#BUT i just fear some takes are veering too heavily into 'it's all a personal vendetta' territory

[jakeperalta]

I feel that some of the recent (post-tbosas) hunger games takes are going a little too heavy on the whole "snow hates katniss because she reminds him of lucy gray" "he's beefing with a teenager over his ex from 60 years ago" thing. like obviously yes the fact she's singing lucy gray's songs, using the mockingjay symbol etc makes it all that much worse for him (and more satisfying for us knowing how his downfall is tied to those he wronged in his ascent to power). but also.. he very much primarily hates her and wants her dead because he is an evil tyrant and she represents a threat to the power and control that he cherishes above all else. it's personal on some levels but it feels pretty crucial to the story to acknowledge that he would treat her the exact same regardless of background context because he is the oppressor and she is the oppressed.

[percheduphere]

LET’S TALK ABOUT EXPLORING LOKI & MOBIUS THROUGH THE LENS OF QUEER EXPERIENCE

Thank you for this request, @nabananab 

Before I dig into this juicy ask, I think it’s important to note (however obvious the fact maybe) that an individual’s unique engagement with art is an inherent and integral part of art. The intention of the artist and the sociopolitical influence of culture, while important in our interpretation of a work, are not the sole source of drawing the work’s meaning. We are all artists in one form or another. I consider myself one of the pen, and nothing is more important to me than art giving someone a sense of emotional connection. I should hope other artists would agree, and for this reason I am an ardent believer in art taking on a life of its own once it has been created. The creator’s word, while it matters to some degree, does not supersede an individual’s relationship with the creation. Our histories, our desires, our fears, our likes, our dislikes, indeed our infiniteness as fragile human beings, allow us to create an elevated, spiritual interpretation beyond the confines of original intent. With art, there is no such thing as “reaching” or “reading too deeply”. 

I leave this message with all of you as we look at these beloved characters through the lens of queer experience. 

LOKI 

Culture influences what we see and hear, which in turn influences artistic portrayal. Setting aside Norse myth, Marvel’s Loki is a classic example of a queer-coded villain (later canonized as a queer antihero). Deception, daggers, sexual temptation, transformation, and magic are all culturally tied to the “immoral” facets of femininity. Just as a strong, independent woman untethered to the control of man is deemed a “wicked woman”, a man demonstrating gender ambiguity and like qualities is similarly judged. Only masculinity is viewed as pure and good, and this no doubt was—and continues to be—a key force in white, western colonization’s destructiveness. It all but crushed our rich global history of divine femininity, gender diversity, and romantic and sexual expression. 

Asgard, as Marvel portrays it, is without a doubt a masculine-dominant warrior society. Only two women feature prominently: Queen Frigga and Lady Sif. Whereas Sif embraces her masculine qualities and fits in easily with Thor and the Warriors Three, Queen Frigga embraces her feminine powers, though her authority is submissive to the All-Father, Odin. Her influence is most heavily seen in her adopted son, Loki, with whom she shared and taught magic in hopes that Loki might “feel some sun on himself” despite the “long shadows [Thor] and [Odin]” cast. The magic that Frigga gifts Loki, however, attracts scorn. The subtext here is that Loki’s specialness, his individuality, comes from feminine powers despite presenting as a man, and a gender ambiguous one at that. Unlike Thor and Odin, he is not masculine. While strong, he does not exhibit Thor’s brute strength. He is cautious, thoughtful, another feminine quality, whereas Thor’s courageousness often veers toward foolhardy and brash.  

Thus, if Loki cannot be loved and accepted as he is (a queer person of another race), he will force love and acceptance through the power of the throne. Kings oft inspire fear, coercing subjects to love them whether they wish to or not. But we know Loki never truly wanted the throne. The throne is a mere distraction from, perhaps even a poor replacement for, what he truly wants: genuine love and acceptance that cannot be bought. Unfortunately, Loki believes he will never get these things, which is why, when Mobius questions him, Loki’s desire for control (Loki, King of the Midgard; Loki, King of the Nine Realms; Loki, King of Space) can never be satiated. Mobius challenges Loki for the exact purpose of revealing this to him. What do you really want? At this point, Loki does not have the words to form an answer. In S2E5, Syvlie raises the question Mobius originally asked in S1E1. It is then, after experiencing Mobius’s friendship and the other relationships that come to being as a result (including Sylvie’s), that Loki can articulate his answer. 

Loki’s othering, even before the discovery of his true identity as a Jotun (an allegory for a villainized foreign race), creates a lonely environment in which Loki’s potential for goodness is quashed by centuries of resentment, bitterness, and jealousy. His attempts at masculinity take the form of violence, all of which are, as Loki admits in S1E1, “part of the illusion; the cruel elaborate trick conjured by the weak to inspire fear.”  

Loneliness and the desire for love and acceptance are a universal human experience, but they are felt far more acutely within our intersectional queer communities. 

MOBIUS 

His fascination with Loki is compelling because there are many things we can infer about its reasons. The first, most obvious explanation is Mobius’s “soft spot for broken things”, which is in some ways tied to his qualities as a compassionate, forgiving, and supportive father. A secondary explanation is a wish for partnership. We know from S1 that Mobius’s friendship with Ravonna spanned eons. We later learn in S2E6 that he and Ravonna started out as peers, hunters. They were partners on the field, but where Mobius “failed” because of his humanity, Ravonna “advanced” because of her ruthlessness. This change in relational dynamics left him partner-less. Finally, a third, less obvious reason is Mobius’s desire to express himself in ways Loki does so effortlessly. That desire may come from the suppression and repression of his own softspoken queerness in order to survive the fascist culture of the TVA. 

Mobius is captivating for many reasons. Whereas Loki is a textbook example of culture viewing “queerness as evil”, “queerness as flamboyance”, “queerness as stylishness”, “queerness as loudness”, “queerness as sexual promiscuity and deviance”, “queerness as chaos”, Mobius very much aligns with the image of a straight-passing, repressed queer individual. This is an identity that does not get as much attention or presence in artistic media as it deserves, for there are many who need this representation to reflect them. He is not stereotypically queer by any means: he is not colorful. He is not stylish, flamboyant, or loud. His sex appeal primarily derives from the viewers’ attraction to his personality, though it certainly helps that Owen Wilson is quite handsome.  

Combine these three reasons, and it becomes easy to see how a character (or person!) like Mobius might fall in love with a character (or person!) like Loki.  

There is a certain amount of beautiful irony in how Loki and Mobius affect one another and consequently their identities. Mobius, feeling compassion toward an individual who has been brutally othered and oppressed, seeks to free Loki from the confines of his narrative, as determined by the “Time Keepers”.  The only feasible way to do this is to bring a variant of Loki out of the timeline and into the TVA. Mobius then provides Loki with the opportunity to change by: acknowledging Loki’s strengths, giving Loki the chance to use his strengths in productive ways, praising Loki when he does well, listening to Loki, believing in Loki, calling out Loki, and accepting Loki as he is, with all his history, without judgement. Mobius does not try to force change like Thor or Odin. Rather, he creates an environment in which change could happen naturally. This kindness and, indeed, what becomes unconditional love by the end of S1E4, allows Loki to embrace his authentic queerness with self-love and use his feminine powers for altruism rather than masking them with self-hatred and masculine rage. 

FREEING LOKI 

In S1E1, Mobius is enthralled with Loki’s hijinks as the handsome, charming, devil-may-care, D.B. Cooper. This minor escapade in Loki’s life, which was likely only intended for laughs by the writer, reveals something interesting about Mobius: Loki’s mischievousness, his magic, his cunning, are all quite endearing to him when no real harm is being inflicted. That is, Loki, when not under duress, is someone to be admired when he’s being himself. We admire in people what we wish we had in ourselves, and this, at times, may lead to powerful attraction. 

Loki, for his part, does much the same for Mobius. The environment (the TVA) which allowed Loki to thrive is also the same environment that has abused and constrained Mobius. 

The heat that Ravonna presses upon Mobius, however, changes his tone with Loki himself. When Loki asks Mobius why he “[sticks] his neck out for [him]”, Mobius provides Loki with two options to choose from: “A. He sees a scared little boy shivering in the cold, or B. He will say whatever he needs to say to get the job done”. Option A, while insulting, has compassion layered beneath the barb. Loki, an expert at cloaking truth with meanness, sees through this and indirectly chooses what he believes to be true in the cafeteria scene: that Mobius feels sympathy for Loki’s painful childhood. The subtext of this acknowledgement is that the true means to the end is reversed: Mobius doesn’t need Loki to catch the Variant on the timelines. Mobius needs the Variant to free Loki from the timelines. The Variant is an excuse and another agent of poetic irony: when Sylvie unleashes the multiverse, she literally frees Loki of his predetermined narrative. 

The conceit of S1E1 is that Mobius intends to use Loki for the “good” of the Sacred Timeline. It is important to remember that characters, while not real, are meant to mirror human complexity. Multiple, seemingly conflicting things may be true concurrently. In S1E2, we see in Mobius’s conversations with Ravonna that he deeply believes in Loki’a capacity to be a wonderful person and wants him to have the opportunity to change. His enthusiasm for these things outshines his desire to catch Sylvie.  

And, because the Variant is Loki, because Sylvie is Loki, because, as she says, “[they] are the same”, Mobius’s own freeing of Loki, his unconditional love for him, cascades from Loki to Sylvie. Sylvie would not be free to live as she pleases if not for Mobius’s compassion for Loki in the first place. 

In S1E4, Loki reveals the TVA’s sham. Mobius’s sense of self becomes fragile alongside his sense of partnership with Loki. But because of our sociopolitical culture’s influence on capitalism, the creative voices of the Loki series self-censures what could be (what is) a queer romance. This self-censureship makes itself known in Mobius’s own self-censureship. His jealousy and heartbreak cannot be spoken directly. It must be spoken through the words of a woman, someone who presents as the opposite sex. Through a looping memory of a scornful Sif telling Loki, “You are alone and always will be”, Mobius makes known the nature of his feelings for him.  

BUT WHO WILL FREE MOBIUS? 

In the same cafeteria scene in S1E2, Loki asks Mobius if he’s ever ridden a jet ski. Mobius’s response is demure, saying him riding one would “cause a branch for sure”. The jet ski gives the audience another clue as to what Mobius seeks in life: something fun, thrilling, and reckless. Yet Mobius sets aside his desires for what he believes is for the good of the TVA, and thus humanity. This suppression and repression of authentic selfhood mirrors the queer experience of living within a heteronormative culture, especially one with religious doctrines that equate pleasure with sinfulness.  

Because Mobius extended his heart, his partnership, his love (symbolized by twin daggers hidden in his locker [a closet]; notably a male phallic symbol of which there are a pair [partners]) and was soundly rejected, Mobius retaliates with the loneliness he himself feels. This loneliness may be interpreted as an allegory for the loneliness of being closeted as opposed to the loneliness of being out but othered. 

Ultimately, Mobius’s love for Loki shifts from selfish desire to unconditional love when he chooses to help Loki save Sylvie. In S1E5, it is conspicuous that after delivering Sylvie safely to Loki’s side, Mobius’s partings words are, “Guess you got away again”, to which Loki replies, “I always do”, which echos the lover’s trope of “the one that got away”. 

[It drives me absolutely bananas that I can't find the specific gif I need when I literally saw it multiple times earlier this week but didn't need it THEN]

Owen’s acting choice is interesting here. He laughs, smiles, then looks down before looking up again, his eyes shifting from fondness to what feels like longing. Mobius extends his hand, a sensible choice for someone who believes his love is unrequited and is unsure of how Loki defines their relationship. Loki, appreciating what Mobius has done for him, closes the distance with an embrace and thanks Mobius for his friendship. 

In S2E1, upon Loki’s time-slipping into the war room, whatever apprehensions Mobius had about physical contact was wiped away by the collapse of the TVA and the memory of Loki’s hug. In this scene, it becomes clear to Mobius that Loki is panicking. He makes the executive decision to use his physical contact as a grounding force, relocates Loki to a quiet environment, asks after Sylvie with no bitterness in his voice, then prioritizes Loki’s physical well-being. Perhaps, in Mobius’s view, his love is unrequited, but there is nothing in place to stop him from expressing that love more freely while honoring Loki’s feelings for Sylvie. This regard, which may be construed as platonic, may also be viewed romantic, courtly love. 

The fight between Loki and Sylvie in S1E6 sets the stage for Mobius to receive Loki and become a refuge for heartbreak.  

S2E2 and S2E3 has Loki’s and Mobius’s temperaments when it comes to investigating flipped. In S1, Mobius was focused on the mission and often had to reign in Loki. In S2, Mobius is more casual, more willing to take his time and enjoy the sleuthing as it unfolds, while Loki administers pressure to stay focused. The question is why? 

In S2E2, Brad attacks Mobius’s sense of self. He points out how weird it is that Mobius is not at all curious about looking at his timeline and stresses that the TVA, and everything in it, isn’t real. Brad calls into question Mobius’s reason for staying. Knowing that the answer is Loki, we can surmise through the queer lens that Brad also corners Mobius into potentially outing himself in front of the object of his affections, someone he believes does not return his feelings, and whose knowledge of those feelings may threaten their friendship. This is a traumatic experience for queer people in the real world, and this extra layer of emotional conflict adds depth to Mobius’s violent response.  

Mobius influenced Loki in a myriad of ways. One that has not been discussed yet is an appreciation for focus and order. Loki, in turn, has cracked the door open for Mobius to explore pleasure. We can speculate that, in his own way, Mobius is testing what happiness could look like living a life between the TVA and the timelines. For him, this means cocktails at the theater, cracker jacks, and exploring the World’s Fair, all of which are pleasurable on their own but are even more so with Loki’s company. His queerness, once again, is quiet, mundane, but playful in its own right, and finally brave enough to explore. These scenes suggest that Mobius is indeed happy at the TVA and, as we see in the finale, this happiness is solely rooted in his relationship with Loki and the emotional intimacy they share together. 

Loki expresses concern for Mobius, noting that he has “never seen him like that before.” Mobius, interestingly, deflects every concern by absurdly blaming Loki: “He got under your skin”, “I was following you!” The psychological undercurrent here is that Loki is the reason why Brad got under Mobius skin. Loki is the person that Mobius will follow.  

Loki takes Mobius’s distress in stride, responding in a way the Mobius normally would. However, Brad’s question piques his interest, and his own care for Mobius prompts him to gently challenge Mobius’s lack of interest in his own timeline. Mobius’s reason for avoidance is, “What if it’s something good?” 

In S2E5, it’s interesting that “good” in this narrative is defined as a heteronormative fantasy of a house, two kids, and (possibly) a puppy and a snake. The “good” in Mobius’s original timeline, however, is imperfect. There is a partner that is missing (partners being a recurring theme in the series, particularly in S2E3), pronounced gone not once but twice. The entire scene between Don and Loki has been discussed at length by many, so there’s no need to reiterate it here. However, let’s bring our attention to Mobius’s avoidance of this “good” because this avoidance resonates with another queer experience. 

The TVA, for Mobius, is the place where he studied, saved, and developed a close relationship with Loki. The fear of the “something good” is the fear of being confronted with something Mobius “should” want more than the TVA, and therefore “should” want more Loki. The fear is wanting something (or feeling pressured to want something) other than a queer relationship with no children. The question of “choice” is impacted by what is considered the “norm”. 

S2E5 very pointedly focuses on the concern of choice, especially Mobius’s choice, in the bar scene between Loki and Sylvie. “Mobius should get a choice now, no?” At this point, Loki’s regard for Mobius has finally caught up with the romantic nature of Mobius’s feelings for him. And Loki, living his own queer experience, is also afraid of his true desires like Mobius. In being part of the intersectional queer community, the psychological need to guard against disappointment is high and commonplace. Desires are easily disappointed by the expectations of oppressive social mores. This survival tactic manifests itself with our hope and heartbreak with mainstream media, Loki the series being among them. 

But Sylvie, the harbinger of true and absolute freedom, takes on the role of supportive ex and challenges Loki to answer Mobius’s question in S1E1: “What do you want?”  

In this, Mobius and Loki’s individual relationships with the TVA are identical. It was never about where (the TVA), when (time works differently at the TVA), or why (the timelines). It was about who. It was about each other. The TVA represents a liminal space which became home by virtue of the people who brought love into it. The TVA is code for Loki and Mobius when each speaks of it. 

Again, the artists behind the media must self-censure. In this, Loki also self-censures while giving the truth. “I don’t want to be alone. I want my friends back.” It cannot be denied that Mobius is Loki’s first truest and closest friend. “I don’t want to be alone. I want Mobius back.” Sylvie appreciates and validates this desire, but also points out that showing the TVA is something that cannot be unseen. The implication of this response suggests that Sylvie believes that Loki’s friends will feel compelled to join the TVA out of moral pressure. She reiterates the true lives that are being lived, and Loki, loving his friends, loving Mobius, elects to not take that away from them. “You are just fine without the TVA.” 

Yet, Loki must choose an act of profound selfless love to save everyone. In doing so, he saves and frees Mobius in the way Mobius saved and freed him. The tragedy and, once again, poetic irony is that they both would have chosen each other. In giving everyone freedom, the true freedom of Loki and Mobius is sacrificed. This double-standard reflects in our reality between those who identify as cis and heterosexual and those who do not. 

When Mobius looks at his timeline in S2E6, he does so for one reason: that timeline survived because of Loki’s sacrifice. He must honor that sacrifice and see what Loki protected. Mobius appreciates what he finds, but he doesn’t belong there. It is not what he ultimately longs for. And there must be worry, shame, in recognizing he would prefer to give up the house and two children if a life with Loki were a viable choice. 

We all experience loss in our lives. Loss without a goodbye is also commonplace but is another pain that is more acute within the intersectional queer community. I speak of missed opportunities for happiness due to external forces. I speak of loss of self. I speak of loss of friends and family and home. I speak of death, losing a loved one without a goodbye, because same-sex lovers are not considered next of kin, an impossibility without marriage. Marriage echoes back to Don, who has no spouse, and Mobius, who has no partner. 

[writings-ofthe-heart]

Blue Lips

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

❀ ; König had never really known you, but after a tricky mission and being left alone with you for a whole night, he might want to know more ...

or

❀ ; After being terrified of your colonel, you gain the confidence (and privacy) to talk to him once more, things go unplanned when you're attacked by a rogue soldier.

────── 〔✿〕──────

♡ Warnings? : None! Just some fluff, idk, xd

♡ Word Count : A little over 1.6K words

♡ POV In : First person, I got lazy rewriting all the pronouns to "you," soz :(

♡ Author's Note - Umm sorry I haven't done anything atsv i swear its rotting in my brain rn but i just did this one shot in under a couple days during my travelling :3 i hope you enjoy !!

(p.s my next writing thing WILL be ganke related x3)

(p.p.s.s? I hope the formatting is ok I'm new to tumblr xD)

"Sorry, we'll try to reach-- morning--" The radio stammered out, I shook it frustrated as we walked. The mission had gone successfully but we were left behind. Unfortunately, I was left behind with the Colonel. He was silent, the sound of his steps barely noticeable. My hand was shaking, upon realizing, I shoved it into my pocket. The Lt had told us to reach the safe house and stay put. It was 4 KM away from where we were so we have been walking most part of the evening and the sun had just set. A blanket of quiet settled over the forest, the only "loud" sounds being my footsteps.

The Colonel and I were never close, it could've been because of my general fear of authority and the such or just how eerily quiet he was, never awkward just silent. The only time I had really spoke to him was during missions and those fleeting moments never told me much about him, all other information about him I heard from rumours, that he was a cold blooded soldier and a weapon for KorTac. He had bouts of going far away for weeks and months at a time, on so called "private enlistings." I never got curious, too frightened by him to try and find out more about him. But that's changing now, as he walks behind me I can't help but wonder about him.

My voice breaks the silence. "Where are you from, König? You have quite the accent,"

He seemed a little startled when I spoke, and he flatly replied, "Austria, German is the national language there."

I clicked my tongue, teeth chattering. "Cool." The next few minutes were silent and I veered off into the trees, hearing a creek bubbling. I called out to König quietly, "I'm going to fill my canteen. There's a creek over here." He hummed his acknowledgement. I got to the body of water and crouched down. Unscrewing the canteen, I put it down in the water. It was freezing, I tried to ignore the stinging in my knuckles and the tips of my fingers. From behind, I heard a knife unsheath. I tried to turn swiftly, grabbing my pistol from the holster but the attacker was too fast, pinning me down on the hard rocks.

They held the knife to my throat, breathing heavily. As my eyes adjusted from the stars in my vision, I realized it was a man. He had a beard, a mustache accompanying it. The man didn't need to speak for me to understand his intentions, a savage glint in his eyes. He seemed to be injured, desperate for anything. I look down at his tactical vest, but my movement provokes him and he shoves me under the water. I kick and thrash but he's taller, bigger than me. My pistol is taken and my knife is in my pant leg. The coldness grips me tightly.

König had been surprised I had even talked to him, after all, he knew I was scared of him, everyone was. It gave him a rush, but sometimes he wished they weren't terrified of König. He was sitting at the base of a tall, frosted tree, sipping at his own canteen. The Austrian man took note of the time, realizing I've been gone for longer then he felt comfortable with. Even if he had no feelings tied to me, he was a colonel and had to take care of his soldiers. König dusted his jeans off and calmly made his way to the creek. Upon seeing me being forcefully submerged in the creek by a strange man, he went livid.

Everything was a blur already as the man had started to choke me, shaking me and throwing me on the rock bed again and again. A vignette settled around my vision and I weakly yelled out in pain. Blood swirled in the water I was shoved in, my attacker showing no sign of stopping. König ran in long strides, ripping the man off me. With his bulk and strength, he had him easily in a chokehold.

The man fought him, as he had grabbed his knife I wrestled off him from the dirt. I could only sit up and take gulps of cold air, they were like daggers in my lungs but I couldn't help it. I was shaking violently, standing up and wobbling over to help König. He had already taken out his pistol and after shoving the man to the ground, he aimed point blank. His eyes were narrowed, and if he had no mask on, you'd be able to see the haunting smile as the bullet wrecked the mans head. Blowing his brains out was nothing to König.

I had barely been able to register the gun shot as more than the ringing in my ears after. The snowfall was heavier then ever, cold wind freezing my clothes and along with it my body. After the kill had been delivered, König rushed over to me. He crouched down the slightest bit, his accent thick in his words, "Liebe, are you okay?" I wrapped my arms around myself, teeth chattering. I could barely mumble a reply without stammering half the sentence but I tried. "N.. No." My scowl at him took all my remaining energy and I nearly collapsed on him.

"Oh, sheiße!" He hissed, holding me in place. The only sound being my grunts of pain, the cold feeling like I was shattering into pieces.

"We've got to get you to the safe house. It's so close to here! Can you walk schatz?" He panics, holding my frozen hands. "Ah, you're like ice." König comments. I take a couple steps with him, another breeze blows by and my knees give out. I cry out painfully, grabbing Königs arm. He hushes me sympathetically, pulling me close.

"Ok, meine liebe, i need you to listen to me, ja? I'm going to carry you, but you can't, please, you cannot," He firmly talks to me taking a breath, making sure my lidded eyes stay open. "You cannot fall asleep, stay awake, ok? We'll get to the safe house in no time."

König knew he had a timer, it started to tick down as soon as I got out of water, breathing heavily. It was now or never, or else I'd slip into the afterlife. He couldn't let that happen. Now he was running as quick as he could, his long legs lunging forward. If their lieutenants information was correct, the safe house should be around the corner from these birch trees, and like the heavens opened for him, there was a run down, abandoned looking house covered in sheets of white.

König slammed the door open and kicked it closed as he rushed in, his heart pounding and the blood roaring in his ears. I was shivering in Königs arms, fighting every nerve in my body begging me to let go, but I knew I couldn't, I couldn't leave him alone, alone here. Those were my only coherent thoughts as König set me down in front of the fire, rummaging desperately through each drawer in the living room. My puffs of air coming out as thick clouds in the room, I could hear Königs quickened breathing as he searched around. When I heard him sigh out a noise of victory, it was a telltale sign he found matches.

I looked at him through my heavy eyes, König flicked it and it caught on fire. He tidyed the logs in the fireplace and threw the match in, blowing it softly so it'd grow faster. My teeth chattered vigorously but I couldn't feel my lips, or my legs. König carefully peeled my tactical vest off, looking at me gently. "Schatz, I need to take your clothes.. off..." His eyes seemed to be pleading with me and all I could do was nod slightly. König worked fast while still being so gentle with my freezing body, and in a matter of minutes, I was bare, stripped to my undergarments. He swallowed, trying to stop his eyes wandering.

König took his vest off, basically stripping himself as well. Now, I couldn't help but stare. He was built like an ox, along with being huge, his muscles were just daunting. I screwed my eyes shut to keep out the indecent thoughts.

"You're tired, no? It's ok, meine liebe. Let me get some blankets and we will sleep." He reassured me and I could only nod, whimpering quietly trying not to tremble with everything in me. My arms were wrapped around my body tightly. After a few minutes, he came back with a pillow and blankets. König sat down next to me, gently sliding a blanket below me and then the rest on top.

His hands were warm.. so warm. I could feel my mind shutting down and König noticed, of course he did. My sleepy eyes, the red tint of my cheeks and nose. He could hear me mumbling, but was too dazed in my appearance, "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"Can you come closer? You're really, really warm." I whisper. König looked at me, silent like always. After a long pause, he nodded.

Shifting closer to me, he (awkwardly) put his arms around me. I leaned on him, contently sighing. He couldn't believe what was happening, König was never typically a 'ladies man' and now that it was happening, he froze up. König looked down at me, feeling a warmth touch his chest. I had fallen asleep on him. He couldn't do anything but sit there, cocooning me in his arms with his gun by his side in case of an emergency.

He didn't sleep at all, if only to keep me safe.

[fairydust-stuff]

Freddy's Boy damsels part 2

I could do a full review on some of Freddy's less popular kills from the 1989 Freddy's Nightmares series. an anthology with Freddy Kruegar as the host sometimes showing up in the episodes.

Its not a well acted, written or shot series. The writers were just told to go to town and do whatever they wanted. Due to its later airing time. So it is an oddly sincere series though. And all the episodes aren't bad. This is one of my favorites.

So lets talk Dana, yes he is a boy. He appears in the two parter Safe Sex. He's basically into this girl Katlyn he really likes but she's got a thing for Freddy. I have mixed feelings because the boy doesn't respect her lack of interest but Katlyn is the worst.

Keep in mind Freddy in this universe was a pedo killer who lived in their hometown. Its hinited he wasn't killed that long ago. The therapist even mentions he's still talking to the parents of the children Freddy killed. So Katlyn is a self centered dipshit mooning over a child molester.

Dana starts having creepy nightmares of Freddy chasing Katlyn though the graveyard. Then attacking him.

So its pretty clear the episode is a commentary on sexual attraction and the idea of some objects of your affection just not being worth it. Freddy even says " Their are some girls you just don't go to pieces over."

There's a lot about teenage fantasies and the idea its more about the idea then the reality. Dana's theropist even telling Dana she's a person not an object. Also Dana confessing he spends more time dreaming about Katlyn then thinking about her in real life.

Which foils Kaylyn's attraction to Freddy and how she created this fantasy of him in her head.

" I'm afraid if I get her, she'll be too much for me." he confesses at one point.

Which plays into how Dana's dreams involve his sexual attraction to Katlyn and how it evolves into nightmares.

He listens to some advice and starts to tap into his fantasies when what appears to be a dream version of Katlyn vanishes his clothes. He starts to become scared " No no, i'm ok we just have to wait." suggesting he doesn't feel ready to actually have sex.

After which a vision of his best friend appears telling him he's blowing it and not doing him proud. Which highlights peer pressure from other boys to have sex and Dana's anxiety about not having it.

Also his mother appears and Kaytlyn kills her. After she states Kaylyn isn't right for her son. Suggesting fear over his mom's opinion and that she might be right.

Dana runs around in nothing but a towel when dream Katlyn corners him. he tries to flee but the door is locked and Kaylyn leads him to the bed and shoves him onto it. This is the point where its starting to veer into noncon. With Katlyn saying their going to do it.

Dana appears back in bed screaming and tosses his fantasy book aside. Kaylyn appears in his room "poor baby, you're scared to death aren't you?" she mocks

He nods looking terrified but unable to take his eyes off of her. She mocks him about it being his first time. then promises she'll do all the work. The whole scene suggests fear/ desire for sex and how they can overlap for teenage boys in particular. He is scared of both having sex and not doing it at the same time.

The scene cuts but according to this review https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=An0Zd1xBamQ A bit of footage was cut and what is show highly suggests that Freddy was Katlyn all along which I heavily knew.

Also Freddy basically raped Dana to death. though it is potrayed in a very silly over the top manner.

With Freddy screaming ride em cowboy while rocking back and forth on the poor kid. Its still very dark in implication with Freddy's " Ready for the big bang cherry bomb." accompanied by a puckering sound, not being really that low key. You can see the footage in the review.

But what they go with is just the Katlyn growing Freddy's claw and stabbing him. I don't know if the earlier idea was gotten rid of for being too dark or too silly honestly.

But its one of those yeah Freddy was supposed to be a pedo piece of shit and it shows in how he's written moments. This came the closest to making the idea actual text. That he's a molester/ child killer.

Then Dana's mom walks in and sees his dead body. The first episode ends even darker with Freddy grinning at the camera " Aww the first time you never forget it....if you live!"

I also listened to writers' commentary on the Freddy's Nightmare podcast. They said this episode was stressing safe sex because people were still shaken by the Aids crisis which ended not too long ago. So a lot of people were promoting this idea of safe sex at the time to young people in particular.

Which gives you a whole new perspective on this episode. Knowing that this stuff was going on during the time.

[neonponders]

I’ve never written Murder Boyfriends before, but @cuepickle ‘s art is just so lovely and powerful.

Based on this and this 💗 💜 🖤 (impending smut ahoy)

• • • • • • •

I just want to help, he’d said.

I just want to make things right, he’d said.

Steve said a lot of things. But he moaned incoherent words and exclaimed sounds he didn’t want anyone else to hear when Billy Hargrove steamrolled into his life, his feelings, and his goddamn morals.

Billy Hargrove wasn’t...right. He was twelve different shades of wrong, punctuated by Caribbean blue eyes and decorated with bronzed waves and curls. Steve knew he had a superiority complex, but he hadn’t known it was this bad.

Thing is, if he’d known, Steve couldn’t guarantee whether he’d change anything. Because knowing Billy Hargrove is a murderer would also mean Steve knew what his lips tasted like, and their softness against his neck.

All Steve had known was that Sheriff Hopper was missing, and his parents, being the upstanding white people that they are, deferred nearly every inconvenience to the police. And the police answered, because fat wallets keep their lights on, like everyone else.

But the Sheriff’s phones kept ringing. And maybe Steve had his own complex after so much time with Nancy, because he parked out front and strolled right into the Sheriff’s office.

The secretary wasn’t there.

Neither were the two deputies.

Steve tucked himself between the desks to pry apart the window blinds. Their cars were still here -

Steve’s head rotated at a sound he knew. He knew it in the way a memory piqued but he couldn’t place where or why. He followed it into the chief’s office...where Billy Hargrove sat at the desk - Hopper’s own chair - and ate a crisp apple from the strange pile in the waste paper basket.

“Billy?”

“Hi, Steve,” he smiled. Ankles crossed on the desk. A perfect, violet crescent framed the side of his eye. An indigo shadow rested in the inner corner of the other one. Either way, Steve’s first red flag was that he ached with concern more than itched for the nailed bat in his trunk.

“What happened to you?”

Steve thought the guy might choke, the way he tipped his head back to laugh while chunks of apple sat in his mouth. Naturally, it took him some time to chew and swallow before he said, “I finally stopped being afraid. And I started being responsible. Not the way he planned, though.”

“Hopper?” Steve frowned.

Billy did not answer immediately. He licked the apple like it might drip juice and beckoned, “Why don’t you sit down? I want to see you.”

The only lights on were in the main room where Steve stood. Ghoulish, fluorescent bulbs while Billy sat in shadow and vague, evening light hatching through the Chief’s window blinds. There was some kind of irony there: Steve in the fake, green-tinged light, and Billy in the natural...honest darkness.

Steve peeked behind him, surveying the room but finding no warnings apart from the negative space where people should be.

He stepped into the office -

“I’ve always liked looking at you.”

Steve paused on the carpet. Billy had said it loud enough to hear, but with enough air in it that Steve couldn’t tell if he was drunk or hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Then he tried to sit in one of the chairs -

“Over here. Sit on the desk.”

“What?” Steve blinked at him, suddenly very aware that the light gave Billy full view of his face but Steve only got the glow in that dark blond hair.

A strong leg pushed Billy away from the desk. The apple tumbled onto its pile of brothers, discarded as he pat the desk. “Sit right here.”

Steve shook his head all at once, beginning to backpedal out of the room. “This is weird.”

“No shit. This whole town’s weird. I’ve been reading some personal files in this room. I guess the Chief thought he was being smart, but...I’ve been hiding my whole life. I know where people hide things. A lot of things make sense in this place, now. The rat pack Max hangs out with. And you. A lot of things makes sense about you, Steve.”

Steve shrugged and his hands clapped against his thighs. “Okay? You’re not special for seeing my report cards.”

Billy’s features froze, but only for a moment, and then laughter burst out of him. “Steve, please sit down. God, I wanna touch you.”

Steve Harrington is a simple person. He’d officially been single for far too long, struck out every time he faced a woman - and a couple guys who were too scared or oblivious to do anything - and he just...

He wanted.

He wanted to be touched and if Billy was offering - Hot Stuff Hargrove, Baby Doll Eyes Billy - then Steve couldn’t help but take. He’d been so patient with everyone. He waited for Nancy to be ready. He accepted defeat when everyone walked away from him with rolling eyes or obligatory smiles.

Billy...talked. He talked and talked. He’d always been a talker; on the basketball court, barking orders as a lifeguard. Always talking, or letting his radio talk for him.

But Steve sat on Hopper’s desk and felt the warmth of Billy’s palms seep through his jeans. He held onto Steve’s calves as he talked. Talked about terrible things. Broken plates and abandoned things. Being the abandoned thing. Being the broken thing. He talked for hours before finally fucking Steve on that desk.

He’d started slow. Just unbuttoning the jeans and then leaving them alone. It would be another half hour before he took off Steve’s shoes. Every time Steve looked behind him - as if asking for someone to come in, to interrupt, to break this dark dream Billy wove around him - Billy said, “Look at me.”

“I’ve been looking at you, Billy.”

A small smile twitched on his lips. “Good.”

It would be another hour before he said, “I think my dad killed my mom.”

Less than a minute before he added, “He had it coming. Feel bad for my step-mom, though. But she was a screamer. So was the tall deputy. Things can finally be quiet now.”

Steve sat very still as arms circled around his pelvis and Billy just...hugged him. Pressed his face against Steve’s soft belly and inhaled his scent. Warm laundry and Steve Steve Steve.

He couldn’t be sure how things evolved into sex. Steve was already trapped in Billy’s web, so all he had to do was decide, to give the web a pluck and Steve felt the vibrations.

He planted his hands on the desk, lifting his ass for Billy to wrench the jeans and underwear off in one go. They got stuck on Steve’s feet, bunched up so Steve had to figure it out himself as Billy pressed himself over top of him.

The green desk lamp fell with an ominous clank.

Steve finally got a leg free and wrapped it around Billy’s ass the same time teeth found his neck. The warning bells that had been ringing since he got here felt far away; church bells too high over the town to actually make a difference in the goings-on.

Billy marked him up like he had paperwork to sign. Steve’s deed was his, and Billy moaned and grunted with every sigh he wrung out of Steve. Every squeeze to his waist made him moan, and he outright whimpered when Billy licked up his neck. For how much Billy gripped, bit, and sucked, he moved surprisingly gently below the belt.

“Gonna get lube later,” he said in that way again, traveling down Steve’s body as his thoughts escaped into the air. “I’m going to have your ass every which way, Harrington.”

Steve could only gasp as his tongue shoved inside him with no preamble. “I-I-I didn’t shower - ”

A guttural, breathy hum ricocheted from Billy’s throat and into Steve’s chest, knocking Steve’s head back like a rock on the way there. Billy’s stubble and gross wetness made Steve feel filthy in the best way. His cock lay heavily on his abdomen, spurting precum every time Billy’s hands squeezed the backs of his thighs.

Steve came like he’d never been touched in his life. His breathing picked up and he rutted against Billy’s face twice before making a mess of his shirt.

Billy took his slowly fading erection into his mouth, jerking himself off almost violently in a matter of seconds.

When Steve stepped outside, the air smelled like the sunrise even though only the faintest bit of blue had begun to dilute the darkness. And as the sun rose, Steve had never felt worse. It was like seeing a demogorgon for the first time, but instead of minutes, it stretched into hours.

People were dead.

Presumably Chief Hopper too.

Billy, he...he...

He showed up to Steve’s house with a smile and freshly laundered clothes. Steve had showered but looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. Billy only tipped his head back toward his car. “I’ve got two bank accounts freshly inherited. Let me buy you lunch.”

Steve wondered if Dustin’s comic book villains drove Camaros.

Billy bought him lunch. Bought him a chocolate milkshake too. Steve didn’t want to think about his ability to swallow those down so easily. Or how he interacted with the waitress like he wasn’t covered in red and brown love bites delivered directly atop Chief Hopper’s desk. He didn’t want to think what having all of Billy Hargrove’s attention on him did to his squirming...pleased...insides.

He didn’t want to think as Billy fingered him in the backseat.

They didn’t even fit back there but Billy moved with what felt like the strength of three men. It was arousing, being manhandled like that; any fear Steve ought to have held in his gut tapped its disapproving toe outside of the vehicle. The way Billy sucked behind his ear, gripped his hips so he could slot himself right in between Steve’s legs and rut his dark pink erection against Steve’s...

The way he bought Steve more milkshakes.

And a fresh tire rotation because his car veered to the left.

And filled him up in the darkness of Steve’s bedroom, making Steve bounce on his cock as he licked the taste of him off his lubed up fingers - 

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

It just...came out.

The husky lust cleared from Billy’s eyes when Steve said that. Terror must have filled Steve’s eyes because Billy gently cradled the side of his head.

This is it. This is how I die. Wanting a freaking kiss from a psycho -

“I thought you’d be the one to do that.”

Steve blinked vacantly at him. He could feel Billy’s heartbeat inside his ass and the guy just smiled -

“King Steve. Never thought you were shy - mmph.”

Billy’s bravado melted against Steve’s mouth. He hummed as he felt Steve’s precum on his belly, soaking them both with what he did to him, did to Steve and all of his flawed moral systems.

Steve pushed Billy onto his back with his kiss, tongue desperately tasting and exploring his mouth as his fingers laced behind Billy’s neck.

Until Billy reached up and pulled Steve’s hands apart, just enough for the bases of his palms to sit on both pulse points.

Billy did it himself: made his cheeks go pink and his chest flush red. But Steve made his ass slap against Billy’s thighs. Made Billy’s jaw go slack and his orgasm slow. Made his eyes water and his chest heave when he could breathe again.

Maybe that was his chance. His chance to make things right.

But with an empty Sheriff’s office down the road, and still no one the wiser, Hawkins wasn’t living by any sort of right anymore. The only right that Steve knew, was Billy’s hands making him feel powerful and precious.

[five-rivers]

Auction

For @skellagirl

.

“Hey, Jazz,” said Danny, leaning into Jazz’s room, one hand on the doorknob, the other braced against the jamb. “Wanna help me mess with Vlad?”

“Do I?” responded Jazz, pushing her chair back. “What’s the plan?”

“Well,” said Danny, “Vlad left one of his creepy spy bugs in the kitchen again, and I was thinking we could have a loud conversation in front of it about how Mom’s going to that charity bachelor auction.”

Jazz frowned. “But she isn’t. She’s married.”

“Yeah, that’s the point. Vlad’s delusional.”

“Ah, I see,” said Jazz. “Yeah, let’s do it. Should we write a script?”

“Maybe just a backstory. I work better with improv.”

“I’ve seen your fights, Danny. You definitely do not.”

“That’s cold.”

.

Maddie was not here, and Vlad was going to commit murder. Just a little bit. The victim was already half dead, after all.

His teeth squeaked as he forced himself to smile at the vapid, crowds of rich single women below him. He could not, unfortunately, back out now without losing quite a bit of face. The only consolation he had was that he had already communicated the need to eliminate the wealthier bidders, so that Maddie’s bet would win, to his ghostly servants. If only he could get away from the crowds and duplicate himself to take care of the others…

But that would be suspicious too, wouldn’t it? He had to let at least a few bids go through. And some of them had to be high, otherwise he’d never hear the end of it from his ever-aggravating business associates.

Curse them and their golf-playing buffoonery. He didn’t even like golf. It took so long.

When his name was called, he went out onto the stage like a man expecting to be hung. Why did anyone think this kind of thing was a good idea? This was humiliating. Ninety percent of the people bidding were after his money one way or another, he was sure.

Not like Maddie.

He sighed and refused to make eye contact with anyone in the crowd as the auctioneer called higher and higher values. Finally, the number stopped climbing, and Vlad lowered his gaze to see who, exactly, he would have to waste a day with.

Well. At least it wasn’t someone who was after his money.

.

“So,” said Harriet Chin, not even bothering to hide the recorder she held in her hands, “Vladimir Masters. Do you have a statement regarding the Whole World Mission scandal?”

“Harriet,” said Vlad, “please, we’re supposed to be on a date.”

“Yes, and I get to decide our activities. And I want an exclusive interview with the elusive Vlad Masters. That’s what I paid for, after all.”

“And here I was, thinking that it was my ravishing, good looks.”

Harriet snorted. “Maybe for someone who didn’t see you and Jack in that ridiculous hot dog eating contest. Although,” she leaned back appraisingly, “you did fill out since then. Actually… I’m sort of surprised at how early the bidding topped out. Was the room filled with bitter exes, or is there some scandal I don’t know about?”

Vlad rolled his eyes. “I confess, I’m as surprised as you.”

“Now, that’s a lie,” said Harriet.

“Excuse me?”

“You still have that tell from college,” said Harriet, smugly.

“Excuse me? I do not have a tell.” If he did, he had to identify and get rid of it as soon as possible.

“You do,” said Harriet, still grinning.

Vlad weighed the pros and cons of simply overshadowing her and making her lose the day. She’d probably claim that he drugged her or something. Curses.

He sighed, heavily. “At least let me take you out to a restaurant instead of,” he flicked his fingers at his surroundings, “just standing here.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A person’s house can tell you a lot about someone. Didn’t your Wisconsin home blow up? What was up with that, anyway?”

“I released a statement regarding that some time ago,” said Vlad.

“Wasn’t it also raided by the government?”

“That was a misunderstanding. And I also released a press statement about that incident. It shouldn’t take you more than, oh, an hour to look it up online.” This wasn’t entirely true. Once it was out of the immediate spotlight, Vlad had spent quite a bit of money to have the whole story scrubbed. “Dinner? I am paying.”

Harriet looked thoughtful. “Alright, but I’m picking where we go.”

“Of course,” said Vlad, graciously.

.

He regretted everything.

“Harriet, I know Amity Park is small relative to, say, Chicago, but, really… There are good restaurants here.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, “but I wanted to eat here.”

Vlad grimaced and tried not to look at the booth where Daniel and his juvenile delinquent friends were sitting and filming him with a handheld camera.

“Of course,” said Harriet, apparently unbothered by the stickiness of the booth bench and the screaming of children in the other part of building, “if you wanted to go back to a more private setting so that we could continue our interview—”

“No, no, this is quite alright. I said I would get you dinner, and here we are, eating…” He glanced at the menu with derision. “Food.”

He could, just barely, call it that. Even if he’d discovered during his short-term ownership of the chain that certain of its condiments could be used as mid-grade explosives. He didn’t know how Daniel could stand it.

(On the other hand, he had to admit he was enjoying this. Just a little. He so rarely got to match wits against a competent adult.)

(Maddie didn’t count—He was trying to woo Maddie, after all. They were practically on the same side.)

Valerie Grey, looking intensely weirded out, brought their order to their table. Harriet, unperturbed by the grease leaking through the paper wrappings, began to sort though the offerings for the cheap chicken burger she had ordered. Vlad, meanwhile, stared down at his sandwich.

Someone had put an ectoplasm antagonist in the dressing. He glared at Daniel. He didn’t know how the boy had done it, but he was going to pay for it. Along with setting him up for this ridiculous ‘date.’

“Aren’t you going to eat?” asked Harriet.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh, stop being such a snob. I remember you and Jack living off of instant ramen.”

“That was then, this is now,” said Vlad.

.

“Seems to be going well,” said Tucker, adjusting the lens on his camera, “all things considered.”

“Kind of surprised they’re here of all places, though,” said Sam.

“I think Ms. Chin’s just trying to get a rise out of Vlad, to be honest.” He’d stopped looking at them, though, instead frowning at the kitchens. “I think Valerie put something in his food. Do you think we should do something?”

“Not really,” said Tucker.

“Yeah, I’m going to choose Valerie every day over the old rich white guy who wants to kill your dad,” said Sam. “Even if she has some slightly homicidal tendencies regarding you.”

“Fair enough,” said Danny. “Want to stalk Vlad and his date until they drive home?”

“I don’t have any other plans,” said Sam, easily.

“Same,” said Tucker.

“Cool,” said Danny.

.

“Are you frequently stalked by teenagers?” asked Harriet.

“No,” said Vlad.

“And isn’t that Jack and Maddie’s son?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh ho, there’s a story there, isn’t there?”

“A private matter, I assure you.”

“When you’re as wealthy as you are, Vlad, nothing’s a private matter anymore.”

“I fear I must disagree with you on that count. Where are we going, anyway?”

“It’s a surprise,” said Harriet. “Unless you want to give me that interview.”

“Ugh. No.”

It was a miniature golf course. Of course it was. He could never escape from the accursed ‘sport.’ At least the miniature version was marginally more tolerable. Or it would be, if Daniel and his pack of friends weren’t able to follow them in.

… Or maybe they wouldn’t follow them in. The trio veered off suddenly right before the exit. Vlad smirked. Not enough cash for the little badger to get in, hm?

This assumption was disastrously disproven when a ghost fight tore through the Astroturf that covered the third hole.

Harriet was very nearly thrown into the pond, but Vlad managed to catch her at the last moment.

She was blushing.

Butter biscuits.

.

“Well,” said Harriet, “that wasn’t the interview I wanted, but it wasn’t a total waste of time. Same time next week?”

“Fine, fine, whatever you want,” said Vlad. Then what he said caught up to him. “No. One date. One date was all you paid for.”

Harriet pretended not to hear him.

[beatricethecat2]

"Chill for a minute! You're making me nervous," Myka says.

"I'll not miss the performance because of a third-rate watchman," Helena huffs.

"Abigail said she'd sort this out."

"Abigail got us into this."

"She didn't slug him."

"He tackled me."

"You grabbed the book and ran."

"And I'd have succeeded were it not for that wandering child," Helena gruffs. "Who brings a child to theater?"

"You wouldn't have brought Christina?"

"Were she old enough and properly dressed, yes. That child was in dungarees."

"They probably came to see the exhibition not the matinee—"

"We're not dressed properly either," Helena grumbles, swiping dirt off a pant leg.

"Theater's not as formal as it used to be. And you did put your hair up," Myka says, flashing a feeble smile.

"And now it's mussed. It wasn't much to look at to begin with." Helena fusses with her bun.

"Hey, I think you look really nice," Myka says, reaching over, stilling Helena's hands.

"This is hardly theater attire."

"It's the Oregon Shakespeare Festival not the Met Opera."

"Attending the theater used to mean something." Helena's hands drop to her lap.

"It still does, but not corsets and gowns." Myka raises a brow. "Would you have worn a dress if this was a real date?"

"I very well may have. I'd certainly have made more of an effort."

"A nineteenth or twenty-first century effort?

"May I not embody both?"

"Yeah, but I'm just noticing you sort of default to the nineteenth when you're around me."

"And you disapprove."

"No. It think it's kind of sweet. I like that you don't have to hide who you are with me." Myka bumps her shoulder into Helena's.

"And to think, I once yearned to live in a future such as this. I'd no clue how exhausting it'd be being out of time."

"It'll get easier," Myka says, meeting Helena's unsure gaze. She leans towards Helena and Helena follows suit, their lips nearly touching when a door slamming in the distance halts the action.

"So, um...when's the last time you saw Shakespeare?" Myka asks, recomposing herself.

Helena thinks back. "Hamlet, in Stratford; Sarah Bernhardt as lead. We'd travelled specifically to see her, as it was unusual for a woman to play a male's part. She was her bombastic self, but watching Shakespeare translated into French was odd. I may have opinions about the American accent as well."

"Oh you will."

"Flipping through those gravures on display really took me back. Then the cabinet cards...are you familiar with those actors?"

"No."

"Such a shame," Helena says, pushing up from her slouch to sit upright.  "Ellen Terry, she who worked so very hard to elevate the acting profession for women and men; Lillie Langtree, the beauty who pulled her reputation up from the mud through her craft; Violet Vanbrugh, locked in competition with her sister for the spotlight...celebrities, one and all, yet seeing them now, they feel like lost friends." 

Helena sighs deeply and looks away. "When I snatched the book, my mind was no longer present. Hence the guard getting a jump on me."

"It's going to work out," Myka says, flashing a comforting smile.

"How exactly is Abigail remedying this? I heard little of your hushed conversation earlier," Helena says, narrowing her eyes at Myka.

"She's convincing them to put it back so we can swap it with a copy she's sending."

"Could she not have done so previously?"

"With Artie out of town, she's scrambling to keep up."

"How exactly is she convincing them?"

"She's, um..." Myka looks down at her lap and adjusts her wrist watch. "Do you actually need to know?"

"I do now," Helena says, swerving in her seat to face Myka.

"She's posing as your therapist."

"And I'm a babbling idiot."

"No...our pitch is you're obsessed with Victoriana."

"Convenient," Helena grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Do you want to see the play or not?"

"What do you think?"

"I think we wouldn't be here at all if Abigail hadn't asked us to snag volume nine of 'The Illustrated Library of Shakespeare.' And I think she'll fix this for now so we can see a play like two normal people who see plays. We'll worry about the book tomorrow."

Helena's scowl stays firmly in place.

"I'll make it up to you tonight at the hotel," Myka says, eyes pleading.

"Placating me for performing the Warehouse's bidding is not in the least desirable—"

"Ooh, look, he's coming out," Myka says, patting Helena's leg as she rises to talk to the head of security. "Stay here."

Helena stays put but her scowl grows all consuming.

-END SCENE-

------------------

Bering and Wells: Field Trip ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 7 Title: Oregon: To one thing constant never

Summary: With Warehouse staff stretched thin, Myka and Helena are asked to dash from Myka's parents to The Oregon Shakespeare Festival. The pickup hits a snag when Helena, lost in memories, bungles the retrieval. Emotions run high when Helena reveals an unshakable impulse that threatens their newfound bliss.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5, Episode 6

------------------

BONUS SCENE

The next day, in the parking in the lot of the festival, freshly off the phone from the Warehouse, Myka turns to Helena.

"Artie's booking us a flight. He wants us to bring the book in person—"

"We are not altering our plans again," Helena sneers. "He can pick it up from us."

"I think he needs it sooner," Myka mumbles. "It'll be quick, just a day or two. Maybe we can push our bookings up?"

"As if that's worked in the past."

"True," Myka says, shoulders slumping as she sighs defeatedly. "Then we'll skip Mendocino and head straight to San Francisco from there. I'll grab some of my stuff since we might stay in the city longer." She turns the key, revving the car to life.

"I'll drive to Mendocino and meet you in San Francisco. You go on to the Warehouse."

"But Artie said you can come," Myka explains, looking over her shoulder, backing out of their parking spot. She puts the car in drive and moves towards the exit.

"There's no reason for me to do so."

"But you haven't met Abigail. Or Steve, really. Plus Claudia's dying to see you—"

"Myka, I can't."

Myka steps on the brake and turns to face Helena. "Is this a Regent thing? Because Artie wouldn't have said you could come if you couldn't."

"It's not a Regent thing."

"Then what?" Myka huffs.

"We've not time to discuss this now."

"Then tell me the abbreviated version."

A honk from behind jolts them both.

"Alright, alright!" Myka grumbles, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road.

"You go on. I'll follow our plan," Helena says. "I wish to feel the land shifting underfoot, as if Elizabeth, Christina, and I had made our way through California in my own day."

"Wouldn't that have been on a train? Or a carriage maybe?" Myka asks.

"Is a car not the modern equivalent?"

"I guess," Myka says, her face the picture of concern. "You know, most of San Francisco was destroyed in the 1906 earthquake. There's not much left from back then."

"No matter. It's the spirit in which it's encountered."

"Then I want to 'encounter' it with you."

"Then have them pick the book up from us. You're not obligated to obey their every beck and call."

"I guess not," Myka says, frowning as she stops at a red light.

"Their prerogative led us to rush here, waylaying our plans," Helena presses.

"And the plays."

"Which we may have seen, in our own time, had we not been browbeaten into a retrieval—"

"We weren't browbeaten, we were helping Abigail—"

"The light's green."

"I see that," Myka grumps, the car jerking forward as she presses on the gas too hard. "So that's why you won't come with me? You're mad we came here in the first place?"

"It more than that. My relationship with the Warehouse must remain distant. Better if I retain none at all."

"How exactly is that going to work? Because I live there."

"I'd rather not discuss this while you're driving."

"Then I'll stop." Myka flips her turn signal and veers left at an intersection. She swings into a parking lot turns off the engine. "You said I'm your One. That we're partners."

"You are both of those things to me."

"But you can't come to the Warehouse, maybe ever? Explain." Myka shifts in her seat to face Helena as fully as possible.

"I've come to understand distance may be the only remedy for certain...triggers."

"What triggers?"

"Where to start?"

"Anywhere, really," Myka gruffs, holding onto Helena's petulant gaze.

"A hundred years in bronze weighs heavy on one's soul."

"You were fine there before."

"Was I?"

"You said it was your tether!"

"I'd have said anything to—"

"Gain access, dupe everyone, and destroy the world. I know." Myka scowls. "But you wouldn't do that again."

"That's no longer my vice," Helena says.

"Then what is?"

Helena looks off into the distance. "A secondary plan, utilizing artifacts catalogued since my bronzing."

"W-What kind of plan?" Myka says, her back straightening.

"One in which Christina would be returned to me."

"Wait, you tried again when you were there?"

"How could I not?" Helena laments. "I've hatched countless schemes since."

"But you said you'd made peace with not having kids."

"Moving forward. But I may never find true peace with Christina's passing. Apparently, it's not uncommon."

"How do you know?"

"At the precinct, after particularly gruesome cases, they conducted psychological evaluations. I'd breezed through most, but one in particular, concerning the death of a little girl, was difficult to shake."

"Oh, Helena." Myka scoots forward and takes hold of Helena's hand. "What happened?"

"I recounted my story, albeit heavily modified, and learned about triggers. Avoiding them entirely was an acceptable solution, so the Warehouse...but you? You were a conundrum."

"I was a trigger, too." Myka slips her hand from Helena's but Helena grabs it back.

"You remained a symbol of hope, of all that was good in this world. I ached to be near you but feared disappointing you again. When you turned up in Montreal, I was drumming up the courage to approach you."

"But you weren't there yet."

"I wasn't," Helena says, squeezing Myka's hand. "Asking you to separate yourself from your home, from your calling, was difficult to justify. But after hearing of your illness, nothing else mattered but being by your side."

Helena cups Myka's jaw and strokes her cheek with a thumb. "But I must protect myself, and you, from those demons."

Helena shifts closer and guides their lips together. Their kiss lingers until Myka's phone rings.

"Artie," Myka says, answering in an instant. "We can't come. We'll keep the the book safe until someone can pick it up—"

Myka moves the phone away from her ear at Arties loud volume.

"Ok, ok! But H.G.'s not coming. Put me on a flight."

Myka places her hand over the microphone and glances at Helena. "He said Mrs. Frederic's there and 'needs it yesterday'—"

She's interrupted by Artie chiming in.

"I'm not taking a flight with two connections because it leaves tonight! Put me on a red eye."

Grumbling emanates from the other side of the phone.

"Five-thirty's fine. Send me the details."

More grumbling, then silence. Myka hangs up the phone.

"Artie seems his usual congenial self—"

"I'm really proud of you," Myka blurts, turning to face Helena again.

"Whatever for?" Helena asks, head tilting, brow furrowing.

"For fighting your demons on your own. Though I wish we'd been doing it together."

"From now on, we shall," Helena says, meeting Myka halfway as she leans in for another kiss.

Hands reach across the console, twining in hair, groping at necks, arms, shoulders, as if the space between them is too great.

Minutes later, a tap on the window jerks them apart.

"Ma'ams, bank won't open again until 9AM," a man says as Helena rolls down the window. "I'm going to have to ask to come back tomorrow."

"Bank?" Myka croaks, scanning the parking lot, eyes locking on a glowing sign at its entrance. "Oh, bank."

"Terribly sorry officer. We pulled over to take a call before becoming...distracted," Helena explains.

"Just a security guard, ma'am. But I'd appreciate it if you move on. I didn't want to disturb you but my manager's going to wonder why you were here so long."

"Nothing nefarious, I assure you. We'd have been stealthier were anything afoot," Helena says with a wink.

"Helena!"

"Just reassuring the boy."

"We didn't mean to....we were just..." Myka stumbles over a more direct explanation.

"We've been granted one more night together before our separation."

"But we do have a hotel room."

"And mere hours before I'm to deliver you to the airport."

"True." Myka's lips push together, her face contorting into one of a new understanding. "Not enough hours. We should go."

"Thank you again for accommodating us," Helena says to the security guard.

"Um, sure?" he says as Helena rolls up the window.

"We'll make this work," Myka says, slipping a hand over Helena's thigh as she drives away. "I know we can."

"I adore your enthusiasm," Helena says, covering Myka's hand with her own, threading their fingers together.

-END-

-TBC-

NOTES: A quick reminder - this Christina is the daughter of Helena's original "One" back in the 1800's - Elizabeth. I think that story is in the second installment of this series. Also note this text probably pretty rough as I'm out of town and have sporadic internet (remember DSL?) and so haven't been able to use my usual text checkers (let me know if anything's super bad!) I'm putting it up now so I won't fuss over it as I'd like to not fuss over *anything* this week. Also, the first manip is one of my favorites - there's only one I can think of that tops it, but it's not public yet (I think you'll know when you see it.) Anyway, here are some of the people HG mentioned. And here are some of the amazing panoramas of the SF earthquake. Also Sarah Bernhardt - look her up, she was *quite* the character.

[janekfan]

IF you are still taking prompts...would you consider something precanon with Jon and Tim? tim's been trying to befriend an isolated/lonely researcher jon that no one's a fan of, sees him sick or being bothered by someone or any one of our usual terrible scenarios and is immediately like 'is anyone gonna take care of this man??'

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650999

Tim flipped his pen around in his fingers, internally cheering when he executed the trick shot over his thumb, and kept an eye on Research’s newest recruit. The tiny man, stuffy and pompous and peculiar, had only been with them a little over a week and from day one Tim marked him as a challenge.

He would become this angry and diminutive fellow’s best friend, so help them both.

Currently, one Jonathan Sims was balanced on the tips of his patent leather brogues, stretching up for a volume he could never hope to reach and Tim, seeing his moment of opportunity, allowed his shadow to fall over him as he easily retrieved it for him.

“Tim. Tim Stoker.” He gave over the book along with a beaming grin and an introduction, holding a hand out for him to shake and lifting a brow when all Jon did was glare skeptically at his open palm, arms tightening around his prize.

“Sims.” Imperiously, with the slightest lift of his chin. “Jon. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Stoker.” If Tim had been quicker on the uptake, he would have replied with the customary that was my father, but as it was he found himself faced with the stiff line of his back as he walked swiftly deeper into the stacks.

He was awkward and prickly, for sure, there was no getting around that, but knowledgeable and worked hard at his job, harder than Tim currently was anyway with this quest to focus on. Jon kept his head down, literally, at his desk he was nigh folded in half for most of the shift, not even stopping for lunch most of the time unless something broke his hyperfocus and he caught sight of the clock. No wonder he was so scrawny, just skin and bone beneath his crisp starched shirts and prim jumpers. So Tim began leaving snacks behind; a piece of fruit, bottle of water, cereal bar, a bit of chocolate, and it gave him no end of amusement each and every time Jon noticed. Feet up on his own desk, Tim would watch Jon glance around, ignoring the irritated looks of their coworkers while he tried to puzzle out who kept doing it and the first time he actually took a bite tasted of sweet, sweet victory.

Time passed, Tim finally convinced Jon to call him by his first name and was soundly told off for attempting to call him Jonny. He learned of his preference for tea over coffee, that he was raised by his grandmother, and feared spiders absolutely, having been the unfortunate recipient of a harmless office prank. It was no secret that Jon was not well liked and didn’t seem to care. He became the butt of many a joke and impersonation. That posh accent, put on or not, was too good to pass up and his lack of social acumen didn’t help his case even though he was smart as a whip and picked up any slack by virtue of staying late.

“Bags under your eyes are looking heavy today.”

“Hm? Oh, Tim.” Jon rubbed a knuckle under the rim of his glasses. “Yes, I. I haven’t been sleeping well.” He dropped into his chair heavily, pressing fingertips against his temples and massaging them.

“Take a sick day. You’ve put in enough over time.” Jon craned his neck, blinked up at him with a confused look, as though he were trying to figure out a difficult puzzle.

“M’alright.” Mumbling, the wood grain suddenly seemed very interesting. “You should get to work though.”

“Whoa! Not my boss there yet, Jonny-boy!” It elicited a familiar, nettlesome response and put Tim’s heart at ease. Jon probably was just tired.

“Oi, you daft twit, watch where you’re going.” Tim turned the corner on his return from lunch to find Jon scrambling amongst a sprawl of papers, frantically trying to collect them up.

“S’sorry, I’ll help--”

“Done enough, sod off.” Jon froze, muttered another apology and handed off the pages he’d gathered together.

“You alright?” Sidling up to him, Tim did him the favor of ignoring the trembling line of Jon’s mouth. “Guy’s just being a prick ‘cause his wife’s leavin’ him.”

“Fine, m’fine, Tim.” And in a moment he was, back at his desk and pointedly thumbing through a file and pretending to cross check his notes.

The next morning was no better and Jon arrived under the wire, hair unkempt and tie just slightly crooked. Very unlike him and this time he watched as Jon let his head tip forward for a few seconds, bracing himself on the arms of his chair before retreating into the forest of bookshelves. If left to his own devices, Tim was sure he’d end up ticking the librarians off again. He tended to leave a mess in his wake when searching for what he needed and when he didn’t reappear by noon, Tim went off in search of him, expecting to find him leafing through some manuscript or another and instead discovering him cross legged in the shadows, eyes closed, head tipped back and resting on a shelf. There was a short stack of books pertaining to his research by his knee but his hands were empty and still in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” Jon made a vague gesture. “Headache?”

“Mm. Didn’t mean to, to...uh.”

“End up on the floor?”

“Mm.

“You should go home.” The very suggestion drew his features into a frown and he cracked open dark lashes just enough for Tim to catch a glimpse of glassy brown.

“I’ve barely worked here a month, I. I can’t. I can’t skive off.”

“You’re ill, Jon. That’s not--Look, look.” Tim crouched beside him. “It’s okay to call off sick.” It had the opposite effect, and Tim had to steady Jon after he struggled to his feet with his armful of books. “Jon.”

“No, no. I’ll be over whatever this is by tomorrow.”

Tim sighed. Jon was, in fact, not over whatever he’d come down with, and was now stifling a series of wet, breathless coughs in the crook of his elbow, unaware of the dirty looks the other researchers were throwing his way. The harder Tim tried to make him see reason, the harder Jon resisted, insisting that he was fine, it was allergies or something else but he wasn’t feeling ill enough to miss work.

“I’m holding you up as we speak.” Sluggish, Jon’s eyes tracked Tim’s arm from where it was attached to his shoulder all the way down to the firm grip he had on his bicep to keep him from listing even further.

“Jus’...bit dizzy…”

“Yeah, that’s not a good thing.”

“I can, I can still do my job.” And Tim wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to convince. “I can.” Tim allowed him his arm back, not commenting on his barely controlled fall into his desk chair or the soft groan of pain that ended in another fit, weaker than the last.

“I know you can, I just want to see you take care of yourself.”

“Why?” Bloodshot eyes narrowed in suspicion and Tim didn’t know what to make of it.

“We’re friends?”

“We’re not.” Tim didn’t let it discourage him or take it personally. Clearly, Jon wasn’t well, was trying to convince himself that he was, that he didn’t need help. Besides, Tim looked on the bright side, Jon didn’t sound completely sure.

“Alright. Well, as your not-friend, I’m advising you to at least make yourself some tea.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Christ, Sims!”

“I, I’m sorry, let me, let me help.”

“You’ve done quite enough.” It seemed to Tim that wherever Jon was lately he was in some sort of trouble and when he veered into the breakroom to check on the situation his heart went out to the Lilliputian researcher. Jon had dropped and shattered a mug full of hot water, apparently splashing the man currently yelling at him. Tim took in his trembling hands, the flush high on his vacant face, and the unbearable vulnerability, feeling those big brother instincts rise like a tide. He caught him up again by the arm, drawing him away from the mess and the mumbling.

“You’re like a furnace, buddy.” Gently, with a cupped hand, Tim lifted his jaw and tried to catch his slippery gaze. The heat cradled in his palm was scorching.

“M’not.”

“Now you’re just being contrary.” He led him away with his fingers just at the small of his back stopping at their desks long enough to gather up his things and call for a cab. He balked, hesitating before stepping in and Tim encouraged him with another careful push, helping him back out again when his knees threatened to give. Guiding him inside the flat he dropped their stuff by the door and looked around with a pensive hum. “Next time we’ll go to mine.” Under his breath. Jon’s was cold and not well lit, sparsely furnished with a second hand couch and mismatched tables. It was clean if spartan and somehow very Jon.

“Tim?” Thready, tired, sinking into the couch where Tim deposited him.

“Hey, there. Back in a tick. I’m gonna get you that tea.” Assuming he had any. Assuming he had anything at all. But there was a bottle of paracetamol on the kitchen counter beside an open box tea and a bottle of honey. “Take these, drink this down.” Dimly, Jon followed his instructions, tugging at his buttons and Tim shooed him away to change, surprised when he returned in soft, overlarge clothes. For as prim and proper as he tried to be at work, Jon was a complete bum at home. “Should go to sleep.” Petulant, Jon shook his head, flopping back on the couch and wrapping himself up in a knitted throw like a burrito. “Why not?” This side of his coworker was so soft and unexpected and Tim couldn’t stop himself.

“M’not tired.” Soft, unexpected, and childish.

“Uh huh.” Tim ordered in, something spicy and brothy, and praised Jon’s progress before tugging him, cajoling him into lying his head in his lap. Bad telly droned on, half lidded eyes blinked slow, and Tim was reminded painfully of nights and weekends and mornings spent this exact same way with someone else. Someone gone.

“Why’re you doing this?” Tim dug his fingers into unruly curls, grinning stupidly when Jon melted like a scruffed cat.

“We’re buddies, buddy.” Jon laughed, just an exhale between parted lips.

Mid afternoon the following day Tim proclaimed his work done, confirming it when Jon’s cactus like demeanor made a reappearance with all his fussing. After inputting his number into his cell phone himself, he ruffled already sleep mussed hair, smirking at Jon’s futile attempt to set it right.

“Call if you need anything.”

“I will.” Tim knew he wouldn’t, but it made him feel better anyway. It was the weekend. Jon looked miles better, and he was set up for success with all his tea and meds and snacks within easy reach. Leftover soup waited in the fridge for him to heat later. “Stop fretting, Tim.” But he could hear the thread of affection buried under all the exasperation.

And if he was imagining it, well. He was ever an optimist.

Monday. And Tim was sat on the corner of Jon's desk shoving chocolate digestives into his mouth and rifling through his notes having already ignored one request to leave off.

“You don’t have many friends, do you Jon?” Jon pushed his glasses up from where they’d slipped down the bridge of his nose and selected a biscuit for himself.

“Never needed many.”

“Do you have any?” Jon snatched the pages out of his hand and brushed away any stray crumbs, offering Tim a shy smile.

“I’ve you, don’t I?”

[lesbiansforboromir]

so “a man after the sort of king Eärnur” is one way to winkwink-nudgenudge about someone being gay or aroace in Gondor. what might be some others?

-Asked by @catadromously Answer: Admittedly I would say ‘a man after the sort of king Earnur of old’ is likely more very specific to gay men. As far as aroace folk go in Gondor, it’s a known and accepted practice to just never get married and there are various rituals and lifestyle changes you can make to kinda signify that that’s your intention that are considered honourable and understood by most. ‘Not wanting a wife’ is less meaningful than ‘like King Earnur of old’ in the context of what the sentence is telling us. So I’d say there wouldn’t be any specifically aroace hinting because, especially aro’s, would face general culture wide erasure. It would be shocking to consider someone couldn’t fall in love. 

I think the kinds of struggles aroace Gondorians would find is in the heavily prevalent ‘romance idolisation’ of Gondor. Whilst it’s perfectly accepted to choose not to marry, the idea of not being ABLE to have romantic feelings probably fucks with a lot of people but tends to be very invisible to Gondorian society as a whole. But, as ever and in general, the common trauma across the entire queer spectrum in Gondor is structured around pity and a rejection of the ‘sympathy’ which queers associate with damaging medicalisation of their identities etc etc tHIS GOT DARKER THAN I MEANT IT I’ve just been thinking a lot- ANYWAY. 

Hints about such things have to be VERY couched by a lot of other possible interpretations. Gondorian society just is!! Very!! It’s very prudish about really even the CONCEPT of sexuality, let alone the idea that it could be directed towards ‘unsuitable’ areas. 

BUT LETS START WITH THE BASICS! All manner of queers come under the general umbrella of being ‘ill-fated’ in Gondor. This is not an exclusive label and many other things can be called ‘ill-fated’ without it having queer connotations but it’s a little add on that you can stick onto the end of other sentences that can veer an understanding in the right direction. Ill-fated here has a more personal and weighted meaning, since Gondorians have a concept of a person’s ‘fate’, that fate can be corrupted or bestowed wrongly and influences your whole life and, most particularly, your romantic life. 

People are supposed to all have soulmates and marriage for any reason other than love is unthinkable, because you have a fated person! However if that fated person is somehow ‘unsuitable’ then you are ‘ill-fated’. It denotes something tragic about your destiny and spirit and also has a kind of suggestion that you can drag other people down around you. Hence people who are ‘ill-fated’ have a mixture of pity and fear directed their way. 

THIS GOT DARK AGAIN. SORRY. IMPORTANT CONTEXT. So, for gay men, one might say things like ‘he settled well to the sea life, but I fear an ill wind took him there’ or ‘the army welcomed him too easily, I hope his doom takes him to fairer paths’ or if you want to REALLy toe the line ‘he wants to be lead to the river’ with the lesbian equivolent of ‘she won’t be lead to the river’ is as gay innuendo as you can get in Gondor and EVEN THEN it still has a main meaning of ‘the guy isn’t confident/the girl is headstrong in love’ etc. (this is because a boy leading a girl to a river is the initiation in courting, dont worry dont worry I’ll get to it, it’ll have a post)

There’s also various references to a man ‘getting on well’ with the rohirrim. Since I’m circling the idea that the rohirrim have a kind of... twisty... ‘men with men is ok, happens with soldiers all the time but also don’t bottom, dont fall in love and just try to machete your way through this toxic masculinity thicket why dont you’. And there are CERTAINLY references to specific characters in various popular plays as well as songs and other historical figures other than Earnur that are associated with gay folk. However that would require me to write those songs and plays and I’m GETTING TO IT! I’m getting to it. I am.

[marjansmarwani]

the truth always was

[Read on Ao3]

Owen has watched his son suffer and hurt, and he wants nothing more than for him to heal and find happiness again. So when he notices a certain young Officer appearing more and more, he takes notice and makes an effort to get to know this Carlos Reyes.

Or, Tarlos from Owen's perspective

---

Tarlos Week Day 4: Tarlos and Owen + fun

Day 4 of @tarlosweek2020 and I’m not sure how much “fun” is in this (there’s some though!) but it is definitely Owen and Tarlos so I think that’s good for the prompt, right? 

-----

Owen watched as his son disappeared from the bar on the arm of the young cop from earlier. He wasn’t naive - his son was 26 and no saint, and under normal circumstances, Owen wouldn’t even blink an eye. 

 But these were not normal circumstances by a long shot. 

 He could still see the image of his son unconscious, unmoving, not breathing on the floor of his apartment just a few short weeks ago. It was an image that would be forever ingrained in his mind; burned there by the panic and fear he had felt in that moment. 

 He would do whatever it took to make sure they never ended up there again. He still believed that his son had a good head on his shoulders, but he was in turmoil; still reeling from everything that had come before, from the changes it had caused. As much as he wanted to let him be, as much as TK would want him to let him try and fail on his own he knew he wouldn't be able to. He knew that he couldn’t just leave it be - not when the risk was so high. 

 Even if that meant keeping a closer eye than usual on his son and his romantic escapades; even if it meant stepping in where he normally would not. He knew the idea wouldn’t go over well with TK, but the fear of losing his son for good was louder than TK’s discomfort. 

 At least, Owen reasoned grimly as he took another sip of his beer, if his son ended up hating him for this, he would be alive to do so. 

 ------

There is something going on between his son and Officer Reyes, but he’s not quite sure what. 

 Though to be fair, he’s not too certain they know either. 

 They stand closer to each other than strictly necessary at calls and TK must be delusional if he thinks no one notices how much he brightens when he sees the young officer. He knows that TK keeps disappearing, coming and going at odd hours but he believes him when he says he doesn’t need to worry; that there are no substances involved. From what little he has seen of the young officer, he’s fairly certain he approves. He seems like someone solid; someone he can trust with his son’s happiness. 

 Owen still keeps an eye out, still watches for red flags. He wants to pull TK closer, to find him a protective bubble just to give his nerves a break. And he is ready and willing to step in as soon as the situation warrants it. But he loves his son more than anything and as much has he wants to shield him, he has come to accept that the only way for him to truly ever heal is to do it himself, despite how hard it is for Owen to watch him struggle. 

 That doesn’t change the concern he feels when TK lets himself into the house one night, fuming and swearing under his breath; opening and closing the drawers and doors in his bedroom with far too much force. Owen allows himself a quick check-in, just to make sure that there is nothing truly wrong. When he sees TK whole and unmarked, not willing to talk about it and very truly pissed off, he makes his exit - leaving his son to stew and work through whatever this is on his own. 

 When TK attempts to sneak in unnoticed just a few nights later and Owen - up in the pursuit of some water - catches sight of the blood and bruises gracing his skin, his heart plummets. He immediately closes the distance between them, eyes roving his son, searching for any sign of further injury or harm. 

 “What happened? Are you okay?” he asks, voice taut with worry.  

 TK’s eyes flick away from him, his busted lip pulling into a straight line. “Nothing, I’m fine.” 

 “TK…” 

 “I did something stupid, but I’m okay,” TK announced, looking up. Catching sight of the desperate fear in Owen’s eyes he adds, more gently, “not that stupid.” 

 Owen allowed himself to breathe for a moment before studying his son one more time. These were injuries caused by fists; injuries found after a fight. His heart rate quickened. 

 “What happened TK?” 

  Who did this to you? Was the unasked question. 

 “I got into a bar fight with some random guys. It’s fine, no charges - it was stupid, but it’s all good.”

 “No...no charges? Tyler Kennedy Strand, were you  arrested ?” 

 “But not charged?” TK offered nervously. Owen stared back at him. They stood in silence at the edge of the kitchen for several moments before Owen groaned and ran a weary hand down his face. “TK…” 

 “Dad, I know I did something  unbelievably stupid…”

 “You’ve got that part right.”

 “...but I think that maybe it finally gave me the clarity I needed. I’m just...going through some stuff right now and....”

 “And what? TK, I’m trying to help you, but this…” he paused and ran his eyes over the bruises. There was blood soaking the collar of his white t-shirt. “This is something I don’t know what to help with. I don’t know what’s going on and frankly, it’s scaring the hell out of me. What can I do?”  

 “I don’t know,” TK admitted softly, “I don’t think there is anything. I think I need to figure it out on my own.”

 Owen sighed heavily. He had known that answer, but it went against every single fatherly instinct he had. But his son was an adult and he knew what he needed better than anyone. “Can you just  try  not to get arrested again anytime soon?”

 TK gave him a small grin, “I’ll do my best.”

 “That’s all I’m asking.” 

 TK nodded and started to walk away, but Owen called him back. 

 “You know I am here though if you need anything, right?”

 “I know Dad,” he answered softly. Then with another smile, he was gone and Owen was left alone in the kitchen. 

 He leaned against the counter and ran a weary hand down his face. He desperately hoped that stepping back was the right choice. He didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to TK. He couldn’t go through that again. He couldn’t help but wonder how Officer Reyes fit into all of this. He had no idea, but he was determined to find out.  

--------- 

He is still pondering the mystery of Carlos Reyes over a late-night cup of tea at the station when Captain Blake joins him. It had become something of an unspoken ritual after the first time. They drink their tea in silence until Owen decides he may as well ask the question that has been lingering in his mind. 

 “What do you know about Officer Reyes?” 

 “Carlos?” Michelle asked, looking up from her mug with a startled expression, “Quite a lot actually - why do you ask?” 

 “Just between us, I think something is going on between him and TK and I just...want to know if I need to be worried.” 

 “I can assure you that Carlos Reyes would never do anything to intentionally hurt anyone.”

 Owen raised an eyebrow, “You seem pretty certain of that.” 

 Michelle shrugged as she stirred her tea, “I am. He is one of my closest friends.” 

 Owen couldn’t even hide the surprise he felt at that even if he had wanted to, “I had no idea.” 

 Michelle nodded, “He was friends with my sister when they were growing up and after she went missing, he helped me out a lot. He still does. We’ve gotten really close over the past couple of years. I would trust Carlos Reyes with my life without hesitation, and I can say with complete certainty that you don’t have to worry about him with TK. He is a good person - one of the best I know.”

 Owen gave her a smile and though their conversation veered in another direction, he ruminated over what she had said. It was still on his mind as they left the kitchen and headed to their respective bunks. He lay staring at the ceiling for a long while, wondering if it was truly possible that TK had found someone as good as Michelle said. He loved his son dearly, but past experience had shown that his taste in men was questionable at best. The thought that maybe he had found someone actually worthy of his time and affection thrilled Owen. 

 But even that feeling was wrapped in caution. Owen knew his son. After everything that had happened, he was gun shy; likely unwilling to fully give himself over to anyone. Owen understood that - he had every reason to be cautious. He just hoped that he didn’t miss out on a good thing because he was scared. He hoped if he had feelings for this man, that he didn’t push him away. He hoped that maybe, against all odds, his son might finally find the happiness and love he deserved. 

 As he rolled over in another attempt to sleep his last fleeting thought was that he hoped this Officer Reyes was up to the challenge. 

---------- 

As the Texas winter faded into spring and the temperatures began to rise to what Owen considered early summer heat, he couldn’t help but notice that TK seemed happier. He seemed lighter; he smiled more. Owen could almost see the person he had once known before Alex, before the overdose. It made his heart swell and helped him sleep a little easier at night. 

 He had a feeling that a certain young officer had something to do with it and while he wasn’t about to thank him outright (though he longed too) he was making an effort to get to know the young man a little better - inconspicuously, of course. 

 He made it a point to speak with Officer Reyes whenever the opportunity presented itself, he listened to Michelle’s stories of their escapades keenly. He wanted to get to a better idea of who this person was. Michelle could (and had, on multiple occasions) spend an hour singing her friend’s praises and while he did trust her and her judgment, it was clear she was more than a little biased. 

 These little conversations pay off and more and more of the picture that is Carlos Reyes reveals itself to Owen. He is startled to realize that one day without him truly knowing it, he had come to like the young officer all on his own. He was polite and compassionate, professional and even-tempered. Owen had been startled the first time he heard him crack a wry joke as they were wrapping up at a call, but he had come to learn that Carlos Reyes had quite the sense of humor when he wasn’t wrapping himself in professionalism. 

 He was pretty certain that the young officer in question was a good part of what was making his son happier these days, and he could certainly see the appeal. 

----------- 

Owen had known nothing but pure terror since the moment he realized what had happened. The instant he connected the sound and the blood splatter to the image of his son collapsing onto the hallway floor; panic and fear had engulfed him and they hadn’t left. Even now in the relative calm of the storm, now that the immediate danger was behind them and all that was left was the waiting, he could still feel the fear pulsing through his veins. 

 But he had only ever seen his son this still one other time, and that was a time he had spent months trying to forget. To see it again after everything TK had been through, after all the work he had done to heal was just as heartbreaking as it was terrifying. He was facing the very real possibility of losing his son for good, and he couldn’t handle that. He was dreading the worst and knew that it would destroy him, should it come to pass. He squeezed the limp hand in his grasp again, praying for some response; some proof that his son was still with him. 

 None came. 

 He could feel the tears from earlier threatening to return, but the sound of hurried footsteps coming to a halt outside the door distracted him enough to push them off - for now. 

 He turned to see Carlos Reyes in the doorway. His chest was heaving as if he had run here and his red-rimmed eyes were filled with a look that was all too familiar to Owen - desperation and fear. 

 “Officer Reyes,” he said by way of greeting, “would you like some time with him?” 

 Carlos pulled his eyes from the bed before them where he had been studying for TK, looking for any sign of life, and turned his gaze to Owen. He swallowed before he choked out: “I don’t want to impose.” 

 Owen could almost feel his heart breaking all over again. He could feel how much this man cared for his son in the waver of his voice; he could see how much TK meant to him. He had had his suspicions but to have the confirmation now - when TK wasn’t here to receive the love that he so desperately deserved - was just another cruelty piled on. He pulled himself up from the chair he had been glued to for the past two hours and crossed to the young officer. He stopped in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he spoke, “I think he would appreciate it. I know I would.” 

 He let his hand linger on the younger man’s shoulder as he held his gaze. There was so much he wanted to say that he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.  I know  , for starters; but  thank you,  most of all. 

 Carlos nodded and Owen had the feeling that he understood. He clapped his shoulder again and stepped out of the room, clearing the path to TK’s bedside. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching as Carlos closed the distance quickly, as he fell into the chair beside the bed. As he reached out a tender hand to caress TK’s face, as he used his other hand to wipe away the tears that had begun to slide down his own. 

 He allowed himself this pause, this momentary intrusion to see for himself how well Carlos loved his son. Despite it all, Owen allowed himself the smallest of smiles. 

 It looked like TK had finally found the love he had always wanted for him - now he just needed to wake up. 

------------

As the batter made contact with the ball and sent it sailing into the outfield Carlos and Owen gave a cry of surprise in unison. 

 “I did not think he could hit like that,” Carlos noted with a shake of his head as the watched the player in question take a leisurely jog around the bases, allowing the rest of his team to cross home plate while the other team scrambled to find the ball in the outfield. 

 “I don’t think the other team knew either,” Owen responded with a chuckle, “but based on the first half of the game, who would’ve guessed?” 

 The two men were sitting in the Strand’s living room, watching the Houston Astro’s game while dinner cooked in the oven. Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and they turned to see TK enter. He paused on the threshold, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of his father and his boyfriend sitting together on the couch. 

 “Hi guys,” he said skeptically as he set down his keys, “what are you up to?” 

 “Watching the game, waiting for you,” Owen responded as Carlos beamed at TK from beside him. “How was your meeting?” 

 “It was good,” he responded, walking around the couch to plop down next to Carlos, who immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. “Have you really just been watching baseball this entire time? I have been gone for a while.” 

 Owen shot Carlos an exasperated look, “TK has never shared my appreciation for anything athletic.”

 TK rolled his eyes when Carlos gave him a curious look, “It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s more that I don’t really enjoy  watching them and significant experience has shown me that I am not good at participating in organized sports.”

 Owen chuckled appreciatively at that, “That’s true. I remember this one time you tried out for the basketball team and…” 

 “And this is me changing the subject,” TK cut across, speaking loudly to drown out Owen’s story. “How’s the game?” 

 Carlos shrugged as Owen, still chuckling, reached for his glass of iced tea, “Not bad. I mean, it’s no Yankee’s game…”

 He stopped at the sound of Owen choking on his iced tea. Both TK and Carlos shot him concerned looks until he managed to stop coughing long enough to speak. 

 “You’re a Yankee’s fan Carlos?” 

 Carlos nodded, “I mean, the Astros are the closest thing we have to a home team here in Austin, but if I want to watch quality baseball then there is nothing better than the Yankees.” 

 There is silence for a moment before Owen turns to TK with a serious expression, “If you don’t marry this boy, I just might.” 

 Carlos instantly blushes and looks away, but TK just rolls his eyes and groans, “Really dad?” 

 Owen holds up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying.” 

 TK shakes his head but turns back to Carlos who is still trying to look anywhere but at them and allows a small smile to spread across his face. He reaches over to gently turn Carlos’s face to meet his and gives him a light kiss. 

 “Ignore him, you should know that by now,” he tells Carlos who chuckles sheepishly. TK turns back to Owen, giving Carlos a moment to gather himself again. 

 “Did I miss anything else exciting since you two have apparently been hanging out since I’ve been gone?” 

 Owen shrugged, “We made dinner, it’s cooking right now and...oh!” he exclaimed leaning forward with a grin as he recalls, “You are officially off the hook because it turns out your boyfriend here golfs and he and I have a tee time scheduled next week.” 

 TK turns back to Carlos with raised eyebrows, “What, I leave for a few hours and you two suddenly become best friends?” 

 Carlos nods solemnly, “It’s true. Your dad is becoming dangerously close to being my favorite Strand.” 

 “Well, I have a few ideas as to how I can change that.” 

 Owen sighs wearily, “And that is my cue to leave the room before I see something I don’t want to ever see.”

 He gets up and gathers the glasses from the end table to bring with him into the kitchen. He turns back after he has deposited them in the sink and sees a sight that makes him pause. TK and Carlos are wrapped up in each other; talking closely. The smile on TK’s face shines even from the next room. As he watches Carlos places a light kiss on his son’s forehead and TK smile grows even more leaning down so he is tucked into the crook of Carlos's neck. 

 Owen turns away before they can notice him watching; before they can see the tears glimmering in his eyes. After everything, seeing his son this happy is enough to nearly make his heart burst. These past few weeks, in the aftermath of the shooting and the solar flare, somewhere amongst the tragedy and pain TK had found himself again. The person he saw each morning was no longer the stranger that had been born of betrayal and heartbreak. Now it was  his son - the TK he had known and loved his entire life. He was happier than words could express to have his son back; to see him happy once again. 

 Owen had had a strong suspicion that Carlos Reyes had had a roll in that transformation, but to see them like this; to see that smile on his son’s face - well, Owen knew two things for sure. 

 One, he was grateful for Carlos Reyes. 

 Two, TK finally had the love Owen had always wanted for him; the love he had always deserved.

 [Ao3]

[ginnyzero]

8 Signs Your Book May Not Be Ready to be Self Published

https://youtu.be/w7NPRA6SgHs

I’ve taken up doing a review booktube for indie SFF books, and have decided only to do 4 or 5 star reviews due to some social pressures being an indie author and also being a reviewer. This means I’ve been SLUSH reading. (You can get lots of indie books free if you trawl twitter and start an amazon wishlist and wait.)

Self-publishing has its pros and its cons. The biggest pro of self-publishing being you are in complete control. The second is anyone can do it. There are no gatekeepers. So, like on a fanfiction website, you’re going to find a range of quality in self-published books. There aren’t any bad books. I personally don’t believe in bad books. There are books that aren’t to my taste and there are books that were published too early.

In order to keep you from publishing too early, here is my list of 8 signs your book may not be ready to publish; a reader’s perspective from already self-published books in author terms because I’m also an author.

1) You have a Prologue

Hold up. Bear with me a moment. I know out there are writers and readers who love prologues. And I can hear you going “Ginny, there’s information in my prologue readers need to know to understand my story!” I’ve already created a post called 8 Reasons Why Prologues Don’t Work. So, you can get into detail with it by reading that post.

So hard truth, most traditionally published fiction doesn’t have prologues. Because agents and editors screen them out. Before you start listing off names, established traditional authors can do pretty much whatever they want because they have followings who will buy their books. You, as an indie author, especially if you are a debut indie author, do not. You’re trying to build one.

Prologues for an average reader for all the reasons I listed they don’t work are a very, very hard sell. Adding in a prologue reeks amateur. I know. That’s harsh. And face it, self-publishing because of the lack of gatekeeping and anyone can do it has a very bad reputation for being vanity projects and ‘complete rubbish’ that ranks only a little higher than fan fiction.

Up your professional look, ditch the prologue.

2) Passive Voice

Obligatory disclaimer of not all passive voice is bad. However, if 75% of your book involves the verb ‘to be,’ telling emotions, filter words (he/she/they looked is my Achilles heel at the moment,) and masses of summarization and list descriptions of everything from chewing the scenery, clothes no one cares about, and character traits, your book needs a serious ‘active voice’ edit and isn’t ready to be self-published.

Passive voice drags the reader into slow motion and ruins immersion by putting distance between them and the main character(s). Sometimes, there’s information being told me to I don’t need to know yet (or at all for the story to make sense,) and other times I’m getting these great scene summaries that I want to see happening in real time with interactions between characters!

I wish I was exaggerating on the 95% thing.

3) Paper Thin Characters

Paper Thin Characters can be a result of passive voice. Or, the result of having a story so heavily plot based the words aren’t taken to flesh out these characters in the first place. 80K words seems like a lot, then you get into the plotting and it can get eaten up very quickly. If you’re self-publishing, well, 80K words is a guideline not a rule and guess what, you do have those words.

The largest thing I notice as I’m reading is the characters have no conflicts given to them. Their personal stakes are non-existent, and sometimes, they don’t have a valid grievance even if they do have conflicts. They don’t like things, they don’t dislike things. They don’t have any fears. Their sole purpose is to move the plot along like robots.

Worse, is if they’re the loner type. Loner types aren’t given a lot of people to interact off of, so they have to be really interesting and intriguing to keep the reader’s attention. You may like or dislike Harry Dresden all you want, however, he reads as a loner type who’s interesting enough to continue reading.

(Until Butcher’s sexism gets to you.)

4) Your plot can be solved with a five minute conversation

If your plot can be solved with two people sitting down and yakking it out for five to ten minutes, then you need to rework your plot. Plots of miscommunication, unless you’re Timothy Zahn, tend to feel incredibly contrived. And I’m talking specifically about plots where people care for one another and are supposedly not talking to the other person ‘for their own good/safety.’ Or whatever petty reason the one character has not to talk to the other person over something really important.

Save it for soap operas.

5) You’ve started the story in the wrong spot

This one is easy to do. It is really easy to start your story in the wrong place. Finding the right place where your story begins is something that takes time, practice, an editor, a few beta readers, and developing your gut and intuition. You may think ‘oh the story begins when so and so comes to town.’ And that might not be the case at all, unless strange or bad things start happening immediately. What is the incident that causes the story to really get going?

Or, you’ve gone too far into ‘in media’ res and have started the story at the climax. In today’s day and age, the inciting incident needs to be in the first chapter, not the fifth.

6) Your book lacks structure and a satisfying ending

This can often be a result of several things, the aforementioned you started it in the wrong spot, or there’s been a lack of development and you’ve got a beginning and middle but you’ve flubbed the landing.

Lack of development can lean in two directions, you’ve got too much exposition and world building and not enough story. Or you don’t have enough exposition and world building to support or explain the story you’ve got and you aren’t utilizing what you’ve got effectively.

Books need structure. They need beats and bones to hang everything else off of them. If your story lacks an inciting incident, rising action, a climax, falling action, and a satisfying ending where most of the questions raised in the story are tied up into neat little bows, then your book isn’t ready to be published.

And it’s possible to get these in the wrong order, see starting in the wrong place. The beats need to make sense as they follow one right after the other and not leave the reader confused. Sometimes, if you’re hopping around back and forth in time this can be especially difficult. If you do this, please, make sure things are labelled clearly.

Or, you’ve decided to cut the story in two to make two books because you want to end on a cliffhanger at the climax to get people to buy your second book. (You’re planning a loss leader.) Please, don’t. It doesn’t work. Stories need clear beginnings, middles, and ends. A cliffhanger works if the story prior to it has been resolved enough the cliffhanger makes sense. If you cut the book in half and leave it at the climax, it doesn’t. Readers can tell.

7) You’ve set up a different story in your plot than the one you’re telling

Foreshadowing. There are times when I’ve read a book where I’ve seen clues the author is putting into the book about the plot, and then we get to the climax and falling action and the author veers off into left field with a totally new plot that I didn’t see coming because it wasn’t set up in any way shape or form in the previous 50 to 75% of the book.

This is not good. This leaves the readers confused and feeling unsatisfied about the story because it wasn’t set up properly. A good twist has a reader going back and looking at the clues and foreshadowing and going “Oh, I get it now,” not going “Uh, where did this come from?”

Beta readers and development editors are your friends for this type of feedback. If they’re telling you your plot isn’t matching your foreshadowing, it’s time to do some thinking on how to make them jive.

8) Lack of Proofreading and Copy Editing

Your book is riddled with spelling and grammar errors. You’ve mixed up homophones and the formatting is painful to the eyes. This just shows a lack of respect for your work and for your readers.

Get thee to Grammarly or another copy editor service for your spelling and grammar and hire an edit to make sure the coffee cup finds it way in and out of your character’s hands!

Writing a book is hard work. Getting a book to where it is publishable is even harder work in order to make it enjoyable and satisfying to the reader. Readers can’t ‘read’ your mind and they need to see things played out on the page and only told information when they need it. So, here are 8 signs to look for that your book isn’t ready to be published from a self-published author, reviewer, and reader.

[toosicktoocare]

prompt 1:  this doesn't have to be a prompt if you don't want it to be, but consider: jaskier seems like the kind of person who would complain quite a lot about mild inconveniences like a headache or being too cold and then not know a hangover from a high fever. and geralt seems like the kind of person who would get annoyed and tune out the whining, getting progressively more annoyed as time went on, until jaskier collapsed :)))))

prompt 2:  Hello I just read your witcher in need fic and I have a request if it works with the story: maybe a moment of panic for Jaskier when Geralt yells at him for something? And Jaskier thinks he's going to ask him to leave again when Geralt was actually just worried about him? Some reaffirmation for Jaskier for being wanted & needed! Also I need some angsty fluff in my life 🙏 I love the way you write their characters! Keep up the good work ❤️

Thank you Anon and @violaswimmer ! I’m going to combine these two prompts. I hope that’s okay!

It’s been a day since Geralt and Jaskier started back into the woods from the last town they stopped in, staying longer than originally planned so Jaskier could nurse the lingering, ill effects of mug after mug of cold ale, and Geralt’s patience is fraying thin. 

Ever since they’ve left the town, Jaskier’s been complaining, more so than usual, about his head, about how cold he is, drawing out Geralt’s name into long whines every thirty minutes or so, and Geralt is growing more and more irritated with each passing second. He’s gritting his teeth, trying very hard to breathe through the aggravation, and for a moment, he’s able to pull his focus elsewhere, to block out Jaskier’s piercing voice as he looks to Roach, to the towering trees framing their small, dirt path, to the sky glowing a warm orange as night approaches slowly, but then Jaskier’s voice comes back, persistent as ever, and Geralt groans. 

“Geralt, why did you let me drink so much?” 

Geralt spares a quick glance over his shoulder to the bard, cocking a brow at Jaskier’s shivering and huffing. He turns his gaze back to the front. “I wasn’t aware you were in need of a babysitter.” The huff that follows his words is loud, and he looks back once more to see Jaskier’s lips pursed, his face scrunched up. 

“I am not a child, Geralt!” 

Geralt drags his eyes away from Jaskier with a short shake of the head. “Your attitude suggests otherwise.” Though his voice is low, it’s loud enough for Jaskier to hear, and he expects Jaskier to reply, to huff out a complaint, to offer a counter-argument about his own bad attitude, but he’s met with silence, and it’s unsettling. The quiet drapes heavy over his shoulders, and he looks behind him, steps faltering as his blood runs cold. 

Jaskier’s taken a knee. He’s got one hand on the ground to keep himself upright while the other is wrapped around himself, fingers digging into his arm. His face is flushed a dark red, and sweat slides from his bangs, dripping to the dirt beneath him. 

Geralt’s frozen in his spot. “Jaskier?” he calls out, and Jaskier brings a slow gaze toward him. His grey eyes are glassy, unfocused, and Geralt clings to them with a sharp frown. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Sorry,” Jaskier starts. He makes to stand, and Geralt sucks in a sharp breath as all color drains from Jaskier’s face. 

“I got a little... a little,” Jaskier’s struggling to form words around rapid breaths, and Geralt cannot move, the ice coursing through his veins is keeping him locked down. 

“Dizzy,” Jaskier manages out before his eyes roll back, and Geralt can only watch, brows tightly furrowed, as Jaskier falls lifeless to the ground. 

For a moment, Geralt can’t breathe. His muscles are tense, tight, unable to push past the barrier keeping him from Jaskier. His heart is hammering loud in his ears, and he blinks back graying vision, gritting his teeth and forcing his muscles to operate. He’s slow, or maybe Jaskier’s just far away, but he pushes forward until he’s dropped to Jaskier’s side. 

“Jaskier.” He shakes Jaskier’s shoulders, but Jaskier doesn’t stir more than a small grunt and a few, weak coughs. Geralt presses a palm to Jaskier’s forehead, and though he runs warm himself, the heat that coats his palm is far too concerning to be the ill effects of a drunken stupor. Carefully, he lifts Jaskier, cradling the bard to his chest as he starts toward Roach. Fear has him moving quickly, and soon enough, he’s got Jaskier settled on the back of Roach, and he climbs up behind the bard. 

It takes him a moment to realize he does not have a plan in motion. The previous town is too far, but another town could be days away. He’s not confident on their current location, and he swallows past a lump building in his throat. His heart is hammering uncomfortably against his ribs, and he struggles to form a coherent thought, seemingly impossible with Jaskier’s heated body pressed to his chest. 

Instead, he smooths a shaking palm over Roach’s side. “Run fast,” he whispers. “I need you.” 

Roach runs at top speed well into the night, and Geralt clings to Jaskier, muscles tensing at every cough and moan, and finally, he spots a small farmhouse nestled in a tiny clearing on the outskirts of the forest, and he veers Roach in that direction until he’s stopped in front of the door. 

A man and woman exit the small house, and the woman shines a lantern to him while the husband grips tightly at a knife. 

“You’re that Witcher,” the woman starts, backing up slowly, her hand shaking. “The one from the song.” 

“Please,” the man steps forward, blocking the woman. “We have no money we can toss your way--”

“--I don’t want money,” Geralt interrupts, voice low and a little too harsh. He reaches blindly for his coin pouch and tosses it to the man. “Take all of it, just, please. We need help.” Slowly, he slides off of Roach and helps Jaskier off and back into his arms. It’s concerning, Geralt thinks, that after all of this, Jaskier has yet to open his eyes, and Geralt can’t help the nagging feeling that he’s working against the clock. 

“Please,” he presses. “I need help. He’s... he’s important to me.” He watches carefully when the woman steps forward, but he doesn’t move when she reaches a hesitant palm to Jaskier’s forehead, frowning when she hisses sharply and draws her hand back. 

“He’s burning up!” 

“I know,” Geralt breathes out, worry coating along a low vibrato. “He collapsed.” 

The man and woman share a wordless glance before the woman nods toward the door. “Well, bring him in. I’m no doctor, and the closest mage is days away, but we can make him comfortable.” 

The next hour passes in a blur. Geralt stays plastered to a wall, unable to move or breathe properly while the man and woman busy themselves over Jaskier. The woman coaxes water into him, smooths cool, damp cloths over his forehead, offers him more water, until she finally steps away from the small bed he’s resting in with a deep sigh. 

“Will he--” Geralt swallows against the fear gripping at his tone. “How is he?” 

“He’s in a bad way,” the woman admits with a frown. “His symptoms suggest influenza, and it’s common this time of year. I’ve made him as comfortable as I can. All we can do now is wait.” 

Geralt nods, not liking the answer for waiting isn’t something he does well. He takes the woman’s seat that’s pulled to Jaskier’s bedside and tugs the ratty blanket up to Jaskier’s chin. Leaning forward, he cups a hand to Jaskier’s far too warm cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across Jaskier’s tense, shaking jawline. 

“Wake up, Jaskier,” he whispers, breath brushing across Jaskier’s face. “This is not your time.” He stays like this, hunched over the bard, for another hour. Outside, the sky is starting to fade to a gentle pink, bringing a new morning, and Geralt worries that he was unable to beat Jaskier’s clock, but finally, the bard groans and rustles in bed until he pries his eyes open. 

Geralt waits, too afraid to suck in a breath, until Jaskier leans into his hand and drags a slow gaze toward his eyes, and it’s only when their eyes meet, when his wide, worried eyes lock onto hazy grey ones that Geralt is able to release the breath he’s been holding. Relief swells within his chest, but like a bitter concoction, it’s mixing with concern, with frustration. All three emotions are dancing around each other, fighting for the front spot, and Geralt stands, kicking the chair with his boot, and begins pacing the small length of the room. 

“Did you know that you were ill?” Geralt asks. He keeps his voice quiet, but there’s a heat behind it he can’t bite back. “Before. In the woods. Did you know?”

Jaskier blinks slowly. His head is pounding, but he considers the question with careful thought. “I don’t think so. Where are we?”

“You don’t...” Geralt sucks in a sharp breath. “You don’t think so?”

Jaskier frowns at this, eyes struggling to follow Geralt’s quick pacing. “Well, no. I assumed the ale--”

“It’s not the fucking ale!” Geralt stops, spinning on his heel until he’s facing Jaskier. “It’s influenza, and you almost died!” He stresses each, sharp word, but admitting out loud that Jaskier could have died brings a new, concerning heat to his chest, and he chases it without meaning to.

“Geralt, I didn’t know--”

“--no,” Geralt interrupts. “You didn’t know because you lack the mere capability to asses your physical health.” 

“Geralt, I was trying to keep up with you.” 

Geralt turns to the door, hand resting heavily on the doorknob. “Well, stop doing that.” He turns the knob and storms through the kitchen where the man and woman have taken to while Jaskier’s been unconscious and out of the house. 

Outside, he can breathe, and he sucks in a long, deep breath, holding it, wiling it to push back against his burning emotions, and slowly he exhales. Tension bleeds from his muscles, and he stops to give Roach a quick pat on the back before he moves back toward the woods. He doesn’t go far. He can still see the house, but he goes far enough to clear his mind. He sits against a fallen log, face turned toward the woods. His legs are bent at the knees, and he rests his elbows atop his knees, fingers laced together. 

Above him, the sun is starting to rise, but the morning chill is still lingering in the air. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel much of anything at the moment. He feels as if he’s a thousand miles away, trapped in his thoughts, but then he hears a twig snap behind him, and he whips his head around, hand instinctively moving toward where his sword should be if he hadn’t left it back with Roach.

Jaskier’s standing before him, the long, ratty blanket draped around his shoulders like a cloak. He’s swaying on his feet, breathing heavily, and his eyes are wide, worried. He coughs a few times. 

"Do you want me to leave again?” 

Geralt’s taken aback by the question. Slowly, he gets to his feet. He doesn’t like how pale Jaskier looks, but he focuses on how clear yet breathless Jaskier’s voice is. “What?”

“You’re mad,” Jaskier starts. “Like before.” He coughs, chest heaving against a rapid heart. “I.. Are you... Do you want me to leave?” 

It takes Geralt a moment to catch onto the panic gripping at Jaskier’s tone, coating his grey eyes, and he shakes his head, afraid to risk his voice at the moment. 

“But, you’re mad--”

“--I’m not,” Geralt whispers, frowning deeply. 

“You yelled.” Jaskier sways again, and Geralt closes the distance between the two, gripping at his Jaskier’s arms, right above his elbows. He leans forward, dropping his forehead against Jaskier’s, and he can hear Jaskier suck in a sharp breath. 

“I was worried.” 

“That’s an odd way to show it,” Jaskier breathes out, impossibly still against Geralt’s grip save the small shivers. 

“You almost died.” Conflict tugs at Geralt’s tone. He’s angry, more so at himself, relieved, worried, and something else he can’t quite place.

“So I’ve been told,” Jaskier huffs out, pulling away from Geralt to turn and cough harshly into the blanket. “But, I didn’t.” 

“You aren’t out of the woods yet,” Geralt presses, smoothing one hand over his own forehead to feel the lingering heat of Jaskier’s fever. 

Jaskier nods, clearing his throat with a wince. He shivers against a small breeze, and Geralt sighs. 

“Let’s go back. You’re doing yourself no favors being out here--”

“--can we stay?” Jaskier presses, hugging the blanket tighter around himself. “For just a few minutes?” 

Geralt looks past Jaskier to the small house, considering his options for just a moment, before he gives in, heart stuttering at Jaskier’s tired smile. He leads the bard back toward the log he was seated against, and the two take their spots. Jaskier moves the blanket around until he manages to wrap it around both of them, their shoulders touching, and he leans into Geralt’s warmth, head resting atop Geralt’s shoulder, his hair brushing against Geralt’s neck. 

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Geralt says after a few moments, deep, gruff voice a clear contrast to the birds chirping overhead. “And, I’m sorry I made you think I wanted you to leave. I... enjoy your company.”

Jaskier breathes out a faint laugh. “Wow, Geralt, you really know how to sway a person with such elegant words.”

[tripstaysnoided]

Flow Just Like Water

Story and writing-related transparency update and my many shames...

The Question on Everyone’s Mind

“Hey you haven’t updated No Stars over Uptown in almost a year...”

Hmm, I hate it when you’re right. (This section has been rewritten ad-nauseam to curb back the bitchiness by the way)

So back in early/mid 2018, the idea was to divorce Uptown from a person who influenced it (and myself) heavily. She was my most important audience member, the closest friend I ever had, and unfortunately someone who used her power to bully, ostracize, and hurt others with my help. I cut contact when the hurt + some self-awareness finally reached me. Apologies were made and I feel like my work will never be done with it, but there was still Uptown.

Between censored comments, entirely recasting Axel’s save, different plot threads, and a load of disclaimers, there was nothing that would scrub her influence from the story. There was no way to cleanly drop everything because of how deep her influence went. It disgusted me to look back at it, and I had to private the blog because I feared what it endorsed, even if just in the past.

I pulled back from that sims writing community. I had its main thread on the Official Forums removed too (I guess if that was a mystery to anyone). It was a surrender that I never wanted to do, but I had it in my mind that if I was gone, then she wouldn’t be there either. Uptown became this cursed item, and as I quietly retired it, I noticed that she went quieter too. Not gone, but enough to make me sleep easier at night and even occasionally say hello to old friends.

And I hope deep in my heart that no one else is getting hurt in my place, but now this is gonna haunt me all day huh!

The two paths forward...

1) Complete Uptown rewrite that I’ve been threatening everyone with all year. While it won’t ever be clean because I can’t undo time, I do have a sound outline for a story that is much more true to my actual vision and how I’ve evolved, with a few necessary boundaries in place that are going to be there for all stories moving forward: no more casting calls and no more collaborative efforts. I am not going to open myself up to this happening again, even if the people have changed.

2) Same as above, but I continue the original Uptown as a favor to loyal readers alongside the rewrite. I would try to put the effort into it that I initially did, but with no promises on an update schedule and no advertising. I did ask myself “is there Patreon but without pledging money, just the private posts function” but it could operate as part of a private forum, a members-only part of a website, etc.

Also readers of the original would be beholden to a rule of “don’t spoil the rewrite for new readers, c’mon guys”. I mean, not really, but it is a good courtesy to extend to people.

Priority on this isn’t high but you at least will see what is!

I will probably make the blog public again either way due to the many broken links on my Tumblr but we’ll see. There are other things to deal with as I shall list!

Where Life’s Been Regardless

Been spending more time with my grandpa every weekend. Life’s pretty good and he’s warming up to my dogs.

Shiny New Webbed Site

Cucumber Fields Forever is a site I own now. We have a full domain, cucumberfieldsforever.com, a blog with one post, and the framework needed to host stories the way I want to and still through WordPress. The functionality of likes, comments, and following should still be the same but you know...I’ll take feedback too...

The main blog still has an undefined purpose though I do have drafts sitting around about:

The maybe/maybe not hoax band that was on the Metal Archives and the history of Funeral Doom Metal.

The curious case of when Sims 4 babies get their genetics and my only collaboration (read: was talking about it with a friend and might quote her if needed, it’s actually a bit of a doozy)

Amazon.com’s fake dried udon noodles, an actual issue by the way.

Things I’m reading! (This’d be a monthly feature if so)

For the sake of unity, I am thinking of solutions for hosting old and shameful content there including Uptown and for the real fans in my followers feed, Eight Cicadas...a world I totally have plans for too (not really). I don’t want them to be front-and-center, and that’s why I mentioned forums/members-only content. I finally have that power! Maybe.

Ooooh but what are the costs? Not too much to handle, that’s what. 😉 (Like really, I don’t need any hand-wringing about this, I can manage my finances)

Project Queue (In Order of Confirmedness)

Outrun the Scythe: have you seen me post out-of-context Sims 3 pictures? Did you want more? Did you hope it was Linda in Custody? If the answers are yes, yes, and “meh, whatever you want”, then you’re in luck.

Outrun the Scythe is a Sims 3-based tale of a young gay man and his zombie grandma, as they are both offered separate roles of being the undying intermediaries between the world of humans and the influence of a race of space daemons. It’s pretty familiar if you’ve been following me pre-Uptown, taking some cues from stories I’ve kept under lock and key like Eight Cicadas, The Chains of Lyra, and the not-so-locked-up Ironstar Immortals (of which Outrun is just the direct sequel to sans any retconning...ah the smell of early 2013 and performative heterosexuality)

Ah, back to my roots.

It’s a hybrid of gameplay, story, and lore about my little race of daemons with a lot of my own idiosyncrasies that I’m not really ashamed of: basing it off a super-polarizing Sims 3 challenge from a site I moderate, using a lot of EA’s pre-made townies and their genes, lots of unnecessary posemaking, stupid references. It’s a comfort to have in my roster.

While the first few chapters are in the middle of revision, I have around six in the queue and will be making this public when I have ten. I’m guessing December then?

Undocumented Black Widow Challenge: I just did this for fun/forum kudos (yes, in fact I have joined many forums), there was going to be a short story but it was quickly becoming something against my code of ethics. I mean, sims die and all. (read: I had to choose between “heterosexual widow” and “widow with some same-sex marriages that still end in tragedy, reinforcing negative stereotypes to the public for the sake of me not getting bored and detached during gameplay” so there were no good choices. Except for her affair with the mailwoman, 10/10) I hope to finish this before October ends and get my medal on Boolprop, I’m pretty far through it all. I might upload the sims involved anyways. This is for TS4.

I mentioned it because it’s keeping me busy. But not for long!

NaNoWriMo 2020: Dipping my toes into that again! It’s not sims-related, just a tale of lesbians, nosy neighbors, a haunted beach house, and some light murder and kidnapping. And I actually got my brother to scout out locations for me this weekend. If there’s any demand, I can share chapters as the rough drafts are finished, especially for the sake of proofreading.

Not saying I’m publishable, but wouldn’t it be nice? Will keep me occupied for much of November.

Untitled “Dear Diary” Challenge: Tired of feeling left out of the fun on the Boolprop forums, their “Dear Diary” challenge was the one that appealed to me the most on first glance. Why? Probably once I found an idea that let it be set in the early/mid-2000′s to begin with and explore some interesting characters through diary entries (which I have mixed feelings on as a literary device but I think that’s just me saying “well I didn’t like Dracula”, yes you get bonus points for writing it like a diary)

Also writing is the one skill I’m good at across multiple games. Wanna hear me bitch about the cooking skill tree in TS4 or riding in TS3? I’ll spare you.

I guess I could have included “spending time on Boolprop with old and new friends” in where my life has been. It’s a nice lil community if also a place with its own idiosyncrasies as well. So it doesn’t feel like I’m promoting another community if/when I make a thread there for Outrun the Scythe, I want to have a couple chapters of this ready to go by Outrun’s release, though it’s not gonna be the highest priority compared to it nor as long because I think I can blast through the gameplay quickly.

This one will be played in TS4 due to it having the easiest writing skill/I dunno variety is the spice of life. And hopefully another December release.

Defunded or Forgotten?: Oh shit I actually released stuff in 2020 and told no one? I do have a “mortifying ordeal of being known” sinking feeling whenever I get a site hit because it’s not my best work (but good enough) and veered sharply into issues I may be over my head in, though I try to be a good noodle with research and listening. Maybe hiding is bad after all.

Being based off a very flawed and incomplete Sims 3 challenge I found in the annals of the Official Forums, there’s a lot of behind-the-scenes work just making sense of things. And I’m scared of working on reconstructing the house but I haven’t abandoned the project yet. The story has eight chapters so far and is pretty game-based with some additions here and there. Scared of how long it could be though!

Date for this unknown.

Untitled Sunlit Tides Decadynasty: another year-long abandoned TS3 project with a much stupider reason why. Last update was about Hua getting ready for her wedding, and I wanted to do some poses for a bait-and-switch wedding chapter because to put it mildly, her real one was an absolute disaster.

Blender decided to fuck up its interface again, I got discouraged (this probably does account for some of the Uptown delays too), and when I decided to plow forward, it was for other projects instead.

Meanwhile I played all the way to Gen 5′s teenhood and the only thing stopping me is time (it takes almost 30 minutes to load the file right now, though they’ll be looking at moving towns in a couple gens) and maybe fear of the Logic skill.

Date for this also unknown but it’s easy to pump out updates once I’m in the groove for it. My third heir had a difficult life so maybe I’m just trying to bury it.

Also I just noticed the view count there was really good and probably because I linked it here on Tumblr last year. Thank you so much guys. I can’t really fret over views on Carl’s forum these days thanks to the years-long death spiral pretty much every forum anywhere has been riding on. But it’s a nice surprise. And it’s an alright little challenge recap to read during your lunch break or whatever.

The Wawas

I figured I’d end on the real news everyone wants! Both the chihuahuas are a year and a half now and reached their adult size around a year ago. For the most part, they are happy and healthy dogs.

[jj-lynn21]

A Cozy Cove Masquerade

Warnings: fluff, smut (Daddy kink, masturbation male & female, some what comical sex scene.)

Inspired by Ballroom Scene in Labyrinth

Previous in Cozy Cove: Saved by an Angel ,   A side of tits with your pancakes,   Fires Burn Hot , Spending the Nights, Learning and Loving,   The end id not always the end,  Axel Grease ,  Big Decisions, Sex and Jet Skis, Late night fun , Old Wounds , Storms pass Dangerous Waters, Nursing the patient , Making it Work, Never Have I Ever    The Masquerade .The Proposal,

tag: @dragsraksllib @super-pink-a-palouza @loomiz @waywardtigersandwich @shkaboodle​  @theskarsgardcult @babyboy-cody @bskarsgardlove92​ @bill-skarsgard-owns-my-ass @shenevertricks1831 @hornyhetero @taintedglass  @grandpa-sweaters​ @bskarsgardlove92​

Moodboard by @flowers-in-your-hayr

Susie walks in to the Cluney Ballroom in her pink princess dress with matching feathered mask unsure of the scene before her. It seems that the whole town is dancing around the room. Most in more monstrous looking masks with horns and exaggerated noses. It is like a bad dream in some ways.

She spins. Then goes in search of Axel. When she sees him in his dark black suite, she is instantly mesmerized. Then dancers swooped between them. When they veer away Axel is gone. She frets at the people surrounding her. Her heart races as they seem to laugh at her fears as she tries to get away from being engulfed.  

Axel moves around the room trying to get to her also. He just misses her at a few turns. Both get frustrated. The amount of people seems to double keeping the couple separated. Axel watches her from as close as he can get to her. He smiles at how beautiful she looks. His Susie Q is the Princess of this this Ball surrounded by heathens. 

She finally turns to see him within reach. His eyes say it all with no other expression on his face. He missed her more than he could bare to ever tell her. He took her tiny hand in his. His other hand on her waist. Her other hand on his shoulder. They held each in a gaze of love.  

The others seemed to dance off forming a wide circle as they watched the young couple with adulation. Axel glided her around the circle with ease. He was more graceful than she ever thought he could be. When the music changed, he swished her off the floor to the bar.  

“I didn’t know you were coming, Susie.” He brushed her hair back smiling. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you.” Susie beamed.  

“I missed you.” They said in unison and laughed.

It is surprising to Axel that Susie was there. He was not even sure he would be showing up until the afternoon of the party even though his Father demanded his presence two weeks before. His Father stopped by the garage. They went into Axel’s office to talk.

“Axel, just grow up and wear the suit I send you.” Dr. Cluney screamed at his son. “We have been having this fight since you were eighteen and I expect you to make at least an appearance. It is not going to kill you to dress up for one night.”

“It could.” Axel smirked. “I could be allergic to the material and end up in the emergency room. Then you would feel like shit.”

His Father shook his head. “I know all your allergies boy. I think this year will be surprising good. Just stay the first half hour.”

“We’ll see.” Axel huffed. “I have to get back to work.”

“Yeah.” Dr. Cluney opened the door walking out. Axel was on his heels. “think about what I’ve said today.”

When Axel was home after work, he sat down with a beer in hand and his laptop ready to video chat Susie. She always made him feel better when something was on his mind. She was especially understanding when that something involved his Father. And he would always listen to what she was doing at college. He was proud she went back to finish her education.

Axel pulled his work shirt off before calling. “Hey, babygirl.” His eyes smiled at her even if his mouth was stagnant. “How you doin’?”

“I am doing good.” She smiled. Her hair in a messy bun. Eyes a little blood shot from reading off a computer screen for too many hours. His t-shirt hanging off one of her shoulders since it was so big on her. “Trying to get a little ahead of my studies. Maybe a coffee run before I hit a wall.” She giggled.

Her laugh lit him right up. “Don’t get too drunk tired. Make sure you sleep at least three hours. You know eight is better for you.”

“I’ve been averaging six hours a night.” She admitted. “How are you? You look a bit thinner, Axel. I hope you are eating.”

“I’m eating good enough.” He runs his hand threw his hair. “Work has been busy this week. My Father is bitching at me to go to the yearly family Masquerade Ball. I told you about it, I think. It’s not really my thing. I will run off to visit you, so I don’t have to go.”

“I think you were the one that told me not to run from my responsibilities?” Susie reminded him.  

“Yeah, I guess I did tell you that.”  He sighed. “You sure you don’t need an evening distraction?”

“You can be perfectly distracting from right there.” She grinned. “Take your pants off. Remind me what I am missing.”

“Babygirl, the things you're missing can’t be just seen with your eye.” He stood looking right into the laptop camera. “You know you want to feel it.” He started unbuttoning and zipping down his naturally distressed jeans.  

She bites her lip as she watched him. “Yes, Axel show me what I am missing. I need to see it to really appreciate my loss.’

“I know what you want to see, dirty girl.” He palmed his cock over his boxer briefs. “How about you show Daddy those perky tits first.” A grin swam on to his face.

Susie giggled. “This is so bad.”

“You started it.” The grin still plastered. “Besides, you know this is being a very good girl for Daddy.”

She uncrossed her legs, putting the laptop between them. “Yes, Daddy.” She pulled off the t-shirt revealing nothing under it. “I am prepared to be a very good girl for you.”

“Fuck me.” he murmured not expected the view he was getting so soon. The way she was licking her lips slowly as her dominant hand ran between her breasts down to rest on her inner thigh was making his brain loose coherent thought as blood rushed to his concealed weapon.  

When he unbared, Susie’s eye widened with excitement as wetness gathered between her legs. Her thighs pulled together.

“Daddy won’t have none of that babygirl.” Axel ordered softly. “Open up  so I can see that pretty pussy.”

Susie did as she was told.  

Axel groaned as he man handled his shaft. “Go on babygirl.” He was breathing heavily. “Run your hand over that nice wet warm place.”

She lightly ran her hand over her mound. “I miss you touching me so much, Daddy.”  

“Daddy wants his face just buried right in there to taste it.” Axel panted, his thumb rubbing over his head feeling the precum emerging. “Run those fingers over your clit. I want to suck it so bad.”

She circles her clit slowly letting out soft moans. “Oh, Daddy.”

Axel bites his lip. “Fuck so beautiful. Work it babygirl. I want you...” he groans. “To fucking come when I say so.”  

Susie whines. “I’ll try Daddy. Just...”

“You got it, right there.” He tries desperately to hold off to give her more time. He knows from experience how long she needs to work herself up. “fuck.” He groans.  

She leans back on the bed ready, right on the edge of satisfaction.  

Axel grits his teeth. “Oh, fuck now babygirl. Fuck, yesssssss.” his ejaculation just misses his laptop as he twitches coming down from the high. His head back against the couch as he floats in bliss.

Susie Sighs heavily as she comes down. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Cheeks flushed. She laid there a moment before sitting up. “I love you.”

Axel looks at her. Eyes still a little off balance. “I love you my Susie Q. Thank you. I guess we should get some rest.”

“Yeah.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll see you soon...enough when I’m done with school.”

Axel didn’t notice her little word fumble. “Yeah, not soon enough for me sweet girl. Good night.”

“Good night, Axel.” She blew him a kiss before they both disconnected at the same time.

She hoped he didn’t notice she said soon. Axel’s Father had called her about the Masquerade. That is why she was trying to get ahead of her studying. She didn’t want to be thinking about school when she reunited with her lover for the first time in seven months.  

Susie felt like Cinderella when she came back from class one day to find a dress box at the dorm check in area. She carried it straight to her room with a huge smile on her face. The dress was pink with a lot of sparkle to it. There were glass high heels and a mask that matched the dress perfectly. It fit perfectly when she tried it on.  

She really had to hold back her excitement when she talked to Axel. It was easier when he intended to get her excited over something else completely. And she needed that to calm her hormones down just a little bit. Susie really hoped Axel decided to go to the Masquerade.  

When she finally saw him there it was like magic. He looked so handsome in his suite it nearly took her breath away. She was pleasantly surprised he knew how to ballroom dance better than most people there. When the floor cleared for them and they were looking into each other's eyes, it was like her own personal heaven.

“I’m glad your Father talked you into being here tonight, Axel.” Her smile matched his.

“If I would have known you were going to be here, I wouldn’t have given him such a tough time.” Axel kept playing with her hair as he talked in an airy husky voice. “I really want to kiss you right now. Then I want to fuck you up against the closest wall.”

“How long do you have to stay.” Her eyes fluttered thinking about what he wanted was exactly what she wanted.  

“My Father suggested that I at least stay a half hour.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Part of him thought it could be a dream. “That was just to give you time to get here. We made a good showing by dancing. We can sneak out.”

“I should really thank your Father first.” She looked around the room trying to figure out who the Doctor could be in the sea of masks. “You should to. Where is he?”

Axel scanned the crowd. “See the guy with the long hair spiky wig over there?” Axel chuckled. “My Father thinks he can pull off David Bowie and be just as cool. I think not but we can keep that between us.”

Susie giggled. “We can do that.”  

They made their way over towards Axel’s Father. When he saw them, he paused his conversation. “Their they are. My Son and his girlfriend Susie Quinnby. Don’t they just look like the Prince and Princess of Cozy Cove?”

The people Dr. Cluney was talking to all agreed. They fawned over the couple making Susie blush. Axel thanked them. He was trying hard not to roll his eyes at these kissed ups. They eventually dissipated so that Susie and Axel could talk to his Father.  

“I wanted to thank you for inviting me Dr. Cluney and for the beautiful dress.” She did a little spin. “It's all so perfect.”

“I'm glad you made it dear.” He smiled. “I’m glad I got this one to show up to greet you as you needed to be, without telling him you were coming.”

“Thanks Dad.” Axel Kisses Susie’s hand. “I’m glad I showed up. She kept this secret. I think we’re going to take off if that’s cool?”

“Go on.” He shooshed them with a hand. “He has been sulking without you here Susie. He won’t  be sulking for a while after spending some time with his girl. Now go on.”

They rushed off out the door as quickly as they could. A car was waiting to take them to Axel’s place. The chauffeur opened the door tipping his hat to the couple. Susie was giggling as she got inside.

“Put the privacy window up, Franklin.” Axel slipped him a tip before joining Susie.  

“As you wish, Sir.” The driver did as Axel requested as soon as he got in the driver’s seat.  

All Axel had to do was tap his thigh for Susie to be straddling him in seconds. His hands on her face pulling her lips to his. Her hands in his hair as she was kissing him back hard, grinding on his lap. He groaned, his pants tightening from the huge growth underneath.

Axel’s hand slid down under her dress grabbing her bare ass cheeks. “Thong?”

“Yeah.” her lips moved to his neck driving him wild.

“Pretty pink ones to match the dress?” He breathed.

“Yes, Daddy.” She nibbled on his ear.

“I’m going to rip them off you when we get inside.” He grabbed the back of her hair pulling her head back for his tongue to dive into her cleavage.  

The car stopped. Susie got off him just before Franklin opened the door for the couple to get out. The chauffeur said nothing but, “Have a good evening,” when they emerged with Axel’s face smeared with her shimmery pink lip stick.

They walked to Axel’s door hand in hand. Axel pulled his keys from his pocket to unlock the door. They went inside and he tossed the keys in a bowl.

“Oh, so you weren’t just happy to see me?” She giggled.

Axel chuckled. “You were not feeling my keys, Babe. I assure you of that.”  

He tossed his mask aside. She tossed hers. They were pulled back together as if magnets. Susie pushed his jacket off. He unzipped her dress. She went to pull his tie to undo it and it came off with a snap.

“Clip on?” She giggled.  

“Yeah.” He chuckled.

Axel was fumbling trying to find the fasteners on her bra as she was unbuttoning his shirt.  

“Front clasp.” She told him as she pulled his shit open. She started dropping kisses down his chest.

He stroked her hair. “I’ll tell you what. You have the count of three to run into the bedroom and have your bra and panties off before I get there or they both get torn off with my teeth.” He grinned.

She looked up at him with wide eyes. “I thought you wanted to rip off my panties?”

He snarled.

“One...” Axel started counting as he took off his pants.  

Susie shot off towards the bedroom laughing.

“Two...” Axel continued while his boxers fell to the floor. “I hope you’re ready for me. Three.”

He ran in to find her on her knees in the bed. Her bra in hand. She flung it at him. “OOPS,” She grinned.. “I didn’t have time to get my thong off. I guess I’m in in trouble.”

Axel smirked. “You know what’s coming to you, babygirl?” He licked his lips. “You think you can handle it?”

Susie laid back and reached for him. “You come here to take all you want, Daddy.”

Axel pounced on the bed. He crawls over her like an animal. She watched him closely until his face ducked down. Susie felt his teeth scrape along her hip. It gave her chills; He bit the elastic there growling as he twisted madly pulling at it like a rabid dog. She wanted to laugh but he was too cute trying to be all rough and being more ruff.  

Once he finally ripped them off, he was already sweating. He went for a condom in the nearby draw before he moved up to kiss her the way she was waiting for. His kiss was deep, loving, and full of all the passion he had built up in her absence. As he did that, he buried his cock inside her progressively moving quicker. She moaned biting his bottom lip at the moment of penetration. They were still perfectly in tune with each other's needs after not being together for months. Her hips caught up with his rhythm.  

As he felt her walls clench around him, Axel did his best to hold out for her release. He didn’t quite make it, but she finished at the pure force of his release. They laid back a moment before he tossed the condom and pulled her into his arms.  

“How long do I get to keep you?” Axel kissed her forehead gently.  

“I have to be on a plane back to the University at 8a.m.” Susie frowned. “But I only have a few more months until winter break. We will have three months before my internship at NASA for six months. Then I graduate and I am yours if you will still have me?”

“I will always want to have you my Susie Q.” Axel smiled even though it made his heart ache that she would be away so much. “I think when you are working for NASA, I will have to come visit for a weekend to take you to Disney World.”

“I would love that Axel.” She smiled as her eyes fluttered shut.  

Axel held her close until he drifted off to sleep. His hand fell to the bed. Susie was still snuggled against him happily.  

[bitch-banshee]

Goner

Prompt: Reader finds Derek on a hike while he's been wounded from hunters. She doesn't know about supernaturals so she thinks there's a serial killer. She takes him home and tends to his wounds.

This has been sitting for so long....sorry y’all.

Masterlist

Living in a town where the main attraction is the woods was a blessing and curse. Hiking was always fun, finding new places all the time by a simple veer of the beaten path.

Until today.

I had just passed a small creek when i heard a sharp shout and a thud. Against my better brain waves and ignoring every movie ever. I decided to venture even further to see what was going on.

"Uhh hello?" The gentle English tilt to my voice slipped out in my fear. "Is there someone there" i continued treading as lightly as i could. If it was an animal that was hurt the last thing you wanted to do was scare it. I came around a large tree slowly, it wasn't an animal.

"Oh my god!" I whispered and fell to my knees. It was a man, and he had 4 long slash marks on his bare back. "A-are you okay, oh my god, who did this to you, can you stand, oh my god" my hands trembled as they reached for him. Too many questions Olivia.

"Okay okay okay, i need you to stand, can you do that for me?" A grunt, we were getting somewhere. "Alright, wanna tell me your name?" He leaned heavily against me, and i was thankful for all the months I'd been hiking.

"Mm Derek" he slurred, his head lolling to one side. "Okay! Derek, I'm gonna bring you to my car okay? Is that alright?" Another grunt. Not a man of words i see.

"It's just over the hill, can you make that Derek, i need you to tell me, or else I'll call an ambulance to help" at this his eyes snapped open, "no hospital " it was clear, free of the slur from before. Okay, "cool, no hospital, i can work with that, you're lucky I'm a doctor, not for people but i don't think that matters" a dry laugh slipped from my lips.

I was rambling, and i knew it. More than once i was all to aware of his slipping consciousness, and the blood sliding over my fingers. But by some miracle we made it to my truck.

"Okay Derek, can you lean here for just a second, I've got a towel in the back" incoherent words slipped from his lips, an agreement i think. I'll never know.

Still with shaking hands, i draped the towel over his back. He hissed, I'd drenched it in water, because putting a dry towel on an open wound was stupid. "Sorry sorry" somehow i got him in my passenger seat. He didn't lean back.

Okay, so he's aware enough to not get blood on my seat. Great. With a shut of the door and a sprint to the other side. The car ride was filled with shuddering breaths and soft apologies. Someone had tried to hill him. With a knife it looked, I'd been paying attention to the news.

Animal attacks, and half found bodies, someone was slaughtering people so bad the only explanation was an animal. My mind churned, i wouldn't be going back into the woods until they caught that lunatic. If i found Derek, that killer could find me. I looked over with frantic eyes "still with me Derek" a soft hum slid from his chest to my ears.

When we pulled up to my house, getting him out was way harder than getting him in. "Okay Derek just lean over like that, I've got you, Oh shit" he slipped and i caught him twisting before we both fell.

"We're not doing that again, agreed" i didn't expect him to answer. His face was ashen, it made me nervous. With fumbling fingers and hot breaths i busted through my front door. We didn't make it to the garage where i had a table for this sort of thing. The kitchen it was.

With quick hands i sent everything onto the floor.

"Sorry Ana" i whispered to my housemate that wasn't in. "Derek, you there, i need you to lay on your stomach,I'm gonna clean you up okay?" I whispered, he flinched anyways.

Once he was laid down i ran to the garage. Pulling antiseptic and hydrogen peroxide. I heard a deep groan and raced back. He was moving, pushing his arms from the counter. "No no no no no" i pushed him back down.

"This isn't gonna hurt, but it won't feel good either, you ready?" A nod, halfhearted and heartbreaking. I pursed my lips in concentration, trying to still my wiggling hands. "Cmon liv" i admonished myself and tending to his wounds.

The cuts were long, deliberate and they weren't the only ones. Through careful cleaning and inspection there were bruises under all the blood. "Jesus. You still with me" i ran my fingers over his head, like i could a dog before snapping it back.

This was a person, flesh blood bones and brains. A muffled "yeah I'm here" and i almost cried out of relief. "AH words! Yes okay" i pulled out a needle and thread and stared "I'm gonna gave to stitch these, okay" a deep sigh, "okay"

After several deep breaths and some winces and grunts I'd put in about 150 stitches. "Don't move, I'm gonna get bandaids" i placed my hands softly on his shoulders, a drowsy murrp came from his mouth. Minutes later he was bandaged and lying on my couch. "Are you allergic to any pain medication?" I squatted before him.

"Derek, i can't give you anything for the pain if you don't tell me." The assertion in my voice surprised even me. "No, no meds, m'ok" he groaned and went to stretch before his face screwed up and his eyes popped open. Wide and scared.

"Don't panic, you're fine, you're okay" i soothed slightly "are you allergic?" I asked again. He shook his head, probably annoyed with my pestering. I nodded and stuck him with some morphine.

Maybe 20 minutes later Derek was fast asleep. I was thankful for the open floor plan because i could see him from the kitchen.

"No Ana i didn't go out looking for an injured man" i hissed over the phone. "Why did you bring him back?" "You've seen the news, people are dying, i couldn't leave him here. He looks like escaped from someone. You know what whatever, are you staying with Brenton tonight?" She humphed "i could be" i rolled my eyes, hearing her smug smile. "Do" was all i said before i heard Derek groan. "I'm gonna check on him, i call you later" "okay liv, be careful" i sighed and hung up.

Rounding the couch i saw he was still asleep but sweating. I put my hand on his head and he was burning up. "Shit" he was going to sweat the pain meds right out. I went to the fridge and took out some frozen corn before placing it on the back of his neck. He blew out a long breath, before settling against the chocolate brown couch. At that moment my stomach grumbled. "Let's hope you're alright while i cook" i said to his sleeping form, pulling my hands through my hair.

30 minutes later I'd made tomato soup and a grilled cheese when Derek moved. It took me all of four seconds to be in front of him. "Derek, hey, take it slow you're gonna rip your stitches" his green eyes were frantic, swiping over the unfamiliar room before landing on me.

"Who are you" he mouth settled in a scowl, eyes blazing green fire. "I-I'm Olivia, i found you in the woods. Y-you were dying" my voice trembled out, words flying from my mouth. I recapped the whole story of finding him and bringing him here and stitching him up.

His face softened, but not enough to not look intimidating "thank you, but i should leave" he made moves to get up. My hands slapped down on his still bare shoulders.

"LEAVE? You can't leave, you shouldn't even be able to stand. Your pain tolerance must be though the roof. You shouldn't be moving around for a few days Derek. Then we should go to the police. I wanted to take you to the hospital but you said very seriously in your blood loss haze no to that. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, but you can't leave." I kept shaking my head, hands squeezing his shoulder involuntarily at my hasty speaking.

"Okay" was all he said. Gruff and annoyed.

"Okay" i responded "i made soup, do you want some" he nodded slowly, his gaze so alert and sliding over my face it made me shiver. I made him promise not to move while i got his food.

~~

Derek needed to leave. He needed to get out of this house with this strangely nice and gorgeous woman. His eyes slid over her face and he'd wished he'd remained on her eyes. The baby blues were captivating enough. But when he let his gaze wander to the small nose and full pink lips being worried by her teeth. He felt his nostrils flare when she walked away from him.

She smelled like rain and honeysuckle. Not to mention the unintentional way of her hips made him weak and willing to do anything for her. When she set the steaming food in front of him with an easy smile and an earnest nod he knew he was a goner.

"What were you running from?" She inquired, smelling of anxiety atop her natural scent. He didn't answer, he couldn't, clearly she didn't know anything of his kind or the hunters hellbent on ending his life.

"Cmon Derek, it's okay, someone tried to hurt you, no doubt a serial killer that would've cut you up and scattered you around the woods" her voice lilted in a way that proved not only did she know nothing about supernaturals she also wasn't from here.

"How did you know what to do" he asked a question of his own. She faultered, caught off by such a question.

"I'm a vet, i moved here a few months ago, and I've been unable to catch up with the clinic owner here" she shrugged and nibbled at her sandwich. Derek caught a whiff of sadness and immediately felt bad.

"Sorry, thank you for not letting me die" his voice was stiff, he knew the slashes had already healed. Unless they hadn't, by the twist of his back and the ebbing pain that bloomed being any indication. She was immediately up, swathing him in her scent again "don't do that, God you're going to rip those open" she was behind him.

Soft fingers searing over his back, warmth flowing from her to him. He humphed "you're a good cook" he tried to appeal to her, to ease her strong feelings of anxiety and lingering sadness.

"Liar, I'm a horrid cook, you got lucky we had the only thing i can cook in the house" she laughed and it was like windchimes. Floating through the air, she was so soft spoken it didn't hurt his werewolf ears.

Like stiles did when he rambled, getting louder and louder. Her voice thinned and quieted as more words flew from her mouth. He realized he hadn't been listening to what she was saying. Her mumbles quiet as she continued to look over and slide her fingers over his back.

Yup he was a goner.

———————————

@dylinski @terminallygenius @parker-potter @just-jordie-things

[looselucy]

Guilt

July 15th “I don’t really remember the first time I started work on the Blood Sun.” Styles tells us, sitting in his quiet New York gallery whilst sipping slowly on a glass of wine, a deep red. “I don’t know if I’ve blocked it out. I know it started with the idea of thunder and lightning, but it veered from that pretty quickly. I had an idea what I wanted from the painting emotionally. I don’t know if I got that with the end product, but I knew I couldn’t get that from thunder. It had to be a sun.”

I was sat in PJ’s in silence, scrolling through a relatively recent article about Harry on my phone as I waited for my breakfast. I had always tried to avoid going online to read about him, because I knew whatever I saw was likely to be monitored and watered down, not even by those reporting on him, but by Harry himself. He was never going to share intimate truths so publicly, so there was nothing real for me to learn, but it had been so much harder to avoid since he’d sent me the painting. I wanted to know what he’d said about it, if he’d mentioned anything about selling it or not. I needed to know everything I could. Styles must be bored of answering questions about his most celebrated work at this point, but it is by far his most intriguing. Not only is the painting spectacular, with stunning mixes of oranges, yellows, and the artists own blood, but it’s a piece he seems to be refusing to sell – no matter how high the offer. “I don’t make art for it to be sold. I make art to express. If selling was the reason I painted, I would have given this up a long time ago. I never saw that as a reason to paint, it was always to do with the feeling, the emotion. I guess the therapeutic side of it, too. I’m not going to sell a piece for the sake of it.” I should have known he would have started painting again when he’d left, but that seemed like confirmation, what with him saying he would have given it up. I didn’t know how to feel about it. Of course I wanted him to continue with his passion, work in a way that showed his talents, made his life beyond comfortable, but it was what came with his painting that made me uneasy. I hadn’t seen anything expressing that he no longer used blood, and I thought that would have be a focal point had it been the case. I cursed his agent, leaping viciously to the conclusion that it was him who kept Harry in the frame of mind, convinced him that he had to paint with blood or people would lose interest. I was sure of it. I took a deep breath in and continued. “That painting means more to me than any number, I don’t think I’ll ever sell it, per se. I’m not even accepting offers anymore.” I question if his new work that he will soon reveal is a way of distracting people from the painting, moving on. “Partially.” He admits. “But it’s also a new time for me. It’s new work, paintings I’m really excited to share. I’m looking forward to seeing how I end up feeling about all this new stuff. What I want to sell, what I don’t. We’ll see.” What Harry has managed to achieve with his art is remarkable. It’s not merely the power of his paintings, something that is preposterously palpable if you’re lucky enough to be in the same room as one. And it’s not limited to the success he’s had, the respect he’s received from his peers ever since he was granted a scholarship when he was still a teenager. It’s the emotions that his work inspires. He is quiet, but with purpose. He doesn’t talk about the inspiration behind each of his pieces, what makes him paint – instead, he throws you in head first to figure it out alone. You are never told what to see or how to feel, every brush of paint open to interpretation. Styles never ties you to the idea of what his work should be, instead his art is open, free of chains, exposing you to the truth of your own emotions rather than lumbering you with the truth of his. There is something magic in his secrecy that allows you to feel personally connected to his work, your feelings valid. In his less is more approach, you are left feeling as much a part of his art as he is. He connects with his consumer by saying so little, a truly impressive feat. Harry Styles is not ours to know, but his masterpieces are, and that’s exactly why our relationship with this extraordinary artist works. Reaching the end of the article, I locked my phone, leaning back in my chair and taking a deep breath inward, the words resting heavily on my chest. It wasn’t even necessarily what they’d been saying in the write-up, not really, it was more the strange sensation of reading about him that way at all. The Blood Sun was still sitting where I had found it. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it, I didn’t even have the space in my flat, not that I thought it would even get through the door. It was almost as though I didn’t dare move it, fear of damaging it, fear of admitting it was mine to damage. It had been almost a fortnight since I’d received it, touched it for the first time, breathed it in, but it hadn’t moved and inch and I was still perfectly clueless. I’d cried that night when I’d got home. Once we were back on the shop floor, I’d managed to get through most of the day at work without talking about it, without really even thinking about it, but the second I closed my front door, I burst into tears. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and just allowed myself to completely shatter, freeing whatever emotion had felt so imprisoned. I hadn’t really stopped thinking about him since, slowly driving myself insane with wild thoughts of the boy I’d once known, the boy who’d left my life and then re-entered it in the most spectacular and elaborate way. I didn’t want to think about him because it didn’t help. Even with him sending me that painting, it didn’t give me any leads, any answers; I still felt entirely powerless. But what was playing on my mind relentlessly was the knowledge that he had been thinking of me. Since he had departed from my life, I’d managed to convince myself that he no longer thought of me at all, that I would never cross his mind. I had been sure he was simply getting on with his life and I had become a hazy memory of his, another girl he had once been with for a few months of his life, another mistake. It was one of the things that had helped me to get over him, to know I wasn’t even beneath his skin enough for him to have dig me out. I told myself that I’d barely scratched the surface. Him sending me that painting made me feel differently. To know he had sat and thought of me, gone out of his way to make sure I became the owner of his most personal work. He wouldn’t have done something so grand on a whim, meaning without doubt that I had been playing on his mind. I wondered how he felt when he thought of me. I wondered what emotions I might stir. I hoped they were positive, and judging by the nature of his gesture they may well have been, but then again maybe his feelings towards me were as complex as mine towards him. Some days I’d think of him and feel happy, grateful we had what we did, that I experienced love in its truest form, even though it wasn’t reciprocated. I had loved him, and I was fortunate to have been able to feel that way about someone who so rarely let people into his life. Yet other days, the thought of us produced anger. Others, upset. Others, longing. It seemed impossible to look back on something so formidable with limited and lax emotions. I knew I wouldn’t find the answers to any of my questions in any article, but it was the only option I had. “Here we are.” Paula approached cheerily, placing my Eggs Benedict down in front of me. “Do you want me to top your coffee up?” “Please.” I sighed as she started pouring the dark liquid from the old-fashioned compressor into my mug. “You look knackered.” She sounded concerned. “Everything okay?” “Couldn’t really sleep.” I looked up to her. “Think I’ve only had a couple of hours.” “Any reason?” “Um… Dunno. I don’t think so. My minds just been working overtime recently. I can’t seem to shut off.” I hadn’t been sleeping well for what I felt was a variety of reasons. No matter how much I tried, how tired I was, it was like I’d get into bed and my head would just start spinning, conjuring up all these questions and ideas and worries that simply didn’t allow me to drift off. And the longer that lasted the worse it got, gradually becoming alarmingly aware that I should have been fast asleep. I’d start counting how many minutes and hours it would be until I had to get up and face another day on so little sleep, tossing and turning and losing my mind. That morning, I must have only drifted off at around 4AM, and yet still I awoke just before 7AM, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. That was why I’d headed to PJ’s, getting in a good meal and an abundance of coffee before I opened the shop for the day. “How longs that been going on?” “Couple’a weeks.” I tried to shrug it off. “It’s nothing, really. M’fine.” “Alright.” She griped, unsure. “I’ll always have free coffee here for you, if you need it.” “Thanks, Paula.” She squeezed my shoulder encouragingly before getting back to work, leaving me to tuck into my meal and pray that the coffee would be enough to see me through the day, because the amount of sleep I’d had certainly wasn’t enough on its own. I was only a few mouthfuls into my first meal of the day when the front door to PJ’s opened, my eyes instinctively lifting upwards to see who’d walked in. It was Chloe and Sam. Though things were okay between the three of us, it still felt awkward then. It was early, there was only one other person there, an old bloke who was sat in the corner keeping himself to himself. It was like it was just the three of us, which made for a rather uncomfortable atmosphere. There was no anger there, no hatred, but that didn’t mean we were at ease. “Hey.” I smiled to them both after swallowing my food, grateful I hadn’t started choking on it the second they’d walked through the door. “Hiya.” Sam greeted, straightening his back out. “Hi.” Chloe barely whispered. I felt bad for her, in some ways. She had never quite figured out how to be around me, weighed down by her guilt even though she shouldn’t have been, and I’d expressed that to her more than once. They shuffled past me, going over to the counter to order some food, whispering between themselves. It was so stupidly awkward, so much worse than it should have been. They’d been together for well over a year at that point, it shouldn’t have been that bad! I sat thinking to myself, knowing it was likely that the reason it was so bad was because we’d let it be. We hadn’t put the effort in to make sure we were all okay with each other, we hadn’t put the effort in and gone out of our way to avoid the awkwardness of our affiliations. We had to get past it. I took another bite, regretting my decision before I’d even voiced my thoughts but I knew what I wanted to do, and as long as I’d put the effort in, that was the best I could do. Once I’d heard that they’d finished ordering, I turned around, closing my eyes and blurting it out. “Do you wanna sit with me?” I opened my eyes to find them both looking at me like I’d gone mad. They were probably right. “Are you… I… Wh-what?” Sam blundered. “Do you wanna… sit… with me?” I said again. “We could just… y’know… talk, or whatever.” “Are you serious?” Chloe dazzled, dumbstruck and emotional. “Have we… done something wrong?” Sam asked me. “No! Nothing, I just… I can’t stand this.” I exhaled. “I hate being this awkward with you both, we need to push past it. So would you just… fucking sit down so we can get over ourselves and just be normal? We’re too old for this bullshit.” Sam just looked amused, sniggering to himself as he sat down on one of the chairs across from me, Chloe following close behind. She was different. She looked as though she could burst into tears at any moment. She sat down, biting her lip to hold back tears as Sam dove straight in with questions, asking about me, about my dad, updating me on how his mum was. I kept catching her from the corner of my eye and she wasn’t settling. She couldn’t ease at all. It was clear she still struggled, with all of it. It was hard for her to sit there with a friend she’d lost, knowing it had happened because of choices she had made. I knew that was why she got upset when she was around me. There’s nothing quite like love, the power it holds over you. I had to be conscious of the reasons why she chose Sam, even when that meant losing her friends. When love is that strong, it doesn’t care about anyone else, who it hurts, what it breaks. When love is that strong, it’s a force to be reckoned with, its pawns powerless to its forces. I’d seen throughout my life that most people would do anything to save love, to keep it in their hearts for as long as possible, whatever the cost. It might have seemed odd, the abundance of sacrifices she’d had to make just to be with him, but their love had told her to do that, to fight for him. I hoped he was worth it. I hoped that every loss paled when she looked at him, when that love took over. The only problem was that when she was around us, and me specifically, it didn’t feel that easy. She’d get upset, she’d realise how much she missed us, how much she missed how things had been. She hadn’t just lost me when her and Sam had gotten together, it had slowly picked a lot of her friends out of her life, but it centred around me. It was so difficult to admit that we’d never be the same again. It was gutting to come to terms with the fact that we’d lost something so good. My only comfort was knowing that she’d gained from it in some way or another. That morning with her was a quiet one, conversation mainly being held between Sam and I as she put most of her energy into holding herself together, not breaking, reminding herself of the reasons things had changed so much. But as far as I was concerned, anything was better than how we had been for the past year or so. Anything was an improvement.

“Here she is!” Niall yelled when I stepped into The Tin Mouse that evening, everyone greeting me cheerily; all except Lin, who didn’t really do anything, staring blankly at me as I cautiously approached the table. I was feeling rather anxious, my hands dug into the pockets of my denim jacket, pressing my lips together tightly. I didn’t really want to be there, to be honest. “Hi.” I just about smiled, taking a deep breath inward before I spoke. “Shall I get a round in?” Quite purposefully, I’d been running rather late, meaning they were all at the end of their drinks by the time I got there. They put in their requests quickly, all rather distracted and chirpy, meaning it took longer than it should have. Lin still hadn’t said a word by the time I was heading over to the bar, but I knew he’d grab at his opportunity. I’d only just put in the large order when I noticed him leap up to his feet and storm over to me, his voice leaden and irked when he spoke. “Why’ve you been ignoring me?” “I haven’t.” I protested. “Well, that’s fucking weird, because you haven’t answered any of my calls or my texts. You didn’t come to watch the match on Monday, you haven’t been at the pub.” He was angry, and I was fighting tears. “Don’t treat me like a fucking idiot, Alf, I know what’s going on.” I hadn’t meant to avoid him. I didn’t want to create an atmosphere. I didn’t want him to be angry with me. I didn’t want a lot of things that had come into fruition of late. What I had wanted, was to continue being honest and upfront with him, but receiving that painting and that note from Harry had somehow made everything with Lin feel twice as difficult. Because I knew it had to end. It had been hard enough to admit to him that I wasn’t sure on my feelings and what was happening between us, so it would have been even harder to be blunt and really end things, to tell him that I could finally make sense of the mess in my own mind. I knew it wasn’t right, that’s what my head was telling me, that’s what my gut was telling me. That’s what my heart was telling me. I just didn’t know how I was supposed to tell him. He waited for me to say something, my throat dry and tight as I tried to figure it out. “Please don’t be mad at me.” I whispered. “I don’t want to be mad at you, Alfie, I’m just frustrated!” He whelped. “Because if I knew asking you out would have led to this, I wouldn’t have fucking done it. I don’t think you understand how much I don’t wanna lose you, Alf! I can’t!” I looked right past him, staring over his shoulder and concentrating on the back door that would lead out to the beer garden, because looking in his eyes summoned too many emotions, ones I couldn’t supress. He made being opaque sound so easy, like it wouldn’t involve hurting his feelings and choking up over every single wrong word. I didn’t know how to handle it, what I should or shouldn’t say, and I certainly didn’t want to tell Lin that the main thing that had driven me away from even thinking about him in a romantic way was the delivery of a fucking painting. “Don’t avoid me, please!” He went on. “Just be honest. I can take it.” “It’s not as easy as that.” “It is! I’m telling you, it is! Because by not saying it, you’re saying it anyway. So, you might as well bite the bullet.” He sighed, wound his jaw. “Put me out of my misery. Please.” He just wanted it to be over, maybe even more than I did, but for different reasons. We were both in agony for different reasons and it needed to end. “I don’t wanna do this here.” I started to cry. I felt like all I did was fucking cry. “Fuck, don’t get upset. Oh shit. I don’t want you to feel guilty or sad, please don’t cry. If it’s not right, then it’s not.” He reached to grab my hand, pulling it away from my face as I tried to hide my tears. “You’ve just gotta be honest with me about it. I knew I was running a risk when I asked you, I just wanna be kept in the loop!” “Lin, it’s not that easy!” I wept. “I care about you so much and I didn’t wanna hurt your feelings. And I’ve had such a shit couple of weeks. I’ve been so sad and-” “That’s… the opposite of how I want you to feel!” He wailed. “C’mere. Wipe those bloody tears away, eh? I don’t wanna see you sad. Don’t be sad, not for my sake.” He held my cheeks steadily in his hands, wiping his thumbs beneath my eyes to dry my tears on my behalf, shaking his head like I was being silly, which made me laugh. He was good at that. It was obvious he was irritated with how I’d handled things since our date, but he was still trying to keep things sweet between us in any way he could, whilst also getting his point across. I sucked it up as much as I could as he wiped away a few more tears, talking calmly as he did. “Are you crying because of me? Did I go in too hard?” “No.” I shook my head. “I just feel bad. I didn’t want it to go like this.” “No… I can’t say I did either.” He chuckled uneasily. “It just… It doesn’t feel right. I wish it did, but it doesn’t.” He dropped his hands whilst my tears terminated progressively. “I don’t want-” “LIN, WHY’RE YOU MAKING ALFIE CRY?” Niall yelled from across the room. “NIALL, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Lin yelled back, proceeding to mentally block him out. “For fuck sake. Someone needs to tell that lad that it’s not always appropriate to drop a joke.” Despite the fact that I agreed, we were both still sort of laughing, shaking our heads and rolling our eyes. “I think we should probably do this another time.” I whispered, wiping away the last of my tears. “Sorry for getting mad.” “Sorry for avoiding you. I’d be mad too. And sorry for crying. You should be able to be pissed off without me crying and making you feel bad.” Abruptly, he moved in and wrapped his arms around me, releasing a swell of air that had be stuck in his chest. We could hear Niall whinging whimsically about how they were all waiting on their drinks, which were now sitting on top of the bar waiting to be paid for and waiting to be carried over to their consumers, but we had things to say. After quite some time, Lin pulled out of the hug but remained close, pressing his forehead against mine and speaking quietly, still trying to block out our surroundings, his hand latched against the back of my neck. I breathed him in, eased. “We’ll be okay, I promise. I don’t really know where we go from here, but-” “Harry?” I heard Louis yell through the bar, and I knew. Before I’d even turned around, I knew. I could tell from the sound of his voice, the perfect blend of surprise and terror. I knew and yet it didn’t seem real. Not until I watched Lin lift his head to gaze over the top of mine, eyes and mouth wide. “Holy shit, Harry’s here.” I whipped my whole body around a second later so I was facing the right way, so I could see for myself. That was the moment I locked eyes with Harry for the first time in over a year. He was completely motionless, so still and beautiful and perfect I could hardly comprehend that he was real, an image frozen in time and likely captured in my mind forever. He was stood in the doorway staring forward, right at me, as though he wasn’t conscious of anything else. It was just me and him and the static canvas we had become. His emotions were difficult to decipher, looking as shocked as I must have even though it was him who’d turned up out of nowhere. He hadn’t stepped foot in that pub since the previous May, but he was gazing right at me as though I had entered his space, like it was my presence that was the cause for alarm. He looked hurt, in ways. Those seconds felt like a lifetime, only able to snap out of my daze when Niall crashed his body against Harry’s, threw his arm around his neck. “What the hell are you doing here?” Libby howled excitedly as she approached him. “Are you moving back?” Niall asked whilst hugging the life out of him. “Please tell me you’re moving back.” It was then that Harry managed to pull his eyes away, and so did I, darting my vision to the left to look at Louis, who was already staring at me with wide eyes. “What the fuck?” He mouthed mutely. I found that my eyes drew back to Harry within seconds, like a magnet. His were back on me. He looked amazing. He always did. Even when he was exhausted and drained, his body had a certain shine to it that I’d never seen the likes of before and would never see again. Maybe I saw him in some divine light, but staring at him then I felt sure that simply, he was magnificent; radiant, powerful, immersed in splendour. “Uh…” Harry eventually began to grumble as Niall detached himself, looking away from me but not looking at anyone else, his gaze shooting down to the floor. “I dunno why I’m here. Sorry, I… I should go.” “What? You just got here?” Niall keened. Lin tried to edge past me to get closer to Harry, attempt to convince him to stick around like the rest of them were doing, all confused and stunned by his presence but desperate for him to stay. As he moved, Lin placed his hand on my waist gently, tenderly trying to edge me closer to the group to help with encouraging Harry to stay, but that minor action seemed to have the opposite effect. Harry witnessed the trivial exchange and withdrew completely. “No, m’sorry, I can’t do this.” He walked backwards, pushing his weight against the front door to open it without looking. “I dunno why I came, I’m sorry.” “The fuck, Harry?” Niall, Libby and Louis were all so dumbfounded they could barely move, just watching him back himself out of there. “What is going on?” It was rather clear he was overwhelmed, and I didn’t necessarily think it was the sole reason, but I knew that he was piqued by what he’d seen between Lin and I. He’d always had his paranoias, and though they still felt rather misplaced, he hadn’t been entirely delusional. The last time we had been together, we had kissed and held one another so intensely, the situation overflowing with passion and heartbreak. That was the last physical contact we’d had. Following that, he’d sent me a painting that was closer to his heart than most of the people in his life could ever hope to be. No matter how we’d ended or the complications we’d faced, I predicted that he saw me in a similar way to how I saw him – that in some way, we would always belong to one another. I would never be okay seeing him with someone else, and he didn’t want to see me with another man. Our history was too strong. For him to see me for the first time over a year later, another boys hand in my hair and lips close to mine. I knew I wouldn’t have wanted to see him and another woman like that, whether it meant something or not. I knew that was one of the reasons he desired a swift exit. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t wanna interrupt, m’just gunna go. I promise I’ll see you soon, I promise, I just… Fuck.” With that final curse word he was outside, the door closing behind him. There were only a few seconds of shocked silence before Louis turned and bellowed to me. “Alfie, for fuck sake, go after him!” With no plan, no thought process and nothing to guide me, I ran out the door to catch him. I could barely make sense of a single thing, all I knew was that I couldn’t let him walk away without putting up a fight. I was terrified that if I let him walk away, that would be the last of it. Harry was sometimes hard to read, difficult to predict, and despite recent actions, I knew the chances of him disappearing from my life completely, never to seen or heard from again, were large. I knew there was a chance that this could be the very last time I saw him, and that was more likely if I didn’t go after him. I had too many questions that needed answering; why he was there, why he’d sent me the painting, how he had been for the past year. I wanted answers, and then if he wanted to leave he could. I could only hope that he desired the same closure I did. “Harry!” I yelled as soon as I could. He had his head down, walking central down the countrylane, heading towards town, towards the house where he used to live, towards a history he didn’t want to face.  He tried to ignore me, not wanting to acknowledge my presence. I was so fucking confused. “HARRY!” I yelled again once I was out on the road, and he had to stop then, coming to a complete standstill but not turning to look at me. “What the fuck are you doing?” He didn’t answer. “Why’re you here?” “I… I don’t know.” He slowly turned around, but kept his line if vision right on the ground ahead of his feet. “It was stupid, m’sorry, I’m just gunna leave. I thought I was ready for this and I… I’m really not, so-” “Ready for what?” “Being back here. Seeing… I-I can’t. I have to leave.” He set off again, running his hand through his hair, clearly wanting nothing more than to get away from me. Though I could feel my frustration bubbling, I kept it locked down, remaining still and watching him walk away. “Why did you send me that painting?” I asked tersely, breathless, and that brought him to a standstill once again. I was surprised by how calm I sounded. Even when he turned back around and lifted his head to look at me, I remained still, serene, patiently awaiting his answer. He blinked, strangely acting as though he hadn’t been expecting me to question him on that, like he thought we’d both look past it, like it was regular, expected. “Because… it’s yours.” He eventually managed an answer, speaking as though it was obvious. “No one else deserves it.” “Har-” “I need to go, Alfie. I’m sorry.” He started walking backwards once again, not wanting to delay his departure. “I’m sorry for showing up, I-” “Wait… Fuck, I’m so… Don’t you think we need to talk?” “No. I can’t. Just… Forget about it, okay?” He shuddered. “I’ve got so many fucking questions, Harry! How do you expect me to just forget this?” “Will you tell them I’m sorry?” He said, and when I remained silent, stunned, he turned around and picked up his pace. I wished he’d called me Fee-Fee. I didn’t fully understand why that was my first thought, but all I knew was that I craved to hear him call me by that nickname he had so fondly adopted. I longed for that familiarity, that sense that we knew one another, that we had a history, because as he was walking away from me then, he truly felt like a stranger. The only thing that felt the same was the way he was running away from a situation that was more complicated than he’d bargained for. Exasperated, I picked up the pace and followed his footsteps, diminishing the space between us and then jumping so I was directly in front of him, forcing him to stop. We were mere inches apart. “Alfie-” “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to talk to me, Harry, that’s fine!” I fumed, retrieving my phone from my pocket and searching through it, unable to look him in the eye now we were so close. “I stopped expecting things from you when you fucking left, I’m past it. But you need to speak to your mum. Here.” I held my phone out ahead of him, keeping my eyes on his chest but putting the screen right before his eyes, the contact information for his mother brightening his face. “Wh-what?” “It’s your mum’s number. Take it. Call her.” “But-” “If you don’t, I fucking will. Please step up and do it, Harry. She’s desperate to hear from you.” “How… How do you-” “I spoke to her about you, and I don’t even care if you’re angry with me. I really don’t fucking care anymore, because this is your way to reach her and that’s all that mattered to me. And now you know that she does want you to reach out for her, she tried to reach you, so you’ve got no excuse. Take it, call her. Please.” He was shell-shocked for a little while, taking his time before he reached into his pocket to retrieve his poor excuse for a phone, some old looking thing that didn’t look like it would still function, typing the number he could see and then hopefully saving it to his phone, but I didn’t check to confirm that. I just had to hope he was listening to me, and that I’d said enough for him to finally get in touch with Julia again. “You done?” I asked bluntly. “Uh… Yeah.” “Okay, I’ve done my part, so leave. I don’t care.” I huffed, moving past him, my shoulder colliding with his rather lethally. I had spent the past few months of my life trying to pick him away from my memories, some sort of survival technique I had attempted to adapt, tearing even the tiniest detail from my thoughts. Even down to the simplest thing, like the exact colour of his eyes, the precise shade of green. I had almost forgotten that colour, and the second I was close enough to reacquaint myself, I daren’t look, daren’t remind myself. Or maybe I daren’t acknowledge that I’d never really forgotten. I never could. One last thing held me back before I left him there alone, went back to trying to forget. I rotated to face him again, seeing he hadn’t moved. “And I’d fire your agent, if I was you.” I said. “What?” He turned slightly, enough so he could see me. “Your mum got in touch with him and he never told you. Fire him, he doesn’t give a fuck about you.” His hurt and his horror were clear within his face even though he didn’t say a single thing. I didn’t give him much of an opportunity to reply, really. I had done what I wanted to do, placed the responsibility and the knowledge within his hands, and then it was his to handle, his to deal with however he felt was best. I had hopes, but I certainly didn’t expect anything from him. Not after everything. As I walked away from him, I could feel tears building, like my heart was breaking all over again, like I was losing him all over again even though I’d never gotten him back. Truthfully, he had never been mine to lose.