#and he had the GALL to look so proud of himself too

[ash-and-starlight]

yet another traumatic experience! at the hair salon

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 (part one) | neil lewis x reader

title comes from the song you already know by bombay bicycle club

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you've been best friends with neil basically your entire life, and secretly in love with him almost as long. will you ever find the courage to tell him the truth?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 10k

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut, angst, pining/unrequited love - 18+ only

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | alcohol consumption, 'kid' as a petname, reader being kind of a femcel, jonathan being kind of mvp??

Neil had asked you to make sure the Thriller section was alphabetized; sometimes you thought he was just giving you tasks to look busy, but then again, you could probably use it since the employees of Gumshoe Video never looked very busy.  You spent most of the day on the couches, watching whatever old bizarre gem Neil put on— sometimes you thought he only had employees other than himself so that he could pay people to sit here and watch this stuff with him.  

But, the point is, you were sorting tapes.  Because everyone needs their VHS thriller movies to be in perfect alphabetical order.

There actually was a customer in the store, for once, so it was better not to be on the couch anyhow.  You hadn’t really noticed him when he came in, but as he wandered around the shelves, he seemed to drift towards you.  

You tried to ignore him when he stopped right beside you— and kneeling to look at the lowest shelf, he towered over you— but when you stood up he got your attention.  

"Need any help, sweetheart?" he asked, leaning in a little too close.  "I'm kind of a movie buff."

He had a frat guy kind of look about him— polo, boat shoes, quaffed blonde hair.  He could be good-looking, you thought, if he didn’t dress like a discount Abercrombie model… and if he didn’t hit on random women at the video store.  "I actually work here," you corrected, barely looking up from your task.  This is why we need uniforms instead of just dressing up to promote specials…

"Oh, really?" he smirked.  "What made you wanna work in a place like this?"

"My best friend owns the place," you explained, "and I'm, you know… kind of a movie buff."

"Right," he said, not seeming convinced.  "You like Kubrick?"

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost choked: Wow, what a deep cut.  But you kept a straight-ish face when you looked at him.  "Yeah, he's pretty good.  Don't care for how he treats his actors, but he was certainly a visionary."

"What are your top five favorite Kubrick movies?"

You knew this guy was a tool, but you were still a bit shocked that he actually had the gall to quiz you.  "Excuse me?" you scoffed incredulously.

"Can you even name five?" he asked, looking horribly proud of himself, and you straightened up as you glared at him.

"You're heterosexual, right?" you asked him, getting a confused nod.  "Can you name five women you've made come?"

Neil watched the guy storm out, Lucien cringed a bit from behind the register— and Jonathan, not seeming as if he had been paying attention at all, kept laying across the couch and tossing a ball up in the air to catch and throw again.

“Okay, that’s gotta be the third this week,” Lucien groaned.  ���What are you saying to these guys?”

“Nothing worse than what they’re saying to me,” you assured with a frustrated, sarcastic smile.

“Listen, don’t get me wrong,” Neil began, “that guy totally deserved it— but maybe, you know… work on your demeanor with customers?”

“Wow,” you scoffed as you crossed your arms, “do you think I should smile more, too?”

“Wha— no!” Neil denied.  

“Yes,” Lucien said at the same time, though he changed his answer with an awkward cough and mumble when you both shot him a look.  “No, no— you’re good— you smile too much, even…”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Neil promised.  “But I think half the guys that come here are just coming here to see you!  Nobody even rents movies anymore.”  He groaned a little, dropping his shoulders defeatedly.  “Can’t you… tell them you’ll go out with them if they rent something?”

“What?!” you squeaked. “No!”

“Sales would double,” Lucien nodded.

“No,” you said again.  “I’m not letting you pimp me out to sell tapes, Neil.”

“I just mean— maybe you don’t really go out with them,” he suggested.  “Just… allude to the fact that you’re only interested in guys who…”

He trailed off as he searched around the shelves for a bit, smiling when he snagged a copy of The Maltese Falcon.

“— in guys who like The Maltese Falcon,” he grinned, “you know— for example.  Then they rent it to impress you and we make a few bucks.”

“I am only interested in guys who like The Maltese Falcon,” you frowned, snatching the tape away and shoving it back on the shelf.  “But that’s not the point.”

“Maybe you have to be more straightforward, you know,” Jonathan butted in as he sat up, “guys are dumb.”

“Yeah!” Neil agreed a little too easily.

“Just say something about how a massive VHS collection turns you on,” Lucien suggested, and you glared at him.

“Jesus!” you protested, but Neil tried to soothe you a bit.

"C'mon, kid, can't you just… flirt a little?  Get our sales up?"

He'd started calling you kid since you two watched Casablanca together— which was especially stupid as you were both twelve at the time.  At first you complained because he shouldn't be calling you kid with you both being kids; then you complained because neither of you were kids; and then you gave up.  You still punched Lucien for trying to call you that once… you only barely let Neil get away with it anyways.

But you let Neil get away with a lot.  It was a side effect of being secretly, but massively, in love with him.

It had been an issue since middle school— that was when the two of you became such good friends.  Technically, you’d known each other since first grade (where you had shared your crayons, a true test of friendship at the time), and you’d sort of had a crush on him as early as elementary school (mainly because he was the only boy you could stand at the time), but it all kicked into high gear in seventh grade.  That was when you became inseparable, when you got in trouble together, when you stayed up all night watching movies, when you went through all of life’s ups and downs together: you even went to prom together, platonically of course.  

As for your feelings, you’d managed to hide them this long and still be his best friend, even when it sometimes felt like letting him stomp all over your heart without even trying.  Honestly, the only thing harder than being in love with Neil was trying not to be in love with Neil: you adored his sense of humor, his generosity, his sensitivity— and he’d been there for you through the things you couldn’t have imagined surviving alone.  That kinda stuff bonds you to somebody… and when that somebody has the most gorgeous eyes you’ve ever seen, it’s hard not to fall in love.

“Maybe I would flirt if I knew how,” you offered.  “But I’m not exactly, you know, flirty.”

“How hard could it be?” Jonathan interjected.  “Just, you know—”

You stared in quiet disbelief as Jonathan attempted to push his chest together with his arms.  It wasn’t quite working, of course, and the rest of you watched on as he fumbled around trying to force some cleavage.  “You look like an idiot,” you finally informed him after letting him do it for a minute.

“But is he wrong?” Lucien wondered.

“So, what, you guys really think that if I just went up to customers and—” you pushed your breasts together with your arms, accentuating them significantly in your tank top.

“That would work,” all three men asserted in unison before you could even finish.

“I fucking hate you guys,” you grumbled under your breath as you walked to the back, deciding to take your break in Neil’s office until these guys got their act together.

You never stayed gone for long, though— as idiotic as they could be, your friends were certainly charming.  They won you back with a promise to let you pick what tape to put on, and the four of you ended up laying on the couches watching Roman Holiday.  

When the movie was almost over, you rested your head on Neil’s shoulder; you guys did stuff like that, it was normal for you, but it always made your heart skip anyways.

~

This time, you were all hanging out at Jonathan’s primary workplace: the club.  In fact, it was a much larger crowd than just you and the guys— plenty of your local friends and loyal supporters of Gumshoe Video, all sitting around a big table while someone’s mediocre cover band took the stage.

"So, uh, me and Denise broke up," Neil said suddenly, going back in for another swig of beer right after.

The others offered their mild shock and half-hearted condolences, but you knew it was going to happen— he'd told you before he did it.  You tried to tell him that paying off a waiter to spill water on her was a weird way to prove what he already knew, but you couldn't disagree with his conclusion.  She was definitely difficult, and shockingly judgemental for someone who managed to date a video store owner for this long.

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” he promised, “I don’t think anybody’s too surprised, right?”

There was an awkward hesitation among the group as they wondered if they should lie, or just fess up now that he was obviously accurate.  You broke the silence to suggest someone go get another round of drinks for the table, and even though that was pretty much a one-man job, nearly everyone agreed and quickly shuffled off— leaving just you, Neil, and Lucien.

“I guess tonight’s your chance to meet somebody new, don’t you think?” Lucien suggested.  “Get over Denise, you know.”

“I think I’m already over Denise,” Neil decided.

“And if I told you that girl back there,” Lucien returned, pointing with the hand still holding his drink, “has been looking over here at you for the past ten minutes?”

You glanced where Lucien was pointing as well, seeing a girl in a denim mini skirt and massive hoop earrings settle her eyes on Neil before looking away quickly with a lip-gloss lacquered smile.

“I think I need some help getting over Denise,” Neil agreed suddenly, patting Lucien on the back before he left the table.  

You wanted to pout, but you were used to this— he was good-looking, he got a lot of attention from women in places like this… it usually didn’t work out for him, though.  Certainly not never, probably more often than most guys, but… definitely not every time.

You tried not to look over too much, you didn’t want to get caught spying or, even worse, looking a little jealous— but you noticed that every time you looked over at them, Neil was talking.  That was his problem, see: he never fucking shuts up.  Guys, girls, anybody who will listen— if you admit to not knowing about his favorite fifty-year-old spaghetti western or the most recent pre-Code horror comedy he watched, he’ll gladly blab to you about it for ages.  The first time you glanced at them, you saw her giving him doe eyes, laughing at something he said— and the last time, those eyes had glazed over and her laugh seemed more nervous and confused; you smirked to yourself.  He’s still Neil…

“So, um,” you struck up a conversation with Lucien, “what about you?  Anybody here catching your eye?”

“That’s actually the perfect descriptor of my type,” he replied.  “Anybody.”

You snorted.  “Then you should go, you know, talk to anybody?”

He shrugged and frowned a bit, and it was a simple movement but you understood completely.

The band started to play a new song, something upbeat and energetic, and you smiled.  “Wanna dance with me?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m drunk enough for that—” Lucien began to protest, but a minute later you were dragging him up by the stage.  Neither of you were actually any good at dancing, mainly you were just kind of jumping and flailing around together, but it was fun and that was the point.

Eventually, more of your friends wandered in to join you; when the song ended, everyone clapped and cheered, the band bowing in gratitude.  You only stole one more look over at Neil and his conversation partner, watching her interrupt his rant with a hand on his shoulder: your throat felt a little dry.  You just hoped what she was saying was more like hey, my friends are leaving, I’ve gotta go and not hey, wanna come over to my place so you can keep explaining German expressionism to me?

Your heart dropped when he reached for her— what if he kissed her now?  What if he wrapped her up under his arm and they walked out together?  What if you had to spend the whole night thinking about him having sex with her?

“Hey, we should ask them if they know any Strokes songs!” Lucien suggested, tugging on your arm to get your attention, but your mind was elsewhere.

“Uh huh, yeah,” you mumbled blankly, and he frowned at you.

“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to look for what you were seeing; but Neil wasn’t reaching for her, he was lifting his hand to wave goodbye as she left.  You beamed, even though you did feel a little bad when you saw Neil’s shoulders sink— it’s not that you wanted him to be alone forever, you were just relieved that you might have a few more moments to breathe before he got with somebody again.

“Nothing, sorry,” you answered Lucien, giving him your attention again.  “What’d you say?”

“We should ask the band if they—”

And immediately, Lucien lost your focus as you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at Neil again— he was already looking at you, seeing you all on the dancefloor.  You waved for him to join you, and he smiled as he made his way towards the stage.  A new song began, even louder than the last, and you could blame that for not hearing Lucien’s question for the second time in a row.

Although he danced with you all for a few moments, Neil draped his arms over your and Lucien’s shoulders, nearly yelling to be heard over the music.

“You guys are coming over tonight for a movie, right?” he presumed.  “Jonathan’s working ‘til late so he’s out, but—”

“Sorry, I’ve gotta be up early,” Lucien explained, “my brother and his wife are visiting, remember?  We’re getting brunch and—”

“Whatever, party pooper,” Neil frowned, before suddenly smiling at you.  “Guess it’s just me and you, huh, kid?”

You tried not to sigh too noticeably through your smile.  “Yeah, me and you…” you agreed.

~

As you groggily blinked your eyes open, you found Neil staring at you, his face uncomfortably close to yours, with a big smile.  “Mornin’, kid,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

You yelped and nearly jumped out of your skin while he laughed.  “Jesus Christ, Neil!” you shouted, kicking off the blanket on you— and then you began to process where you were and why.  “God,” you groaned as you held your head in your hands, while Neil kept laughing at you, “did I fall asleep on the couch again?”

It was sort of a rhetorical question— obviously you had, it would be much stranger if you woke up on the video store couch without having fallen asleep there.  “Yeah,” he said, standing up and sighing a bit, “but you didn’t miss that much of the movie.”

“What happened at the end?” you asked, stretching your legs and snatching the blanket off the floor to fold up; Neil must have put it on you after you dozed off.

“No, we can finish it later,” he decided, walking up to the register, and you groaned.

“Seriously?  Not even falling asleep gets me out of finishing The Man Who Laughs?”

He smiled a little as he started prepping the store for open.  “Nope,” he said proudly, popping his lips on the p sound.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” you assured, getting up and trying to ignore the soreness in your back from sleeping on a ratty old sofa all night— you remembered helping Neil carry this thing from where he found it on the side of the road.  Considering you knew where it came from, it was a wonder you ever sat on it, let alone slept on it… but this happened relatively often.  Sometimes it almost felt like you slept easier here or at Neil’s apartment than your own. 

You stood up and stretched your arms, sparing a glance over at him.

“Can I run home and change?” you asked, and he frowned.  

“We open in ten minutes,” he noticed, “you won’t be back in time.”

“Yes, and who will serve the clamoring crowds that await our open outside?” you rolled your eyes, gesturing out the storefront to the abandoned sidewalk.  “You can handle it on your own.”

“Just go to my place,” he shrugged, “it’s closer.  And I think you left some jeans there anyway.”

Right— you’d borrowed a pair of his sweats to get comfy for a movie night, and forgot to take the jeans back when you left.  You yourself had one of Neil’s short-sleeve button-ups at your place, when you’d both changed there for a costume party, but you let him believe it was just lost… it was too late to tell him now that you had it, ‘cause then he might ask why you kept it so long and then he might, somehow, deduce that you had been cuddling it at night from time to time…

“Right, okay,” you nodded, “but I still need a shirt.”

“Just borrow one of mine,” he said, like it was no big deal at all and didn’t make your heart skip.

For a second you wondered if you should protest— if he was still dating Denise, you probably would’ve said something.  But you decided not to say anything, in case he changed his mind; you nearly bolted out of the store and down the two blocks to his apartment.

Your jeans were on the dresser, draped haphazardly in their same just-peeled-off shape you must have left them in last week.  You grumbled to yourself a little about how he could’ve folded them for you so they wouldn’t be wrinkled… but then again, all his jeans were wrinkled, so he clearly didn’t know any better.

And now the fun part: picking a shirt.  You smiled to yourself as you opened the drawer, perusing through t-shirts with old movie posters and semi-witty slogans… cute, sure, but those were pretty similar to what you already wore.  

But the button-downs?  Those were quintessential Neil, and you'd be wasting an opportunity if you didn't put one of those on.

You felt a little giddy as you opened the next drawer down and found them all folded.  The first one you saw had light blue and white stripes, so you snatched it up and slipped it on.

The fit was definitely off, but you let yourself indulge in a fantasy for a moment: waking up here, in Neil's bed… in Neil's arms.  You'd slip on his shirt while you went to find some breakfast, and he'd hum something about how pretty you look in his clothes, and you'd end up tangled in the sheets again not too much later.  

Sighing to yourself, you buttoned the last button, leaving the two at the top undone so you didn't look too formal, and headed back to the store for opening.

Neil stared at you for a second when you walked in— at the shirt, specifically.  You waited for him to say something, but he didn't.  "What, should I not wear this one?" you asked, looking down at it as well, and he shook his head.

"No, no, it's fine— sorry," he mumbled, "just start sorting out last night's returns, please."

You definitely got a much stronger reaction from Jonathan, as soon as he walked in the door.

(Why was he here when he wasn't even working today?  Who knows— he was just always here somehow.)

“Hey!  You look even more like a lesbian than usual,” Jonathan greeted with a peppy fake-smile as he approached you, and you smirked a bit.

“Don’t blame me, it’s his shirt,” you nodded towards Neil.

“See, I told you you dress like a— wait,” Jonathan stopped mid-insult, looking back at you, then at Neil again, then at you; he pointed his fingers at each of you, crossing them back and forth.  “Did… you two…?”

You narrowed your eyes, waiting for him to explain what he meant.

“Did you guys hook up?!” Jonathan accused, wide-eyed.

You felt your face getting warm, and you stammered out your denial; Neil started waving his hands in disagreement as well, but Jonathan was already on a roll.

“Oh my god!” he yelped.  “The one time I miss movie night here and it gets freaky!  Should’ve known better than to leave you two lovebirds alone—”

“Jonathan, we didn’t—” you choked.

“It’s not— it wasn’t—” Neil butted in.  “She just borrowed my shirt!  ‘Cause she— because—”

“I mean, we’ve kinda all been waiting for this to happen— but I never really thought it would,” Jonathan steamrolled along.  “Well, yeah, I guess I thought it would, I just—”

“Wait wait wait, what?” Neil shook his head, stepping up closer to the two of you.  “What does that mean?”

Finally, he seemed to get Jonathan’s attention, who began to nervously backtrack as both of you stared at him.  “W-well, I just mean—” he started.

“And who’s ‘we all’?” Neil noticed.  “This isn’t just you, thinking this?”

“I… I mean,” Jonathan scoffed, “you know— just, just some people… we thought that maybe… that since you two are so close, that you might—”

“Wow,” Neil chuckled, crossing his arms in disappointment.  “You know, that’s so reductive.  For a bunch of progressive, free-thinking hipsters—” he waved his hands as he said it in a mocking way— “you’re really just, like… like… you know, not!  ‘Cause apparently men and women can’t really be friends?”

“No, come on, not like that,” Jonathan denied, “of course we can—”

“I mean, you’re her friend, you’re both single,” Neil noticed, gesturing between the two of you, “why don’t you two, just, you know… hook up!”

You cringed a little as Jonathan tugged at his collar nervously.  “Well, I—”

“Come on, why not?” Neil went on, smiling at the suggestion even though he was clearly unamused.  “I mean, she’s nice, she’s pretty, she’s got a vagina— why don’t you hit on her?”

“Hey, come on, Neil,” Jonathan sighed, “I’m well aware she’s got a vagina—”

“So what’s the problem?” Neil insisted.  “Clearly you can’t just be friends with someone with a vagina—”

“I would really prefer if we didn’t talk about my vagina anymore,” you mumbled nervously.

“— how come you never hit on her, Jonny?” Neil pressed, backing him into a corner metaphorically— but also somewhat literally, he was leaning in and Jonathan was pressing his back more and more against the shelves.

“You really want me to answer that?” Jonathan replied, almost threatening.  That made you furrow your brow a bit.  It seemed like a rhetorical question, Neil trying to prove a point, but you didn’t expect Jonathan to have a literal answer.

“Yeah, sure,” Neil decided, “enlighten us.”

Neil glanced at you, like you were just as gung-ho about this interrogation, but you were feeling a little sick.  You understood the spirit of Neil’s argument— and technically, you agreed with him— but it still stung to see him so incensed at the suggestion of you two together.  You were trying not to take it personally, it wasn’t like he was disgusted by you or anything… he even said just now that you were pretty, and he’d told you that before, but… it still bothered you a little, for reasons you couldn’t quite describe and that you were sure were illogical.

“I never hit on her,” Jonathan answered, lowering his voice, “because I… I figured it would piss you off.”

That seemed to surprise you both, maybe for different reasons; you bit your lip to suppress a smile.  Did Jonathan really think Neil was that protective over you?  “Why would it piss me off?” Neil wondered, but he sounded a little defensive— defensive in a caught-red-handed sort of way.

“I… I don’t know,” Jonathan shrugged.  “That’s just the vibe I got, okay?  That she’s sorta… off-limits.”

Neil hesitated.  “Well… she’s not,” he decided.  “You’re grown-ups.  Whatever you wanna do is none of my business— as long as you’re not being, you know, creepy or an asshole.”

“Of course,” Jonathan agreed, most of the tension settling as Neil backed up a step.

“Okay, well, ask her out then,” Neil instructed firmly.

“I didn’t say I wanted to!” Jonathan sputtered.

“Neil, Jesus!” you complained simultaneously, and he seemed to relent, shrugging as he walked back to the register.

“Sorry, sorry,” he dismissed, “just letting you know it’s… fine with me!”

You rolled your eyes a bit and looked back at Jonathan.  “Sorry,” you offered him quietly, “he’s… I don’t know.  He gets weird about that.”

“Oh really?” Jonathan scoffed sarcastically.  “Didn’t notice.”

“The real reason you shouldn’t be hitting on me is because we’re coworkers, by the way,” you reminded him.

“Hey, I only work here part-time,” Jonathan noticed, “so I think that means it’s cool as long as we only go out part-time.”

You snorted, but he seemed to get nervous.

“You know I’m kidding, right?” he added quickly, and you nodded with a laugh.

~

"You know, I was thinking— we don't have many events at the store these days,” Neil mumbled around a bite of pretzel, watching you play your turn at Skee Ball.  Normally he would put coins in the machine beside yours and try to beat your score, but the other machine was out of order and you decided to take a relay race approach.  “What if we did, like, I don’t know… maybe a double feature for a couple bucks?”

“Neil, we show movies every night,” you sighed, “and we invite everybody, and ninety-nine percent of the time it’s just some combination of me, you, Jonathan, and Lucien.”

“Yeah, but this time we could do movies that more people like— a little easier to watch,” he suggested, “something that would get new people in the store.”

“New people don’t wanna sit on a musty old couch with strangers,” you reminded him, and he nodded as he chewed and swallowed his next bite.

“You’re right,” he agreed, holding the pretzel out towards you.  “Wanna bite?”

You were trying to get through your skee balls pretty quick, so you just leaned your head over and chomped down on the end of one of the twists while he held it for you.  You hummed in appreciation— it was pretty good, fresher than the last one you guys got here.

Visits to the arcade used to be your thing, back in high school (aside from watching movies, but that was a given).  Then you slowed down with the trips, feeling a little old and out of place surrounded by kids— but the problem was, this place wasn’t filled with kids anymore.  It hadn’t changed much at all since you were both in high school, and that was exactly the issue: it was old, run-down, a bit grimey… kids weren’t coming to arcades anymore anyways, they were all on the Internet apparently.  So, while you and Neil sort of appreciated having the place to yourself, it also broke your heart knowing your old haunt couldn’t hold itself together forever… you two visited not just to recapture some old childhood joys, but to try to do your part to keep the business afloat.  

You pretended to like being here— because you really did want to support the place, and Neil wanted to keep coming back— but it actually made you pretty fucking sad.  Surrounded by all the neon, the noisy pinball machines, the Dig Dug machine that had a fifty-fifty chance of stealing your quarters, the photobooth (you still had some strips from that thing pinned to your wall, some so old that they’d faded from the sunlight that came in your window each day); it all felt sort of eerie now.  You would’ve never known all those years ago how little this place would change, even though you never expected it to— you would’ve never known how little anything would change.  Neil was still by your side, but still so far away… if you could talk to that fourteen-year-old girl now, you would warn her that no amount of time spent running around this place and playing Street Fighter was going to make Neil love her, or you.

But here you were anyways.  “Woo!” you cheered when your final score came through: 50,765.  “Beat that!”

Neil set the pretzel down on the bar-height table (on a pile of napkins, don’t worry, neither of you trusted those tables that much) and brushed the salt off his hands with a scoff.  “Oh please, I can beat that with my eyes closed,” he assured as you crossed your arms.

As he put his quarters in and stepped up to the game, you smiled wide.  “Alright, if you say so.”

You came up behind him and covered his eyes with your hands, making him jump and then laugh.  “What are you doing?”

“Just keeping you honest,” you giggled, holding on tight even when he tried to move his head around so that he could see.  

He did his best, usually struggling to even find where the balls were coming down more than rolling them decently— but after the first three went in the gutter without even scoring, you knew he didn’t stand a chance.  He did score a few times, but when the buzzer went off and he lifted your hands from his eyes, he laughed at the pitiful 1,150 on the board.

“Ohh, that’s too bad,” you winced, “guess you’re just full of it.”

Still holding your hands away from his face, he spun around and twirled under your arms like you were dancing for a moment; it ended with him face-to-face with you, swinging your hands back and forth a bit to force you to twist with him slightly.  “Wanna play Street Fighter next?” he suggested quickly.  “I know I can beat you at that.”

The giddy joy of the moment dropped and shattered; if you thought about it too much, you probably could’ve cried right then.  As pathetic, yet oddly aesthetically pleasing, as it would be to cry in an arcade, you swallowed down the emotion and smiled back at him.  “Yeah, okay,” you agreed.

~

You’d been a little antsy all day— Neil seemed to notice, asking a couple times if you were okay, but you just nodded and shrugged it off.  He had a sense for when you were lying; but that’s the thing, you weren’t lying, really.  You just weren’t sure what to say.  You weren’t sure if you should say anything.  And yet, you felt a little guilty not telling him everything that was going on with you— not just guilty, but plain weird.  Because you usually did tell him everything— except, you know, the thing— but you didn’t know if you should talk about this.  Not that you couldn’t— but should you?

So you were sort of gnawing on your lip most of the day, keeping yourself busy with tallying late fees behind the desk, trying to keep conversation light and meaningless: thankfully, in that regard, Jonathan and Lucien made it pretty easy.

“Okay: fuck, marry, kill,” Jonathan began, “Dracula, the Mummy, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

“Dude, I can’t answer that,” Lucien refused.

“Okay, then Neil, what would you do?” Jonathan changed his target.

“Um, well,” Neil pondered, “I think I’d have to kill Dracula— spare the world from that evil, you know— and I guess I’d marry the Mummy—”

“Freud would like to have a word,” Lucien butted in.

“And I’d fuck the Creature from the Black Lagoon,” he concluded, “out of morbid curiosity.”

You snorted, but didn’t look up from your clipboard.  “You come up with one that Lucien will do,” Jonathan challenged Neil.

“Alright, uhh, let’s see…” Neil stalled as he thought, looking up at the ceiling and stroking his chin dramatically.  “Fuck, marry, kill: Sarah Connor, Ripley, and Trinity from Matrix.”

“Okay, see, that’s a real challenge,” Lucien affirmed.  “If I marry Trinity, do I have to live in the post-apocalyptic wasteland or can she live here?”

“You’d have to live in the Matrix,” Jonathan announced, like it was obvious.

“Hm,” Lucien pondered, “do I know it’s a false reality?  Does she know?”

“She knows, you don’t,” Neil decided.

“Is she gonna tell me?  What if she has another guy on the side in the real world?”

“Okay, you’re overthinking this,” Jonathan groaned.

“And is this the Sarah Connor that’s already had John?  ‘Cause if not, I can’t kill her, or the human revolution stands no chance— but if she has him, I can’t marry her, ‘cause I’m not ready to be a stepfather—”

“You’re useless,” Jonathan informed him flatly.

“Well, it’s easy then,” you offered, still tallying fees on the printed table.  “You fuck Connor, marry Ripley and kill Trinity.”

“Yeah, I guess that works,” Lucien shrugged.

“If you’re so good at this game, you should play,” Jonathan decided.  You looked up from your work for once, finding Lucien looking excited at the idea and Neil looking a little nervous but intrigued.

“I’ve got one for you,” Lucien decided, looking concerningly smug.  “Fuck, marry, kill: the three of us.”

Jonathan let out a giddy ‘ooh’ and Neil raised his eyebrows.  “Oh— I don’t know— that’s too weird,” you shook your head, “it’s different, you’re real—”

“Wait, wait,” Neil interrupted, “now I wanna know.”

You froze for a second, wondering if you should double down on not participating, or if you should tell him the first thing that popped in your head: am I allowed to do all three to you?

Instead, you set the clipboard down and crossed your legs, and the men seemed to straighten up as they prepared for your answer.  “Alright,” you said, looking at them for a lingering moment before sighing.  “I think I’d fuck Jonathan, and then kill myself.”

“Yes,” Jonathan hissed, shaking his fist triumphantly.

“Dude, really?” Lucien snapped at him.  “That didn’t sound like a compliment to me.”

“Don’t care, I stopped listening after ‘fuck Jonathan’,” he replied.  “Alright, Neil, you’re gonna have to make good on that ‘she’s not off-limits’ promise you made to me—”

But Neil wasn’t listening to Jonathan, he was still looking at you.  “Wait— you wouldn’t marry me?” Neil interrupted, putting a hand on the desk and leaning in a bit closer— he looked half-amused and half-offended, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Um…” you started to wonder how to defend yourself from that.  What did he expect you to say?  Yes, I’d marry you, I’ve actually been planning our wedding since junior year.

“Hold on,” Lucien stopped you, “if she fucks you and marries you, that means I’m getting killed!”

“Yeah, so?” Jonathan smirked.

“What, you don’t think I’m marriage material?” Neil laughed… but he didn’t seem like he was really joking, per se.  He didn’t seem serious either, of course, but you decided to take his question seriously since he’d dared to ask it twice.

“Well,” you mumbled, “no.  I don’t.”

Then he seemed a bit more serious, adjusting his posture a bit.  “Why not?”

“I mean… you’re my best friend,” you reminded him, “but… you’re not reliable.”

He nodded, pursing his lips together.

“You’re not ready for marriage,” you continued.  “I mean, I think you’re just as sure of that as I am.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And honestly?  You’re a great friend and all, but… if you were my husband, I don’t think I could really… you know, trust you…”

The silence seemed a little heavy— all the men were sort of frozen for a second, you wondered if you should wave your arm around to make sure time hadn’t stopped.  But they did move, Neil first in fact, as he stopped leaning on the counter and nodded a little.

“I’m just surprised that you didn’t fuck Dracula,” Jonathan said to Neil in an attempt to cut the tension, “considering your massive man-crush on Bela Lugosi.”

“Hey, that reminds me, tonight’s movie is Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla,” Neil announced, apparently shaking off whatever odd energy he’d picked up just before, “you in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jonathan nodded, “should I bring drinks?”

“Uhh, yeah, why not?” Neil agreed. 

“Is a six-pack enough?”

"Uh, maybe…” Neil considered, turning over his shoulder to look at you.  “Kid, how many beers are you gonna want?”

You swallowed nervously.  “Um, I… well, I’m not coming.  I’ve got a date, actually.”

Of course it was just assumed that you would be there; you felt a little guilty admitting you wouldn’t, to the point that you almost considered just skipping said date and staying to avoid the awkwardness.

“Hey, great!” Jonathan said proudly, throwing his arms out wide.

“A date, huh?” Neil noticed, looking happily surprised.  “Sorry, I— I didn’t know— you didn’t say anything—”

“No, it’s cool,” you shook your head, “it’s kind of a last minute thing… you know how they’re showing Rope at the Palace tonight?  I met this, um, this guy the other day and we got to talking, and I asked him if he’d wanna come with me.”

“Rope, wow, that’s a great first date movie,” Neil nodded approvingly, “that sounds perfect.”

“Yeah— he hasn’t seen it, actually,” you admitted, smiling nervously, “so I guess how much he likes it will kinda be a good judge of if he’s worth going out again, right?”

Jonathan nodded approvingly, but Neil seemed skeptical.  "Well, the showing isn't until nine— you can at least hang out until the movie starts, right?"

"I've gotta get home and get changed!" you explained 

"You can't wear that to a date?" Lucien wondered.

"No!" you scoffed, looking down at your ripped jeans and Dracula t-shirt.  "Besides, I have this whole plan of what I'm gonna wear— remember when we did Bonnie and Clyde for Halloween?"

Neil was Bonnie and you were Clyde, in fact; he looked shockingly good in that blood-red lipstick, you tried to convince him to wear it again but he insisted it was a one-night-only situation.  

"I figure if I wear my Clyde suit, I'll look kinda like James Stewart!"

"You're doing drag on a first date?" Lucien pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, lighten up, I'm just dressing up for the movie— I'll still, you know, try to look pretty," you assured.  "What, I don't look good in a suit?  'Cause I got a lot of compliments on Halloween—"

"No, hey, go for it," Jonathan decided, "it's festive!"

"I think it's cool," Neil agreed.  "Have fun, alright?  And if he creeps you out or something, call the store number and I'll come get you."

"I'm not really worried about—"

"You know? Just call the store when you get home," Neil decided, "so I'll know you didn't get murdered."

"Dude, chill," you groaned.  "We're going to the movies, not, I don't know… hiking off-trail in the middle of the night."

You never agreed to call, but you did him one better: you ended up coming back to the video store afterwards, a bit over two hours later.  Of course, the guys were still on the couch— apparently the movie was over but they were watching anime (undoubtedly something Jonathan had brought as a palate cleanser after the movie).

They all looked over at you when you came in the front door and the little bell rang; they seemed excited to see you, and presumably to interrogate you about the date.  You sighed, knowing you couldn't have expected anything else, but you'd come here hoping they'd let you watch something with them so you could stop thinking about the date.

“How’d it go, hot stuff?” Jonathan purred, and you rolled your eyes as Lucien wolf-whistled.

“Oh yeah, it was awesome, best first date ever— I’m at his place having sex with him right now,” you frowned as you tossed your purse down onto the couch, and Lucien chuckled while Neil looked a little defeated.  

“Not that great, huh?” Neil noticed.

“Was he a creep?” Jonathan assumed.

“Did he think the movie was bad?” Lucien pressed.

“No, no, he was great,” you sighed, “he loved the movie.  We talked about it for a bit afterwards and he seemed to really understand it.”

“Okay!  That’s good, right?” Jonathan said optimistically.

“Yeah— so good that I asked him when we could do this again,” you recalled, “and he said that he didn’t wanna lead me on and he wasn’t interested in seeing me.”

“What?!” Jonathan yelped, while Neil winced a little.

“He said I was really cool and funny and easy to talk to,” you explained, “but that he didn’t feel any chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” Lucien repeated, confused.

“He means he’s not attracted to me,” you clarified.

“What?” Jonathan scoffed again.  “Why not?”

“I don’t know!” you whined, but you did know.  “I think I’m just, like, friend material.  I’m just ‘one of the guys’, you know?  Not somebody you actually wanna be with.”

“But isn’t that what every guy wants?  To date somebody who’s just ‘one of the guys’?” Lucien noticed, and then paused when everyone gave him an inquisitive look. “That sounded way less gay in my head.  You get what I mean, right?”

“As much as I would love to never let you live that down,” Jonathan smirked, “you’re not wrong— like, a chick who can hang.  That’s the best.”

“Well, here I am!  Hanging!” you snapped.  “Where’s my harem of suitors just desperate to date one of the guys?!”

“I mean, you are wearing a suit…” Neil noticed, getting a little defensive when you groaned and dropped your head back.  “No, no, you look cool!  I mean, you look really great.  I’m not sure what he wasn’t seeing.”

"Maybe he's got a girlfriend!" Jonathan suggested.  "And he was gonna cheat but he chickened out."

"Maybe he's intimidated by strong women," Lucien added, sounding more like he was quoting a Cosmo than actually thinking that.

"Respectfully, guys aren't that complicated," you assured.  "If he wanted me, he would.  He doesn't.  It's not that deep."

Neil looked away when you said that.

"Well, come take a seat on the losers couch," Jonathan offered, but Neil sitting next to him frowned.

"You think I'm a loser?" Neil protested.

"No, I was talking about that couch," Jonathan said as he pointed to the other one which Lucien was on.

"I'm not even offended," Lucien decided, patting the spot next to him.  "I'd rather be a loser with you than a winner with anybody else."

You smiled and plopped down next to him, pulling your legs up on the old sofa and finding the best angle to see the TV from.  "Okay, catch me up," you requested, bracing for the barrage of borderline nonsensical exposition about whatever obscure anime Jonathan was forcing on the group this time.

~

Since the store closed at eight on Tuesdays, you and Neil decided to go out for a late dinner after locking up— the nearest place you usually walked to was a little hole-in-the-wall dishing out Thai fusion, and even though there were open tables inside, you took your paper boxes outside to eat together on a bench.

You each sat up on it with your legs crossed, facing each other, while he poked at his fried rice with his fork and you stirred your noodles with the chopsticks.

“The Palace is still doing their Hitchcock screenings on Sundays,” you recalled, “I think the next one is Rear Window.  We could make Lucien man the store and go see it together?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he smiled.  “But we gotta sneak in the candy, that place is getting so overpriced…”

“Well, that’s a given,” you laughed.  “When I went on my date there I had Sour Patch Kids in my bag, but I was kinda craving Reese’s by the time the movie started..."

"That guy sounded like an ass, by the way," Neil announced with a frown.

"Oh, no, it's fine," you dismissed.  "He was really nice, even when he blew me off, and I… I guess I wasn’t really expecting it to go anywhere, anyways.”

“Really?” Neil scoffed.  “Then why’d you ask him out?”

Just in case.  “I… I guess I’m trying to put myself out there more?”

“Huh?  You’re trying to put out more?” Neil joked.

You rolled your eyes and unfolded your legs to kick him playfully.  “You know what I mean,” you groaned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he admitted, “and I support it.  It’s sort of insane that you’re still single.”

“Wow, thanks for the pep talk,” you rolled your eyes before shoving a thick swirl of spicy-sweet noodles in your mouth.

“No!  I mean, like, I can’t believe you’re single,” he clarified, and you smiled somewhat awkwardly while chewing your mouthful.  “You’re smart and fun and cool and pretty—”

Thanks to the food in your mouth, you didn’t have to worry about coming up with a way to respond to that, so you just shrugged.

“Seriously!” he insisted.  “I mean, guys hit on you at the store— I wish somebody who actually deserved your attention would walk in that place.”

The guy I want is already there every day.  Swallowing, you finally got a chance to talk to him again.  “Thanks,” you sighed, “it’s fine, though.  I mean, I’ve been single this long— I think I’ll survive.”

“Keep waiting for the right one, okay?” he encouraged, and your heart swelled.

“I will,” you promised, sounding more wistful than you meant to.

After a brief lull in the conversation, he cleared his throat and continued.  “Hey, um, while we’re on the topic of Sunday, about the whole fuck-marry-kill thing—”

“I’m sorry,” you offered right away, “I shouldn’t have answered that.  I wasn’t being serious, obviously.”

“No, I wanted to apologize,” he returned, “I shouldn’t have pressed you on your answer.  It was funny.  And it wasn’t like you could say you were gonna kill one of us.”

You snorted.  “Yeah, that one was probably the worst of the three.”

“But I shouldn’t have asked you about what you would’ve done to me,” he shook his head, “I was making it weird.  So, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you assured.  “Did you really expect me to say I would marry you?”

“No,” he admitted, “I thought you’d say you’d fuck me, marry Lucien and kill Jonathan.”

“What?” you scoffed, though you were still smiling.  “Why?”

“Well, Lucien would definitely make the best husband of the three of us,” he explained, “and Jonathan was the only one who wouldn’t have gotten butthurt about you saying you’d kill him.  He probably would’ve just asked you to give him a nice send-off, y’know…”

You nodded in agreement, wondering if he was going to address the obviously missing third piece of all this… he sure was staring down into his empty fried rice container with intense focus…

“And, you know, as for me,” he began sort of thinly, “I, um… I guess I just figured, you know, you’re the most comfortable with me.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “obviously, but maybe that would make it worse?  Like, at least with Jonathan, I know that if we ever did hook up or something, it probably wouldn’t mess up our friendship.  ‘Cause we’re friendly and all, but it’s not so serious.  But with you…”

“Uh huh, well, that’s why it’s good it’s just a game,” Neil finished for you, chucking his trash in the nearest can.  “Don’t have to worry about any of that stuff.  Least of all you and I being married.  Talk about a disaster.”

You choked on your throat.  “Yeah.  No kidding…”

“Well, anyways,” he sighed, standing up from the bench and stretching for a moment, “wanna come over and see if the game’s still on?”

“Oh, um, I’m just gonna go back to my place,” you decided, throwing away the last couple bites of your food on account of your suddenly-lost appetite.  “Kinda thinking I should get my sleep schedule in order.”

“That’s good,” he nodded, “I respect that.  Have a good night, then, kid.”

“Yeah, you too,” you breathed, waving as he turned and walked off into the night, tucking his hands into his jean pockets.  

You looked down at your lap, taking a deep breath and shutting your eyes for a second.  Did he have to be so sweet just to cut you down like that?  Could he have even known how it would hurt you to say that?

It’s not even like he was wrong, but you were dying to ask him why he was so sure that you and him together would be so bad.  What was wrong with you that he still couldn’t see you that way?

Not interested in this repetitive thought cycle anymore, and being very familiar with where it leads, you got up and started to walk down the street.  You didn’t turn to go to your apartment, though; you kept going until you heard live music— scratchy, whiny guitars and throbbing bass drums— seeping out of the club.  You just needed to be somewhere familiar that wasn’t the video store or home; and, this place conveniently also had liquor.

You slipped inside— hit by a wave of sound as you entered— and took a seat at the bar, half-listening to the band that was playing, pretending to be focused at all on what was going on in the outside world rather than just spiraling into your own thoughts inside your head.

“Hey,” Jonathan nodded at you from the other side of the bar, and you nodded back.  He instantly started looking for Neil— of course he would— and you deflated a bit.  “You here alone?” he noticed.

“Yeah,” you shrugged.

“Wow,” he smirked, “it’s like when Peter Pan’s shadow escaped.”

You should’ve probably been offended by that, but it wasn’t worth denying— and you were more interested in getting liquored up than justifying that you did, in fact, have a life outside of Neil.

And, actually, Peter Pan was a pretty good way to describe Neil, too.  Fear of commitment, leader of freaks and outcasts, daydreamer… all he needed was some green tights.  “What are you drinking tonight?” Jonathan finally asked.

“What pairs well with feeling completely unattractive and unlovable?” you sighed.

“Well, that would be my drink of choice: whiskey,” he smiled, setting a bottle down in front of you.  “I’ll do a shot with you.”

He poured you both a shot, and you timed it to shoot it back together; he, obviously, took it better than you, and you cringed from the acidic flavor.  "Jesus, people really drink this on purpose?" you grumbled.

"Yeah, give it a few minutes," he assured, "it's gonna numb all those stupid emotions."

"I don't have a few minutes," you sighed, "do you have anything more fast-acting?"

"Yeah— a second shot," he joked, but you nodded in agreement.  "Okay, shit, you're not messing around tonight."

"Nope," you agreed, watching him pour just one shot this time.  "You're not doing it with me?"

"I need to pace myself, I'm here 'til two," he explained.

He slid it to you and you contemplated it for a moment, before forcing yourself to get it down as quickly as possible to avoid the burn.  You still grimaced, but recovered quickly.

"Is it working yet?" he wondered.

"I guess," you answered half-heartedly.

“Well, you could always gush to the bartender about all your problems?” he offered, but you just shrugged it off.  “Come on, you wouldn’t be the first tonight.  And since I know you, I might actually be able to help.”

“I don’t think you can help with this one,” you assured.  “This problem has been going on longer than you’ve been around.”

“Oh?” he pressed.  “Let me guess… boy troubles?”

“Isn’t it always?” you scoffed, irritated that he saw through you that quickly— apparently your reputation of being horrible with men preceded you.

“But this is just one boy,” he presumed.  “One boy who… conspicuously isn’t here tonight…”

“Is it that obvious?” you wondered with a whine, dropping your head in your hand.

“Well, if you weren’t having any issues with him, you’d be with him,” Jonathan guessed— and it wasn’t bad logic.

“But, like, does everyone know?” you wondered.  “Does everyone but him know that I’m in love with him?  Oh god, Jonathan, you don’t think he knows, do you?”

“Wait— love?” he repeated, and you swallowed thickly as you realized the whiskey had already gotten you to say too much.  “You… you’re…”

“Okay, so I guess not everyone knows,” you mumbled.

“No, yeah, I think you managed to keep that under wraps,” he assured with a nod, eyes getting wider.  “Sheesh.  No, I had no clue.  Now it’s even weirder that you guys aren’t together.”

“Well, he doesn’t love me,” you explained flatly.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, god no— I mean, he tells me he loves me,” you corrected, “but he doesn’t mean— we just say that, you know, like at the end of phone calls or when one of us is sad.  It’s not, like… we never meant it that way.”

“Right, okay,” Jonathan nodded as he wiped a glass— the way bartenders do when they’re listening to people— but he didn’t seem to understand entirely.  “So, you’re not his type?”

“I don’t think I know what his type is,” you scoffed.  “I haven’t really noticed a pattern, have you?”

“You’d have to have a few more data points to really draw any connection between them,” Jonathan laughed.

“Yeah, fair,” you smiled, “he’s only had… I don’t know, maybe four girlfriends since I’ve known him?  One in high school, for a month— then Eva, they weren’t even really serious, just dating for a while.  And then, uh—”

“Tanisha,” he remembered.

“Right!  I liked her,” you hummed.

“What happened to her again?” he wondered.

“Got back with her ex,” you recalled.

“Wow, that blows,” Jonathan sighed.  

“She told me before she told him,” you admitted.  “She wanted me to tell him for her, actually, but I… I couldn’t do that to him.  But I came over right after, you know, and we ate ice cream from the tub and watched movies ‘til we fell asleep.”

Jonathan made a sort of face, one you couldn’t quite interpret, and you tilted your head as he seemed to mumble to himself.  

“What?” you wondered.

“Nothing, it’s just… he’s kind of an idiot,” Jonathan decided.  “I don’t think he gets how lucky he is.”

You wrinkled your brows together, laughing a bit.  “What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m not saying he’s, like, legally obligated to fall in love with you just because you guys get along so well,” he clarified, “even if that’s what Neil accused me of thinking— I really do think it’s fine for men and women to just be friends.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I’m just saying… like, how do you have someone who cares about you that much, and you end up dating fucking Denise for almost a year?!”

“Well, nobody knows how he ended up with Denise,” you coughed.  “That was a fucking disaster.”

“I mean, not to be crass, but, uh,” he stumbled a little over his words, “I’m surprised that you coming over after that breakup didn’t turn into a rebound, at least.”

“After eating that much ice cream?” you laughed.  “That would’ve been awful.”

“But really, though,” he insisted.  “I have a hard time believing the thought didn’t even cross his mind…”

“I can’t really be sure that it didn’t,” you admitted, “I’m just saying, nothing happened.”

“I guess he’s just known you too long to go for it with you,” Jonathan shrugged.

“It’s not just that— you know Neil, he’s kind of an adrenaline junkie,” you rolled your eyes, “or at least he thinks he is.  He wants adventure, I guess— and he always talks about us doing spontaneous stuff but it never happens— and I’m just too familiar.  Too comfortable.”

“Yeah, he does kinda have something against stability,” Jonathan agreed, “do you think it’s a divorced parents thing?”

“I don’t know, I stopped analyzing that a long time ago,” you groaned, “and I told myself I would stop trying to be what I thought he wanted, but I think I keep doing it.”

“Well, I know you know him better than anybody,” Jonathan countered, “but I know guys, and that guy… there’s no way he thinks of you as just a friend.”

“Why do you think that?” 

“Because he was fucking lying when he said it wouldn’t piss him off if we hooked up,” he insisted.

“You really won’t let that go, will you?” you grinned.

“Did you see his face?  He couldn’t get the image out of his head!” Jonathan assured confidently.  “And then that whole ‘fuck marry kill’ thing— he started getting nervous, I think.”

“Nervous about what?”

“That something could really happen with us!”

“You really think he would care?” you frowned.

“I swear to— to Ash Williams,” he decided, “that if I walked into that fucking video store, and told him that you and I did whiskey shots and you came back to my place and we did the horizontal tango, he would beat me to death with the register.”

“You swear on Ash Williams?” you repeated with a smirk, knowing that meant more than swearing on any deity would mean.

“Him and his chainsaw hand,” Jonathan assured, putting a hand over his heart to add to the bit, and you giggled.

“Well, I don’t think Neil can pick up the register,” you decided.

“In that case, you let me know the next time you wanna get back at him for something,” he offered with a wink, and you smiled at him sympathetically.

“I know you’re trying to be nice,” you sighed, “but you don’t have to do that.”

“Hey, come on,” he frowned, “I know you’ve got this I’m insecure I’m a weirdo nobody notices me thing, but you can’t actually think it would be some kind of charity work for me to sleep with you—”

“No, I don’t mean that,” you sighed, “I know I could get laid if I wanted to—”

“But you don’t wanna get laid,” he finished for you, “you wanna be loved.”

You sighed again, even harder.  “Yeah,” you nodded.

“I know,” he agreed.  “And you know I love you, but—”

“But not like that,” you took your turn finishing his sentence.

His only reply was raising the bottle of whiskey with a sideways smile, a silent offer to pour another shot— for both of you this time.

“Yes, please,” you hummed, watching him fill the miniature glasses with a sigh.

part 2

[antimonyandthyme]

oscar/mark, a/b/o dynamics

“You’re not being rational about this,” Oscar says, and he sounds surprised, as if he had fully expected Mark to roll over and acquiesce.

In all the time Mark has known Oscar, he can count on one hand the instances in which they’ve butt heads. Most often they rub up against each other with mild annoyances, Hey, answer your phone quicker, this was important, easily solvable things. But this galls.

It isn’t about the offer. Not even that it’d cross every professional boundary in existence, and then throw the whole rulebook into the ocean too. But that Oscar thinks it’s the rational thing to do. Cut and dry, as cold and as clinical as you like.

Oscar’s looking at Mark as if he were a puzzle he can’t figure out. Mark swallows down the fully formed retort on his tongue, Hey, buddy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed in your twenty-something or so years living on earth, but heats aren’t exactly rational—

But that’d just sound petty. And Oscar would just blink at him in that way of his anyway, that way that meant, Why are you so upset?

Mark isn’t in the mood to explain. Definitely not in the mood to explain to someone more than half his age why he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to spend his impending heat together.

“No thank you, Oscar,” he says again.

“But.” Oscar frowns. “I’m right here.”

He isn’t posturing, that much Mark knows, as sure as he is that Oscar would rather roll his eyes than click an extra button to complain on the radio. There are no hidden layers when Oscar speaks, Mark likes that about him. And it isn’t arrogance either. He’s just being frustratingly, infuriatingly, irritatingly, rational.

So Mark has no reason being angry.

“All the same,” he says, as neutrally as he can manage, “I’d rather spend it alone.”

There’s a small, selfish lick of satisfaction at the whipcrack ripple of emotion it causes in Oscar’s expression, which then makes him feel like a giant asshole. But whatever.

Heats. Rational. Sure.

--

When did we get so old, huh, he said the last time Seb visited, and they had ended up mostly napping like two lazy cats in the sun. On a regular schedule the suppressants work fine, throw in jet-lag into the mix and they see fit to wreak havoc on his body. Migraines and loss of appetite, and the doctor had advised to just lay off during the race calendar.

Which, alright, can be done, except there’re three out of four of the yearly heats that would possibly land on a race weekend.

He detests arranging for services during a race, and spending heats alone is no longer the end of the world it once was. Uncomfortable, certainly, but much less now than when he was younger. The good thing about growing old is that you learn some tricks. You listen to your body and its needs, except when it’s fucking whinging for an alpha who’s absolutely out-of-bounds.

Saturday morning has his temperature surging, and he knows making Qualifying is out of the question. He texts Oscar a perfunctory, Good luck, make us proud, and goes to hunker down in the hotel room.

He’s prepared. The mini-fridge’s stocked, and he’s brought an assortment of toys to deal with the gnawing emptiness. It’s routine at this point. Moan and snarl and curse his existence, grow lucid enough to switch the telly on while stroking his cock and fucking himself with a toy, then back to curling into the tiniest, tightest ball in a mass of blankets, all the while sweating and blurting out half his body weight in fluids. Heave himself up to eat a sandwich. Check on Oscar’s times. Dry-heave a little while texting him congratulations. Go back to bed. Rinse, repeat.

The one bone, the one benefit of having regular heats, is that they don’t last long. By evening, Mark’s body has settled into some not-yet-post-heat-but-getting-there state. His dick is still hard, but at least he doesn’t feel the need to give himself rug-burn by tugging at it every five minutes.

Convenient, because the door-bell rings.

“Fucking hell,” Mark says, unimpressed. “What are you doing here?”

He thought he’d made himself exceptionally clear. But Oscar’s here, looking about as far from usual Oscar as Mark’s possibly seen him. Anxious, disheveled, toe-tapping nervous nonsense. Eyes-shifty, red-cheeked. Impossibly endearing.

“I have had a lot of time to think about this,” Oscar says, which in Oscar-speech means he stared into the abyss for a couple of hours thinking about nothing else. “It occurs to me that I’ve been horribly remiss.”

“You talk like an old man,” Mark says.

“I’m trying to apologize,” Oscar says, agitated. “I didn’t mean to. Offer so flippantly. As if your heat has no significance.”

There is no significance, is Mark’s knee-jerk response, but even he can see it for the lie it is.

“I… was hurtful without meaning to be. I’m sorry, Mark.”

Mark nods stiffly. He might be out of deep waters, but the ache of loneliness takes some time to dispel. Best to close the door in Oscar’s face soon before his body gets any stupid ideas. “Apology accepted,” he says.

Oscar opens his mouth. “That’s not all.”

Of course it isn’t. Oscar smells like pine and those godawful expensive vanilla candles and this is just not a very good time. “Go on,” Mark says, through gritted teeth.

“I wasn’t being truthful earlier.”

Mark blinks. “About?”

“Rationality,” Oscar says, and suddenly it’s as if he hates the word. “That was never why I offered. I thought. I thought it’d be the only reason you’d accept. If I could make you see it as something easy. You’re here, I’m here, you know? Might as well.”

“Oscar,” Mark says faintly.

“Mark,” Oscar retorts. “You get what I’m saying, right? I offered because I want to. You know. Be the alpha in your heat. Christ. Is that how people go about saying it? I don’t fucking know, mate. I just want to help you, like you’ve helped me.”

Oscar sounds as if he’s practiced this in front of the mirror. Practiced it and then gone and fucked it all up anyway, because his ears are bright red and he’s looking as if he wants the tiled hotel floor to swallow him up. He’s staring at the ground, or, quite possibly, at the line of Mark’s erection through his sweatpants.

“Mark. Could you say something please?”

“I don’t think—”

“That it’s a good idea, yeah, I got that earlier. Could I hear something honest, please?”

Oscar’s never once asked Mark for anything. Sure, manager duties aside, Mark busting an arm and a leg to pave the way for a certain career aside, Oscar’s never once asked Mark for more. And now he’s asking, heart on his sleeve, and Mark’s too worn down to say anything but—

“It’d be nice.”

Oscar whips his head up. All hopeful, like a pup promised a treat. “I—what—really?”

“Nice, and completely irresponsible of me.”

“Okay,” Oscar’s saying, and already he’s leaning in toward Mark, shuffling eagerly forward such that he’s breached the doorway. “Okay, but. It’d still be nice, right?”

"Yeah," Mark sighs. “Yes.”

Oscar takes one more step forward. Something clicks in the right direction when he places one hand on Mark’s jaw, and the other on his hip. A lock being turned in place, a scale being tipped. Something like that.

Quick on the uptake, never slow to see his moment of win, greedy, hungry, opportunistic. All traits of a good Formula 1 driver. That’s his boy.

Mark closes his eyes. Regret can come tomorrow, after the race. He pulls the door shut behind them.

[vaniri]

You are my strength [Enver Gortash x Dark Urge]

Dark Urge has a nightmare, which leads her to believe Bhaal wants to punish her for liking Gortash too much. Gortash sees that something is wrong and tries to calm her down.

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Rating: M Category: F/M Word Count: 2 794 Warnings: blood, mentions of death and violence, angst and Durge's religious guilt (Bhaal is a bitch)

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Thank you @ugh-my-back for beta-reading 🖤 you're the best 🖤

(AO3 link in the comments)

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The cold night air was heavy with smoke and sharp metallic scent, so familiar to her and so beautiful. Everything around her was red - the moon shining bright above the city, all buildings she thought she knew but somehow couldn’t fully recognize, the paved street she’d walked so many times before, now turned into a crimson stream. She could hear people scream in horror somewhere in the distance, a sweet melody filling her cold vicious heart with joy. There were also bodies scattered on the ground, so many of them, all eviscerated and mutilated beyond recognition. And in the middle of it all there was her, but she had no memory of how she could’ve gotten here.

Someone was begging for their life and she noticed she was holding a frightened man, writhing in her grasp. Before she could even think or ask herself what the hell was going on, her own hands lifted him above her head and tore him apart, like a worn-out doll, letting his guts spill on the ground before her. Except these were not her hands, but some hideous claws covered in blood and gall. And she had no control over them, nor her own body. She could only watch as it tossed the remains aside and moved against her will, roaming the streets of Baldur’s Gate, killing every unfortunate that crossed her path-

She snapped her eyes open, not daring to move. Something was not right – wherever she was, this place was too dark, too quiet, and smelled way too clean. And she was not alone there, she could feel a strong muscular arm wrapped around her waist. Her vision quickly adjusted to the darkness, letting her get a better view of her surroundings. She wasn’t in her chambers, and definitely not at the Temple, but that ceiling and this entire room looked quite familiar to her. The memories of the evening before came back to her and she relaxed a little, realizing she was still in Gortash’s bed, where she fell asleep like a log after a session of particularly steamy sex, with the lord himself sleeping soundly beside her, his steady breath warm on the skin of her neck.

It was just a dream. Normally visions of a massacre excited her and filled her with delight, but this one was different. Worrying, disturbing even. She knew whose eyes she was looking through, she knew these stories well - Sarevok had told her many times about the greatest honor Bhaal could bestow upon his most devoted children. The Slayer, a horrid beast born from pure hatred, filled with it, that existed for one and only purpose - to kill in Bhaal’s name. Only the ones who made Father exceptionally proud could become the Slayer and she would want nothing more than to please and satisfy her god to the point of deeming her worthy of being turned into his most perfect weapon. But she was painfully aware that there was a heavy price to pay for it. Eventually the monster killed its bearer’s mind, ruined their self, claimed their soul, destroying them completely. That was not exactly the future she would see for herself.

She slipped out of Gortash’s embrace, careful not to wake him, and sat on the bedside. She needed some fresh air to clear her mind. Not wanting to risk flashing any unfortunate residents of the Upper City with her naked body, she grabbed Gortash’s shirt from the floor and put it on, buttoning it up on her way to the big balcony window.

She stood there enjoying the warm night air, watching the clouds waft through the starry sky. Gortash’s mansion was situated in one of the highest points in Baldur’s Gate, meaning he had a great view on the city and the harbor it was surrounding. It was truly beautiful, even at night, suffused with faint silver moonlight that made the waters of the River Chionthar sparkle like a sea of diamonds. But she never really cared about this place. Since she remembered, Baldur’s Gate and its outskirts were her murder-playground. Not home, not a place she had any emotional connection with. She just spilled blood in her Father’s name on these streets, carried out his will in every way he demanded, and one day she knew she would have to destroy this city for him. There was no point in getting attached to anything there.

She never cared for its people either. They were just her prey, sacrificial lambs born to be slaughtered. Oh, how she loved to take their lives, make them bleed, hear their screams and watch the light in their eyes fade until there was nothing but emptiness. Killing was her calling, her purpose and life’s greatest joy and even now she felt a thrill of excitement from simply thinking about it. She yearned to see this city painted in red, brought to its knees with her own cruel hands.

But Gortash lived here too and she did not want him dead.

She had never expected that he would become so close and so dear to her. A couple years earlier he reached out to her, providing information about some stolen bhaalist artifacts, exhibited in the House of Wonders like some common trinkets. He also offered his help in retrieving them, hoping to form a long-term partnership. She agreed, knowing it would be beneficial to have a man of his aptitude and importance at her disposal. After that they worked together many more times, developing mutual understanding and, more importantly, learning to trust each other and rely on one another. Before she even realized they started spending a lot of time together, more than it was necessary. More than it was wise. Gortash had many great ideas he wanted to execute, he was a smart and diligent man, and he wanted her to be involved in almost everything he did. He was very ambitious, which she always greatly admired, and treated her with utmost respect. The man was also very well-spoken and easy to talk with, so being in his company was a literal pleasure. And he was funny sometimes.

No wonder she genuinely liked him.

But it scared her how easily he made her stray from her purpose. How he was able to make her turn her gaze away from her Father. Even now, when she should be long back at the Temple, she chose to stay in his house and spend the night with him. She wanted his company more than she feared to displease Bhaal. And that frightened her. She had never felt like this before, towards anyone, and her own feelings confused her greatly. Shamed her. It was hard to believe she was ready to disobey her god in pursuit of acceptance and admiration from a mortal. And yet, she was standing in Gortash’s bedroom, almost completely naked, with no intention of stopping coming here whenever he asked her to or when she felt the need to visit him.

It was no coincidence that she dreamed about the Slayer tonight, when she was lying in Gortash’s arms. It was a warning, a cruel reminder of what would happen if she continued to defy Bhaal and make him angry. He would force her to kill Gortash, destroy everything she dared to care about, and all she could do was watch as her own hands tear her world to shreds.

A warm body pressing against her back snapped her out of her musing. She tensed feeling a firm arm wrap around her waist, ready to strike, instinctively reaching for her dagger she realized she didn’t have on her this time. Her captor’s hand caught her wrist midway, as if knowing exactly what she was going to do.

"Easy assassin, it’s just me." Gortash’s sleepy voice soothed her immediately. "No need to spill blood."

"And I thought you enjoyed it." She mocked him, reminiscing about the evening before.

"Come back to bed." He kissed her earlobe, and then planted a couple sloppy kisses on the side of her neck. "It feels empty without you."

"Sorry, I just needed some air."

"Is everything alright?" She turned to face him and even despite poor lighting it took him one look to know the answer. "Bad dreams again?"

"Just blood, gore and death, the usual. But this one was different. Father-" She hesitated. What was she supposed to say, 'I think Father just threatened to turn me into a monster that, given the chance, would happily kill you in seconds'? She didn't want to scare him, not him. "I need to go back to the Temple."

"I hoped you would stay with me till morning. And maybe we could even eat breakfast together." She could hear a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

"I… would love to. But I can't, not tonight."

If he was just a regular noble, a wealthy politician she kept close for his contacts and influence. Father would surely let her have a favorite lover, her dearest toy she wouldn't get bored of and discard that quickly. Maybe he would even let her keep him after she brought ruin to this world. But Gortash was not only a worshiper, but the goddamn Chosen of Bane, Bhaal's sworn foe and most despised enemy. His place was on his altar, not at his beloved spawn's side.

"You know my Father is not very fond of you."

"Yes, I am very aware of that."

"He will tolerate our alliance as long as it's beneficial to him. But he can't stand how close we've become. How close I let you become to me."

"Jealous not to be the only one present in your thoughts?"

Not to be present in my thoughts at all sometimes, she thought.

"What did he show you?" Gortash didn't even try to hide his concern.

"A… warning, I suppose? What may happen if I stay too close to you."

"I greatly respect your god, your Father, but he must let you live a little. Before you have to kill us all." A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "Your leash is already short, there's no need to yank it so often."

"You are a thorn in his side. A distraction for his perfect spawn, the cause of my doubts and disobedience. An obstacle in his plans. I-" He deserved to know the truth, no matter how terrifying it was. They knew each other for so long, been through so much. He would not be scared of her. "Enver, he wants you dead. Gone, so you can corrupt me no more. Nothing would bring him greater joy than seeing you slaughtered upon his altar. And I'm afraid he will find a way to force my hand to wield the blade."

"He can't control you like that."

"I'm afraid he can. He may-"

"No. You won't let him control yourself like that."

He took her hand, the one responsible for so many deaths and so much pain, and gently pressed his lips against her palm, kissing it with pure adoration. And to show her how much he trusted her not to hurt him, he put her hand on his chest where she could feel his heart, beating in a steady rhythm.

"I've known you for a while now and I can say with all certainty that I do know you, mind, heart and soul. We've been through a lot together, good things and shit we barely survived. I saw how strong you are, both on the battlefield and with your resolve. I saw you struggle with your urges and always remain in control of them. I saw you make decisions, your very own, and then live with their consequences. I saw you, a vicious and cold-blooded serial killer, spare lives. And I knew I could trust you. I knew you were not just a mindless puppet controlled by Bhaal, but your own person, with your own doubts, values and determination. And you never betrayed my trust. I put my life in your hands on many occasions and I would do it again, without a second thought, because I know you would not fail me. I know you. And I trust you completely." He lifted her chin with his hand, making her look him in the eye. "I'm not afraid of your Father. Because you stand between me and him. And you would never let him hurt me. Your will is stronger than him."

She was ready to disagree and argue, tell him that he didn't know what he was talking about. But deep down she knew that maybe there was some truth in his words, that he did know her, probably even better than she did. Better than Bhaal. Gortash saw right through her, not afraid to look deeper than she would've ever let anyone. And what surprised her the most was how okay she felt with that.

She'd never had anyone like this before, someone who knew her so well and still accepted her as she was, despite it all. Someone she accepted in her life as well. When she was a child, her adoptive parents tried to reach out to her, become a family, but she was unable to feel any connection with them. She killed them feeling nothing but emptiness. Later she had her congregation, her devoted followers ready to kill for her and her profane Father. They respected her greatly, revered her as they should be, but for them she was just an object of worship, a religious icon they prayed to and merciless leader they feared to disobey. Nothing more. She had no friends, no regular lovers and no steadfast allies. Of course there were also other bhaalspawn, her family, but these vipers only waited for her to turn her back on them, so they could stab it and take her place in the favoring gaze of their treachery-loving god.

And then she met Gortash.

He was like an open book to her, completely honest from the very beginning and never hiding anything, saying that only alliances built on trust and mutual understanding could survive and thrive. She was cautious at first, sensing some kind of ruse, but no backstabbing ever came and she started slowly warming up to him. Eventually he earned her trust, and her friendship. With him she could finally let her guard down and relax, knowing that in case of anything bad or unexpected happening, Gortash always had her back. She didn't even catch the moment when she started calling him Enver. She was not afraid to show him her softer and vulnerable side, just like he showed her his, and she loved how comfortable she felt in his company. In his arms she was not a killer, not a cult leader, not a daughter of a god. She was just a woman, enjoying the warmth and affection from a man she adored.

He was so damn right, she would do everything to keep him safe. She would fight her urges, resist the Slayer and openly defy her god. She could not lose Gortash, she could not lose that little piece of her own world she fought so hard to build, no matter the price.

"You are my strength." She whispered, feeling a sudden surge of warmth wash over her. "With you I can do everything."

"I know." He brushed a strand of her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. "That's why I'll remain at your side as long as I draw breath, and then my spirit will find its way back to you. Together, we're unstoppable."

"Every day I pray to my Father, beg him to let me kill you last, keep you at my side till we're the last people alive. I want you to die with me, I want to have you beside me when I am dying."

"And I want to be beside you. Only then I would let your Father guide your hand to stop my beating heart." He took her face in his hands and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "If this world must end, I want it to be by your hand, and for your glory. It will be my honor to help you fulfill your destiny, to witness your triumph as a bhaalspawn, and then fall into eternal slumber in your arms. When the time is right."

She couldn't contain herself any longer and possessively claimed his lips, dragging him into an intense and fierce kiss that led them both back to bed, where they shared another moment of heated passion. After that, spent and completely exhausted, they fell asleep in each other’s embrace.

No nightmares bothered her anymore that night.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Happy Birthday, my dear

It's @cilil's birthday!!!! 🎂🎂🎂🎂

So, here is a little gift for you. Done by the incomparable @neldeathstar!!!

And, in the name of friendship, I've also written a very tiny thing! It's under the cut :)

Enjoy!

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰: 1.1 k ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰: Mairon, Aiwendil, Eönwë 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Sexual innuendo, Mairon is mean...

Mairon rolled his eyes—Eönwë and Aiwendil were not the audience he had expected or desired, but he needed to share his amazing experience with someone before he could burst with self-satisfied smugness, and he was too sated and content to ferret out Curumo or Ossë.

“Hello Mairon, how are you? You look…” Aiwendil faltered in his cheery greeting, his annoyingly huge, innocent eyes clouding over with something akin to dread and distrust. “You look different. Are you unwell?”

Look at that little fool, Mairon thought impatiently; he despised his fellow Maia for his sickening naïveté that was erroneously misconstrued and excused as genuine “sweetness” by most. Mairon knew the truth though, Aiwendil was nothing but a stupid dreamer who would never amount to much if he didn’t stop aimlessly horsing around with the most feeble and neglectable of Yavanna’s creations.

“Do we go to the library then?” Eönwë asked hopefully, his usually so placid face lighting up with anticipation.

Why that one wanted to go to the library didn’t make sense to Mairon either—Eönwë was a good fighter and a disgustingly faithful servant, but he’d never be the one to pen anything of importance. No, it was clear that he was destined to merely carry, defend, and deliver messages—not to write them.

“Ah, I am so sorry,” Mairon said softly, schooling his face into a convincing expression of contrition and prudish embarrassment that would be shattered only too soon by his carefully planned and rehearsed revelation.

Indeed, their vacant faces fell in disappointment and unveiled worry almost instantly.

Mairon drew himself up to his full height, ready to strike, and promptly informed them of his exciting and illicit meeting with Melkor in the forge in melting, sensual accents.

He had expected outrage, shock, envy, or even anger, but all he got were two blank stares of incomprehension. They even had the gall to cock their heads like puzzled birds—how Mairon wanted to wring their necks for having ruined his moment of breath-taking triumph by their profound and utterly maddening stupidity.

One, two, three—Mairon counted the moments in his wickedly sharp mind until any of the two would finally fully comprehend what he had just told them.

“Oh no,” Eönwë cried out in what seemed to be genuine alarm; he expressed his sincere commiseration and even gave special emphasis to the undeniable evil inherent to all of Melkor’s doings. Maybe, Mairon reflected, he only said so because of Aiwendil who kept staring at him with questioning cow eyes.

Ire—hot and punitive—flared within Mairon’s chest; he was named “the Admirable” but that alone wasn’t worth much when there was nobody around who was sensible and enlightened enough to actually admire him for his daring and cunning.

Indeed, he himself was rather proud of the way he had ventured into a passionate, mind-altering, and world-shattering relationship with the mightiest of the Valar—after all, their seduction had been mutual and all-encompassing. Mairon relished the lingering burning sensation rippling through his fána with every move, and he certainly would not accept pity when he had expected awe!

Letting his smile melt like warm honey, he turned his sweetest, most innocent face to the two woeful imbeciles who were still waiting for him to accept their well-wishes and expressions of foolish sympathy.

“Oh yeah…” Mairon sighed mellifluously. “His dick is evil…big.”

This time, Eönwë was quicker to catch on—he gasped audibly and sputtered his peer’s name in a forbidding, scolding tone that was but a cheap imitation and a pathetic echo of Manwë’s thundering eloquence.

“What?” Aiwendil looked back and forth between the other two, his vague gaze sharpening into an expression of bewildered distress.

Mairon made a rather crude gesture at the height of his own shapely behind that had Eönwë choking on his own tongue but only served to perplex Aiwendil even further.

“A dick? He has a tail?” Aiwendil asked, evidently just as eager to understand as he was incapable of grasping even the most essential mechanics of what they were so circuitously discussing—at least, Ossë would have challenged or even mocked him! Nothing was worse than the benign but utterly fatuous and vacant gleam of the insipidly handsome faces turned towards him like beacons of purity.

“Ugh, I wanted it. I welcomed his attentions!” Mairon groaned; he could hardly believe that he had to spell it out for them.

Silence fell like a stifling blanket over the bright meadow they had convened in.

“What exactly?” Aiwendil inquired shyly, his eyes darting nervously between Eönwë and Mairon—he could tell that he was a nuisance and was visibly afraid of being reprimanded or sent away.

“I am not going to draw you a graphic,” Mairon hissed, tossing back his hair and glowering at the young Maia with unadulterated loathing. “Suffice it to say that the forges were not the only thing that was burning bright. Oh, the things he does to me and I to him. We are so well matched—you can’t even imagine the pleasures we share.”

He held up his hand before Aiwendil could stutter some nonsense about walks in nature or tending to some foul-smelling beast; his body moved in suggestive undulation, mimicking the throes of lascivious passion he had engaged in before joining these two knuckleheads.

“They were dancing?” Aiwendil asked Eönwë in a muted voice.

“No, little one,” Eönwë sighed. “Mairon here has let himself be corrupted and tainted by the power of evil.”

“Ah, don’t be such a hypocrite!” Fire flared within Mairon’s eyes, and he wished that he had brought any of his tools to put Eönwë’s famed prowess in battle to the test. “He’s no better and no worse than his brother. Only because you have not had the guts or the charm to get anywhere with Manwë, you don’t need to take your envies and frustrations out on me.”

That accusation was so outrageous that it knocked the wind clean out of Eönwë’s mighty lungs—he merely stared, mouth agape, at the vision of flickering light and unbridled anger in front of him. More than ever, Mairon wanted to batter him senseless, but he held back and only bared his sharp teeth to give vent to his sombre, dangerous feelings.

“I would never…” Eönwë stammered, his cheeks colouring with the heat of embarrassment and something darker and much more shameful.

“Yes,” Mairon grinned sharply, “and that might just be your problem. Either way, I am too wrung out to go to the library and look at dusty tomes with the likes of you. See you later.”

“Why doesn’t he go to Estë if he’s in pain?” Aiwendil muttered, confused, as they saw Mairon limping away from them with as much dignity as he could muster.

“I am afraid,” Eönwë replied, settling a heavy but comforting hand on the slender shoulder of his companion, “that he has grown to like the burn.”

Once again, I wish you only the best for your birthday and good luck for tonight!!!

Lots of love from me, as always!!!

Hoch sollst du leben...an der Decke kleben and so on and so forth! Love you!!!

[angelasscribbles]

Reunited (A Bad Romance AU)

Series: What If

Original Series: Bad Romance

More: Bad Romance Continues

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for chapter: Riley x Max (past), Riley x Drake, Riley x Liam

Word Count: 1,333

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: Mature themes

A/N: This is for the @choicesprompts Rewrite Challenge. This clip came up on Facebook and it reminded me of Who Said Anything About Divorce? One of my Bad Romance AU's. So here's another. What if Liam had gotten his shit together much sooner? Also, in the original it's Max she enters with and here I've made it Drake.

Mashup: TRR x Friends

My other stuff: Master List.

Fydelia, the night the Engagement Tour kicked off….

Riley Brooks entered the estate at Fydelia on the arm of Drake Walker, the man who had just spent the last three weeks with her at Ramsford. He had wiped her tears, soothed her anger, and warmed her bed.

Much to Maxwell’s chagrin. It was bad enough she had dumped him for Liam. Once that went south, he’d had to watch her fall into Drake’s arms.

He parted ways the moment they were announced, slinking off to the bar to busy himself with tonight’s objective: Getting shit-faced drunk.

Riley ignored the whispers and gasps as they moved through the ballroom. She wasn’t sure which was causing more of a stir. That she had the gall to show herself after those pictures of her and Max had been leaked to the Cordonian Star or that she was there with the king’s best friend, the other commoner outcast.

She swiped a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and held it up in a toast to the gawkers with a brilliant smile, “Lovely to see you all again!”

Soon enough, Riley and Drake came face to face with Liam and Madeleine. Riley was taken aback by the pain and longing she saw clearly etched on Liam’s face. His voice was full of desperation as he uttered her name, “Riley…”

She blinked back her tears and straightened her spine, “Liam.”

One look at Drake’s arm wrapped possessively around her waist and Liam’s eyes filled with fury. “What the hell is this?”

“Come on, darling,” Madeleine started to walk away, pulling Liam with her but he yanked out of her grasp and spun back to the other couple, “Riley, please! We need to talk!”

“I can’t imagine what about,” she ran a finger down Drake’s chest while her eyes stayed locked on her former lover.

Liam’s voice held a warning note, “Riley…”

“Yes, Liam?”

“I…” his mouth opened and closed as he fought an internal battle.

Madeleine moved back to his side, sinking her nails into his arm as she hissed quietly in his ear, “People are starting to stare, come on!”

“Yes, Liam,” Riley made a shooing motion, “Go on, you have your perfect little noblewoman and you’ve knuckled under to the pressures of the court beautifully. Go make Daddy proud and leave me alone. I don’t need you anymore, I have Drake now.”

Liam’s eyes darted from Riley to Madeleine to the crowd around them that was growing every moment as people came to watch the drama unfold.

At that moment, he saw two futures stretching out before him. He realized with sudden clarity that one of those futures was rapidly expiring.

He drew in a deep breath. Desperate times called for desperate measures, “It’s true, I behaved horribly but it’s only because I love you. There are things you don’t know, reasons I had to pretend to reject you-“

“Oh, that wasn’t pretend Your Majesty! That was very real! I was there, remember?”

Shoving Madeleine carelessly aside, his voice rose, and he didn’t care who heard, “I was wrong, Riley! Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I was wrong and I would do anything to have you back in my life!”

“Too little, too late, Li!” Drake interjected, tugging her closer to him, “She’s moved on.”

Liam’s eyes never left Riley as he asked, “Has she?”

Riley shook her head, “I can’t believe this!”

“I never should have broken up with you!”

“Broken up with me? You didn’t break up with me, Liam, you got engaged to another woman five minutes after fucking me in the hedge maze and you did it without giving me so much as a heads up!”

Liam ignored the gasps from the onlookers and Madeleine’s yelp of surprised fury as he defended himself, “I know! But I can explain all that! Riley, I think about you all the time! You’re all I can think about, I’m fucking lost without you! Do you…do you ever think about me?”

“No!” Drake scoffed.

“Yes,” Riley said softly.

“What?” Drake’s head snapped from Liam to Riley in shock and disbelief.

“I don’t know what to say, Liam,” Riley glanced around the room. Dancing had stopped, the room had gone silent, and every eye was locked on the two of them. Here was the man she loved not giving two fucks what the court thought…finally.

“Say something,” he implored her, “anything!”

“This is all so….romantic…”

Drake’s mouth fell open, “Or….” Because come on. The man had dumped her, very publicly, while he had picked up the pieces. “Too little too late, maybe?”

Liam ignored Drake as he plunged on, “I understand I may be way out of bounds here but is there any chance you would take me back?”

Riley considered his offer. Part of her wanted to say no, to punish him for what he had put her through and part of her just wanted him back, wanted the aching hole his absence had left filled again. And yes, there was a small part of her that wanted to rip him away from Madeleine in vindication. What better way to send a big fuck you to the nobility than to take, and marry, their newly minted king right out from under all of them? Especially the simpering evil countess of cruelty that was currently turning six shades of purple as Penelope and Kiara held her at bay.

The pleading in his eyes is what finally pulled a simple, “Maybe,” from her lips.

“Riley, sweetie,” Drake pulled on her arm in an attempt to turn her attention back to him, “This conversation is starting to make me a little uncomfortable.”

Riley turned to him as if just remembering he was there. She placed one hand on her chest and the other on his face, “Oh, God. I am so sorry but…” her eyes flicked to Liam and then back to Drake as she gestured toward the king, “I mean, there’s so much history between us, you know?”

“I’ve known you exactly as long as he has!” Drake protested.

“I’m sorry too,” Liam clapped him on the shoulder, “but Riley and I belong together, and I was a fool to think I could pull off this charade.”

A charade Drake had been fully aware of but apparently chosen not to tell Riley about. He’d deal with his errant best friend later. Right now, he knew he needed a grand romantic gesture to win her back.

Liam turned and held out his hand to his fiancé, “Madeleine?”

She reached back, “Liam-“

“I’m sorry,” he told her as he pulled the engagement ring from her finger, “But I made a huge mistake proposing to you.”

Madeleine gasped and fell back in shock. Bertrand, who had appeared from nowhere, caught her in his arms, “Maddie!”

“What the fuck?” Savannah watched him in confusion.

From across the room, Godfrey was spluttering and insisting Liam couldn’t do this, but two guardsmen held him at bay easily.

Liam dropped to his knees in front of the woman he actually loved, “I love you and I’m so sorry I let the protocols of court get in the way of that. Marry me, Riley, please. I can’t live without you, and I don’t care who knows it!”

“Oh, Liam, I love you too!” She let him place the ring on her finger. When he retook his feet, she flung herself into his arms.

There was a smattering of applause and a mixture of noises ranging from outrage to approval from the crowd.

“Ok, guess we’re seeing other people,” Drake grumbled as he made his way to the bar, “Whiskey, neat, and keep them coming!”

Max turned to him with a gloat, “Welcome to the club. I told you it wouldn’t last.”

“Shut up, Beaumont,” Drake threw back the first shot, “I don’t care what just happened out there, this isn’t over!”

“No,” Max agreed as he gave Drake an appraising look, “It isn’t.”

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: May 13, 2024

The annual parade of kitsch and clamour, otherwise known as the Eurovision Song Contest, has devolved somewhat in recent years. Once a harmless extravaganza of camp and self-knowing nonsense, it has gone the way of most gay culture and fallen into the fatal trap of taking itself too seriously. This fluffy creature has started to bare fangs.

Of course, Eurovision has always been political. The tradition of Greece and Cyprus awarding each other full marks was as daft as it was inevitable. But the spectre of war has somehow now intruded itself; in 2022, the public vote for Ukraine was an expression of sympathy rather than a sincere judgement on the quality of the song, and this year the Israeli singer Eden Golan required an escort of around one hundred police officers due to threats from protesters. Such baleful developments take us a long way from the frivolity of “Puppet on a String” and “Hard Rock Hallelujah”.

This year the trophy went to Switzerland’s Nemo, a man in a skirt who identifies as “non-binary”. The UK entry, Olly Alexander, calls himself “gay and queer and non-binary” but magnanimously accepts the pronouns “he” and “him”. And then there is the “queer” and “non-binary” Irish entry Bambie Thug, a woman who came sixth in the competition but first in the award for the sorest of losers. Having being beaten by Israel, whose very presence in the competition was a source of outrage for Thug, she had the following to say:

“I’m so proud of Nemo winning. I’m so proud that all of us are in the top ten that have been fighting for this shit behind the scenes because it has been so hard and it’s been so horrible for us. And I’m so proud of us. And I just want to say, we are what the Eurovision is. The EBU [European Broadcasting Union] is not what the Eurovision is. Fuck the EBU. I don’t even care anymore. Fuck them. The thing that makes this is the contestants, the community behind it, the love and the power and the support of all of us is what is making change. And the world has spoken. The queers are coming. Non-binaries for the fucking win.”

One might argue that all of this is simply an extension of the high-campery of old. Thug certainly looks pantomimic, with her Christmas-cracker devil horns, and the layers of makeup piled on to what used to be a face. But what were once the glittery fripperies of gay culture have been hijacked by the acolytes of gender identity ideology, a movement that has appropriated this whimsical sheen to advance its authoritarian and sinister goals. It is this same movement that has successfully lobbied governments to introduce draconian speech laws, has hounded people out of their jobs for wrongthink, and has normalised bullying and threats of violence in the name of “social justice”. 

The very notion of “non-binary” is a reactionary concept dressed up in the guise of progressivism. Most of those who identify as non-binary are embracing, rather than rejecting, sex stereotypes. They claim to feel neither sufficiently masculine nor feminine, which is simply another way of reinforcing what it means to be male or female.

The same ambiguity goes for “queer”. Many gay people see this as a anti-gay slur, associating the term with the practice of “queer-bashing”. But now, many young heterosexuals are identifying themselves into this category as a means to claim the high status that now accompanies victimhood. Dannii Minogue, a lifelong heterosexual, recently “came out” as “queer”. To those who have been the victims of homophobic abuse and violence, it’s galling to see straights embracing the term as a fashion accessory. Minogue may as well have come out as a “faggot” or a “dyke”.

A study by the Arizona Christian University which surveyed six hundred people between the ages of 18 and 37 found that of those in the lower age bracket (18 to 24), 39 per cent identified as “LGBT”. Statistically, the majority of these respondents will be heterosexual. If this trend is to continue, it won’t be long before the “LGBTQIA+ community” will largely comprise of straight people with a kink. In fact, we’re probably already there.

Just because a majority rebrands itself as a minority, that doesn’t make it oppressed. This is the context in which Bambie Thug’s battle cry – “The queers are coming” – ought to be understood. The oppression of gay people throughout history is an incontestable fact, but heterosexuals, however fetishistic, have usually been left alone. It’s little wonder that more and more gay people are rejecting the “LGBTQIA+” label.

One of the common mantras intoned by activist groups and the institutions they have infected is that “non-binary identities are valid”. They are not referring to the standard definition of “valid” as an argument that has “a sound basis in logic or fact”. After all, there are only two human sexes and no third gamete. Rather, in the activist lexicon to be “valid” is an acknowledgement of the legitimacy of personal feelings, or “individual truths”, a close cousin of the notion of “lived experience”.

We are assured that “non-binary people have always existed”, a form of historical revisionism intended to shame anyone who refuses to dance along to the circus march of our times. Gareth Roberts points out the folly of such declarations in his new book Gay Shame, and how they are “throwing back into the unknowable past something that was literally invented on Tumblr in 2011”.

To be “non-binary” is a modish form of self-identification, no different from the “goths” of the 1980s or the “teddy boys” of the 1960s. The major departure is that those who identify as “non-binary” are now demanding that others pretend that their identity is something innate. To be born “non-binary” is about as feasible as being born an “emo”, and I have yet to hear of a case of a baby emerging from the womb in ripped skinny jeans and black eyeliner.

So when Bambie Thug cries out “Non-binaries for the fucking win!”, the connotations are a little more sinister than the teenage trends of yesteryear. Major corporations and public bodies are now insisting that we pretend that people can identify out of the categories of male and female, irrespective of the impact on the rights of women, gay people and children. Laws are being passed that will criminalise those who refuse to play along with the fantasies of narcissists. In other words, there is a lot more at stake than the fleeting fashions of Eurovision.

--

==

To claim to be "nonbinary," you have to believe in very strict, narrow, conservative gender stereotypes...

... in order to insist that you're a unicorn who is not.

[kariachi]

Oh look, sad Argit fic.

Argit is there with Kevin on my list of 'fuckers who are going to have to have a fucking meltdown eventually because they have been through Too Much Too Young with Too Little Support'. So have a meltdown.

~~

He would maintain until the day he died that it hadn’t made any fucking sense. Things had been going well, not just in that moment but overall. He was prominent enough, Kevin was prominent enough, for folks to think twice about giving him trouble. Business was stable and his political ambitions showing great promise. He was healthier than he’d been ever, repairing things with Kevin, for the first time in ages not counting on some other schmuck to make sure his bills were paid. He even kind of, almost, had friends besides Kevin, something he’d never even considered a possibility.

Life was good. He had quite literally been sitting at his desk, having a snack, reveling in how nice it was to have food readily available.

Somehow that had slipped into thinking about all those times it wasn’t. About Kevin grabbing energy behind his back to make sure he had enough to eat. Stealing scraps from his siblings. Learning to hunt because even when there was almost enough rarely did it make its way to the runt of the middle litter. How many times had he had to sneak and fight and struggle to get the basics? Sure it meant he’d been ready when he’d fallen behind (been abandoned, he was old enough, if he couldn’t keep up Ma wouldn’t- a thought quickly shoved back into its box) but even then nothing had ever come easy. Even Kevin’d had it better, mostly fed and sheltered for his earliest years, for all he couldn’t hold it against him like he couldn’t help doing with others.

Others who had the pure fucking gall to judge them, to judge him, for the shit they’d done to survive. For the crime, for the lies, for deaths and- and worse things he’d done to keep himself, to keep Kevin, afloat. With the only relief empty promises of a better life someday and knowing that at least his Ma wasn’t profiting from any of it, better than his- (back in the box) As if you didn’t learn quick how to run a con when you were born for them, to use big eyes in a gaunt face to get food and supplies out of people doing no better than your family was, to be a distraction, slip into places the older set couldn’t fit, do the dirty work your parents didn’t have to do for themselves now (back in the box).

It was easy to hold your nose in the air when you weren’t having to choose if the risks of jail time were worth having shelter for a night. Dealing with Kevin’s worst days, where he could barely hold himself together enough not to hurt you. Clenching your teeth as adults took advantage of you, because it was slightly better to be used right until they pushed too far. Waiting with bated breath for everybody, anybody, to push too far.  Watching Kevin beat and maul, putting knives and laserfire through people yourself, because you’re both so young, so vulnerable, and inside and out of the criminal underworld people can smell it like a trail of blood.

When you weren’t accepting money for your own mother with a smile like you didn’t want to vomit (back in-). Like it wasn’t near enough self-defense, like she wasn’t just another trying to make a profit off your Kevin. Like you don’t know exactly the sort of shit that would happen to her, is likely happening to your siblings. Like you haven’t seen it, haven’t dealt with exactly the types in all the worst ways possible.

As if there’s not a sick twisting in you at the thought she’s probably proud, to this day, that you’re just like her. A selfish, twisted person who cares and acts only for themself. Like something out of your nightmares-

He’d learned young that crying wasn’t worth it. What could come of it? The threat of violence from his parents. Actual violence from them. A distraction from the difficult task of surviving. Proof that he was weak and vulnerable. A reminder to those around him of how young he had been, how small. There was nothing to gain, no benefit. Better instead to shove such strong feelings down, lock them away where they couldn’t hurt you. Bad things happened, so what? It was life. You shoved down the pain and kept going, because who would keep you alive otherwise? Who would keep Kevin- always too contrary to accept these hard truths, too emotional, too hopeful- alive? You took whatever blows to body, soul, you needed to, learned your lessons, and then you left it behind.

It was only because of Kevin he’d even had a clue what was happening, when his breaths came rough and staggered, vision blurred and eyes burning. He’d tucked his chin, a hand clapping over his muzzle as panic rose behind everything else. A familiar fear, knowledge ingrained from the pouch of coming danger. Like so many times, in so many lesser cases, he tried to shove the thoughts and emotions into storage, only succeeding in forcing more up into the forefront of his mind. The nasty circumstances and aftermath of his first kill. Too many nights hungry. The day he’d learned that more than the Null Void had made his childhood abnormal. How stupid he’d been to believe Masloph when he’d said he loved him, when he should have known well enough it didn’t exist, and that even if it did he was too much his mother’s child for it-

He couldn’t have told you how long he’d been fighting and losing before Solid Plugg popped his head in the office. Saying something he couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears, the way his breathing stopped. By the time he’d realized the state he was in, bolting from the door, embarrassment was slipping into the spiral of his mind, joining the fear, the pain, the anger, the regrets- too damn much all, at once, for anyone to deal with. Enough to have him clawing at himself like always seemed to work for Kevin why wasn’t it fucking working-

When Ben and Rook arrived, he couldn’t have stopped himself throwing things at them, snarling, so that they left.

By the time Kevin got there he was curled up under his desk, still going at full bore. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t smell the blood through a clogged nose.

It was only wearing himself to sleep in Kevin’s arms, his tone- worried, subdued - coming through more than his words, hand working comfortingly at his tattered ear, that managed to stop the tears.

Even then, it happened twice more in the next two days.

[bellarkeandclintashaandsuch]

Be My Favorite Ep. 9 - Thoughts Part 1

It took me two hours to watch this episode because I kept pausing to squeal and to take screenshots 😬

Poor Pear. Not only did her mom abandon here, but she also had the gall to thank Pear for enduring that abandonment, so she could achieve her great art. I do keep forgetting that Kawi's mom is alive and left Kawi behind too. Our main three do not have an abundance of parents. Kawi got a good dad, absentee mom. Pear got a (jury's out) dad, absentee mom. Pisaeng pretty much has an absentee mom, and when she is there, she's pushing him back in the closet. I don't think we know about his dad? I feel like Pisaeng became a DJ just to fill the void of always being home alone.

Pisaeng is so funny and cute and Kawi agrees.

This stare down was hilarious. Kawi knows that you'd wait 12 years for him, Pisaeng. So he knows you'll wait one more night 😂

Kawi looked so nervous when that birthday lady asked him to drink. Fluke shouldn't have pressured him, even not knowing his alcoholic past/present/future. But Pisaeng was there to save the day ❤️

This was such a tough episode for Pear. Having to deal with her mother, and then Kawi not picking up when she wanted to talk to him after all that. (I do think she was too harsh on her dad. He couldn't keep her mother there against her will. But she's hurting, and she shouldn't feel pressured by her dad to forgive her mother.) I really hope that Pear can stay close with Pisaeng and Kawi after everything. Pear and Kawi might not be destined for romantic love, but their relationship really took off quickly. Not as quickly as Pisaeng and Kawi hit it off after Kawi's not-a-dream-fueled freedom. But pretty close.

Drunk Pisaeng was pretty adorable. And I loved that you could see that Kawi also found drunk Pisaeng adorable. Which was really nice after his discomfort after the original drunk Pisaeng kiss. But Kawi was very proud of himself for blocking this kiss ^_^

And Kawi watching Pisaeng sleep (but Pisaeng knowing) was adorable. Can't believe he's just now realizing he is indeed whipped for Pisaeng. Pisaeng is so playful!

And Pisaeng wore Kawi's clothes this time! And got to see his turtle DJ's prime spot on Kawi's desk :)

I have too many screenshots. So I had to split this in two. But here are some hands to hold onto.

[milobyelo]

Jake Seresin does not forget. He might forgive someone if they were really that important to him, but he never does actually forget. He remembers every single insult anyone has ever had the gall to say to his face, all the back handed compliments he ever received, or any shit he’s ever gotten from other pilots. Even stuff from his past he carries along with him through life, like a chain, that as much as it doesn’t hold him back and he’s come to live with, is still ever present.

The first time someone whose opinion he cared about had hurt him was his English teacher freshman year. His dad left their family just that summer after only ever being hardly present, never financially responsible, and a burden to his mother. As much as his father was hardly around, he could lie to himself and say if he did better he might stick around this time. But now that he was gone for good there was no one left to try for. So when Mr. Rowan would pat his shoulder after class, and gave him high fives for his participation, Jake might have preened just a little too much at the attention. Mr. Rowan just filled a father shaped hole in his life and it made him dependent, made him an idiot.

They were talking about the Greek myths topic in the textbook during his lunch when it happened.

He had been confused on why Icarus was talked about with so much fake wisdom and empathy because at the end of the day he had free will, they all do, it was his fault he got greedy.

And Mr. Rowan just gave him this look, he thinks it was meant to be empathetic but really just made him feel uncomfortable, like he was under a hot flash of attention that was suddenly being thrust upon him.

And he looked at Jake and said, “You remind me of Icarus Jake, which is why I’m sure you can’t understand him. You fly so high, and I’m proud of you for it really, but you do it with such tunnel vision that you don’t even realize you’re burning up. Everyone’s wings are made of wax, even yours. That’s why people care so much about Icarus, they understand him.”

He didn’t really understand where he was coming from at the time because he felt he was nothing like Icarus. He could never be so stupid, so greedy, that he’d die over his own pride and desire.

Now at age 30, 16 years after he’d been sat in Mr. Rowan’s classroom, he thinks he might understand where he was coming from just a little bit.

But regardless it had hurt him at the time. He felt as though his fill in father thought him incapable and inadequate. That of all the myths full of heroes and gods with great accomplishments he assigned him the selfish, greedy, stupid mortal who died for nothing. Someone only remembered for their flaws.

Jake watches the squadron from across the bar. Phoenix has her arm thrown over Bob’s shoulder (who is crouching just ever so slightly as to not inconvenience her) as the two multitask between watching Fanboy and Payback play a shitty game of pool, and have a heated debate with Coyote over god knows what (but even from this far he can see all the signs of his best friend holding back his laughter at some extravagant show of hands by Phoenix). And even Bradley who is not actively in conversation with anyone is there and clearly showing a wide smile while listening to his friends.

And Jake is on a barstool, across the bar, watching from afar.

He fucked any chance of being friends because he wanted team leader so bad.

Javy is his friend, technically, he’s the closest person he knows outside his mom and sister but he’d never tell him that. And he’s never ruin their fun night of celebrating after the mission they were all chosen for. The one he wasn’t.

Because at the end of the day they aren’t his friends and he isn’t theirs. Not in any way to how they are with each other. He knows he’s a bother even when there was a time years ago when Rooster Phoenix and Coyote spent all their nights after training with him watching movies and laughing together. Because even when there was some type of relationship that he could have had with them, some string pulling him and Rooster together before it inevitably was snapped in half, he was only ever there because Coyote convinced them to let him join. Rooster was only ever pitying him. And Phoenix hardly even kept her distain for him at bay. Even when there was some part of Jake left in Hangman they still didn’t really want him around.

But It was fine because he thought if he couldn’t be successful on the ground he’d just prove himself in the sky. And he truly thought he had team leader locked in his hands. He was Icarus flying towards his bright goal with an outstretched arm, thinking it was just right out of reach when suddenly the world seemed to snatch it away and drop him from his safe place in the sky and into the reality of the grounded world.

Because for all he is a man with wings in the sky, on the ground his feathers are wet and burned, unable to support him as he drifts along watching as everyone else goes on with their lives like he never mattered at all.

[wintersweetbou]

2022 Glaiveweek Day 5: Intelligence- Pressure Points

Hi! This is waaaaay late, but I do intend to finish these. Life got a lil in the way! Here is day 5! 

Characters: Tredd, Pelna, Sonitus, background drautos

Rating: Fluff

Summary: One should never make it a goal to be hugged by a cactaur. But should that goal be achieved, a good medic is highly recommended. 

Pelna snickered and tried his best to hurry without breaking into a run. Was he a bad person for enjoying someone else's pain? Maybe. But it was so very deserved. 

Sunlight drenched the dusty plains of Leide. They had been sent on intel of empire scouts in the area. The rumor of magitek advancing was false, but the people needed their help culling the usual beasties, and the things the regular hunters wouldn't dare chase. 

Drautos was quick to dispatch his glaives, saying they needed a work out. After dispatching their first targets, a few glaives got cocky. After all, what creatures could stand the wrath of the kingsglaive? 

Pelna had to choke back his giggles. Wrath of the kingsglaive! The so-called wrath of the glaives squealed like a baby anak when a cactaur snuck up behind him and gave him a great big hug. 

Tredd was an ass, but a proud ass. He couldn't use a potion without getting out the needles first, and couldn't get them out himself. That meant he had to get help without the captain finding out…or the rest of the glaive. Not many places to hide on the plains. 

He hurried forward. Sonitus offered to teach him a new type of healing spell if he was able to hurry and get supplies and run back. While keeping his mouth shut. 

Pelna tried. He really, really did. He didn't say a cursed thing, but could not keep the grin off his face. Nyx, Lib, and Crowe looked at him like he was crazy. Scampering about in the heat in full armor while having the gall to look gleeful about it. 

He slipped into the med tent to see Sonitus carefully peeling Tredd's armor off. Pelna didn't know whether to laugh or wince up close. Long iridescent needles had gone through Furia's coat and into his skin.  It was true that most of the needles were stopped by the armor, but not all. Tredd bit down hard on a rag to keep from making noise. This had to be a stealth operation- the captain was two tents over. 

Pelna put the supplies down on the exam table and got to work. Plantain grew wild all over here- the salve made from it would be antimicrobial. It would hold until they reached insomnia, as long as the idiot in question took it easy. Pelna grabbed a mortar and pestle, getting to work while watching the show. 

"Really, really stupid. If they work into a pressure point or organ, I have to report this to get you proper medical care." Sonitus growled. 

Tredd didn't dare answer until his jacket was off, lest he make too much noise. His coat was almost off. Sonitus winced at the sight of Tredd's skin on the other side. Pelna raised an eyebrow, then winced himself as the jacket came fully off. 

It looked like a rash at first glance. Tiny little red marks where needles had made it through the coat, and angry skin where they were then ripped out. Upon closer inspection, long translucent needles still rose from his back in places. Pelna was suddenly glad he didn't have to pull those out. 

"Breaktime. Drink some water while we get ready. " Sonitus turned to the first aid gear after carefully hanging up the mutilated jacket. 

Pelna turned to Sonitus, offering the lumpy paste up for inspection. Sonitus nodded, gesturing for the redheaded pincushion to resume his position. 

"The trick is to ease the skin off the barbs, while not breaking the needle or touching the tips." 

Pelna nodded, fascinated. Sonitus pulled up gently, yet firmly on an embedded needle just below Tredd's kidneys. It slid out smoothly, a tiny bead of blood blooming from the open hole. 

"The spell is for small wounds only. And clean, fresh ones at that."

Pelna nodded excitedly. Finally! Sonitus grew a flame in his hand. It danced low on his palm, soft and buttery. It shunk lower and lower, until no flame was left, but a teensy glow remained on the upturned palm. Pelna watched hard- the control to do this had to be exquisite. 

Sonitus gently pressed his palm to the angry spot, and wiped the bead of blood away with gauze. No hole remained on the skin. 

Pelna gaped. No way. Fire couldn't heal. Sonitus dabbed a bit of the plantain salve on the spot, rubbing it in gently. 

"The trick is just enough magic. Flame is too much. Letting it splutter out is too little. The spark of magic is just right." 

"What if you hit organs? His kidneys and spine are right there-" 

"Then proper medical attention is needed. This is the barest of patches while we hold this idiot" -a rumble of irritation from the injured party- "together until we return to Insomnia. This is only for papercuts or needle wounds. It will not hold anything bigger." 

"What if you add more force-"

"Then it's just straight cauterization." 

Pelna harrumphed, but dutifully collected the needles in a bowl while Sonitus worked them out and sealed the wounds. 

"What if they are in a pressure point?" 

Sonitus paused after removing another needle. The man deliberated, eyes roving critically, before locking onto a glimmering shaft lodged just above Tredd's scapula. 

"A pressure point has the capacity to heal and harm. It depends on how you use the point." Sonitus plucked the needle smoothly, dropping it into the bowl with a soft clink. 

"These are needles, and ones not dug harshly in. His jacket saved him there. To prevent point blockage, and therefore energy blockage, we need to gently massage the point and its meridian after sealing the wound." 

Pelna nodded, twitching. He should be taking notes. 

"The shoulder point here lies on the triple warmer meridian- it regulates temperature.  If harmed or blocked, Tredd's temperature will rise. If stimulated, he will be more adaptive to his surroundings." Sonitus softly traced low on Tredd's lumbar, along his spine, up and over the scapula, down his shoulder to the arm, and lower until the ring finger. The redhead in question shivered minutely, relaxing further into the exam table. 

"May I take notes?" 

"Sure. Just be sure to ask before actually practicing yourself. Acupuncture with someone untrained is just playing darts with a consenting victim." 

Pelna nodded enthusiastically, jotting as fast as he could. Heart, liver, kidneys, governing, intestines, triple warmer…Sonitus rubbed his palms over Tredd's back, massaging the energy pathways. Save the governing channel- (the spine and skull) the meridians move up the torso, across the shoulders and down the arms to the fingertips, bilaterally. One meridian for each side. 

Pelna sketched rough outlines of the meridians and what points Tredd had managed to land needles in. The Furia was lucky- no major points or organs were hit, and Sonitus was able to patch him up with relative ease. The full meridian massage was more for Pelna’s benefit, but as they concluded, Sonitus noted that their patient had nearly dozed off under the weight of the extended massage. 

Pelna glanced up from his notes to see the elder glaive smirk and make a silent shushing motion, pantomiming, rubbing his own eyelids and temples, before turning to their patient. The Khara’s eyes widened- Sonitus reached forward, as if to cup Tredd’s face, and repeated the exact motion. The Furia gave a soft whine, going completely boneless in his grasp. Sontus kept it up for a minute, then carefully relaxed his hold and brushed his finger over his patient’s throat. Slow pulse, steady, low breathing. Asleep. 

“We may speak at a low volume. He’s out.” 

“What in the fires was that? He just passed out-” 

“Acupressure and massage are powerful things, youngling. Remember that.” Sonitus chuckled, mussing up Pelna’s dark hair. The young glaive chuckled and set the bowl of needles down. 

“Try getting the needles out of his armor while I clean up. It takes a certain pressure to remove them in one piece without stabbing yourself. I’m going to check to see if the coast is still clear.” 

Pelna nodded enthusiastically, settling with the pincushioned jacket, practicing. 

“We should go soon, before anyone notices we have been gone.” Pelna glanced up to Sonitus entering the tent. Nodding, the young glaive stood, stretching. He had gotten most of the needles, Tredd could do the rest. Pelna gently shook Tredd’s shoulder. 

The glaive murmured sleepily and buried his face into his crossed forearms. Pelna smirked, shaking a little harder. The glaive rumbled unhappily. He finally awoke when Sonitus began feeling over his back, searching for any last stragglers. 

“Whasit?...” Came the garbled question. 

“Looking for stragglers.” Sonitus replied, feeling over his shoulders, drifting down to his sides. 

Tredd  twitched. Sonitus raised an eyebrow, beginning to feel the area with more intent. 

"More needles in there? We need to get them out." 

"No! Nothing there. You just…surprised me is all." 

Sonitus scoffed, not believing him for a minute. Pelna watched with a growing smile as Sonitus searched an increasingly twitchy Furia. 

"Will you stop moving? You made it this far, why are you having issues now?" 

"M'not!" 

Sonitus growled in frustration and kneaded into the Furia's sides, searching for the wayward needle. Said Furia made a strangled squeak as his arms crashed down tight against his sides, trapping Sonitus's hands there. 

"No! I'm fine!" 

"If you don't lift your arms up right now i'm going to cuff you to the fires-damned table-"

"I know what's happening." Pelna cut in, grinning. 

"Nothing is happen-" Tredd choked as Pelna began worming his fingers under Tredd's arms to his sides. The glaive squirmed, desperately fighting the grin overcoming his snarl. 

"There's a sensitive spot in here, isn't there? We would be bad friends if we didn't find it. Right, Tredd?" Pelna snickered. 

The glaive in question vibrated with silent laughter, struggling to remain still and quiet. Pelna smirked and kneaded harder, forcing a strangled giggle out of the glaive. Sonitus blinked in surprise- then gave an evil chuckle and started tickling in earnest. 

"Guys! Lehehet goho-!" 

"Not until we are certain no needles remain." 

"There's noho mohore!" 

"Shh! Don't want the captain to come in here, now do we?" 

Tredd tried to stay quiet, he really, really did. But karma and his comrades were not on his side that day. 

Sonitus found a spot just below his floating ribs that had him cackling into the exam table. Sweet, sweet vengeance. Pinning their target to the table, Pelna and Sonitus tickled at the spot viciously, years of assholery finally being paid for. 

 Amidst the kerfuffle Sonitus found a spot that had the redhead jackknifing up off the table- overbalancing the exam table in the process, landing in a giggling heap at their feet. 

A frustrated growl emanated from two tents over. The three glaives were out of the medical tent in a flash, hiding behind the sleeping caravan. 

"Nothing happened, agreed?" 

"Sure thing, giggles."

[thesouppond]

Painting Purple A shogun sniper angst ficlet

Valentina was loud. Not in the same way that Cammie was, always bouncing off the walls with too much energy, but in how she carried herself. If he was honest with himself, it annoyed Kazu. Even just standing in a room with her you could feel her aura. She had no problem showing them up in simulations, sniping down imaginary threats while commenting on their slip ups from whatever perch she had found herself on that day. Even in hand to hand combat she’d dance around, hardly making full body contact while kicking your ass, then having the gall to correct your stance. From the moment they put on their suits for the first time, she’d been vividly purple; extravagant, proud, powerful. Valentina was loud, always too full of herself, Kazu thought. 

It was worse in the Ether, making smart-ass comments in every game they played together. Val was always cracking sultry jokes and taking every moment possible to distract them from quests. ‘Designed for attention’ was probably the best way to describe him, the garish galaxy print suit, the lack of an undershirt, the blinding violet in his makeup, the presenting male. Kazu didn’t get why they needed to do all that. He might as well have had a bright neon sign flashing ‘Look at me!’ stuck above his head. It was sickening, how much of Val crept into all their virtual outings. 

She was loud. Too loud. She had been climbing into Cammie’s bunk in the mornings to help the Scot get up. She’d been running paperwork with Yaz and Chase, though they had it all handled. Hell, she’d been silently bustling around the kitchen while Kazu was there preparing meals for the team too, distracting him with the movement, the purple in her hair flicking in and out of his vision constantly. She wasn’t cooking, so why on earth she couldn’t just wait in the dining hall with everyone else escaped him. She never spoke or moved with volume, but her mere presence was so overwhelming he almost wanted to scream. She always had to be involved in whatever was happening. She couldn’t just kick back and observe, until battles of course.

The moment they uploaded into a real battle field, Val always fled to some ledge to pick off units from far away. Kazu was a warrior, and he fucking knew it. He’d charge into spider tanks head on, slash away at their machinery with visceral force, making sure they shattered with each impact from his holon. The red suited him; the strength of action, the intensity of battle. He could hear Val calling sightings through the comms, letting them know where they missed the stray tank, and he rolled his eyes. 

It wasn’t for lack of skill that he wasn’t down here, in the middle of the action with the rest of them. Val had mindshared the most out of all of them, and each time that connection clicked, their experience, his skill had always proved more than enough to fight in close quarters. It made Kazu more frustrated than anything, that Val spent every fight tucked away somewhere instead of fighting next to them. He was a coward.

It wasn’t until they had to run a mission without Shogun and Wraith, owing to critical repairs that hadn’t been completed in time, where it all started to fray. Kazu watched, from the vanguard squad he had been shoved into, as Huma, Chaser and Trixx weaved their way through platoons of spider tanks and drones, the striders and fighter jets following hot on their heels. He’d much rather be with them, ploughing through the enemy lines, rather than down here on foot picking off the foot soldiers as they threatened to sneak past the heavy machinery, but a fight was a fight, and he supposed it beat hiding away, like someone. He knew Valentina was somewhere in the rocky terrain surrounding them, but as usual, even without the camouflaging panels of her holon, she’d managed to tuck herself away out of sight. 

He fell in step with the cadets as they’d crawled their way through the field, years of training in Japan taking over. Despite what his record might say, he did know how to cooperate in a squad, he just preferred to be calling the shots on his own. It bored him, the monotonous drone of one foot in front of the other, the tight methodical formations designed to keep them in line with one another, having to blend into the moving mass. He was thankful at least they let him keep his suit on. If he got the chance to punch the daylights out of someone, he could do so knowing any retaliation would do nothing to him anyway.

Bullets flew from his left, as a squad of union soldiers charged over the nearest ridge. He swore as he watched a shot catch the shoulder of the cadet next to him before returning fire. The recoil of his rifle caught him somewhat off guard. He wished he’d been using Shogun’s blades, or, at a stretch, the turrets on a strider or vehicle would suffice, given his background in tanks. He took aim at the dwindling number of union soldiers still advancing towards them, lining his sights over the helmet of the closest soldier…and watched them fall as a shot pierced through their visor with deadly accuracy before he could even pull the trigger.

“Kazu, radnój, you’ve got to be quicker with that.” He felt the heat rise in his body as Valentina’s voice crackled through his earpiece.

“Don’t call me that! And don’t tell me what to do!” He called back, whipping his head wildly about, trying to locate where the coward had crawled to this time. “At least I’m actually down here fighting like a man!”

“Whatever you say zólotse” Kazu almost growled an insult in response but was cut off by Cammie screeching through the comm lines

“DRONES INCOMING! THEY GOT THROUGH! TAKE COVER!”

He could see Huma gaining on a pack of union drones rapidly encroaching on their area of the field and scrambled to duck behind part of a boulder, glad for the difficult terrain. Covering his ears, he watched as they flew over him, gunfire exploding from their turrets, a couple exploding into debris as Yaz landed her heat vision. 

“Valentina I see you! You need to move!” Kazu heard Yaz’s call and followed her line of vision. He could just about make out a dark figure, her purple cloak tucked around her, on the nearest ledge, right in the line of fire for the remaining drones. Time seemed to slow as Yaz took aim and fired, clipping one through its side and sending it careening towards the ledge, towards Valentina. It slammed into the ground close, too close, to her figure and Kazu heard her strangled cry as she threw herself away. They weren’t in Gen:Lock, but he swore he could feel the debris tear through his body as he watched Valentina leap off the ledge, a fraction of a second too late, to avoid the twisted metal. 

Fuck staying in formation

He ran, sprinting through the bodies, the groaning metal of fallen drones and tanks towards where he’d seen her plummet like a stone to the ground. His suit lit up with red as it pushed him forward. His mind was quiet, too quiet. He couldn’t hear their voice chastising him over the comms, he couldn’t sense their presence watching their backs in the field. He couldn’t feel them. He knew he wasn’t in his holon but instinctively he tried to reach out mentally, hoping beyond reality that he’d somehow find them safe, he’d find them right there, ready to make a sultry comment about him, to correct his form, to scream, cry, punch him for being an asshole, anything. But then he saw her crumpled form, the purple of her suit barely visible in the growing pool of red. The flowing cloak that trailed behind her shredded, hardly recognizable. Even the violet streaks through her ponytail had been soaked with dark crimson. He went to grab her, to shake her awake and scream, but instead he tasted bile as the warm red seeped onto his suit. She was always there, overwhelmingly there, but now she was covered in red, and oh god he wished he could paint her purple again. 

[thehauntedair]

Day 14: Fear

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Kat? You ok?”

Zachary hears a crashing noise followed by a shriek and decides that enough is enough.

He opens the bathroom door and finds Kat curled up in a tight ball in the corner of the bathtub, fully clothed, teeth chattering and tears streaming wildly down her face.

She is wielding what looks like a toilet brush, holding it out as if it were a sword and like this weapon was all that was standing between her and a most certain death. When he steps into the room, she jolts, holding it out at him, clearly terrified out of her wits.

“Kat? It’s just me, it’s Zachary, I’m sorry for coming in but you sounded like you were in trouble and I-“

She shakily points the brush away from him and towards what is very clearly the source of the problem- the most hairy, enormous spider that he has ever seen in his natural born life.

He shrieks, a slightly more high pitched sound than Kats, and hops into the bathtub beside her.

He swears using words that would probably disappoint his third grade English teacher and make his mother incredibly proud.

“Holy shit, no wonder-“

“Can you just take care of it?” Kat gasps out through her tears, shaking slightly less with Zachary beside her.

“Me? HELL no I cannot take care of it Kat-“

“I thought this was why they put men on the planet, to kill all the motherfucking-“

“Well first of all if I were to take care of it, I certainly wouldn’t kill-“

“Oh so you’d just let the gigantic ass motherfucking spider roam free ELSEWHERE in the harbor then, Zachary Ezra? Because that sounds REAL GENIUS and VERY SMART and INCREDIBLY CLEVER and-“

“Are you two okay in there?”

It is Dorian’s voice, and Kat visibly relaxes.

“Absolutely we are not!” Zachary yells, though he is unsure how much sense he is making.

This is enough for Dorian, and he immediately storms the bathroom, actual sword at the ready. He takes in the scene, and to the amazement and embarrassment of both Kat and Zachary, actually has the gall to laugh.

“You two are absolutely adorable. This is what was causing all of that trouble?” He lifts up the spider onto his hand and lets it crawl up his arm, sheathing his sword in his belt. Kat almost faints.

“Well to be fair, Dorian, it is- very large-“

Dorian shoots him a grin that says he is about to make an absolutely awful sexual innuendo and Zachary waves his hands around urgently and groans.

“It’s just so easy, Zachary”

“Ugh, I know” He cringes.

“I’m not taking this one. It’s too easy and poor Kat looks like she’s going to pass out.”

“I thank you so dearly for your kindness now can you please get that spider the fuck away from us as soon as humanly possible like right now please I would appreciate it very much thank you-“

“Yes, yes, yes”. Dorian carries the spider out of the room on his hand, where it had made up its camp quite contentedly. From the bathroom, they hear a sliding sound and the clink of a jar lid closing.

Dorian walks back in and calmly goes through the motions of washing his hands and upper arms. Kat relaxes the vice grip she has had on Zachary’s arm by degrees, and eventually squeaks out a “thank you”,

Dorian nods, beaming, and gallantly offers a hand to each of them. Zachary climbs out of the tub, slightly shaken but no worse for the wear, but Kat seems to be having a bit more trouble.

He scoops her up bodily, lifting her out of the tub, and carries her out into the next room where there is a couch waiting at the ready to receive her.

“There you go, Kitty Kat.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead, wipes an errant tear with his thumb, and wraps a blanket around her shoulders.

She nods, collects herself a moment, and then nods again. Then she gets up, announces, “Great! Now I can take a shit in peace!” And returns to the bathroom.

Zachary laughs, and lets himself get kissed.

The Harbor Spider Guy sends them a thank you basket later.

[wild-houseplant]

Have Warden, Will Travel- Chapter 17

Oh damn! I can’t believe it but Tenderness is starting to sink its teeth into Zevran good and proper now. Poor bastard. Just a little bit, of course, but still. Bite.

CW for the usual gore, body horror, and violence- now with graphic torture scenes, thanks to the Crow and the Sloth Demon. Full chapter here, AO3 if you prefer here. More under the cut!! You are gorgeous and should drink some fluids.

§

Zevran had, in fact, died. Just as he'd suspected while he had been dying. He knew he was dead because he no longer had a solid body. He could see the floor through his ribs, which had never been a feature while he was alive, which meant he was a ghost. Handsome and charming as ever, no doubt, but indisputably deceased.

He looked up from his transparent torso and the stone floor beneath it. An ugly, choked gasp tore up his throat like a barb as his eyes fell on a very familiar door. Rippling and ghostly as it was, it was the same initiation holding cell door he had once hunched beside, identical down to its narrow grille window and the deep scratch marks in the wood around the lock.

That he’d even had the nerve to gasp had to be a sign of his months-long softening at the Warden’s side. What gall he’d had to indulge in kind words and soft nudges and pretend he nearly deserved any of it. The audacity of him to be shocked, the sheer effrontery of the tears swelling behind his eyes to find now that the Master had been entirely right about him.

But the eternity, it seemed, had begun, and with it, the re-hardening. What else was there to do? There was no hope of escape, and he didn’t deserve to be free even if there was. 

Zevran sat down beside the door and waited. The initiate holding prison struck him as an odd place to start the next life. Surely if the Maker had wanted him to truly suffer (and He no doubt did) He would have plonked Zevran into the week after Rinna’s death.

Ah, but then if Zevran was nothing, why would the Maker be overseeing this? No, the responsibility for his modest participation in afterlife misery had to have been delegated to some lesser being. One who undoubtedly had a taste for the more physically macabre side of life than the emotional side.

At this rate, the more pertinent question was: would he be reliving the same racking as the first time, or did he have the chance to fight back a little? After all, it wasn’t as though he’d be getting any deader if things went wrong.

… Or would he?

The lock clicked; he found himself cursing the quietness at which the jailor had come, just as they had the last time. No footsteps, not even a loud breath or a rumble of the key going into the lock. A Crow could open a spring-loaded latch silently, if they wanted. Zevran would have bet money they only made a noise to see if he would startle, and he was proud that he didn’t.

The door swung open, and the same two men from Zevran’s first initiation stepped in and grabbed him by the hair without a word to him or each other. Zevran was on his feet before they could pull too roughly, astonished by the way his arms stayed glued to his sides. There had been a plan somewhere in his head to do things differently. He'd reach for a knife, test the boundaries of the new world by shanking the jailors, but rigid muscles refused to so much as twitch. Those useless arms were down by his sides like they were painted on.

You coward.

“We’ve got it all planned out for you today, apprentice,” said the man to his left. He had a filthy grin and fingers like fish hooks that were making it their business to wrap firmly around Zevran’s wrists. “You won’t be worth a pinch of shit when we’re through with you.”

Zevran stayed silent, marvelling at his own uselessness as they wound him around corner after corner. Tiny windows– holes, really– in the corridors showed brief glances of the adjacent alleyway, a known place to stash fresh bodies. It was so narrow the sun barely got a look-in, and the stench of mildew and cat piss, overwhelming in the land of the living, had apparently managed to pass into the next life unabated too.

A hand wrenched his head back, cricking his neck in the process. It had to have belonged to the other jailor. Zevran looked over at him once the grip on his hair loosened, but the man was watching straight ahead with a smile on his face. Internally kicking himself for falling for the trick, he forced himself to look ahead again, and took the consequent second hair-wrenching with resignation.

The man on the left kicked a door open, and the rack sat just beyond, positioned in the middle of the tiny room like a guest of honour. His gaze lingered on the apparatus a little too long; a sharp joint to the back– a knee, Zevran guessed– propelled him the last way inside as punishment.

“I don’t care for delays,” the other man growled.

Zevran forced a smirk. “Forgive me. I was taking in her beauty overlong, I see.”

He got a backhander to the face for that. 

“Don’t like your attitude, either. Get on and lie down, you little shit.”

The man said that as though Zevran had been given the time to comply. Both sets of hands shoved and dragged him onto it with far more roughness than there might have been had he simply been allowed to climb on himself. But then, this was an initiation. Why would anyone be sweet with him?

His arms were wrenched above his head, up and out, and once they were tied down, his legs got the same treatment. The backboard of the rack was still wet, cool on the backs of his thighs and the jut-point at the top of his spine that dug into the wood. Sweat, specifically fear sweat, had that fulminant, waxy thickness. The whole room stank of it, and Zevran refused to add to it. Not a drop.

And then the dialling started, and that put paid to any and all resolutions. He watched from the corner of his eye as the pawl slid over the rusty ratchet, filling the chamber with the slow scream of aged metal on metal until it fell flush against the edge of the next gear. Was it better to brace the muscles, or relax into it? Something would strain and tear, subluxate and then dislocate completely with the next click. There didn't seem a way to avoid it.

He compromised and tensed his belly. The first stretch was comfortable, the second burned like a kiss. Zevran racked his brains as he tried to recall how many clicks he’d had the first time around. Was it five? Six? Mercy, it wasn’t more than that, surely. 

The third came, and he already wanted to writhe. Armpits and hips and knees all pulled like a puppet held to attention. Rigid-hard, one more and he’d split at the seams–

It clicked again, though Zevran didn’t know if that was the ratchet or his joints at this point. One hip was suddenly weak and floppy, half-floating unhoused in the no-man’s-land of his upper leg, and he didn’t manage to stop the soft gasp from coming out.

The man to his left chuckled. “I think I saw him flinch.” 

The other man hummed delightedly. “We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice.”

“We’re not going to go easy on you, you know. Don’t think that for a minute.” Zevran caught the first man smiling from ear-to-ear as he moved the roller up another notch.

The hip was out properly now, and his opposite shoulder had left its socket in sympathy.

Zevran’s eyes shut tightly and he clenched his teeth until his head pounded from the pressure. An agonised grunt escaped him. “No…” he gasped, “I wouldn’t… want you to hold back. I’d be disappointed if you… did.”

“This one has spirit,” remarked the second fellow with delight. “It’s a shame we have to break him, really. Go on, do it again.”

The roller cranked again, and Zevran heard his name. In his head, no doubt, but it was loud. Louder than loud, and insistent!

“No– no! Hold on, Zev, hold on!”

He summoned the last of his courage to indulge the idea that this might have come from outside of his head– the sound had echoed a little– and cracked open one eye.

A sharp, pale fist connected with the cheek of the man operating the roller. He went to the floor, and the fist-haver followed him down there with a stream of menacing-sounding Tevene and leagues of black robe rippling out behind her.

In the haze of the agony, Zevran decided that now was as good a time as any to look properly. He forced his other eye open, seeing nothing but hearing plenty of strained grunts, and the sweet crunch of bones breaking under decidedly aggressive punches. It was quite a welcome distraction, really. The other guard was hastening around the rack to join in the fight, which meant there was no-one turning the roller–

The yet-uninjured guard flew over the top of Zevran and ended up on the other side of the room.

Zevran gulped; why had it only occurred to him now that if he was living out eternal punishment, that he would likely not be exempt from whatever was being meted out down there on the floor? Why had he been silently cheering on whoever it was seeing to the jailors when he was destined for something much more unpleasant?

With two unsocketed limbs and muscles in tatters, no less.

Long, frantic fingers appeared from below, snatching the pawl of the rack and bashing it to spin the ratchet in the other direction. The rest of the body came up, dark-haired and wide-eyed and remarkably familiar. 

"It's all right, Zev," she whispered rapidly. "I'm going to get you out of here." The ropes around him loosened, and his aching limbs sank down to his sides. "Get off the table and stay away from the fight."

Zevran groaned and squinted at her. "... Warden? It's you?"

The Warden's answer was cut off by a curse as the man across the room woke up and made for them, knives drawn, and Zevran was left to haul himself off the table.

There was something terribly unhinged about the whole scene. An overstretched man gingerly easing himself off a rack while the apparition of a Grey Warden threw her enormous shoulder into the spectral midsection of an Antivan Crow, sending the knives flying out of his hands. 

That couldn't be right, though. No Crow would simply let go of their knives because they were tackled. No Crow would let themselves be tackled. In fact, that punch shouldn't even have connected on the first man's face. The Warden would have been dead before she could come within a bull's roar of either of them had they been through genuine article. Surely the afterlife wouldn't be so slack on such details, especially if the goal was to cause suffering.

Had Zevran not died, then? Was this a dream? As if challenging whatever had willed him here, he dared his joints to fix themselves, and he lost a breath as they did. 

Remarkable. 

His hands shook as he pulled the rope off himself, knees barely supporting his weight as he slid off the table and onto the ground. Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice was reminding him to heal the rest of his smarting body, but he paid it no mind. 

An arm's length away from the rack, the Warden seized the would-be Crow by the back of the head and drove it down into the edge of the table. The neck of the Crow, ghost, whatever it was, snapped, and the room went silent except for the thud of a fresh corpse meeting the ground. 

It took the Warden hurrying over to him for Zevran to realise he had been standing there, numb and quivering like a child the entire time. Not a single offer of help; not even a shout of encouragement. His shame shut his eyes for him. 

"Zev." A hand went on his cheek. "Zev."

Zevran forced his eyes open. Rhodri was bent down to eye level with him, watching him pleadingly. Her fingers and palm covered the entire left side of his face, stroking with the gentleness one might afford a mouse. He could feel the skin flushing under the attention.

Zevran gave a chattery laugh that sent a look of bafflement over the Warden’s face. 

"Nothing like a good racking, is there?" he offered weakly.

He could have kicked himself as her mouth fell open. Determination to keep things moving along pushed another sentence out: "And so what now, my lovely Grey Warden? Dinner? Dancing? More murder?"

The joke went over her head. She watched him gravely.

“We’re trapped in the Fade. The Sloth demon, it’s imprisoned us. We need to kill it here, and then we– oh, shit!”

Zevran glanced down to where Rhodri’s wide eyes had darted. His body, incorporeal as it was, was fading, and she and the room were following suit.

“Wh–? But I wasn’t injured! I– I am fine!”

“Listen.” Rhodri’s hand went onto his other cheek. “I will find you again,” she said, as firmly as if she had given an order. “I won’t stop looking for you.”

Zevran gulped. Her voice softened with each word, and she was fast approaching unintelligibility.

“Do you hear me? I will find you, Zev.”

She had said more, but one of them was gone. Knowing his luck, it was probably him.

  Zevran decided, once he re-materialised, that he wouldn’t take any more of this Fade business seriously. Certainly, he would do his utmost to ensure that he and the Warden (and the rest of the party, he supposed), emerged alive. But really, if the best it had to offer was counterfeit Crows and a disappear-reappear trick, the Sloth demon might as well give up now. How embarrassing that a dimension held in such reverence by the Chantry was, in fact, the stage for amateur hour. 

If only they knew. 

He wandered in the nauseating mirage-rippling green for a stretch of time he didn’t bother estimating. Though eyes were on him, nothing gave him any trouble, and so he marched unaccosted until he dissolved again (he went much more willingly this time) and reappeared in a clearing with Rhodri and the rest of the party.

And a demon. Of course, how could he forget the demon? 

Though he dared not say it to anyone at the time, Zevran did consider this demon to be quite forgettable. The five of them vanquished the enormous thing with what he would have called mild to moderate elbow grease. Nothing more demanding than the thick end of a multiples contract, really. He’d treat himself to a cask of wine when all this was over.

It only occurred to Zevran when he woke up that the Warden hadn’t used any magic to free him. She was as implausible as his jailors, but she didn’t wake up looking demonic, so it wasn’t as though she had been possessed. Was it a show of power, perhaps? A wordless encouragement for him to toe the line?

It seemed unlikely. He couldn’t imagine why else, though, and put the entire thing out of his head before his stomach could drop any further.

  The mage named Niall didn’t survive the departure from the Fade. The only thing that had even vaguely surprised Zevran was that Niall’s physical body hadn’t died sooner. The thought of magic being used to prolong death– and that was all it had been; there was no extension of life in the act of keeping Niall in the Fade– was revolting. Zevran didn’t let himself dwell on it. 

With the Litany in hand (it had been the scroll Niall was clutching!), the party took the stairs, and after making the brief acquaintance of a young, magically-imprisoned Templar who hated demons and mages (in that order), approached the door he was trapped next to.

The Harrowing Chamber (Wynne had named the room behind said door as such while they were climbing the staircase) didn’t sound like a particularly welcoming place. Certainly, given the circumstances of their sweep of the Tower, Zevran hadn’t expected a welcome with lillo flutes and minimally-clad dancers, but would it have killed them to call it something else? The Friendship Chamber? The Chamber of Cooperation? Or, at the very least, the Chamber of Strained Civility? He would have to take this up with a figure of authority later. The Tower was already a miserable place, and this didn’t help the mood at all.

In all fairness, though, the name appeared well-deserved once the door was kicked in and the party was greeted by the sight of yet more mages doing terribly illicit things to other mages with their blood. A tall, bald human in red (of course) robes in particular looked like he was having the time of his life as he suspended a writhing human in mid-air. Zevran presumed the unfortunate fellow to be a key figure of some sort; the other Tower mages all wore either blue, gold, or red robes, and this one was wearing a handsome green set. The First Enchanter, perhaps? Was it Irvine, they said his name was? Ian? … Ibsen?

Said important man fell to the floor, and several other similarly suffering mages in the vicinity relaxed from tortured positions as Rhodri began to bark out something in rhythmic, commanding Tevene. Judging by the expressions of the perpetrators, it didn’t appear that they had meant for that to happen.

The bald man’s gaze snapped over to the party (they were approaching him in a run, after all), and his lip curled.

“Well, well!” he crowed. “And what have we here? The eternal botherer Wynne, and…? Ah!” The man chuckled and shrugged at Rhodri with one hand. “Irving’s star Tranquil, of course. Uldred didn’t think much of either of you then, and I certainly don’t see your appeal, myself.”

Wynne shook her head in disgust. “You always were weak, Uldred. And now look at you!”

“I,” Uldred touched a hand to his chest, “am so much more than Uldred ever was. Mages are but the larval form of something greater, but together Uldred and I have become something glorious.” He smiled broadly. “This could be yours, too, Wynne, you know.”

“Stop him,” the man in green gasped from his heap on the ground. “He… is building… an army…”

Well, that was perfectly obvious. Zevran credited the man that perhaps he had been unconscious for that part of the conversation. It was kind of him to try.

And frankly, it hadn’t looked as though Wynne had been tempted by the offer. In fact, she recoiled a little, looking like she’d be sick if she didn’t steel herself enough.

Rhodri, who had been holding her staff in a white-knuckled grip the entire time, pointed it at Uldred. 

“There will be no negotiation,” she snarled. “You accident. You utter freak–”

“Now, now, there is no need to brandish your stick at me,” Uldred said with a mawkishness that set Zevran’s teeth on edge. “I was trying to have a civil conversation, and here you are–”

A head-sized boulder emerged, somehow, from the tip of the Warden’s staff, which Uldred didn’t manage to entirely dodge as it clipped one of his shoulders.

He gave a grimacing smile, clutching the shoulder with the arm that wasn’t rendered useless.

“All right, then,” he purred. “Negotiations over. Fight if you must!”

Not that anyone had asked his opinion on it, but Zevran was getting tired of the way monsters were either invading or erupting from people’s bodies. If it wasn’t the mages, it was the Templars, or some other unappealing Fade beastie. If he knew the name of the Arl in this part of the country, he’d be writing to them as a concerned (and very inconvenienced) citizen.

He shelved that thought upon remembering the state of the Arl of Redcliffe who was, in fact, the one responsible for this part of the country. Why he had even entertained the thought of a useful noble was beyond him.

Useless and/or dead upper-crust individuals aside, whatever had taken up residence in Uldred’s body had been absolutely right: Uldred was indeed Uldred “but more.” In fact, Zevran would have confidently asserted that it was Uldred plus another. The other resident ended up winning whatever internal battle might have been occurring, because the erstwhile Uldred grew into a frankly enormous creature with arms and legs like tree trunks and enough eyes to make a spider feel inadequate. Horns on the head (of course), and most interestingly, another set coming out of the elbows that were at least three times as long as the cranial ones. The ultimate villainous entity, according to the mumbles of Rhodri and Wynne, was known as a pride demon. 

Wasn’t that just marvellous.

The fight began. They were unquestionably outnumbered, by both blood mages and abominations (though it had to be said that other abominations were lesser than Uldred’s kind. Wasn’t it always the way? One could be great, so long as one didn’t out-great the leader). Alistair, though not a fully consecrated Templar, was still very adept at dispersing some of the blood mages’ harmful magic, and whatever Rhodri was reciting while she sent spell after spell at Uldred seemed to handle the remainder of it. 

Optimism grew as Zevran dipped back into the many shadows around the room, opportunities to take the lackeys abounding as they became absorbed in their spellcasting. In one swift movement, he was out by a pair of blood mages, and with another, he had slit their throats and sent them crumpling to the floor. The victory lent him the rush of energy he needed to slip out of sight again, the only sign of life he gave being a low chuckle as he sent another blood mage to her death. 

He cast his eye around the room when he hid again, and the situation appeared in their favour, if dire on both ends. Only Uldred and two blood mages remained, and the latter of those were clearly exhausted. So, however, was Wynne, and Alistair was also tiring. Rhodri, who had been exclusively fighting against a weakening Uldred, had been going between reading off the Litany and casting spells the entire time, many of them still wavering between invisible and all-too-visible. She either had larger reserves than Wynne, or the chanting had demanded little of her, because she at least seemed to have enough in her to continue for now.

As Zevran prepared to emerge and backstab the mage Wynne was handling, Rhodri caught sight of her flagging and let out a shout of alarm. She shot a spell at the Senior Enchanter and turned back in time to be struck hard in the arm and shoulder by Uldred’s giant hand, and went flying across the floor. 

That changed plans somewhat. Zevran darted out of the shadow to make for her. He turned briefly to slash the neck of Wynne’s blood mage as he did; Rhodri and Uldred were on the other side of the chamber. If Wynne was free to cast, a spell from her would reach them faster than Zevran and his knives. 

It seemed, however, that an exhausted Wynne had taken too long to get her bearings, as no spell came, and Uldred leaned over Rhodri, arm high and ready to deal another blow. 

To his relief, however, Rhodri was sitting up. He heard her growl through gritted teeth as she pointed her staff at the monster and sent a fireball at him that exploded on impact. The resulting energy surge tore through the chamber, blasting those standing off their feet, and sending anyone on the floor into a roll. 

Zevran hadn’t lost consciousness from that– so far as he knew. He remembered hitting the floor with a force that jolted every whisper of air out of his lungs, and he was sure he had landed in the same position he was in now. He didn’t remember feeling quite as much pain in his hip as before, but in all fairness, it was the second part of him to hit the ground.

The memory of the moments before him leaving his feet in the first place was slower to come back. There had been a spell…

His eyes cracked open–

An urgent spell…

Zevran looked around wildly and found Rhodri lying on her belly of all things, facing the newer iteration of Uldred (was that bastard still alive?). The latter party, though winded on his knees, was in a decidedly better state than the Warden, whose gasps could be heard even from where Zevran was.

Zevran was on his feet, knives out, in a limping run. His hip was screaming and the Warden still hadn’t managed to peel herself off the floor.

Her name came out of Zevran’s mouth in a shout. “Move back!” he hobbled a little faster. “Rhodri, move back!”

Uldred shambled closer; Rhodri was white as a sheet, drenched with sweat, and not moving back. Or forward. In fact, the only thing she was doing was giving him that apologetic look again, and inducing an unnerving urge to whimper that Zevran would mentally deny when he had a moment to.

Zevran blessed the Maker that he was quicker than either of them. With a growl, he sprang with the better of his two legs and in three hacking motions, Uldred’s head was falling in one direction and his body in the other. Neither landed anywhere near the Warden, who had still not managed to so much as raise an arm by the time Zevran was on his knees beside her.

He ducked his head down. “Rhodri?”

A soft, slowly crescendoing hubbub was starting up behind him; he glanced long enough to ascertain that the party and the surviving mages were coming-to, and turned back.

The Warden tipped her head so that her chin was no longer propping her face up, and it flopped down so that one of her ears was against the floor. She looked up at him remorsefully.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered between breaths. “Are you… all right?” Her eyes went down to the hip he hadn’t realised he was rubbing.

Zevran stilled his hand and nodded quickly. “Full of vim and vigour, my Warden,” he soothed. “You seem to be doing less well.”

“I’m fine,” she panted. “Just lost control… of my magic. No mana left. What about… the others?”

He glanced behind him again, mostly to humour her. “Mmm. All well. Five mages are being seen to by Wynne. Alistair and Leliana are coming over now.” Zevran gave a reassuring wave to Wynne, who had caught them between spells and pointed at Rhodri. She nodded and went back to work.

The templar was first to arrive, and he (and then Leliana) were given the same reassurance the Warden had supplied Zevran with.

“Think you overcast on that last spell, Rhod,” Alistair mumbled, taking her limp hand and squeezing it. 

Rhodri sighed. “I did, forgive me. You’re not harmed, you two?”

They both shook their heads. The Warden smiled weakly. “What a relief,” she murmured. “Please, can you take the last of my lyrium and give it to Wynne?”

“What about for you?” Leliana crouched down, and Zevran could have kicked himself as she swept the soaked hair off the Warden’s face. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Rhodri smiled weakly. “I’m only at risk if I try to cast any more spells. I’ll rest here until I can move again. Nothing to worry about. But please, help the others if you can. Any other potions she needs, you can take from me.”

Alistair shook his head. “Wynne’s got plenty of everything except the magic juice.” He and Leliana took the last of the lyrium out of Rhodri’s satchel and ferried it to Wynne.

Alone again, Rhodri looked over at Zevran. He stretched out on the ground beside her, giving her a cheerful eyebrow waggle. 

He gestured up at the tiny shaft of light coming down on them through the window. “I always did find sunbathing was better with company.”

She gave a wan laugh. “Zev.”

“You called?”

Rhodri’s eyes went back to his hip. “Take a red potion from my satchel and drink it. It’ll give you some relief from that hip.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And for you…?”

“We can talk about me when you’re attended to.”

Zevran couldn’t help but smile. “No room for debate on that?”

She didn’t smile back. “None.”

“Ah, ah.” He reached into her satchel and pulled out two apple-red potions. “I know when I am defeated. I shall make this quick, then…”

Zevran uncorked the bottle, downed it in a few gulps, and wrinkled his nose a little. “Elfroot. Tastes like bad tea– ah!”

“Don’t scratch,” Rhodri mumbled; Zevran stilled the hand that was getting ready to scrape the bark off his hip.

“Caught me,” he chuckled weakly. “How long does it last…? Oh.” Zevran bounced his legs up and down– perfectly painless. He let out a sigh of relief. “Not long at all. And now we will attend to you, yes?”

Her face hardened. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I…” she closed her eyes and puffed out a breath. “You can just leave it there. I’m… not quite spry enough to hold the flask right now.”

Zevran smiled and screwed the stopper out of the flask. “It would be more efficient if we worked together, though, no? We will get back to the children a little faster, sí?”

Rhodri gulped. “I… yes,” she sighed. “Yes, you’re quite right.” Her eyes darted up to him, and away again. “If you have a moment, that would be very kind of you.”

He nodded with a flourish. “My dear Grey Warden, I have all the hours in the day! Now, if I may…?” he reached a hand out near her face. “To steady you, you see.”

She swallowed again, looking rather more like he was about to hit her than assist her. “... Thank you, yes,” she whispered.

Zevran fixed her with a winning smile. “It will be the work of moments,” he assured her, sliding his fingers under her cheek and tilting her head away from the stone. The skin was cool and clammy, smooth as glass, and a perfect, soothing weight in his hand. Did she like to touch other people's faces for that reason?

He shelved the thought as soon as he realised he was having it, bringing the bottle to her mouth and held it steady as the Warden drunk it dry with long, deep draughts.

Her fingers were the first things to move, flexing and tensing, and the rest of her upper body quickly followed suit. It was only when her head left the floor that Zevran realised he had been holding it the entire time.

Rhodri swung upright before the panic could eat him alive, and stretched. Her legs inched around until she was about to stand, and when she was on her feet before him, she extended a hand and pulled him up with her.

She looked down at him with a small, sad smile that made his belly surge into his throat 

“Thank you for being gentle with me,” she said softly. “You’re so kind, Zev. So kind.” She held a hand out near one shoulder, and when he nodded, she took it and squeezed it. “Pretiotus.”

Zevran’s mouth went dry. Precious.

Another squeeze, and she gestured at the rest of the company. Zevran nodded and fell into a numb stroll beside her, hoping he would know to stop walking before an obstacle, like a wall or a sickly mage, would force him to.

[moku-youbi]

This is so, so fucked up.

Look, I get there is a level of classism in any sort of creative pursuit, because you need free time to be able to work on it, and there are people who simply don't have enough free time, or who are too exhausted in their free time to get in the proper headspace to be creative, and that sucks. However, using AI to create *isn't* creating. It's THEFT.

AI IS THEFT, plain and simple. AI IS PLAGIARISM.

It is generative. It uses other people's words, thoughts, and ideas. And by and large, it uses those without the original creator's permission or knowledge. It uses them without any real understanding of the words. It's simply mimicking.

I get that as someone who writes transformative fiction, this can be a fine line at times. But let me try to make it super clear. There's using another person's work as inspiration or a springboard--taking the characters and plopping them in a new setting or scenario. Taking the setting and creating new characters and scenarios. Taking the plot and changing major events to see how things would play out differently. This is where the writer's creativity and skill comes into play.

With AI, it's basically like taking the source text and just cutting it up and rearranging it and maybe mixing it up with another text or two. And even that could be an interesting experiment, except YOU AREN'T DOING IT! A program is doing it.

This is particularly galling coming from NaNoWriMo. I gotta talk a minute about the first year I did NaNo. This was 20 years ago, when I lived paycheck to paycheck. I was that constantly exhausted person doing temp jobs after losing my job as a waitress. My wife and I had only moved in together less than a year before, and barely made enough to cover rent/utilities/food. So yeah, I was that person who didn't have a lot of free time or energy, but I loved writing and missed writing, and saw NaNo as an opportunity to push myself.

**warning that this story contains mention of suicide in this paragraph** I'd started out strong and steady. It was an original fic. I was so proud of how it was going, at 22,000 words on November 16th. Then, on November 17, 2005, my father killed himself. My relationship with him was complicated, to put it mildly. He had been physically abusive in my childhood, and verbally and emotionally abusive my whole life, but he was a recovering addict, and he'd tried to be a better person. There were moments of profound kindness from him, and he was capable of such beautiful things. He was so intelligent and loving, but also bipolar, and I knew he was just a broken, mentally unwell man who'd also suffered abuse, and I hoped he would continue to heal and change. So his sudden, unexpected death brought up a LOT of shit I wasn't prepared for and didn't fully understand. I was so angry that so much between us was unresolved. That he'd never fully owned what pain and lasting damage he'd caused. And that we never had an opportunity to repair or know one another better or maybe heal.

I was in a daze for days on end. Alternating between numbness and what felt like, at the time, inexplicable bouts of sudden sobbing. I couldn't understand, given how bad our relationship had been, why it impacted me so much. Why, when I'd been younger, I'd wished he'd just die so he'd stop hurting and tormenting us. I basically did nothing but sleep and exercise and go to work. I didn't work on my story for at least 10 days, I'd given up the idea of it as a lost cause as I spent time with my family, got through the funeral, and tried to get back into my daily life.

Then somehow, on the 27th, I decided I *had* to finish what I started. I *HAD* to get to 50k, and I had 4 days to do it. And I did. It gave me something to focus on and achieve when I felt adrift and confused. It was a cathartic experience. The story wasn't complete, but I met the word count and I was proud of what I'd created and accomplished.

If I had used AI, what would that have even meant? What would *I* have accomplished? It would have been a hollow accomplishment. It would have been taking something created by other people and putting my name on it.

Obviously, people can do whatever the hell they want. We're not going to stop people from using AI, and even publishing and profiting off it. But for an organisation like NaNo to legitimise it is just sickening and so deeply disappointing. NaNo is telling me that it's perfectly fine for people to take my work, without my knowledge or permission, and call it their own. Why should I *ever* support them again in any way, shape, or form. I'm SO GLAD I didn't buy a shirt last year, though I'd completed my word count. They're not getting any more of my money.

Who's starting an alternative site for this November?

NaNoWriMo has gone full clown shoes, I fear

fellas... is it classist and ableist to expect people in the novel writing challenge to actually write their own novels?

[wyrmfedgrave]

Pics: More Dark Horror Funnies.

Essay: "Lovecraft, Sexist & Racist." Part 2.

So, Howard was a white supremacist.

Even, a bit of a "nagging nanny" type of race baiter¹.

For, I can find no example of HPL ever doing something about his hatred - at least not physically.

Since Lovecraft was a writer, that be- came his main venue for denigrating other people.

But, Howard's early racism was still quite virulent - even by the lowest standards of his time.

HPL incorrectly considered himself an Aryan descendant² - so he hated all Jewish refugees & was unsympathetic towards Negroes.

When Black folk were lynched, Love- craft expressed compassion for their White murderers³!

Merely walking thru NYC's diverse crowds, caused Howard to "quiver with fury."

HPL never repented his racist ideas, regarding anyone who wasn't of White Anglo-Saxon Protestant stock⁴ to be "subhuman."

So, you may ask, why did Sonia Greene marry Lovecraft?!

Sonia was a Jewish immigrant who wrote, traveled, designed posh hats & even got to own a business.

Though Sonia didn't approve of his racism, she fell in love with Howard's mind & gentlemanly ways.

HPL had the gall to claim that Sonia's marriage to him was a renouncement of her Jewish heritage!!

This was something that Sonia rapidly disagreed with⁵!

Yet, even going thru such racial hate, Sonia kept her promise to Lovecraft.

She continued to send him a regular allowance - because he was too proud to look for work!

Now, Howard's bigotry was actually a disturbing facet of his personal beliefs - even when compared to his peers!

Most of his friends had surpassed such old ideas - yet, HPL clung to them all of his life.

No doubt, Lovecraft's love of ancient English culture had this 'side effect' on him.

Plus, Howard could also be selfish, unpleasant & bitter enough to blame others for his own personal faults...

HPL's treatment of Blacks was an un- wavering hatred that followed many different forms.

For instance, in Lovecraft's & Zealia Bishop's⁶ "Medusa's Coil", the main 'evil' is the stupid racial horror of a Black man 'passing' for White⁷...

In his review of a story by Eli Colter⁸, Howard states,

"The only decent thing in the issue (of Weird Tales) is "Last Horror"⁹, which is truly clever, though quasi-scientific."

"I have long planned something of that sort myself... thru psychic rather than physical means."

"An attempt (by) an educated Negro to project his personality... securing a White man's body thru... voodoo¹⁰!"

"HPL actually had 2 such entries in his 1923 Commonplace Book¹¹.

But, Lovecraft was beaten to the punch.

Still, Howard later used similar ideas in his stories "Thing on the Doorstep¹²" & "Shadow Out of Time¹³."

Now, after his marriage collapsed & HPL moved back to Providence, he wasn't any less bitter¹⁴.

But, Lovecraft did experience a re- newed burst of creativity!

It was at this time that Howard wrote most of his best tales.

HPL's finances, however, were another matter.

Lovecraft spent most of his life as a 'starving artist' - frail & malnourished.

A regular job remained beneath him...

So, Howard's diet became 1 of eating expired canned goods!

Sometimes HPL skipped food al- together, just so that he could afford postage of his famously long letters¹⁵.

Lovecraft would die at 36 years of age - of intestinal cancer.

Though, Howard cared about his stories, he fully expected to be for- gotten.

"I have no illusions (about) the... status of my tales & do not expect to be- come a serious competitor of my favorite weird (story) authors."

Once again, HPL was wrong.

Due to his surviving friends keeping his tales in print (thru Arkham House), Lovecraft is now more important & inspiring than ever before!

But, Howard's unreasoning racism has damaged his literary legacy.

HPL's bust was removed¹⁶ from the World Fantasy Award¹⁷ because his galling racial views made many of the other winners uncomfortable.

But, I think that Lovecraft's works still stand strong - as testaments to his xenophobia & the great fiction that it finally permeated...

Footnotes:

1. Race baiting now means "making verbal attacks against certain ethnic groups."

This term dates back to the 1920s, when it described the racial hatred that White people encouraged - in order to gain political advantages.

How petty, right?

2. The Aryans were actually Iranian & (Hindu) Indian peoples - NOT actual Caucasians.

And, Pre-Indo-European actually describes ancient languages in Asia Minor & Europe - not a White ethnic group!

In 1953, only 5 such language families were identified in Western Europe:

A. Eurafrican in North Africa, France, Italy & Spain.

B. Hispano-Caucasian from Northern Spain to the Caucasian Mountains.

C. Iberian in Southern Spain.

D. Libyan from North Africa to Sardinia.

E. Etruscan in Northern Italy.

The speakers of these languages moved to Old Europe (a Southeastern New Stone Age culture) from an area that now stretches from Ukraine to the North Caspian Sea.

This was in an area of flat grasslands from Eastern Europe to Southwestern Siberia.

These people are now identified as the Kurgan or Yamnaya ethnic group.

3. Howard went so far as to say that lynching was necessary - for Whites to 'protect' themselves!

HPL would, in later years, bemoan his earlier writings, saying that he would pay blackmail to forget they existed...

Lovecraft did get rid of some of his worst works - but, only from his early juvenile period.

4. A stock, in Howard's time, meant a subspecies of mankind differing due to physical characteristics - like dark skin...

Stock was once part of the so-called 'scientific' racism that began in the 1800s.

This led to measuring people's skulls to differentiate a person's attributes - like 1's intelligence.

Worse, stock became a way to rigidly divide different ethnicities & to some horrifying eugenic programs.

With the rise of genetics, however, this meaning of stock has become obsolete.

5. Sonia thought that HPL's aunts & his Providence surroundings were stunting his growth as a human being.

It took some doing, but, she finally convinced Lovecraft to marry her & move to NYC, where he could be close to many of his other friends.

Sonia basically payed Howard to be able to concentrate on his writing...

But, Lovecraft still struggled to sell his short stories & didn't help with their expenses!

It ended up with Sonia having to move out West alone, as HPL wouldn't go any further - not even for a magazine editorship in Chicago!!

Yet, Sonia still supported Howard while she was on the road - visiting him every month or so.

6. Bishop was an American romance writer, now remembered for the 3 horror stories that she collaborated with Lovecraft on.

These tales are "Medusa's Coil", "The Mound" & "Curse of Yig."

These stories were all extensively re- written by HPL.

In 2014, 36 letters from Howard to her were discovered & then, quickly published.

7. During the antebellum period, for a Black to pass as White was a means of escaping slavery.

Some used their 'masquerade' to uplift other Black folk via their education.

The reverse, "black fishing", was very common during the early days of making movies.

Whites passed themselves of as being Black - thru the 'magic' of blackface makeup.

"Race shifting" was used by Jews during WW2, except that they tried passing themselves of as Aryans to escape Nazi persecution.

There are also quite a few books, films, TV shows, songs & even the visual performances of conceptual artist Adrian Piper that continue to explore this theme...

8. Pen name of M.E. Frost, who wrote 100s of stories, serials & novels.

Frost adopted the byline in the early 1920s & became the 2nd most popular author - in Weird Tales - right behind Lovecraft himself!

Sadly, Frost never had a chance to get 1 of her stories featured on the Weird Tales cover...

9. This is a racebending tale that talks about racial discrimination directly.

In this sci-fi plot, a Black millionaire grafts White skin on his whole body!!

This is done with the help of a rogue doctor, kidnapping, bribery & murder.

The writer expresses the narrator's self-hatred thru the White prejudices that spark the murderous plot.

But, these words are coming from the mouth of the story's 'hero'...

So, while the moral might be self- acceptance, it's difficult to read the story as being well meaning.

Rather, the tale sounds like it's written by a White man - 1 who doesn't know how to portray the true experiences of Black life in the 1920s.

At the end of this story, with White superiority proven, the hero is shamed into committing suicide...

Not prize winning material.

10. Voodoo ("spirit, god") is a form of animism (belief that everything has a spirit) common in the Caribbean Sea area - especially in Haiti.

It's actually a mingling of the tribal religions brought by slaves from West Africa & European Christian practices.

Vodou (its correct spelling) is a monotheistic religion, believing in the supreme spiritual entity of Bondye.

And, it originated back in 1600s Haiti.

But, has spread out thruout the West Indies.

11. Commonplace books are ways to compile bits of knowledge & ideas.

With the intention of future use.

They were especially kept during antiquity, the Renaissance & the 1800s - so, perfect for Howard's taste.

12. "Thing on the Doorstep" (1933) is a short story about a man who kills a wizard that's survived death already.

Then, the shooter has to defend himself from a murder charge.

The shooter claims that the wizard changed bodies with his long time friend.

And, left said friend trapped in a fe- male's rotting corpse - which the doomed hero uses to convince his friend!!

The hero's friend then shoots the wizard possessed body.

But, now it's the friend that fears to be possessed...

13. "Shadow Out of Time" (1935) is about spacetime travel - via mental transfers!!

This is done by aliens who enjoy long lives - by trading places when their whole race is facing major any sort of catastrophe!

The narrator believes that the mind transfers are nothing more than some mental illness.

Then, he discovers other cases like his - spread thruout history...

So, he comes to believe that he's not really crazy after all.

In the end, the narrator finds out that the alien's last bodies died out eons ago.

And, that the body snatchers are now in the far future, inhabiting creatures that evolved long after humanity went extinct...

But, also still surviving - into the hero's time - are the monstrous beings that killed the aliens' last bodies...

14. When Howard found out that his wife wanted to make a new business - in Providence - he had his aunts keep Sonia away!

Why?

HPL was 'mortified' that his neighbors might find out that his wife was a 'common' businesswoman!!

Dude!

You're a poor fucking bastard - who needs your wife to keep you morally honest...

15. Lovecraft has actually become more famous for his letters than for his fiction!!

Howard would write up to 15 or 16 pages for each letter - utilizing every bit of space available!

Though he was once thought to have written some 100,000 missives, now- a-days the score is down to around 60,000.

But, new discoveries keep rising that score...

16. This loss of face occurred back in 2015. Lovecraft's head was replaced by... Ygdrasill?!

Well, a tree anyway.

17. This award has been running since it started back in 1975!

It's considered one of the three most prestigious speculative fiction awards.

Speculative, here, involves horror, sci- fi & fantasy stories.

So, this mega-genre explores both the possible & impossible alike...

Speculative fiction can occur at any time - so long as it contains some element that didn't, doesn't or won't really exist.

End.