Awaken, like an abandoned dog, deep inside her, wagging its tail at the mere mention of his name. Turning so suddenly, her spine protests, but her brain's more worried about the news.
“Priest prime suspect in murder of Monsignor in Chimney Rock, NY”
There he is, dressed in a clerical attire that makes her doubt for a second if it’s him or not because the only time she ever saw him wear that many clothes was when she got him a job interview at an IT company he ended up blowing. Maybe it’s not even the clothes that throw her off, but that he looks healthy, sober, put together. Last time she saw him, he was snoring on their bed, skinny, sickly pale, eyes red from how hard he cried the night prior: “I’ll be a good man, for you. I promise, I can be a good man”.
He could be a good man, apparently, just not for her. Or maybe he really couldn’t, not even for God, given the news. Nine years with nothing but yearly birthday cards with some money and pressed flowers she ridiculously stored in a metal box under her bed, and now he’s on the news, accused of first-degree murder. It wasn’t hard to believe, at least for those around here, in Albany, who still remember him. When he left, disappeared on a random Thursday, everyone told her it was the best thing that could happen to her. They were all so lucky she was so drunk she couldn’t even stand up because she would’ve broken their noses otherwise.
Whatever, she thought. Not her problem. Why then had she dropped everything to drive two goddamn hours to a rural town she had just learnt existed? The promise, she kept telling herself. But he’d promised shit too and left without a second thought. After all these years, she could surely be free from responsibility. He would, of course, not even think about a promise she’d made to him a decade ago, while he was semiconscious in the tub of the little shithole they called home. All covered in blood, his and some other bastard's, sweaty, reeking like cheap booze, crying and sobbing apologies. That’s what she got most nights: heartfelt apologies and hollow promises.
“He’s fine, right? I didn’t kill him, right?” He didn’t even react to the sting of the alcohol on his busted knuckles. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me, love. He’s fine, right?”
“Just some bruises, don’t worry”. She spoke so softly, almost in whispers, as if her voice could hurt him. “He’ll be fine. Ricky said you’re banned, though.”
“One day I'll hit someone the wrong way again”.
She didn’t try to deny it as she dragged the damp cotton over his cheek. It was true, there was no doubt. It was so terrifyingly true, she had an escape plan. There was a runaway bag in her car with some clothes, personal items, and enough money for when the time came. A matter of when, not if, the way she saw it.
“It’s okay”. Her lips over his red, swollen skin, a whimper coming from the back of his throat. “I promise you’ll be safe with me. You’ll never have to be alone”.
He’d left before he could kill someone, and for her mental peace, she’d pictured him all this time somewhere safe out there, happy, clean; the same Jud she met in high school, and not the mess of a man she’d last seen. Priesthood was never, in her wildest dreams, an option, but there he was.
She can catch federal charges for helping him cross state lines, but as she parks in front of the parsonage, all she can think about is getting him out of that town as soon as possible. Where? She’ll figure out on the way, no time to plan. The adrenaline on her veins has her heart drumming wild inside her ribcage, like a dog in a cage, barking to be let free. Jud, you stupid man, and even more stupid is she for making it all the way here.
Her lungs feel heavy as she walks to the front door, hands sweating. There’s no plan here, not even how she’ll greet him and explain what she’s doing there. None of it matters. He just needs to be safe, far away from here, with her, as it was always meant to be. She holds her breath as she knocks, eager, desperate to see him again, and she hates it.
The silence of the night resembles the odd silence of their flat the night before he disappeared. Lying on their bed, holding him tight through the urge to stick a needle or abuse his nose.
“I'll be a good man for you some day”.
The same old words, every single time. She nodded, kissed his cold eyelids as he shivered.
“I love you. Whatever happens, never doubt that”. His fingers were digging on her back, but she kept quiet about it. His needs matching hers. “I'll be a better man and take care of you one day”.
We'll never change, she thinks as the door opens and his tired, green eyes fall on hers. No plan, no reason, she raises the car keys and jingles them.
The first queer Black man to play the Doctor, a generational once in a lifetime casting, representing Black fans especially queer Black fans across the diaspora to be written out like that for his favourite blonde from 2005 is one of the foulest things Russell T Davies has done.
"Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me, and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am."
Severance (2022-)
1.03 - In Perpetuity dir. Ben Stiller
sometimes you reread something you wrote and think you're the second coming of william shakespeare. sometimes you reread something you wrote and wonder how you're even literate. and that's just writing for you baby
Summary: Trying to deal with her husband’s affair, our protagonist takes a glimpse at their story, wondering if he ever loved her or if he just liked the idea of being loved.
Word count: 3,911
Warnings: Angst, cheating, mentions of sex, no use of y/n, non-descriptive reader (but it’s kind of implied reader isn’t Jewish). Also, I'm not Jewish, so if anything related to their tradition is incorrect, please correct me.
Other chapters: Chapter 1 · Chapter 2
Note: I completely forgot to mentioned it earlier, but OMG, one of my fav authors in this site reblogged last chapter and I just wanna say how great that made me feel; I almost cried. Heads up to @foxilayde, please go and read her work; she’s awesome.
Chapter 3: Numbness & Anger
Upon waking up the following day, she feels as if the previous night the world had ended in havoc, only to restart as if nothing had happened with the robotic sound of her alarm. There's a moment of confusion in which her hands roam lazily over the sheets for his warmth, stopping over his pillow as her brain gets rid of its morning fogginess. She keeps her eyes closed, clinging for dear life to the memory of him sleeping beside her: unruly curls, fluttering lashes, agape lips, slow breathing.
"Five more minutes." He always whispers groggily, his arms enveloping her closer to his chest when she attempts to get up from bed. Except for today, if his mouth pronounces those words out of habit, it won't be her who answers but Mira. It just then she wonders, after two years of replaying the scene each morning, if this little perk of his is something he preserved from his previous marriage and she's just a substitute to its rightful recipient by default. If so, what did she use to say? Was she as weak in the heart to him as her? Did she leave his side and run away? Was she the monster Jonathan had always led her to believe?
A gust of wind sweeps away the sweet memory of the lie she lived in and makes her realise she left the windows open last night. She sits on the bed, staring at the dark, chilly street outside, feeling that this pain, the one eating at her heart, will be forevermore. She wants to go back to sleep, pretend as if everything was just a bad dream and wait to wake up with him beside her, in his spot, where he belongs.
Five minutes, she gets up and goes to the bathroom to take a shower. He usually stays in bed for another twenty minutes as she does her make-up and hair in the bathroom, occasionally snorting loud enough for her to hear him through the door. Then he gets up, wakes Ava for school, and enters the bathroom to shower as she goes downstairs to prepare breakfast. By seven, the house, their little corner of the world, is alive: she can hear Jonathan walking upstairs, closing and opening drawers; Ava's dancing to music in her room as she gets ready; and herself moving around the kitchen and arranging the table.
Today, the place is dead quiet as she drinks her coffee at the kitchen counter. She looks at the living room, expecting to see him or Ava arranging their stuff, but there's only air. The furniture, ornaments and photos hanging from the walls, she picked them all on her own, just like she did the house, with him and his commodity in mind. He couldn't bother to come to the showing; he was too busy packing stuff in his old house and finalising the details of the divorce arrangement. He didn't say that when she made the appointment, though, instead standing her up with a single text five minutes before the realtor showed up. Still, she didn't express her anger and never complained about it, taking it upon herself to make the moving easier for him. She decorated the entire house, even his studio, and changed everything he or Ava found inconvenient when they moved in without protest, even when she asked him a million times to look at the plans beforehand. She wonders what he'll take: the couches, the coffee table, the carpet; it doesn't matter. Just like the years she's given him, it's all meaningless shit they're dividing up.
She always arrives ten minutes before her shift starts, an advantage of leaving near the hospital, but today she's a half hour early when she parks in the garage in front of the ER. She sits in her car for long minutes, gathering all her feelings and thoughts and concealing them far into the depths of her mind, there where they can't hurt her or her patients. Holding the steering wheel with more force than necessary, she rests her forehead on it and breathes in deeply. She winces when her wedding band, sitting around her finger since yesterday morning, buries in her skin painfully, drawing attention to her hands.
"Magical hands", Ava called them when she was five.
Surgeon hands, healer hands, fixer hands. Because in the end, that's what her job reduces to: healing, fixing. She spends entire days and nights healing and fixing torn skin, sprained ligaments, busted organs, broken men… Ever the foolish, she's always been told she doesn't know when to stop or declare something (or someone) a lost cause. It only makes sense, doesn't it? That's what brought him to her, and somehow ended up being their doom.
Her phone rang in the middle of the night, awakening her from the deep slumber she'd fallen into when she reached her bedroom a couple hours before. It wasn't uncommon for a cell phone or a beeper to go off in some room around the house at the craziest hours of the night, so she didn't think much of it as she groped the nightstand in search of the device. She sighed heavily as she rubbed her eyes before answering, doing her best to shake the sleepiness from her body in anticipation of what she expected to be a late ride to the hospital.
"Hello?" She sounded hoarse and tired, just like the rest of her, but the feeling quickly dropped to the back of her mind when a panicked and rushed voice answered her from the other side of the line.
"Hey, hi." A man said her name in a nervous greeting. "I'm sorry for calling this late, but I didn't know what else to do."
"Mr. Levy?"
"Yeah. Again, forgive me for the hour, but my daughter, Ava, she…." He was panting, gulping every few words like he was struggling to keep himself from crying. "She's burning in fever, she's coughing so hard she even threw up… And… and I… I don't know what to do. I've tried everything, but she just keeps getting worse. Please, I'm terrified. Could you please come over here and check on her, please?"
She was already putting on her sneakers, quickly glancing at the clock beside her: 3 am. If this was any other person, she'd probably told them to take their kid to the ER and leave her to sleep the four sacred hours a day she got, but Jonathan Levy had a way of lurking his way into people's sensibilities she'd never seen before.
"I'll be there in a minute, Mr. Levy."
"Oh, thank you so much." He sounded so relieved, almost on the verge of tears. "Thank you."
It took her exactly three minutes to put on a sweater, take the emergency kit, step into the cold, snowy night and spring up the street to the Levy's house. Jonathan was waiting for her at his door, frowning and breathing heavily, an embarrassed look with a mixture of pain on his face.
"You're an angel; you have no idea how grateful I am."
"It's not a problem." She smiled softly at him as he scratched his beard, her voice slow and comforting.
"She's upstairs, over here." He guided her to the second floor, stopping in front of a pink room. She could hear someone coughing from the inside, followed by gasps for air. She entered the room with Jonathan following her close behind to the bed where a small child lay holding a stripped plush firmly to her chest.
"Hi, Ava." She introduced herself to the girl as she kneeled beside her. "I'm just going to check everything's alright, okay?"
The kid nodded, looking back at her dad for comfort and prompting him to sit on the floor on the opposite side where she was kneeling to hold her hand.
"How old is she?" She asked as she took out the extra stethoscope from the emergency kit they kept at home.
"Five."
"Vaccinated?"
"Yes."
"When did she start coughing?" He began to ramble, explaining how she had been perfectly fine all afternoon, how he didn't notice anything strange, that she started feeling bad at around seven, that he thought she was dying or something. "Don't torture yourself, Mr. Levy. She's going to be fine; kids are very resistant."
She asked a couple more questions as she checked her pulse and oxygen, noticing her nails were slightly blue, as well as her lips. She moved slowly as to not startle either father or daughter and explained step by step what she was doing to try to calm down the poor man, who occasionally murmured what seemed to be prayers under his breath. Even for a parent, she thought, his reaction was quite odd; he came off as guilty, even.
"Mr. Levy…"
"Call me Jonathan."
"Jonathan," For some reason, the name rolled off her tongue with more familiarity than it should, "everything's going to be alright; it's nothing serious. According to her symptoms and what you've told me, it's probably just bacterial pneumonia. I need to keep an eye on her for the next hours, but for now, let's try to get her fever down, okay?"
"So there's no need to take her to the ER?" He seemed relieved as he kissed his daughter's temple.
"Not for now. Let's see if her fever goes down first. Do you have a bathtub?"
"Yes. Do I fill it with cold water?"
"No, it's too sudden of a temperature change; it needs to be lukewarm. I can fill it as you undress her if you want. Tie her hair as well; it's better if it doesn't get wet."
"I want mommy." The girl suddenly said in a weak whisper, a tear sliding down her cheek.
"Is your wife working late, Jonathan?" She had no idea what Mrs. Levy worked on, but as someone who constantly found herself working at those ungodly hours, she didn't find it strange for another person to be out of home at such an hour. "Do you think she could come home? Her presence could help Ava a lot."
"Mira… My wi–" Both the name and the word he had said so many times before for the past decade tasted odd on his tongue. "Ava's mother's not… Not in the country."
It suddenly clicked why she hadn't seen her around for the past month or so. It wasn't as if they were friends, they were just neighbours who occasionally greeted them on their way to work, but it had been a while since she'd bumped into her at the supermarket or the local coffee shop.
"Don't worry, she has you; everything will be fine."
She stayed the remaining of the night by Ava's side against her better judgment, even after her fever went down a little. At some point, she didn't even know how, they ended up talking in whispers on the floor beside her bed, where, perhaps because he had no one else to tell, he confessed his wife had left him. She heard him, a broken man, retell the night it all ended, the morning she left, the questions she never answered, the things he regretted… Why? She'll never know. So, of course, when Winona called her at seven asking her where she was, she couldn't help but promise she'll come back in the night to check on the kid and him. She did, she came back that night, and the next, and the next, and suddenly she found herself in his house whenever Ava was with Mira till late hours, just talking. She had the feeling he didn't get to do that much often, let himself be vulnerable since he had to take care of his daughter and be strong for the both of them. She didn't mind hearing him; it was, in fact, the highlight of her day, which is the reason why, when he asked her if she knew any good therapist, she nervously gave him the number of a colleague with the fear she'd run out of excuses to see him.
Nonetheless, he called a few days later, asking if she wanted to hang out next Friday night when she returned from work and drink this new wine he'd bought recently. Weekends night, whenever she didn't have a night shift, became reserved for him, and it suddenly happened that she became interested in how she looked, smelled, and even talked and walked. One day, the silly crush became love, and she didn't even notice until she caught herself daydreaming about him, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, as she charted. Like a schoolgirl, she'd write his name on the corner of her books, giggle every time his name popped up on the screen of her phone, and smile whenever any of her friends mentioned him. But that's the thing about clandestine meetings and longing stares, they're born from just one single glance, but they die a million little times.
It's like she's on autopilot, walking up and down the hospital with a bunch of interns walking close behind and following her every order. Dislocated bone, busted organ, burnt skin, broken heart; her so-called magical hands can fix and heal all of these, but the last. So instead, she numbs it and tries to keep her mind off it by mending everyone else's ailments and hurts. The problem with this, though, is that doctors need to feel, to be human, as much of a contradiction as it sounds, to avoid mistakes and achieve perfection. In medicine, there are protocols and detailed instructions to repair what's broken, but sometimes, just as in day-to-day life, things go wrong, and one must act out of instinct. Throughout the day, she walks, talks and acts in a blurred haze, physically there but mentally drifting until a beeping sound brings her back to reality.
"She's crashing."
The resident in front of her tells her as she stares at her hands in confusion, blinking a few times to focus her sight. There are a bunch of people moving around her, moving stuff, cleaning, shouting: a resuscitation room.
"What are you doing?" She hears a familiar voice in front of her, and when she looks up, she finds Thiago looking at her in alarm as he holds a pair of large clamps to the cut. "What are you waiting for!?"
She looks down, where someone's daughter or mother, perhaps both, lies unconscious on a pool of blood. She's hands deep into her thorax, a cascade of scarlet liquid falling from the open wound at her side to the floor, staining her scrubs.
"What?" She doesn't know what she's supposed to be doing or what procedure her hands were working on without her even knowing. She examines the cut and the position of her hands in search of a clue as the beeping sounds of the machines warn her she doesn't have much time.
"Hold this tight. Don't move." Thiago tells a resident before quickly getting by her side to move her out of the way. "Take your hands out carefully."
Breath in. She pulls her hands from the patient's chest, holding back the tears. Breath out. Thiago shoves her aside and continues the procedure as he orders around. Breath in. One of her interns asks her if she's alright and if she should get help for her. Breath Out. She stutters something before leaving the room, looking at her gloved, bloodied hands, horrified. In the scrubbing area, she shakily rips the latex gloves from her skin, reddening it with the friction, throwing them into the trash along with her surgical scrub and mask. She washes her hands as she bites her lips so hard she draws blood, then sprints to the elevators in a confused daze.
Healer, fixer, surgeon
It had taken her 25 years to become a surgeon: 12 in grade school, 4 in college, 4 in med school, 4 in residency and 1 in trauma fellowship. A fourth of her life spent nose-buried in books; sleepless nights memorising names and definitions; countless hours cutting and stitching; and she loved every second of it, even the bad moments because this is what she was born to do, what her hands were meant for. She doesn't lose her temper; she can't. There are lives that depend on it. She'd always pride herself on it, holding reason when everything else is in chaos, but even that, he's taken from her now. Her head is spiralling, making her gulp to avoid throwing up as she presses a random bottom: What is she supposed to do? Go back home and tolerate it? Pretend she doesn't know and keep letting him believe he's a good player in his little games. Remove the dagger and leave their lives in ruins? Therapy? Could she ever trust him again? Because in the end, he'll keep seeing her; as the mother of his child, she'll keep being a constant in his life forever. What if he doesn't even want to stay? If this was his plan all along, if he's just been waiting for her to get the memo? What is she supposed to do, then? Help him pack his stuff and Ava's?
Fixer, healer, mother
Ava, her sweet little girl, ever so happy and bubbly, she illuminated any room she walked into. Whatever she did would inevitably affect her, and no matter how much Jonathan insisted that his and Mira's divorce didn't trouble her, she knew better. Ava had called her hands magical when she was five. Because she cured her, she eased her pain; she'd gone above and beyond to protect and save her from the fall of heartache. She wasn't her daughter; she'd never dared to call her as such out loud, fearing she might be overstepping her role and making Mira uncomfortable. Still, it was clear as day she saw the girl as her kid because in everything but in name, she was her mother.
"Is daddy coming back?" She asked her once as she drove her to school some weeks after they moved in together while Jonathan was in Europe.
"What do you mean, sweetie?"
"Is he coming back, or will I only see him on the weekends like mommy?"
"No, baby, he's coming back next week, remember? To the new house, darling, he's just working."
"And how long will you stay?" The question didn't make sense.
"We live together now, honey."
"I know, but how long are you staying?"
"Ava, baby, I'm not sure what you're trying to ask me."
"Adults are always leaving, like Poli. When are you living?"
"Oh, Ava." She parked the car a block from the school, unsure what to say as she turned to look at her. "Baby, I'm not leaving. Ever. I love you and your dad so much I'd never even think about it; I'm staying forever. Didn't Poli and your mom talk with you before he left?"
"They said they didn't love each other anymore and that adults sometimes stopped getting along."
"Yeah, that sometimes happens, but don't worry" She bopped her nose lovingly. "That won't happen again, I promise."
"Is that what happened to my parents?" The questions caught her off guard. Hadn't Jonathan talked with her about the separation?
"I think you should ask your dad or Mira about that, sweetheart."
Later, when she asked him about it, he admitted neither he nor Mira had ever brought up the subject with Ava, and even though she nagged him about doing it for days after he came back, she's not sure he ever did. It wouldn't surprise her; that's just how he is: constantly avoiding talking about important matters that make him uncomfortable, pretending everything's going well. She's never judged him for it, part of her nature was avoiding confrontation; as a doctor, she'd even been trained on it. However, all that repressed anger and frustration is now boiling up to the surface, and med school certainly never taught her how to save herself from it.
Wife, fixer, healer
She loves him, she loves him more than anything or anyone else in the world. From the day she met him, her heart had got captured by those brown eyes of his, begging to be loved. She had helped him, carried him through his pain without expecting anything in return. It was him the one who took the first step, and more than once, she asked him if this was indeed what he wanted, if he was ready to give her his all just like she was. When he popped the question, both her family and her friends asked a million times if she thought it was the right decision. It's not as if she didn't see the red flags; she did. She just chose to ignore them and blindly trust he could get to love her as much as she did someday. She had healed him, helped him fix the parts of himself he loaded and showered him in love in such a way he never felt unappreciated. It was her, not Mira, who gave him enough confidence to rebel against the deepest of his fears and insecurities and become the man he's now. She's given him so much, everything she has to offer, all while he sees her as a simple footnote in the story of his life.
"FUCK” She screams after slamming the employees' bathroom door behind her. "Fuck you, Jonathan! Fuck you!"
She clenches her shaking fists close to her chest as she slides down the wall to the floor, where she aggressively hits the ground.
"I'll take the morning train." She can picture him mocking her with Mira, laughing on his way to work, and patting himself on the back before entering their house because his wife is such an idiotic fool. She wants to put all the blame on her, believe she broke him to the very edge of survival, and that's why he had to become this to keep on living. But the truth is Jonathan is an adult, a 46-year-old man who is perfectly capable of making his own choices, aware of their consequences. Yeah, Mira is a terrible person, but right now, she couldn't care less about her; it's Jonathan, her husband, to whom her whole hatred is directed to. Jonathan, because he's, once again, putting Ava in the middle of his shit. Jonathan, because it's so characteristic of him doing and saying the most wrecking stuff in the worst moments. Jonathan, because he's made her a joke to his family and friends. Jonathan, because even now, she still loves him wholeheartedly.
"Sweetie…" Someone calls her a few feet away, and when she looks up, she finds Jenny worriedly looking at her; she hadn't seen her when she entered the bathroom. "Is everything alright? Did you have a fight with Jonathan?"
"Jenny…" She cannot recognise the teary whisper that comes out of her mouth when just a second before, her voice was so full of rage. "I… I'm pregnant." She doesn't know why she says that, but suddenly, the realisation hits her: it's not only Ava, it's also the child she's carrying in her womb who's gotten caught in the crossfire.
"What?"
"Fuck." She whimpers, hugging her legs to her chest, tears cascading down her face. Jenny, confused, sits beside her and allows her to lean on her shoulder until she's good enough to speak.
I was listening “ceilings” by Lizzy McAlpine grieving the fact that the Moon Boys are not real life people, and then the idea just popped in my mind:
Steven Grant falling in love with the protagonist (you) of an anonymous novel he found in an old bookshop. Like he’s head over heels for this girl; she’s the woman of his dreams. He’s read the book a million times, even carries it with him, and treasures it with his life. He’s tried searching on the internet about it, but it’s like no one knows about it’s existence but him, and in some way, he kind of likes that because that means he gets to keep you all for himself.
Then, in another universe, you’re this girl obsessed with a show called Moon Knight; heart full of love for one of the characters, Steven Grant. He’s the man of your dreams, and you make this silly little stories in your head about the two of you to cope with him being a simple fictional character.
That’s how you spent your days: wrong universe, right person. But then one night you start dreaming about each other, and you build a life together in the dream realm until one of you realises the other is very much real, but trapped in their own reality. So you start looking for a way to reach the other.
my favourite type of fan fictions are like. Slightly canon divergent. Like everything is the same but we fix this one annoying detail you can’t stand and let it butterfly effect the whole story.
opening my followers every day and blocking the pornbots like a humble farmer pulling weeds from the vegetable garden. wiping my brow of sweat at my labours in the sweltering sun
Fandom is not about cancellable opinions it’s about sharing and spreading art and fics and gif sets and poetry and showering each other in praise and tearing up because someone said something nice about a thing you made and writing posts that say reblog to give the person you reblogged this from a kiss on the forehead actually
I gush and kick the air every time I get a comment in my stories, it’s truly the highlight of my day 💖
Writers that see fanfics as a craft spend hours, even days, investigating the world their fics are based on as well as details and canonical lore, and then they pour their souls and hearts in beautiful piece.
I love you all and want you to know you make life worth living.🌹
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baratheonpilled
