#lollercakes

[fth2020fanworks]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[lollercakesff]

Do you dream of me as I dream of you?

Clinging and desperate, our frames pressed together along the hot plastisteel of the lift's wall.

You might, but perhaps not. I can't tell. There are too many shadows and my chest aches with it.

Your eyes flicker, dark, then light, before you draw back and remember we are not who we dream we are. We are fighters, vicious and frantic, rebels stuck on the concept of hope.

But once, I think, before you pull away, that maybe our fate is more intertwined than our waking hours allow. Your hand presses to my back and your fingers dig into my skin. I wish we had more time my mind whispers.

Your touch brings me back from my revery, the lift shuddering as it lowers down and we reach the beach. 

Pain, blinding and sharp, ripples through me as you lift my shoulder, as you slip under my arm, as you begin dragging me, pulling me, until we can stumble no further. I collapse because I have nothing left to give, my heart thumping and my body giving out beneath me.

You fall at my side and the water spans out before us, horror and beauty our final horizon. 

Your father would have been proud of you, Jyn.

It hangs between us as we look out at the coming end. This is no dream. There is no hope of survival. I reach for you because in my dream you're safe, you're free. In my dream, you're in my arms and we are far, far away from here.

We hold tight as the air roars and the wind whips up against us. The end has found us together, clinging and desperate.

Do you dream of me as I dream of you? 

Reborn at my side, a lifetime ahead of us? I wish we had more time.

[tightropeflea]

Joyce Byers was the one that got away, time and again. After going their separate ways for years, fate has put them on a collision course that brings them back together. But can they figure it out and channel their chemistry, history, and the real shit - shared trauma - into something real?

A collection of short (and not so short!) chapters following Jim and Joyce’s relationship post season 2. This one is fluffy as hell. Luckily, nothing else supernaturally creepy is going on in this one - Hawkins deserves a break - but that leaves plenty of room and time for some slice of life. :) 

[lollercakesff]

Writing Woes

So I've been working on my FandomTr*mpsHate FTH piece for 4 months now and it's splintered more than once. I don't remember the last time I struggled this hard with creating content I was passionate about and I think the reason why is what I'm writing about just makes me so incredibly angry that I'm not processing the anger, I'm just existing in it.

I've always used this auction to write stories with a social justice bent to them, particularly ones tied to the horror that has come out of this man's election. First it was The Conflict of Identity and the travel ban, then it was the tragedy of women's rights and how that can devolve into something like the MMIW inquiry in Found.

Now I'm torn between two warring ideas that make me so desolate, so rage-filled and sharp, that I'm struggling to research them and get the stories just right. I can't read anything more about the border crossings, the children in concentration camps, about the way Canadians are unable to help all the while our polls are saying that some Canadians are cooling their willingness to accept migrants at a time when migration is at a historically high number. I don't want to explore the abortion bans, where women are already being charged for being victims, where our bodies are not our own.

I hate that I have to choose between these topics, that I can't change things to make them better apart from what I'm already doing. I don't want to sit idly by anymore while people are suffering from hate.

I'm tired of this timeline. I'm tired of being exhausted by misery.

[lollercakesff]

It's Here! FTH 2019

The 2019 auction for Fandom Trump's Hate is here! This is an awesome opportunity to donate and get that tax receipt while ALSO getting a story written just. For. YOU!

Interested in participating? Check out the details and bidding instructions here! 

*Note bidding doesn’t open until the 26th, but previewing is available to browse around. I’ll re-post on the 26th as well to remind. 

Past stories from this auction have resulted in Found and The Conflict of Identity, two stories I'm super proud of. This year I'm offering to go back down that Hunger Games rabbit hole, or take a brief foray back into Stranger Things, or the option to play into my current obsession of Anne with an E / Anne of Green Gables. The choice is yours and I'm willing to write at any rating!

So if you're interested in a story from me, for you, or you just want to do something good in the world, feel free to bid on me! I promise good times and fulfilled agreements. Much love my friends <3

[lollercakesff]

“No. I chose to do it – I was determined to live. I’ve got a lethal desire to keep breathing, Hawthorne. Every Victor does.” - Johanna Mason

Killer Instinct, lollercakes

Can I just take a moment to say how proud of this one shot I am? Someone commented on it recently and I was surprised that they enjoyed it because I don't remember it being that well received... But then I re-read it and you know what? I actually think it's one of my favourites.

[lollercakesff]

soft touch

epilogue | ao3 pairing: anne/gilbert rating: mature wordcount: 1,245

“You’re going to be fine, Anne,” I remind her as Susan wipes her brow, panic lacing through her as she scrambles to grab onto anything tangible. “It’s almost over. A few more pushes and you’ll be through with it.”

“Don’t lie to me, Gilbert,” Anne seethes, her face red and the hair along her brow sticking to her sweat slicked forehead.

It had been a difficult pregnancy, the first one after her last miscarriage since coming to the Glen. To say she’d been worried had been an understatement - Anne had spent the first month after we were sure fretting about anything and everything that made her feel uneasy. So caught up in herself and her fears I’d almost had to dump a bucket of water on her one day to get her to cool off. But we’d found our stride when I taught her how to listen for the heartbeat, my stethoscope not far from her hand as we hurdled over those last few weeks.

When finally the time had come she’d spun herself back into a furor, her anxiety piquing as her water broke and she found herself convinced it was blood between her legs. I’d nearly lost myself in that chaos, stomping towards the door as though I was ready to walk out. I couldn’t do it though - the consequences would be too severe and I would never forgive myself - so I turned back around and dug deep, pulling on my white coat from school to try to put some distance between us.

It had worked. Barely. But it had worked.

“I’m not lying. I would never lie to you,” I state, running my hand soothingly along her calf as she readies herself for the next, and hopefully final, contraction.

“You said last week - ah! You said you didn’t throw out the flowers in the vase but I found them in the garden! You lied then!” Her voice rises and I sense the urgency in her as she moans, closing her eyes as her head lulls back against the headboard.

“We were packing Anne! I’m not going to move a vase full of water to another house. That’s just ridiculous,” I snap and she groans, harsh laughter turning into a painful hiss. “Okay - that’s it. We’re going to push really hard this time, alright?” I instruct, widening her knees and preparing myself.

“Gil… Gil I can’t see you!” She cries, reaching her hand down for mine and patting the bed quickly as the contraction starts.

“I’m here, Anne. Do you feel this?” I grasp her ankle and squeeze it tightly. “Just push for me, love,” I urge. She does, she comes through and she brings little James Matthew into the world all red skin and screaming.

“Who is it Gil?” She asks breathlessly, her eyes closed as I cut the cord and bundle the boy up in a soft towel.

“It’s James,” I murmur and settle him on his mother’s chest, Susan watching silently as the infant cries between us. I long to run my hand across Anne’s brow, to hold her to me and never let her go, but my hands are unwashed and there’s still more to do so I take a breath and return to the end of the bed.

It’s there, watching Anne hold our child in her arms, that the tears I’ve been holding back for months start to slip out. They sting my eyes and blur my vision as I talk her through the last bit, forcing my voice to steady as Susan takes the boy in her arms.

I do lie, I realize later that night as Anne sleeps tucked against me and Jem lays curled up on my chest. I lied to us both every day when I said that everything would be fine. I lied when I told her she shouldn’t be scared, that this pregnancy wouldn’t be like the others. I didn’t know then that it would be fine, or that she’d be successful in carrying the boy to term. All I’d known was that she had to be shown that reality could be better, that believing in something could make it so. I lied but it was born of necessity to keep her steady through all her fears and compounding anxieties.

I needed to stop that now. It was not how trust was built, not truly. I had to remind her that love didn’t come from a heavy hand, it didn’t exist in harsh bruises or screaming matches. It came from quiet words and reassurances, from little gestures and soft touches. It came from believing she deserved it and that made it so. I didn’t have to lie, nor did have to fight her dragons for her, I just had to remind her she was strong enough to battle them herself.  

I didn’t grow up on birch switches and searing fights. My skin never felt the lash of a belt nor a palm’s swift impact, but not everyone I knew was so lucky. Loving Anne taught me the pain of trauma and the sharp cut of a memory still fresh and full of hurt. It also taught me the strength of resiliency and the value of a gentle word in a storm of anger, a lesson learned worth more than any schooling could give me.

The girl I once knew never really returned to me. When Anne came to the Glen I knew then the costume and the name was more than just something to hide in. She was running from the girl she once was, terrified of finding herself back in the world she had fallen into. She was no longer Anne of Green Gables, a dreamy, bright thing that existed only in my memory. Instead in her place was someone seeking shelter from a storm, a body worn and broken with the onslaught of time.

The girl I remembered was gone and the remnants of her were left to be collected through the years, slowly reassembled into something too remarkable for words. Anne became the sum of her experiences, the cracks in her armour solidified with golden beams that allowed her true light to finally shine through.

The girl I once loved was never meant to be mine. She was a figment, a fleeting being that needed to evolve and find her footing in a world that stripped her to her core. The woman I love rebuilt herself after loss and suffering and a hurt that refused to cease.

Our two sons were joined by two more brothers and three sisters, their joy and thrill bringing a light into our lives that radiated beyond our walls. Each birth was a small miracle to the woman who had lost so much, redeeming her belief in good things once more being possible.

In the years that followed Anne coming to the Glen we entwined our lives, creating a foundation and laying the bricks of our future. Together we built homes within each other, steady enough to withstand any storm that came upon us. Her scars healed, her smile brightened, and her hope finally returned.

I grew up on soft touches from my father, a steady hand in a world that I would learn could be cruel and harsh. His lessons taught me how to love, how to give and receive it, how to pour it into someone else. He must have known then that I would need this teaching most of all.

[lollercakesff]

5 Winds

Here’s a little preview for @loveinpanem ‘s A Candle for the Caribbean: A Charity Anthology - If you want to donate to get in on this amazing effort, check this out!

She was exhausted. Mentally. Physically.

She’d been in Haiti for little over a week but had barely slept - the shelter was too crowded and there were so many people to help that she didn’t see the point in trying to sleep.

But now she knew she had to try or else someone would get hurt and she’d be the cause. Determined, she sought out the quietest space of floor in the storage closet and pulled the blanket over her head.

The dreams came for her like they always did - flickering in between recent and distant and haunting her. Regardless of whether she was in a disaster zone or home in her bed, the stench of Katrina clung to her and tinged every terrible thing her mind could recall.

It had been the defining moment of her life and one that had changed everything. Sitting atop the roof of her house with her sister and mother, knowing her father was floating somewhere down below, stuck in the floodwaters of the broken levy after trying to break through the ceiling. She remembered the smell, a day later, as the helicopters flew overhead and the water stayed high. It was the smell of rot and heat and gasoline. The boat rescued them later that day but they had to leave behind her father’s body, somewhere in the house that was under water.