely high tenure rate (mainly because anyone who seems unlikely to make tenure will either have some sort of intervention on their behalf, be granted an extra year to make up the difference, or will be asked to quietly resign before deliberations start), and my department hasn’t denied anyone tenure in decades.

So! What the hell do I do? Well, universities in the U.S. that are particularly research-heavy are referred to as “R1 universities”, which is the situation I’m in here. This means that the majority (often the vast majority) of my time is not spent teaching: it’s all about doing research, to the point where I will not be teaching more than one class simultaneously. In my field, that research can look like a lot of different things:

There are indeed people who work with beakers and range hoods and snazzy lab coats: these researchers in my field might be doing stuff like growing snowflakes in the lab and using that information to figure out the conditions under which different kinds of snow can form. Also there’s chemistry? I don’t know this side of it too well. Professors’ roles here, apart from the science, include ordering the right equipment (which includes getting quotes from various suppliers) and hiring lab technicians and folks to keep the equipment up and running.

Some folks do intense numerical modeling: if you’re studying the atmosphere, you can’t just try your experiment on one Earth and compare how it’s different on another Earth, since we only have the one, so what we do instead is use the most powerful supercomputers on the planet to create simulations. These can be as detailed as looking at the flow of dust in the millimeters above the ground, or as broad as simulating the whole atmosphere of the entire planet (or other planets!). On top of the science, these professors often have to negotiate for supercomputer time (a precious commodity), purchase massive computational resources (e.g., a server room hosted locally), and sometimes hire dedicated I.T. support just for their research.

I work a lot with large datasets: if we have information about the conditions under which tornadoes happened over the past 15 years, what patterns can we pick up that forecasters might be able to use? What is physically, fundamentally different about tornadoes that happen in different places? This kind of stuff really just needs a decently specced desktop machine and some know-how, and a lot of research in our field involves sitting and thinking. Also in this category is the pure math and physics work in the field, where people bury themselves in impossible-to-solve equations to try to figure the best way to wrench them into things we can solve. This is probably the closest to what most people think of when they hear “research”.

Fieldwork. Think Twister. Coordinating large numbers of people, who may be on the ground, driving, in the air, in the ocean. Also, coordinating instruments that might be stationary or might be buoys or drones or something else. We’re a public university; we don’t have the cash to buy our own airplanes, so profs in this scenario have to rent time on research aircraft owned by organizations like NASA or NOAA, or rent time on boats, or hire folks to develop and build new instruments. Massive amounts of organization goes into this, and all stages from inception to execution are generally overseen and organized by the professor.

When any or all of these approaches come up with groundbreaking results (you’re expected to have that kind of result happen a couple times a year), it’s time to write a paper and get it published in a prestigious academic journal. That process can take between four months and a year, depending on a bunch of different factors, so often a professor is juggling a few different projects in different states of done-ness.

What you’ll notice in all this is that professors generally have to come up with the money to do this stuff. New profs generally get a starting budget to get them off the ground, but most of that winds up wrapped up in personnel and start-up costs (e.g., buying computing resources or space for a lab). For the rest of it? Grants.

Grants in my field right now are a bit of a mess: it takes months to put a proposal together, it’s chaotic and complicated as hell, and there’s only about a 10-15% success rate, so you can do the math on that one. In my field, grants range from “small” ones supporting a few years of the pure-science stuff (typically a few hundred thousand dollars that mainly goes toward paying several people’s salaries over several years, but also covers things like journal publication fees - it costs several thousand dollars to publish one paper in an academic journal) to much larger ones supporting field campaigns or long-term projects (rarely, several tens of millions of dollars if you’re talking projects with multiple aircraft and such). I get paid for nine months of the year, and have to come up with the remaining three months’ salary on my own. 

The other thing, though, that grants pay for is graduate student salaries! My department pays students quite well (more than enough to afford the rent on an apartment here, which is saying a lot), and also provides full benefits and a complete tuition waiver. Grad students in my field are essentially in an apprenticeship situation: they pick an advisor and work with that person for typically about seven years. During that time, they have to hit certain milestones (nine months of classes, plus a few courses sprinkled throughout the remaining six years, giving presentations, passing exams, doing a defense, writing a dissertation---essentially a book of their research results), and if you’re thinking this is putting a horrifying amount of power in the advisor’s hands, you’re absolutely correct. The imperfect but step-in-the-right-direction solution my department’s adopted has been to give each student a committee of professors, where one leads the research but the others are always available for new ideas or to resolve problems or speak up on behalf of the student. Students are also strongly encouraged to take a year or two off from their main research project to work with another professor, either here or elsewhere, and explore new research ideas.

Professors are responsible for teaching their students what they need to succeed, and our department has famously exceptional graduate students and graduate student mentorship: profs teach students how to do research (often guiding them through a Master’s project, then letting them take the reins and backing off to an advisory role for the remaining years of the PhD), which includes having them publish their results as the lead authors of their own scientific journal articles. Profs also pay to send students to conferences to showcase their research and introduce them to the people who’ll help them in their future career (one of the reasons I traveled a bunch this quarter was to meet some folks who might be good contacts for students who don’t want to just shoot for a job in the US). Some students will get to go on field campaigns, flying on research aircraft or, I dunno, driving tanks into tornadoes. Some will be more interested in non-academia pursuits and might spend some time shadowing insurance analysts or taking extra entrepreneurial classes in the business school or working hands-on with forecasters during the height of severe weather season. It’s our jobs as professors to know the job market, to know the right people, and to know our students well enough to help them get where they’re going. This department takes this Very Seriously, to the point where it eclipses research as our Top Priority, and the general understanding is that getting a grad student position here sets you up for life.

So! Part of my job this time of year is recruiting graduate students based on my budget. For some folks, that means actively advertising wherever possible and getting super involved in the visiting student weekends (we fly prospective grad students out here to visit before they make their decision, and there’s always a fair number of students who haven’t settled on an advisor yet). Some folks are absurdly lucky and study fields that are considered particularly cool and interesting, and the top students actively seek them out and will cold-call or send e-mails or introduce themselves at conferences (look, turns out it’s hilariously easy to sell someone on “come study tornadoes!” and even a newbie like me has to choose between several particularly strong candidates). Either way, the graduate student hiring process involves a lot of internal debate---we’re not a huge department, so we typically can only send offers to a little under 10% of the folks who apply each year---that mainly centers around making sure each student has a supportive research “home” waiting for them here, based on funding and how much time each faculty member might have. Professors need to coordinate grant budgets (or startup funds, or stopgap funds in the increasingly common situation where no grant money could be secured for a given year) to make sure students have any equipment they might need (cool stuff like supercomputer time, servers, equipment to take to the field, accessibility aids, but also mundane stuff like office space and desks). We also have to coordinate with the university to make sure international students can get here and stay here under the correct visa status.

Right now, I only have one graduate student, and he’s currently undergoing the barrage of first-year coursework, but we meet weekly and he’s started playing around with some data analysis and reading some of the big papers in the field (he’s coming in from mechanical engineering, so the math is familiar but the vocabulary is funky). I’ve developed short- and long-term learning goals for him, culminating in putting together a proposal for his master’s research in June, then converting his early results to a scientific journal article to help him hit the ground running, because he’s brilliant and he’d be able to pull it off without breaking a sweat. 

I’m also on the committees of two second-year Master’s students, so my responsibilities there include reviewing their proposals and, in one case, helping her put together an application for a major fellowship that would put $100,000 toward her education, which means she wouldn’t be beholden to any given research grant and could study any topic she liked. I’m also co-advising a postdoctoral researcher---his primary advisor is a specialist on snow, which is his area of interest, but I’m a specialist on some of the methods he uses to study snow, so I’m consulting with him on that side of things. I’m also working with a couple of particularly motivated final-year PhD students who want to run a multi-day Python and machine learning workshop for the department. Heck yeah.

Apart from research and advising, another facet of being a professor is the nebulous category often just referred to as “service”. Volunteer work, essentially. Right now, I’m reviewing scientific journal articles, typically 2-4 at a time (down to one right now, although I anticipate a flood right before the holidays). This is all done as volunteer work, but it’s honestly the easiest way for me to keep up with the latest literature, because yeah, you can’t just sit in a room and think if you don’t know what everyone else is thinking about. And when even a small field has a dozen or so major academic journals putting out a couple dozen articles each a month that you have to stay on top of... reviewing can be a great way to get the highlights. Sometimes I also get to review other people’s grant proposals, which is really helpful! Still, I wish journals would pay us for this work---someone did a poll on Twitter and found that folks in our field spend on average about 6 hours per review. That adds up!

I also tend to help out with conferences, either doing logistical stuff like deciding what the major topics are, and who gets to speak when (and who probably shouldn’t be given a microphone...) or coordinating the judging of awards for student presentations. That sometimes involves weird event planning stuff like trying to find a venue and speakers and transportation for a formal dinner, or hiring caterers and dealing with competing hotel quotes for room blocks, or cold-calling reasonably famous people and asking them to volunteer their time (or offering them an honorarium) to Skype in to a room full of people.

I’m also on a few national committees that are working to define the priorities of some of the big professional organizations: mainly I work in my particular subdiscipline, but also with diversity/equity/inclusion and early-career support. Some of that is as simple as running social media accounts or helping to design surveys. I’ve recently been assigned to help audit a major organization’s commitment to diversity, which could be pretty interesting. It all sounds like a lot, and a lot of it’s coming to a head lately just because of conference timing, but it usually slows down to one or two hours a week of work in the off-season. I like this kind of stuff because it’s a relatively low-effort way to meet scientists all over the world that I wouldn’t have encountered otherwise.

We’re also hiring a new faculty member right now, which is... hilariously complex. Every aspect is basically done by committee and the entire department has to agree on who to interview and, eventually, who to hire, because hiring someone for this position is potentially choosing your coworker for the next 30+ years. Interviews are two-day endurance training for the poor candidates, who get face-to-face meetings with every member of the faculty, on top of more specialized interviews. We’ve had about 120 competitive applications thus far. It’s... a lot.

And just because I’m not teaching actively right now doesn’t mean teaching isn’t eating a lot of time: there’s some fun logistical set-up to do! For instance, the class I’m co-teaching starting in January features a lab where we take all the students over to the engineering buildings to set up some instruments in a wind tunnel. Gotta make sure we’ve timed it right so they can actually give us the wind tunnel! We’re also coordinating the timing and the schedule so that both instructors are actually around for the parts of the class they’re teaching. For three of the five weeks I’ll be teaching, I have the previous instructor’s materials to work with, but the other two weeks are all new material (and a lot of ad-lib based on how students do with the first chunk of the class). I also haven’t done anything related to this class since I took a comparable class over a decade ago, so, uh. Better study up.

In the spring, I’ll be teaching an entirely new class that’s never been offered by the department before. That involves building a syllabus, figuring out what each lecture will be about, coming up with contingencies in case some lectures get cancelled, writing exams and assignments and lectures and (since it’s a programming class) making sure everyone has access to the necessary hardware and software and data for the big final project. And, because I’m me, I’ll also be coordinating the whole thing with a special office in the university that does long-term testing of teaching effectiveness---they’ll send someone over to spend a few minutes chatting with the students midway through the quarter, then work with me on recommendations and improvement. I figure it’s a new class being offered for the first time, so we might as well get in on the ground floor of longitudinal pedagogical study. Also, I don’t actually know this programming language yet. Little more studying to do, there.

So... yeah. This job is absurd. It’s a million different jobs, the vast majority of which I’ve had no training for. And I adore it. Nobody cares where I am or what I’m doing at any given time, as long as I get results and as long as my students are succeeding. As someone who loves nothing more than bland, repetitive tasks repeated over and over again, it’s not exactly in my wheelhouse... but I love how hard it makes me think, and I adore being pushed this far out of my comfort zone and knowing I actually have the resources and the know-how to succeed. Every single day is something completely new and exciting and bizarre. Hell, every hour. It’s pretty fantastic, and utterly terrifying.

#i'd rather you didn't rebagel just because there's some me-specific stuff in here! #eponymous job tag #eponymous academia tag #long text post

[jinmukangwrites]

Shaky Hands

Summary: Damian runs into Scarecrow for the first time. Dick’s understandably worried.

Warnings: Fear Toxin and all the fun stuff that comes with it.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick’s going to have an aneurysm. Either that or he’s going to burst a vein. He thought he had finally gotten through to Damian, made him understand that they are Batman and Robin and they work together. They don’t run off in the middle of enemy territory to face people like Scarecrow alone.

Dang it. Bruce is probably rolling in his grave.

He leaves the goons he’s just finished taking out zip tied in the hallway of the building they found themselves in and sprints towards where he saw Robin disappear off to just a few minutes ago, cape billowing behind him.

He thought they were past this. He thought Damian has learned his lesson that he’s not invincible. After all the shit they’ve been through together, how could he not?!

Clearly, Dick’s mistaken.

Dick is so going to make Damian clean the floorboards with nothing but a toothbrush after this. God damn. Jesus. Amen.

“Robin?” He calls out, turning a corner and opening a random door. There’s nothing inside but furniture covered in tarps and dust. He lets out a growl, slams the door shut, and continues to the next room, finding much of the same thing.

Damn it. Damian hasn’t ever faced off against Jonathan Crane before. He doesn’t know what to expect or how to defend himself from a man whose the expert in his craft. That craft being fear. Fear that can do who knows what to a ten year old kid like Damian. He doesn’t want to think about the horrors Damian would see if under the effects of fear toxin, with the way his life has been it could be anything. The kid’s been through so much, so much more than what Dick can even begin to understand.

“Robin!”

He slams the next door shut, and another, beginning to feel a little desperate. Where is everyone? Where’s Robin?

Where’s Crane?

Suddenly, further down the hallway there’s the sound of shattering glass and something else banging heavily against a wall. Dick stiffens his jaw and quickens his pace towards the noises, and as he approaches his blood runs cold when more noises reach his ears. Laughter. Smashing glass, more bangs. Dick doesn’t hesitate to swing open the door and what he comes across is a demolished room with knocked over metal tables and vials of unknown substances stuttered against walls with torn wallpaper. Scarecrow is here, and so is Robin Dick notices with a spike of fear. Damian is fighting like a cornered animal while Scarecrow violently swings a scythe (where does he even get those?!), thankfully missing and slicing up the nearby wall even more.

Dick jumps into battle without a second of hesitation. He pulls out a gas bomb and launches it at Crane’s feet, causing the man to cry out and stumble backwards away from Robin. Vapor fills the room and Dick runs forward, ramming into Crane’s side viciously with a well placed kick. Scarecrow goes flying backwards, dropping the scythe and hitting the back wall hard enough to crack it. Dick cant help but notice that Robin is sliding backwards against the wall behind him, breathing hard and clutching his arm. Blood is sluggishly seeping out from the wound, not enough to be an immediate cause for concern, but enough to make Dick worry. Scarecrow is good with a scythe, but Damian is better at dodging. Something happened that made Damian not dodge in time.

Scarecrow groans from the back wall, but his chest is shuttering with small jolts of laughter. “Big bad bat, come to rescue the scared birdie?”

Dick snarls and charges forward once again, dodging Cranes last attempt at swinging his scythe and then executing a well placed blow to the back of his neck, knocking him out cold.

It’s silent for a second, nothing but the sound of Crane’s body slumping against the floor, but then suddenly, a small whimper meets his ears and he spins around, rushing with no hesitation to where Damian is curled up with his knees to his forehead, his hand wrapped so tight around his arms wound that it must be white knuckled.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” he says, crouching down next to Damian and bringing his hands forward to comfort the kid. He’s never seen Damian like this, and it scares the hell out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Damian whimpers when Dick comes too close, he curls in tighter around himself and Dick pulls his hands away like he’s been burned, “I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry-”

And then, Dick understands.

He keeps any swears to himself, to not startle Damian even more than what he is, and reaches towards his utility belt to uncap a prepared vial of antitoxin. He uncaps it and slides the needle in, flicking any bubbles before he creeps closer to Damian. “Every thing’s going to be okay, I promise,” Dick whispers.

Damian nearly jumps out of his skin the moment Dick grabs the bicep of his injured arm. Dick can hardly even prepare himself before a steel toed boot is slamming into his jaw and the syringe thrown across the room. Dick swears and Damian cries out in anger, fear, pick one, and lunges for a blind attack. Thankfully, and Dick hates to call it that, the fear running in Damian’s veins throws the kid off just enough for Dick to grab his fist mid punch and jump out of the way of a swinging sword with his other. Dick tugs Damian close by his captured hand but Damian retaliates by kicking Dick’s legs out from under him.

He lands hard on his back but he at least kept his grasp on Damian’s hand. He swings his own leg out and knocks out Damian’s balance, pulling him down towards Dick in the process. Damian gives a pitiful cry when Dick finally manages to wrap both of his arms around the kid, restraining flailing limbs. Damian kicks out, screaming and crying and Dick simply wraps his own legs around Damian’s flailing ones and holds him until Damian’s voice cracks with a sob.

Dick feels like his heart is going to break, but he doesn’t waste time just sitting there any longer. He slowly and carefully begins to scoot backwards and transfers his restraining hold to just one arm so he can reach out and grab the antitoxin. Damian is full on crying now, and the things he’s saying makes Dick want to cry himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, don’t leave me, I didn’t mean it, I’m not evil I swear, no no no Grayson please don’t leave me-”

Dick grinds his teeth and jams the needle into Damian’s arm, right next to his still bleeding wound where Dick suspects the fear toxin made entry in the first place. At first, Damian restarts his panic full throttle and Dick is forced to throw the empty syringe across the room so he can clutch his baby brother close as the antitoxin slowly begins it’s work.

“I’m here, Dami, I’m not going anywhere, I’m here-”

Dick hopes to god above that the antitoxin will work; it’s a catch all, made to fight the chemicals that frequently show up in Scarecrows poisons. He’d hate to have Damian suffer any longer than what he has to, and if he doesn’t calm down Dick will be forced to properly restrain him and get him to the cave so he and Alfred can get going on a better antidote.

Thankfully though, Damian does eventually go limp with a final sob, falling boneless against Dick’s chest with a pitiful mewl. “I’m here, shh shh shh, I got you…”

He keeps whispering and comforting until Damian’s small cries turn into even smaller sniffles, until he’s interrupted by a hand closing around one of his own.

“I’m okay now,” Damian says in a hardly comprehensible whisper. “You can let go now…”

He sound’s small, and Dick cant see his face but he’s sure his cheeks are red with embarrassment. As much as Dick doesn’t want to let him go, he also doesn’t want to make Damian uncomfortable in any way right now. He’s about to agree and let go, tie up Crane, call Gordon, and take Robin home to do some blood work and prepare his speech about how Robin could have gotten himself killed and yada yada yada… but then Dick notices Damian’s hand is still clutched around his own.

His hands are shaking.

Dick sighs and switches his grasp so it’s no longer restraining and more like a cuddle, pulling Damian closer to him while the kid calls out with a slight squawk.

“I’ll never leave you, Damian,” he says before he can really think about it. Damian stills, swallows, and relaxes into Dick’s grasp.

Everything can wait right now. All that matters is the kid in his arms just coming off his first dosage of fear toxin. Dick doesn’t want to think about all the stuff Damian has seen while under the influence, how long he had to hold of Crane on his own until Dick got there to save the day. He forces that all out of his mind so he can gather Damian closer and press his nose into Damian’s hair, watching Damian’s shaking hands like a hawk, until those tremors slowly still and Damian closes his eyes, cheek resting against the bat symbol on Dick’s chest.

“I got you, Dami,” he whispers, pressing his lips into his hair. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Damian hums sleepily. “I know…”

Then, so small Dick isn’t even sure if he heard it.

“Thank you.”

#whumptober2019 #dick grayson #damian wayne #dc comics #batman and robin #dc #nightwing #robin #fan fiction #jin writes #shaky hands #no.1

[damienthepious]

ohhhhhhh boy. oh boy. folks. folks. I finished it.

When the Reckoning Arrives (Chapter 6)

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [ao3]

[Summary: The final chapter. One more conversation, and a proper reunion.

Notes: This one... got well and truly away from me. Note that this chapter is about double the length of any of the others. Sorry about that, I think? I don't know if consistent chapter length is a concern other folks have or if it's just a writer anxiety. Couldn't justify splitting this into two, though, so here it is in its entirety. I hope y'all enjoy this, and I hope you're satisfied with the whole dang mess. Thank you so, so so much for reading! The Penumbra has very quickly become an incredibly important part of my life, and the fandom has been just as wonderful as the podcast itself. You're all amazing and this fic wouldn't exist without your encouragement and kindness.]

-

All four of Arum’s wrists and both of his ankles are bound when he wakes, securing him tightly to a stiff human bed. He starts to try to pull out of it before he even opens his eyes, twisting his hands and trying to snake his claws under the bindings, his tail curling around the chain by his left foot, but the movement pulls at a tightness in his midsection and suddenly he remembers-

The quite singular sensation of being impaled. The unshakable knowledge of his own death. The way it felt, to have Damien and Amaryllis hold him as he faded.

And finally, Damien. Glowing like a falling star, eyes closed and hands cool on his scales, magic burning the pain out, burning the weapon out, and knitting him back together.

Impossible. An impossible dream- a hallucination, surely. His eyes snap open and he tries to crane his neck to see the injury that must still be there, but there is a thin blanket pulled up over him, covering the offending area. He frowns, and then he hears a prim, pointed cough from off to his right.

If he was unbound he likely would have leapt to the ceiling in shock. As things stand, he jerks against his shackles, hissing as the movement jars his wrists and pulls at the strange dull pain in his ribs. He whips his head towards the source of the noise, and is confronted by the placid face of a complete stranger. A human, obviously, but not one of the ones he knows. Small and swathed in silks, standing stiffly and watching him with keen, guarded eyes.

He watches her with equal wariness for the space of a few breaths, long enough to figure out that she is the only one in the room, and that she appears unarmed.

“Imagine my surprise, to find myself so decidedly un-slain,” he drawls after the pause, projecting a defensive air of indifference.

“Though not for lack of trying,” the woman says, matching his tone.

Arum can still feel the wound, but only when he focuses. Can feel something just slightly wrong, above his stomach, and on his back as well now that he’s paying more attention. He wants to know what, precisely, happened, and how desperate his condition remains, but he does not think this woman will tell him if he asks. Besides, he has a much more important line of questioning to pursue.

“Where are my- where are they?”

The woman stares down at him and Arum’s scales shiver with discomfort at the stranger’s keen gaze. The pause drags on too long and Arum asks again.

“Stop that,” he hisses. “Tell me where they are. Did-” he grits his teeth, but he’s too tired, too worried to stop himself from asking. “What happened to them? Are they hurt? If there is even a scratch on them I’ll- What have you done with them?”

“Nothing,” she answers at last. “I’ve done nothing to them. Technically speaking, however, they are both still being detained.”

“Detained,” Arum sneers, wishing he had at least one of his hands free, if only to gesture with. “I kept my end of the bargain, you know. That knight was returned to the Citadel in perfect condition, regardless of the incompetence of those archers. Technically speaking, my- Sir Damien and Amaryllis should have been freed.”

“Your Sir Damien,” the woman echoes, and he finally manages to catch a hint of the emotion hiding behind the words. There is… confusion, there. Disbelief.

He tilts his chin up, frill flaring halfway. There is very little of his dignity left to save, at this point. “My Damien. My Amaryllis.”

“Hm.”

“Who are you?” he grates out, eyes flicking anxiously around the room again, searching for other threats. “Are you some sort of- healer?” There’s a sneer in the last word, emphasizing his disdain for any medical professionals who are not Amaryllis. “You don’t look much like one. An interrogator? Or is this to be a very, very irritating execution?”

She narrows her eyes as if she does not quite believe him, though about what he is unsure. On instinct he flicks his tongue out, and- oddly, he recognizes her scent. He’s quite sure he’s never seen her before, but there is something familiar there he cannot quite place.

“The question of your fate has not yet been decided,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You have become the focal point of a very complicated situation.”

“A monster taking a knight captive is a situation that typically ends one of two ways,” he says. “In one of two deaths.”

“You were never going to hurt Sir Angelo,” she says, and he flinches before her tone really sinks in. She isn’t pointing this out to humiliate him- she is saying it as if she is trying to make herself believe it. Trying to make herself understand it.

He hesitates, his shoulders hunching. “I… that is…”

“When a shot was fired - an accident, you should know, and not an intentional attempt to derail the exchange - you pushed Sir Angelo down first. I saw how fast you moved after that, pulling the arrow from the air with barely a flick of your wrist. If you so desired, you could have avoided the arrow entirely, and let it hit the knight instead. Let the folly of my archers become a self-inflicted punishment. You chose to prioritize Sir Angelo’s safety over your own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters, glancing to the side. “He- have you- the little Knight was not damaged during the- the chaos, was he?”

“No,” Mira says. “He is somewhat shaken by the events of last evening, but unharmed. Though, it has become apparent that he was not precisely an unwilling participant in the negotiations between you and I, and I am unsure exactly what to do with that knowledge.”

Arum winces, then blinks in confusion. “Wait… my negotiations with you?”

She tilts her head at him. “You truly do not know who I am?”

He grimaces, flicking his eyes towards her one more time to see if anything at all jogs his memory. “You little creatures are too numerous to count; am I honestly supposed to keep track of every single one of you that scurries around this hive?”

The corner of her lip twitches, almost, almost a smile. “No, but perhaps it would be in your best interest to know the leader of your enemy.”

“My what?” he frowns, then understanding bolts through him. He hasn’t thought about the scent from that scrap of silk in months, and her voice- it sounds much different now than how it did when she was calling down from on high. “You’re- you are the Queen?”

“And you are Lord Arum. We have corresponded, though in a decidedly one-directional manner.”

Arum jerks his head back in alarm, glancing around the sterile, empty room again for signs of other eyes on the pair of them.

“Why?” he asks in a growl, and when she raises her eyebrow in a question he continues. “Why are you here? What are you playing at, coming in here to confront a monster without bodyguards, without arms? I was told you were supposed to be wise.”

She- actually smiles, at that, and gives a single breath of laughter before she catches herself. “I believe that you may have quoted my head bodyguard nearly verbatim, just now. My safety is of no concern, however. There are more guards than are strictly necessary just outside the door. They will hear if I shout, of course, but I did not wish for prying eyes and listening ears for this… meeting.”

“Why?” Arum asks again, more suspicious than ever.

“I believe it is important that I observe you myself. Converse with you on my own terms. Without interference.”

“Important to gather intelligence on your ‘enemy’ personally?” he growls, lowering his head. “Little human Queen doesn’t know how to delegate… how precious.”

“There is a decision that must be made very soon, and it lies solely in my hands,” she says quietly, her eyes looking somewhere past him. “I would like to know as much as I can about the situation before time runs out.”

Arum stares at her for a moment before it clicks. “Honeysuckle,” he breathes.

“Pardon?”

“Sir Damien,” he corrects, pulling on his shackles again in his distress. “He- you will make that decision yourself, then? His fate, his life-”

“Yes.”

Arum exhales, then straightens as best he can while halfway horizontal. “And to what fate will you send him?”

“The decision has not been made, as of yet. We are nearing the deadline, but there is still time.”

“Don’t- don’t toy with me,” he snarls. “I know how humans operate. I know he has broken your petty little rules, and I know what happens to rule-breakers in human society. You will have him killed. Do not try to lie to me, takatakataka.”

She is watching him, distant and inscrutable and calculating. It crawls like spiders up his scales, being observed so closely.

“What will you do, if you are correct?” she asks, quite quietly.

Arum tries to hide his flinch, but his frill is certainly giving him away. “I imagine if he is executed, I shall face a similar fate,” he says dismissively. “You would not just let me go.”

“A fair point. Indulge me, though. If you were free, and Sir Damien were to be executed, what would you do?”

Arum works his jaw silently for a moment. “To what fate would Amaryllis go, human Queen?”

The Queen sighs. “Her position is… complicated as well. In her own way she admitted to the same treason as Sir Damien, but her potential punishments are less severe. The strictures upon a Knight of the Crown are far greater than those upon a single herbalist who does not even live within the Citadel. For the purposes of this hypothetical, let us assume that she shall be returned to Exile.” She turns her gaze back towards him. “What action would you then take?”

Arum looks away, tongue flicking anxiously as he considers the question, considers how honestly to answer. “I don’t understand why it matters to you,” he says, weary. “I don’t even understand why you are speaking to me. Why I have been kept alive.”

“It does not matter if you understand why,” Queen Mira says, “but it does matter how you answer.”

Arum ducks his head, letting his eyes slip closed. Truth will be easier, if he can pretend to be saying this only to himself. “If Sir Damien were executed, I would ask Amaryllis what she wished to do. I would ask her if it would be too painful for her to stay by my side when I- when I had been the cause of our honeysuckle’s death. If she would still have me, we would return to my home, and we would mourn. Mourn, and discover if our broken edges still fit together without our third piece.” He swallows, blinks his eyes back open and ignores the heat he can feel at their corners, and then fixes the Queen with a glare. “There. Are you happy? Does that satisfy you? If you so desire, I am sure there are deeper depths to which I could debase myself, takatakataka.”

She- nods, after a pause. “Thank you,” she says, and the words sound stilted and awkward in her mouth, and Arum sneers automatically at her gratitude. “Now. To answer your questions as best as I am able. May I remove this sheet?” She gestures to the thin blanket covering him, and Arum gives a confused nod of his own, unsure how the two thoughts are related. She reaches forward, face placid, but he can see the very slight tremble in her hand as she pulls the fabric down.

The place where he had been pierced through looks-

The wound looks months old, not quite healed but healing, new scales growing shiny and bright around the edges, sealing the gap.

“Damien…” Arum breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the magic that has been done to him. “I thought… I was convinced it could not have been real…”

“This is why you are still alive,” Mira says. “In more than one way.”

“Explain,” Arum says, narrowing his eyes. “What- how did he do this? Magic, it must be magic-”

“Sir Damien prayed to his namesake,” she says, and finally she pulls a chair closer and sinks to sit with a sigh. “He prayed to a Saint for the sake of a monster, and his prayer was answered. Answered quite definitively, I would say. And therein lies the problem.”

“The… problem?” he says, finally looking away from the sullen welt on his midsection and meeting the gaze of the Queen again. She looks tired, he realizes. Tired, confused, and thoughtful.

“You were saved by the grace of a Saint, Lord Arum. To kill you after that…”

“Couldn’t possibly be a worse heresy than praying for a monster in the first place,” Arum mutters, and the Queen’s breath catches on a small laugh.

“Some would agree with you,” she admits.

Arum frowns. “And… you, little Queen?”

Mira doesn’t answer immediately, breathing slow with her eyes downcast until Arum grows worried again. “This slim hope,” she says eventually, and Arum realizes with a jolt that she is repeating the words of Damien’s prayer. “This proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid…” She raises her eyes to meet his own. “He has quite a particular way of putting things, does he not?”

“Professional prattler,” Arum rasps, clenching his fists. “And a naive one, at that.”

“So you do not believe as Sir Damien does, Lord Arum? That some sort of peace could be reached?”

“Of course not, the very idea of it is- is…” he grimaces, then sighs. “Damien… Damien and Amaryllis and I have found… an understanding.” An understatement, but if he grows any more embarrassed he’s liable to actually damage the scales at his wrists pulling on his bindings. “I do not know if that means that monsterkind and your own people are capable of the same. Magic is unpredictable, like that.”

“Magic,” the Queen repeats, something cold and suspicious in her tone, and Arum blinks, confusion joining the tangle of embarrassment he feels.

“Are…” he bares his teeth, glancing aside uncomfortably. “Are bonds of romantic affection… not seen as a manifestation of magic by you mammals?”

She stares at him for a long, wondering moment, and then her cheeks darken noticeably. It’s a human tell that Arum has seen on Damien countless times, but Arum cannot fathom what it could possibly indicate in the Queen. “I…” she coughs, delicately. “I suppose, metaphorically, love is often thought of in that way.”

Arum winces. He would do very well indeed if he never again heard the word ‘love’ from the mouth of any but his herbalist and his poet. It is unbearably sentimental. “Yes, well, whatever you call it, it is unpredictable. Another monster could be in a position such as mine and not- there were many points at which the three of us could have crumbled apart. Killed one another. Hurt one another too much to forgive. It is difficult to say whether humans and monsters are capable of understanding each other at large, or if what we have achieved together is… something entirely unique. Unreproducible, as Amaryllis might say. So,” he draws himself up slightly, “could there be peace? Perhaps. Perhaps the conflict may happen to align perfectly to allow it; the universe has done stranger, less probable things. But from what I have seen of both of our sides, it seems far more likely that monsterkind will behave too unpredictably, with too little agreement between the lot of us, and your people will be too unwilling to forgive mistakes, and misunderstandings.”

“That is… a rather articulate and nuanced position.”

Arum’s lip pulls up in a sneer. “Were you expecting me to merely snarl and gnash my teeth?”

“I had very little idea what to expect,” she says, unselfconscious. “I have never spoken at length with a monster before.”

“Nor I a Queen,” Arum says dismissively. “So what?”

She smiles again, and it seems to come easier this time. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply any lack of intelligence on your part.”

Arum’s frown deepens. “What are you apologizing for? I’m a monster, have you forgotten? You may play nice for as long as you wish, you are Queen of these creatures and they must obey your whims, but when all the game is played out, when you have run out of all your questions and hypotheticals, I will still be myself and your people will still expect but one outcome. Saved by magic or your Saints or whatever else, I will not escape this Citadel with my life and we both know it, takatakataka.” He bares his teeth again, ducking his head to emphasize the force of his glare. “It seems a cruelty beyond stating to pretend anything else, and I have grown tired of the game, little Queen. I demand you make your decision regarding Sir Damien and Amaryllis and get on with killing me. Either my death will protect them or it will mean I will not be forced to see them fall to ruin, and either outcome would be preferable to this pointless interrogation.”

She tilts her head, and something about the sad confusion in her expression fills Arum with even more potent anger, and she asks in a small sort of voice, “You… you honestly, truly care about them, don’t you?”

Arum chokes on his breath and it turns into a bizarre laugh, rattling and hoarse and joyless. “That-” he nearly chokes again, pulling at the shackles without meaning to. “You- of all the ridiculous- that is what you choose to disbelieve? I am laid bare before you in nearly every sense of the term only for want of their freedom, I could have died for them - I tried to die for them - and you cannot understand that I love them? That is the point you cannot comprehend, the bridge you refuse to cross? You- you are an unfathomable fool, little Queen.”

After a long moment Queen Mira stands again, and Arum’s terrible laughter dies out. He tenses automatically as she walks past him, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches the door. When she cracks it open and leans halfway out, he hears the clatter of what he can only guess is a ridiculous number of armored knights startling, and then she murmurs something just barely too quiet for Arum to hear. One of the others outside says, quite distinctly, are you certain, and then her voice comes again, no less quiet but certainly harder, and colder. She closes the door again, but she stays beside it. She turns her head, just enough so he can see one of her eyes, and the strange, contemplative curve of her mouth.

“Amaryllis told me,” she says, “that I must look to the evidence in front of me, and not be blinded by what I fear.”

“She is more brilliant by far than the whole lot of you put together,” he growls, too distracted by worry about the words she exchanged outside to really process what she’s said to him properly. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway, because she doesn’t respond. She stands, facing away, and keeps her hand pressed to the door until there is a light knocking and she opens it again.

The high-voiced knight comes in first, eyes wary, and behind her are Sir Damien and Rilla. Arum lurches against his bindings with his entire weight at their sight, a breathless noise escaping him. She’s going to have them beheaded in front of me, he thinks first, wildly, and his body goes cold at the thought. They are standing unbound, though, looking wary but not afraid, and the knight does not even have her hand near her hilt.

When Damien and Rilla notice him and both step toward him in response to his movement, the knight throws her arm out like a branch, halting them, her attention on the Queen as if waiting for permission.

“Sir Caroline. Unlock the shackles on Lord Arum,” Mira says, and every pair of eyes in the room swing towards her in some combination of surprise and alarm.

“Whatever you say, my Queen,” Caroline drawls after an awkward moment.

“Were you detaining them next door to us, little Queen?” Arum says as Caroline approaches, trying to pave over his confusion and momentary panic. “They arrived rather quickly- unless your dungeon is adjacent to your infirmary-”

“I said they were being detained, not that they were in the dungeon. Sir Damien required some medical attention as well, and he is-” she sighs, “rather particular about his attending physician, so they have both been nearby.”

Arum rubs his wrists once Caroline unshackles enough of them to do so, craning his neck to try to see where Damien is hurt. “Medical attention? What happened? You claimed you had done nothing to them-”

“My Queen spoke truth,” Damien says softly, and Arum’s claws twitch at the sound of his voice. Damien lifts a bandaged hand with an embarrassed half smile and a shrug. “Saintly power is… a rather formidable imposition upon mortal flesh, I have learned.”

“It’s a burn,” Rilla supplies. “Not a terribly bad one, thankfully. Because I didn’t already have enough to worry about.”

Damien ducks his head as if chastened, but Rilla takes his unburned hand in her own and squeezes, and he smiles again, a little less tightly. Arum swings his legs from the bed and stands the moment Caroline is done undoing the bonds at his ankles, intending to go to them the moment he is able, but it’s only when he is on his feet that he realizes that he feels entirely drained, exhausted from the bones out. He tries to hide the way he sways on his feet by pretending to lean back against the bed deliberately, but he can tell that Rilla, at least, is not fooled.

“Is this another test, Queen?” he asks instead, gesturing to his unbound state. “Like your questions?”

“No. No more of that, I think,” Mira says, and then she glances to Damien and Rilla. “You may go to him.”

Damien looks to the Queen in bewilderment, but it’s a brief look because Rilla moves forward and she’s still clinging to his hand.

There is a half second of hesitation when they are close; Arum can’t help the unease he feels at the nearby near-strangers when he wants his humans in his arms, especially considering that he is unclothed from the waist up. Sir Caroline, however, is staring decidedly away from them, apparently at nothing, and Mira discreetly drops her gaze down and to the side, so when Rilla is within arms reach he damns his discomfort and reaches. He pulls her into his chest and Damien next to her, and Arum can taste the salt on the air that means his knight is overwhelmed enough to fall to tears.

Arum clings to them as tightly as he dares, as tightly as the weariness of his body will allow, his tail wrapping around them with a shivering of scales. He glares over their heads one more time to make sure others in the room still have their eyes safely aimed away, and when he is satisfied that they are not under scrutiny he lowers his head, pressing his face into Damien’s neck. He needs to feel the pulse there, heat and life and sweetness, vulnerable and unsure whenever these two soft creatures are out of his sight. The position has the added effect of allowing him to feel the way Damien’s breath is hitching, and the words he is barely, barely managing to whisper.

“… so so sorry,” he breathes against Arum’s scales, over and over and over. “Oh Saints I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Hush, honeysuckle,” Arum murmurs with a rumble in his chest, stroking a hand through Damien’s hair. “You are the only one who blames yourself for any of this.” Damien chokes, melting into Arum’s chest, and Arum is grateful for the bed behind him because otherwise the added weight might have actually made his legs buckle. “Shh,” he hisses, “shhhhh, little poet.”

Rilla’s hand presses against his midsection and he winces, pulling back enough to give her a wary glance. Her brow furrows, pinpoint focused as she skillfully investigates what remains of his injury, her fingers careful but firm against his scales, and he can’t help his small breath of laughter at the intensity in her gaze. She scowls up at him and he grins in response, her irritation at magic in general feeling both familiar and safe.

“I’m alright, Amaryllis,” he says, and her eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah? You’re shaking, Arum.”

He blinks, swallowing uncomfortably when he realizes that she isn’t wrong. His hands, his legs are trembling with the effort it is taking to stand. He leans a little more heavily on the bed, and winces when Damien looks up at him with nervous, shining eyes. “Merely- I am merely fatigued. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Rilla says, and then she gently pushes Damien aside so she can examine Arum in earnest.

“If you insist, doctor,” he mutters in a growl, but it’s impossible to hide the way he instantly relaxes at her touch; purposeful and soothing and practiced, while Damien clings to his left arms and rests his forehead on Arum’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice that his eyes have slipped closed until Rilla pats her hand on his cheek and he blinks them back open. She’s close, still frowning though her expression has softened as she checks his pupils, and he flicks his tongue out to tickle the tip of her nose. That startles a laugh out of her, which was precisely the effect Arum hoped it would have, and then she looks up at him with a wry smile, her hand dropping from his face to rest on his shoulder.

“You may have been magically healed, but you still lost a lot of blood before that,” she says in her most businesslike tones. “You’re fairly dehydrated, probably anemic though I don’t know exactly what that looks like on a lizard, and I’m concerned about how exhausted you seem even after resting for as long as you did- I’m assuming you slept through the night? And, by the way, you pulled your wrists bloody on those shackles and I bet you didn’t even notice.”

She’s right, again, and he ducks his head and frowns as she pulls his hands toward her one by one to treat and bandage.

“I hope you have some understanding of my position,” the Queen says, apparently having decided that they have had enough time with themselves.

“Which part?” Rilla says sharply, not looking. “The part with that arrow, or the part where Arum got impaled?”

“The arrow was a regrettable accident,” Mira says. “Someone too unexperienced on the wall with the rest of the archers, and a slip of the hand. Sir Absolon, however, saw an opportunity and leapt without consulting with anyone else about his strategy.”

There’s a coldness in Mira’s voice, then, and Rilla blinks when she hears it though she does not pause in her work. Damien makes a small, unhappy noise at Absolon’s name, and Arum pulls him closer automatically.

“And if he had consulted you?” Arum asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

She pauses as if considering the question very seriously. “The moment would have passed before he could,” she murmurs. “He chose to act unilaterally, because the alternative would have been not to act at all. However, I saw- everyone saw that you chose to push Sir Angelo out of the way. That did not go unnoticed. I think even if the Saintly intervention had not occurred, the rumors would have become an issue quite quickly.”

“Rumors?” Damien pipes up, voice pitching high and concerned. “What rumors?”

Mira purses her lips and sighs. “We may have cleared the gate of civilians,” she says wryly, “but that meant they were all aware that there was a situation that required them to be cleared. Besides that, there is the fact that the sheer number of knights and guards involved in the exchange could never be expected to keep silent about all that they saw.” She turns her head slightly away from the trio. “What, precisely, are they calling Lord Arum in the city now, Sir Caroline?”

Caroline huffs a breath, as if she had been hoping to remain unnoticed. “Saint-Touched,” she says begrudgingly. “They are calling him Saint-Touched, according to my second in command. There are many wildly inaccurate versions of the story flying around the streets, of course, but the healing itself seems to factor in all of them, and the monster protecting Sir Angelo seems to be a large part of the discussion as well.”

Arum stiffens, hissing under his breath. The idea of an entire city of humans, of strangers, whispering about him, about his near-death and his saving- it makes him want to crawl back to the Keep and find a dark corner to hide in for a decade or two.

“So now you’re worried about people thinking it’ll be blasphemy if you have Arum killed, aren’t you?” Rilla says, finishing the last of the bandages on Arum’s wrists. She keeps hold of one of his hands, though, squeezing gently as she angles her body so she’s between Arum and the Queen. “Blasphemy to kill Damien too, probably, since it was his prayer that got answered.”

Mira squeezes the bridge of her nose for a moment, sighing again. “Yet others are crying that this must have been merely another deception, as Saint Damien would never grant so unholy a prayer for so unholy a beast.” The words are quick and toneless and audibly irritated.

“And what of you, my Queen?” Damien asks softly, from the arms of his monster. “Do you still believe as you did yesterday morn?”

Mira presses her hands together briefly before she turns and steps closer to the three of them, within arms reach. She looks up, and then further up, until she can meet Arum’s violet eyes with her own searching gaze. “You could have killed Sir Angelo, could kill everyone in this room with merely your claws if you so desired, exhaustion or no,” she says, slowly. “I still don’t understand what makes you different from your kin - or if you even are different from your kin - but I believe that Sir Damien and Amaryllis were correct in their estimation of you.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Arum growls sardonically, flaring his frill and shifting in discomfort even as Damien sighs in obvious relief. “I’m so pleased to have earned your approval.”

Rilla presses her lips together hard to bury a smile at the same time that Damien inhales sharply. The Queen, however, does not seem bothered by his tone.

“Hm. You will likely be unhappy about this phrasing, but it is necessary,” she says with a wry smile, and Arum narrows his eyes in confusion. She takes a deep breath, lifts her chin, and then she says, “By the will of the Saints above, and by the authority of the Crown, Sir Damien the Pious, Amaryllis of Exile, and Lord Arum,” she pauses to breathe a laugh, “the Saint-Touched, you are all hereby granted pardon. Lord Arum, you are now under the protection of my rule, and no Knight of the Crown may harm you.”

“Huh,” Rilla says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, my Queen.” Damien presses a hand to his heart, voice wavering. “Oh, by the Saints above, oh I cannot believe-”

“I am not even one of your subjects,” Arum says, baring his teeth. “Not even a human. Can you even pardon me?”

Mira blinks, then looks up at the monster with an expression of exquisite innocence. “Who, precisely, do you believe would attempt to tell me what I am and am not allowed to do?”

Arum laughs without meaning to, and then laughs again when the reality of the situation settles softly on his shoulders, the tension he’s been holding since Sir Angelo burst onto his balcony yesterday finally, finally easing. He isn’t going to die here. Damien isn’t going to die here, none of them are, they will actually be able to go home-

“Little Queen,” he says warmly, “you may have some monstrous instincts of your own, I think.”

“He means that as a compliment,” Damien adds quickly.

“When you feel strong enough,” Mira says, and then she pauses. “When your doctor says that you are strong enough, you will be provided with an escort out of the city, for your own safety, and you may return to… the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, I believe Sir Damien said?” She pauses, and Arum nods. “Rather, you may go wherever you like. In the meantime, while you are convalescing I will put my words here to official decree, and make my decision known.”

“My Queen!” Damien exclaims again.

“Some will call me mad,” she says, tone more casual than it has been this entire time. “But others will listen. Others are ready to listen.”

“I mean,” Rilla says, “I don’t know about these two, but I would certainly feel a lot better getting out of here sooner rather than later, before someone gets a stupid idea in their head about finishing what Absolon started.”

“I understand that,” the Queen says, picking her words carefully and slowly. “But I will not allow anything to happen to you now, not in my Citadel, and… it will be important, I think, for the three of you to walk out of this place together. With your heads held high. I believe it would send a more effective message if your monster did so on steadier legs than he currently seems to possess.”

“Strategic,” Rilla says, sounding both irritated and impressed as Arum grumbles beside her. “Alright. We’ll do it your way, then.”

Mira nods. “Thank you. We shall… leave you to rest, now. When you are ready, let the guards know and I will see you off.” She tilts her head and looks up towards Arum again. “Though our first meeting was not exactly…” she flicks her eyes towards Rilla with a vague smile, “auspicious, Lord Arum, I hope that our acquaintance will continue to be as… enlightening as it has so far been.”

“And with fewer brandished weapons, if the universe grants,” Arum grumbles with a wry smile.

“Indeed.” She gives a light laugh. “Sir Damien, Amaryllis, I…” she pauses, “I apologize. Despite my intentions I was both cruel and rash, and it is only by the grace of the Saints that my mistakes did not cause irreparable harm.”

Rilla’s jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing, but Damien wilts slightly. “My Queen, I never doubted that your clarity of vision, your wisdom would win out in the end.”

“Never?” Mira says, her eyebrow raising in a skeptical arch. “Not for a moment, Sir Damien?”

“Well- er…” he clasps his hands together in front of himself, eyes flicking uncomfortably away. “That is… I hoped. I hoped that you would see truth, even if I harbored concerns that you could not.”

Mira closes her eyes in a self-deprecating smile. “The truth always sounds much better in your voice, Sir Damien. I should have known it by sound when yesterday we spoke.” She opens he eyes again, nods, and starts towards the door. “As I said. When you feel prepared to leave, inform the guards. I have… quite an imposing amount of work in my immediate future, I am sure you understand. Sir Caroline?”

Caroline doesn’t straighten, exactly, because her posture has been ramrod stiff since she entered, but she does come to attention and fall into step with the Queen, pulling the door open in front of her. Mira graces the trio with one more glance as she exits, accompanied by a subtle smile.

Sir Caroline, for her part, merely leaves and closes the door behind her.

Arum exhales in an exaggerated hiss when they are safely alone, and then he sags more fully against Damien, against the bed. “Not my preferred morning conversation,” he mutters, “but I suppose it could have been far, far worse.”

Rilla crosses the room to a basin of water waiting in the corner and fills a cup, and she shoves it firmly into Arum’s hand when she returns. “Rehydrate,” she instructs, and Arum rolls his eyes but obeys. He is grateful for the coolness on his tongue, and as he drains the cup he becomes suddenly aware of how thirsty he is. The feeling hadn’t really registered above the rest of his exhaustion, dull pain, and panic. She goes to get him a second cup, and he drains that one too.

Damien is worryingly quiet, and Arum grows still more worried when he glances down and sees the growing expression of distress on the poet’s face.

“Honeysuckle,” he murmurs, passing the empty cup back to Rilla and brushing a hand down Damien’s arm. “What-”

“You called yourself a shackle of monstrosity, as if you were some sort of- of imposition upon me,” Damien mutters suddenly, furiously. “I cannot believe you- how could you attempt to discard yourself so carelessly?”

Arum frowns, thrown by the sudden turn of mood. “Oh spare me, honeysuckle” he says, embarrassed to be made to confront words he thought belonged on his deathbed. “Do not pretend that you were not planning for your own dramatic execution, fully expecting to leave us behind.”

“How about the both of you stop trying to get yourselves killed at every damned opportunity?” Rilla says in a sharp voice, eyes bright. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be in love with two idiots without an ounce of self preservation between the two of them?”

“You marched into the Citadel on your own, Amaryllis,” Arum snarls, mortified by the way his voice cracks and wavers, “knowing full well that you could have been marching to your own arrest as he had, without even stopping to speak with me. You should have come to me. You should have come home and we could have- could have concocted a plan together.”

“I’m sorry, Arum, but I couldn’t wait-”

“You left me alone, do you have any idea- what would I do if either of you were hurt? If both of you- I could have lost the both of you and then-”

“We almost did lose you,” Rilla says, quieter as she gently traces her fingers along the edge of the almost-scar. “It- clearly we all fucked up on the way here, okay Arum? It was- it was a terrible situation and we all… did the best we could, I think. We made mistakes, and I’m sorry for sending Angelo when I should have come to you myself, but I can’t change what’s past, Arum.”

Arum gamely pretends that he hasn’t started shaking again. He hisses, not quite a concession, and wraps two of his arms around her. She smells like clean linen, disinfectant, like her own sweet self. Damien slides into the embrace as well when he reaches out, and the fact that he and Amaryllis are alive and safely in his clutches is far more important than any other thing in the world.

After a moment Rilla pushes him back. “You need to get off your feet. To rest.” When Arum grumbles under his breath she scowls, pushing him again until he’s fully on the bed. “The quicker you get your strength back the quicker we can get the hell out of the Citadel.”

“The quicker we can go home,” Damien says softly.

“Fine,” Arum hisses. Then, he reaches over and Damien yelps as Arum drags him up onto the bed with him, tucking his head under Arum’s chin and rumbling deep in his chest as he settles. “But I refuse to lay in this stuffy human room on my own.”

“Arum!” Damien squeaks. “Put me down-”

“Please,” he says, and Damien stills. “I cannot… I don’t think I can sleep if… I need to feel your heart beating, honeysuckle.” He reaches a hand out, and he hears Rilla sigh fondly before she crawls up on the other side of the small bed, nestling in against him.

“Okay, okay, fine,” she murmurs, her own hand resting over Arum’s heart. “Will you behave now?”

“Never,” he murmurs into her hair. “But I will rest, Amaryllis, so long as you both stay with me.”

-

They do walk out together with their heads held high, as Mira said. With their hands clasped together as well, for good measure, with Sir Angelo grinning broadly beside them and Sir Caroline looking put-upon at their back. There are whispers again, of course, and stares, but the curious and wondering faces outnumber those contorted in fury or disgust, and they have very little energy to spare for their audience regardless. Arum needs every ounce of concentration merely to continue forward, pushing through the vague burn of strain in his limbs, and any remaining focus he spares only to lift his head as pridefully as he can, and to feel Amaryllis supporting him on one side, and Damien on the other. They guide his steps through the unfamiliar streets, gracefully disguising the moments when he needs to lean on them to keep his stride even.

His cape had been unwearable; barely purple at all anymore beneath the blackish-red stain, but the Queen had provided a spare. It is slightly shorter, but wide enough to cover him properly; pale blue silk with a vague shimmer of purple that he can drape around himself just enough to hide his injury. Damien was the one who pointed out with shining, gleeful eyes that the color was near exactly that of the glow of the Saint-fire, but Arum cannot bring himself to care. The cloth serves the purpose it must, be it colored like magic or merely like myrtle.

Sir Caroline leaves them at the gate, giving a curt nod before she returns to her duties. Sir Angelo walks them to the edge of the trees, and keeps an eye open for watching eyes as Rilla pulls a bag of dirt from the pockets of her skirt and summons a portal back home.

The Keep spends a good five minutes clutching Arum in its vines and trilling a terrified reprimand at him until he begrudgingly apologizes for his brush with death, the pain and fear it could feel in him even miles distant, and then it pokes and prods at Rilla and Damien until it is satisfied with their safety as well.

Damien sighs deeply as they nestle together on their own bed. It hasn’t even been two full days since they were like this last, but the memory of safety had grown so distant in that short time that the homecoming feels raw. Earned.

“None of this is going to be easy,” he says softly. “That baker in the square, Dominick? He would have thrown that entire basket of rolls at all of us if Sir Caroline had not glared him down, I think, and I doubt Sir Absolon and I will ever speak amicably again. It will be quite some time before things in the Citadel manage to settle back down.”

“But we’re all alive,” Rilla says, exhaling as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time. “We’re okay, we’re safe. The rest of it- we’ll figure it out, somehow.”

“Together,” Arum says, his eyes slipping closed again. “We shall figure it out together.”

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #lord arum #IT'S DONE I DID IT IT'S DOOONE #imagine griffin doing that twirling dab from the mbmbam show and that's me right now but also with sCREAMING #hold breath hit post byeeeeee #when the reckoning arrives

[livingisachore]

Dinner~ FwB part. 2 {G.D}

THIS IS PART TWO TO MUKBANG 

I’m sorry this took a long time I have been really busy and it only seems to be able to write really late at night... 

Summary: After avoiding the twins well mostly Grayson you go over to hang out and thing aspire...

Warnings: SMUT ( really really really bad smut this is the first smut i have written and its makes me cringe soooo bad dont judge please)

that being said its UNEDITED cause i don’t think i could read through it without dying.

Waking up was unpleasant, your head resting on something hard definitely not a pillow. You open your eyes seeing tan skin, of someones chest?

Grayson.

You planned on leaving or at least going to the guest room. You must have fallen asleep.

“Dang it” you went to get up but Gray’s arms were around your waist. You moved them  carefully to get up and hope it doesn’t wake up and he doesn’t, thank the lord. You gather you stuff quickly and hop in your jeep and leave to your apartment.

You avoided the twins, well mostly Grayson in hopes to clear your mind of these thoughts about Grayson. He didn’t want a relationship but he kissed you and then cuddled all night with you. That’s what people in relationships do, right? You don’t know, maybe you just over thinking things, like normal. But what does this man want?

You decided after a couple of days you had to see the twins especially after Ethan and Grayson texting you like crazy.

hey

Whats up

Y/N

U ok?

Hey Y/N

hello Y/N Y/L/N

how are you?

Hey Y/N wanna come over, me and gray have been worried about you

Hey sorry bout that have been busy with stuff and i’d love to come over, what time? You reluctantly text back.

4?

sounds good see you than

~Grayson’s POV~

“Yo E” I shouted walking down the hall into the living room. Ethan was laying on the couch on his phone.

“Has Y/N responded to your texts? cause she hasn’t responded to any of mine. Is it me or is she acting weird” I ask.

“She is acting weird but she has answered me saying she was coming over to hang later” he says. 

“That’s weird I texted her the same thing and she didn’t respond to me” I wondered.

“Maybe she figured I’d tell you and she didn’t want to text the same thing twice” Ethan tried to reason.

“Ya ya probably you’re right” I say agreeing but mostly trying to convince myself.

It was around 4 and that’s when Ethan said Y/N was going to come over and she was right on time, walking straight in without knocking. 

“Hey guys” she plops down on the couch, sighing.

“Hey” me and Ethan responded at the same time. There were no words said, we were all just on your phones.

Y/N seemed off, I couldn’t tell what was wrong but something wasn’t right. She seemed, dazed a little like she was thinking about something non-stop.

“You guys hungry?” Y/N asked out of the blue.

“Really Y/N is that even a question” Ethan says and I agree.

“Why you wanna get some food” I ask.

"Actually I feel like cooking so how about I cook, make a nice homemade meal, if that’s okay” she suggest.

“I would never turn down a home cooked meal from Y/N” Ethan jumps on the idea seeing the fact that he doesn’t even know how to make himself anything to eat.

“Only if I can help” I say, she looks hesitant for a second but reluctantly responds.

“Sure you can be my sous chef” she smiles ruffling my hair.

Me and Y/N are currently at the store without Ethan because he can’t do anything. Y/N is looking around the store going in circles trying to decide what she wants to make.

“You as executive chef today I think you should have know exactly what you want to make” I joke with her trying to lighten the mood.

“Hmm I just don’t know what I want to sometimes” she sighs.

“There are so many options pasta, chicken, spaghetti, steak, soup. Help” she turns toward me, looking at me.

“Okay how about chicken and pasta” I suggest.

“Thank you Gray, sound perfect” she gives a small smile and than heads off to get the now known dinner ingredients.

~Y/N’s POV~

The whole Grayson thing was really messing with your mind. You don’t know why but it-it’s AHH its bothering you so much.

“Y/N Y/N” you hear shouting and footsteps.

“Huh” you question turning towards the shouting and footsteps. 

“The waters boiling over” Grayson says taking the lid of the pot.

“S

Oh sorry” you say.

"You okay? You’ve seem off today” he asks.

Other than the fact that I’m so confused about you

“Ya no I’m fine just a lot on my mind ya know” you say trying to convince him, he just nods.

“Hey Gray, go get Ethan the foods almost done” you tell him, finishing up.

“Ooh smells good Y/N, what did you prepare tonight for us Chef Y/N” Ethan asks as you set a plate in front of him and Grayson.

“Well Judge Ethan and Grayson, I have prepared garlic roasted chicken with creamy tomato and spinach pasta” you explain like they do on the cooking shows, laughing a little. You stand across the counter waiting for them to take a bite.

“Its amazing you win” Ethan says with his mouth half full and Grayson nods in agreement.

“Thanks” you laugh as food falls out of Ethan mouth. You grab a plate, get some food for yourself and sit down at the table

Ethan left immediately after done eating leaving his dishes in the sink going back to his room. You collect dirty dishes and start to do them.

“Hey I got the dishes” Grayson say from behind you, going to take the dishes out of your hands.

“No its fine I made them” you argue holding on to them.

“Well they’re my dishes” he retorts taking them out of your hands.

“Ok fine” you give up, sitting down on the counter.

“I hate doing dishes anyway” you give a cheeky smile and Gray rolls his eyes playfully.

You were in Ethan’s room watching him play Fortnite. After playing a few games you got too frustrated and gave up opting to just watch him. You eventually got bored of watching and decided to see what Grayson was doing. 

“Hey E as exhilarating as watching you play Fortnite is, I’m bored, I’m going to go see what Gray’s doing” you say standing up.

“Ok sorry to bore you” he says focusing on the game.

“It’s fine, goodnight don’t stay up to late” you say giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Goodnight Y/N” Ethan replies eyes still glued to the screen and you walk out closing the door behind you. 

You wonder down the hall until you are in front of Grayson’s door, knocking before slowly opening the door.

“Hey” you says, he was laying down on his bed.

“Hey Y/N, Fortnite get boring” he ask. You nod plopping down next to him.

“What ya watching” you say scoot over next to him looking at his phone.

“Just YouTube” he holds the phone so you could watch to.

You started to space out, getting lost in your own thoughts. Your thoughts were mostly consumed by the person laying next to your. Grayson. He made you want to do questionable things to him. After the conversation you had about friends with benefits with him in the pool a couple of days ago, it got you thinking.

Why not be friends with benefits with Grayson? You wanted to have one, he did too, why not right? Ya it sounds crazy you know. You would usually never think about doing anything like that, ever. You didn’t want to have the chance ruin the friendship but would it? You will never know until you try.

“I’m going to the bathroom” you say getting up form the bed, going to the bathroom.

You was standing front of the mirror, looking at your self in your blush colored undergarments.

To say you were nervous would be a total understatement. Were you really about to do this? What if he rejects you? What if you read this whole situation wrong? 

It’s now or never Y/N, now or never.

Taking one last deep breath, you take slow steps towards the bathroom door preparing yourself. You open the door to see Grayson sitting up against the headboard on his phone. He doesn’t notice you for a couple of seconds before looking up for a quick second than taking a double take taking a longer look. Confusion than embarrassment shown in the blush creeping onto his face. You slowly start waling over to him, his eyes not leaving your basically naked figure walking towards you.

“So” you say once you reach the bed, crawling over to Grayson.

“I’ve been thinking” straddling his lap. It took a second for him to react, placing his hands on your lower back looking up to meet your eyes, a smirk on his face.

“Oh yea, about what” he ask looking down at your body.

“I think you could guess” your hands trail up his arms, a smirk appearing on your face by the way he was checking you out.

“I-I don’t think I do” he says smirking, hands moving smoothly up and down your back. He wants to play that game, lets play. You lean towards his mouth, as if going to kiss him but you move to the side leaning to his ear. 

“Why don’t I show you instead” you purred, nipping at his ear lobe causing him to left out a heavy breath. You go down his neck leaving open mouth kisses before going up to meet his lips in a hot, desperate kiss. There was no time wasted for your tongues to meet, fighting for dominance. 

Pulling away you gasp for air from the hot makeup session while Grayson moves down to neck, kissing and leaving gentle bite marks. He finds your sweet spot causing you to arch you back, pressing your lace covered breast to his chest, a moan leaving your lips.

As he reaches your shoulders his hands trail up your arms to slip the straps of your bralette off and unclips it, letting the little lace that was covering your breast to fall exposing your breasts completely. 

His eyes focused on your breasts as his hands come up your sides, under your breast cupping them then palming them in his large hands. His hands were the perfect size to hold one breast in his hand. 

The pleasure causing you to move your hips against his making him groan which was really hot for you to hear. You could feel him growing under you as you continue to grind, he was big and you could tell he wasn’t fully hard yet. 

You bring your hands up to the side of his face bringing your lips to his just barely brushing them, grinding harder causing Grayson to move his hands to your hips to slow your movements.

“If you keep doing that you are going to make me cum in my pants” he breaths out, his lips curling in a slight smirk, stopping your movements.

“Really” you giggle trying going to move your hips again but Grayson wasn’t having any of it.

“Oh your going to get it” he says wrapping one arm around your back flipping you both over so you were on your back and Grayson on top which causes you to let out a squeal.

Quickly getting to work, he plants his lips on yours giving you a rough, hard kiss going down your jaw, down your neck, meeting your collarbone when he gets you the valley of your breast.

He wraps his lips around one your of you nipples while he palms the other with his large hand, than switches giving them the same attention.

“Mhmm Gray” you moan out your back arching, pressing more of your breast into his face while you hands runs through his hair.

He switches back but this time he gently bit down around your nipple dragging his teeth which surprised you causing you to gasp but than moan. It wasn’t hard enough to cause pain but pleasure from the new sensation. 

He continues his way down to the top of your panties, kissing along the waistband but leaves them on and settles himself in between your legs, lifting them over his shoulders. He starts at your knees going down, leaving kisses and hickeys on your inside of your thighs. 

He reached your core leaving open mouth kisses over your clothed core causing your hands to go his hair to hold him still and writhe around. Despite the grip on his hair he pulls away causing you to whine.

“What”  he says tapping your core with his fingers.

"What do you want” he taps again.

“You Gray, you” you squirm.

“Gonna have to be specific” he commands.

“Ugh" you groan getting frustrated.

"Everything, you, your mouth, your tongue, your fingers, your cock. Please Grayson” you give in and beg. Your words must have done something to him because he tore off your underwear.

He takes on finger and drags it up and down feeling and spreading your wetness before diving right in. His mouth going around your now throbbing clit, slowly inserting one finger, pumping than adding another finger.

“Huh Gray” you breathe out as he curls his fingers hitting just the right spot with his lips wrapped around your clit. Your hands go to his hair slightly tugging at his roots causing him to groan making vibrations drawing you closer tot he edge. You started to become more vocal your moans getting louder.

“Mhhmm fuck I’m gonna-” you moan but he pulls away completely making you groan in displeasure.

“Why’d you stop-” you get cut off by him smashing his lips to yours, you could taste yourself on his lips.

You moan against his lips as your hands trail down his chest to the waistband of his shorts, your fingertips teasing his v-line, before reaching in and stroking his cock. He freezes, his eyes screwed shut, mouth open panting. He was hard and big, really big.

He groans grabbing your wrist, stopping your movement.

“I’m not gonna last” he breathes out.

“Than you should take theses off” you tug at his shorts and boxers with a smirk, he gets up and pulls off his shorts along with his boxers and places himself back in between you legs.

He rubs his tip against your folds, spreading your wetness and tapping your clit. He does that for a while, you get tired of his teasing so you flip you both over.

“You tease to much” you place yourself on top of him grinding, spreading your wetness on his shaft before reaching back and lining him up, slowly sinking down. You mouth open when you bottom out, feeling your ass touch his thighs.

“Fuck” your breath hitches in your throat as you start to grind adjusting to his size, slowly starting to move up and down.

“Fuck your tight Y/N” Grayson say grabbing your ass helping you move. 

“Shit your so big” you grind for couple seconds before bouncing harder and faster. The slapping sound your ass hitting Grayson’s thighs and your guys moans was the only thing that could be heard.

“You feel so good wrapped around me babygirl” he starts to thrust up meeting you halfway his hands going to your breast squeezing them as you continue to ride him.

“Shit Gray” you moan as he grabs your thighs holding you still thrusting up hard and fast. You lean forward you hands landing on Gray’s chest your nails digging into his skin leaving little crescent moons.

Grayson suddenly flips you over and waste no time continuing his fast deep thrust. He lowers himself onto his forearms, his face inches away from yours, you reach up grabbing the sides of his face smashing his lips to yours. The kiss was rough, teeth clashing, lip biting.

Grayson moved one arm around your leg placing it over his shoulder bending back over to be face to face with you. With your leg over his shoulder created a new angle, hitting certain spot that makes your toes curl and your mouth hang open.

“Is that the spot babygirl” he grunts bringing his face to your neck dragging his nose to the side of your face continuing his animalistic thrust. You could feel a knot forming in the pit of our stomach, your orgasm approaching.

“Fuck I’m close Gray” you clench around him and he grunts as his thrust seems to get faster and deeper.

“Fuck” a high pitched whine leaves your mouth as your orgasm ripples through your body.

“Oo shit” Gray grunts placing his hands on your lower stomach holding you still, his thrust getting sloppy and short as you clench around him milking him of all he has.

He pulls out after awhile and heads over to the closet and comes out in a pair of boxers and a shirt in his hands.

“Here” he hands you the shirts.

"Thank you” you out it on, standing up with a slight wobble in your legs.

“You good?” Grayson chuckles.

"Hey don’t laugh its not my fault” you whine playfully undertone.

“I’m sorry but is kinda is you started it” he says.

"Oh shut it Dolan" you say, Grayson now in front of you, hands on your hips as he lowers his head to meet your lips. Before the kiss could get to heated you gently push him away, and head to three bathroom.

You are cuddling with Gray when you notice the faint marks on his chest, running your fingers over them.

“Sorry” you lightly drag your fingers over the marks placing a soft kiss on them.

“It’s fine, kinda liked it” he winked.

“Kinky” you wink back through the blush on your face causing him to blush also. You lay your head on his chest with a laugh.

After awhile you thought it was best to move to the guest room, Grayson was sleeping so you move his arm slowly trying not to wake him up. You successfully do so and you go around the room and collect your clothes for the room and the bathroom. You walk out of the bathroom with your clothes in your hand.

“Hey where are you going?” you jump, the rough voice scared you.

“Oh my god you gave me a hard attack” you say placing your hand on your chest taking a deep breath.

“Sorry” he says stretching out and sits up a little.

“Where you going?” he asks.

“Guest room” you reply taking a couple steps toward him on the bed.

“Why? You should stay” he reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you to the edge of bed.

“Don’t want Ethan walking in and seeing. Even though him waking up before both of us is very unlikely but still” you shrug.

“That is almost impossible” he chuckles.

“Come on” he whines slightly tugging at your hand.

“Almost” you point out.

“And there always a wild card with Ethan” you make an excuse.

“Ya ok fine” he groans and you turn to walk away but he doesn’t let go so you turn back to him.

“What I don’t get a good night kiss?” he asks causing you to roll your eyes.

“You're so cliche” but you lean down to give him one on the cheek.

Before he could testify you escape from his grasp and walk to the door open it standing half in the doorway, looking back at Grayson who was already looking at you.

“Goodnight, sweet dreams don’t let the bed bugs bite” you say slowly disappearing out of his view.

“Goodnight Y/N” he says and you close the door and head down the hall to the guest room.

You crawl in the bed and just stare at the ceiling. Your thoughts run wild, thinking about what just happened and whats going to happened because of it.

#grayson dolan #grayson #dolan #grayson dolan imagines #grayson dolan imagine #grayson dolan au #dolan imagines #dolan imagine #the dolan twins #dolan twins #dolan twins imagine #the dolan twins imagine #ethan dolan #ethan dolan imagine #grayson and ethan #ethan and grayson #grayson dolan smut #grayson smut #dolan smut

[burn-your-face-upon-the-chrome]

My Writing Schedule For Nov - Dec

Heads up, this gets kinda lengthy because I over explain everything. What I'm vomiting onto this blog will pertain heavily to my dumpster fire of a fan fiction series which centers around Slit the Trash Lizard and his Scavenger Country friends. Yes, he's paired with and OC in it. Am I ashamed? No. Are we delving into why I'm not ashamed? Also no, we don't have time for that, because that's what I'm here to talk about today. Time.

I have incredibly poor time management skills when it comes to anything I'm not being paid to do. Essentially, what I want to do today is lay out a two-month plan for the About a Lizard series and squeeze into the following twelve months time for other fiction endeavors which include two original stories, a fanwork in the Aliens versus Predator universe, and a crossover with I'mRobin on AO3.

Normally, I post vague updates on the progress of the next chapter in the top notes of my submissions on AO3, I haven't been doing that because lately, my head is in ten different places at once.

The plan for AAL is to take all of the notes and information about loosely planned chapters for the current installment of the story (We can call it book two) and break down those chapters further by summarizing individual scenes within them. I already do this but I only do it one chapter at a time as I work, and then I tend to abandon a fully summarized chapter for weeks on end while I putter around procrastinating.

When I write these summaries, they generally contain a list of concepts that need to be addressed at a precise point in time along with character actions and an idea of the content of dialog between the characters. For an example of what this actually looks like in a summary: “Dune needs to lament about the potatoes she was trying to grow and how more than a month without steady watering has probably killed the spuds. Maybe have her dig around in the pots (old tires) to check for survivors.”  

It's basic stuff and the above line of quoted text is the substance of an entire small scene. Many of these summaries are much longer but even these tiny ones are incredibly helpful. They help to keep me on track with where I want a chapter to go, what I want it to cover, and it helps me to enforce self-control in keeping from wandering off in my head and indulging in unnecessary info-dumpery. Once this small scene is finished, I know exactly where I need to shift my attention because I already have that information at my disposal in the next summarized scene.

Knowing where you're going helps more than you think. I know the trajectory of the story as a whole, but getting from point A to point B within individual chapters is easier said than done. As an example: If you're writing a story about a girl named Jane who finds a magical singing rock in the woods, but you need her to travel across a country to find a wizard to explain the significance of the singing rock, then you need to have something happen during that journey. If this journey is to be concise enough to fit into a single chapter, you'll need minor conflict and resolution within that chapter, and it can be as extreme or subtle as you want, but it still has to exist and that requires thought and planning. Alternatively, you can take that cross-country trip that Jane goes on and turn it into the flesh of an entire story, where the journey itself is the story, not so much whatever is going on with the singing rock. I'm trying to avoid letting the minor plot interfere with the primary plot. Using Jane and the Rock as a euphemism for minor plot sequences: I want these “trips to find the wizard” to be consistently contained within one chapter without becoming arcs of their own which would interfere with the primary plot.

Phew! Now that you know what I mean by summarized chapters and scenes, and have probably realized that I am completely out of my mind, I can get to the point of this. I'd like to summarize scenes for all thirty-three planned chapters of “The Road to Nowhere” as soon as possible. Why would I want to do all of this work when I could simply be flat out writing? Because if I do this and get the bulk of the planning out of the way, I will ultimately be producing chapters at a far faster clip. If every chapter consists of between seven and ten scenes and I can flesh out one scene per day, that means I could publish one chapter approximately every ten days versus one chapter every month or several months. This better executed organization process would see the fic finished in a little under a year. I don't want to do the math and find out what that time-frame looks like if I continue on at my current pace. It probably looks something like six years, UGH!

Organization matters and at the moment, I don't have it. I can probably summarize the whole dang fic scene-by-scene within a couple weeks if I really apply myself to it. I may get only small way into this process before I say “Screw this!” and continue work chapter by chapter as a good little fic pigeon, but even if I only plan out three or four chapters at a time, I'm still coming out way ahead of the game. That's important to me. So, that is what is going on with the About a Lizard thingy. The following is a bullet point of dates and plans for November - December regarding About a Lizard and other projects

The next piece of writing I'm likely to crank out is an update chapter for the crossover titled Unlikely which I am working on with ImRobin over on AO3. I would like to publish this by the 15th of November at the very latest but I’ll probably be able to manage it far earlier. It is incredibly well structured because two people are working closely to hack out dialog and actions for each character to prevent out of character sequences and to give both parties as much creative control as possible in each chapter. It should not take long if I can sit for a few hours without interruption to work on it.

Chapter 4 of The Road To Nowhere is already started and I'm slowly scratching out the first draft scene by scene when I feel like writing. That will probably pop up on AO3 shortly after my half of the update on Unlikely, so expect it by the 17th at the very latest.

Once chapter 4 of The Road to Nowhere pops up on AO3, I will be summarizing and planning the rest of the chapters as much as I can with the goal to plan all scenes for all thirty-three (or more) chapters by mid-December. Once this is done, I'll be able to focus effort in a more meaningful way and lay the foundation for a routine where I flesh out one scene per day and hopefully begin submitting a chapter every ten to fifteen days instead of every month or two.

Chapter 5 of The Road to Nowhere should appear by the end of December.

If I can get this rhythm to work, I may take periodic breaks every five chapters to do work on a few original short stories I've had in my head for years but not enough organizational skill or confidence to execute. These may turn up on AO3 as well.

In short, to my best knowledge, updates will appear in the following order. Keep in mind personal schedules prevent me from knowing exact dates when future Unlikely chapters will get written.

11/13/18 – 11/15/18: Unlikely will update

11/16/18 – 11/17/18: The Road to Nowhere will update

11/17/18 – 12/15/18: I will be working solely on summarizing scenes for TRTN & Unlikely

12/25/18 – 12/30/18: The Road to Nowhere will resume with the submission of chapter 5

All chapters of The Road to Nowhere thereafter will be scheduled for submission within ten to fifteen days of each other.

#my schedule #mad max fanfiction #fanfic stuff #Fanfiction BS #TRTN #the road to nowhere

[cutieodonoghue]

more than all the stars (6/18)

summary: In a world full of soulmates, Emma Nolan doesn’t know who hers is. Enter Killian Jones, attempting to stop his brother from proposing to his soulmate, only to be thrown a curveball when he’s sent to spend Christmas on a farm with a bunch of strangers. (soulmate modern au)

rating: k+ (mild language, suggestive situations later on)

word count: ~3,800

catch up: read it all on tumblr here

also find on: ff.net, ao3

six

 Killian rides into town with David, Emma, and Henry in the black pickup truck because it has the best wheels for snow, according to David.

 On the way, he texts Liam to ask where he should meet he and his new fiancée. Granny’s is the answer, sent several minutes after the initial question.

 “I suppose I’ll just… meet you back in front of Granny’s in an hour?” Killian asks.

 “Why don’t you just give Emma your number?” David suggests. “I’d get it, but I left my phone at home.”

Emma makes a sound that causes both Killian and David to glance back at her. “Dad doesn’t use his phone even in emergencies anyway.”

 “Not true,” he defends himself. “I do use it most days. I just… get tired of the dang thing.”

 Killian hums. He hesitates with his phone in his palm. “Uh, I have an international number, so-”

 “Oh, right,” Emma pulls her phone from between her legs and opens an app. “Here. You can just type it in.”

 With Emma’s phone in his hands, he feels oddly like this should be a bigger moment between them. He’s giving her his number, which could lead to all sorts of things down the road. Like texting when he’s gone, and maintaining a friendship. The prospect strangely thrills him.

 After typing his number in, he adds his name and then passes the device back to Emma. “There you go. I’ll just-”

 “I’ll text you so you can let us know when you’re ready to head back.” Emma nods. She wears a soft smirk on her lips, like she knows something.

 “Right.” Killian smiles back. “Thanks for the ride into town, Dave. I’ll be in touch.”

 “Have a good time.” David says, sounding every bit like a parent dropping his child off for school for the day. It almost makes Killian laugh, but he keeps the thought to himself and pulls open the truck door.

 It’s freezing outside, so he moves as fast as he can to get into Granny’s Diner. The establishment is nearly packed to the brim with people, to the point that he thinks he might be at the wrong diner.

 Thankfully, Elsa comes to his aid at the front door. Today, she’s wearing a Christmas sweater and smiles brightly at him.

 “Hey, Killian. I’m so sorry you got stuck this morning. I heard the snow was pretty bad last night.”

 Killian shakes his head. “Small town. Small plow.”

 Elsa chuckles. “Too true. C’mon. Liam is starving and we have to talk to you about so much.”

 Killian raises his eyebrows. “Not too much, I hope.”

 Either she doesn’t hear him, or she chooses not to have. They arrive at the booth toward the back of the diner and Liam immediately smiles kindly at him.

 “Brother, it’s nice to see you. How’s life on the farm?”

 “It’s…” Killian pauses to find the right word and shifts out of his coat and scarf. “It’s very homely. You’d like it there.”

 Liam hums thoughtfully. “Well, I’m glad you seem to be enjoying it at least.”

 “Not as much as I would if I were here with you like I was supposed to be at the start.” Killian sighs. He settles his hands on the table. “So what have you been up to while I’ve been away?”

Elsa and Liam exchange happy glances.

 “Well, Killian, we’ve set a date for the wedding.”

 Killian’s heart plummets to his belly nervously. “Oh?”

 Elsa nods. “Yes. We’ve decided to get married on Christmas.”

 He blinks once. Twice. A third time. Narrows his eyes slightly, then widens them. “Christmas. You mean, as in, next Christmas. So you’ll have a year to plan.”

 Elsa laughs and looks up at his brother fondly. “No, I meant this Christmas.”

 “That’s in two days.” Killian blurts out with frustration lacing his tone. “You can’t possibly expect to plan and execute a wedding in two days.”

 Liam shrugs and shakes his head. “We found out that we can get a same-day marriage license. Anna’s going to be Elsa’s maid of honor. I thought you’d be my best man. We’ve got rings from the pawn shop.”

 Elsa nods excitedly. “And we’ll have it at Town Hall at dusk with string lights and folding chairs. I’ve already found someone to officiate too.”

 The fact that they’ve thought so much of it through has his mind spinning. He scrambles thinking about all of the things they haven’t considered, like the repercussions of getting married on a complete entire whim.

 “Dad’s in England, Li. You can’t possibly-”

 Liam makes a face. “I don’t need Dad here for this.” He takes Elsa’s hand atop the table. “I have everything I need right here.”

 He looks between them for a few silent moments. Then, staring at his brother, who he’d grown up thinking was his hero, he feels frustrated tears rise to the surface.

 “Liam, you can’t be this stupid and naive. I won’t allow it.”

 Elsa shrinks back slightly and looks up at the man she’s engaged herself to. Liam’s jaw clenches and he meets Killian’s gaze firmly.

 “I’m not asking your permission, Killian.”

 Killian laughs. “That’s obvious. I thought you were smarter than this.”

 His brother clears his throat and says lowly, “We should take this outside. If that’s how you feel.”

 He grabs his coat and scarf and is out of the diner before Liam even has a chance to get to his feet. Killian waits on the snow-covered patio, near iced over tables and chairs that have no use in the winter season.

 The cold bites his ears and cheeks. Every time he takes a breath he sees it in the air before him. Eventually, Liam emerges from the diner with his coat on and a hat covering his ears.

 “Killian, when I told you I was coming on this trip, I told you I planned on proposing. I know it’s not the life you want for yourself, soulmates, but it’s the one I’ve chosen.”

 “When you found out who she was you hid the envelope and lied that you’d ever read it.” Killian says. “You didn’t want her. For four whole years.”

 His brother looks down at the snow and then up at him again. “That’s not true.”

 “No?” Killian asks. “You looked her up. You knew exactly where she was. What she looked like.”

 He searches his eyes. He’s started breathing faster now, years of pent-up emotion coming forward all at once.

 “Killian, it’s not what you think,” Liam says hardly. “I was afraid. I didn’t have the money. Papa was breathing down my neck about starting grooming me to take his place. I couldn’t just… leave and go find her. I had you to think about. I had-”

 “Don’t give me that.” Killian shakes his head.  “Don’t give me that. It’s a complete load of garbage. I think you spent your whole life running from it because you were afraid you’d end up like him.”

 Liam suddenly comes closer to him, snow crunching violently beneath his boots. He grabs him by the collar and shakes him. “You listen to me. This has nothing to do with him. Nothing.”

 “You’re the president of the company, Liam.” Killian says, a snarl on his lips. “You tell me who’s more like our father.”

 His brother releases him and steps away. He sniffles due to the cold and glances away briefly when people walk past them on the sidewalk.

 “I’m marrying Elsa. In two days. I still want you there, but I’ll understand if you don’t come.”

 “Don’t do this,” Killian pleads. “Liam. Please. Just wait a while.”

 His brother takes a generous step backwards away from him. “I’m in love. I don’t want to wait.”

 Killian sighs heavily. He runs his hand over his head as his brother heads back inside. He flexes his fingers before curling them in toward his palm and out again.

 Going back inside is out of the question, for fear of ruining the rest of the day with his bitter attitude. Instead, Killian turns toward Main Street and thinks about where else he might be able to grab a bite to eat.

 He remembers seeing a bar called The Rabbit Hole on his initial tour around town, so he starts in that direction. At the very least, he can drown his sorrows in cheap spirits and American football on crappy televisions.

 ///

 Emma finishes picking out gifts for Hannah and Charlie and steps outside with Henry busy chattering to himself from his stroller seat.

 She still needs to find Killian something, but she imagines he might be happy with something made at the farm, so she starts thinking about what sort of handmade soap or candle he might want from her mother’s secret stash.

 Her phone vibrates in her pocket, causing her to stop moving so she can check the message. It’s from Elsa, of all people.

Elsa: If you’re in town I really need to talk to you. I’m at the park behind my apartment.

Sighing, Emma bites at her lip. She really doesn’t have the energy to be on board with Elsa and her non-stop soulmate talking points today, but as one of her best friends, she has an obligation to.

Emma: Hang tight. I’m on my way.

Luckily, the walk isn’t too far, even in the cold, so when she gets to the park and finds Elsa sitting on their favorite bench, her patience isn’t terribly stretched thin.

 “Hey. Everything okay?” Emma asks as she approaches Elsa.

 Her friend, who had been looking away from her, turns slightly startled by her arrival. “Emma. Yes, yes, sorry. I should have specified that in the text.”

 “It’s alright.” Emma smiles a little. She brushes off the spot beside Elsa on the bench and sits down. It’s freezing and she knows her jeans are going to be wet later, but this is what friendship is. “What’s going on?”

 Elsa turns to Emma after waving at Henry. Her smile is kind, and her eyes are bright. “Liam and I are getting married on Christmas. Not in the morning, because families and presents, but in the evening.”

 Emma’s eyes widen faster than they ever have before. “Wow! That soon, huh?”

 Her friend laughs joyously. “Yes. I know it’s a little fast, but we decided that we’d rather not wait and deal with all of the back-and-forth for a year while we planned the wedding. And this way, Liam can get a green card because we’ll be married.”

 “He’s moving here,” Emma says, to which Elsa nods. “Wow. That’s… a lot of great big decisions in less than, what, half a day of being engaged?”

 Elsa tilts her head to the side ever so slightly. “You sound like Killian. He doesn’t want us getting married this soon either, but… it’s like Liam said, we love each other, we’re both here, and it just makes sense. Why wait?”

 Emma certainly can think of a few reasons to wait, but Elsa’s so happy and she knows they both have their heads on straight. They’ll be fine, even if it’s fast and they’re likely going to encounter a lot of issues down the road because of rash decision making.

 “I’m really happy and excited for you,” Emma finally says. She leans in for a hug, one Elsa happily accepts.

 “I’m so glad.” Elsa pulls away from the hug. “I was hoping I could count on you being there. Anna’s going to be my maid of honor, but I want you to be a bridesmaid.”

 It’s flattering to say the least, that her friend would want her to be part of her wedding party. It’s something they’d joke about as teenagers, but for some reason, Emma never thought it would actually happen, so to hear Elsa so enthusiastic about the idea makes her almost blush with delight.

 “I’d love to.”

 “Yeah?”

 Emma laughs. “Of course. You’re my best friend.”

 They hug again, this time a little bit longer. Elsa pulls back with tears in her eyes. “Sorry. I’m just… so happy.”

 “It’s okay,” Emma chuckles. “Hey, let’s go get cocoa at Granny’s. I’m freezing.”

 Elsa bobs her head in agreement. “I just came from there, but I don’t want to go back to my apartment just yet. Liam’s still a bit upset from his conversation with Killian.”

 As they walk toward Granny’s Diner, Elsa informs her that Killian left shortly after arriving to the establishment, after fighting with his brother outside. The thought makes her wary, not knowing where he went or in what condition he’ll be in when he decides it’s time to go back to the farm.

 Her father had promised to meet her outside of the toy shop in about half an hour, at which point they’d wait on Killian’s text. But apparently, Killian has disappeared.

 Maybe it’s a good thing she has his phone number.

 After they sit in a booth at the diner and Emma has Henry coloring the kids menu, she decides to pull out her phone and check on Killian.

Emma: Hey. You okay? Ran into Elsa. She said you disappeared.

Almost within a full second of her sending the message, three typing dots appear on screen. Her eyes widen slightly at the eagerness of his reply, and she looks up as she waits for it.

 “So, any plans tonight?” Elsa asks. “Liam and I are planning on going to Granny’s special dinner ball.”

 “Granny’s having that this year?” Emma wonders. “Didn’t one of the dwarves almost set the place on fire last time?”

 Elsa laughs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

 Emma hums. While it does sound kind of fun, she has Henry and she’d really rather stay at home when she has the chance to. She’s really surprised her mother hasn’t been on her about going. A dinner and dance are just up her aisle.

 Her phone vibrates in her hand and immediately, she looks down to find Killian’s response.

Killian: I’m alright. Where are you? I can meet you. I’m done in town.

Hesitantly, Emma looks at her friend.

 “It’s my dad,” she lies, holding up her phone slightly. “He says we need to get going.”

 “Oh,” Elsa frowns. “Well, will I see you tonight?”

 Emma starts to get Henry ready, much to his chagrin. He fusses, wanting to color still. “I don’t know. It depends on what’s going on at home.”

 “I understand.” Elsa smiles slightly, though Emma can tell she’s disappointed. “Well, I’ll for sure see you on Christmas at least.”

 Emma nods. “Yes. Of course you will. If you need anything, you can call or text. I’ll do whatever I can with the storm coming in.”

 “Oh, shoot. That’s right.” Elsa’s eyes go wide. “Do you think it’ll clear out by Christmas?”

 “Dad seems to think so.” Emma shrugs. She gets Henry into his stroller and buckles him in. “I don’t know though. We can talk about backup plans later, okay?”

 “Okay.” her friend nods. “Well, we’ll hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

 ///

 Emma tells Killian to meet her at the toy store, where apparently they’re due to meet David.

 He’s freezing when he gets there, the wind in the air not a help at all. He tugs at his scarf, trying to get more of his cheeks covered, and turns just in time to find Emma approaching, looking every bit as miserable as he feels.

 “Let’s go inside,” she says, her face brightening up at the sight of him. She laughs when a gust hits her particularly hard. “It’s freezing out here!”

 Her joy makes him smile behind his scarf. He hurries to the door and gets it open for her to push Henry’s stroller inside. Almost instantly, as soon as they’re safe with the door shut, he feels warm relief.

 They both sigh contentedly and tug at their scarves so they can see each other.

 “I can’t wait to get back home and not have to deal with that,” Emma says with a shiver. She stares at him cautiously. “So what’s going on? Elsa said you and your brother had a… heated conversation.”

 Killian’s heart sinks to his belly and he feels embarrassment, for whatever reason. He reaches behind his ear by force of habit and scratches for a second before dropping his arms to his sides.

 “Ah, yeah. We… don’t agree on a lot of things lately.”

 Emma studies him and nods in understanding. “Charlie and I were the same way when he found out who his soulmate was.” She takes a breath and looks down when her son makes a noise. “I know, kid.” She laughs a little and lifts an eyebrow at him. “Maybe coming inside a toy store was a bad idea.”

 Killian gets the feeling that she’d rather not talk about soulmates, something he wholeheartedly agrees with. He’d rather never think about them ever again, but apparently it’s something that’s started following him around recently.

 “Dad said he’d meet me in front of this store in ten minutes,” Emma tells Killian. “He’s never late. He’ll probably be early, so it shouldn’t be too long at all.”

 “That’s good. I’m finished with my business in town, so I’m ready when he arrives.”

 He gestures to the bags in his hands, gifts he’d purchased for the Nolan family when he found out the bar wasn’t serving much food from the menu today.

 His companion hums. She flexes her fingers at her sides while she looks around at the toys in the quirky and fun shop. There are a lot of other customers wandering the aisles, as well as children playing with trains and building blocks set out for such activity.

 Killian watches Emma move away from him, staying near enough to the window to check on her father, but enough that she can also peruse some toys he imagines Henry would love.

 Helpless and feeling just slightly awkward, he follows her. His presence at her side draws her attention to him with a tiny, thin-lipped smile. She’s staring and running her fingers over a fuzzy bunny with floppy ears.

 “I had one of these when I was growing up,” she explains, “Charlie ruined it when I was ten by dragging it through the mud and yanking one of his eyes out.”

 Killian frowns. “Well, that’s not very nice.”

 Emma hums and moves forward, away from the rabbit that clearly carries great emotional meaning for her.

 “It’s kind of Henry’s first official Christmas,” she says, “because last year, he was too small to do anything but sleep and eat and poop.”

 Killian chuckles. “I see.”

 “I bought him way too many toys and I know my mom did too.” Emma shakes her head. “He’s going to be so spoiled.”

 He admires the way she softens around the edges when she talks about her son. Often, she seems hard to reach, a little tough after what life must have brought her through.

 Killian looks at the wall before them, at the stuffed animals that Henry’s little fingers reach for from the stroller seat. He goes to one and plucks it off of the shelf, giving it to the boy, who receives it happily.

 “Uh oh,” Emma teases. “Now you have to get it for him. He won’t be happy if you take it away.”

 “He loves it!” Killian beams at the way Henry cuddles the teddy bear. He hasn’t had much experience with children, but Henry makes him want to do everything in his power to get to play with kids more often.

 Emma leans in and attempts to take the toy away, but Killian stops her with a gentle hand against her arm. “No need. I’ll buy it for him.”

 Emma doesn’t appear to know what to do with that information. Killian peeks up at the lad’s mother and shrugs. “An early Christmas gift from me.”

 “You don’t have to.” Emma says.

 He shrugs. “I want to.”

 She sighs helplessly. “Fine.”

 Suddenly, her phone rings, and she frowns before she digs into her pocket to discover who it is. “It’s my mom. Okay, I’ll be right back. You can get the bear.”

 He grins and nods. “Thank you for your permission.”

 “Watch him?”

 Before he can assure her that he has Henry, she steps away from him and to the front of the store, so she can take the call in privacy and not disturb the other shoppers.

 With a quick glance her way to make sure she isn’t watching him, Killian murmurs on a smirk, “Don’t worry, Nolan, I’ve got you a gift as well.”

 He goes back a few steps until he finds the rabbit she’d lingered on and grabs it from the shelf. It’s soft in his hands. He can see why Emma would have liked it so much.

 With Henry still holding the teddy bear, he walks to the register to pay.

 “Hi,” the saleswoman, whose nametag reads Aurora, chirps. “All ready to check out?”

 “Aye, yes,” Killian gestures to Henry in the stroller. “I’ll buy this as well, but he doesn’t fancy letting go.”

 Aurora chuckles. “That’s alright. I’ve got it.” Her eyes go to the head of the store where Emma went and then back to him. “It’s nice to see Emma happy.”

 Killian frowns. “Is she usually unhappy?”

 “No,” Aurora shakes her head. “It’s just that she’s been through a lot lately.” With a bigger smile than before, she amends, “It’s nice to see Emma’s moved on.”

 He opens his mouth to refute the idea that she must have about he and Emma, but he has no time because she tells him how much he owes instead.

 As soon as he’s done paying, he pushes Henry’s stroller forward and to the door. He can see David’s truck parked out front, and Emma’s got the door open while she talks to him from the ground.

 On a frown, he checks on Henry to make sure he’ll be warm outside. “Alright, you ready, lad? Out we go.”

 Henry says something that sounds like, “Weee!”

 The thought at least makes him smile. He adjusts his scarf and tugs at the edge of his hat with one hand holding the bags from his shopping while pushing Henry.

 When he ends up near Emma, she sighs and turns back to him. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I totally abandoned you guys in there.”

 “It’s quite alright. Everything okay?”

 Emma’s eyes widen slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Mom just wanted to know when we were coming back. No big deal.”

 She sets to grabbing Henry out of the stroller and feeling like he should help, he folds the stroller down once Henry’s out.

 It takes just as long for Emma to get Henry buckled into his seat as it takes for him to fold up the stroller, so when she turns around and he has the stroller ready to get slid into the backseat, her eyes widen again.

 “Oh. You- okay. Thanks.” Emma puts the stroller inside the back of the truck’s cab and then hops up to climb inside.

 Killian does the same, entering the front row with ease.

 David grins at him. “Howdy. How was town?”

 Killian lifts his eyebrows. “Inspired.”

#cs ff #cs au #my writing #mtats

[evil--isnt--born]

Stranger to the Ground

A/N: Because one cs pilot AU from the same writer isn’t enough! This one was actually @nightships​ idea -- we were talking about my desire for an Avro Arrow AU, and she was like “well let’s do it.” Yes, you heard it right: she wrote one too! It’s got her characteristic gorgeous imagery and a beautiful arc for both Emma and Killian, and I highly suggest you read it.

For the record, I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but dang was it nice to dream. And as always, thank you to @nowforruin​ for the beta job!

Summary: Test pilot Killian Jones and engineer Emma Swan spend their days making history as part of the Avro Arrow program. When the program is suddenly cancelled and the jets ordered destroyed, the choice becomes whether to let it become a thing of the past or save a piece of their shared history.

Also on ff.net and ao3

Some days, Killian dreamed of living in the sky.

At 60,000 feet, the clear blue courted fantasies. Crisp and pristine, uninterrupted by commercial traffic at this height, it was addictively simple in a way nothing on the ground could ever be. Even the fact that he was breaking records and making history became irrelevant every time he flew, replaced by the heady feeling of cutting the air with his sleek jet travelling faster than sound itself. In this jet above all others, it was easy to think that the impossible was possible. He wanted to push it. He wanted to climb higher and go faster, draw looping shapes in the air with his contrail high above the clouds where nobody would see him. Above all, he never wanted to land.

Only four people in the world knew this jet as Killian did -- the shape of the throttle and stick under his hands, the solid roar of the engines in his ears, the blinding white of the delta wing against the blue sky in his peripherals, and the knowledge in every part of him that this was Canada’s jet, and he was Canada’s pilot.

This jet would do great things one day, show the world what it was made of, but for now, Killian was content to be one of the four. To dream of blue skies and this jet, nothing in the world standing in his way.

-------

The Arrow program has been cancelled.

The head of the testing program was still seated at the top of the conference table, his announcement ringing in the quiet room. Whether he was poised for questions or arguments, Killian didn’t know. All he could do was stare at the man who had pushed both pilots and jets higher and faster and harder for months now, and try to see the room around the sudden flash of blue in his gaze -- the blue of that 60,000 foot sky he had so easily taken for granted. The jets had been ordered destroyed a few short weeks from now, and Killian wasn’t stupid -- with the government so concerned about security and with aviation fuel the price it was, there would be no more flights for a now-defunct interceptor.

Had it been any other news, one of his three fellow test pilots would have had a snappy remark or a protest or a question, he was sure of it. But today it was only stunned silence. When Killian chanced a glance at each of them, he saw in their eyes the same abyss he knew was in his. It wasn’t just the hours of training rendered meaningless, or the job they suddenly didn’t have – no, the worst thing was the possibility now disappearing, the promise the jet held not just for Avro but for Canada suddenly gone, and the crushing knowledge that the flights still singing in his veins would become history, then nothing. It was that the project wasn’t simply on hold, or being reassessed – it was the finality of cancelled. It was that soon, there would truly be nothing left of the years of work he and everybody else had put in.

A dark tangle of emotion was simmering behind Killian’s ribs, but there was nowhere to let it out – nobody in this building to blame, nobody this side of Ottawa. He longed for the peace of the sky then, to channel everything he had into raw speed and lift. The irony of it was crushing. Instead, he let the screech of his chair speak for him as he pushed it back from the table, storming from the room without another word to anyone.

-------

There had been a lot of doubt, at the start. Avro had never built a jet like this before, and everyone -- from executives to engineers to mechanics to pilots -- had been unsure of its performance. Killian’s years of flight kept him from being fearful, but he still braced himself for disappointment at the start of every flight, expecting the plane to somehow fall short of the development team’s estimates.

Nobody allowed themselves to indulge in blind faith for a brand new, untested jet, except for one.

“Going over Mach 1.5 is a pipe dream at this stage.” A group of engineers had come down to the hangar in preparation to watch one of the test flights. In the building made of hard surfaces, their conversation carried easily over to the jet and to Killian as he went through his pre-flight check. He couldn’t put a face to the voice, but he recognized it as the same man who kept airing doubts.

“It’s tested well,” another man said. “And if you take the speed the models flew when we launched them into the lake and do the calculations...”

“With the Iroquois engine, it’ll hit Mach 2, easy. With the J75, we’ll be lucky to get 1.6. Maybe 1.75.”

“You willing to put money on that?” This voice he knew, and not just because she was the only female engineer on the project -- the only female engineer Avro had on staff, in fact, and the only female engineer Killian had ever met. But even without that, he would have known Emma Swan’s voice, because in every meeting he had ever attended with the engineers, before and after every flight they came out to watch, hers had been the one voice siding against caution and uncertainty. Maybe she was smarter than the rest or maybe she was foolish, but she hadn’t yet been wrong about what the jet she had designed could do.

“Ten dollars says it does Mach 1.75 or over,” she continued. He looked over just in time to see her arch an eyebrow and throw a knowing smile at her fellow engineers. Killian dipped his head to check the landing gear, hiding his own answering grin in the process. He had faith in the jet because he flew it every week, but hers was something else.

“Ten says under 1.75.” That was the second engineer who had spoken.

“Twenty says 1.5, no more.” The first engineer still sounded smug, and when Killian looked back up, he could have throttled the man for the way he looked at Emma -- like the bet was nothing, because what could she possibly know? “Sure you don’t want to save your bet for the Mark 3 design?”

“Careful, John,” she said, not cowed in the least by his teasing. “Otherwise I might have to call up Pratt & Whitney and tell them you don’t think their engine can perform.”

“It’s simple math, sweetheart. And this jet is still a baby.”

That made something sharp flash across her expression, fleeting but so strong Killian could see it even from a distance. Still, her voice was level as she said, “It’s Canada’s jet, boys. It’ll do it -- Mark 1 design, with the J75. So you’d all better get ready to pay.”

She turned then, striding toward Killian and the tarmac beyond, her heels a sharp staccato against the concrete floor. He should have looked away -- gotten back to the pre-flight check and not let on that he had been eavesdropping -- but her confidence was catching. He let her catch his eye, waited for her eyebrow to arch in silent question, and winked at her -- an unspoken answer to her challenge, an agreement to push the jet as fast as he dared. For it, for him, and for her.

She bit back a smile but couldn’t keep it out of her eyes as she passed him and muttered don’t make me a liar.

-------

It couldn’t have been much more than an hour after the announcement before the unmistakable sound of heels on concrete echoed through the deserted hangar. Killian glanced at the new arrival but didn’t stand, didn’t hide the bottle of rum cradled in his lap, because heels in this place only ever meant one person.

“There’s a meeting in five minutes you’re on track to miss,” Emma said in greeting, stopping a few paces away and looking down at him in his borrowed chair, still in the flight suit he had no need for anymore.

“I already got the news,” he said darkly.

“So did everyone. This meeting’s for the why.”

“I don’t think the why matters at this point, love. But do feel free to take notes for me.”

“I’m not your secretary.” She shot him a glare, but it was gone in moments, more habit than anything. Then, with a brief glance back the way she had come, she sighed and grabbed one of the mechanics’ stools, settling beside him and holding her hand out wordlessly.

“It’s the middle of a workday,” he said, but handed her the rum regardless.

“I can’t have you in here drinking alone.”

He let that hang in the air a moment, gave her a chance to truly feel the cavernous space that so easily swallowed him whole – the dim task lighting, the inherent echo of the high ceilings, and the unfairness of the jet in front of them, landing gear newly fixed and yet suddenly, permanently grounded. Her hand tightened on the neck of the rum bottle, and he could see the loss in her eyes, the same desire to hide from it that he felt, so finally he said, “And if I want to be alone?”

“You knew I’d look for you here.” Her voice was quiet, but the truth of her words was heavy between them. He hummed his agreement, but didn’t carry the conversation further.  

The first day they had met, he had been drawn to Emma not because she was the only woman at the initial briefing, but because of the dozens of Avro staff and test crew, hers were one of the only pairs of eyes skimming the arrow-straight lines of the jet as if she knew them – as if she felt them somewhere deep within her that the others could only pretend at. She was looking at the Arrow like that now, but like Killian, there was an unmistakable melancholy in her gaze.

“Are you back to England after this?” she asked suddenly, eyes still on the plane.

“I…hadn’t thought about it.” He had been on loan from the RAF for so long now, he had almost forgotten about the life in England that was ostensibly waiting for him. Even when he tried to summon an image of what life after this would be like, all he could see was clear blue skies and crisp sunlight shining through the canopy of a jet nobody had ever flown before, tens of thousands of feet above the ground. But instead of saying all that, he just shot the question back. “What are you going to do?”

“Find a husband or take a typing class, probably.” Her expression was dark, begging him not to push, but he knew Emma too well to let that slide.

“What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“Think about it – Avro’s down one major project, and there are bound to be layoffs. I don’t know what you think the market is for female aeronautical engineers, but let me tell you, it’s not great.” She took another long swig of the rum. He didn’t know how to fill the silence, but then she continued, quiet and bitter, “I got lucky this time, but nobody else is going to need an engineer badly enough to hire me twice.”

“But you worked on the Arrow!”

“So did a lot of men.”

“The Russians just sent up a satellite,” he protested. “You know NASA’s going to want to be next.”

She actually laughed. “I’ve got a better chance of the Arrow somehow surviving than I do working for NASA.”

“Yeah, well the world isn’t known for making the greatest decisions lately,” he said.

Her gaze followed his out to the tarmac, to the line of four jets that would never see the sky again, and she didn’t need to speak for him to know she agreed.

-------

Even two short weeks after the announcement, Killian’s patience was already spent. Still under contract with Avro, he showed up at the plant every day, but with nothing to do, he could only spend his hours haunting the hangars, committing every detail of the jet he loved to memory. That, and pacing restlessly through the halls, his displeasure on full display as though someone might see and realize what a bad decision they were making.

It was on one of those walks that he nearly ran into Emma. He didn’t realize it was her until she was stopped right in front of him, until she caught his gaze with a brow already raised at his dark expression.

“You know, you’re not going to make any friends if you keep glaring at everyone like that,” she pointed out needlessly.

“You say that,” he said, “as if I’m in the market.”

“Baby.” She rolled her eyes at him, and if the challenge didn’t mean so much to both of them, he would have conceded. “Well, this friend thinks you look like you need a cup of burnt cafeteria coffee.”

“I’m not in the mood, love, but thank you for the offer.”

“Did you consider that maybe I need a cup of coffee and that a gentleman would insist on joining me?” Her expression still sparkled with mirth, but there was something in her eyes, something in the tightness of her grip on the roll of drawings beneath her arm, that said she wasn’t necessarily joking.

“I am always a gentleman, so after you, milady.” He gestured grandly down the hall, earning himself a twist of a grateful smile. “I’ll even pay.”

“Coffee is free for employees.”

“Then I’ll happily treat you to two cups.”

They made the rest of the trip in companionable silence -- easy in the still-bustling hallways -- and only when they were seated with their drinks did the tense set of Emma’s shoulders and the way she fidgeted in her seat become too much to bear in silence.

“Swan, what?” He covered one of her hands with his own, stilling the tap of her fingertips against the tabletop. “You look like you’re about to take off.”

“Nothing, I--” He could see the lie ready in her eyes, but when she looked up and caught his gaze on her, she sighed. “Have you...heard about things going missing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Parts, drawings, schematics...all suddenly misplaced, all in the past week?”

He put it all together instantly. “The Arrow?”

“What else would be worth stealing?” Her free hand came up to rest gracefully on the roll of drawings on the table beside them. “We’re storing it all now until it’s...time, but there’s a lot nobody can find. And considering everything has been ordered destroyed, people are concerned.”

“I’m sure that’s putting it lightly.” He snorted. “Though I hear Gordon’s still not thrilled about the cancellation, so maybe it’s sanctioned.”

“Not thrilled.” She laughed into her cup. “Now who’s putting it lightly?”

He took a sip of his own coffee, and  then, with a quick glance at the tables on either side of them, muttered, “Can you really blame them, though? For wanting to keep this alive even a little bit longer?”

“I want it as much as the next person, but I also want a career after this.” She looked at him significantly. “So if you know anyone, maybe tell them to be careful. That people are watching now.”

Then it hit him. “You think I’m...”

“I don’t know, Killian, and I’m not asking. All I know is you care about the program more than almost anyone here, and I...” There was something complicated in her eyes just then, but he wouldn’t have known what it was if he didn’t have the same words on the tip of his tongue every time they spoke. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, because of this or anything else,” she finished. “That’s all. And if there’s anyone here you care about, make sure to pass that along.”

“I will.”

“Good.” She looked at her watch, then drained her cup and stood. “I’ve got to get these to the records room before someone misses me. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Any time.” He stood with her, half-full cup forgotten. “But Emma? Make sure those get where they need to go, all right?”

She searched his eyes for a moment, and then a small smile played on her lips as she heard the deeper meaning in his words -- if there’s anyone here you care about… “I will.”

“Good.” He gave her an identical grin before she turned away, and he might have said something else, might have followed her, if Wing Commander Nolan hadn’t taken her place in front of him the moment she had gotten far enough away.

“Glad I found you, Jones.” David Nolan was usually the friendliest of all the Wing Commanders Killian had ever met, on this side of the pond or the other, but today, his voice was serious. “You’ve been requested for a meeting. Privately.”

-------

Still reeling from the two hour meeting that had instantly changed his foreseeable future, Killian left the plant early that afternoon, electing to walk the dozen or so blocks to his flat in hopes that the journey would help him sort everything out. He had expected to return to England now that the program was cancelled, but not so soon, and not like this.

He didn’t want to reflect on all the things he would miss about this country or about this project, but he had doomed himself to the company of his thoughts with the long walk. With his departure so imminent, he couldn’t push those thoughts aside. It had been undeniable for a long time that there were things England just didn’t have, but the list was suddenly crushing. Local maple syrup, for one thing; real winters, with snow almost every day; or cities that all but shut down when the Leafs played. It didn’t have sleek white jets that left the world in their wake, or skies so blue they called pilots into the air. England didn’t have gossip about know-it-all engineers and the words they had to eat when they were proven wrong, or burnt cafeteria coffee. England didn’t have blonde hair and green eyes and a cutting sense of humour that never failed to pull a smile out of him. He’d be able to get a decent cup of tea for the first time in over a year, but suddenly that wasn’t enough.

The minute he got home, he was on the phone to the Avro plant.

“Checking up on me, Flight Lieutenant?” He could hear the smile in Emma’s voice when she answered.

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on you engineers.”

“I imagine that’s hard to do when you’re not on site,” she said, her voice heavy with curiosity. “Word travels fast around here, you know. Especially after Crawford Gordon himself holds long meetings his secretaries know nothing about.”

An inexplicable surge of pride shot through him, but he shouldn’t have been surprised -- he had known long before this how bright a star Emma Swan truly was.

He wanted to tell her everything, but it was bad form to break the news of his departure over the phone, and more than that, he wanted to see her. Needed to see her.

“Go to dinner with me,” he said. A year of working together, months of tentative friendship, and the request was finally out there.

“Pardon?” But he knew she had heard him.

“I’d like to take you to dinner tonight, if you’re free.”

“I didn’t know hotshot test pilots did dinner.” She didn’t even miss a beat, and he didn’t know whether it was her wit or because the invitation was long overdue.

“We already covered that I’m a gentleman, so you shouldn’t be surprised.” Smile still clear over the line, he didn’t really need confirmation of her answer, but still... “What do you say?”

“I’ll be finished with work at seven,” she said. Her voice quieted a shade, the conversation suddenly private and close. “You know the place.”

-------

Killian hadn’t been nervous until he saw Emma waiting for him outside the plant promptly at seven. It didn’t matter that she was in the same skirt suit he saw her in regularly, even if the sedate brown fabric did hug her body like it had been tailor-made -- in the golden evening light, hair in soft waves after having been in her habitual bun all day, he was suddenly struck that he had asked her to dinner.

One familiar smile, though, when she sank into the passenger seat, and it was as easy as if they were in the cafeteria or the hangar or the hallway -- as easy as it had always been with her. It carried through dinner at a small Italian restaurant, the two of them tucked in a back booth talking about work and the city and the snow swirling outside, and all the way back out to the car. It was at the curb that they both balked, eyes catching at the same time, because the night didn’t feel over yet.

“Airport?” Emma suggested, as though Killian would have ever said no.

The roads were quiet on the short drive to Toronto International, despite the snow only falling in gentle flakes. It was the kind of night that courted silence, and Emma didn’t seem in any rush to fill it. It was only after Killian had parked on the access road nearest to the runway, only after they both watched one plane come and go until its lights were pinpricks in the sky, that she brought up the future.

“Do you think you’ll fly commercial after this?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t think jet transitions well to commercial airliner,” he said. “Besides, the RAF gets me back right away, and I fly what they tell me.”

"Do they have anything supersonic?”

They did, but he knew what she was asking. He shook his head. “Not like this.”

Emma just nodded, but the silence was suddenly too heavy. Her eyes were full of a familiar kind of knowledge, as though she saw right through him and wasn’t fooled.

“Would you...” he continued, but faltered because this had to be asking too much so early on. And yet... “Have you ever considered a holiday in England?”

“I could be persuaded,” she said, ducking her head slightly in a poor attempt to hide her smile. “Would I have to book this trip soon?”

“You might.” Her tone had been teasing, but Killian’s was anything but, and she heard it instantly. The smile fell from her face and she looked up, searching his eyes for the answer she already knew.

“When?”

“Soon.” He leaned back in his seat and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “That meeting today...I’ve got...duties in England that are calling me back sooner than I had planned.”

“Without a plane to fly, I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Emma slid infinitesimally closer on the bench seat, and then the soft poke of her elbow was in his side. “So what, don’t you have any friends in England? Need to import them from overseas?” She was trying for levity, but her voice was strung tight, and he was tired of falling back on humour. He turned to face her more fully, barely a foot apart now, and cocked an eyebrow at her attempted joke.

“Is that what we’re calling this?” He reached up to trace the lie of her cheekbone, fingers threading through her hair softly, tentatively, and she didn’t pull away. “Then no, I don’t have any--” he brushed his free fingers along her jaw, but she didn’t need any encouragement to tilt her head, to lean in to meet him just as he finished with “--friends in England.”

-------

Killian’s maiden flight in the Arrow had been both terrifying and exhilarating. He had been flying for years, but as he sat at the end of the taxiway with nothing but pavement and sky in front of him, it felt like his very first time. It wasn’t necessarily fear making his heart pound in his ears, though the possibility of getting up in the air only to plummet back to earth was always in the back of his mind; no, it was potential tumbling through his veins, and the desire to be worthy of this -- to prove that this could work and, more than that, it could be extraordinary.

Even at takeoff, even on his first slow, gentle passes up in the clouds, Killian knew it would be.

-------

No sooner had he dropped Emma off at her house was Killian back at the plant, but this time he drove around back, headlights off and flight suit already on. The explanation for what was really calling Killian back to England had almost come out too many times during the drive back to Emma’s and the subsequent quiet conversation in her driveway. Even so, he knew that he couldn’t burden her with this secret -- couldn’t risk her freedom or the career he knew lay ahead of her -- so he left her with a soft goodbye and one gentle, final kiss he hoped lingered.

As he pulled up to the hangar, the doors slid open a fraction, and as much as he didn’t want to, he had to let other things take precedence over the image of Emma lit gold by the glow of the airport -- flight paths and remote refuelling stations, code words and the names of RAF officers he had never known, and how he was going to explain all this to his brother when he showed up unannounced to their family farm in Kent.

“Ready to go?” Wing Commander Nolan met him at the door of the car, his voice low despite he and Killian being the only ones on the tarmac.

“Yes, sir.” Killian stepped out onto the asphalt and shut the door softly, a barely audible click the only sound. “Everything’s set?”

"She’s fuelled and ready, Gordon’s people are manning the control tower, and RAF Manston knows to expect you.” He clapped Killian on the shoulder once and started back toward the hangar. “You’re comfortable with the route?”

“Yes, sir.” It was why Nolan and the head of the company had come to Killian out of the four test pilots, after all -- besides his connections to the RAF and reason to be in England indefinitely, his operational training was well suited to flying what was essentially a mission with barely any prep time. It wasn’t ideal, but it was possible, and that had to be enough.

“All right.” Major Nolan gave one final, definitive nod, then took up a position at the hangar door and let Killian continue on to the jet alone.

This particular jet’s landing gear had been repaired recently enough that it was still off the flight line, and Killian spotted the head mechanic doing a final check of the wheels straight away. Beyond a curt nod, though, the other man stayed under the jet, leaving Killian to conduct his final pre-flight check in peace. The jet looked strange with its national markings and registration number painted over, but as he ran his hands along the smooth sheets of metal, it still felt familiar. If he’d had doubts about what he had agreed to, they were all gone now, replaced by the familiar angles and planes of the jet he had helped build.

It was over almost too soon, and then he was climbing into the cockpit for what would be the last time, already shot through with the adrenaline that was pounding in time with his heartbeat. There were still so many ways it could go wrong, so many ways they could all get caught. But then Major Nolan opened the hangar door, saluted Killian from the ground, and the runway was there. The lights were dimmer than regulation, but still enough to see by -- still enough to pave the way into the sky Killian had never stopped loving.

The takeoff was quick and efficient, and then he was in the air, turning away from the plant and the four jets that hadn’t been so lucky. The city was spread out below him in a grid of winking lights, deceptively muted from this high up with the noise of the engines roaring in Killian’s ears. The proximity to the airport would hopefully keep this flight a secret long enough for him to get far enough away, but as his eyes skimmed the map of the city below, Killian wondered whether one citizen would know better. In this part of the city, flights were common, but you didn’t work on the Arrow for years without the roar of this particular jet finding its place behind your breastbone.

He pushed the throttle a little more as he shot over the outskirts of town. If Emma hadn’t heard his goodbye for what it was earlier, she would certainly hear it now.

-------

Three years later, Killian still couldn’t quite believe they had gotten away with it. From the moment he had crossed Lake Ontario, his flight to England had been driven by pure adrenaline, and at each stop he made to refuel, he had been convinced that Gordon’s and Nolan’s contacts would fall through, that the military police would be waiting. But they hadn’t been, and after a heart-pounding journey from Manston to the old quonset hut tucked in the forest where the Arrow now lived, the entire thing almost...faded. Until today.

Killian’s eyes scanned the crowd at the airport gate for the dozenth time, but this time they caught on a flash of gold. The past came rocketing back as Emma finally cleared the crowd, spotting him almost immediately, a smile he had missed for too long spreading over her face. She didn’t even know about the jet he had smuggled across the ocean, but just the look of her made him remember those months in Malton when their shared dream had been a living, breathing thing.

“And here I was, all excited about taking a traditional English taxi,” she teased in greeting, but walked straight into his arms.

“I can’t leave one of NASA’s top engineers to public transport,” he said, mock-aghast.

“Not top engineer.” But her blush gave away her pride, and he couldn’t blame her. He had written to her as soon as he landed in England, apologizing for -- yet not explaining -- his sudden departure, but it had taken her months to forgive him enough to answer. When she did, though, her correspondence was consistent, and when he had gotten the news of her new job, he had practically burst with pride himself. His brother was certainly tired of hearing about it.

“I’ll forgive you this time,” she continued. She let him take her single bag but didn’t let it stop her from nudging him with her elbow. “But don’t take that to mean I don’t want the full tour while I’m here -- Big Ben, the Queen, all the touristy things. All right?”

"As you wish, love.” He led the way to the car with a smile on his face, relishing the image of taking the city by storm with Emma Swan on his arm. He planned to lay out the whole of England at her feet in the two weeks she was here, even the part only a handful of others knew about -- the secret whose reveal was long overdue.

He imagined Emma must have put it all together, his sudden departure along with the Arrow’s, despite Wing Commander Nolan’s assurances that he had set the groundwork for a perfect cover. Suspicions or not, not knowing must have been slow torture as she watched the planes slowly being disassembled, years of hard work suddenly nothing. It was agonizing enough for Killian despite the final jet hidden deep in his family’s property, accessible only to him. Even the nights when he went to check on it, ghosted into the quonset hut and tugged back a corner of the tarp to let the moonlight dance along the sleek white paint, it was the shape of Emma’s hands he saw running along the curves of the jet, the one she had never doubted. So he didn’t intend to make her wait any longer.

“But first,” he continued with a private grin, “I’d like to introduce you to an old friend.”

#cs fic #cs ff #cs fic rec #cs ff rec #captain swan #I write things #i cannot tell you how fun this was to write #it's not every day that your knowledge of a defunct 60 year old interceptor becomes relevant #but doggone it that day has come

[fighterxaos]

Ultraman Geed only has four episodes left when including episode 22 among them. However, after this episode we come down to the final three. Now, Episode 22 “Repossession” seems to be the set-up for what seems to be a three-part finale; this is due to Kei commencing his plot to acquire the Alien Empera and Dark Lugiel Capsules…

  Summary:

Arie returns home where Kei appears to her, before he contacts AIB to hand over the Alien Empera and Dark Lugiel Capsules. In his message, Kei flaunts Arie as his hostage, and wishes Riku to exchange the Capsules to save Arie’s life. Zena is hesitatent to bring in Riku for the mission, but Riku easily complies as well as Laiha. However, AIB plans to set-up a sting operation to takedown Kei at the exchange. This operation forces Zena and Moa to pull Reito away from a very important meeting.

At the exchange, Kei has Arie hang from a construction tower as collateral. Riku proceeds to hand over the Capsules; where Kei explains he is now inheritor of Belial’s will, not Riku. In the middle of the exchange Zero appears to fight Kei, and he is joined by Zena. However, Zero is forced to rescue Arie, as the tower she is on collapses. Moa then takes Arie away, as Laiha rushes to assist Zena. Kei gets overwhelmed in the fight, and become a new Belial Fusion Beast, King Galactron. This transformations forces Riku and Zero to Ultra Rise to fight this new threat. King Galactron proves to a mighty opponent, and during the battle one of the blasts hit Moa’s AIB vehicle causing her to crash.

Geed and Zero assume to their strongest forms, and even then, are rivaled by Kei’s new strength. Laiha and Zena arrive to check on Moa, and Arie, but soon discover Arie is a part of Kei’s plan as she’s missing. In addition, Arie took the Ultra Capsules! Geed and Zero eventually defeat King Galactron, and pursue Kei who meets up with Arie. Arie present the Capsules to him, and confesses her love for him. However, Kei thanks Arie by killing her and reminding Riku, either one of them can bring forth “the end.” Within the next few days, Moa is seen to take Arie’s death seriously and blames herself. Whereas, Riku decides he will be the one to end it all…

  My Thoughts:

Episode 22 feels oddly paced then again, the entire series moves too dang fast. With the finale looming most of the events within the episode make sense. Kei needs to acquire the Ultra Capsules that AIB possess so he can ‘bring forth the end.’ However, we, the viewers, are not too sure what that ‘end’ is. The process to obtain the Capsules seemingly makes sense, and easily pulled off with the assistance from Arie. Now, what follows is not too surprising, by having Kei kill Arie. Yet, a part of me expected Kei to either kill Arie episodes from now, or she would die giving her life for him; I legitimately believed Arie would be character we would see all the way to the finale!

  Now, Arie’s “early” death maybe the only shocking thing about the episode overall. Whereas, Arie’s infatuation with Kei is not shocking, as it has been oddly developed since her debut. Early on viewers see Arie’s interest in Kei as a method to become famous. Yet, viewers could also notice Arie had a psychotic disorder with the indication she loves Kei, or the destruction that follows. Arie love for Kei is truly a mysterious one, and I am unsure if it is left to be a mystery or it was unintentionally mismanaged. Furthermore, Moa’s sense of guilt for Arie’s death seemingly feels uncalled for however, because Moa is established to be a pure individual she must feel guilty. It is terrible to view because Moa’s friends, and the audience see Arie’s death, as something practically unavoidable due to her allegiance to Kei. To be honest, several fans as well as myself wanted this outcome!

  Then as for the action, it is honestly the best part. I found all the fight sequences to be executed amazingly. Yet, Riku still does not seem to partake in the action, which I find odd seeing that Laiha has been training him. It makes me wonder if there is some unseen agreement that when Riku is not Ultraman Geed that he should reserve himself? The reason I wonder this is because Riku’s lack of involvement feels like an edict production places, so the other characters have something to do. Now, that is not uncalled of in series, but without an in-canon reason to leave Riku out makes it odd. However, seeing Zena, and Laiha fight Kei was worth it. In addition, I am glad production managed to fit King Galactron into the series; King Galactron was a stage-show character that several fans thought would not appear at all in the series. It is just unfortunate that this Belial Fusion Beast maybe the least seen of the four. Also, Ultraman Zero Beyond’s Twin Giga Break attack is the probably my favorite attack in the series thus far!

Never the less, I seriously hope the final three episodes do a lot for the series. Ultraman Geed has felt like it has just flown by, and questionably sustains itself; with all that said I want the final episodes to be fulfilling, and well-paced. I do not the finale to be action on top of action, especially if this is meant to be the conclusion to Ultraman Belial’s story. Yet, currently it is unsure how Belial will be revived from his previous battle with his son! Could it be that the light on Kei’s back is Belial recovering, or is it just Kei’s organs overloading from his new found power?

  Rating: 2.5 out of 5

  Ultraman Geed Episode 22 – Repossession Review

Ultraman Geed only has four episodes left when including episode 22 among them. However, after this episode we come down to the final three.

Ultraman Geed Episode 22 – Repossession Review Ultraman Geed only has four episodes left when including episode 22 among them. However, after this episode we come down to the final three.

#AIB Organization #Alien Empera #Arie Isikari #Crunchyroll #Dark Lugiel #Episode 22 #Episode Review #Galactron #Hero Club #Kei Fukuide #King Galactron #King Joe #Simulcast #Tsuburaya Productions #Ultra Capsules #Ultraman #Ultraman Geed #Ultraman Geed Royal Mega Master #Ultraman Zero Beyond #Wheelchair21

[my-lazy-genius]

Shelter

Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers

Characters: APH Spain (Antonio Fernández Carriedo), APH England (Arthur Kirkland), APH Italy (Feliciano Vargas). Mentions of: APH Germany (Ludwig Beilschmidt), APH Romano (Lovino Vargas). 

Pairing: SpUk/EngSpa [Spain x England]

Summary: In which Antonio wages the cost of war over his own personal shelter.

Author’s Note: Dang, late again. This is for @engspaweek, Day 3! Historical prompt 3, Spanish Civil War! Uh, not everything is 100% accurate, I changed a few minor things for plot purposes. Trigger warnings are all tagged. This is basically me trying out new WWII characterizations tbh bc headcanons..

Two years, eight months, three days.

Spain is keeping count. Somehow, even through the pain he feels with every step he takes, he’s keeping count. His people have been tearing each other apart for two years, eight months, and three days.

He’s just so tired. He can’t keep tearing himself between his people like this. He doesn’t know what he needs to do, he just knows he needs it to stop. Grave after grave after grave, he grows weary of burying his people, his friends.

Spain doesn’t like the color red anymore. He’s seen it too much, felt it too much, hot like anger and a phantom on his skin even after he scrubs it off. He wakes, often, in a cold sweat, body aching with imaginary wounds. He doesn’t ever remember his dreams - nightmares - anymore, but he knows they’re bad.

The emotions always linger with him for long after he forgets; anger, agony, grief. He’s not sure he wants to remember.

Two years, eight months, four days.

--

“Look at what you’ve become, Antonio,” a familiar voice lilts, but Spain doesn’t quite recognize the words he’s using, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so lost in their own home before. All that blood looks good on you; really brings out your eyes.”

Spain blinks slowly at him. Hazel eyes fix on him, cold. No, Spain recognizes him. He smiles, tightly, weak.

“Veneziano,” he laughs softly, lowering himself slowly to the floor and leaning heavily against the wall, “come to brag? How is Romano?”

Veneziano folds his arms over his chest, gaze sweeping over Spain. Spain knows how he looks, blood splotched and covered in ragged bandages, disheveled and dirty, eyes sunken and bloodshot, lips dry.

“Romano is still part of the rebellion. I don’t know how he’s doing,” Veneziano informs him, sharply, oddly.

This isn’t Veneziano. This is a brainwashed man, conformed to the ideas of the crook who leads his nation. This is the man whose country is aiding one side of his people, the Nationalists, alongside a Nazi Germany. Spain struggles to drag one knee up and drapes a badly bleeding arm over it.

“What happened to you, Feliciano?” He asks softly, searching for a spark of that cheerful kid he once knew.

“You’re not going to survive this war,” Veneziano tells him, avoiding the question entirely, but Spain sees the way his shoulders ripple with tension.

Spain just laughs. “If I were concerned about that, Veneziano, I’d have brought it up months ago,” he informs him, dragging himself up, slowly, to his full height, “I’m old, Veneziano. I’ve seen it all. War, death, murder… Some things never change.”

It’s only when Veneziano, frustrated, sweeps out of the room that Spain allows himself to feel the weight on his shoulders again.

--

Once the dust settles, Spain walks among the bodies of his people. He closes his eyes as he steps around the mangled, bloody corpses, remembering them, trying desperately to ignore the caws of the scavenger birds as they circle threateningly overhead.

“Antonio,” comes a voice, and suddenly everything is steady all at once.

Green meets green.

“Arthur,” he breathes.

His shoulders tremble, and despite the blood he’s half covered in, England practically cradles him as Spain cries for his people at last.

--

“I just want this senseless fighting to end,” Spain tells him, later, staring at the ceiling.

England’s fingers comb through Spain’s tangled hair, slowly, relaxing. Spain’s mind is clear for once, grounded by England’s presence. This man is his tether here, his only shelter in the turmoil of this civil war.

“I’m so tired, Arthur,” he says, voice rough, choked, “god, I’m so tired. How do you stand so many wars? I’m killing my own people… And little Veneziano, I don’t even recognize him anymore. He’s become so cruel…”

His chest feels as though it’s trying to claw itself apart from the inside and recently he’s been coughing up blood. It’s not himself he’s concerned about. He’s frightened for his people, for the widowed women and orphaned children and the young men running into a meaningless fight. He wishes it would end; he’s so desperate. He’s fighting himself and his own people, and Spain’s starting to think it’s an uphill battle.

England shakes his head. “Don’t speak, Antonio. Rest.”

Two years, eight months, one week.

--

In his dreams, Spain is standing over a faceless man. He doesn’t know who he is or which side he’s on, but there are people whispering behind him and a loaded gun in his hand. Phantom fingers squeeze his shoulders, pressing down, a weight on his back. His pulse is throbbing beneath his skin, a steady thump thump across his entire being. There’s blood rushing in his ears, but he can hear the whispers over his own thoughts.

Kill him, Spain, one disembodied voice tells him, kill him and end the war.

Kill him, says another, lighter, familiar, because you have no other choice.

Kill him! The third is low, wavering, chilling. Kill him because you want to.

Does he want to? For a moment, Spain doubts himself and all he knows himself to be. He looks at the gun in hands that don’t feel like his own, looks at the faceless man below him, and looks at the bodies that suddenly cover the ground as far as he can see.

Two years, says the third voice, and with a start, Spain recognizes it as his own, eight months, one week, two days.

Spain flicks the safety off. The corpses are groaning, a perforating sound in the unnerving silence.

Kill him, says the first voice, demanding.

In the distance, somebody is being executed. Spain isn’t sure who is on what side anymore. He isn’t sure who he is anymore. He’s staring at the hands that are his but not his, staring at the gun, staring at the man. Antonio lifts the gun-

Kill him!

-and points it at his own head.

--

Lately, Spain is glad he doesn’t remember his nightmares.

It doesn’t stop the subtle trembling in his fingers. Are these hands his own?

--

The next time Veneziano shows, England is with him. He’s going against the wishes of his own government - the English aren’t supposed to be aiding Spain, but England manages to slip away often, comes when Spain needs him most.

Spain keeps trying to ground himself, struggling. His heart thrums rapidly in his throat and his breath comes in quick gasps. It feels as though there’s a foot crushing his throat, pressing down harder with every struggling breath. He’s tucked up against the curve of England’s body, clinging onto the arm wrapped over his chest as though it’s his lifeline.

“I can’t breathe,” he chokes out, “Arthur, I can’t breathe.”

He feels the way the other man is tense against him, fingers combing through Spain’s hair, holding him tight, but not tight enough to make him feel more suffocated.

“Focus on me, Antonio,” he tells him, softly, “only on me. I’m here.”

Spain listens to the sound of his heartbeat. It’s picked up, and Spain can’t tell if it’s because of worry or something else. His throat and chest feel tight and he’s shaking violently, fingers dragging hard against England’s arm, no doubt bruising the skin. He’s sweating, hair clinging to his face. But god, he focuses on the sound of England’s heartbeat. It’s the only thing keeping him steady, keeping him grounded.

Gradually, it stops. His shaking ceases first, his vision clears second, and finally, slowly, he manages to breathe. He doesn’t release England’s arm, only stares blankly at the peeling wallpaper past England’s shoulder.

His chest feels hollow.

They stay like that until steady, deliberate footsteps echo in the room.

“Veneziano,” England regards him with chilling eyes.

“England,” Veneziano smiles, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Isn’t your government forcing you to stay neutral?”

England doesn’t reply. Spain’s energy is depleted. He just wants this to be done. He lifts his gaze slowly, dragging it over to the Italian. “Why are you here, Veneziano?”

“I think it’s about time you gave up,” says North Italy, “after all, look at yourself, Spain.”

“Fine,” he replies, softly, “whatever makes this stop.”

“No,” England’s voice is harsh and sudden, “you aren’t going to give in to this so easily, Antonio. And you aren’t going to make him. Leave here, Italy.”

Veneziano tips his head, and just for a second, Spain wonders if he sees a flash of that childish curiosity he knows. “Oh,” he muses, “I see. You two have a different relationship than I originally thought.”

Spain’s thinking. His mind is whirring, registering England’s words and Veneziano’s words and the civil war.

Two years, eight months, two weeks.

“Get out, Veneziano.”

The Italian starts, hazel eyes going wide. He takes a step back, hands coming up near his lower chest. Spain’s voice is hard, stronger than it’s been in a while. Delicately, he slips free from England’s grip and staggers to his feet. Briefly, fear darts over Veneziano’s soft features, then something like anger.

“You-!”

“You heard me.”

It isn’t a question. Spain advances, pulling his old halberd from its resting place on his wall. He lifts it, a familiar weapon in a hand that feels like his own again, leveling it at Veneziano’s chest. The Italian is shivering. When all's said and done, he’s still the same kid Spain knows. One day, he’ll apologize for this.

Today is not that day.

Veneziano only holds Spain’s steely gaze for a moment, before he backpedals rapidly, stumbling. “Y-You’re a fool, Antonio! Both of you! Even you can’t stop what’s to come. Germany’s going to change the world, and only one of us is going to be on the right side when he does!”

The brunet whirls and darts away. Spain waits until his running steps fade down the hall before he drops his halberd with a clatter and slumps back down to his knees. England crosses to him, crouching down to rest his forehead against Spain’s own.

“Thank you,” Spain whispers, “for everything.”

--

Three days later, the Spanish Civil War comes to an end. It’s not a happy ending, but Spain knows where he stands now. He knows what he’s working towards.

Two years, eight months, two weeks, three days.

Another war is on the horizon.

#spuk #aph england #aph spain #engspaweek2017 #engspa #hetalia #my writing #day 3 #tw: blood #tw: panic attack #tw: violence #tw: suicide mention #tw: dissociation #tw: war

[ejgiftcards]

The Economics of Gift-Giving

Our Goals Compared to their Outcomes

Economists have a bad rap. Heck, the entire economic discipline has developed a bit of a poor brand for a few centuries. Victorian historian Thomas Carlyle coined it the “dismal science” in the 19th century, and not much within the subject has changed since then to alter that perception. So when an economist came out in 2013 to bemoan the tradition of gift-giving surrounding holidays, readers bemoaned one more attempt by a stodgy academic to destroy a cherished more of our childhoods.

Joel Waldfogel didn’t want to play this boogeyman role. As an economist, he was hardwired to seek out inefficiencies wherever they lie. When he started examining the valuation underlying gift-giving practices, he decided this was a good a place as any to dig in. His seminal paper on the topic, “The Deadweight Loss of Christmas,” really didn’t hold back on his feelings. In the executive summary, Professor Waldfogel states:

“Between a tenth and a third of the value of holiday gifts is destroyed by gift-giving. Deadweight losses of in-kind government transfers are thus no larger, and in many cases smaller, than the deadweight losses of holiday gift-giving.”

That’s a lot of economist-speak, so before we dive into the underpinnings of the statement, let’s explain the basic premise here. Deadweight loss is an academic term for the loss of economic efficiency. It can occur in numerous ways, but the end result is always the same: destruction of value because of mismatches.

Maybe this is ringing a bell from that Econ 101 class you slept through in undergrad. Maybe you’re reading this like it’s a piece of arcane Latin. Regardless of your feelings about Scrooge economics, let’s dive into what Professor Waldfogel was trying to get at here.

The Mismatch in Value Perception

Professor Waldfogel had done this dance for years. The holidays roll around, pressure builds to give that perfect gift, and the anguish of January credit card bills follows shortly thereafter. Our gift-giving traditions run deep, and his motivation wasn’t to end those to save a bit of cash. It was to ask a simple question: for all of the money we spend on gifts around the holidays, are our recipients appreciating the expense?

The short answer?  No, not really. To measure this, Professor Waldfogel asked 86 of his undergraduate students about whether they liked their Christmas presents. But he’s a practitioner of the dismal science, so he had to phrase that in a cold-blooded manner—how much would they have paid for those presents if they went out and bought them personally?

The results confirmed what many of us have felt for years. Students estimated their presents cost around $438, but admitted they only would have paid around $313 for them in total. On an individual level, that’s a value destruction of nearly 29%–almost a third of what we spend on our gifts goes unappreciated!

With a value that high, Professor Waldfogel set out to replicate this later in the year. He phrased the question slightly differently this time around, though. Instead of asking the students what they would pay for the presents they received, he asked them what their “indifference point”—the tipping point where they could go either way—was between receiving the gifts and receiving cash in lieu of the presents. This group of students estimated their presents cost around $508 on average, and would have accepted $462 in cash instead. A smaller difference to be sure, but still indicative of massive value destruction in our gift-giving traditions.

Sentimentality Matters

When Professor Waldfogel released his results in the mid-1990s, he caused an understandable stir in both popular culture as well as academia. Economists were split on his take of things, with many acknowledging this type of research to be the primary reason people loathe economics to begin with. But one part of his methodology is worth further examination—he specifically told his students to ignore the “sentimentality” component of the gifts and only consider the product itself.

Anyone who has a relic from their childhood sitting on their office desk or a hat from their dad hanging up on the coat rack can see the issue with this methodological assumption. We value certain gifts precisely because of their sentimental value. The tradition of gift-giving itself is rooted in sentimentality and reciprocity. And our behavior of returning gifts bears this out as well—we are far less likely to return gifts given to us by our siblings, parents, and partners than we are more distant relatives and friends.

So if you’re considering what gift to give your son, wife, or brother, don’t worry too much about it. The sentimental value of your thought is almost certainly going to be the most important consideration of your recipient, so unless you really bomb this one, you’ll probably be fine. But if you’re thinking about that distant cousin, nephew, or office friend, remember the research here, and think about what you can give someone to match their implicit preferences more precisely.

Cash, Gift Card, or Present?

Professor Waldfogel may have been characterized as a Scrooge-ish character in this whole debate, but he didn’t exactly unearth an unknown phenomenon in our gift-giving tradition. We all know the feeling of spending the time and money shopping for that ideal present for a special one, only to feel a bit let down by their well-intentioned but lackadaisical response upon opening it up. The personal finance blog “Budgets are $exy” ran through a comprehensive list of reasons we can swing and miss on giving presents. The variables include:

The recipient’s age

Their relationship to you

Intimacy of the relationship

Budgetary constraints

Timing considerations

Previous gifts given

Risk tolerance

That’s a ton of variables to keep in mind for the simplistic goal of giving someone a gift they’ll enjoy. Grandparents seem to get this—nearly 40% of them now just hand out cash. But grandparents are grandparents, so they seem to get away with pretty much whatever they want to do anyways. They’re the Greatest Generation—just enjoy that $20, dang it.

For the rest of us, cash presents offer a bit of a sticky situation. Is it a bit forward to just ask for cash?  Couples tend to deal with this issue constantly, particularly as millennials are increasingly getting married and dealing with high existing levels of debt. A recently engaged woman asked the New York Times Social Q’s blog for some help with this concise yet complicated question:

“Being one of a dozen cousins, I have been to many family weddings. They have been ostentatious, wasteful affairs, in my opinion, with thousands of dollars thrown away on useless revelry and gifts. I am the last cousin to marry, and my relatives expect the same from me. But my fiancée and I don’t need toasters or linens. We need a down payment on an apartment. We think putting our money toward that is more prudent than buying a fancy wedding dress of floral arrangements. Is there a nice way to tell our families this and still reap the rewards of a wedding (in cash)?”

Her question deals with a couple primary issues at hand. First off, the model of a wedding as the communal means of forming your household is an increasingly antiquated concept as more and more millennials cohabitate before marriage. Secondly, asking for cash as a present creates a distinctly transactional vibe to gift-giving. The tradition of gift-giving goes back ages; it represents a time-honored manner of building relationships and reinforcing communal foundations. Morphing it into a purely transactional relationship strips it of its meaning and sullies its very purpose.

With all of this in mind, it’s no surprise that gift cards have skyrocketed in popularity over the past decade. They serve as a lovely intermediary between gifts and pure cash. Back in 1999, the industry stood at a relatively meager $19 billion; by 2018, it’s projected to exceed $160 billion. Gift cards now stand as the most popular form of present for holidays or other occasions, and that trend looks to accelerate further with the meteoric rise in electronic gift cards.

Efficiency Begets Waste

If Professor Waldfogel was concerned about efficiency losses in gift giving, however, he would be appalled at the current state of the gift card industry. While the industry has grown rapidly over the past two decades and is forecast to continue to grow steadily at 6% per year, wasted balances have grown in commensurate fashion. Federal legislation has stemmed some of this waste by barring certain types of fees and expiration dates, but unused gift card balances continue to stand at nearly $1 billion per year. And lest you think this is a nice revenue source for one of your favorite retailers, keep in mind that accounting rules dictate these unclaimed balances eventually get turned over to the state. So all in all, your aunt’s thoughtful move to allow you to choose your favored gift turns into a bit of a giveaway to Uncle Sam when it’s all said and done.

Our Business Model

That’s where we come in. At EJ Gift Cards, we think it’s a travesty that your aunt, cousin, or friend from work won’t have their wishes for your happiness honored with that gift card they sent over. Gift-giving is a deeply honored tradition that drove integral parts of our human evolution, and inefficiencies in the market structure stand in the way of us honoring that heritage. If you can’t find a way to use that present, you should be able to sell your gift card and direct the universally applicable cash to anything else you desire. Our model works pretty simply to deal with this issue:

Step 1: Let us know what card merchant it is with and the available balance that remains on the card.

Step 2: We generate an instantaneous offer for that card based on a few key variables.

Step 3: You decide what you’d like to do—keep it or sell your gift card to us and receive cash via paypal for it.

Our process is secure, easy, and quick to complete from start to finish. We want you to honor the intentions of that well-meaning gift-giver by redeeming their gift card for a useful infusion of cash into your budget. And as always, there’s no pressure to accept our offer. You can test it out today and see exactly how much that old gift card could be worth. After all, it’s probably better for it to get put to use than live in your wallet, George Costanza-style.

Remember our Professor

The professor never wanted to be remembered for Scroogenomics. He just wanted to point out the difference between our intentions as gift-givers and our value perceptions as gift-receivers. And while his methodology and results have been questioned by others in the field, they point out a resounding truth—we’re kind of bad at giving gifts, and people prefer cash or gift cards more often than not.

Asking for cash still seems like a slap in the face to the gift-giving tradition, though, so the rise in gift cards has met this market need—but myriad waste continues to survive within the system. Our goal is to wring that waste out, compensate you for that old gift card that is otherwise useless to your needs, and keep this tradition of gift-giving moving forward into the modern age without Uncle Sam dipping into the equation. Think of us as the fixer in your gift-giving relationships. That imbalance between intention and perception might still exist, but our model helps you lower it each time you use our service. Whether it’s a Christmas gift card for a restaurant 50 miles away or a birthday gift card with only a few bucks left on it, we can offer you top dollar for nearly any merchant or business card.

So give it a shot, and see if you can sell us your gift card today. There’s no downside for you, and at the end of the day, this service can help your uncle actually succeed at giving you something you wanted all along—cold hard cash.