#I’ve been sitting on this since 9 July

[beauty-of-nyx]

Tag game!

Perceived by @mentallyinvernation​

Currently reading: Cs textbook

Favorite color: PURPLE

Last Song: is it over now (Taylor)

Last Movie: the starving games

Sweet/spicy/savoury: sweet OR spicy

Currently working on: uhhh my Cs homework

Tag 5 mutuals you want to get to know better!: @seiya-starsniper @fleabagoftheendless @honeyteacakes @spockandthings @bisexualhobgadling

[sweetbans29]

Mia Bella - CC

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: You and Caitlin meet at the dog park :)

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: Here's a cute one for you - I honestly just love the thought of meeting outside of basketball and then having mutual support of one another. Ugh - I digress.

6 weeks. 6 weeks was all your summer at home consisted of before having to head back to school to start pre-season training. You play volleyball for UCLA which had you back in SoCal starting in the middle of July. Your love for playing outweighed your disgust for such a short summer but 6 weeks felt like nothing. 

Your favorite part of being home was getting to spend all the time in the world with your baby, Mia. Mia is a six-year-old, beautiful aussie who has been your best friend ever since she was a puppy. She is your favorite reason to come home for the summer. She provided the rest you needed from training while keeping you out in the sun. And this summer you were extra excited.

The city had just put in a new dog park right down the street from your house that had triple the space than any of the parks within a 10-mile radius from you. The only plan you had was to take her there daily. You knew she wasn’t going to complain about that - it was a long-standing summer tradition for the two of you.

You got home on a Friday night and first thing Saturday morning was taking Mia to the park. You grab you both water, her ball, and a blanket and put it in a bag with some snacks (some for you and some for her). You grab Mia’s leash and next thing you know you are off to the park. 

It’s a beautiful day. Mia makes a b-line to the park as your dad had been taking her since it opened. You get to the park right around 9 and find a nice place to set up your blanket. You set everything down and take Mia off her leash, she immediately gets the zoomies and you run around with her. You grab her ball and begin to play fetch.

If there is anything Mia loves more in this world than you, it is playing fetch. She would play all day if someone was willing to throw the ball to her. As you are throwing the ball with her you see another pup come and join Mia. A beautiful golden joins in with Mia - never stealing the ball but just happy to have someone to run around with. Mia drops her ball and the two dogs begin introducing themselves. The golden comes your way to get some pets and seems so excited to find another friend, even if you aren't four-legged.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see another 2-legged friend come jogging your way. You get up from the squat you were in to give the pups some love and give a little wave to the girl coming up.

"I am so sorry," she begins but you immediately wave her off.

"Please don't apologize, your pup is a sweetheart," you say as you continue to love on her pup. "What is their name?"

"Bella," the girl says. "My sweet Bella."

"It's so nice to meet you, Bella!" You say as you give her ear scratches. Your dog then goes up and looks for pets from the Bella's owner. "That is Mia," you say signaling to your baby.

Once a moment passes, you realize you haven't introduced yourself and extend your hand to do so. She shakes your hand with a smile and tells you her name is Caitlin.

"Well it is certainly a pleasure to meet you, Caitlin," you say with a smile. “I’ve caught a few of your games last season - your game is strong.” It’s her turn to smile after you give the compliment.

You invite her to sit while your pups run around. The two of you begin to get to know one another. You learn that she’s played basketball her whole life and that she had to play on the boys' team while she was in elementary. Following that - she was chosen to play for Team USA when she was in high school. As she was talking about playing, it was really neat to hear how much she loves the sport but is still able to separate her game from who she knows she is. Sitting there listening to her, it feels like she has opened a door to her soul- her genuine self. Your heart was instantly hooked.

As she kept talking, it felt like everything in the world melted away - she could talk you into circles and you would follow her anywhere. She talked about how she wanted to go to UConn but they never reached out to her. The coach never came to any of her games and the school never contacted her family. She ended up going to Iowa which meant she was close to home and her family could come and watch her play whenever. She talked about how that affected her in a way she wouldn’t have expected at the time but was for the better. You don’t know what it was but it felt like she was telling you things she hasn’t told anyone.

After she finishes talking about basketball, she starts to talk about how she was born and raised here. She talks about her two brothers and how competitive she was and still is. She talks about how there wasn’t much time for anything outside of basketball. Not that she regretted missing out on things like prom and dating.

When it was your turn, you talked about how you had a very similar background but instead of basketball, it was volleyball. You grew up playing from a young age and are now playing D1 volleyball at UCLA which is a little further from home than you hoped. You talked about how your family travels to come see you as often as they can but it never feels like enough. You talk about how you don't really know what you want to do after playing in college - you have thought about coaching but haven't figured it out yet.

Continuing, you talk about your family and how you are an only child but always wanted siblings growing up. You talk about how nice it was to go to college away but how much you missed the Midwest and look forward to coming back after you graduate. You relate to her in how time outside of sports had you missing things that felt like a right of passage but never really minded it. You were lucky to always have friends on the teams that you played on - they kept you going.

Before the two of you know, it is already mid-afternoon. Both of your pups are napping next to one another like they have known each other their whole lives.

"How long are you home for?" Caitlin asks.

"I have about 6 weeks before having to head back for training. It's not much but it is better than nothing," you say, giving a half smile to your new friend.

"Dang, that feels like nothing," she says with a little laugh. "Do you have any plans?" She asks, hoping that this is just the start of a new friendship rather than a one-and-done thing. She had shared more with you in the last few hours than she had with most people in the first month.

"The only set plan I have is to bring Mia here as much as possible," you say with a smile. "If you aren't super busy, you should join! You and Bella of course," you follow up.

"It's a date," she says giving you a smile. Your cheeks start to heat up, smiling back.

The next few weeks were some of the best you have ever had while being home for the summer. Caitlin and you had spent every day at the park, bringing your dogs of course. Some days you would both bring a book and read, others you would end up talking the whole time. It was really nice to have someone to spend time with while you were home.

Getting to know each other at the park is what brought you to her house today. As you get out of your car, you see her come around the house and wave. You give her a wave back as you grab your things. You don't know how it happened but one day at the park you brought up how her shooting from the logo and how you couldn't shoot a basketball to save your life. She promised she would teach you before the summer was over.

So here you are, about to make a fool of yourself in front of one of the best women college players and there was nothing you could do. You walk over to her and give her a little hug.

"Are you ready to learn how to shoot?" Caitlin says with excitement. Her excitement is contagious.

"As ready as I will ever be!" You say with a chuckle, Caitlin's cute when she is excited.

The two of you stretch and she goes on about how she knows you will be a natural...or so she hoped.

You always love to prove people wrong, usually, it is those who are telling you that you can't do something. This time around, you wish you could prove her right because it was quite embarrassing.

"Well that was terrible," she says with a laugh. Both of you are lying on the ground in her home gym as you have just spent the last two hours trying to do anything that resembled basketball.

"I feel like that doesn't do justice to what I am capable of athletically. If you really want to see what I can do, you would come to one of my games," you say with a laugh.

"I would love to see you play," she says, turning her head to look at you. "Maybe someday we can make that happen."

Looking back at her you reply, "I would love that Cait."

"Then I'll come watch you play," you say with a smile. She smiles in response and scoots a little closer.

"Can I tell you something?" She asks. You nod, turning to face her. The ground wasn't the most comfortable thing, but you wanted to provide her your full attention.

"I am really glad our dogs met that day in the park," she begins, not really making eye contact with you. "I wasn't super excited about coming home for the summer but meeting and getting to know you has changed that. I am really glad we met. talking to you and laughing with you has brought me joy and I want to continue talking even when you go back to California. I don't want to not talk to you...or see you because well, I like you. I like you a lot. And I don't really know what to do with how much I like you because this is all new to me and..." You grab her hand and give it a squeeze. She finally looks up at you.

Her hand comes up to your face, her fingers brushing against your cheek. Her eyes look at your lips as she begins to lean in.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," she says just above a whisper, as her face inches closer to yours. You shake your head no as you close your eyes, waiting to feel her lips.

The kiss is simple. It is slow, just getting to know what the other feels like. Once she breaks away, you place your forehead against hers.

"I like you too," you say with a smile.

AN: Finally a shorter one, we are working on it. I hope you enjoyed it! And as always, thank you for your love and support 🤍

[from-the-clouds]

texas sun - joel miller x f!reader - vol. viii

series masterlist | series playlist | writing masterlist | previous chapter |

chapter summary: Both you and Joel feel there is no use in keeping secrets anymore. pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader words: 5.4k chapter warnings: SMUT, 18+ ONLY. References to absent/abusive parents, alcohol and marijuana mention. A little angst but mostly fluff. As always please dm if you have questions. a/n: If you got notified I posted this at 3am accidentally, no you didn't. this isn’t even a long chapter but i fought with it so much because i was terrified it wouldn’t live up to the hype. Like….everything has been building to this one and I don’t know if it feels right. I love crippling self-doubt. I love being insane! I’m fine. 

-July 9, 2003-

Joel is falling in love. 

He doesn’t know it yet. That’s how love works, right? No one can really pinpoint the exact moment it happens. Most of the time, it’s recognized in hindsight.

What he does know is that you love Sarah. Do you love him? He’s not sure yet. Right now, it almost doesn’t matter. Of course you would love her first. He imagines – he knows – how easy it is to love her. So, he can’t fault you for that. And it’s all that matters. Every other relationship he’s been in has lacked this one critical element. Including his relationship with her own mother. 

Now, he feels there is no use in keeping secrets. He can trust you. He knows Sarah likes you. It all makes sense. 

But he is worried about you. It’s been a few days since the fair, and he hasn’t heard from you. He had seen something from you that so rarely surfaced. Vulnerability. As much as you had tried to hide it behind clenched fists and a sharp tongue – you had been scared. Not just in the moment, but after. Scared to show any weakness, scared to let him in. Maybe you were ashamed, and maybe he’d pushed you too far afterwards. But all he wants is for you to realize that with him, you are safe. 

Joel gets out of his truck and slams the door shut, looking over at your house out of habit. The blinds are shut, your garage closed. It’s six o’clock. He’s home earlier than usual, but he’s used to a different view. Front door hanging open, with warm light beckoning through sheer curtains. He has stood in this very spot and watched Sarah from a distance as she comes back home, the sounds of your combined laughter reaching his ears even from across the street. Where have you been? He wonders. 

Once he’s inside, he doesn’t bother getting too comfortable. Sarah’s at a pool party, and he has to pick her up within the hour. It’s not enough time for him to bother with showering, but he does make himself a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. All that’s left of the loaf is the two end pieces. He needs to go to the store. 

He sits at the kitchen table to eat. Sarah’s only gone for the day, but he wonders why his house feels so big and empty without her. For two weeks she had been away at camp, and he hadn’t felt this lonely. It takes him a moment to realize it’s because he had spent all his time with you. 

The sound of the phone ringing interrupts his sulking, and he answers without checking the caller ID. It’s probably a vendor. Another delayed shipment. “This is Joel.” 

“Hey, Joel.” It’s you. 

“Hey,” Even though you aren’t physically here, he straightens up, wipes his mouth with the paper towel he’s using as a napkin. “How’s it going?”

“I’m good,” you say, your voice sounds….light. Normal. He hears phones ringing in the background. “How are you? How is Sarah doing?”

“I’m good,” he says. “And she’s good.”

“I’m glad,” you begin. “Listen, I uh, I feel like I’ve been MIA the last few days. Work’s been crazy, I’m actually still at the office right now. But I wanted to call you….I’ve uh….I’ve missed hearing your voice.”

Joel feels his shoulders sag in relief. “I missed hearin’ yours.”

You hum softly. “Are you around this weekend? I’d like to see you.”

“I’d like that.” Joel sighs. “I’ll be around. I could make you dinner.”

You don’t answer right away. Joel strains to hear, but all he can make out is keyboards clacking faintly in the distance. “Can….can you make dinner? Like physically. Is that possible?”

Joel looks down at his half-eaten, all-crust peanut butter sandwich. It’s not a very good indicator of his abilities. Maybe you’re right. Nevertheless. “I’ll have you know, I make a mean macaroni and cheese.”

“If it’s from a box, that doesn’t count.”

‘It should, though,” Joel defends. “That’s basically all Sarah and I eat.” 

“Oh, god,” you laugh. “Have you had your blood tested for nutritional deficiencies? Because I’m concerned for your health.” 

“Yeah, actually, I have and I got an A…plus.”

The line is silent again for much longer. Joel thinks the call might’ve dropped, so he says your name. “Hello?”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking.”

You giggle. “Okay, just making sure,”  you sigh, then add. “We have the same blood type.”

“Guess that’s serendipity,” Joel says. 

“Well, I think you’ve made me go soft….“ you groan. “But I’ll eat your boxed macaroni and cheese if it makes you happy.” 

“It will.” 

Joel leaves the conversation feeling reassured. Truthfully, he’s not sure what he’d call you, if someone asked. He’s never asked you to be his girlfriend, but he knew you were only seeing each other. There had been that other guy, whose name he didn’t care to remember, but Joel had asked you about him in a moment of weakness while Sarah was away at camp, and you hadn’t hesitated. There’s no one else. It’s just you. A confession whispered while you were laid bare and pliant beneath him, his hand resting lightly, but still possessively – over your throat. 

This dinner is reasonably the next step. It’ll be a good opportunity to let you know he’s going to tell Sarah. To make sure you are on the same page. And then he can sit down with her and have the talk alone. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Hey Dad, can I ask you something?” 

It’s later in the evening, and Joel is mindlessly flipping through channels on the TV when Sarah enters the living room from the kitchen. She stands with her hands clasped, shifting from foot to foot. Noticing her body language, he leans forward and hits the mute button. 

“Yeah, what’s going on, babygirl?” 

“Before camp….you went on a couple dates. Are you still seein’…whoever that was?”

Joel hesitates a minute. This is a conversation they’ve only ever had a handful of times before, but rarely initiated by Sarah. “Uh, yeah…sweetheart but uh….it’s been a little. We’re both busy people.” 

Sarah studies him for a moment, and it’s hard to recognize the look in her eyes. “What makes you ask?” Joel prompts. 

“Just curious,” she shrugs. “You uhm…you seem…happier. More relaxed.”

Joel’s face feels warm. “Yeah, she’s….she’s pretty great.” 

“Will I get to meet her?”

You already have, he wants to say. And he should just tell her now. Get it out of the way. But if he tells her the truth without letting you know first, it feels like it will make the already messy situation even messier. “Eventually,” he nods. 

“Cool,” His daughter smiles at him, but he sees the way her shoulders remain slumped. Sarah crosses the room to sit next to him on the couch. “Can we watch a movie?” she changes the subject.

“Sure,” Joel gets up to look at their collection of DVDs, thumbing over them and listing off some of her favorites. “Let’s see….Scooby Doo, Bend It Like Beckham, Clueless….” When she doesn’t answer right away, Joel looks over his shoulder to see her curled up,  head turned to stare out the front window. “Sarah? Any of those sound good?”

“What?” she turns back towards him. “Bend It Like Beckham? I haven’t watched that in awhile.”

Joel pulls the movie from the shelf and puts it in the DVD player. When he sits back on the couch she lies down and puts her head on his knee. He knows she’ll be out within minutes.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-July 11,2003-

Standing on the front porch of Joel’s house, you realize you feel more calm in this moment than you have all week – and you haven’t even seen him yet. The prospect of spending time with him alone is enough. 

You don’t even need to fake your smile as the door wins open – it happens on its own accord. But as soon as it comes, it falls away when you are met with – 

“Sarah?” 

It’s her name, but it sort of sounds like it’s a question. You force the smile back onto your face because looking shocked is the opposite of what you want to do. Where is Joel? Are you early? Incredibly, incredibly late? Your heart rate picks up, as you rack your brain for something to say. Some kind of excuse, some kind of explanation. 

“Uhm…I uh, I was wondering if I could uh, borrow a….drill? I’m uh….assuming your dad has one, right? I have this picture….that I’m hanging.”

“Oh yeah,” Sarah nods, lets you step inside, but she only backs up a few steps, and stays facing you. Her chin tilts, giving you a once-over. It’s then you remember what you look like. You’ve styled your hair, you’ve put on makeup. She crosses her arms. ”You look pretty.”

“Oh, thanks,” you nod. “So do you.”

“Are you goin’ somewhere after you hang your picture?”

You shrug, like you don’t know what she’s getting at, and then shake your head. “Maybe.”

Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve up just a little. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” 

“I’m sorry…” you play dumb. “What?”

“My dad’s date. It’s you.”

The thing is, you’ve been so tied up in keeping the secret from Sarah, and feeling guilty about keeping the secret from her, that you haven’t really thought of what could happen when she found out. And when you did, the idea of the worst case scenario – her rejection, made you feel sick to your stomach. 

Directly in front of her, she looks at you dead-on. Everyone has a different definition of what lying is. Deflecting, dismissing, are fine in your eyes but….denying? Especially when the question being asked is so….direct? That would be lying. And sure, you’re not even above that sometimes. But you can't lie to Sarah, regardless of the consequences.

You take a deep breath. “Look, Sarah I wanted to tell you, but-”

“Oh my god, I knew it!” she punches your arm at first. You reach to quell the ache it leaves behind, but before you can, she throws her arms around your neck and squeezes you tightly. 

“Thank God it’s you.” Slowly, your arms raise to return the hug, but you’re really at a loss of words. Her voice is muffled against the shoulder of your shirt. “I’ve never wanted to be right about something so bad in my life.”

“Sarah,” you hear Joel’s voice call from upstairs, and she pulls back. “Is that you I hear downstairs? I thought Emily was supposed to pick you up a half hour ago!” 

Sarah keeps her eyes on you, grinning widely as she answers. “She’s running late.”

“Well, babygirl, I’ve gotta-” Joel’s footsteps pause on the landing, and you look up to see him staring at you both. He looks like a deer trapped in headlights, and you see his expression shift through every possible emotion – concerned, fearful, regretful, apologetic, but by the time Sarah turns to face him with her arms crossed, it’s gone blank.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Dad?”

Joel looks at you, as if you can somehow get him out of this situation. All you have to do is raise your eyebrows. She knows. He rolls his shoulders back and looks up at the ceiling, taking a deep inhale, then drops his gaze to his daughter. “I was gonna tell you soon. Probably later tonight I had to talk to-” he gestures to you, then pinches his temples. 

“I knew it,” she repeats herself.

Joel makes a skeptical face, easing the rest of the way down the stairs. “No you didn’t.” 

“No, I did,” she smiles. “I always thought you had a crush or somethin’, and then I saw the way you were looking at her last weekend, and you were so weird yesterday when I brought up the fact that you were going on dates, and you’ve kept the house way too clean, and-”

“Okay, fine!” Joel cuts her off, and you see his cheeks flush slightly, like he’s embarrassed. “You knew it. I believe you.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Sarah elbows you.

“I asked her not to,” Joel defends. “We were figuring things out.” 

She backs down, then looks between you. 

“Everything good?” Joel asks. “Everyone happy?” 

Sarah nods, then grins. “Good.” Joel wraps an arm across each of your shoulders and pulls you against his chest. Then he plants a kiss on the top of both of your heads. 

Outside, a car horn honks. 

“That’s Emily,” Sarah mumbles, her cheek smushed up against Joel’s bicep, and he loosens his grip, but still keeps you both close. “Will you be here when I get home?” Sarah asks, looking at you.

“I can be.” 

“When’s curfew?” Joel asks. A test. 

“Ten-thirty,” Sarah says confidently. 

“Good,” he says, patting her shoulder. “Have fun. We’ll see you when you get home.”

Sarah grins and gives you one more quick hug before bounding outside. Both you and Joel watch her get into the car through his screen door. You turn to him first after the car backs out of the driveway. 

“Well,” you cluck your tongue. “So much for sneaking around.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Joel covers his face with his hands and groans. “You don’t understand. I had this whole plan tonight to cook you dinner and talk to you about this. I wanted to see if it was okay before I told her but I had no idea her friend was running late and I should’ve-”

“Joel,” you interrupt.

“I just wanted to do one thing right.”

“Joel,” you repeat his name, reach out and put a hand on his arm. “Best laid plans. It’s alright. Really.” 

“You’re not mad?”

You shake your head vehemently, give him a gentle smile. He pulls you back against him and kisses you tenderly, hands on either side of your face. “I’m just glad she’s not mad,” you confess. “I thought she’d hate me once she found out.”

“I knew she wouldn’t.” He chuckles. “She loves you.”

If he had known she wouldn’t be upset, you wonder why Joel would want you to keep it a secret? What revelation did he have that suddenly made him okay with it? Maybe he’s trying to tell you something right now. Without saying it. So do I. 

Before the kiss gets too heated, Joel pulls away. You’re led into the kitchen, where he pours you both glasses of chilled white wine, and you sit at the counter, chatting with him about his day while he cooks you chicken alfredo.

“I felt like if I was going to talk to you about this….kind of serious thing, we shouldn’t be eating a meal made primarily for college students and five-year-olds,” he explains. There’s a piece of hair falling onto his forehead. You gravitate closer to him, sipping your wine and leaning back against the counter to study him carefully.  

“Dang,” you reach out, pushing his hair back away from his face. “This whole week I kept seeing traffic cones and craving boxed macaroni.”

“Well you might still get to eat it,” he laughs. “Because I have no idea how this is gonna turn out.”

“I’m sure it will be alright,” you assure him. “Thanks for taking such good care of me.” He gives you a sweet smile in response, and you relish in it – press your cheek against his shoulder, and hold it there for a moment, looking down with him at the stovetop.

It’s a milestone, of sorts. Sarah knows about you. And from everything Joel’s told you, not everyone he is with gets that privilege. Even if he’s asked you for nothing else, this means something. To him, and now to you in turn. There’s a version of yourself from not long ago that might’ve run for the hills at the implication. But you’re tired of running. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-August 14th, 2003-

You’re roused awake by the feeling of the mattress dipping beneath the weight of another body next to yours.  Being the light sleeper that you are, you get bits and pieces of the unfamiliar room you are in through bleary eyes. And it’s cold. Somewhere during the night, you'd kicked off the fluffy duvet and comforter, and now you’re completely nude underneath nothing but a sheet. 

“You still sleepin’?” It’s Joel. Even though sleep still obscures most of your base-level functioning, you recognize his low, easy drawl. He tugs on the thin layer of fabric that covers your body. Your fingers curl, fisting into the gauzy fabric tucked under your chin. 

“Please don’t,” you croak out, shivering. “I’m freezing.” 

Joel tuts lightly, and slides under the covers to join you. His skin is slightly damp against your own – he’s just gotten back from his morning run. With anyone else, you’d be disgusted, maybe even snap at them for soiling the sheets. But somehow, he smells fucking incredible like this – all salt and sweat, and so warm. 

Pressed against him, you thaw. His hand slides over the dip in your waist, paws at your thighs. “Joel,” you whisper, but it’s not at all a protest. You’re used to this, all handsy in the morning and especially after he works out. 

“I need you,” he murmurs into your ear and you feel him, already hard and grinding against the flesh of your ass.

You hum your affirmation, and that’s all it takes. Joel shifts behind you, probably pushing his shorts down, before lifting your thigh and lining himself up with your entrance. You groan at the feeling of him stretching you open. One of his hands clasps over your mouth, the other holds your hips in place as he drives himself as deep as he can go. You moan louder. 

“Shh, shh, baby,” he murmurs, voice still raspy from lust and sleep. “Don’t want to wake anyone else up.” 

Right. You aren’t alone. Tommy and Sarah’s rooms are just across the hall. The knotty pine walls of the cabin start to shift into focus. With this in mind, you do your best to stay quiet as Joel starts up a callous pace that you think for a second might be a little too aggressive, until the sound of his needy panting in your ear makes you reconsider. You can’t help yourself. 

That’s all this, being with Joel – is. You keep giving more and more of yourself over to him. You can’t stop, you don’t want to. It feels good, the surrender. However slow it may be.

Your body thrums to life before you know it, and then you’re overly sensitive and desperate in-kind, clenching around his length as he ruts into you. 

Joel’s hot mouth trails sloppy, wet kisses along your neck. “Always feels so good, pretty girl. Like you were fuckin’ made for me,” his words buzz against the shell of your ear, fall down where they break at the base of your spine, a hundred shards shattering upon impact. Whatever expletive that leaves you comes out, muffled by his palm. “Hard to stay quiet, huh?” 

It’s already too much. You’ve gotten sinfully wet within minutes. And when you grind back against him involuntarily, that pulls him farther forward. “Touch yourself, darlin’,” he commands. “Not gonna last long.” 

You can feel him throbbing, right on the brink, so you reach down to circle your clit with two fingers as Joel movements grow sloppy, and uncoordinated. The feeling of him spilling deep inside you is the catalyst for your own orgasm, and Joel manages a few more thrusts to work you through it, his grip tightening over your mouth to hold back the noise.

He doesn’t pull back right away, just strokes your hair and peppers kisses on your shoulders. You listen to his sweet nothings, and savor the thump of his heart against your back. 

“I should hire you as my personal alarm clock from now on,” you say, voice hoarse, once you catch your breath. You feel the evidence of what he’d done to you, and press your thighs together at the sensation.

Joel chuckles. “You wouldn’t have to pay me. I’d volunteer.”

“So selfless,” you quip, and he drags his nose up the middle of your back, dazed and content. “Okay,” you wriggle from his grip to sit up. If you don’t leave the bed now, you don’t think you will ever find the strength again. “I need to shower.” 

“Can I join you?”

“Sure,” you say. “But you’re not allowed to distract me.”

“We’ll see about that…” Joel tickles your waist. 

“Joel,” you say, sternly. “I have shit I want to do.”

“Oh, really?” he seems unconvinced. “You’re finding tasks on vacation?”

“I wouldn’t call them tasks,” you explain. “But Sarah and I were gonna walk to that coffee shop in town.” 

“Coffee shop? Without me?” 

“I mean….last night you and Tommy promised to make breakfast,” you ruffle his hair affectionately, and he wrinkles his nose. “So I think we’re expecting it. But I’ll bring something home for you.” 

Joel grins, and pulls you in for another kiss before letting you retreat first to the bathroom, before following after you dutifully. 

He had driven the four of you a couple hours to some wildlife reserve you’d never heard of for a long weekend before Sarah went back to school at the end of the month. It’s your first trip together, and while you were excited to get out of the suburbs, it was a far cry from the vacations you had been used to growing up, and renting out a cabin had been a compromise, instead of straight-up camping. 

Still, you make the most of it. You and Sarah walk to the lake, and lay out on towels reading books and laughing until the sun dries out your skin. Tommy tries to teach you both to fish, but you’re too grossed out to touch the nightcrawlers he buys so you can’t even bait the hook. Joel takes you hiking and Sarah nearly breaks her foot trying to climb a tree. In her defense, you tell Joel it looked very climbable. 

Sarah demands to do a photoshoot when she finds the digital camera you brought, much to Joel’s dismay. He grumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes when you pick pink wildflowers and tuck them in his curls, then behind his ears, before you and Sarah do the same for each other. You snap portraits of each other – you and Sarah, then Sarah and Joel, then Tommy and Joel, and so on. 

When you get the pictures developed, and you see the photo on the top of the stack, you nearly return them, thinking there’d been a mistake. It’s one Sarah took of you and Joel. He’s kissing your cheek, arms encircling you, and you’re laughing so hard that your eyes are closed. The woman in the photo doesn’t look like you….she’s so happy.

Each night of the trip, you take turns on dinner duty – usually something that involves a grill. And the dad in Joel cannot help but hover around whoever is the chef, giving them pointers until he ends up taking over the meal entirely. The weed you brought mysteriously disappears one night after Tommy’s leaves to ‘go for a walk’, and you make s’mores over a fire. It’s so normal.

On your last night, you lay on the hammock next to Sarah, the mosquitoes unable to penetrate the protective circle of citronella candles and incense you’ve surrounded yourselves with. The cool breeze rustling through the trees is a reprieve from the unforgiving heat and humidity of the day. You’re making progress on The Da Vinci Code, even though Sarah is reading The Hobbit and periodically interrupting you to ask questions. 

The back door slams and you hear shoes approach, crunching over gravel. “Hey girls,” Joel stands over you with his hands on his hips. He gives the hammock a push that sends it into motion, swinging back and forth gently. You laugh, but Sarah wrinkles her nose, clearly disturbed by the movement. “Room for one more?” 

“No,” Sarah lifts her arm to try to keep him from climbing beside her. “Get a chair.”

Joel huffs, but doesn’t argue, pulling up the folding chair to sit next to you both. “It’s a nice night, ain’t it?” 

“Yeah,” you answer. Sarah puts the book closer to her face, gives a mumbled yes.

“Sarah, honey, have you enjoyed yourself?” 

“Did you not bring something to read out here?”

“No, I thought I’d come talk with you both because I was gettin’ bored all alone.” 

“Maybe you should go get your guitar,” Sarah suggests. 

“Where’d Tommy go?” you ask. 

“Met some girl who’s stayin’ two doors down,” Joel raises an eyebrow at you. 

You shake your head. “Incredible.” 

The night is loud, but ambient, crickets chirping. “It’s definitely starting to get dark earlier,” Joel observes. 

Sarah lets out a long sigh at that, shuts her book with a satisfying snap, and shifts to sit up. “I’m going inside.” 

“You don’t have to go, babygirl,” Joel reaches to steady the hammock and keep you from flipping out of it. 

“I’m tired,” she says. “And I gotta pack my stuff up.” 

“Do you want me to-”

“No, please, Dad, just…let me be.” 

Joel frowns, and he stares at her dejectedly as the door slams shut. He turns back to you. “Did I do something wrong?” 

You smirk, shake your head. “End of summer blues.” 

“Should I talk to her?”

“Maybe give her some time….check in later.” 

Joel sighs, stands from his chair, and takes Sarah’s place next to you on the hammock with incredible grace, considering the task. Smooth motherfucker, you think to yourself. 

“Tell me how you know more about parenting than I do?” he asks, rolling onto his side and propping himself on an elbow. “Sometimes I feel like you’re better at it.” 

To be fair, Sarah had been hinting at it all week, but you didn’t want to pry until she said it outright. Plus, it’s a familiar feeling. “I guess it helps that I was once a teenage girl. I used to get angsty before school started up every year.”

“How’d your dad handle it?” You realize that Joel is asking the question completely innocently, without thinking, but the second it leaves his mouth he realizes his mistake, and you can see the apology written in his features. 

It’s nothing, you shake your head. “Do you…” you trail off. “Do you want to know?”

Joel nods carefully. 

“Well,” you bite your lower lip. “He didn’t really handle it at all. I didn’t like being sent away. The one time I came to him in tears over it, he told me to quit being a crybaby and sent me to my room. So after that, I just never bothered him about it again.” 

Almost twenty years ago, but it’s like you’re there, in the dim light of your bedroom, biting on a corner of a frilly pink throw pillow and not bothering to wipe the tears that track down your cheeks and stain the embroidery. It wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last.

“How old were you?” Joel asks. 

“I don’t know,” You pick at the corner of your book, avoiding his eyes. “Younger than Sarah. Nine or ten?” 

You wait for Joel’s expression to shift to one of pity. But it never does. There’s only something steely in his gaze. He winds an arm around your waist and brings you up against him. “I’m sorry.”  

“It’s okay,” you assure him, because it wouldn’t be opening up if you didn’t feel the need to immediately downplay everything you had said. “My brother ended up sneaking me out and taking me to get a milkshake.” 

“I’m glad he was there.”

“Me too,” you nod. “He was- is a good brother. Things are just….complicated now that we’re older.”

“I know that feeling,” Joel strokes your hair, runs his hand up the side of your waist absentmindedly. You find his quiet empathy – the space he holds for you – incredibly rewarding. That wasn’t so bad.

After the moment passes, he tugs on the collar of the flannel you’re wearing over a tank top. “This my shirt?” he asks. You nod, give a cautious smile. 

“Hope it’s okay,” you said. “I was cold. I didn’t think it’d get this cold at night.”

“It’s more than okay,” he mumbles, nosing past your hair and pressing his lips to your throat. You shiver. “You always look so pretty. But being out in nature really suits you.”

“Okay,” you say sarcastically, and don’t believe him for a second.

“You should really let me take you camping sometime. Proper camping,” he continues. 

“Joel, we talked about this,” you recall the conversations leading up to this trip. “If I am not within walking distance of an actual shower, I will die.” 

Joel laughs. “I’m not being dramatic. It would kill me.” 

“Don’t say that,” Joel scolds. “You’d be fine.”

“I’m not built like you. I’m a City Girl.”

“You’re not at all curious about the idea of having sex in a tent?”

“We have sex in a bed just fine. Why do we need to do it in a tent? Wouldn’t that just make it worse?”

“It’s a change of scenery.” 

“Okay so if that’s all it is, just hang a different picture in your room or something.”

Joel laughs again. 

“Look, I’m open minded about a lot of things, but if you took me camping, properly, out in the wilderness, you would hate me by the end of it.” 

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Joel answers. “I bet I’d still think I’m a pretty lucky guy.” 

You roll your eyes, pick your book back up and scan the pages, none of the words hitting. “You have too much faith in me. Truly.” 

“I’m serious,” he mumbles, hand under your chin. “Look at me, just let me sweet talk you for a second, alright?” 

Sighing, you let the book fall on your chest and clasp your fingers over it, turning to face him. “You’re so good. To me, to Sarah. Even to Tommy, although that’s not very important,” he smirks at his joke, almost like his brother could hear him. Quickly, he focuses back on you. “You fit in so well, and you don’t even have to try. I’m just so….happy.” 

Joel isn’t a poet or anything, but it’s one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever said to you. And it means more since it’s from him. You give him a gentle smile. “Me too.” 

But before anything can settle, you’re made aware of the deep ache within you. All you’ve ever wanted, all your life, is to not feel like a burden. To be cared for, paid attention to, without having to do anything to earn it. Do you really deserve this? Him? Sarah? How long will it be before it gets taken away, like it always has.

You feel like a toddler. A shiny toy is being dangled in front of you, but the second you reach for it, acknowledge how much you want it, it’s pulled away. You’re so uncoordinated, you fall on your face.

“Are you with me?” Joel asks, and you realize you’ve been staring absentmindedly at your feet. You nod. “What’s on your mind?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.” 

You scrape your top teeth together for a second. “I’m really happy. I am, Joel,” you promise him. “But for me, good things don’t usually last.”

Joel’s hand circles yours, brings it so it’s pressed against his heart. “This will.”

You chose to believe him.

------

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[autumnshighlady]

I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 17)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: reunion time

warnings: Night Court slander, anti Rhysand

word count: 5.9k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: i am SO SO SO SORRY FOR THE LACK OF UPDATES! It's been almost 4 months since the last chapter yikes. Life got crazy then I got into a horrible writing block and this is the first thing I've written since July. I'll admit it sucks and is definitely a filler chapter but I promise more exciting stuff to come x

feedback is appreciated, just no hate pls! these are just my opinions, i’m more curious to see how you all like the writing and characterization and storylines!

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / 

read on ao3

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For the first time in weeks, your eyes open to rays of sunshine instead of cold darkness. Warm, rich scents flooded your senses, so vastly different from the stifling air of the prison cell you had become accustomed to. Instead of smelling damp, cold stone, you were greeted with the smell of fir trees and fresh air. Your limbs felt lighter, the weight of the chains that had been shackled to your wrists for ages long forgotten.The soft touch of a heavy blanket wrapped around you like an embrace, hugging your body.

You squinted at the harshness of the light, eyes not quite used to the brightness of the sun. You groaned and rolled over to get away from the luminous glow, but felt your body collide with something on the bed. After a couple blinks, your eyes began to focus on the lithe figure sitting next to you.

“Nesta…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, her name like a prayer on your mouth as she came into view. Nesta’s tall frame was seated cross-legged next to you, clad in a deep green gown with a wide neckline adorned with a lacy pattern of gold flowers. Her hands were clasped together tightly, resting upon her skirts. Her sharp face was muddled with concern, slate grey eyes hollow like her mind was elsewhere. 

But they snapped into focus once again at the sound of your voice. “(Y/N)” Nesta breathed, blinking a few times as if she couldn’t believe it was truly you. “You’re awake.”

“How long was I out?” You asked, trying to prop yourself up on your elbows but failing. You let out a groan, flopping back onto the pillows like a sack of potatoes.

“Don’t try and sit up yet.” Nesta warned, gently putting a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve been out for two days. Your body has been through so much, the healers said to let you rest as much as possible.”

You took in a breath, taking in the sight of Nesta before you. A thousand emotions swelled up in you all at once, threatening to burst out and paint the room a hundred different colours. Your mate, your beautiful, strong mate had come to save you. Tears pricked at your eyes as your throat swelled up. “Nesta–” You croaked out.

“Shhh.” Nesta shushed, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You got out. We all did.”

You sighed. The escape from the Night Court seemed like yesterday and a million years ago all at once. “Are we in Autumn? I don’t remember getting here.”

Nesta nodded. “You passed out on Zôrzimril after we left Night. We’re in Eris’ personal residence in the woods. Beron doesn’t know you’re here.”

You glanced at the room around you, taking in the rich earthy tones signature to the Autumn Court. It was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold surroundings of Night. Lucien had told you that Eris had his own, elaborate place somewhere free of his father in the court. You had never stepped foot in it, until now, but had always wanted to.

“You’re in the room I’ve been staying in.” Nesta continued, a hint of a red blush across her cheeks as she avoided your gaze. “Actually, it’s technically Eris’s–”

“Wait,” You interrupted her. “I’m in Eris’s bed? You’ve been sleeping in Eris’s bed?”

Nesta’s blush deepened. “It’s his personal residence. He doesn’t exactly have guest rooms.”

“Where has he been staying then?” 

“When he’s not at his father’s palace, the couch, apparently. Don’t feel bad for him, that couch is big enough for 3 people to sleep comfortably, limbs spread out and all.”

You snorted, ignoring the fact that you were laying in Eris’ personal bed. You expected to feel a twinge of jealousy that Nesta had been staying in this room, so up close and personal with Eris. But none came. Something which surprised you, given Nesta was your mate, and mates were supposed to be territorial. 

It was like a bucket of ice water was washed over you as you recalled the realisations you came to over the last few days. Nesta didn’t know she was your mate – she thought she was Cassian’s.

Estelle’s words rang in your head. Fae folk can have more than one mate in some instances. Nesta Archeron has more than one, but Cassian is not one of them.

It confused you – Cassian sure acted like a mated male around Nesta, even more so once Rhys mentioned it at the Court of Nightmares. Why would the High Lord lie about it? Did anyone else know? A million questions swarmed through you, each one louder than the last.

You recalled Nesta telling you the story of Feyre finding out about the mating bond with Rhys. How angry she was when she found out that the male had known for months and didn’t tell her. Deep down, you knew Nesta would be angrier the longer you kept it from her. “Nesta,” You began. “There’s something you need to know–”

“Good morning, my sunshines.” The smooth voice of Eris echoed throughout the room as the door swung open, interrupting you. The prince strolled in, red hair gleaming in the glow of the morning sun. He was carrying a tray, steaming with freshly baked pastries, tea, and fruits. “I see (Y/N) has risen from the dead!”

“You’re not funny, Eris.” Nesta snapped. 

“I disagree.” Eris quipped, setting the tray down at the foot of the bed. “(Y/N) think’s I’m hilarious, don’t you (Y/N)?”

You snorted. “If you pass me that bacon and egg sandwich I’ll give you this one.”

Eris smirked, placing the requested item onto a gold plate and passing it to you. “Deal.”

You eagerly grabbed the sandwich, taking as big of a bite as your mouth would allow. It burned your tongue, but you didn’t care. It took everything in you not to moan as the rich flavours filled your taste buds. “This is amazing.” You mumbled.

The Autumn Prince smirked. “Well I suppose anything would taste good after being basically starved in a dungeon.”

“Seriously, Eris. Shut up.” Nesta seethed, shooting a deadly glare at him. You snorted, but couldn’t help but notice the lack of seriousness behind it. Plenty of times you had been witness to Nesta snapping at people, but this was different. Her tone didn’t have the same bite to it that it did with others – no, it was more playful. She turned back to you, eyes softening. “How do you feel?”

You shrugged. “Tired. Like I’ve just done the workout of the century and need a week’s worth of sleep. I don’t want to leave this bed for at least another few days.”

Grey eyes met amber ones as Nesta and Eris exchanged an uneasy glance. For that moment, the only sound was the rustling of the wind coming through the windows. “What?” You asked, brows furrowed.

Eris sighed, walking around the corner of the bed. He was dressed in a simple red shirt with loose sleeves, the top slightly unlaced and exposing the pale skin underneath. Very rarely had you seen the prince dressed so casually. He grabbed your ankles through the thick duvet, lifting your legs up slightly and moving them to the side to make space for him to sit across from Nesta. Eris kept his hands on your legs, gently squeezing them.

“You’ve survived a lot of hard things lately, (Y/N).” He said slowly. “And you’ve overcome one of the most difficult parts. But I’d be lying if I said it was going to get a lot easier.”

A lump formed in your throat. Truthfully, over the past few weeks you hadn’t even thought about the possibility of what life would be like if you escaped Night and got to Autumn. There were still dozens of factors to consider, all of which you had given up on figuring out solutions to.

“I have to explain to my father how and why you are here, which will be difficult.” Eris continued. “He already blew a fuse over Nesta’s unexpected arrival. It is likely a second unexpected arrival will be even worse, and he will not take it lightly.”

You shifted in the pillows, running a hand through your hair. Surprisingly, you weren’t met with the knots and tangles you expected from not being able to brush your own hair for weeks. “Your father will hurt you, won’t he?” You said to Eris.

He hesitated before speaking. “Let me worry about that, my dear. We need to convince my father there’s a good reason for you to stay. I’ve already used the marriage card on Lady Nesta here, so we need to figure out something else.”

“What about my…” Your words trailed off as you tried to think of a word to describe what exploded out of you during the escape. “Magic?”

Eris shook his head. “Not an option. He cannot know about that.”

“Why not? Surely he’ll find out eventually?”

“Likely not. Rhysand is not stupid enough to let slip that he let someone with that kind of ability escape his court. And I have reason to believe Tamlin will stay quiet about it as well.”

“Speaking of that kind of ability,” Nesta interjected. “What even was that? I didn’t know you–”

“Yeah, me neither.” You said, locking your fingers together and twirling them around. You lowered your head, avoiding their gazes. “Something…. something happened when I was in there.”

Eris cocked his head, eyes burning with curiosity. “What happened?”

Nesta grabbed your hands, unlocking your clammy fingers and lacing her own between them. She shot a fierce look at Eris. “She doesn’t have to talk about it now.” She hissed.

“Yes, Nesta, she does.” Eris said calmly before turning back to you. “I wish we had more time to let you rest, I really do, but I need to know what happened before I can figure out what story to spin to my father.”

You let out a sigh. “Why can’t we just kill him first so we don’t have to deal with all of this?”

Nesta snorted, earning an eye roll from Eris. “As much as I would love to be rid of my father,” Eris said. “We have to wait before we take him out. There are things that need to be properly aligned, and it takes planning.”

“Haven’t you been planning?” You fired back. “I mean, plotting and scheming is all you do in your spare time, isn’t it?”

A smirk formed at the edge of Eris’s lips. “The officials in this court need to see Beron accept you and Nesta if they’re going to accept you. We risk a coup if we kill him before then. Now, tell me what happened while you were in that cell.”

Nesta’s steady hand on your weak one evened your breathing slightly. You tore your gaze from the pattern on the sheets and you drank in the sight of her as if it could slip away at a moment's notice. She looked stronger, healthier than she had in Night. She carried herself more confidently, less stiff and rigid. She looked more comfortable in her own skin, something that filled you with pride. But also sorrow – sadness at the fact you hadn’t been there to witness this change.

And so you explained everything – the vision you had, the conversation with Estelle, what happened that day Hybern came to your village. Nesta’s face was twisted with confusion and awe as you went on, whereas Eris’ expression was unreadable. 

“But that wasn’t everything.” You murmured, heart beginning to race as you prepared to explain the part you dreaded most. 

“There’s more?” Nesta asked, eyes wide. “You’re telling me you’re the Mother incarnate, and there’s more than that?”

Tears pricked at your eyes once again. These next few words could ruin everything. You knew Nesta hated the idea of mates, the concept of being shackled to someone just because a higher being thought you’d produce good offspring. Nesta already had to process what Rhysand said about Cassian being her mate, and you were about to make it a whole lot worse. You couldn’t stop those tears from spilling down your face as a sob left your body.

“Hey…” Eris spoke softly, reaching out to brush one of the tears off your cheek. “It’s ok.”

“(Y/N)?” Nesta’s voice was cautious, laced with concern.

“You’re my mate.” Your voice shook as you dragged the words out. You fixed your gaze on the sheets again, not wanting to see Nesta’s reaction.  

“What?” She said quietly.

“Cassian isn’t your mate,” You said, more steady this time. “I am. Estelle said fae can have more than one mate, but Cassian is not one of yours.”

For once, not even the wind rustled in response. It was as if the world had gone quiet. You could feel her surprise, like a rush of cold water surging through that link between you two. You tried to reach her through the bond, to get a sense of what else she was feeling, but you were met with a stone cold wall.

Nesta. You tried. But she had shut you out, eyes vacant as she took in the information. Wordlessly, Nesta removed her hands from yours. Your skin cried out at the loss of warmth, missing the contact already. She uncrossed her legs and climbed off the bed before leaving the room, slamming the door behind her.

A sob wracked your body again, harder this time. Wet droplets appeared on the sheets as tears rolled off your face, and you buried your head in your hands. Even after everything you’d endured, this was somehow the worst.

You felt a shift on the bed as Eris scooted up closer to you. “It’ll be okay.” You heard his voice murmur in that scarce gentle tone.

“You don’t know that.” You choked out. One of your fears had come true. Everything you and Nesta had built up over the last few months – the quiet friendship, the few sacred kisses you shared that set your entire body alight, the easiness during training with Gwyn and Emerie, it all came crashing down. Whatever she had felt for you mattered now, she wouldn’t want to be shackled even more than she already has.

“When you were asleep, Nesta spent hours untangling your hair.” 

You lifted your head from your hands at Eris’ voice, meeting his soft gaze. “It was a mess,” He continued. “Took her the entire afternoon. But she was so gentle, and not breaking a single strand. She didn’t take a single break, and even after she was done she remained by your side until the sun came up. I set up the couch for her, but she insisted on sleeping next to you.”

Eris gently touched your hand. It was warm against your skin, which you felt was still thawing from the cold of Rhys’ dungeon. “Nesta has had a lot to take in the last few weeks, as you well know. I’ve been training her powers, but my father has insisted that a demonstration of her magic be made before the marriage is to happen. I have no doubt that–”

“Did you know?” You blurted out before the prince could finish his sentence. It was a question that had been niggling at the back of your mind since you found out Nesta was your mate – Eris had a knack for finding out things long before others knew. You had no doubt that the second he found out about the spell you and Nesta cast, he had delved into hours of research trying to figure out as much about it as possible. He was a clever male, one who fought with knowledge and scheming rather than brute force like Cassian.

Eris was silent for a moment before speaking. “I suspected. There were too many unknown factors to bring it up, I wanted to be sure before I told Nesta. I found old manuscripts dating back thousands of years – the text was faded, but it went into more details about the specifics of the spell between Estelle and Jayana. There were too many parallels between it and the mating bond. I figured the only explanation was that a mating bond had to already be in place for the spell to truly link.”

You sighed. If Nesta found out that Eris might have known as well and kept it from her, she would be even angrier. “Eris, Nesta doesn’t trust easily. You should have told her this the second you got the idea in your head. Now she’s going to be pissed at both of us.”

“She’s not pissed at you, my dear.” Eris gently stroked your hand with his thumb, the movement so small it was almost undetectable. “Give her a few hours to process. Then we can all sit down and figure out what to do next, okay? Now rest for a bit longer, you need to get your strength back.”

You nodded, heart aching at the image of Nesta storming out of the room. Laying back, you settled back into the plush bedding, wishing it would swallow you up whole. Eris reached down and pulled the duvet closer to you, gently tucking you in. “Sleep well, darling.” He whispered. Before you could process it, Eris leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Your skin tingled at the sensation, still feeling like it was slowly thawing from the cold of the dungeon. 

There was so much more you wanted to say, a thousand questions you wanted to ask Eris, but the prince retreated as quickly as he came leaving you to sleep. Your eyes fluttered shut as you drifted off again, heart aching at the absence of Nesta’s presence.

 *********************

A few hours later, you smoothed your hands over the skirts of the dress Eris’s servants had laid out for you. It was a rich brown colour with a square neckline and loose sleeves -- elegant, yet comfortable. You had no clue where Eris had been pulling this wardrobe from, but that was besides the point. Grogginess continued to plague you, although less so than before. Even with your fae healing, it would take a while for you to return to your full strength – something you had Rhysand to thank for.

Your hands curled into fists, nails scraping through your palms as you thought of the High Lord of the Night Court. A sick feeling curled in your gut as you recalled his smug face as he sent his dark powers slicing through your skin. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back in that dungeon, chained up and helpless against the male. You hated it, hated him. You hated how much his slimy face crossed your mind, how the faint scars along your wrists would never truly fade. Your mind flashed with memories of riding atop Zorzimril, burning down Rhys and Feyre’s many castles, the orange flames lighting up the night sky as you burned and burned them. You’d be lying if you said that didn’t make you feel better.

Shaking your head as if to push memories of Rhysand out of your mind, you wandered towards the door on unsteady legs. As the door swung open, you were greeted with a long hallway lined with elegant torches. You looked back and forth, unsure which way to go. You didn’t even know Eris had this residence, let alone how to navigate it. But then you felt something, a slight pull deep inside of you that urged you to go left. Aimlessly, you followed it, wandering down the hallway before coming to a beautiful wooden arch that marked the entryway into the living room. In awe, you scanned the space before you. A series of couches and armchairs were placed around the room, some by a fireplace and some by the high bookshelf that stretched all the way to the ceiling. It was decorated in rich autumnal colours, the scent of cinnamon and apple cider filling the air. It had a modest dining table and three chairs, and a set of doors that seemingly led to a pathway outside.

Nesta and Eris occupied two of the chairs, sitting across from each other in silence. Eris was humming quietly, writing something down on a piece of parchment. His red hair looked more orange in the candlelight, and was braided loosely. Nesta sat stoically, staring into nothing. She had a cup of tea in front of her, but no steam emitted from it. Clearly she had been there a while, tea untouched. Her face was grave, but her head whipped to face you as you stepped through the archway.

You wanted to throw up with nerves. You had always been able to read Nesta’s expressions until now. Her face was contorted with a mix of emotions, passing so quickly between each one it was impossible to tell what they were. My mate, my mate, my mate, rang like a war bell in your head so loud it threatened to drown out any sounds from the outside world. You felt the bond in your chest swell in her presence, stronger than anything you’d felt before. There was no denying it – Nesta was your mate.

“May I join you?” You finally managed to ask through a dry throat. Nesta said nothing and just kept staring at you.

“By all means,” Eris piped up, setting his pen down. “Come join the party. We’re having a grand old time here, aren’t we, Nesta?”

You expected Nesta to roll her eyes or snap at him in that playful manner, but it was as if she didn’t even hear Eris. She just kept looking at you as if she wasn’t sure if you were really there. You carefully walked over, taking a seat between Nesta and Eris at the head of the table where the remaining chair was. Her grey gaze followed you the whole way.

“What have you guys been up to while I was out?” You asked.

Eris sighed. “Well, my dear, I informed Nesta of what I began to suspect regarding the bond. She tore me a new one for not telling her, it was very dramatic. So now we’re sitting in silence trying to figure out how to address the elephant in the room.”

You didn’t say anything, just stared at the lines in the wood of the table. You felt frozen – afraid of saying the wrong thing. Nesta had never wanted to be fae, and you knew having a mating bond must make that worse for her. It would make her even more shackled to this life she didn’t want, chipping away at her remaining humanity piece by piece. Sure, you and Nesta had kissed a few times and there was feeling behind it, but that didn’t mean she wanted you as a life partner. And even with that, Estelle had said Nesta had multiple mates. If Cassian was not one of them, then who was? 

Eris’s sigh broke your thoughts. “By the Mother, you two are stubborn.” He huffed. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Nesta, (Y/N), you are mates. I suspected it a few days after I found out about the spell you two cast, as it needed an already existing bond to latch onto in order to work. But then things get complicated. Somehow, Rhys is wrong about Cassian being Nesta’s mate. Either they’re the best actors I’ve seen, or there is something linking Nesta and Cassian.”

You saw Nesta’s throat bob at the mention of Cassian. Trying to figure out how he was connected to Nesta hurt your brain. 

“I felt something with Cassian,” Nesta said tensely. “Not in that way, but I could feel what he felt as if part of him lived within me. How is that not a mating bond?”

The prince shrugged. “I have no idea, honestly. There’s something strange going on there. However, none of that matters until we deal with my father. I am set to marry Nesta, which puts us in an awkward situation. If Nesta pleases my father with her powers, then she is to be wed to me.”

“When is that supposed to be happening?” You asked. You weren’t sure how you felt about Eris and Nesta getting married. Part of you was jealous, resentful at the idea of Nesta marrying someone else. But there was another part of you that felt differently in a way you couldn’t explain. Like you were being left out not just from Nesta’s life, but Eris’s too.

“Tonight.” Eris said gravely.

Your blood froze. “Tonight?”

“Yes. And no offence my dear, but you complicate things. Because now I have to explain to my father why you are here too and why I keep letting in strays.”

You snorted. “Beron’s going to kill me. I think you already pissed him off by letting Nesta in here without his permission. I’m not even half as valuable to him as she is, we both know he won’t have any use for me.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Nesta finally spoke, her voice fierce. You turned to face her and were met with her silver eyes. They stared into you, swimming with a thousand emotions.

“Whatever happens, Beron won’t touch you.” She continued evenly.

“We just have to play the angle right.” Eris said, crossing his arms and resting his elbows on the table. “You spied for Rhysand, correct?”

You scoffed. “Well, technically–”

“Yes, you did.” Eris interrupted sternly. “You spied for Rhysand, and then you found out what he was planning and tried to flee. He’s been hunting you down, and I found you at the Autumn Court border. That is the story we are going with.”

“What exactly did I find out that made me flee?”

“That he’s planning on becoming High King with Nesta’s Made sword.”

“Beron won’t believe that.”

“He will because it’s true.”

Your heart fell into your stomach. “What?” You spoke in a whisper, mind reeling in shock. The thought of Rhysand using Nesta’s weapons and declaring himself as High King over all of Prythian made you want to throw up.

“Based on my intel, the lovely Amren has been trying to convince him to go down that path.” Eris explained through gritted teeth. “Apparently he refused at first, but I strongly believe that with you and Nesta both having fled his grasp, he will reconsider his stance to get you back under his control.”

“If Rhysand was High King then he’d have dominion over the Autumn Court,” You muttered. “We would be right back where we started.”

Eris nodded. “But we can use this. My father would do anything to make sure that didn’t happen, overlook anything. If you inform him of Rhysand’s plans, he’ll want you on his side for more intel.”

“Would Beron really be so quick to trust someone who’s supposedly betraying their own court?”

“My dear, Rhysand locked you in a dungeon. That part we don’t have to lie about. We just have to twist the reasons why he locked you up. But truthfully, I think my father will be so distracted by the intel he won’t care about anything else.”

You chewed on your lower lip with worry. It was a big gamble, and while Eris was clever Beron was still unpredictable. So many things could go wrong so fast, and the last thing you wanted was to end up in another dungeon. The thought of doing so made you want to curl up into a ball.

As if sensing your discomfort, Nesta placed her hand on top of yours. It was warm, such a difference from how frail and cold her hands were in the Night Court. “It’ll be ok.” She murmured. 

You smiled softly, relaxing instantly under her touch. 

“And that’s my cue,” Eris announced, gathering his papers and standing up. “I suspect you two have much to discuss alone. I must go ensure everything is prepared for dinner with my father tonight. I’ve left instructions with the servants on how to get you ready, and I will be by to collect you both at five o’clock.”

He strode towards the archway, but paused briefly. Amber eyes landed on you and Nesta again, all playfulness gone. “I have done my part, and will do whatever I can to ensure your safety.” He said gravely. “But do not forget that you both have roles to play, and we all risk our heads if you fail to do so. And if you have any thoughts about betraying me to save your own skin, Beron will no longer be the one you need to fear from my family. I will throw you both to the wolves without hesitation if you think about dragging me down with you.”

With that, the prince left, leaving you and Nesta sitting in silence. Eris’s words stung you a bit, that he thought you would even think about betraying him. But Eris had been playing this song and dance with his father for centuries, and at the end of the day no matter how much he’d helped you, he’d always look out for himself. It was something you were aware of when you planned this, and you mentally kicked yourself for ignoring it.

The few minutes after Eris’s departure were filled with silence. No birds chirped in the windowsill, no breeze rustled the branches. It was as if the world had stopped, waiting on the edge of its seat for you and Nesta to speak. 

Truthfully, you had no idea what to say. How could you comprehend what Nesta felt when you didn’t even know how you truly felt? A part of you had always loved Nesta, but were those your true feelings or just the mating bond? All those tender moments, the stolen kisses, the soft touches, would they have happened if the mating bond wasn’t already there? The thought of your connection with Nesta stemming from magic rather than your true feelings made your heart hurt. You had never wanted a mating bond, yet here you were.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity, you found the courage to speak. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Nesta?”

Nesta took a deep breath, fiddling with her fingers for a minute before answering. “How a few weeks ago I was ready to burn down the entire Night Court to get you back. How every second you were in that dungeon I was here, living comfortably. How every time I closed my eyes I saw glimpses of darkness, how I felt your fear. How all that time, I thought it was the spell allowing me to feel those things. I never could have imagined…”

Her voice trailed off, as if she was afraid to even speak about the bond. “Me too,” You replied. “Look, I know things are hard for us right now. And you don’t have to accept the bond if you don’t want–”

Nesta sharply cut you off. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to accept it. I just don’t know what to believe right now. Estelle said Cassian wasn’t one of my mates, but I swear I felt a bond. Was she wrong about that? And does that mean she was wrong about us?”

“I can’t speak for Cassian, but I don’t think she was wrong about us. And I think you know it too, Nesta.”

Nesta looked up at you, grey eyes brimming with emotion. You felt a gentle tug at the bond and inhaled sharply. She smiled softly at your reaction, confirming everything she needed to know.

“Nesta…” You breathed her name like a prayer on your lips. Tears filled your eyes as you admired that tender smile.

“I’m sorry for running off on you earlier.” She said quietly. “I just… I didn’t expect it. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. You, being my mate. After everything that happened between us…”

You sniffled, trying to hold back more tears. “But was all of it real? I mean, if we were mated the whole time, did everything happen between us because of the bond, or because of us?”

Nesta blinked slowly. “It was real to me.”

“Me too.”

You stroked Nesta’s wrist with your thumb, rubbing it in circular motions. You felt like you were going to explode, feeling everything both you and Nesta were experiencing at once. All you wanted to do was sit here and stare at your beautiful mate, forgetting about everything else. To let the rest of the world fall away beneath your feet as long as you could stay in this moment forever.

But realistically, you knew you had to face the challenges. “What about Eris?” You asked quietly. “You’re supposed to marry him, where does that put us?”

The Archeron sister bit her lip anxiously. “I don’t know. I’m sure Eris and I will be free to see whomever we wish as long as we are discreet and are able to maintain our image.”

You laughed humourlessly. “So then I’d become your mistress.”

“That’s not what I want for either of us. But I don’t see another way right now.”

You tried not to let it sting. You weren’t stupid – Eris marrying Nesta was necessary in your plan, but that didn’t make it any easier. Especially now that you two were mated. The thought of simply being your mate's secret mistress made you feel slimy and ashamed. “How do you feel about marrying Eris?” You asked tentatively.

Nesta shrugged, but a faint red stained her cheeks. “It’s a smart move. It makes sense. And he’s not the worst male I’ve met so I think I’ll live.”

You chuckled, causing Nesta to glare at you. “Your face is red, Nesta. Admit it, you like him.”

“I don’t. He’s insufferable.” Nesta’s face only grew redder as she looked away.

Your laugh only grew louder. “Liar.”

“Fine!” Nesta snapped. “I’ve spent a lot of time with him in the last few weeks and he’s grown on me, ok? Does it not bother you as my mate for me to admit I like him? It feels wrong. I’m mated to you, not him.”

“No.” You answered honestly, which surprised you. “It doesn’t bother me. He’s charming. Besides, I’ve had a crush on him since I was like twenty, so…”

Your voice trailed off with embarrassment as you realised what you had just admitted. You had never told anyone about your crush on Eris, and had been determined to die with this secret. Your face went red, and Nesta burst out laughing. 

“Look whose face is red now?” She teased.

“Shut up.” You mumbled, burying your face in your hands. “If you ever tell him I said that I’ll strangle you.”

Nesta snorted. “Oh, please. He’s Eris. He probably already knows.”

You groaned, banging your head into the wood of the table a few times. It was strange and yet comforting to know that Nesta liked Eris. You expected a mately surge of jealousy and possessiveness, but none came. 

After a few more minutes of laughter, a comfortable silence took over the room before you each chose a book from the shelf and began to read. The hours began to pass by, and you stared at Nesta as she flipped through the pages, how beautiful she was with the autumn glow upon her. You wanted to memorise every inch of her features before the dinner with Beron tonight, the thought of which made your gut churn.

It was a quarter to five when the shuffled footsteps of four servants came into the room. It was time to prepare.

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Reading BioShock: Rapture (Part 1: The Cover)

Part 2: John Shirley and the Front Matter ->

“Who the hell is Reggie?” I asked my friends a while back.

Reggie shows up in a lot of BioShock fanfiction. At first I thought he was a fan-made creation that had jumped isolation, but he appeared in enough oddball places that I began to think I had missed something important from canon.

“He’s from the BioShock novel,” a friend replied.

I swore and eyeballed the novel, which has been sitting next to me for about two years now.

BioShock: Rapture is a video-game tie-in novel written by John Shirley (aka Some Guy) and published in July 2011. Originally, it had been slated to release with BioShock 2, which launched February 9, 2010. It did not because it had to work in BioShock 2 elements and the BioShock 1 canon had to be okayed by Ken Levine, creative director of Irrational Games.

Why I’m Reading This Thing

I’ve been working on a BioShock epfic, as you probably know since I won’t shut up about it. I adore working with pre-existing canon in an effort to harmonize dissonant elements and attempt Art (lol); long story short, my fanfiction is for my own satisfaction and nothing more. I like being as accurate as possible; I do not want to lie; and I like to respond to what someone is actually saying rather than the Internet custom of “Inventing a Guy to Get Mad At.”

So of course I bought the BioShock novelization the minute it came out. At the time, I was on about the third draft of my epfic.

I read about 50 pages, writing mean notes in the margins as I went, before I just stopped. I just couldn’t stand it. It was so, so wrong. At the time, I couldn’t have told you why. All I remember was that Andrew Ryan felt pathetic, and that is unforgivable. Ryan should always feel threatening and powerful and real. BioShock: Rapture’s Ryan felt pretentious and annoying and I was pretty sure I could give him a swirly with impunity.

What made this dissonance particularly irritating was that the information presented was not necessarily incorrect, but the tone, social dynamics, and overall implications were… how do I put this? Stupid. Stupid and vapid. The character interactions, the author’s comprehension of social and historical issues, the emotional zing—all void, careless, or off. That subtle off-kilter sensation ends up building into a hell of a thing.

I can stand a lot of bullshit. I even love bullshit. But what I cannot bear under any circumstances is boredom and “safe art.” And BioShock: Rapture was the definition of safe.

I had to realize that this was, first and foremost, a corporate product, lobotomized and neutered and defanged, with all the possible poison sucked out of it. (Coincidentally: just how I felt about BioShock 2.) The person who wrote it didn’t give a shit about it. The corporate execs who commissioned it didn’t give a shit about it. Only Levine probably gave a shit, and only in that the right information was presented. (I don’t know if BioShock 2’s creative director, Jordan Thomas, was involved. He wasn’t mentioned in any of the interviews I read.)

If this had been literally any other book, I would have gotten rid of it and forgotten about its existence. But Ken Levine, creative director of BioShock 1, had been involved, and by all accounts, he hadn’t spared any details. That meant that canon existed in this piece of shit—canon for BioShock 1, my favorite out of the three installments.

I don’t believe in making any more work for myself than necessary, and I don’t always trust wikis: I had to get into this book to find framework for my own.

I had to fucking read it.

The Journal Method

In an attempt to further cement the book in my mind, I first attempted to do a book club with other fans—not once, but four times. My attempts fell through, partially because I fucking hate everything about this book. My brain gremlins scrub it every time I dip my toe in the water. I realized that, to get through this dumpster fire, I would have to write about it. So I decided to use the journal method to attack it, sometimes literally.

See, because I have a jumpy, excitable brain—something like a Jack Russell terrier on meth—I write out my thoughts on the more difficult books I read. These write-ups are usually more like journal entries than about the story itself. It’s not necessarily helpful or interesting to anyone else, but it gives me touchstones that I can return to years later to quickly refresh myself on notes of interest. This way, I retain information and don’t have to re-read whole goddamn books again. Recently I’ve been doing this with Paradise Lost, which is very difficult to read thanks to its archaic English, poetic diction, and constant references to classical myth and literature. It works well!

That said, I kinda hate myself for what this turned into. Is it reasonable? Oh, no, of course not. I started overthinking it at once. You should all know I am Shameful and Cringe and Deserve to Be Thrown in a Well. No balanced human being should care this much about this book or franchise. Thankfully I am deeply imbalanced and have no standards that anyone understands.

I make this readable for my own pleasure. If you come along on the ride, god bless you. Also, feel free to critique or share your own experiences and opinions.

About John Shirley

I’d never heard of John Shirley before this book. According to the bio on the back of this book, he won the Bram Stoker Award for a story collection (Black Butterflies), and has written numerous bestsellers I’ve never heard of, as well as an adaption for Constantine. He was also one of the screenwriters on The Crow.

I do wish I had any sense of any of these things. I do not. Not even The Crow. You’d think that’d be up my alley. I started The Crow and promptly turned it off. This says nothing about his screenwriting, just that I started a movie he impacted once.

I read a few interviews with him regarding the book, which gave me further hints as to his influences. He’s a white centrist Boomer because of course he is. This was the first sign that I should be afraid.

First, socially (and generally) speaking, the more mainstream identities you possess, the more insulated you are, and the less you are challenged to step outside of that viewpoint. The tone and subjects of mainstream media cater specifically to you. You accept this is as “the way the world is” instead of realizing that the mainstream is itself a cultural viewpoint with a limited focus. It takes you effort to empathize with viewpoints outside of your own. Many people never make that effort. The less you attempt to understand alien concepts, the worse you are at doing so.

Second, centrists tend to see every human philosophy as morally neutral. To a centrist, it is the philosophy’s application that can be done Incorrectly or Wickedly.

In my mind, this is supremely stupid. A philosophy is not a law of nature, but a human tool. It can be fundamentally broken in how it approaches the universe; even if it produces good outcomes, its goodness can be outweighed by its negative aspects.

Objectivism is one of these philosophies. If you know anything about it, you know why it’s broken and why it should be thrown in a fire. I will probably explore it in some capacity as I write this piece, but I won’t be terribly exact due to its nature. This is for me to remember what I have read, not to win awards or reach a big audience.

All of this said, I’m coming to this writer in what amounts to a vacuum, with a handful of suppositions based on some quick interviews. I have no perspective on him as a person or artist in any depth. The book is gonna have to stand on its own merits.

About the Front Cover

At first, I began by talking about the prologue, but my criticisms started to spread all over the front matter of the book, which is how you start off with me criticizing the FUCKING COVER.

Generally, covers aren’t really that important, but in this case, I feel like the graphic design implies how much care was taken with the book itself. Someone let the interns do this. I would bet fucking money. The art is completely inappropriate.

How do you choose cover art? Well, what is cover art intended to do? It’s intended to deliver a quick advertisement to the person passing the shelves. It’s supposed to answer questions, like: “What is the story about?” It’s supposed to lure you in. There should be some suggested friction or promised reward.

Look at this fucking thing. What is the art’s focus? Is it interesting? What does it say? Does it give you an idea of the book’s story, characters, plot, setting, or tone? If you knew nothing about BioShock, what would your impression be?

Now, you and I both know (because we are nerds) that the focus is on the globe with the starburst, for we know the starburst is where Rapture is located.

Except that’s not the first thing you’re going to think. The first thing you’re going to do as A Human with Eyes is search for a focal point. The globe seems like a background element, the flare a stylistic choice. You will first latch onto the man and the woman in the bottom left because the human mind is hardwired to look for faces, but they don’t seem to be the focus of the image; in fact, the image feels strangely off, like there should be something else to it.

That’s because this particular image is focused on architecture and setting, with the crowd as flavor over the top; it is best viewed in landscape. The book cover has cut off 2/3 of the goddamn picture and thus completely obscured its original intent. Here’s the original--which is by Craig Mullens, btw. I love it. It’s one of my rotating desktops and I own it in physical form.

"1959," by Craig Mullens

A lithograph of this image was included with a limited-edition game guide released with BioShock 2. It was one of the few special-edition illustrations that did not focus on Big Daddies or Subject Delta. BioShock: Rapture is a prequel, so it couldn’t use any images with Big Daddies on them—it’s not about the social fallout you see in-game. Mullen’s art was, however, a preexisting piece that nobody had to spend any extra money on.

The point being: this art was created for BioShock 2, not for the book.

In other words, no special efforts were made for any of this. Slap on BioShock logo! Find some font evocative of art deco (copy-paste-make shape-paste-in-place), and outline that shit in Illustrator one billion percent. Use this beautiful art in a way that says nothing about what the book is about because it’s really not meant for that purpose to begin with, and get your $0/hour intern to slap it all together.

Whallah! Body-slam that shit on a bookshelf and go back to drinking.

The Back of the Book

The bad graphic design extends to the back of the book. The summary is double-spaced for some reason, there’s little contrast between text and background color, the background is noisy enough to obscure the font, and the Andrew Ryan graphic fucks up the indents, making the summary look like a text wall. It’s not, actually. Regardless, the effect is the same: it obscures readability.

Spoiler: it’s probably because they didn’t want you to read it.

This graphic looks better than the book in person and it is still ass.

Oh hey who wrote this summary?

The First Paragraph of This Lazy-Ass Shit

It was the end of World War II. FDR’s New Deal had redefined American politics. Taxes were at an all-time high. The bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had created a fear of total annihilation. The rise of secret government agencies and sanctions on business had many watching their backs. America’s sense of freedom was diminishing… and many were desperate to take that freedom back.

Uh whose side is this on lol

So, summaries are here to do two things: explain the general Where, Who, and Plot, and Invoke Interest. A summary is the scantily-clad lady-friend with one knee cocked out of a doorway saying, “Come on in.” She gives us a little wink-wink, shows a little skin, I’ll show u soooo much more if u just step this way big boy.

Unfortunately, the way this summary works is more like somebody flinging buzzwords at you as fast as possible while hoping you don’t look too closely. If you are on the political right, it will immediately invoke a certain fuzzy alarm reserved for words like “communism” and “socialist”; if you are on the political left, it invokes your illiterate aunt’s unhinged Facebook rants. One has the sense that said writer doesn’t actually know what they’re talking about, which is a hell of a way to a) start a summary for historical fiction and b) summarize a book that they should, by all rights, have read.

What’s more, if we judge the strength of its hook alone—its only fucking job, I might as well add—it’s weak as balls: the only sentence that pulls you in is the one about nuclear weapons, and that’s because it gives you a sense of urgency and fear of annihilation. Problem: this book ain’t about nuclear weapons. This book ain’t about the end of World War II at all. Wrong subject. Completely wrong.

You might very rightfully say, “Well, this is from Andrew Ryan’s point of view,” in which case I’m confused, because this is not written from Ryan’s point of view. This is written as Information We All Know and Understand to Be True :) The problem being that it is so slanted, and so vague, and so simplified to the point of stupidity, that it puts the summary’s writer in the spotlight at once, which is a catastrophic failure by every metric. This summary makes me ask questions like, “Should I be wary of the author’s ulterior motives?”

Well. To be fair, a BioShock novel by an Objectivist would be a lot of fun—in the same way Miami Connection is fun. I would absolutely read that and cringe and cry-laugh and throw the book and then pick it up again. Very good times would be had. Why? Because somebody cared about it, and somebody is about to say some very, very stupid bullshit with all the confidence and passion in their whole body, and everything in the story is going to align beautifully to that bullshit, and something bullshitty is going to happen and it will be like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Let’s just say that I love reading Ayn Rand but it’s not for the reasons she’d prefer.

I want you to know that Shirley has been quoted as saying, “You cannot fly a plane without the left and the right wings,” which I will allow to stand without commentary.

FDR’s New Deal had redefined American politics.

That’s the most diplomatic way I’ve seen the New Deal described. Ever. And I was taught American history in West Texas by a basketball coach. It’s so carefully neutral that the first thing I did was read the sentence twice, like that was going to open up a magical window back to the past and show me what harried motherfucker wrote it. If it had done this, I would have thrown an egg at them. Not very hard. So maybe less of a throw, more of a “rolled it across their desk and closed the window to fuck with them.”

“Where did this egg come from,” they’d say. “What the hell. I hope it isn’t a dimension-hopping nitpicker again.”

Anyway, that’s when I realized everything about this book was probably going to be wrong: as I stood in an aisle at a Barnes and Noble in July 2011. I’m talking about a sinking feeling and a slight nausea. I actually thought about not buying it and I was at a point in my life where I bought everything with a BioShock logo on it. I was also a stupid-ass far-right evangelical flirting with Objectivism at the time. Big fuck-ups all ’round.

If the copywriter wrote this… still not a good sign, but better than if the author wrote it, because a) this prose is clumsy as fuck and b) the end of World War II is not the point and thus should not lead.

Is There a Right Way or Are You Being a Cunt?

Yes!

What is the point? Andrew Ryan as a person; what history has done to Andrew Ryan; what people have done to Andrew Ryan; Andrew Ryan’s philosophy; Andrew Ryan’s goals; Andrew Ryan’s failures; Andrew Ryan. ANDREW MOTHERFUKCING RYAN. Start with RYAN, not with the historical context.

America’s sense of freedom was diminishing…

In. In what context. Citation needed. Citation please. Loaded language. Loaded like a fucking gun.

The rise of secret government agencies and sanctions on business had many watching their backs.…

Woo. Whooooah WHOOOOOAH hold on there Silver whooooooah I’m gonna need you to hold on a second. This is way too fucking vague.

At first I thought it might reference the USSR in addition to the United States, but by starting and ending the paragraph with America-centric sentences, the “where” and the “who” is most likely “America” and “gubmint” respectively. That’s immediately problematic because those two concepts are so vast.

What government agencies? What sanctions? Who’s the “many”? What are the wrongs? I’m still groping in the dark. My friends in hell, this is a summary. That means I (the Reader) should know exactly what is going on by Sentence One. So far I have the vaguest notions of historical period and authorial motivation as written by a 12-year-old off 4chan.

A lot has been written, but nothing has been said. This paragraph depends on You (the Reader) to ascribe value judgments about these vaguely-referenced enormous fucking political machines. And we can’t because, I mean… we don’t know who they are, what they’re doing, or why they’re bad. Also, given the writer’s clear axe-grinding, I’m kinda wary, so I’m already holding them at arm’s length.

Now, I can appreciate that the writer was trying to give historical context, but in this particular story, that context only makes sense once it filters through Andrew Ryan. Andrew Ryan takes a vast, infinitely-complex part of history and narrows it down to one place, one time, one person, one ideology. If you throw a net that’s too wide, you lose all definition. A fucking metric shit-ton of bullshit went down in the little window between the end of World War II and the founding of Rapture: World War II literally affected every single country and human being on Earth, and even cutting it back to Just America is too vast a subject to simply imply.

What is more, the story of Rapture is not the story of World War II or handsy government, it’s the story of how Andrew Ryan dealt with challenges he could not bear. The minute you focus on Ryan, the summary clicks, and everything immediately grows more concise and clear: then we can have specific government entities and specific events that lead to Ryan building a utopia beneath the sea. Lead with Andrew Ryan and the explicit ways he has been hurt. Make it personal, a story about a person, and make it specific, and for god’s sake, make it FUCKING INTERESTING.

Long story short, this summary feels like you’ve opened a bad theme from a high school student and they need to type so, so many words and it’s 4:46 AM and they are fucking tired and they can only reword Wikipedia so much before they lose their fucking mind.

Paragraphs Two through Four

Among them was a great dreamer, an immigrant who’d pulled himself from the depths of poverty to become one of the wealthiest and most admired men in the world. That man was Andrew Ryan, and he believed that great men and women deserved better. So he set out to create the impossible, a utopia free from government, from censorship, and from moral restrictions on science, where what you gave was what you got. He created Rapture—the shining city below the sea.

Someone is fucking stanning. Someone was definitely arguing on forums that Rapture would have worked great if only… and then they gave a long bulleted list, and everyone called them a big dork even though they’re all on a video game forum arguing about a game from 2007.

Now to give you a little perspective, this book was released fresh after the Tea Party movement had really gotten its feet under it. So I couldn’t help but think: who is writing this? Why is it written this way? Were they trying to channel a libertarian, or did they really mean it? Are they the kind of person who would excuse Ted Cruz?

If we had started the summary by focusing on Andrew Ryan personally, we wouldn’t have this problem.

But this utopia suffered a great tragedy. This is the story of how it all came to be… and how it all ended.

A tragedy!!! In my BioShock? It’s more likely th an y ou th in

k

Look at the way this is fucking phrased, I can’t…

I can’t

Why Are You Like This

This is a great time to talk about auxiliary (or helper/helping) verbs and passive voice, because this summary is lousy with them, and this is a textbook example of how they can suck the tension straight out of a premise.

The Tools

Passive voice indicates that something has been done to the subject. The subject is not an actor in their own right: they were affected, and they were powerless to stop it. They are, by definition, inactive.

Auxiliary or helping verbs are myriad, but the most common ones are “are,” “go,” and “has.” In function, they tend to soften sentences—probably because they imply the action has been finished. They are also colorless, weightless, and have no emotional oomph: auxiliary verbs are 100% structural.

The ideal is to say as much as you can with as few words as you can, and that means using the most proper and powerful words possible in the best possible places and arrangements.

Back to the Summary

Remember what I told you that an ideal summary should do?

You want a summary to be immediate and punchy. You want it to suck the reader in. You want a sense of who all the major players are and the problem involved.

In this case, it’s Andrew Ryan, Bill McDonagh, and probably Frank Fontaine. There should probably be a government entity represented by some toady, too. Maybe even some suggestion of specific bills or social movements. Hint that Ryan’s got an ideal and that he sold the fuck out of it, and that people believed so much in that ideal that they’d abandon everything they worked for to go under the sea.

It was the end of World War II.

World War II gave me a little jump of interest, but on the whole, I feel nothing. This is a state of being and it’s just chilling here. There’s no problem. In fact, this is the definition of a solved problem. I’m all about no-Hitler! Okay! Good! Yeah!

So?

Taxes were at an all-time high.

Passive voice is used here because it’s explaining a state of existence. A state is, by virtue of its nature, inactive. Nothing is happening. It already happened. Here we are, standing here, breathing, existing, taxed. All righty.

So?

The only tension we get here is from the construction of the sentence itself. This is a loaded sentence—it implies that taxes are bad, it implies that they’re being improperly used, and it gives no actors—but that turns your focus onto the summary writer, not onto the story itself. It’s like these taxes just materialized out of the ether. What’s more, we don’t know where these taxes are being levied or what’s being done with them. This shouldn't be passive. Who's the actor?

In some ways, thanks to the placement of this sentence, this implies that the taxes are a major subject. You head to the next sentence expecting expansion on the tax problem.

Coincidentally, that’s not a great load-bearing sentence. I can think of nothing more boring than taxes. It’s only interesting if you’re some kind of crazy reactionary asshole who operates solely via political slogans.

The bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had created a fear of total annihilation.

Finally, some tension! Now we also have a setting! Unfortunately, it’s enormous—it’s worldwide. So are we talking about worldwide taxes? As in, raised taxes were a worldwide phenomenon?

Wait a minute. What the fuck are you

The rise of secret government agencies and sanctions on business had many watching their backs.

WHERE ARE WE? “Secret” is a little exciting, but what “government agencies” and “sanctions” and what are they doing? Who is the “many”? Taxes + business means I see an economic concern front and center. So why is nuclear weaponry in here?

On another note, why is this so fucking dry? It’s like I’m reading a Wikipedia summary. The only powerful language has been “secret” and “all-time high” and “total annihilation.” What the fuck is going on?

Everything is so vague—so problematically, memeishly vague—that now my hackles are up. This sounds just like a boomer on the bus yelling at his phone. This is Neil Breen levels of indistinct. I don’t like it. It sounds like someone who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about, and this is a fucking HISTORICAL NOVEL.

I am now completely switched off from thinking about the story. It doesn’t seem like there’s much of a story at all. In fact, this sounds like it’s going to be unfocused conservative ramblings. I am now thinking not about the story, but about the writer as a person. I’m starting to wonder if even the author doesn’t know what they’re focused on—which implies a story without a solid structure—which implies a story without a through-line.

I don’t want to restate everything I just said, but you can see the problem, right? Things are just happening. Every occurrence is shared as a state of being. The people suffering are unnamed, and the ways they are suffering is indistinct. The friction is indistinct, too. I have no idea what I’m rooting for, I have no idea what the subject is, and we are four sentences in.

A good summary should be about 3-8 sentences long and punch you in the face. So far I have experienced the literary equivalent of a dry gnat fart.

Let’s move ahead.

That man was Andrew Ryan, and he believed that great men and women deserved better.

God I hate this fucking line. It says absolutely nothing about Andrew Ryan or Objectivism.

What is “better”? Better than what? Under what circumstances? What does Andrew Ryan believe? Why should I be interested? Why are you sharing this in past tense before the story even begins? This sounds like something tension should be attached to. Why is there no tension here?

Andrew Ryan is based on Ayn Rand, and Rapture is based on Objectivist ideals. People live and die as Objectivists. They fight for Objectivist ideals. On this very day you can go to YouTube and look up a recording of Andrew Ryan’s speech and some dumbass has uploaded it to YouTube with a slideshow of patriotic imagery. That’s how accurately Ken Levine cleaved to Objectivist ideals: that actual libertarians look at the message of the game and go WELL ACKSHUALLY

I think I’ve figured out why this is all so vague, though. Objectivism is controversial and Objectivists have no shame whatsoever. We can’t have controversy in our fucking BioShock! Maybe the powers-that-be defanged it because they didn’t want to deal with fallout. (Ha ha ha ha aaa h a ) Maybe they defanged it because they wanted to sell it to as wide an audience as possible, and they didn’t want to insult anybody holding $20.

Did they not play the game? Because that’s embarrassing. It definitely puts BioShock Infinite in a new light for me. There’s no way for us to accurately understand Ken Levine, a public figure, as a human being—all we have are little snapshots of him in time and second-hand accounts, which by their natures will vary in truth—but I’m starting to wonder if he started to raise this big middle finger, like: “ooooh u want me to be safe? Fuck youuuuuuuuu”

Which I can appreciate, obviously.

This fear of controversy is prime executive behavior. Executives, as I’ve learned over time, are fucking morons. Have you ever met an old man with the personality of a 15-year-old? Think Elon Musk. Well, there’s a reason for that. Because they hold the purse strings, you can’t talk to them honestly, because there’s a real chance they’ll take offense and strike back at you right in the pocketbook. Because they’re so wealthy, they can buy their ways out of suffering, so the fear of god is never slapped into them, and they have absolutely no conception of what true loss is. It’s not that they can’t fail, but their failure is so much more insulated than ours is. It’s how you end up with Oceangate: people to whom life has said “yes” so often that they have no respect for physics.

Executives are so used to being coddled that any pushback deeply wounds them. They can afford to be psychologically insecure. As a group, they are fertile ground for Objectivism to take root; they are most likely to see themselves as the Randian Ubermensch, for they also tend to be unreasonably wealthy—and that’s because of their innate genius and capability, right?

This is the height of an unchallenged viewpoint.

So he set out to create the impossible, a utopia free from government, from censorship, and from moral restrictions on science, where what you gave was what you got.

This is sentence eight, at the end of an 11-sentence-long summary, and ladies and gentlefolks, we have finally HIT THE FUCKING PLOT. I am going to hit a motherfuckin copywriter is what I’m going to fucking do.

THIS IS THE PLOT. This is where all the tension should be. This is where we should have our actors. This is the plot! It’s about Rapture! It’s about building Rapture!

Look how they wrote this shit!

The story should, by all rights, begin with a question: can Andrew Ryan build Rapture?

The extremely literal dumbass will say: “Yes hurhur.” But stories are not built on certainty, my fellow assholes. They are built on questions and friction and problems. We know how it ends, yes. Technically we knew how it ended when we started BioShock 1, didn’t we? The question you’re answering isn’t Yes/No, it’s WHY.

That doesn’t mean you treat the story as though the city is already built. Hypothetically there was a point where Rapture was just a very nice dream. That should be interesting in and of itself. The point of tension is Rapture’s production—the reasons why people want it, the acts taken to produce it, the actors who try to stop it, why someone would stop it, the ways you attract citizens to inhabit it without alerting the entire universe, the process of upkeep. Worldbuilding shit. What are Rapture’s pros and cons, the devils in the details, the kind of society that evolves from a place like this?

Why are they talking about it like it’s already been built? Why are they using past tense for a story that I haven’t read yet? I read a lot of stories knowing how they end. I don’t read for the sakes of endings. It’s like some dim-bulb somewhere was like, “Uhhhhh historical fiction uhhhhh it already happened so uhhhhh let’s write it in past tense…”

All stories have already happened by definition. It is finished. It lies in your hands. You talk about it in present tense in a summary because the reader’s experience is the important part. Reading is about the experience, not about the ending.

Someone somewhere is a colossal dumbfuck and I hate them for even touching my smart fucking video game. Don’t even speak its title. Get the fuck out of here you fucking clown and go back to reading shitty YA.

But this utopia suffered a great tragedy.

“This utopia suffered,” like nobody saw this shit coming. Like nobody was involved. We’ve gone from blaming everybody to blaming nobody. Like there was a natural disaster or an alien attack or God reached down and flicked Rapture into space.

This is. Just. Just the worst.

What the fuck am I reading about? Who are the shakers and movers? What are the focal points? A summary can’t and shouldn’t give you the whole story, but it sure as hell should give you some sense of what the trouble is and who’s causing it.

This line is what really kicked my brain in gear: the summary is so fucking hands-off. It doesn’t make any promises; it doesn’t fucking commit. It’s a vague scene with no actors in it. You might be tempted to say, “Well, Andrew Ryan is mentioned!” But the problem is that he’s mentioned off-hand, like he just kinda exists in the ether with the Bad Gubmint and the Many and the Taxes. It doesn’t introduce any problems and it doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just so vague and mealymouthed. Grow a fucking spine and stand for something you fucking cowards.

This idea offers a small possibility: that someone didn’t like the subject and described it at arm’s length—what they thought the author was saying while feeling deeply uncomfortable.

Whatever the case, this summary offers nothing. It isn’t even hot air. It’s a little gasp of lukewarm something-or-other. It has no scent, no function, no body, no face. Like the tenses it employs, it simply exists.

I’m pretty sure nobody loved this story while they wrote it and it shows. And if there’s anything I don’t trust, it’s work nobody gives a shit about. Being shitty isn’t the ultimate failure: being boring is. And this shit is boring.

AND IT’S JUST THE FUCKING SUMMARY.

Hope Springs Eternal

I remember reading the back of this novel before I bought it and feeling my stomach sink. I still bought it because I was that heartsick for a big ol’ BioShock novel. The only fanfiction anyone ever writes is instant-gratification short-form and that makes me very sad. At the same time, one must be sensible: writing a novel is a lot of fucking work, and one should be fucking grateful one gets anything at all. In fandom, where everything is a product of passion and free time, one must be particularly respectful of this.

But this is not fandom; money has changed hands several times along the way; and I expect certain standards from something for which I have exchanged funds. BioShock: Rapture was not written because somebody believed in it or loved it; it was written primarily to be a Product. It is cynical, as BioShock 2 was cynical, to appeal to as many as possible—which means that by definition, it is insecure, afraid, and says fuck all.

This is bad, okay. This is very bad. This is somebody who didn’t understand the game on some of the most basic levels imaginable. Things like: what is BioShock about? What is the moral system and philosophy in BioShock—as intended, as it actually landed, and as represented by different characters and the player? What does BioShock say about idealism and those who adhere to ideals at the expense of human wellbeing? How are characters influenced by world tragedies on a personal level? What happens when you have an entire population of radicals and there’s no longer a convenient Other to hate?

What makes BioShock interesting?

Whoever wrote this summary has no fucking clue, and what’s more, they don’t particularly care. All they understand is a Bad versus Good dynamic. Anything more complex makes them snort and stomp like a mule deer, and they’re just about to fling themselves off sideways and hurtle through an elementary-school window screaming about liberals or transgenders or something.

This had better be a copywriter because I’m about to roll some stinky-ass eggs y’all

Part 2: John Shirley and the Front Matter ->

[moons-cozy-corner]

Deserved it.

Whumpmas in July day three! (I know its the fourth - oops)

CW: Bad Caretaker, violence/gore, murder, force feeding(mention), cussing, abuse, mentions of murder and kidnapping, loss of parent, major character death(s), mental breakdown, torture

3. "______ deserved it"

Caretaker sat on the couch, his head in his hands. He could still hear sobbing coming from the other room, and as much as he tried to tune it out, it wasn’t long before he started getting irritated.

It had only been two days of being in this wretched house. At this point, maybe crying was a good reaction, but Caretaker wouldn't know. All he knew was that it was getting on his nerves, and nothing he did would get her to stop. Not after Whumpee had locked herself in her room. That was almost an hour ago.

But sitting on the couch moping wouldn’t help either of them, would it?

Caretaker stood, pushing on their knees for support, and shuffled over to the fireplace. It was all dusty, covered in old pictures that didn’t belong to him. He traced his fingers over frames of families he didn’t know, all the way down to the last. A small kid, giving the camera a crooked smile. Three teeth were missing, from what the camera could see. A school picture from… 7 years ago. Whumpee would have been 9 years old.

He placed the picture face down and went to the kitchen.

There was half a sandwich in the fridge that Whumpee hadn’t eaten. Caretaker had tried forcing them, but it only earned a fit from Whumpee. So Caretaker ate one half. A compromise. It didn't work.

“They need to eat,” he muttered to himself, grabbing the sandwich and a bottle of water. Taking a deep breath, he made his way down the hall, rapping his knuckles on the cheap wood twice. “Whumpee. Open the door.”

There was no halt in the crying. In fact, it only seemed to get worse. Caretaker knocked on the door. “Whumpee, now. You’re going to get sick, dammit.” When there was still no answer, Caretaker hit the door. “Whumpee, open the door!”

It was a mix of worry and anger. Who was Whumper to dump the kid on him? Caretaker had never dealt with kids before, making it well into his 50’s without having children or grandchildren or nieces or nephews. That wasn’t an accident.

“Leave me alone, Caretaker!” The voice was muffled by both the door and probably the kids' own hands.

Caretaker practically growled. “You need to get the hell over this fit! You need to eat! You need water! You need to- to-” He sighed, trying to open the door. It didn’t budge, to no one's surprise. “Whumpee, c’mon. Give me a damn break, I’m just tryin’ to help you. I- I’ve got a sandwich and some water for you, at least take ‘em.”

He waited a while for an answer, and Whumpees crying slowly subsided to aggressive sniffling. The door unlocked and cracked open to show Whumpee’s red, puffy face.

“Hey,” Caretaker sighed, relieved that the kid at least stopped crying. He tried to give a soft smile, but it didn't feel right on his face. “You don’t have to eat it,” since you nearly hit me last time. “But you do need to drink the water. All of it. You’ve been crying for almost an hour.”

Whumpee stared at the sandwich a second too long before glaring at Caretaker and took only the water, slamming the door shut in  his face. He opened his mouth to yell again, but clamped his mouth shut the next second. “I’ll see you in the morning, Whumpee.” He knew his voice sounded strained, angry, tired. He was all of those things. He didn’t know how to deal with this. He didn't have a niece three days ago.

But right now all he could do was sleep, so that’s what he did. The bedroom felt odd, as it had the last two nights. It wasn’t his room, it was Whumpers, and her room was strange. It was mostly bare, but the books and tapes that remained were… creepy. There were no pictures or posters, only those of Whumpee, and none were happy. Caretaker had placed them all face down since then, and now it only looked more grim.

“Couch it is, then.” 

He had to pass Whumpees room again. They were still crying, though much quieter now. They were also muttering something. It stopped as Caretaker walked by. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me,” he called, waiting only a second before continuing his trip to the sofa. While it wouldn’t be the most comfortable, it wasn’t something he was unused to. 20 years of pushing his luck earned him many nights in the living room.

The couch was softer than Caretaker’s old one, at least. He’d noticed that on the first day, along with how well-kept the rest of the place was, other than the dust issue. It wasn’t too firm, as if it was just bought. It also wasn't too worn, as if it had been used for years. If he had to be dragged away to take care of some far-relative he's never heard of, he was glad it was in a nice house, even if a bit eerie. Then again, Caretaker was used to his worn furniture and messy piles of paper over the tables that only got reorganized once a month or when his wife complained. He didn’t think he’d miss how annoying she was, but… the little things. 

Plopping on his back, he let his mind wander. He didn’t even know he had another sibling, or a niece for that matter. He hadn’t seen his mother since he was a young child. Finding out she’d left him for another life, to have another child to replace him. Well, that turned out well, didn’t it? His mother was dead, and her daughter was taken away, thrown in prison. Caretaker had been an only child… what would life have been like, had he a little sister to look after? He smiles at the thought, but it's quickly overridden. Right, his little sister was a maniac and serial murderer. But he can't help but think that maybe she would have turned out differently, if she had him.

Oh, who was he kidding. He was a shitty person.

He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head, listening to the ticking of a clock he hadn’t realized was there. Had there really been a clock in the living room for the past two days? It had all been really sudden. Like, 'Hey, you have a niece you need to come look after since your half-sister has been arrested for serial murder and multiple counts of kidnapping! Otherwise, this poor child will be sent to the orphanage, and probably fall into a life of crime like her terrible mother!' If it wasn’t for his need for a place to stay and his aching curiosity, that’s where she would be right now.

He woke up without remembering even falling asleep, the blanket was on the floor, and the pillow was somehow on his stomach. He groaned and rubbed his face as he sat up. When he opened his eyes again, he finds himself face-to-face with Whumpee.

“Holy- were you just watching me sleep?” He pushes her back, a bit more aggressively than he meant to. “That’s creepy, kid! You’re 16, why are you acting so-”

The knife was brought down on his leg before he can finish the thought, and he screams as it rips into his jeans, then into his skin, then into muscle. She left it in before backing up and staring at the hilt, the only part that wasn't embedded into his thigh.

“Whumpee! What the hell is wrong with you!” He hovers his shaking hands above the knife, not wanting to yank it out, but not wanting to leave the wretched thing in, either. He reaches for his phone, but he can’t find it. He’d left it in the bedroom last night. “Shit! That fucking hurts! What the fuck, Whumpee?”

She continues to stare, her gaze slowly rising to meet his own, noting how his face scrunches in fear, how his eyes begin to fill with tears . “You deserved it.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘I deserved it’? You stabbed me!” There wasn’t much blood, but the sight of a blade sticking out from his leg was terrifying enough. It was dizzying.

Her face scrunches up even more, twisting into a mask of anger. “You hit me the first day you got here! You’ve been yelling at me, you tried to shove a sandwich down my throat yesterday! You came here, and you made it so clear you didn’t care about me! You’ve hurt me more in two days than my mom ever did!” 

She was right, he had hit her. He’d forgotten about it, but she was acting… crazy, that first day. Yelling at police, yelling at him, yelling at CPS, throwing things. Then they left, and she started complaining and yelling over dinner. He’d had enough, and slapped her across the face for being ungrateful and for throwing a fit all day. Anything to get her to shut up.

Now that he was thinking about it, he did feel bad. Not that he could say that now - the situation was a tad bit too sensitive for sudden apologies to sound genuine. He stared at her for a second before speaking again. “Yeah, okay. I deserved it.”

The girl blinks in surprise, the tears that were forming falling down her face. She wipes them away immediately. “Yes. Yes you did.”

Caretaker leaned his head against the sofa, clenching his teeth. “This hurts like a bitch, though. Call an ambulance, won’t you, Whumpee?” He can’t see her face, but the silence tells him all he needs to know. He sits back up with a groan, trying to look at her through a swirling lens. “Whumpee, please.”

The girl is staring at the blade again, the skin around her eyes reddening. “They all deserved it…”

“What..? Whumpee, who are you talking about?” His mind drifted to the girl's mother… his sister, half-sister, to the murders and kidnappings. “Nobody deserves that, Whumpee. Don’t say that. Your mother did terrible things, you realize that, right?”

She shook her head, staring at his leg, never blinking. “She didn’t! E-everything she- everything she did was- was for the best! It was for- for good!”

Caretakers' brows furrowed together, and he started to stand, wincing at the pain in his leg. “You’d better stop this, Whumpee. You know that’s not true.” In all truth, he didn’t know for sure if she knew. He’d only known about this kid for a few weeks, at most, and met her two days ago.

She shook her head and pushed him back so he stumbled back onto the couch. “She made them better. And if she couldn’t make them better, they didn’t deserve to live.” She says it with such finality to it. She believes this, he realizes. His chest tightens and he looks around. “Don’t try to leave! Don’t look so scared as if you’re the victim here! You wanted this, right? Or was it just convenient for you, huh? To take advantage of a child’s situation to get a house? My house! And the first thing you do, on the worst night of my life, is hit me?!” She shook her head and laughed, a dry, humorless breath. “You’re my uncle, you should care! Right? Shouldn’t you care about me?”

“You’re messed up, kid,” he mutters, but she hears him. She starts crying again. What a wretched sound. “Get the phone, Whumpee.” His voice is more stern now, his gaze only focused on her. “You don’t have to get in trouble for this, I won’t tell them that you stabbed me, alright? But I need to go to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to!” She grabs her head, pulling at her hair. “I want my mom back!” Whumpee turns around, and Caretaker finally sees it, the lines that mark her back and arms. She’d been wearing sweatshirts before, but the tank top showed them off too well.

He stood up again, this time slowly with his palms out. “Whumpee, please calm down. Sit down, drink some water, okay?” His wound could wait- it would have to, if she didn’t let him get help. “Did your mother… uh… try to make you better?” He tried to rephrase the words punishment or beating, maybe torture even, to what this deranged girl seemed to believe. 

The girl whipped around to face him again, reaching for her back, eyes blazing. “That’s none of your business old man! But- but even if she did… even if…” Whumpee’s eyes unfocused. “I… she needed to… fix me… I deserved it…”

Caretaker watched her carefully, trying to gauge her emotions, her reactions. “You didn’t deserve that. Did she make you think you did? That you needed fixing?” 

The girl nods, but does nothing else, her gaze fixed somewhere else, a place Caretaker would probably never see. “Whumpee, we need to call the police. Please. For both of us, alright?” 

Her breathing picks up almost immediately, and her hands unwrap from her body as she fully turns to face him. She reached out quickly for the knife before Caretaker could even think to move to grab her, pulling it out of his leg with a sickening squelch, blood spurting out of his leg as he looked down in horror, feeling his throat close itself against his will. “Wh-whumpee- whu- h-holy shit-”

Whatever she hit, it was something important, because he was bleeding out fast, and the dizziness came soon after. “I don’t need fixing, Caretaker! You do! Mom already fixed me, she already did! I have the proof!” 

Caretaker fell down, luckily landing back on the couch, though it felt like he went right through it. His mind was reeling, and his head was spinning. “W-we don’t have ta… call tha… hah..” He couldn’t breath, clutching his chest as he tried to gasp, but doing so only made the world spin even more. It took him a moment to clutch his leg, hard, trying to stop the bleeding. “Won’t tell��� need-” He groaned, opening his eyes just long enough to see the blood leaking through his red-stained fingers. His eyes fluttered up to the girl, who was standing over him with the knife. “Whumpee…”

Her resolve grows, her stance becoming more square, stronger. Less of the sobbing, shaking, angry mess she had been. Now she was calm. “It’s what Mom would want, Caretaker. She never wanted siblings.”

And the knife was raised high above her head, the blade swinging down moments later. It was less than a second, but even after it made contact with his chest, he could still only see it falling, over and over again. Caretaker could feel blood filling his lungs as he fell to his side, and could feel the stickiness of the blood-covered fabric beneath him. Through his darkening vision and ringing ears, he could only barely make out the girl's final words to him.

“Sorry, Uncle.” She raises the knife again, slick with his own blood, and turns it towards her own heart.

“We deserve this.”

Taglist:

@alwaysalilhigh@nicolepascaline@whumped-inc@littlespacecastle@hollowgast1@edkore@ramadiiiisme@writereleaserepeat@when-no-wings-do-broomsticks@robinwrites@aswallowimprisoned@whumblrwork@cepheusgalaxy@tedrakitty @delicateprincepaper@alwaysalilhigh@0eggdealer@subval01@ifthisislifeidontlikeit

@books-are-everything @whumpsoda @robinrites @wildcard-whumps

[ladypiscesmoon]

Hello everybody, hope you are all well on this Monday! We’ve got rain over here so Summer is far away at the moment. Ever since I saw the film Call me by your name, I’ve been reading for Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer. Their bond is very strong an special. It’s no surprise my first reading here will be a reading for Armie, ft. Timmy. You can say I’m a Charmie, so any hate for the boys will not be tolerated on my page. Remember, all readings are alleged and for entertainment purposes only. The reading was done on 24 July

Reading Armie, 24 July 2023

Tarot cards:

King of cups (devoted, balanced, intuitive, compassionate, supportive, empath) Someone very devoted to Armie is keeping him balanced. A very supportive male has his back, I think this is Timmy

9 of pentacles (abundance, luxury, self-sufficiency, self-worth) His finances are looking better, with that his self-worth will increase, he wants to do something independent, something useful

King of swords ambitious, fast-thinking, success driven, assertive, focused) He’s impatient, ready for action, ready to focus on work and something useful. Feeling restless (hence the head shaving, maybe?) Sitting around is not good for him.

The chariot (action, success, movement, forwards, control, willpower, determination opposing forces, working towards a goal) Again: wants to move forwards, wants to be working towards a goal. Also something together with Tim I hear, so maybe a project together of some kind

Deck: Kipper

Healthy man(13) (a younger man, good news, also with money matters) Better times are coming for him, also financially. A good period for their relationship, and also jobs wise. All in all better than before.

Great fortune(26) (good luck, new opportunities, in jobs, improvement in relationship) I also pick up Tim doing something for Armie, or doing something with him. Again I hear: together.

Courtship (4) (getting together, seducing) They’re going away together like a weekend or a short trip, they want to meet up, make plans, lots of cuddles - and more -

Main male(1) (important male in Armie’s life) the most important male in Armie’s life is Timmy (aside from his son)

Deck: Fairytale Lenormand

House: with house I feel there is a new house on the horizon for Armiebig enough for the children also now he’s got partial custody. I also pick up he and Tim will try to have a place together but how that will play out with the children is something they have to think about

Birds: minor hiccups, little fights, discussions, but they will figure it out. Plus they like banter and teasing that’s just the way they are together

Stork: something new beginning. In a way Armie starts over again.

Bouquet: lots of happiness. I feel this will be an easier period for Armie although he gets restless. He wants to move things along. He still has lots to figure out.

Deck: Chakra wisdom oracle cards:

Service (sacral chakra) For me: he’s someone always helping, serving, taking care of someone and being there for other people. He’s got to learn to do things for himself too, and learn that he can enjoy that

Destiny (crown chakra) What do yóu want? Take a risk form your own destiny. Now that you have found true love, go for it, together you’re stronger. It’s complicated but so much worth it.

Perception(heart chakra) The heart knows what the eyes can not see. The past is the past, let it be. Upwards and onwards. Allow yourself to feel good. He feels a bit sad at times, but only he can do something about it. Transformation is in the heart. What needs ending in your life? Focus on that. The experience will be richer if you allow it.

Impasse(sacral chakra) he’s a bit blocked, he doesn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. He’s got to allow himself to heal and to feel loved. Refocus, change direction if necessary. It will be okay in the end.

How are Armie and Timmy doing together (small check-in)

Deck: True love oracle

Connection: working on their connection, relationship

Inner peace: loving yourself benefits your relationship

Sexuality: sexuality blossoms in an atmosphere of trust and intimacy

Yin and Yang: love and friendship. Strive for harmony and balance, through change, reflection and growth.

Maturity: be responsible for your own happiness

Reparenting yourself: free yourself from the past, you are more able to give and receive love in the present

Theirs is still a new relationship (I think they’ve been together in the past, but it wasn’t exclusive until recently. So, they still have to figure out a lot and learn a lot about how to be a couple. Sometimes that’s still a challenge with everything happening around them. But they’re getting better at it.

Deck: love oracle deck

Heart with a key: opening their heart, welcoming love. ‘The one’ realising what he’s got.

Paradise: finding a paradise like situation, happiness, joy, playfulness, enjoying what they have together. After a more difficult time (being apart physically was really hard for Tim) moving forward and being playful with each other/ happy, ‘we against the world.

Stabbed in the back: they had their challenges and difficulties while Armie was away (Caymans, holiday) Tim felt betrayed and blindsided by the pictures with Lisa although he had absolute no right after the PR sham with Kylie, but still he was hurt.

Passion: Insane chemistry, having fun, liking each other equally, sexual thoughts, I think they have plans to meet up soon ( just after the reading Timmy left NY and headed to LA)

How does Timmy feel about Armie

Same deck: love oracle

Passion: see what I wrote above ☺️

Healing heart: healing from heartbreak. He’s slowly letting go, wants to go back to what they had before Armie went on his extended trip, because that was really good. It happened, let it go.

Cassette: replaying events over in his head, he’s got to let go of the past and also still has a little trouble of trusting Armie completely, but he gets better at it and it will be okay in the end.

Stabbed in the back: he really felt betrayed, but was a bit harsh, knowing what he himself has to do for his work and his reputation, so it wasn’t really fair to Armie.

He’ll find the way back, he always does. I feel him being a bit anxious again, also about work. He very much wants to be with Armie and cuddle. Find some peace and some rest. The arguments they have are meaningless and petty if you look at their story together, but like I said I think they like the banter too.

Here ends the reading, I hope you enjoyed and please don’t hesitate to ask me any question about it!

*Alleged For Entertainment Purposes Only

[ursa-tan]

˚✧₊⁎ Kinktober 2023 ⁎⁺˳✧༚

This is my first time participating in kinktober! I’ve been wanting to do it since I found out about it and I’m rather excited!

I’ll be trying to keep up and post every day, although that might limit me to just a Drabble or a few headcannons, but I’m trying!

Anyway, this will be mainly playfellowxxx and the like but I’ll be incorporating other fandoms where possible! So it’s really a mixed bag!

———————————————————————

1- leather & latex + pegging • Eddie Dear x Reader

2- glory hole • Eddie Dear x Wally Darling

3- hate sex • Howdy Pillar x Wally Darling

4- costumes • Eddie Dear x Wally Darling

5- collaring • Eddie Dear x Frank Frankly

6- Frotting • Julie Joyful x Reader

7- Stuck in wall • Barnaby Beagle x Reader

8- breeding • Barnaby B. Beagle x Reader

9- stripping • Howdy Pillar x Reader

10- praise kink • Julie Joyful x Reader

11- humiliation + sensory deprivation • Sally Starlet x Reader

12- smonophilia • Wally Darling x Reader

13- size difference + heart beat • Howdy Pillar x Wally Darling

14- orgasm denial • Sally Starlet x Julie Joyful

15- temperature play • Frank Frankly x Reader

16- double penetration in one hole • Howdy Pillar x Reader

17- threesome or moresome • Sally Starlet x Julie Joyful x Wally Darling

18- spanking • Barnaby B Beagle x Wally Darling

19- exhibitionist & voyeurism • Frank Frankly x Reader

20- mind control • Wally Darling/Home x Reader

21- tickling • Barnaby Beagle x Wally Darling

22- bondage • Sally Starlet x Reader

23- deepthroating & face sitting • Sally Starlet x Reader

24- sex toys + ovipositation • Howdy Pillar x Frank Frankly

25- edgeplay • Barnaby B Beagle x Reader

26- masturbation + overstimulation • Sally Starlet x Julie Joyful

27- double penetration in 2 holes • Howdy Pillar x Reader

28- body worship AND cock bulge • Eddie Dear x Frank Frankly

29- breathplay • Barnaby B Beagle x Wally Darling

30- overstimulation • Sally Starlet x Julie Joyful

31- cross dressing • Eddie Dear x Reader

[flowerpottlady]

Vivid

Day 9 of July’s @jilymicrofics! Sweet cake and a nice evening 🥰

***

The sky was orange, with little tints of pink and purple spreading throughout as the sun set.

It was the end to a perfect evening - a little too muggy for her tastes - but she was pregnant, the heat could not be helped. Clad in a large quidditch sweater, her last name across the back, one of the few pieces of clothing she owned that still fit her - and it wasn’t even hers; Lily waddled down the stone path of her backyard towards James, sitting on a picnic blanket they had previously spread out earlier that evening - sharing a plate of blueberry pancakes for dinner.

He was quiet, staring off into the horizon, and Lily nudged his back with her barefoot. “Whatcha ya thinkin about?” She asked.

“It’s peaceful here,” James replied, “here come sit down with me.”

Lily handed him the plate she had been holding, a fluffy white cake with raspberry frosting that Bathilda had gifted to them a few days prior, and James reached out his hand toward her - guiding her to sit on the blanket. It took a bit of time to squat down, until she was firmly back on the blanket, her bare legs stretched in front of her. James shifted behind her, spreading his legs on either side of hers, so she could lay back against his chest.

“Let me have a bite, that was the last slice.” James said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and reaching for her fork.

“Go ask Bathilda to make another!” Lily said, swatting at his hand and taking another large bite.

“You go ask her! She’s obsessed with you really.” James said knowingly, pinching her side and pushing her hair behind her ear to nip at the bare spot on her neck.

Lily rolled her eyes then, laughing. “Only because she thinks I’ve got ‘old,’ magic in me.”

“It makes sense, you know. You are older than me.”

“By two months you wanker!”

James nuzzled his nose into her shoulder, inhaling softly. “Mmm… my old lady - full of old magic.”

“If I give you a bite will you stop being mean?”

“You’re the one who called me a wanker!” He laughed, opening his mouth as she turned slightly, shoving a forkful of cake at him.

“That was delicious… really I wish we’d known her when we got married - she could’ve made the cake for us.” James mused resting his chin against the top of her head, snaking his hand around her waist - holding the side of her bump, pressing ever so slightly hoping to feel his baby move.

“We were handfast in the Astronomy tower, there was hardly time to get a cake.” Lily grinned, remembering that warm night at the end of their seventh year - the impulse, the exhilaration, the pure joy she felt kneeling across from James, a simple rope tying their hands together as they whispered traditional Celtic vows to each other. The sky was vivid then, orange, pink and purple painted throughout the sky - much like tonight.

“I loved that night,” James whispered, reminiscing - “the treacle tart and pumpkin pasties that Sirius and Pete got from kitchens really was the best cake we could’ve asked for.”

“Treacle tart and pumpkin pasty sounds wonderful.”

“I’ll ask Bathilda her thoughts the next time we see her.”

They were quiet then, for only a few moments - until Lily spoke up again, her voice slightly weaker, softer. “That was like a lifetime ago, like a dream almost.”

He pressed his mouth to the top of her head, the floral scent of her hair overwhelming his senses as he thought carefully on what he would say next. “A lot has happened since then, we’re different people now.”

“We’re gonna be parents, in just a few weeks.” Lily said, her hand rubbing down her bump, imagining her child - praying to a god that she didn’t believe in - that her baby would be born in August.

“I can’t think of a more beautiful place to raise him,” James replied, looking out into the distance.

“You’re right, you know.” Lily began, a hint of a smile growing across her face. “It really is peaceful here.”

***

Start from the beginning on here! 31 Days of Potters

[polyamorouspunk]

what do you consider 'punk' and how did you get into it?

I’m going to preface this by saying this ask is over a month old. At first I just felt like this was too big of a topic to tackle, and then when a new wave of what I’m going to call discourse in the community came up, it just felt like it was going to add fuel to the fire. I ended up making some posts about it anyway, but I guess since I just got asked this again, it’s time to really sit down and answer: what is punk to me.

Punk is a conglomeration of similar ideas, however, some people have different ideas of what is and isn’t punk. I, for example, do not support the vegan movement, but I do know people on here who have patches like “meat is murder” on their battle jackets. That would be an example of a punk ideal that not everyone shares. The basis, the foundation of punk though, as a political ideal, is anti-government and anti-capitalist. There are some things thrown under those umbrellas too. For example, I think you can label being “anti-cop” and under the umbrella of anti-government if you wanted because law enforcement is a government agency.

Punk is a fashion style. Time and time again we have pointed at large fashion brands (I’m looking at you Hot Topic and Spencer’s) and gone “I can’t believe they’re profiting off an aesthetic built on cheap DIY and making it expensive”. When I went a few days ago I found a black beanie with a safety pin and 3 d-rings that was slightly “distressed” as the fashion industry likes to call it. $16. Go get yourself a black beanie, find yourself a safety pin and some d-rings and cut it up yourself, if you’re doing it right it should NOT cost you $16. And if it looks like it’s going to cost you $16 then either you’re shopping in the wrong places or you need to find a 🖐️ discount on that shit *cough* excuse me I’m not sure where that came from. The most recent example of this (this is July 2023) is Hot Topic selling Hobbie Brown merch for the new Into The Spiderverse movie. Selling branded merch of a character who is anti-brand and anti-capitalist. This is not to say that you can’t pick up some stuff from Hot Topic. There’s nothing wrong with taking a liking to something and picking it up and adding to your style. I truly believe that. I also don’t have room to talk since I’ll be honest, dropping $100 a month on band merch is pretty much the only thing keeping me sane these days. Is that very punk of me? No, probably not. However I’m enclaved in this capitalist hellscape working for $9 an hour on pieces people pay $400 for, so if I need to indulge in buying band merch to keep me sane, so be it. It’s my money and I can do what I want with it, and I’ve also been donating money to trans organizations as well. I also like to thrift and DIY. The piece I’m working on now is a patch I got for like $7 from Hot Topic and a bag from the dollar store and I put the patch on the bag and I’m adding some details. A lot of the patches on my vest came from Hot Topic but a lot also are hand-made from me just buying fabric and going ham with fabric paint. DIY or Die should be the core idea. Thrifting should be the core idea. But it’s also not wrong to pick something up you like here or there. Even then, though, focusing on Etsy and stuff should be the preference. And I’ll shop at Hot Topic over Amazon any day. On that note, it’s okay to have other aesthetics as well. You don’t need to dress punk 24/7. You can have other fashion interests and still call yourself punk. There’s no need to limit or restrict yourself in an effort to not feel like a poser.

Punk is a music-based subculture, but punk music has so many subcategories and bleeds into many other music genres. There are people and perfectionists out there who will demand to draw lines between what is and isn’t punk music, but music is all about taking inspiration from other artists and making it your own, putting your own spin on it. You can get away with listening to any alternative music, whether it be emo music, pop punk, goth music, metal music, ska, etc. Taylor Swift is not punk, though. Neither is really any “pop” artist. Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE listening to indie pop music or whatever. I mean even just Imagine Dragons I love Imagine Dragons, but I’m not kidding myself into saying that it makes me punk to listen to Imagine Dragons. My Chemical Romance on the other hand is totally something is some weird subgenre of punk music. Listen to MCR doesn’t “make” you punk but someone doesn’t have the right to call you out for listening to MCR and calling yourself punk in conjunction to it, like Imagine Dragons, for example. Wishing you had the money to spend $2000 on Taylor Swift tickets does NOT make you punk. The MOST I will spend on concert tickets is $200 and I haven’t hit that yet. I think the most on an actual ticket-ticket I spent was $80 for my FOB concert in a few weeks. Once again: I work for my own money. I work while disabled, and whatever I’m not spending on myself goes towards charity and paying the bills. I’ve seen PTV, FIR, and CTE for $25. Local punk shows cost usually between $5-$10, maybe up to $25 depending. Lots of music is even ~free~! Go see some free music even if it isn’t “punk” music! That’s what’s really punk.

Punk is knowing when to be angry and when to be gentle. I think you do need to be angry to be punk. I started calling myself punk because I WAS angry. I was angry at a lot of things. And I needed a healthy outlet for that anger and this blog was born. I needed a place to yell about the things that bothered me, and slowly that became me reblogging posts about people yelling about the things that bothered them, and those things were not having rights, our rights being taken away, anger at murder by cops, etc. supporting that anger. Punk is NOT about a peaceful approach to everything. If you are against the idea of violence in every scenario then you are not punk. If you object to the phrase “punch Nazis” you aren’t punk. And while we’re at it let’s talk about Nazi punks. They exist. You can’t deny that. They are in fact a subculture of the punk subculture. They are punk, I think, in their own way, because they hate the government and stuff, but not for the right reasons. They want to make it worse. They hate the government like people who stormed the capital on January 6th hate the government. For the *wrong* reasons. And in that way they are posers even if they check the metaphorical boxes. Because punk is also about helping the community. It is about a peaceful and loving touch to those around you. It’s about recycling and planting wildflowers and volunteering for marginalized people. It’s about taking that anger in one hand and that want to see a peaceful and loving society in the other and balancing both. You can be angry all you want, and attend protests and yell all you want, but if you aren’t being kind to the people around you then it’s not really for anything. A better world starts with just doing something nice for someone. That’s attainable. That’s in the now. Don’t set your sights so high you’re missing the opportunity to change the world by putting a smile on someone’s face. But yes: you do need to be angry to be punk.

Punk is about individuality and not asking permission. The first way to not be punk? Going on anon and asking a punk blog if it’s okay to call yourself punk for xyz reason. That’s it, you’ve failed the basic test. Real punks do not ask. They do. Punk is about making it your own. It’s about not caring if you’re “doing it wrong” because you’re doing it YOUR way, and if you followed a set of rules on how to do it then that would automatically make it the WRONG way. The hard and fast rules are really just hate the government, hate cops, hate capitalism, hate bigotry, be angry, listen to music that wasn’t meant for family friendly public radio, dress in a way that freaks the right people out, and start doing some activism. That’s how to be punk.

How do you get into punk? You just do. Where I grew up there was a group of older teens who dressed in all black and had dyed hair and swore and lot and sat around and smoked and drank. They intimidated me. I wanted to be like that when I grow up.

I’m so much more than that though. I’m an angry transmasc, someone who rivals in horror and bloodlust as a metaphor for their own violent nature, who scares people enough they lock their doors. But I’m a girl in her 20s who loves buying lemonade at the local boba tea shop and whose favorite animal is butterflies who loves to sit in grass and make friendship bracelets.

So I find things that fit both of my selves and more. I started listening to Fall Out Boy on a suggestion, and from there I found My Chemical Romance, and all these other bands. I started shopping at Hot Topic and wearing all black with band shirts and giant rubber band bracelets. From there I slowly started experimenting by buying some spike bracelets from Hot Topic and started listening to heavier music. I found people on here who had cool battle jackets and I kept an eye out while thrifting and finally found one of my own. I took the patches it came with and started painting over them. My trans patch used to be Obama. Now it’s transgender. Transgender Obama, if you will. I started listening to people online, who told me stories of cops who killed people for no reason. But I thought cops only killed bad people? Well, it turns out that “bad people” is a pretty good metaphor for “people with darker skin”. I started listening to podcasts and I learned horror stories of the US government doing human testing on populations of black people. Can you imagine? They used to do that shit! But… do we really think they just… stopped? Or did they just get better at hiding it…

Getting into punk is about slowly morphing yourself into someone who listens and takes action. It’s okay if you’re like me and you got into punk because you wanted to dress like the scary older kids in your town or you were just really angry so you started a blog called “polyamorous punk” with the work punk in it, or you just really liked My Chemical Romance as a teen. You don’t have to get into punk because you want to fix everything that’s wrong with the world, but that’s how you end up feeling. Over time though as you mature you learn that’s unrealistic. So you do what you can and support the people who are doing what you can’t.

[purinsesukinny]

more than the sunshine in my eyes

(real this time, i promise 💞💞)

kyle and kenny strike up a casual relationship over the summer, and it’s all fun and games until kyle asks kenny to go steady with him

Pairings: k2

Word count: 548

Warnings for: none!!

[AO3 Link]

“Will you go out with me?” asks Kyle, one day in July, and the only thing Kenny can do is stare at him. 

He blames it on the heat, mostly. Summer means that the snow has melted and left the ground bare, so there’s nothing left to offset the way that afternoon sunlight sets Kyle’s auburn hair aglow. He really can’t take his eyes off of him. 

And the thing is that Kyle’s so earnest about it too. It’s the kind of thing that Kenny’s always found endearing about him, the way he puts his heart in his throat and believes every little thing he says with an intensity that burns. You could get hurt by doing that, get attacked at the jugular, but Kyle’s never been the type to be scared of the consequences. 

So when he says things like i dunno i thought you might like this (carnival lights highlighting the blush on his ears) or (in a whisper, so as to not wake the others around them) hey let’s do this again sometime or (sighing, people milling around them as they hug in the middle of the airport) fuck dude it’s so good to see you or, god forbid, something else like will you go out with me—  

well, shit. Kenny might just be inclined to believe him. 

“We—” Kenny’s tongue trips over the words. He gestures at their shared yogurt from the bougie froyo place downtown. “We’re already out?” 

Kyle ponders this. “Well— yeah. I guess. But I kinda meant like” his ears turn red, and Kenny bites down hard on the smile forming on his lips “going steady,” finishes Kyle, trailing off weakly. 

Kenny hums, eating another spoonful of froyo so that he doesn’t have to answer right away. “Like boyfriends?” he says, finally. 

“Yep.”

Kenny blinks, hums again. “Even though we’ll be long-distance?”

(The circumstances were hardly in their favor, after all. This was fun —he likes being with Kyle; he’s always liked being with Kyle— but the sweet, casual summer fling they’d been having could never withstand the weight of Kenny’s anything. Not his 7-years-old infatuation with the other boy, nor his 21-year immortality streak, nor the 1280-miles that lay between them for 9 months out of the year. It was simple maths — numbers never lied.)

(And besides, even love like his parents’ fell apart at the seams eventually. Right person, wrong lifetime. Kenny knows better than to fall in love in a place like this with a boy made from sunlight.)

(But)

“We talk all the time anyways, dude. And besides, I have this little voice in the back of my head that sounds a lot like you,” says Kyle, linking their hands together. “So it’s already kinda like you own a piece of my soul or something.” He leans in, green eyes blazing. “I don’t think distance will change anything.” And with that, what else is there left to do but trust him?

(Kenny’s always loved bad ideas, anyways.)

Kenny finally lets himself smile, sunflowers blooming in his chest. He holds on a bit tighter to Kyle’s hand in his. “Okay.”

Kyle breathes a little sigh, sits himself fully back down in his seat. “Okay.” 

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Cool. They finish off their yogurt, each still holding the other’s hand. 

———

a/n: again here’s the song for this fic. wait no, that’s a rickroll, here’s the real song. wait no, that’s another rickroll, here’s the real song AKDJSKSK

anyways i’ve been struggling to write this since i made the original post, but then the k2 fanzine was announced and i went a little feral 😌 i hope you guys enjoyed!! thanks for reading!!

[stickybonesdupree]

i walked into solitary, the cushion room — slipped a black str8 jacket from sean’s closet on and asked him to fasten me up, then he left and i sat down, i would never see him again, he doesn’t turn back till his tires are spent, i sat down in the back corner of the room, and asked someone anyone to turn up the frequency of the silence to brain splitting levels, and then i watched goo leak from some orifice and drip onto the bridge of my nose and i just stayed there watching my brain and intuition drip out like a leaky faucet for maybe two weeks and now i’m outside and have no idea why the white stucco on the ceiling is sucking into itself after just one newport i take outside, i haven’t touched a newport since i was trying to keep up with r on set four years ago , where i experienced nicotine poisoning for the first time but he did hold me on the way back to soho after we wrapped, which i might’ve appreciated had i not smoked a pack in 90 minutes, it was an incapacitated REM level L, and i don’t smoke them unless i miss feeling so weak, unless i wanna feel like that baby again, but no i dont smoke them i dont have the heart for them, i just found one smashed in the bottom of my purse i left at my parents seven months ago, i allowed myself the indulgence. a dear friend on the other end of the phone call just said grazie mille to the most toad like fantasia italian accent i think she’s in puglia and the exhibitor of the accent had handed her a midnight cigarette as she informed me she’s been crying in the shower and laughing by the time she dries off every day she’s been in puglia, she stumbled upon a man in a car getting his dick sucked by a woman in his car, in front of the church, which she was sitting in front of, but at some point i believe she got up and started pacing around the cobblestone, as i was, in my own non cobblestone la alleyway, while we were talking and processing did u process it “” or at least i like to think of her doing so, us walking the same, but maybe if i were in puglia and not southern california i’d be looking straight and up and around, not so much ahead and down. imiss her and things, it’s been hard to hug my mom, my sister, i didn’t intend to be here right now, but i am here right now, i’ll try to hug my sister tonight and my mom tomorrow. i know i’ll miss the chance when i miss the chance and leave back to ny, i wish i didn’t feel a tinge of agony hugging my blood family but they wouldn’t be my relatives if it didn’t

the cigarette i took smelled like upstate still and it tasted like the way i felt in july of 2019, angry, which means alive, grateful for a taste. i took it while dodging my mothers forty fifth ceremony for yet another fissured bong she tipped over while stretching to fix a flower pot on the steps. weed is allowed recreationally so, though it’s illegal to smoke anywhere outside here. the whole town, just like plastic bags. but the teenagers ride on their e bikes and suck them vapes down and eat the core like i do my apples— only if their sticker starts with 9 otherwise i leave about a half inch around the core before i flick it away. i flick him away. so illegal that the inflated tits stuck to the speedwalking moms, speedwalking by my pacing, glare at me. mine aren’t inflated but they scowl back , i shrug and suck it down. i’ve always been paranoid here, it’s because my hair always been different and that difference permeated everything and now i’m less meek maybe a bit brash , so it causes problems . my step is a step my resentfulness fed direct to confidence around these people, so it causes problems

but why does the stucco do that? i’m trying to rest and keep my eyes open, i’m trying to let him make his way out my head, he’s good at keeping his things with his things but i’ve asked him to double check thrice. why is the ceiling moving like this after the newport. it was suppose to sage him out. why is it dancing when i feel like sinking into the bed past the floor dropping down another level and seeping into the carpet down another level into the rubble and further till i reach ocean and then rock and then rock and then past that my brain is too hot to register? i already feel this way now but instead of hot i’m feeling neutral, a dry ice temperature, a burn im seeing but can’t place when i was touched

jimi hendrix and bob marley played soccer together on a chance encounter in greenwich two years before jimi was found dead by asphyxia. i was reading into the reopened case being closed on the grounds that much time had passed after his death, it’d be no service to the public to take another look. i don’t know, who’s to know, but why did she feel the need to recall her recollection in different ways excluding big clumps and including pipe cleaners and camouflage mesh in certain points. it was dry. the vomit was dry. i’m writing this from the rocks stage left of ziggy marleys performance with the orchestra, people are dancing and they seem happy

[quil12]

Souyu + Yosuke celebrate Yu's birthday (I'm aware that Yu doesn't have an official birthdate but couldn't hurt to think what day and month he could be born)

I genuinely really like how this one turned out. I know that the fanon date for Yu's birthday is July 10th, since that's when P4 originally came out in 2008 (fun fact, the license plate on his scooter in Golden also says July 10th), so that's the date that I picked. (That's also just a few days before my birthday, so I like the thought that it's then just by proximity lmao)

Yosuke took a breath, clutching the tray filled with various breakfast foods in his hands as he walked into their bedroom. 

Yu was still asleep, curled up into a ball, his arm outstretched toward Yosuke’s side of the bed. 

He walked over to where he was, placing the tray down on the bedside table, leaning over him. His bangs were falling over his forehead, obscuring his face. His mouth was ever so slightly open as he gently breathed in and out. 

Yosuke smiled to himself, his chest filled with warmth, as he brushed the hair out of his face, leaning down, and gingerly pressing his lips to his forehead. 

As soon as he pulled away, Yu made a soft noise, his eyelids fluttering open. 

“Good morning,” Yosuke said, reaching over and laying his palm against his cheek.

Yu sat up a little, looking a little bit disoriented. His voice was a little scratchy and deeper than usual from sleep. “Good morning. Why are you up so early?”

Yosuke pressed another kiss to his forehead. “I made you breakfast. Happy birthday.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to though. You’re always cooking for me.”

He gave him a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Yosuke smiled back, pulling away, and then grabbing the tray, putting it back down on his lap.

He blinked. “This is a lot of food. How long did this take.”

Yosuke shrugged. “I’ve been up for a couple of hours.”

Yu normally woke up around 5:30, so in order to get everything done before then, he had gotten up at around 3. It had been worth it though - if anything just to be able to wake him up like that.

“Wow. You were super dedicated then.”

“As if I’d be anything else.”

He walked around to the foot of the bed, crawling on top of it, sitting down next to Yu as he took a bite of some eggs.

“It’s really good. Thank you.”

“I’ve gotten a lot better at cooking, right Partner?”

Yu let out a small laugh. “Definitely. 

Yosuke hummed, leaning his head onto him while wrapping one arm around his waist. 

It was quiet for a few minutes before Yosuke started yawning. He was almost never up this early to begin with and getting up a few hours previous was starting to get to him. 

He wanted to stay awake. He had things planned, after all, but, after a while, he lost the battle of keeping his eyes open, eventually letting himself slip into unconsciousness, pressed up, warm and content, against Yu's side. 

- - -

He wasn't sure how long had passed when he woke up again. He was still sleeping against Yu, but he had curled up around him, grasping onto him like a koala. 

He pulled his head away, looking up at him. He had grabbed a book at some point and was reading. He looked over at him, a small smile on his face.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. Happy birthday."

He let out a laugh. "We had this conversation already."

Yosuke hummed, pulling further away, and sitting up. "I can tell you happy birthday as many times as I want."

"I guess you can. Thanks for breakfast, by the way."

"Of course. How did you like it?"

"It was good. You're getting a lot better at cooking."

"I'm gonna be better than you someday."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

He laughed. "All right. When that happens, it'll be your job to make dinner then."

"Deal." Yosuke stretched his arms above his head. “What time is it?”

“About 9.”

He had slept for that long? They needed to hurry if he wanted them to get to everything he wanted to do.

"All right. I have things planned for today, so get ready."

"What kind of things?"

"You'll see."

Yosuke got off the bed, walking over to the dresser and getting clothes out, changing into them. 

After that, he walked to the bathroom and finished getting ready. 

When he walked out into the living room, Yu was sitting on the couch, seemingly ready to go.

“So, what are we doing?”

“We’re gonna go for a little bit of a drive.”

“All right.”

Before heading to the door, he walked to the kitchen, pulling a bag out of the fridge - something else that he had prepared that morning. After that though, he led him out the door and outside of the apartment building. 

They lived in the city, so there wasn’t too much need for a car - they could take the subway or a train pretty much anywhere that they needed to go, but they still had one for more out of town trips. 

He had packed all of what they needed in the car the night before, so everything was ready to go.

He put the bag in the backseat before getting in on the driver’s side. Yu got in as well, looking at him curiously.

“You’ll find out soon.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

He shrugged.

Yosuke started driving, pulling out of the parking spot and onto the road. It was a decently long trip, so he settled in, turning on some music. He really liked doing things like this. There was just something about being in the car with Yu that made him happy. 

As they were getting through the city traffic, Yosuke reached over, grasping onto Yu’s hand, intertwining their fingers. That was also really nice - he liked holding hands with him, but didn’t get to do it as much as he would have really liked.

They talked as they went - it was mostly Yosuke talking about whatever topics popped into his head while Yu chimed in whenever he had something to add. That was fine though. That was how it always was. 

Before long, they got out of the city, heading into a more rural area. Most of the time getting out there had been spent driving through traffic. They were only about fifteen minutes away now. 

Eventually, they pulled into a parking lot. There were only two other cars there - that worked out nicely. He wanted to actually spend time with him, but it was sometimes hard to do that with other people around. It was a large forested area. It almost didn’t feel like there was a big, bustling city a few miles away.

As soon as they parked, Yosuke got out of the car, first going to the backseat and retrieving the bag from earlier before going to the trunk. Yu met him there, looking on with curiosity. 

He opened it, pulling out Yu’s tackle box and fishing rod, handing them to him.

“Are we going fishing?”

“I know you used to do it all the time, but there aren’t really spots to do it in the city. I figured that we could just spend a few hours out here.”

Yu smiled widely. “That sounds nice.”

He grabbed another bag from the trunk, closing it. “Come on then, there should be a path to the river through the forest.”

They only had to walk for a few minutes before coming up to a river, a wooden dock jutting out on one side. They walked down to it, Yu immediately beginning to set up his fishing rod. 

If he was being honest, he really had no idea about fishing. Yeah, he had sat with Yu while he did it before, but he didn’t enjoy doing it himself. It was boring to just sit there for hours waiting for a fish to bite and he also didn’t particularly like the reward for doing that. Fish. He didn’t like fish at all. They looked weird and kind of freaked him out. He didn’t want them anywhere near him, and that included by eating them. 

Yu liked fishing though, so he would put up with it.

Yu finished setting up his rod, sitting down on the dock as he cast the line. 

Yosuke reached into one of the bags that he had brought, taking out a bottle of sunscreen. It was a pretty warm and sunny day and he didn’t want either of them getting sunburnt. 

He put some on himself first before sitting down next to Yu.

“Hey, look at me.”

Yu complied, turning to face him.

He squirted some out into his hand before dabbing little bits onto his face, rubbing it in. He finished doing it pretty quickly.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” He put the sunscreen back in the bag. “Oh, and I made lunch too whenever you’re hungry.”

Yu raised his eyebrows. “Wow, breakfast and lunch in the same day? What did I do to deserve that?”

Yosuke shrugged. “Be born, I guess.”

Yu hummed as Yosuke leaned against him, laying his head onto his shoulder. He closed his eyes, just enjoying the feeling of the sun against his skin.

All of a sudden, Yu jerked his arm back, causing Yosuke to let out a noise of alarm. He opened his eyes to see him reeling in the line, his gaze focused on the water. After a few seconds, he had it reeled in all the way, a wrigging fish attached with it.

He leaned away as he took it off of the hook. This was going to be a long couple of hours.

- - -

At about 2pm, they left. They had somewhere else that they needed to be. 

Yu had managed to catch quite a number of fish. He smelled like them now, but that would probably serve him well where they were going.

It was just after 3 when they pulled into another parking lot in the city - the parking lot of an animal shelter.

Yu had been wanting to get a cat for the longest time. Yosuke had never been quite sure about it though. He had used the excuse for a while that their apartment didn’t allow pets, but they had moved into a different place not that long ago - one that allowed residents to have them. He still wasn’t completely sold on the idea of having one - he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of an animal relying on him to make sure it survived, but Yu would definitely be the one taking care of it the most, so really, it should be okay.

“Yosuke?”

“We have an adoption appointment at 3:15 to get a cat.”

“Really?” There was an excited light behind his eyes.

“Yeah. I think it’s time you finally get one.”

Yu gave him a soft smile, leaning forward, and lightly pressing his lips against his cheek. “Thank you.”

Yosuke smiled back. “Come on, let’s go in before we’re late.”

They walked inside, checking in, immediately getting led into the cat room. 

There were so many cats in there - some of them were sleeping, some of them were playing, some of them were eating. It was really a little hub of activity.

Yu looked like he was in heaven, watching all of the cats, going up to them and holding his hand out, waiting until they allowed him to pet them before running his hands down their backs. It was a process he repeated so many times until he had basically pet every single cat in the room.

There was one that he kept gravitating toward though. 

It was a loud orange tabby that kept walking up to him, demanding his attention, only stopping crying when Yu would drop everything else and begin petting him. 

Yu seemed to like it though, smiling widely every time he would pet him. 

“Do you want to get that one, Partner?” Yosuke asked, walking over to him.

He hummed. “He is very sweet. He kind of reminds me of you.”

“Of me?”

“Orange. Loud. Wants attention.”

Yosuke blinked. “All right. I’m going to pretend that those were compliments.”

Yu laughed. “They are.”

He reached over, picking up the cat. It immediately allowed him, not putting up any sort of fuss, just laying in his arms.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding the cat out.

Yosuke reached his hand out, letting the cat sniff his hand before scratching it gently behind the ear. “I think if this is the one you want, then you should get it.”

He hummed. “I think I’ll call him Azuki.”

“All right. Azuki it is.”

They found one of the volunteers, completing the adoption paperwork. They talked for a while about the care that went into having a cat. Yu seemed to already know most of it, but still listened with rapt attention. 

Yosuke paid the adoption fee and then it was off to the pet store to get supplies.

Yosuke stayed in the car with Azuki while Yu went in. He sat there quietly for a little while before getting bored.

He looked in the mirror, staring back at the paper box carrier that the shelter had provided. He could see his nose sticking out through one of the holes.

“So, Azuki. I’m still not completely sold on having you, but you make Yu happy, so that’s why you’re here.”

There was a small meow that came from the box.

“Yeah, now, you had better be nice to him and you’d better not bite or scratch him. If you do that, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t. Do you understand?”

Azuki meowed again.

All of a sudden, the car door opened, Yu furrowing his brow at him. “Are you shovel talking the cat?”

Yosuke turned away, his face hot. “No.”

“He’s a sweet boy. He’s not going to do anything.”

“I guess.”

Yu got into the car, reaching over, and grabbing hold of his hand, squeezing it. “Is there anything else you had planned for today?”

“We have dinner reservations at 8. I figured that would be enough time to get him settled in at home.”

Yu brought their hands up, pressing his lips against the top of his hand. “You really went all out today, didn’t you?”

“It’s not every day that I get to celebrate your birthday.”

He gave him a soft smile. “I love you, you know?”

“I love you too.”

[karen-carlisle-off-the-artboard]

Nullus Anxietas 9 - Australian Discworld Convention Announcement

https://karenjcarlisle.com/2024/03/30/nullus-anxietas-9-australian-discworld-convention-announcement/

I’m a long-time attendee of our Aussie Discworld Conventions. They’re held every two years and alternate between Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney. 2024 is Adelaide’s turn. I booked as soon as tickets became available.

I came to Discworld by a different route than my Dearheart. He’d always loved the books, and we have all of them on our shelves. I first came to them via a chance meeting with Sir Terry at the 1999 World Con (Science Fiction) in Melbourne. We attended the event as part of our honeymoon.

Since then, I’ve learnt more about Sir Terry’s work and his ‘quirky omniscient narrator’ style via writing courses, after which I read some of his books. (Death is my favourite character. Writing his dialogue in ALL CAPS is genius at directing my internal narrator.)

I met Sir Terry again in Sydney 2011, at the last Australian Discworld Con he attended. To my shock, I’d won the ‘raffle’ for those booking early attendence, and got to sit with him at the gala dinner. What a conversation! He was an insightful and intelligent man, and I’m honoured to have met him personally – not once, but twice. So I suppose you could say I became a fan of the author and his writing before his Discworld characters.

I’ve been invited to be a Guest Author! So I was a bit surprised (and totally excited) to be asked to be one of this year’s guest authors for Nullus Anxietas 9. (Squee!) We’re still working out the details, but I thought I’ll tell all my patrons first! I’m definitely a judge for the Masquerade. It looks like I’m also doing an author talk (or workshop)- mostly likely on world building, aimed for those who write stories or create roleplaying worlds. I’ll be on an author panel (I’m just a tad excited about who may also be on the panel – shh… spoilers) and possibly hosting a Klatch (I’m more comfortable in smaller groups). I also hope to have my books available to purchase. If you’re a Pratchett fan, you can book your ticket HERE.

Patron Celebration Treat

To celebrate, I’m also inviting top-tier patrons (Adventurer Extraordinaires and Time Travellers) who are in Adelaide over/around 12-14th July to join me for lunch or dinner; my treat.

[raincitygirl76]

I’m looking for book recs for a 9 year old girl going into Grade 4 in September (Canadian system). My niece, who likes Harry Potter, Enid Blyton, mermaids and unicorns. She’s read all the Harry Potter books (I think my sister read her the later ones, as the vocabulary is more advanced). She’s torn through Blyton’s Malory Towers and St Clare’s boarding school books, which were out of date already when my sister and I first read them as kids.

My sister doesn’t want to get my niece started on the Famous Five and other Enid Blyton series because she doesn’t have the old paperbacks sitting around in the garage, would have to buy the books. I don’t want her to get started on Enid Blyton other than the boarding school books she’s already read, because of the truly astounding racism and sexism in the adventure books. Blyton’s penchant for Romany and black villains has aged…poorly since the 1930s when she was first published.

I would also be interested in finding something other than Harry Potter to entertain my niece, on account of JK Rowling being…herself. Niece’s Harry Potter obsession seems to be diminishing naturally now she’s read (or had read aloud to her) all 7 books and seen all 7 (8, possibly?) movies. But it has not yet been replaced by a new literary obsession, so she’s reading very little right now. Even though she’s supposed to practice reading over the summer. So I’d love to see if I can find books along similar lines to Harry Potter without putting more money in Ms Rowling’s pocket.

An offline friend of mine suggested Julie Sykes’s Unicorn Academy series. A boarding school where the students get their own unicorn when they enrol, which combines my niece’s boarding school fixation with her unicorn and mermaid fixations. But they’re listed as ages 6-9 reading level. My sister would prefer to get her into slightly more advanced books, if possible. Say an ages 8-11 or 9-12 reading level, since Niece is already 9.

Sister asked me, because she knows i read fantasy, but I don’t think anything I read would be suitable for a 9 year old. Nor do I think she would be remotely interested in anything I read. She has typical 9 year old girly girl interests. So I’ve decided to consult the wisdom of the mighty Tumblr. Any suggestions for books with a fantasy element which would be intriguing for a “tween” l, and are rather more challenging than the 6-9 age tranche will be gratefully accepted.

Also, any recs for books and series that have ethnically diverse characters and aren’t totally heteronormative would be nice. That’s my preoccupation, not my niece’s. She and her 6 year old sister are growing up in a pretty conservative exurb of a large Canadian city. Most of the other kids they know are also white with a cisgender mom and dad. There’s a sprinkling of East Asian families in their neighbourhood and school catchment area, but other than that it’s all very pale and monochrome.

Older Niece’s Grade 3 class last year did contain one black boy. But he and his older sister are transracial adoptees from Alabama. Yeah, apparently Alabama (and probably other similar states) exports healthy black infants to white Canadian and Western European adoptive parents. Presumably most white adoptive parents in Alabama do not want a healthy newborn unless it’s pale. I’m not saying all white adoptive parents in Alabama are racist. I’m sure there are some who aren’t. But statistically speaking, if social services in Alabama are adopting out healthy black newborns to white families in Canada, the UK, Norway, etc, it suggests there is very little demand for black babies locally, even the holy grail of healthy and newborn.

As for me hoping to find something she’ll like that isn’t heteronormative, my sister and her husband were cool with past girlfriends, I’m not trying to combat active discrimination by them or anything. But I’ve been single and not really looking for a few years now (major health issues, just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to consider actively dating). So Auntie not being straight hasn’t really come up often. And I’m much happier single at the moment, don’t want to enter into a new romantic relationship solely to remind my nieces that not all families look like theirs, LOL!

Also, Niece is a girly girl who likes mermaids and unicorns, and sometimes wears a dollar store tiara to school. However, she is also very athletic and physically active. And she likes strong, decisive heroines like Elena of Avalor (Disney TV series), Elsa and Anna from Frozen, Mirabel Madrigal from Encanto, and Raya from Raya and the Last Dragon (all Disney movies). Niece is a woman of action.

Many thanks in advance for any recommendations you might be able to provide.

[book-and-music-lover]

Tag game: 9 people you want to know better

Thanks for the tag @thelastwarriornun 😊

Favorite color: yellow! Specifically that darker yellow of early sunrise and marigolds

Currently reading: I’ve been stuck on The Diabolic by S.J. Kincaid lately! It’s taking me months to read any actual book though so this one’s been sitting on my nightstand since late July lol

Last song: To Build A Home by The Cinematic Orchestra, Patrick Watson

last series: Call the Midwife! Somehow this has begun to become a comfort show for me and I’m not mad about it

Last movie: Simulant. Honestly? Way darker and less enjoyable than I expected. 5/10 I’d say

Sweet/savory/spicy: well, as I’m currently eating a breakfast of eggs, savory is quite hitting the spot

Currently working on: a couple of things! First and foremost is an Avatrice Passengers AU, I’m obsessed with writing it/thinking about it rn. Secondly (although it really should be first as this one has a deadline) is Avatrice big bang fic!

Leaving this an open tag for anyone who wants to! (Except I’m still tagging you @go-catch-a-chickn cause I always wanna know more stuff like this about you)