#and on the opposite page the name of the high school that gave it to his high school

[grinchwrapsupreme]

nothing I love more in a secondhand book than a note written to someone in the cover

[my-castles-crumbling]

Of Romance and Play Practice

@wolfstarbingo2024 - square: nerdy Remus - rating: G - no warnings - word count: 974 - based on @probs-reading's HC - AO3 link

To this day, Remus still couldn't figure out how they all were friends. They took up vastly different social circles. Like a smaller version of the Breakfast Club, he, Sirius, James, and Peter were as opposite as could be. James was the school basketball star, cheerleaders constantly hanging off his elbows (much to his boyfriend, Regulus's, disgust). Peter ran the yearbook, and was never seen without a notebook and a camera. Remus, of course, was the textbook definition of a nerd: he was the president of Chess Club, and took more AP classes than all of his friend combined. And Sirius....Sirius was perfect.

Sirius was the star of the theater program, having finally figured out how to put his dramatics to good use. He lived for the stage, and the audience ate him up no matter what his role. Of course, Remus ate him up, too. Or at least, he wanted to.

They'd all been friends since elementary school. Perhaps that was why they were able to stay close, no matter their differences. But Remus's crush on Sirius had developed quite recently, and for some reason, he couldn't shake it.

Perhaps it was the way Sirius oozed confidence. His smile was absolutely contagious and it made Remus literally weak at the knees, often times he had to sit down after Sirius grinned at him. Maybe it was the way he felt safe with Sirius. Though they loved to tease each other, Sirius never judged him when it mattered, and they'd been friends for so long, they knew each other as well as they knew themselves.

Of course, it helped that Sirius was fit as fuck.

But that wasn't it. It was...Remus couldn't help but feel warm when he looked at him. It was a bit disgusting, really.

But one night, when Sirius asked him to help run lines for the new play he was a part of, Remus agreed, because he wanted to help. He figured eventually, this crush would go away, so he should just continue spending time with Sirius like normal, acting like nothing was different. But when he read the name of the play, he froze.

"Erm...Romeo and Juliet?" he asked Sirius, who was sat on his bed, shucking his leather jacket and making himself comfortable.

"Mmm," he hummed noncommittally. "Good thing McKinnon's as flaming as I am, or I'd be dreading the kiss," he grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

And of course. Of course, Sirius needed him to practice running lines for the most romantic play in the fucking universe. What else?

"Alright," he murmured, sitting nervously on the edge of his own bed, as far from Sirius as possible. "Erm, what scene?"

"Let's start..." Sirius flipped through the script, stopping at a page and pointing. "There. I'm having trouble with the emotion, to be honest. If you could just read for McKinnon, that'd be amazing."

But Remus's stomach flipped as he looked over the script, recognizing the scene. The fucking balcony scene?

"Erm, alright," he nodded, trying to pull himself together. "How camest thou hither- er - tell me, and wherefore? Erm, the orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, of any of my, erm, kinsmen find thee here," he recited disjointedly.

Sirius chuckled and responded fluidly, "With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls. For stony limits cannot hold love out." His eyes were wide, genuine, and Remus became entranced as he listened. "And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me."

It took Remus a second to realize he was done. That it was his turn to respond. Because hearing Sirius speak of love like this, it was doing things to him. "Oh!" he nearly yelled as Sirius gave him an expectant look, jumping a bit. "Erm. If- if they to see thee, they will murder thee. Fuck, this is intense, huh?" he commented, scanning over the script.

Sirius laughed and ignored his comment, going on, "Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords. Look though but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity." He said those words with a small smile, eyes on Remus's.

"I...I would not for the world they saw thee here," Remus nearly-whispered, looking at the paper and back at Sirius, who was still watching him with a strange look in his eyes.

"I have night's clock to hide me from their eyes," he whispered, moving closer to Remus- and when had he gotten so close, they were side-by-side, now!- grabbing his hand lightly. "And, but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love."

Remus swallowed, drowning in the look Sirius was giving him, squeezing his hand and allowing the heat and tension to wrap around their bodies. He wasn't imagining it, was he? Was Sirius feeling it, too? The way the very air was pulsating, urging him to move forward, to bring their lips together?

He hoped so.

"Sirius," he murmured, his head hazy, hardly bothering to look at the book, too distracted by the moment.

But Sirius seemed to be contemplating something. "Move not while my prayer's effect I take," he murmured, causing Remus to wrinkle his nose in confusion, before Sirius leaned forward, hand grazing over Remus's jaw and pulling their lips together.

And it was like fireworks. Hearing Sirius talk about love with the words of a poet had just made Remus's crush bloom into something more, and he couldn't resist grabbing for him, wrapping his arms around the other boy, pulling him closer until they were completely entangled in each other, their lips and teeth fighting for control of the best kiss Remus had ever had in his life.

[undead-supernova]

Chapter 2 - Series Masterlist

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

plot: you and Eddie decide you're both showing up. grab some beer, bowl. let that melted cheese on your nachos bring you to a state of vulnerability.

wc: 6k

cw: bickering, smoking, bowling, and alcohol consumption

fic title reference: We Are Going To Be Friends by The White Stripes

I Saw the TV Glow was a big inspiration for this chapter. I don't know how to explain that. They couldn't be more opposite storylines. It did spark this idea so I still have to shout it out. And I listened to the soundtrack while writing it! Beautiful.

p.s. if you havent seen I Saw the TV Glow, you totally should. it's a very important story about queerness and one of the best movies to be released this year. anyways don't think about that right now. instead, go ahead and read this chapter that I'm very proud of. watch the movie after.

There once was a boy who made your impressionable heart swell. He was the class clown, the certified It Boy of your middle school class. Not a jock by any stretch of the imagination, all lanky and desperate for just a touch of peach fuzz on his upper lip. But he was charming. And funny. And cute.

He made the girls giggle and twirl their hair, imitating the exaggerations of television. They would wear makeup to school, always quick to pass around tubes of lip gloss as soon as they left their mothers’ cars. 

You, however, stayed true to yourself. You tried the natural approach, quite certain that he would like you if you didn’t act like the other girls. Sure, he never looked your way. He never gave you a second thought. But, for some reason, that meant something to you.

The day you were assigned a seat next to him in English, he’d forgotten his book. This was your shot. This was your moment. So you offered to share yours, heads huddled together to peer down at the pages of Catcher in the Rye. Your heart was pounding in your ears, shutting out the teacher completely.

After class, he’d thanked you. Asked for your name. Told you it was really pretty. Then he asked for your help on his next paper.

And you said yes immediately, a larva without the protection of a chrysalis.

You agonized over his papers, noting that he wasn’t necessarily the best writer or all that smart, but it was him. He trusted you with his words and that meant he could trust you with his heart. At some point.

Until the end of eighth grade when he invited you to meet him on the playground, behind a large oak tree that the kids used as cover to make out. You’d approached slowly, wearing the lipstick you’d stolen from the local pharmacy.

But when you peered around, you were drenched in spoiled milk. Milk. 

A chorus of laughter sounded and you watched in horror as your crush grinned at you like you were entertainment.

His friend handed him a five dollar bill and they ran off.

That was all you were worth.

After that, you thought you knew what hurt was. What it was like to learn your lesson and never allow yourself the ability to fall into something like that again. An unrequited crush. But that was before high school, where the boys got more clever in their humiliation. Fake love notes, getting handsy at dances before calling you a freak. 

You swore never to let a boy you liked be mean to you again. You meant it.

But never once did you believe it.

It’s just a bowling alley, you thought. Spending one night with him won’t kill me.

The parking lot was nearly deserted, outside of a few Hondas and a gray Chevy Astro. Two of the street lamps were blown out, the remaining three dulled by the fierce January chill. 

You wondered if Eddie would even show up. Maybe this was his prank, one with Ashton Kutcher as an accomplice waiting around in an alley and snickering to themselves. You’d believe it. He was devious enough to make it happen.

It would be a joke for the ages, after you’d applied makeup and spent time working on your hair. You’d put on something casual but seemingly more put together, a deep brown long-sleeved shirt, leaving the first two buttons popped. Layered on top was a cropped, dark green jacket with a hood. You’d settled for dark blue jeans and Converse, sure, but the muted nude pink lipstick you pathetically checked in the sun visor was a step above your usual stupidity.

But Eddie had been insistent about this and it hurt to admit it, but you believed him. In your hardest of hearts, you trusted his word. It was aggravating.

The clock struck seven and you gave yourself one last deep breath before you got out of your car and made your way to the entrance. 

Lanesman was a frequent spot for you, a solitary activity that gave you an excuse to revert to your childhood. After you’d moved back and took this job, you found yourself gravitating towards what used to bring you joy. Bowling with the kid bumpers apparently did the trick.

Working at a high school made you realize that growing up didn’t mean forgetting. It didn’t mean an automatic erasure of what used to soothe your blues. If anything, it reinforced your need for that promise of safety.

The lobby was beige and dull, walls smattered in faded neon paint that hadn’t been updated since your youth. A miserable looking teenager stood at the concession stand, frustratedly trying to get the popcorn to pop. 

As you scanned further, you felt something shock your system as you saw Eddie standing there, waving at you with his plethora of rings twinkling in a fluorescent haze.

He looked nice tonight, with a black Henley, jeans, and Converse that mirrored yours. He started towards you, leaving you to notice the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. A hint of black could be spotted underneath, a wave of embarrassment washing over you as you wondered what tattoos he hid underneath.

But the thing that got you was his hair.

You’d never seen it down before, couldn’t even estimate how long you thought it would be. It hung in wavy curtains around his face and draped onto his shoulders. This was something you hadn’t seen coming. And here he was, sidling up to you.

“You’re early,” you started.

“Yeah, well,” he replied with a shrug. “I’m honestly shocked you showed up.”

“Yes, it seems that we are both in a state of shock.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll have to trust me eventually, you know.”

“We’ll see about that,” you shot back, shaking your head.

He snorted. “Alright, well. I’ll get the shoes if you get the beer.”

“I can do that,” you agreed before giving him your shoe size.

Eddie lifted his fingers and shot you with finger guns. “Always believed in you.”

He winked. 

Frustration flooded your system as he held your gaze for a moment too long. “I’m leaving now,” you murmured before walking away.

“You do that.”

Yeah, I will, you thought. Dickhead.

You made your way to the counter where that poor kid held up a finger as he attempted to fix the popcorn machine. The sounds of the arcade in the other room projected into the concession area, electronic sounds and buzzers trying to lure children in. As if there were any here in the first place. 

Eventually you ordered, getting a pitcher of beer and nachos. As you waited for the cheese machine to whirl back to life, you found your eyes wandering over towards the shoe hut. 

Eddie was laughing at something the kid said before taking two pairs of shoes and heading towards the back where the lanes were. Those areas were covered in blue wallpaper with pink squiggles, glowing neon in the rotating lights. He faded into the glow, dropping the shoes onto the table. 

You wondered why he’d gotten here early, going so far as to avoid the observation once you’d acknowledged it. This wasn’t even including his attitude being much more reserved than usual. He didn’t mock you once in that entire interaction. 

The night was still young, though.

When you walked over, Eddie’s eyes lit up at the sight of goodies in your arms.

“Beer and nachos?” he asked.

“Got a problem with nachos?”

Eddie grabbed a chip, drenching it in as much cheese as he could. “No, but you will after I eat all of them,” he said before tossing it into his mouth.

“Of course you’d never leave me any,” you commented as you set down the cups, beer, and nachos next to the shoes. 

He swallowed before shaking his head. “You know I can just get us some more, right?”

You shrugged off your coat, tossing it over his. “So that you can eat all of those, too?”

“These are some harsh accusations.”

“They’re hunches,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Come on. Tonight’s supposed to be about starting over, remember?”

You knew he was right. This was supposed to be a truce. Where was your can-do attitude? 

You took a deep breath before saying, “Yeah, okay. Sure. Yes. Starting over.”

Eddie smiled at you before throwing out his hand. “Hi, I’m Eddie Munson. Nice to meet you.”

You stared down at his hand. “We’re doing this?”

His smile widened. “We are.”

“Okay, fine.” You introduced yourself before taking his hand in yours. Shaking it, you added, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“What do you do for work?”

You snorted. “Uh, I’m a freshman English teacher at South Jefferson High School.”

He gave you a surprised expression. “You’re serious?”

“Uh, yeah?” you asked, confused.

He placed his free hand on his chest. “I’m a freshman English teacher at South Jefferson High School.” 

That was when you realized what was going on. What Eddie was attempting to do. You were really starting over. And if he was animated about this bit then, fuck it, you could be, too. 

Enthusiastically, you exclaimed, “What? That’s crazy!”

Eddie grinned, sparking something inside you. “Isn’t it?”

“How come I’ve never seen you around before?” you asked, fully playing along now.

“I don’t know! I’m in room 11A.”

You gasped. “I’m in 14A.”

“This is so bizarre.”

“I know. Small world, huh?”

In the silence that followed, you became aware of pressure that remained against your palm. The forgotten sensation that had your eyes lowering to your hand. They were joined, warmth being passed back and forth as your playful exchange came to a close. It felt like you couldn’t breathe.

So, you let go.

“Wanna bowl?” you asked, still feeling hazy. “With…me?”

Eddie coughed before sticking his hands in his back pockets. “Absolutely. Though, I have to warn you that I have the bumpers up.”

You smiled. “That’s the only way to play.”

Eddie won the first round. 

However, much to his dismay, you won the second.

It involved a lot of groans, snorts, and retreats to the beer pitcher in between turns. Overall, it was a pretty civil affair which surprised Eddie. He wondered how you felt about it.

The two of you now sat on top of the joint tables, having gone through a second pitcher of beer and demolished another helping of nachos. There’d only been one or two lanes taken up since you started, the room still in near silence outside of “I Wanna Love You” by Akon and Snoop Dogg playing over the crackled speakers. 

You sat close to one another, mirroring each other. Both you and Eddie were hunched over, feet planted on the chair in front. But as the conversation continued, you were turning closer to one another. The distance didn’t really feel like distance anymore.

Eddie was finishing off his final sip of beer when you suggested, “What if we did honesty hour?”

He glanced over at you, slowly lowering his cup. “What, like ask each other questions?”

“Yeah, and the other person has to answer. Nonegotiable.”

That was rather brave of you. And bold. You avoided any and all sense of trying to understand him. Not once did you ask him a question that wasn’t drenched in kerosene. Plus, what did you know about honesty? You grew defensive at any hint of curiosity and hostile when he reiterated whatever you told him. Could this really be considered progress or just a chance to seem like the good guy?

“Oh, I don’t know if you could handle your own game,” he challenged.

“What!” you exclaimed, lifting your hands.

He shook his head, unable to believe you were seriously that shocked. “You always have this look in your eye,” he said, wiggling his fingers in your face.

“What look?” you asked, slapping his hand away.

“Like you’re withholding information.”

One of your eyebrows twitched. “Is it wrong for me to keep some things to myself?” you argued, a forced chuckle leaving your lips. “I don’t need to tell you every thought in my head.”

“Why not?” “Because you make fun of everything I do!”

Eddie shook his head again, your irony bordering on comical. “You get mad at everything I do. Why do you get to be all high and mighty about it?”

“Because at least I keep my opinions to myself.”

“You make your opinions very clear, actually.” You rolled your eyes. “Okay, so are we gonna start or what? I don’t wanna do this if you’re gonna keep getting defensive.”

You let out a small groan. “Okay, yes. Fine.”

“We’ll start off easy, okay?” You nodded. “What was your favorite part of Napoleon Dynamite?”

You chuckled, catching him off guard. Then you smiled and an unexpected ease filled his chest. “Oh, most definitely Napoleon test tasting the milk.”

“It’s so nasty,” he agreed, feeling a laugh escape him. “Almost as good as the part when he watches Pedro ride his bike and asks if he can too and—”

“And he breaks the ramp!” you finished for him.

He nodded emphatically. “Yes, exactly!”

“I loved it. It was really funny.”

“What can I say? I have good taste.”

“You have one point,” you told him, holding up your pointer finger. “One.”

He shrugged. “That’s one more than yesterday.”

“Guess that means it’s my turn to ask a question?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I have a few more.”

“What? I came up with the idea.”

“Yes, but you always dodge answering anything honestly.”

“As if you don’t say anything other than,” you lowered your voice, “Oh, look at me. I’m so cool. You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m just so cool.”

Eddie snorted. “And what do you think you do?” He raised the pitch of his voice. “What? How dare you! Stop that! Ugh. I could never.”

“Yeah, okay,” you agreed. “I do sound like that.”

“Finally rolling an eighteen for once.”

You paused. Eddie watched as you looked down. “Did you just…” you trailed, eyes slowly coming back up to meet his. “Did you just make a Dungeons and Dragons reference?”

“Maybe.”

A loud chortle flew through the air as you exclaimed, “Oh my god! You’re a nerd!”

He rolled his eyes. “Nerd? Really? Are we in high school?” You gave him a playful shrug. “The fact that you know the rules means you’re just as big of a nerd as I am.”

“Exactly!” you exclaimed. “It’s not a bad thing. It just feels like. Well. I don’t know. I guess, to me, it feels like you’re a real human being now.”

“That’s because you have forgotten to ask me anything about myself.” You opened your mouth, but he beat you to the punch. “Which you can do after I ask mine.”

“Okay, fine,” you replied with a huff.

“Do you actually enjoy teaching at SJ?”

“Of course I do,” you said too quickly, eyes narrowing.

Eddie shook his head. “Defensive. I really am asking. It’s not a trap.”

“Fine, fine,” you agreed, holding up your hands. “I enjoy what I’ve started doing. I mean, I don’t think I’ve made the impact that I’ve wanted to, which was why getting the opportunity to do this full-time was really exciting.”

“Do you think this’ll be a long term thing? Teaching here?”

“I hope so. Maybe not forever, but I want to right now. I think I owe it to these kids who’re already in such a vulnerable phase in their lives. It keeps getting scarier out in the world. The least I can do is try to help make it easier with the small pocket of time I have in their lives.”

“That’s really sweet,” Eddie whispered, and he meant it.

“Oh, thanks,” you whispered back. “I mean it.”

“Does your family live around here? Or your, uh, boyfriend.” He panicked when you raised an eyebrow. “Or girlfriend. I, uh, I don’t judge.”

Shaking your head, you said, “No, my family isn’t around. I haven’t seen them in over a year. I moved back and then they moved across the country. Besides, we barely call. We’re all bad at using the phone. I write them sometimes, but it’s usually attached to cheesy holiday cards.” You looked down at your cup. “And no. I don’t have a partner of any kind at the moment.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“Do you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I what?”

“Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”

Eddie almost said, “Why do you wanna know?” But you were making real progress for once. He couldn’t fuck it up now. Not when your eyes were returning to his, brave and unafraid now.

“I do not,” he answered. “I don’t have a partner of any kind right now.”

“And your family?”

It was his turn to cower away. “Yikes,” he whispered, planting a goofy expression on his face to soften the blow. “Uh, yeah. My dad’s in jail and my mom passed when I was a kid. My uncle lived around here but he actually met a nice guy so now they pose as roommates in Ohio.”

“What’s in Ohio?”

That was your answer? To everything he just said, giving you the basics of a fucked up childhood, the only thing you had to respond with was a question about what state his uncle and his boyfriend settled on?

“Dave, I guess,” he replied, studying your lack of expression. You let out a hum and nodded. “Does that not, like, weird you out?”

“What part exactly?”

“My parents.”

You shook your head. “No, not really.”

“Hm.”

“Do you want me to be weirded out?”

“No, I…” Eddie trailed before taking a deep breath. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

You nodded. “Then you’ll be absolutely ecstatic to know that I am far from being weirded out.”

“Incredible,” he said lightly, trying to force out a laugh. He sobered up quickly when you gave him a closed-lip smile. “Last question.”

“Hit me.”

Do you really hate me?

He blinked. “Would you go outside with me and share a cigarette?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

So you climbed off the tables, grabbing your jackets and heading back out the front door. Eddie had been eyeing your appearance all night, especially the lipstick you’d donned. You never wore lipstick at work and you hadn’t the last few times he saw you around the city. Why now?

If only asking questions didn’t get him annihilated. 

“I’ve actually decided I want my own,” you said, turning toward him.

“Of course you do.” Your breaths fogged together as you chuckled. “Are you finally gonna try a Marlboro Red?”

Your smile bordered on mischief as you pointed your thumb at the parking lot. “I mean, I have a pack of Newports in my car. I could always go get them.”

Eddie shook his head, slipping his pack out of his jacket. “Nah, I don’t trust you to come back.”

Snapping, you said, “Damn. You foiled my epic evil plan.”

“I see right through you.”

“You sure do.”

Eddie held out a lone cigarette for you to take. You gave him a small smile before plucking it from his fingers and sliding it between your teeth. He tried handing you the lighter but you shook your head.

“You’re not gonna light it for me?” you asked around the cigarette. “Some manners you’ve got.”

With only a snort as a response, Eddie lit both of your cigarettes at the same time. The smoke swirled through the air, mimicking a blanket of snow you were sure to get in the next few weeks.

The banter between you was nice. Eddie had made his peace with the constant back and forth, but nothing felt better than this. The two of you being civil and, if not friends, friendly. Your scowl had faded, leaving behind your gentler expressions. If he didn’t find you beautiful before, there was something almost explosive about what he saw now.

He wondered what it was like to grow up so wondrous. What kind of kid you were and whether you experienced the atrocities that he had in high school. What did you turn into after, when you could grasp at the sleeves of freedom? Did your fingers ever slip?

You bent down to stub out the cigarette before tossing it in the trash can next to the door. Eddie watched you, wondering how he could keep you from leaving. Sure, you probably weren’t thinking about leaving. But. Still.

He needed more time with you. He needed more time to understand you. And if you were to walk away from here tonight without divulging those details, he thought he’d explode. Especially when you’d be back as coworkers the following week.

So, he got an idea.

“We should go to the little arcade inside.”

“Why, so I can beat your ass?”

“Woah there!” Eddie exclaimed. “Trash talk. I like it.”

You took a step towards the door, watching as he flicked his cigarette out onto the pavement. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

Before you could pull any further, Eddie was taking the handle from you. “I should do it more often,” he replied, gesturing for you to walk through.

“It’s only ‘cause I’m a little tipsy.”

“You didn’t have to drink the beer. I mean, it is kinda shitty.”

You shrugged. “I’ve been having fun. Sue me.”

“Then you’ll be excited to know that the arcade is the final showdown.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, think about it. I won the first round. You won the second, right?” You nodded. “So who is the winner?”

“We could tie and practice good sportsmanship.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

You giggled. You fucking giggled.

It jolted him. It wasn’t lightning, but rather the shock of static electricity on an unforgiven doorknob. 

“You’re right,” you said with a shrug.

God, he really fucking liked you.

“We’ll play three rounds,” Eddie started, fiddling with the coins in his hands. “First are Galaga and Target Terror. And then, for our final showdown? The claw machine.”

“The claw machine is rigged,” you argued. “We’ll both lose.”

“Yeah, with that attitude.” You snorted. “You can’t know if you don’t try.”

Instead of whipping up some witty comeback, you trudged over to the dusty Galaga machine, noting that one of the coin slots was shattered.

Eddie came to stand next to you, plopping a coin in your palm before you thrusted it into the unbroken slot and took off.

One thing you’d failed to mention up until this point was how shitty you were at any and all arcade games. You’d once thought Galaga was your favorite, something you gravitated towards as a kid. The flashes of neon against the black, with only specks of color to create the illusion of a night sky. It always drew you in, the feeling that you were escaping somewhere outside yourself. Outside of the reality— 

“Oh, come on, really?” you exclaimed as you failed. 

“You’re just smashing the keys,” Eddie groaned.

You shot him a look. “But that’s what you’re supposed to do!”

“Well,” he started, bumping your hip with his. “Doesn’t matter now ‘cause you’re dead. Officially. Time for you to scoot over. Come on.”

Reluctantly, you switched places. 

And, boy, were you immediately intimidated.

Eddie was a whiz, all calm and collected as he focused on the screen like his life depended on it. His fingers stretched, skillfully defending space from the countless hoards of aliens and other creatures that dared to cross his path. 

He finally died at the low low score of 140,820. 

“What the fuck?” you muttered as he took a step back and grinned at you.

“So that’s, what, two points now for me and one for you?”

You tried to suppress your glare. “Good job,” you said through your teeth.

Eddie gave you a bow. “Why, thank you. Sometimes it pays off to be a nerd.”

It wasn’t that you were a sore loser. But you were with a sore winner. Now it was time to get your revenge. How you would do that was beyond you, but you had to try.

“Come on,” you told him.

Your next destination was the Target Terror, taking the red gun before he even approached. For good measure, you turned and pretended to shoot him. Eddie let out a dramatic gasp before clutching his chest and falling to the floor.

Laughter tumbled out of you without any thought, made boisterous when he twitched and kept making the stupidest noises you’d ever heard before finally playing dead.

“Bravo,” you complimented.

Like a flattened cartoon character, he regenerated and sprung back up to his feet. 

“I’m a natural, I know,” he responded, sliding coins in for you both.

“Yeah, you should be the next drama teacher.”

He grabbed the blue gun. “I actually think I’d kick ass at it.”

He didn’t sound like he was joking.

As you went to shoot the start button, you couldn’t help but look over at Eddie. He was checking out the gun and deciding on his hand placement as if that mattered. But you were thinking about something else.

Eddie was a good guy, wasn’t he? Take away his revolting arrogance and inability to keep his mouth shut and you could see a person underneath. His ambition mirrored yours and maybe, just maybe, his heart had been in the right place all along. Maybe there was more to him that you wanted to learn.

You wanted to be his friend.

Eddie caught your eye, pausing to look up at you. “What?” he asked. “You waiting on me?”

“Um.” You made yourself look back at the screen. “Yeah, I want to win fair and you’re taking too long. So. Uh. Let’s play.”

Without another word, you shot the first level and the two of you were off, trying to kill as many bad guys as you could. Though, they were kinda lame, just some guys in hoodies and sunglasses. A few of them were women which you appreciated, but they were the only ones who seemed like they had any real backstories. 

You tried not to sneak a glance over at Eddie’s score, but you couldn’t help it. You were winning. He seemed to be struggling, glancing over at you every so often. His frustrated looks sat in your peripheral, leaving you with a shit eating grin on your face as you took your sweet time. 

“What the hell,” he said when it hit game over.

You pretended to blow smoke off of your plastic gun before putting it back. “You were just smashing the trigger,” you said. “So, that’s, what? Two points for me, two for you?”

Eddie sighed. “Guess I deserved that one.”

You smirked. 

The claw machine was the final destination, lined in yellow and emitting a neon glow. Turning to look at Eddie, you saw the neon illuminating his dark eyes which were solely on you. 

You nearly did a double take, suddenly overwhelmed by the exposure.

“What?” you asked.

“What?” he retorted, smirking.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re really pretty.”

Your gut twisted again. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?’

“I feel like you look at me as some, I don’t know, clownish hag or something.”

“Clownish hag?” he repeated.

“Or something.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re just saying that because that’s how you see me.”

“You think that I think you’re a clownish hag?”

“Isn’t that why you’re so annoyed by me?”

“No, I’m annoyed by you because your goal in life is to make mine miserable.”

“Sure, yeah. Let’s go with that.” You rolled your eyes. “So how do you see me then? Hm?” “I mean, a guy like you already knows how pretty he is. I don’t think I have to be the one to tell you that.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Pretty, huh?”

“What?” you asked, blinking.

“You think I’m pretty, too.”

“Objectively, yes.”

“Objectively,” he repeated, snorting.

“You can’t deny it.”

“Only if you don’t deny finding me pretty.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright. Come on.” He gestured towards the machine. “Go ahead and try.”

Your eyes lingered on him for possibly a second too long before you returned your attention to the claw machine. Hitting the start button, you moved the claw around the box. You were sure this was going to fail. There was no other way for this to go.

Eddie called me pretty.

It was a rigged system. You give them your money, left with the unspoken contract that this was a game of chance. You paid for what you got in the end. No take backs. No refunds. What you ended up with was what you ended up with. There was no return to the way things were before you gave away something so special. 

Eddie called me pretty.

But in the end, there really was nothing left to lose. So, you slammed your hand down on the button.

Eddie called me pretty.

Slowly, the claw extended and fell against a small tiger plushie. It clamped down on its head before slowly rising. You gasped as it stayed secure and moved towards the safety box inside. Then, the claw opened.

And you won.

Almost simultaneously, you and Eddie erupted in shrieks, jumping up and down as you stared at the machine in disbelief. 

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed.

His eyes sparkled. “You did it!” 

“I know! That was crazy!”

Eddie laughed and gave you a high five. “That was amazing.”

You shrugged. “I’m the best, what can I say?”

“Can’t disagree with you there, sweetheart.”

You felt your eyes widen, mirroring the same exact movement now coming from him. 

Sweetheart.

Of all the names you’d been given from crushes, part-time lovers, and partners, never had you heard the word sweetheart.

It sent a wave of bubbles to your gut before floating up, up, up and into your throat. You tried to clear it, but nothing could get it out. Eddie held your stare, seemingly unable to make a comment. Unable to call you out for what you surely knew he knew despite you not really knowing for yourself. 

What was happening?

“Eddie?”

You heard him take a sharp inhale as his name left your lips. It was the first time you’d uttered it out loud. To yourself. To someone else.

To him.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded, slowly. “Anything.”

You could feel yourself unraveling. “Do you really want to be my friend?” you whispered.

Eddie’s expression softened. “Of course I do.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even blink.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The catch in your throat was enough.

Eddie’s hands lifted, fingers slowly curling around your cheeks before bringing your lips to his. 

It was the meteor you never saw coming. A gentle kind of impact. It’s intense and explosive, but there’s safety. Somehow, Eddie’s the reason why. 

He was gone too quickly, not giving you enough time to process why he was making you feel this way. But his eyes met yours and suddenly he was the breathless one.

“Uh, sorry,” he said, taking slow blinks.

You didn’t know what to say. Too many questions were caught in your throat. Was this manipulation? Was this real? And if it was, did that mean he liked you? Did that mean that you liked him?

But Eddie began to take a step back and it angered you to no end.

“Don’t you dare,” you grumbled, grabbing onto that stupid open collar of his. “Come here.” You pulled him back toward you, connecting your lips once more.

The trance fixed itself, your brain struck with neon pixels of excitement, of bewilderment. There was this need to completely consume him. To take his breath as your own so that you may understand who he is and what makes this so different.

You knew you’d never be the same after this ended.

Eddie was quick to reverse the roles, turning you around pulling you to the other side of the claw machine, hiding you both. You had no problem shoving him against the wall, both hands on his chest now. 

He broke through your arms, reaching for your jaw once more and dragging you closer. As if that were possible. As if there was any space left between your bodies. 

It wasn’t desire. It was necessity.

Your fingers locked around his hips, digging your fingernails as hard as you could. It was instinctual, like there was no other way this could go.

He let out a deep moan, sounding more like a growl than anything else. It sprung you further as you pressed your hips against his. You found friction and chased it without hesitation. 

Hands moved down to your neck, squeezing ever so lightly.

Your goosebumps rose like static electricity. 

But then someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

You jumped away, turning to find the kid from the counter. “Uh, yeah, hi. Please stop making out in the arcade.”

“Oh, sorry,” you said.

All he did was shrug and walk away.

Slowly, your heart slowed down and you dared yourself to look back at Eddie, his pink lips coated in your lipstick.

His eyes were already on yours, but you could see little flickers to your lips. It restarted that pumping, pushing you to take a step forward.

So did he.

His hand found your elbow and drew you forward.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“That was…” he trailed.

“It was what?” you asked, feeling dread pool in your stomach.

He paused. Too long, your thoughts echoed. Too long.

And that’s when it finally hit you.

Eddie hadn’t given you a second glance before the book club debacle started. There was no indication of interest or intrigue, settling on December as the start date of his ventures. December, when it was finalized that the two of you would be sponsoring together. 

He’d come into the break room for lunch. He had to know you’d be in there, had to know already that you were co-sponsors. Why else would he try to rile you up? Why else would he try to befriend you?

He was tricking you.

This had been his plan all along. 

He was trying to get you to forget all about the book club. He was trying to take it for himself. You knew he’d certainly read enough books to know how to do it. 

This was what men did. They got you alone, vulnerable, and then stabbed you in the back. Their games were always the same. 

You’d grown up, but you were still just as naive as you were at eleven. Fifteen. Nineteen. Twenty-five.

“What am I doing?” you wondered out loud, glancing at him one last time before you turned and walked towards your coat and purse.

Eddie didn’t follow you.

Once more, you smoothed the wrinkles in your white button down and red floral skirt. Your heel-clad feet ached as you leaned against the desk at the head of the room. Next to you was Eddie, back to his bun and waiter uniform. He stood a few feet away, but you were more than conscious of his presence.

It was cumbersome, lighting your skin on fire as you gave fake smiles to every student filing into your classroom at three-ten in the afternoon. The tension was palpable, found in the awkward silence that rested between the two of you.

One by one, the students sat down and made small talk with their friends. They laughed and giggled, eyes flickering over to you two every so often.

But at three-fifteen, you heard Eddie clear his throat.

“We’re going to start by re-introducing ourselves,” he started.

You both said your names.

You couldn’t help but glance over at Eddie, watching as he did the same.

Quickly averting your gaze, you took a quick breath and looked back at the kids.

“So,” you said. “Who wants to go first?”

requested tagging: @anukulee, @twihard28, @doorlesscub00, @whisperingwillowxox, @ubiquitous-corvids, @kellsck

thank you to @littlexdeaths for her dividers :')

[lovexjoe]

The Hotel

warning: S M U T with Michael Vargas

You and Michael have been bickering the entire way to this hotel and you couldn’t wait to get there so you guys could finally be separated. Following you across four states was insane, but discovering he’s a US Marshal and you were under witness protection definitely topped it off. Your mother was a piece of fucking work. What happened to the communication is key? She clearly skipped that shit in the parental handbook. Michael didn’t mean what he said at the restaurant. Everything that happened that night at the bar was real. He’s been fighting himself since. You catching him and having him at gun point turned him on. 

Look at you using his tips and tricks against him. He wondered what other things he could teach you and you’d just obey. He fucked up his cover, but he realize he gets to have you in closer proximity so he wasn’t gonna complain. The fact that you walked into that restaurant with the gun and sat both of you down had him swooned. You were more badass than you gave yourself credit for. And rebellious slick mouth of yours… 

“You afraid I might stab you with a chopstick? After you walked me through a kitchen full of knives? You realize how easy it would have been for me to grab one?” 

“Shut up” 

The waiter walked over to ask “Can I get you something?” 

“In a minute” He walks away just for you to continue with your usual sass. 

“Oh I’m sorry, did you want to order a beer? Cause apparently the Marshals let their agents drink on the job” 

Silence. 

“What are you mute?! Speak!” 

“You did tell me to shut up so you want me to speak now or continue to shut up?” 

The death glare you gave him made it hard for him not to laugh. Boy is he gonna enjoy being this close to you. Hearing him say that he was just playing a role the night at the bar really stung. Everything else was falling apart so to add a shitty love life on top was just g r e a t.

Now here you two were outside of the hotel room waiting for Michael to open it. You wondered to yourself why there was only one key but you decided to ask questions later. You stepped inside, placing your suitcase under the bed. Michael doing his checks around the room. 

“I’ll take the couch…” 

“You’re not sleeping in here get your own room!” You crossed your arms like a brat. If he could put you over his lap and spank you: he would. 

“That’s not how this works Y/N” Whenever he said your name your heart does flutters and your stomach dips.

“Well I’m not comfortable with that” 

“And I’m not comfortable with letting you out of my sight. So….tie me up if it’ll make you feel better but neither one of us is leaving this room.” He walks up to the edge of the bed where you sat, arms crossed like a brat and he towers over you. You felt so small around him. Damsel in fucking distress. 

“I’m gonna need my gun back” You shoved your bag towards him and headed over to the bathroom. Stripping down on the way over there, he took in your figure in your undergarments. He couldn’t believe you’d fuck your mom’s nurse. Bobby? He’s a fucking loser. He took his gun out of your bag and noticed your sketchbook. He recalled the Atlanta office giving him information on you and your recent activities. They definitely forgot to mention how much sass could occupy your petite body. He heard the shower turn on and the curtain pulled back so he took a look into your sketchbook which was also a diary.

Tonight I met a man in the bar. It felt comforting like I didn’t have to run any longer. I could just stay in one place and he’d protect me. He was handsome. I haven’t felt this nervous around someone since high school. I almost forgot what it was to feel attracted to the opposite sex. Just been running on auto pilot and since the incident….fear. He taught me how to shoot and I appreciate him greatly for it. The night ended with no kiss, but I achingly wish it did. 

He smiles to himself as he turns to the next page it was a sketch of him at the bar. He was done talking shit. He joked out you being an artist but you were actually talented. His finger ran over the name you left under the sketch and his heart did a flip. 

My guardian angel 

It was gonna be a hard night to resist you. He knows the feelings were there on both sides. You thought it was unrequited but it was so far from it. He placed your sketchbook back in the bag. The shower turns off and he hears a “fuck” from the bathroom. This motel design was devious cause there was no bathroom door at all. Plus the huge mirror on the wall that could reflect your nudity was just adding fuel to the fire that is ready to ignite. 

“Michael?” You poked your head out. He looks up your way, his stomach feeling those familiar flutters when he’s around you. 

“I forgot a towel…” You looked at the fresh stacked towels on the couch then back on him. Those doe eyes of yours are gonna get you in trouble tonight. It poked a dominant side of him he didn’t know he had. He just wants to take you and having you a begging mess under him. 

“Come and get it….” He sits down on the couch next to the towels. From this angle the mirror behind you was giving him a complete view of your ass and he couldn’t help the feeling of blood rushing to his lower region. 

“If you wanted to see me naked all you had to do was ask.” You walked over there ready to reach over his lap for a towel. You had so much mouth for a girl who looked like she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Tonight he was gonna fix it. He couldn’t control himself any longer. Michael gets up and stands behind you. You can feel the body heat radiating off the two of you. He leans down near your ear and whispers. 

“Bend over for me…” he places a soft kiss below your ear and you followed his wishes. The arm of the chair was soft against your skin and had your ass perked up perfectly for him. You were excited and giddy. He glides his fingers through your folds earning a little shiver in response.

“Fuck, you’re soaking already” You heard him suck the juices off his fingers and you couldn’t wrap your head around what’s happening. 

“You can touch me but you can’t kiss me? Such a gentleman…” you snorted just to earn a hard slap to your ass.

Oh! That felt good. 

“Tonight we’re gonna learn how to listen and obey. Understood?” You look back at him and nodded.

“I can’t hear you….” He slides his fingers through your folds again, rubbing up and down. 

“Y-yes…I-I understand.” 

He pulls you up straight and turned you around to face him. 

“Do you trust me?” He caress your cheek and you nodded as you nuzzle your head into his touch. As soon as your lips touched, all the fear you felt since the incident vanished. You felt whole again. His hands held you close, they were warm and rough but against your soft skin it was like a match sparking a fire. He pulls away, bending you back over the couch handle. 

He spread your cheeks and dove in. His tongue devouring you from your ass to your pussy. Drowning in you, is what he wanted. To consume every bit of wetness you produced for him. You would have never thought he could be this dirty. Heaven’s a thing and you’re there right now because of his touch. 

“Michael!” You reached for his hand and he held it for you as he thrusts his tongue into your hole. His beard getting drenched in the process. 

“I’m gonna worship this pussy.” 

You squeezed his hand letting him know you were close. You felt yourself about to release when the motions that brought you there came to abrupt stop. You let out a frustrated cry.

“That’s for having a slick fucking mouth.” 

You heard his belt come undone along with jeans and boxers. His thick length slapped against your ass. He bites his lip as he slides his length between your folds, teasing your clit. 

Hes so cruel 

“P-please daddy. Just take it” Y/N begged. His ego grew. The fact that you fixed your slick little mouth to beg for him. Hearing you call him daddy made it even better because you were his princess after tonight. He was going to protect you. He was gonna love you. 

“Such a pretty fucking princess for me”. He slips in and slowly thrusts in. Your pussy deviously clenching onto his length. He lifts one of your legs up on the couch arm to get a deeper angle. A sinful angle. He was hitting a spot you didn’t know could be touched. 

“Uhhh fuck you’re so big!” 

“God you’re taking me so fucking good. You’re so fucking good” 

Oh you had a praise kink, there was a feeling unfamiliar in your stomach as he starts to pound into you. Your moans only motivating him to thrust all the way in. 

“Look at you, clenching me as I praise you. You are soaking me. Fuck baby fuckkkk” he wets his thumb and starts to rub on your ass. 

You didn’t even let him work it, you reached behind and assisted as you felt his thumb enter you. Jesus Christ. You were full. Full of him and that’s all you wanted. That’s all you craved. His free hand caress your breast. What a drastic turn of events the night took. 

Neither one of you were complaining. 

“Fuck I’m close”  The sensation of his thumb and his thrusts had you shaking. You both shared an orgasm. He filled you up and held you close. He picked you up cause you could barely stand straight and laid you down in bed.

"Your guardian angel to the rescue"

You slapped his arm

"You read my sketchbook!" Your face turned red from the embarrassment.

Taglist: @yeahnohoneybye @cardi-bre91 @onlysarang @romanreignsluver1 @minwn

@armandosbabymama @dyttomori @bbyplutosblog @vergilnelosparda @believeinthefireflies95

@ebsmind @hopetookourvibe @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @poppetbaby02 @bitchyglittersuit @marley1773

@jacobscipioswoman @sunrisesfromthewest

@midnightheat

[trans-axolotl]

Image description: [Screenshots of pages from Brilliant Imperfection by Eli Clare. Text reads:

Your Suicide Haunts me.

Bear, it’s been over a decade since you killed yourself, and still I want to howl. I feel anguish and rage rattling down at the bottom of my lungs, pressing against my rib cage. If ever my howling erupts, I will take it to schoolyards and churches, classrooms and prisons, homes where physical and sexual violence lurk as common as mealtime. I know many of us need to wail. Together we could shatter windows, bring bullies and perpetrators to their knees, stop shame in its tracks.

Once a week, maybe once a month, I learn of another suicide. They’re friends of friends, writers and dancers who have bolstered me, activists I’ve sat in meetings with, kids from the high school down the road, coworkers and acquaintances, news stories and Facebook posts. They’re queer, trans, disabled, chronically ill, youth, people of color, poor, survivors of abuse and violence, homeless. They’re too many to count.

Bear, will you call their names with me? It’s become a queer ritual, this calling of the names—all those dead of AIDS and breast cancer, car accidents and suicide, hate violence and shame, overdoses and hearts that just stop beating. The names always begin wave upon wave, names filling conference halls, church basements, city parks. Voices call one after another, overlapping, clustering, then coming apart, a great flock of songbirds, gathering to fly south, wheeling and diving—this cloud of remembrance. Then quiet. I think we’re done, only to have another voice call, then two, then twenty. We fill the air for thirty minutes, an hour, a great flock of names. Tonight, will you sit with me? Because, Bear, I can’t sleep.

I remember your smile, your kindness, your compassionate and fierce politics. I remember our long e-mail conversations about being disabled and trans. I remember a brilliant speech you gave at True Spirit, a trans gathering in Washington, DC. I remember you telling me about how you’d disappear for months at a time when your life became grim, how you’d do anything not to go to a psych hospital again. I remember your handsome Black queer trans disabled working-class self. And then, you were gone.

The details of your death haunt me. You had checked yourself in. You were on suicide watch. I imagine your desperation and suffering. I know racism, transphobia, classism colluded. The nurses and aides didn’t follow their own protocols, not bothering to check on you every fifteen minutes. You were alive and sleeping at 5:00 a.m. and dead at 7:00 a.m.; at least that’s what their records say. Did despair clog your throat, panic coil in your intestines? In those last moments, what lingered on your tongue? I know about your death as fleetingly as your life.

Bear, I’d do almost anything to have you alive here and now, anything to stave off your death. But what did you need then? Drugs that worked? A shrink who listened and was willing to negotiate the terms of your confinement with you? A stronger support system? An end to shame and secrecy? As suffering and injustice twisted together through your body-mind, what did you need?

I could almost embrace cure without ambivalence if it would have sustained your life. But what do I know? Maybe your demons, the roller coaster of your emotional and spiritual self, were so much part of you that cure would have made no sense. You wrote not long before your death, “In a world that separates gender, I have found the ability to balance the blending of supposed opposites. In a world that demonizes non-conformity, I have found the purest spiritual expression in celebrating my otherness.”

Yes, Bear. I know that truth. Your otherness was a beautiful braid— your hard-earned trans manhood looping into your Black self, wrapped in working-class smarts and resilience, woven into disability, threaded with queerness. I saw you last in an elevator at True Spirit. You told me that you were spending the weekend hanging out with trans men of color. I can still see your gleeful smile, sparkling eyes.

Friend, what would have made your life possible with all its aches and sorrows? I ask as someone who has gripped the sheer cliff face of suicide more than once. Calling the names exhausts me. Your death exhausts me. The threat, reality, fact of suicide exhausts me. Its arrival on the back of shame and isolation exhausts me. Bear, will you come sit beside me tonight? I’m too exhausted to sleep.]

From Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure by Eli Clare, pages 63-64.

This passage has stuck with me since I first read it and I find myself returning over and over, especially in the times I want to be gentle to my grief.

Thought I'd share it with you all right now <3

[someoneintheshadow456]

I said before, now that Cait Corrain’s true self has come out, I can finally elaborate on what happened with her. To put a long story short, I was one of her very first victims - long before she became an original fiction author and back when she was known as Enterprisingly on AO3 - the author of Play to Win.

I know that #reviewbombgate was back in December, but at the time, I did not know about it because I’m not involved in BookTok. However, I WAS involved with the Reylo fandom, albeit indirectly.

The final chapters of Play to Win went on a tangent that seemed bizarre to me at the time. In fact, it seemed so strange that I brushed it off almost completely. It was only when I found Play to Win’s Wayback Machine page after recalling memories of the Reylo fandom last year when I read the chapter properly (instead of skipping ahead to get to the Reylo scenes). And a proper reading made me realize what was so unnerving about it:

Anyone who has engaged with my blog (especially from 2015-2019, when I used to post a lot more content about my personal life) can see the strangely... specific way this character was described. In order to go into this level of depth, one has to have been following me intently and keeping tabs of all the personal things I posted.

And then, she goes from eerily specific descriptions, to straight up maliciously lying about me:

Keep in mind, this screed takes up an ENTIRE chapter in itself. Said character, Ejya Fjord, is a background NPC who is mentioned a total of 121 times in a 161,000 word story. In fact, her name is mentioned so little that you could be forgiven for not remembering her at all:

You'd think, if someone would do something like this, I had to have done something terrible to her, or even just gave her a negative review. But I never did.

As you can see here, I have only engaged positively with her. Since Play to Win was also taken down and you can’t see old comments on Wayback Machine. Unfortunately after this, I can only give my word without receipts.

Play to Win was published first in 2018. I reviewed her story in March of 2018, possibly even earlier. In my review, I praised the writing, worldbuilding, and dialogues, but gave a small constructive criticism in that the politics could be better integrated into the story without feeling disjointed.

In the very early chapters, Ejya was clearly intended to be 100% Swedish - as one can tell from the name. However, at some point in the later half of the story, she retroactively became mixed race and a rival for Ben's affections, while Ben seems to be having none of it. It's clear these choices were made to portray me as some kind of horny fangirl for Kylo Ren who will stomp on other girls for his sake:

When I read the last chapter first, I was horrified. But now I'm just... bemused that someone would ever see me as some kind of calculating vixen who dresses like a Euphoria high school student and only likes masculine hobbies to pick up dudes. When in reality it took me until 2020 to be able to type the word "sex" without having heart attack and have never so much as posted a selfie on here.

It's also funny that Ejya is petite and flat chested while my actual body type is the exact opposite... which she would know since she stalked my blog so thoroughly. Almost as though she's implying something about her own insecurities...

Initially, I was under the impression that Corrain targeted me because of my association with @ainomica - due to her ruffling the Reylo fandom’s feathers (and ending up on Corrain’s hit list) over her opinions on John Boyega. However, that controversy happened in 2020. When Corrain wrote this libel about me, @ainomica wasn’t even on her radar, not to mention it was a year before we had ever even met. This libel was done to target me, and me exclusively.

In essence - Corrain weaved libel about me into her story because my existence pissed her off. We know now that Corrain had a penchant for targeting sapphic authors and WOC almost exclusively. So it's safe to say she was just being a typical white saviour liberal who shows what she actually thinks of minorities when they don't toe the line.

While this does make her less unhinged in my eyes than using me to target someone else, it still means that Corrain was, and always has been capable of aggression towards anyone she’s remotely offended by. Especially if said person happens to be a minority of some kind.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Secret Santa (Steve Harrington x Reader)

Secret Santa (Rated G)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: None! Although, I'm sure my interpretation of secret santa is incorrect -- just a heads up.

Summary: For Stevemas Day 11; This Christmas, Robin decided to host a holiday celebration to bring the party together. When she adds in a little extra magic by starting a secret santa, Eddie recruits himself to help you find that perfect gift for that special someone.

It took you three times to read the two words on the page before you could finally understand it. Steve Harrington was written in red glitter pen on the folded slip in your hand. It was unmistakably Robin’s messy scrawl, but it still felt as if it was written in another language. Surely this couldn’t be right. 

“Alright,” came the voice of the aforementioned bubbly coworker. “Does everyone have a name for Secret Santa?”

There was a low murmur of agreement, followed by the crunch of paper, which spread throughout the Wheeler’s basement. Why you all continued to set up a base of operations in your best friend’s home remained a mystery. Perhaps you were just creatures of habit. Routines kept you safe, comfortable even. 

“Who’d you get?” The low voice of Eddie Munson caused you to quite literally jump from your thoughts. When he noticed your flinch, the metal head gave a small tut of concern. “Hey, you’re alright, you’re okay. It’s just me. It’s just…me.”

Ever since the attack, you’ve been considerably on edge. While nightmares took over your nights, paranoia filled your days. Every action could set you off. Whenever you closed your eyes, you saw it: that place and the horrors it contained. It happened so often and it felt so real. Sometimes you worried Henry had made his return. You had taken to sleeping with your Walkman at night, just in case. Never again did you want to return to that hellscape. 

Eddie repeated his question. “Who’d you get for secret Santa?”

“Why don’t you just mind your own business, Munson?” you snapped at the metalhead. “I think I’d be violating some sacred oath of the secret Santa if I told you.”

“I got Henderson,” Eddie supplied far too quickly. He rested his chin on your shoulder and tilted his head to look at you. “There. Now you have to tell me. And I know it isn’t me…you’d be grinning like the Cheshire cat if it was.” 

You sighed and held up the slip of paper clutched in your palm. Eddie wasted no time in snatching it up like the little gremlin that he was. A slow quiet whistle escaped him as he took in the name. “Well damn,” he said. “Didn’t you get lucky? This should be easy as pie for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The curly dark-haired boy raised an eyebrow at you in surprise. “You mean you’re not?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “Eddie, what are you talking about?”

“You and Harrington. You’re not…together or anything?”

To say you were surprised would be an understatement. Sure, you had found yourself spending more time with Steve Harrington over the last two years, but it didn’t mean you were together. The Upside Down had messed with each and every one of your friends, who you considered to be more like family by now. Your panic somehow ended up bringing you closer to Steve, a guy you only admired from afar during your high school days. If you had told your freshman self you would be swapping horror stories and spilling blood with King Steve, you’re pretty sure they would have a heart attack. 

The truth was, Steve had turned out to be the exact opposite of what you imagine. He was gentle and kind. The two of you had formed an unofficial nightmare prevention club. The near-nightly meetings would consist of multiple-hour-long conversations over stretched out phone cords or late night drives around downtown Hawkins. Other times, it was just silently sitting in Steve’s dark and abandoned living room, grip tightened on small objects hidden under blankets. These moments were your battle scars and it would be a long healing process. Fortunately, the two of you had gotten really good at being there for each other in the meantime. 

“No, Eddie,” you corrected with a heavy sigh. “We’re not together. We’re just–”

“Friends? Yeah, right,” your friend shook his head with an angry passion. “Don’t go bullshitting me here, kid.”

“I’m not-”

Eddie held up a hand to your face to silence your argument. “Listen,” he said. “You might not see it, but I do. All of us do, actually. The two of you have been practically joined at the hip these days.” He tilted his head toward Steve’s direction. The man of the hour was talking to Robin at the time, the two of them getting into another one of their half-hearted arguments over something you couldn’t quite decipher. 

“You can’t tell me there isn’t something there, babe,” Eddie’s tone now softened. “I see the way you look at him.”

Your lower lip became the punching bag for a barrage of anxious bites as his words echoed in your mind. I see the way you look at him. Was it possible you had feelings for Steve? You continued to watch him as he maneuvered his way through the party, Robin continuing to ramble on as she followed on his coattails. It was almost effortless how he moved, sending smiles to each of the kids as he passed by. They were genuine with their accompanying eye sparkle, something you knew after the hours of late night conversations. 

It was a side effect of Steve realizing he didn’t need to change who he was to be respected by others. Besides his adventures with the kids, he talked a lot about his childhood and what it was like growing up with parents who were more concerned about appearance than their child’s happiness. He shared with you once how he felt being a member of a family meant acting in the world’s longest lasting play. You always had to play the part of the perfect person, he had explained, hiding your imperfections and letting go of the important things everyone else thought were stupid. 

“Ya know,” Steve mentioned at one point, “I think my parents would care less if I came home or not when they’re in town. As long as I was making a name for myself that was…positive and they could compare to some other set of snobs. Not some nobody who makes a lousy four bucks an hour shelving tapes every day.”

It broke your heart to hear his story. “Steve,” you had tried to console. “You’re not a nobody.”

“Not to you, or Henderson,” he relented. “God, I think the kid would probably have a heart attack if I didn’t answer to his every beck and call. Damn kid thinks he’s entitled now.”

You didn’t miss the ghost of a smile that dimly lit up his gaze as he spoke about Dustin. That “damn kid” changed him for the better, you knew Steve was beyond grateful for that. If it wasn’t for Dustin– and Nancy breaking his heart– he could have just been another cog in the corporate machine with wandering eyes. Now he was a man of heart, who valued family no matter what, even if it wasn’t by blood. 

“Hey, Eds?” you asked, eyes still locked onto the back of Steve’s too-tight blue and white rugby shirt. “Think you could give me a hand with something this week?”

The dazzling smile you received in response was more than enough confirmation. “For you, kid? Always.”

⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ 

“Eddie, no.”

“But it’s real music!” your best friend argued as he waved the cassette tape in the air rather aggressively. “If you’re going to do this, you may as well culture him with the good stuff while you’re at it.”

“I want him to like it.” You shook your head and plucked the tape from his grasp, setting it back down in its place in the box. “If he blows his eardrums out in the process, I think he’d have a hard time being able to enjoy the rest of it.” 

 The metalhead clutched at his chest dramatically, followed up with a slow flop against his beaten mattress. “You wound me,” he mumbled into the pillows. A second later, he popped back up and leaned over the edge of the mattress. He seemed intent on finding something and soon sat back up with another smaller box clutched in his hands. “Try some of these.”

Intrigued, you frowned and reached for the box. As you lifted the top off, you noticed two tightly packed rows of tapes. You used your fingers to pry one loose and lifted it into the light. A snort escaped you as you read the label. “Blondie?” you asked, tone clearly that of amusement. 

Eddie rolled his eyes and began his own search through the original box of tapes. 

Another laugh sounded from you as you continued to dig through the selection in your lap. “Okay, okay. You have to explain why you, Edward James Munson, have not one, but two ABBA tapes in your possession.” 

“Blame it on Buckley,” he mumbled back in a bitter response. “She showed up one day to show me what she thought was good music. Why people enjoy this shit nowadays is just depressing.”

“Then why do you still have this shit?”

The only answer you received was a bored shrug. “I let you come in here and use my stereo system and go through my music collection to let you make your present for your dream boy-”

“Steve is not my dream boy-”

“Ah bah bah,” Eddie cut you off. “Don’t interrupt the generous man, kid. I give you access to my castle to work on your project for free. It doesn’t mean you get the chance to interrogate me about my collection like some kind of FBI agent.” He flicked two fingers in your general direction. “Make your picks.”

Your eyes drifted back to the box in your lap, a small smile tugging at your lips as you searched. The idea of a mixtape seemed like a good idea at first, but now that you were faced with the difficult decision of what to include on said mixtape, your confidence faltered just a bit. You took a deep breath, eyes closing to help you better concentrate. What was it that you wanted this to say to Steve? 

If you had the opportunity to say anything to the boy you had already bared most of your soul to, what would you say? Your heart rate increased as you thought about the look on his face in your bedroom window, sneaking in to comfort you when you had a nightmare: soft hazel eyes and an even softer smile on lips that would press into your hairline absentmindedly. You would cling onto the boy for dear life, terrified to lose your connection to reality. 

Without even trying, Steve had become your rock– the anchor tethered you from straying too far with your deepest fears. You couldn’t do this without him and, deep down, you hoped he felt the same way about you. Suddenly, everything started to click into place and you knew what you wanted to say. 

You just hoped that you’d be able to find exactly what you were looking for.  

⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ 

“You made it!” Robin exclaimed with a cheery smile. She was quick to envelope you into a tight hug. You had to hide the wince that threatened to be revealed when the hard plastic ornaments sewn into her christmas sweater dug into the fabric of your own top. “Are you ready for a good time?”

“That better not mean beer, Buckley,” you chided.

“‘Course not!” your friend beamed. You couldn’t tell if this was just her natural enthusiasm, or if she had already had a couple drinks too many. “We got something much more festive! Jonathan and Argyle made the eggnog!”

You blinked. With the two California boys in charge of the beverages, this would certainly be an interesting evening. “Jonathan and Argyle…made the eggnog?”

“Yep! It’s actually really good.” Robin held out her mug. “Try it! It’ll warm you up really fast!”

“I’m sure.” As you leant forward to take a small sniff, you were instantly greeted by the stench of way too much bourbon. You were taken aback by the dark-nailed hand of a certain metalhead reaching past you for the cup. 

“Well, if you won’t, I will,” he said, knocking back the remaining liquid down into his throat. “Damn, that’s good.”

“RIGHT?!”

“...okay, Robs,” you said as you reached for her arm. “Let’s get you back inside. Maybe find Nance.”

“She’s with Steve,” the short-haired girl slurred. “Talkin’ ‘bout something.” Robin gave a vague gesture toward the living room area, where Steve was currently resting against the doorframe talking to Nancy Wheeler. The two of them were laughing, although you noticed Nancy giving a few concerned looks in Robin's direction.

You couldn’t lie, there was a slight twinge of jealousy in your heart as you witnessed the two of them talking again. Logically, you knew they wouldn’t be getting back together. Nancy had moved on years ago–twice actually– and was finally in a stable relationship with herself. Determined to make a name for herself at Emerson, she took on her independence with pride and was loving her experience. She talked so much about the journalism program that Robin decided to apply and would be joining her the following school year as a communications major. 

You and Steve had a bet that it would only be a matter of time before they would eventually end up together. It was almost an arguable match made in heaven. Robin’s nerves combined with Nancy’s determination…there wouldn’t be anything the two couldn’t do. You just hoped that one day they would see it too. 

As the two of you approached them in the living room, you caught Steve giving you the brightest grin. He held out one of the mugs he had been carrying over to you. When you tried to send him a subtle decline, he merely shook his head. “Not spiked,” he called out over the loud Christmas music blasting through the room. “Brought my own stash since I know you don’t like alcohol.”

You gave him a soft smile as you accepted his offering, lifting the drink to your lips. It was smooth and creamy, with those spicy hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. It reminded you of Christmas from the very first sip. The fact that Steve had remembered about your alcohol aversion made you warmer from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. 

“Awww, aren’t they cute?!” you heard Robin whisper dramatically to Nancy. “I can’t wait until they see-”

“Isn’t it time for the secret Santa?” Nancy interrupted the jittery dirty blonde. 

Completely distracted from her previous statement, Robin nodded eagerly. “Oh yeah, that’s right!” she exclaimed. “Can’t forget that! C’mon dinguses.”

As the gift exchange began, you couldn’t help but feel nervous as Steve lifted his gift out of the pile. You had tried to wrap it as neatly as you could, using paper you knew he hadn’t seen at your house before. The whole point of the game was for it to be a secret until the last possible second. How could you possibly eliminate that fun?

When it was your turn to go up, you picked up the package with your name typed– not written�� on the card. Someone else seemed very adamant about keeping their identity a secret, too. As you moved back to your seat on the couch, your fingers anxiously fiddled with the neatly tied bow atop the small box. It was beautifully wrapped with blue and white paper, some of your favorite colors. Whoever this person was, they definitely knew you pretty well.

When Robin gave the go ahead, everyone took turns freeing the presents from their papery prisons. You couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped you. Tucked inside the box was a cassette with your name on it. As you flipped it over to read the description, a smile graced your lips. It was a collection of some of your favorite songs. There were small marks next to certain songs, which you didn’t understand. Maybe it was your Secret Santa’s favorite, too. 

Looking around the room, you tried to guess who could have gotten you the gift. You knew it wasn’t Eddie, as he had given Dustin one of his original dungeon master journals. It could have been Robin, but she was more enthused with Jonathan’s present of new patches for her denim jacket. You risked a glance over at Steve to gauge his reaction to his gift and your heart stopped in surprise.

He was staring directly at you.

Steve raised an eyebrow at you and tilted his head toward the front door. Can we talk? his eyes asked in a silent question. 

You nodded and immediately went into the hall to grab your coats, shoving the new tape into the garment’s pocket. As you walked outside onto the front porch, Steve didn’t waste any time with what he wanted to say. 

“It was you,” he questioned. “Wasn’t it? You’re my secret Santa.”

You nodded bashfully. “Look, I get that it’s nothing special, but I thought it could be something different.”

“I love it.” Steve took a few steps closer. “I just…I find it funny that even after all this time, we’re still on the same wavelength.” He pointed to your pocket. “Cyndi Lauper, David Bowie, Joan Jett…”

When you looked at him confused, he gave a small smile. “Those are all your favorites. You listen to them all the time when you’re stressed or you can’t sleep.”

“You’re my secret Santa…” it dawned on you slowly. 

Steve blinked. “You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t expect you to know something like that,” you admitted. With some hesitation, you reached into your coat pocket and held out the tape. “What are-”

“The marks?” he asked. “Oh, yeah, I uh, I was wondering if you were going to ask me about that.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “You uh, sometimes when you’re at work, you hum to yourself. They’re mostly the songs on the tape but, you know. Those in particular…well, I like to hear you sing them.”

You stood there for a moment in silence, eyes searching Steve’s. It was almost as though you were looking at him– truly looking at him– for the first time in your lives. There was something hidden behind his gaze. There was a sparkle in them, almost as if he was laughing about an inside joke only he knew. It was mixed with a flicker of something you hadn’t seen before. Nerves? Sadness? Adoration? 

Steve cleared his throat to break the silence. “And, uh, I wouldn’t mind being able to hear you sing them more.”

“So you made me a tape…to hear me sing karaoke?”

“Not…not exactly,” he stammered. “God, am I really not that obvious?”

Confusion struck you again and you tilted your head in silent question. What was he talking about? Now Steve seemed nervous– something you had never seen him be before in the years you had known him. Steve Harrington had confidence, he was cocky; he didn’t get nervous, especially not around you. “Steve, what are you-”

“I love you,” the three words blurted out of his mouth in such a hurry, you had to blink a few times to process the exclamation. “I love you and I’ve been in love with you for a while now. There isn’t anyone else that knows me like you do, who listens– and I mean truly listens– like you do. You don’t judge me, you don’t make me feel like the idiot I totally am.”

He paused for a moment to take both of your hands in his. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to act anymore. I can be myself around you and know that that’s the person I want to be for the rest of my life. You are the person I want to be around for as long as you’ll have me. I love you.”

With the way he was holding you, your body felt warmer than it would with any festive beverage. You weren’t imagining this, were you? Did Steve, the boy you watched from a distance for so long, just say he loved you? “You’re not- this isn’t-” you stammered. “Is this a dream?”

“No, sweetheart,” Steve whispered softly as he took a step closer to you. “It’s real.”

He cradled one of his hands under your chin, tilting his own face to be near your own. The look he gave you asked if this was okay, and somehow you managed the slightest of nods in response. When he slanted his lips over yours, you immediately began to melt into his embrace. You hadn’t dreamed of this moment before, but it still felt like a fairy tale. It was soft and gentle, everything you could have wanted. 

When you finally broke apart, a smile graced upon your lips. “In case it wasn’t completely obvious,” you said. “I love you, too.”

Steve grinned and pulled you in for another kiss. This one was a bit more heated, but it was just enough. To the two of you, nothing else mattered in that exact moment. All that mattered was that you and him were finally happy and you were happy together. 

“Well it’s about time!!” Robin’s voice called out, forcing the two of you to jump apart from each other. You had been so engrossed in the moment, the two of you hadn’t heard the front door open behind you. “Thought you’d never get together. Now can you guys hurry up and come back inside? It’s almost time to eat.” With a huff and a smile, she closed the door with a solid thud, causing the two of you to start laughing.

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” you whispered.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he replied as he pulled you against him once more so you could walk hand-in-hand back to your family.

================

Author's Note: Merry Christmas Eve to my readers who celebrate the holiday. Can you believe we're almost to the end of Stevemas already?! It's been a crazy two weeks and I really hope you all have enjoyed the (basically) daily uploads. This was a really fun fic to write and I have to give a shoutout to @familyvideostevie for the inspiration after seeing the secret Santa prompt on their 12 days of christmas list. Make sure to check out their works because they're amazing!! I also wanted to do something a little different this time around to make my fics more interactive, so I hope you enjoyed listening to the actual mixtape you made for Steve while you read this story! :)

If you enjoyed this fic and want to see more like it on my blog, make sure to leave a comment, tag a friend, or reblog this post. Likes are appreciated, but it's these other types of interactions that help to spread the word about my works. Not only that, but it helps me feel motivated to keep writing and posting content. If you're interested in getting updates on the final day of Stevemas or any of my other works, maybe consider giving my blog a cheeky follow. I promise I won't spam you too much with other amazing creators' works! :)

Until next time, my little sparks <3

Taglist: @bakerstreethound, @theelmgrove, @maddipoof

[gracegrove]

Idyllic

tw warnings childhood trauma, child abuse, implied child abuse, implied child sexual abuse, blackmail

_________

He was struggling, a half-cocked grin under wiry and unkempt hairs as plain-clothed officers moved his father out the front door. "Billy? You do exactly as they say boy, you hear me?!" he barked, startling the moping child back to reality. A woman moved into the space, her brown paisley dress shifting as she squatted to his eye level.

"Billy?"

The boy looked up through watery eyes, the rhythmic beams of red and blue lighting up his face from the police cruiser parked outside. The woman stretched out her hand to wipe at his cheek, and Billy flinched, his face already bruised and yellowing around the edges from days prior.

"Honey I'm so sorry. We're gonna make this right." She put a hand gently on his shoulder. "We're gonna get you out of here," she promised.

Lounging, head tilted back against the concrete, Neil whistled a long flat tune. He was waiting on the detective to pull his ass out of bed. He continued piping out wistful ditties until a man approached his cell an hour later.

"Name's Detective Kasey, stand away from the bars. Remember that anything you say can be held against you in a court of law..." he droned wearily as he fumbled with a ring of keys.

Neil stood brushing off his wranglers and approaching, as the cell door swung wide and the detective entered. Neil held out his wrists to be cuffed but paused with a visible wrinkle in his nose. "Wait. Kasey? Duke Kasey, from Fresno High Class of '64?"

Neil leaned into the man's space, their eyes locking as the detective looked up at him suspiciously from bushy brows. "Who wants to know?" he inquired.

Pulling his cuffed wrists back, Neil gestured to himself proudly, "Neil. Hargrove. Remember me you sonnuva bitch?"

The detective nodded a fond smile. "Well, you bastard you're in a pickle now. Let's talk."

Coming to the interview room, the men both pulled up a chair, Det. Kasey opened the file sitting on the table. "Let's see what you've gotten yourself into this time heh?" Reclining, he flipped through the file, page by page, the soft expression falling from his face.

Neil sat opposite picking his nail beds clean. "How much's this gonna cost me? Community service? A fine?"

The detective didn't answer, lifting a page over and wincing as he finally reached the section with photographic evidence. "Jesus H. Christ!" he cursed. "This is bad Neil. Real bad. This ain't no pickle."

Neil frowned, resting his arms on the table. "I can't discipline my kid?" He stated calmly.

Kasey pulled a pen from his breast pocket and reached for the tape recorder. Clicking the record button, he stated the date, time, participants, and purpose of the interview.

"Neil Hargrove, are you aware of your rights?" Kasey asked.

"I am," he replied.

"And as previously stated do you hereby waive your right to an attorney?"

"I do. I got nothing to hide." Neil shrugged.

Kasey cleared his throat. "It's alleged that you have been harming your son, William, physically. On multiple occasions. What do you have to say to that?"

Neil looked around the bare room with an air of boredom, "The boy's hard to manage. Gets into trouble an awful lot. School. Home. Fights with neighbor kids." Neil slouched out in his chair, "What am I supposed to do? Someone's gotta raise that boy, teach him right. How to be respectful. Ever since his mother left, he's been an absolute pain in the ass."

"Is that an admission?" Kasey probed, scratching out notes onto a legal pad.

"An admission of being a parent who's trying their damndest? Sure." Neil reasoned. "You would understand..."

Kasey raised an eyebrow, "I don't think I follow."

Neil gave the man a baleful smile, "Your old man really was quite the guy."

Kasey bruskly paused the recording. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Neil leaned in across the table, canines glinting in the low light. "Easy Duke, we're just talking. We're old friends after all, right?"

Kasey scoffed, he and Neil had hardly been what you'd call "friends."

"All I want is this over with," Neil continued, "I need to be home. My boy needs me. And you're gonna help me do that." Neil sniffed.

Kasey closed the casefile, "And why would I help you?"

Neil looked at the other man in mock innocence, "Because I know."

"I know it wasn't an accident."

Kasey's face paled, "And just what would make you think that?"

His voice was dry and wary, as he licked his lips, nervously padding his breast pocket for a carton of cigarettes. Lighting it, he took a deep drag.

"My old man had a bad habit of mixing booze and cigarettes. The whole house went up."

Neil leaned over the table, snatching the cigarette with a cuffed hand and smirking. "He also had a habit of keeping you around when Mommy was outta town..." Neil chuckled darkly.

"You sonnuva bitch" Kasey snarled, fingers curling into fists. "I don't have to listen to another word of this shit!" He pushed his chair gruffly away from the table, coming around and grabbing Neil roughly by the collar.

"Up! Your ass is going back where it belongs!" Kasey growled.

Gingerly holding the cigarette with his bound hands, Neil casually blew out, "I'm sure your Chief would be interested to hear about all the 'quality time' you spent with Daddy. All the -" He took another drag. "love you two shared. The hammer you buried with his blood -"

Kasey's grip slipped on him, dropping him askew in his seat. Leaving Neil to reseat himself.

Kasey loosened his tie, a visible sweat covering his face and dampening his shirt. "Wha-what hammer?"

Neil laughed, "Oh come on Dukey boy! The one I saw you bury beneath the dogwood by your toolshed. The one I dug up..."

Kasey swallowed on thinning air. "You ha-?" Neil nodded. "Yeah. I do." Kasey came back around and slumped into his seat, the chair groaning across the linoleum floor.

Moments passed in slience, marked by the monotonous ticking of the clock in the room. "So, here's what we're gonna do Duke." Neil stated resolutely as he ashed his cig on the table top. "You're gonna make this go away. And then I in my gratitude to you, will leave and never return. How's that sound?"

The detective nodded his head numbly. "That's a boy."

_______

"I don't know what more we can do Marsha," the man said from his seat at the kitchen table.

Marsha was putting the finishing touches on dinner as they spoke.

"Henry, we have to keep trying," she said gently.

"Marsha," Henry pushed, "How much is there even left to try? He's fighting at school again. He's angry about everything. He never lets us help him. How can we help Billy when he's like this?"

He was exasperated, rubbing a hand over his forehead, his wife giving him a supportive pat on the back.

The foster parents that Billy had been living with over these past few months were reaching their wit's end. They tried their best, welcoming him with open arms. They were very kind, but when Billy rebuffed them and avoided them they were hurt and confused.

Just then a little boy ran in the kitchen door crying. "Ma! Ma!" Marsha pulled him into to her side, thumbing at his tear-wet face. "What's wrong Sam?" "B-Billy..." he blubbered out before tumbling into tears again.

Henry shot Marsha a look. Marsha sighed, ushering the boy to sit at the kitchen table, as she went out the kitchen door to find Billy.

"Billy!? Billy?!?!" Marsha called as she entered the yard. "Come here please, we have to talk." Looking around she spotted him hiding behind the large trunk of the oak tree.

"Billy...." she sighed in disappointment as she approached. "What did you do to Sam?"

"Go away!" Billy yelled, tucking himself further behind the tree.

"I'm not going away Billy we have to talk." Marsha pushed.

"No!" Billy yelled, running from behind the tree to find a new place to hide.

Marsha reached out, grabbing Billy and wrapping him up in her arms. "Stop running Billy. You're in big trouble!"

"NO! NO! NO! NO! LET GO! LET GO!" Billy screamed. He began kicking violently, throwing his head back and hitting Marsha in the chest.

"Billy stop!" Marsha groaned, tightening her grip.

"Noooooo!" Billy bellowed, flailing and fighting even harder. Digging his heel harshly into her shin, Marsha yelped and let go, Billy running free.

He fled from the yard and was out of sight. Throwing open the kitchen door Henry looked at Marsha, "You wanna go after him?" Marsha shook her head vigorously, catching her breath. "No."

The doorbell rang. The couple composed themselves and came to the door. "Can we help you?"

The man smiled, "Good afternoon, I'm Neil Hargrove. I'm here to get my son."

[starlitangels]

The High School Years

@darlin-collins Here’s the thing I mentioned I should write in that little exchange we had! 4.3k words I gave Guy a last name and I gave him a last name that I thought was funny because it’s meta

—

Freshman Year

“Now, this is what’s considered a ‘plot hole,’ but it’s important to bear in mind that when it comes to fictional narratives, nothing is ever going to be a perfectly-constructed story. There are always going to be holes. Just like there are in real life.”

Guy snickered and leaned over to Geordi. “That’s what she said,” he muttered.

Geordi rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop the snort.

Mrs. Hensler narrowed her eyes. “Guy Erikson, if you don’t stop, I’m going to have to separate you and Geordi.”

Guy curled his shoulders forward. “Sorry, Mrs. Hensler,” he said.

The English teacher sighed and turned back to the board. “However,” she continued lecturing, “This isn’t exactly a plot hole if you know what to look for. So, your main assignment for class today is to use the critical thinking skills we’ve gained from our readings this year and work with your table and figure out how that hole is not actually a hole at all.”

Guy sputtered and dissolved into a fit of giggles. Which made Geordi start laughing at him.

Mrs. Hensler sighed. “Guy. Geordi. Opposite corners of the room,” she said, pointing to each of them and then their new seat in turn. Geordi didn’t complain as he scooped up his binder and backpack and moved to the table in the back corner of the room. Guy lolled his head back with a dramatic sigh before going to the table directly in front of Mrs. Hensler’s desk. Which only ever had one other occupant.

“Hi,” he said, dropping into the seat across the circular table from them. “I’m Guy.”

They grunted.

Mrs. Hensler eyed Guy with annoyance in her face, before turning back to the room. “You have until the last ten minutes of class to work on this with your table. Then we’ll present your findings,” she announced, and went to sit at her desk.

—

I pulled a piece of paper out of my binder and a pen, ignoring the newcomer to my table completely as I flipped open our book.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the newcomer said. He wasn’t tall—compared to me, anyway—and he was skinny and blond.

“Nope,” I replied.

“I’m Guy,” he repeated.

“Said that already.”

“Yeah. And you didn’t give me your name. So I’m giving you mine again,” he said. He put a lot of excessive inflection into his words. “And I’m gonna keep giving you mine until you give me yours.”

I blinked at my paper, reining in my temper, and grunted. I wasn’t stupid. I knew why Hensler put him at my table. No one ever sat near me. I was quiet. I tended to be grumpy. A lot of my classmates found me intimidating. Especially considering I was tall and muscular for a high schooler. I was one of the people that even the jarheaded jocks knew better than to mess with.

“C’mooon,” Guy groaned. “You can at least give me your name.”

“I take it you don’t pay attention during roll call?”

He puckered his lips, pretending to think. “No.”

I grunted again. “Didn’t think so.”

Scribbling some notes from where I’d put a sticky note as a bookmark in my book, I continued to ignore the intruder at my table.

“Have I seen you somewhere before? I mean, besides just this class?” he asked.

“We’ve gone to the same school since middle school.” I made another note on my lined piece of paper. “We just don’t run with the same crowd.”

“Do you run with any crowd at all?”

I growled in frustration and slammed my pen down on the table. “Do you ever shut up? I’m trying to get this assignment done. I don’t need a social visit distracting me.”

“I meeeaaannn… we’re supposed to be working together.” He gave me a bounce of his eyebrow. I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “Hey, if you don’t wanna be my friend, that’s fine. I get it,” he said, voice going higher-pitched—and cracking like he hadn’t finished puberty yet (wouldn’t surprise me). “But we are supposed to work together.”

“Hm.” I flipped a few pages and made some more notes.

“Have I offended you or are you always like this?”

“Always.”

“Why?”

“Easier.”

Guy sighed dramatically, throwing his head back, and leaned back in his chair. “This is like talking to a brick wall!” he complained.

“Then stop talking and read,” I snapped.

Guy lowered his head to look at me out of the corner of my eye. “I still don’t know your name.”

“Great.”

“If you don’t give it to me I’m gonna start calling you a nickname.”

“That’d certainly be a first. No one calls me anything.”

He put his elbows on the table and braced his chin in both hands, lips puckered again in thought. I glanced up, briefly met his eyes, and then looked back down at my piece of paper. His eyes were a greenish-blue and framed with long, dark gold lashes.

And I hated my teenage hormones for the way my heart stuttered when I met his eyes. Why is he cute? I thought grumpily.

He giggled.

“What?” I grumbled. “What are you smiling at?”

“We’re gonna be friends,” he declared.

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t want to be friends with me. I’m no fun.”

“Says who?”

“Everyone.”

“I think you’re fun!”

I shot him a look with narrowed eyes. “You literally just said talking to me was like talking to a brick wall.”

“Well… yeah. But I think you’re gonna be soft and sweet on the inside!”

I full-on glared at him. “Try me, Erikson,” I snapped.

He raised a brow. “At least let me buy you dinner first.”

I slammed my pen down again. “That’s it,” I growled. “Say something like that again, and you’ll be going to the nurse’s office with a concussion.”

Guy just winked.

I had to commend his audacity, if nothing else.

“Anyway, we’re totally gonna be friends.”

I rolled my eyes. “Get reading,” I ordered.

“Tell me your name first.”

I snorted. “I’ll tell you when you earn it.”

“Fiiine.” He hunched over his book.

I started to write my notes in blissful silence, ignoring the light chatter of the other groups. My table was usually empty, so table activities tended to just be me. Unless a teacher was particularly mean and made me join another table.

After a moment, my pen stilled on my page. “Hey,” I said softly. Guy looked up. “Wh… why…” I huffed in frustration. I’d never been great with talking to people. “This is an honors class. I’ve graded your quizzes before. You do well. You talk with big words and you usually use them correctly. So why do you act like such an idiot?”

Guy gaped at me, like he hadn’t realized I was paying attention. To be honest, I hadn’t meant to. It was just a recurring pattern I’d noticed.

He shut his mouth and shrugged. “Being serious and mature is boring,” he said.

“Maybe there’s something to be admired in that,” I said to myself.

If Guy heard me, he didn’t respond.

—

Sophomore Year

I stood in the back of the auditorium, leaned against the wall with my arms crossed. Assemblies were stupid and I hated them.

A blond head of messy hair sidled up beside me. “Psst!” Guy hissed, looking up at me. “Bored?”

“Unbelievably.”

He held a hand out. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know a way to make you un-bored.” He grinned mischievously at me. “C’mon!”

I planted my hand on top of his. “Fine,” I grumbled.

Snickering like a gremlin, Guy dragged me to one of the side-doors to the auditorium. He waited and peeked around to check for nosy teachers and then opened the door. We both slipped through.

We ran down the abandoned hallway and out the door to the music wing, spilling us out into the parking lot. “Heh-heh-heh!” Guy exclaimed. “They never watch the band room doors!”

He pulled me along to a beat-up red sedan. “Come on! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” He bounced excitedly as he fumbled with a set of keys, jammed one in the passenger door lock, and unlocked the car. He opened the door for me and waved me in.

“Where are we going?”

“Ice creeeaaam!” He shut the door and ran around the car to get in the driver’s seat.

I snorted. “The last thing you need is more sugar, Erikson.”

“I know. But it’s delicious.”

I snorted as I sorted through my backpack. I swore under my breath. “I don’t have my wallet. A friend picked me up this morning so I didn’t think to bring it.”

Guy blew a raspberry. “Don’t worry about it. I’m buying.”

“Erikson—”

“What? It was my idea! I should be buying.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

He shrugged. “Too bad.”

“Have you even had your license long enough for you to have friends in the car? You have to have had it for six months if there isn’t someone over twenty-one in the passenger seat.”

“I’ve had it for six months as of last week,” Guy informed me matter-of-factly. Still grinning like a madman.

He drove us to the diner up the road from West Dahlia High and hopped out. 

“Don’t get out! I’m getting your door,” he said as I froze with my hand on the handle. I rolled my eyes and got out of the car on my own. “Awww. C’moon! I was gonna be a gentleman! Why must you spoil my chivalry?”

“Stop being dramatic and get in the diner,” I snapped, waving him toward the doors.

He held his hand out for me, that mischievous look on his face.

I took it with a dramatic sigh and let him drag me inside.

We ordered and found a small corner table to sit and eat our ice cream at.

Guy talked with his hands and always had a smile on his face. He was exuberant and funny, never taking my attitude personally.

Last year, he’d declared that we’d be friends. This year, I was begrudgingly accepting to myself that we were.

Especially when he gesticulated so wildly that he knocked his cup of ice cream over, spilling the melted goop gathering at the bottom all over the table. He swore and scrambled to clean it up, apologizing profusely to the staff. I just watched, keeping my spoon firmly in my mouth to hide my smile.

He was still cute, and I still hated myself for thinking so.

—

Junior Year

Guy stared shamelessly at me, slack-jawed, as I pulled into the parking stall next to his and swung my leg off my motorcycle while killing the engine. “Since when do you have your motorcycle license?”

I pulled my helmet off and snorted. “Got it over the summer. Been saving up for a bike since I was thirteen. Always knew I wanted one.”

Guy blinked several times. “I think watching you get off that thing is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Erikson.”

“No, no. I’m serious. Dead serious. That was hot.”

“Get in the school before you say something even stupider.” I tucked my keys in my pocket and clipped my helmet to my backpack strap before marching toward the school entrance.

Guy stumbled after me after a moment, tripping on his own toes. He was getting taller, but still shorter than me.

I slung an arm around his shoulders and yanked him to my side, giving him a noogie. “You ever gonna fill out or are you gonna have twig limbs forever?” I asked, smirking while Guy tried—and failed—to get out of my grip.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he protested. “I am what’s called a late bloomer. So I'm going to look young for a long time. You’ll be jealous when we’re fifty and I still look thirty!”

I snorted. “No. When we’re fifty, I will still look thirty. You will look like you’re twelve, at this rate.”

“You are so mean!”

I just laughed and let him go in order to open the door to the school. I let him pass through it first before ducking inside myself.

“Okay, but seriously,” Guy said, not sounding serious at all, “why are you so resistant to me acknowledging how hot you were getting off that bike?”

With an exaggerated eye-roll, I pulled the leather motorcycle jacket that I’d also recently bought off as we went to our lockers and didn’t reply, just putting my combination in and opening the door. I hung the jacket up on one of the coat hooks inside, my helmet on the other. In the corner of my eye, Guy was actually trying to be subtle for once as his eyes slowly traveled up my body and he looked away when I started to turn toward him to shut my locker door. But as I looked away, he resumed right where he left off.

“Did you grow even more over the summer?” he complained.

I laughed and leaned against the lockers. “Guy, we established two years ago that you’re never gonna get taller than me.”

He pouted dramatically. “I might!”

I snorted. “You won’t.” I licked and bit my lower lip, ignoring Guy looking me up and down again. “So how was your summer? Enjoy your time back in Maine with your… aunt and uncle, was it?”

“Yeah. It was fun. Missed the group and all the dumb stuff we get up to but I liked hanging out with my family for a couple months. Next summer they wanna take me to New York. A last hurrah before my senior year of high school.”

“Sounds fun.” I nodded.

He gestured for me to follow him with a wave as the warning bell rang. “C’mon. Walk me to class.”

“Why?”

“Becaaauuussseee! You’re my best friend and your class is close to miiinnne!”

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “Fine. Today only since it’s the first day of school. After that, you’ll have to get lost by yourself.”

“I’m not gonna get lost! I spent two whole years here!”

“And I still get texts from you every couple weeks, ‘Heeelp! I’m by room three-oh-two and don’t know how to get back to the band room!’ like a child.” My Guy impression was pretty good after two years.

He sighed. “Pleeease?”

“I’m already walking with you, moron.”

He perked up. “Yay!”

The day crawled by, and at the end of it, I was leaning against my bike in the parking lot, waiting for Guy to get to his sedan.

“Get on,” I said, holding out my spare helmet that had been tucked in the under-seat storage compartment. “We’re going for a ride.”

“Uh… I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” He took the helmet anyway.

“Scared, Erikson?” I swung my leg over the bike, noting Guy’s eyes quickly sweep the length of my leg as I did so.

“No! I’m… apprehensive.”

“Which is another way of saying you’re scared. Hop on.”

Guy put his backpack—and mine—in the passenger seat of his sedan and very carefully climbed onto the back of my bike. “Wh… where are the handles for me? Under the seat?” He clicked the helmet into place.

“Sure but they suck. Geordi tried ‘em and about fell off last week before you got back from Maine. Put your arms around my waist and hold on tight.”

Apparently, Guy didn’t need to be told twice. He wrapped his arms around me as I turned over the engine.

I pulled my helmet on, put up the kickstand, and back-walked out of the parking stall.

“Hold on, Erikson!” I called.

“What? Wh-why-AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

I laughed as I tore out of the parking lot and down the road. Guy’s grip around my waist tightened to the point where it almost distracted me. But I managed to keep my focus on the road and driving.

We went around the neighborhood, not going for too far or for too long. Guy slowly relaxed enough to stop screaming directly in my ear, and actually started laughing. I smiled behind the tinted visor of my helmet. He was so cute. Not that I’d ever admit it to his face or anything—I couldn’t imagine how insufferable he’d get if I did—but I could think it if I wanted.

Guy’s arms, twiggy and skinny though they were, were stronger than I expected. But there was comfort in having them around my waist. Guy Erikson was the only person who was gentle with me all the time. Including my family. He never shouted. He never got violent. He’d rather give me a hug than a friendly punch to the shoulder. He was the only one who saw past the rough-and-tough exterior I put on like armor. He wasn’t intimidated by or scared of me ever.

And I more than appreciated him for it.

I stopped in the hills outside of Dahlia on the north side of town. It looked out over the whole city. “Hey Erikson. Check it out,” I said, killing the engine and hitting the kickstand into place with my foot but not yet leaning the bike on it.

Guy took in the view. “Wow,” he said, yanking the helmet off. “This is beautiful.”

His eyes flicked over to me on the last word. I pretended not to notice.

The same way I pretended I wasn’t looking at him instead of the view as we both dismounted the bike. Dorky, nerdy beanpole who I could throw over my shoulder like nothing—who had somehow become my best friend. The first friend I’d really made in years. The only one who stuck around. Who thought I was worth spending time with. Geordi had been added to the list not long after by proximity, but Guy was the first. He was the only person I wanted to share things with. Good news and bad, I always thought of telling Guy first. 

All summer, he greeted me with a “good morning” text. And even if we didn’t send a single other text to each other all day, I’d still get a “goodnight” before he went to bed.

I swallowed down all the words I wanted to say. The ones bubbling up in my throat. I like you, Guy. More than I’ve ever liked anyone else. Please stay in my life forever. In whatever form that takes. Now wasn’t the time. It never seemed like it was the time.

“C’mon, Erikson. Let’s get you back to your car so your parents don’t flip about where you’ve been.”

“I mean. If you follow me home…” He put his tongue between his teeth as he grinned. “We can show them why I was home late!”

“If you want.”

“Will your parents care?”

I leveled a look at him and he shut his mouth. “My parents would neither care nor notice if I vanished for a week until the school called them to say I had three unexcused absences,” I grumbled.

“Okay. Theeennn… let’s go!”

I smirked and climbed back on the bike. Smirking a little to myself at the way Guy’s eyes focused quite squarely on my backside as I swung my leg over it. “Get on, you pervert,” I teased.

“What if I’d rather get you off?” he asked suggestively.

“Do you want me to leave you out here in the middle of nowhere so the forest ghosts can come get you?”

“There are no forest ghosts, you goof,” Guy joked as he climbed on behind me.

“There are too,” I retorted sarcastically, not actually believing my own words. “That house like a mile back from here is totally haunted.”

“Just because it’s kinda overgrown doesn’t mean it’s haunted.”

“They say the guy who disappeared the day Surge broke when we were kids over at Wonder World lives there,” I teased.

Guy just snorted. “Yeah right.”

“You know I’m just messing with you, Erikson.”

“I know.”

“Ready to go?”

“Ready!”

I gunned the engine and we tore down the road back toward Dahlia.

—

Senior Year

“Honeeey! I’m hooome!” Guy called as he threw open the door to my parents’ house. I jolted and jumped up from where I’d been sitting on the floor in my bedroom, running out of the room and thanking the whims of the universe for my parents not being home.

“Since when are you back from New York?!” I shouted as I ran for the stairs.

When I reached the top of them, I froze, looking down at the entrance hall.

Guy had finally filled out. He was still skinny and a couple inches shorter than me, but his shoulders were broader and he actually had muscles. His favorite T-shirt was stretched tighter across his chest than it had ever been and I couldn’t help but stare for a moment at the lines of strain in the fabric.

I shook myself out of it and bolted down the stairs. Nearly tackling him with the force of the impact when I slammed him into a hug. I buried my face into where his shoulder met his neck and fought back tears.

“You’re home,” I said softly.

“Awww. Did you miss me?” he teased.

I shoved him away from me. “Never mind. Go back to New York.”

“Nooo… don’t push me away—I miiiiissed you! Ihaven’tseenyouforthreemooonths! Pleeease?”

He held his arms out and wiggled his fingers.

I sighed and went back to hugging him. “Fine. You train wreck.”

“Excited for school to start next week? Our last year!”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He nuzzled his face against the side of my head. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” I grumbled.

“Wanna go get some pizza?”

I took a deep breath. “... Sure.”

“Great! I’m driving. And then you’re gonna stay the night at my place.”

“Why?”

“How long have you been upstairs in your room?”

“Shut up.”

“Your family’s fighting again, aren’t you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“No. But you’re my best friend. And if that means dragging you away from a bad day, then that’s what I’m gonna do. Now come on. I’m hungry and I want pizza. Specifically, I want pizza with you.”

I let him drag me outside and to his beat-up red sedan. He opened the door for me as he always did before getting in himself.

“So,” he said as he turned over the engine. “I had a lot of time to think while I was in New York.”

“That sounds bad for you,” I said flatly.

“Shut up!” he protested even as he laughed. “As I was saying. I did a lot of thinking. And…” He cleared his throat, waiting at the bottom of the driveway for the road to be clear. “And… and, uh…”

“What is it, Erikson?” I prompted, as surly as usual.

“I missed you, okay?” Guy exclaimed.

“We’ve established that. Back in the house.”

“No. I… I mean… dammit. Just. Come here.” Keeping the car stationary at the bottom of the driveway, he let go of the wheel, grabbed me, pulled me closer to him—

And planted a full kiss on my mouth.

I’d never understood the rom-com teen movie junk about feeling or seeing fireworks when someone kissed you—

Until right then, as the whole universe seemed to click into place. Like the answer to every internal conflict I had was resolved in an instant.

Still, as Guy pulled back, my eyes were wide in surprise.

“Look, I know you don’t feel the same about me. You’ve said before that you’re not really the type to fall in love and I know that—but I’ve liked you for years and I couldn’t stop thinking about you all summer and there was this moment when I was on the ferry with my aunt and uncle and cousins and we were going to the Statue of Liberty where I just really wanted to have you with me, holding my hand and I just—mmph!”

I cut him off by dragging him into another kiss, shoving one hand into his thick blond hair and twisting my fingers around his waves.

After a moment, he sighed and leaned into it.

“I… I really like you too, Guy,” I whispered breathlessly, barely brushing his lips with mine. “And I missed you so much while you were gone. It was way too quiet here without you.” I kissed him again.

He blinked at me. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by just my first name.”

“Shut up,” I grumbled.

“Do we… wanna skip the pizza and just go straight to my parents’ place?” Guy asked.

As if in response, my stomach grumbled.

“Never mind then,” Guy decided. “We’re getting pizza first.”

He righted himself in the driver’s seat—looking a little dazed—swallowed, and finally was able to turn onto the road.

I slouched down in my seat. “What… what does this make us?” I asked quietly.

“Well… I was hoping it meant I get to introduce myself as your boyfriend now.”

“Okay,” I agreed. Maybe a little too quickly.

“Wait—really?!” He perked up, lighting up like a chandelier.

I sighed in exasperation. “Just… don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t! You won’t! I’m gonna be the best boyfriend ever!”

Impulsively, I leaned across the front seat bench and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. He squeaked and turned bright red. “I’m glad you’re home, Guy.”

He shot me a quick look, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Glad to be home, uhhh… honey!”

“We’ll have to workshop your pet names later, you moron,” I muttered.

[dankusner]

Our Page to Screen series, co-presented by Arvida Book Co., returns with Ang Lee's 2005 romantic masterpiece, Brokeback Mountain.

Rodeo cowboy Jack (Jake Gyllenhaal) and ranch hand Ennis (Heath Ledger) are hired as sheepherders in 1963 Wyoming.

One night on Brokeback Mountain, they spark a physical relationship.

Though Ennis marries his longtime sweetheart and Jack marries a fellow rodeo rider, they keep up their tortured, sporadic love affair for 20 years.

Based on the beloved short story of the same name by Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain is unapologetic in its ability to convey heartache, longing, and the passage of time in a brilliantly realized whole.

Brokeback Mountain

by ANNIE PROULX

They were raised on small, poor ranches in opposite corners of the state, Jack Twist in Lightning Flat, up on the Montana border, Ennis del Mar from around Sage, near the Utah line, both high-school drop-out country boys with no prospects, brought up to hard work and privation, both rough-mannered, rough-spoken, inured to the stoic life.

Ennis, reared by his older brother and sister after their parents drove off the only curve on Dead Horse Road, leaving them twenty-four dollars in cash and a two-mortgage ranch, applied at age fourteen for a hardship license that let him make the hour-long trip from the ranch to the high school.

The pickup was old, no heater, one windshield wiper, and bad tires; when the transmission went, there was no money to fix it.

He had wanted to be a sophomore, felt the word carried a kind of distinction, but the truck broke down short of it, pitching him directly into ranch work.

In 1963, when he met Jack Twist, Ennis was engaged to Alma Beers.

Both Jack and Ennis claimed to be saving money for a small spread; in Ennis’s case that meant a tobacco can with two five-dollar bills inside.

That spring, hungry for any job, each had signed up with Farm and Ranch Employment—they came together on paper as herder and camp tender for the same sheep operation north of Signal.

The summer range lay above the tree line on Forest Service land on Brokeback Mountain.

It would be Jack Twist’s second summer on the mountain, Ennis’s first.

Neither of them was twenty.

They shook hands in the choky little trailer office in front of a table littered with scribbled papers, a Bakelite ashtray brimming with stubs.

The venetian blinds hung askew and admitted a triangle of white light, the shadow of the foreman’s hand moving into it.

Joe Aguirre, wavy hair the color of cigarette ash and parted down the middle, gave them his point of view.

“Forest Service got designated camp-sites on the allotments. Them camps can be a couple a miles from where we pasture the sheep. Bad predator loss, nobody near lookin after em at night. What I want—camp tender in the main camp where the Forest Service says, but the herder”—pointing at Jack with a chop of his hand—“pitch a pup tent on the Q.T. with the sheep, out a sight, and he’s goin a sleep there. Eat supper, breakfast in camp, but sleep with the sheep, hundred per cent, no fire, don’t leave no sign. Roll up that tent every mornin case Forest Service snoops around. Got the dogs, your .30-.30, sleep there. Last summer had goddam near twenty-five-per-cent loss. I don’t want that again. You,” he said to Ennis, taking in the ragged hair, the big nicked hands, the jeans torn, button-gaping shirt, “Fridays twelve noon be down at the bridge with your next-week list and mules. Somebody with supplies’ll be there in a pickup.”

He didn’t ask if Ennis had a watch but took a cheap round ticker on a braided cord from a box on a high shelf, wound and set it, tossed it to him as if he weren’t worth the reach.

“Tomorrow mornin we’ll truck you up the jump-off.”

Pair of deuces going nowhere.

They found a bar and drank beer through the afternoon, Jack telling Ennis about a lightning storm on the mountain the year before that killed forty-two sheep, the peculiar stink of them and the way they bloated, the need for plenty of whiskey up there.

At first glance Jack seemed fair enough, with his curly hair and quick laugh, but for a small man he carried some weight in the haunch and his smile disclosed buckteeth, not pronounced enough to let him eat popcorn out of the neck of a jug, but noticeable.

He was infatuated with the rodeo life and fastened his belt with a minor bull-riding buckle, but his boots were worn to the quick, holed beyond repair, and he was crazy to be somewhere, anywhere, else than Lightning Flat.

Ennis, high-arched nose and narrow face, was scruffy and a little cave-chested, balanced a small torso on long, caliper legs, and possessed a muscular and supple body made for the horse and for fighting.

His reflexes were uncommonly quick, and he was farsighted enough to dislike reading anything except Hamley’s saddle catalogue.

The sheep trucks and horse trailers unloaded at the trailhead, and a bandy-legged Basque showed Ennis how to pack the mules—two packs and a riding load on each animal, ring-lashed with double diamonds and secured with half hitches—telling him, “Don’t never order soup. Them boxes a soup are real bad to pack.”

Three puppies belonging to one of the blue heelers went in a pack basket, the runt inside Jack’s coat, for he loved a little dog.

Ennis picked out a big chestnut called Cigar Butt to ride, Jack a bay mare that turned out to have a low startle point.

The string of spare horses included a mouse-colored grullo whose looks Ennis liked.

Ennis and Jack, the dogs, the horses and mules, a thousand ewes and their lambs flowed up the trail like dirty water through the timber and out above the tree line into the great flowery meadows and the coursing, endless wind.

They got the big tent up on the Forest Service’s platform, the kitchen and grub boxes secured.

Both slept in camp that first night, Jack already bitching about Joe Aguirre’s sleep-with-the-sheep-and-no-fire order, though he saddled the bay mare in the dark morning without saying much.

Dawn came glassy-orange, stained from below by a gelatinous band of pale green.

The sooty bulk of the mountain paled slowly until it was the same color as the smoke from Ennis’s breakfast fire.

The cold air sweetened, banded pebbles and crumbs of soil cast sudden pencil-long shadows, and the rearing lodgepole pines below them massed in slabs of somber malachite.

During the day Ennis looked across a great gulf and sometimes saw Jack, a small dot moving across a high meadow, as an insect moves across a tablecloth; Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge black mass of mountain.

Jack came lagging in late one afternoon, drank his two bottles of beer cooled in a wet sack on the shady side of the tent, ate two bowls of stew, four of Ennis’s stone biscuits, a can of peaches, rolled a smoke, watched the sun drop.

“I’m commutin four hours a day,” he said morosely. “Come in for breakfast, go back to the sheep, evenin get embedded down, come in for supper, go back to the sheep, spend half the night jumpin up and checkin for coyotes. By rights I should be spendin the night here. Aguirre got no right a make me do this.”

“You want a switch?” said Ennis. “I wouldn’t mind herdin. I wouldn’t mind sleepin out there.”

“That ain’t the point. Point is, we both should be in this camp. And that goddam pup tent smells like cat piss or worse.”

“Wouldn’t mind bein out there.Tell you what, you got a get up a dozen times in the night out there over them coyotes. Happy to switch but give you warnin I can’t cook worth a shit. Pretty good with a can opener.”

“Can’t be no worse than me, then. Sure, I wouldn’t mind a do it. They fended off the night for an hour with the yellow kerosene lamp, and around ten Ennis rode Cigar Butt, a good night horse, through the glimmering frost back to the sheep, carrying left-over biscuits, a jar of jam, and a jar of coffee with him for the next day, saying he’d save a trip, stay out until supper.

“Shot a coyote just first light,” he told Jack the next evening, sloshing his face with hot water, lathering up soap, and hoping his razor had some cut left in it, while Jack peeled potatoes.

“Big son of a bitch. Balls on him size a apples. I bet he’d took a few lambs. Looked like he could a eat a camel. You want some a this hot water? There’s plenty.”

“It’s all yours.”

“Well, I’m goin a warsh everthing I can reach,” he said, pulling off his boots and jeans (no drawers, no socks, Jack noticed), slopping the green washcloth around until the fire spat.

They had a high-time supper by the fire, a can of beans each, fried potatoes, and a quart of whiskey on shares, sat with their backs against a log, boot soles and copper jeans rivets hot, swapping the bottle while the lavender sky emptied of color and the chill air drained down, drinking, smoking cigarettes, getting up every now and then to piss, firelight throwing a sparkle in the arched stream, tossing sticks on the fire to keep the talk going, talking horses and rodeo, rough-stock events, wrecks and injuries sustained, the submarine Thresher lost two months earlier with all hands and how it must have been in the last doomed minutes, dogs each had owned and known, the military service, Jack’s home ranch, where his father and mother held on, Ennis’s family place, folded years ago after his folks died, the older brother in Signal and a married sister in Casper.

Jack said his father had been a pretty well-known bull rider years back but kept his secrets to himself, never gave Jack a word of advice, never came once to see Jack ride, though he had put him on the woollies when he was a little kid.

Ennis said the kind of riding that interested him lasted longer than eight seconds and had some point to it.

Money’s a good point, said Jack, and Ennis had to agree.

They were respectful of each other’s opinions, each glad to have a companion where none had been expected.

Ennis, riding against the wind back to the sheep in the treacherous, drunken light, thought he’d never had such a good time, felt he could paw the white out of the moon.

The summer went on and they moved the herd to new pasture, shifted the camp; the distance between the sheep and the new camp was greater and the night ride longer.

Ennis rode easy, sleeping with his eyes open, but the hours he was away from the sheep stretched out and out.

Jack pulled a squalling burr out of the harmonica, flattened a little from a fall off the skittish bay mare, and Ennis had a good raspy voice; a few nights they mangled their way through some songs. Ennis knew the salty words to “Strawberry Roan.”

Jack tried a Carl Perkins song, bawling “What I say-ay-ay,” but he favored a sad hymn, “Water-Walking Jesus,” learned from his mother, who believed in the Pentecost, and that he sang at dirge slowness, setting off distant coyote yips.

“Too late to go out to them damn sheep,” said Ennis, dizzy drunk on all fours one cold hour when the moon had notched past two.

The meadow stones glowed white-green and a flinty wind worked over the meadow, scraped the fire low, then ruffled it into yellow silk sashes.

“Got you a extra blanket I’ll roll up out here and grab forty winks, ride out at first light.”

“Freeze your ass off when that fire dies down. Better off sleepin in the tent.”

“Doubt I’ll feel nothin.”

But he staggered under canvas, pulled his boots off, snored on the ground cloth for a while, woke Jack with the clacking of his jaw.

“Jesus Christ, quit hammerin and get over here. Bedroll’s big enough,” said Jack in an irritable sleep-clogged voice.

It was big enough, warm enough, and in a little while they deepened their intimacy considerably.

Ennis ran full throttle on all roads whether fence mending or money spending, and he wanted none of it when Jack seized his left hand and brought it to his erect cock.

Ennis jerked his hand away as though he’d touched fire, got to his knees, unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down, hauled Jack onto all fours, and, with the help of the clear slick and a little spit, entered him, nothing he’d done before but no instruction manual needed.

They went at it in silence except for a few sharp intakes of breath and Jack’s choked “Gun’s goin off,” then out, down, and asleep.

Ennis woke in red dawn with his pants around his knees, a top-grade headache, and Jack butted against him; without saying anything about it, both knew how it would go for the rest of the summer, sheep be damned.

As it did go.

They never talked about the sex, let it happen, at first only in the tent at night, then in the full daylight with the hot sun striking down, and at evening in the fire glow, quick, rough, laughing and snorting, no lack of noises, but saying not a goddam word except once Ennis said, “I’m not no queer,” and Jack jumped in with “Me neither. A one-shot thing. Nobody’s business but ours.”

There were only the two of them on the mountain, flying in the euphoric, bitter air, looking down on the hawk’s back and the crawling lights of vehicles on the plain below, suspended above ordinary affairs and distant from tame ranch dogs barking in the dark hours.

They believed themselves invisible, not knowing Joe Aguirre had watched them through his 10x42 binoculars for ten minutes one day, waiting until they’d buttoned up their jeans, waiting until Ennis rode back to the sheep, before bringing up the message that Jack’s people had sent word that his uncle Harold was in the hospital with pneumonia and expected not to make it.

Though he did, and Aguirre came up again to say so, fixing Jack with his bold stare, not bothering to dismount.

In August Ennis spent the whole night with Jack in the main camp, and in a blowy hailstorm the sheep took off west and got among a herd in another allotment.

There was a damn miserable time for five days, Ennis and a Chilean herder with no English trying to sort them out, the task almost impossible as the paint brands were worn and faint at this late season.

Even when the numbers were right Ennis knew the sheep were mixed.

In a disquieting way everything seemed mixed.

The first snow came early, on August 13th, piling up a foot, but was followed by a quick melt.

The next week Joe Aguirre sent word to bring them down, another, bigger storm was moving in from the Pacific, and they packed in the game and moved off the mountain with the sheep, stones rolling at their heels, purple cloud crowding in from the west and the metal smell of coming snow pressing them on.

The mountain boiled with demonic energy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light; the wind combed the grass and drew from the damaged krummholz and slit rock a bestial drone.

As they descended the slope Ennis felt he was in a slow-motion, but headlong, irreversible fall.

Joe Aguirre paid them, said little.

He had looked at the milling sheep with a sour expression, said, “Some a these never went up there with you.”

The count was not what he’d hoped for, either.

Ranch stiffs never did much of a job.

“You goin a do this next summer?” said Jack to Ennis in the street, one leg already up in his green pickup.

The wind was gusting hard and cold.

“Maybe not.”

A dust plume rose and hazed the air with fine grit and he squinted against it.

“Like I said, Alma and me’s gettin married in December. Try to get somethin on a ranch. You?”

He looked away from Jack’s jaw, bruised blue from the hard punch Ennis had thrown him on the last day.

“If nothin better comes along. Thought some about going back up to my daddy’s place, give him a hand over the winter, then maybe head out for Texas in the spring. If the draft don’t get me.”

“Well, see you around, I guess.”

The wind tumbled an empty feed bag down the street until it fetched up under the truck.

“Right,” said Jack, and they shook hands, hit each other on the shoulder; then there was forty feet of distance between them and nothing to do but drive away in opposite directions.

Within a mile Ennis felt like someone was pulling his guts out hand over hand a yard at a time.

He stopped at the side of the road and, in the whirling new snow, tried to puke but nothing came up.

He felt about as bad as he ever had and it took a long time for the feeling to wear off.

In December Ennis married Alma Beers and had her pregnant by mid-January.

He picked up a few short-lived ranch jobs, then settled in as a wrangler on the old Elwood Hi-Top place, north of Lost Cabin, in Washakie County.

He was still working there in September when Alma, Jr., as he called his daughter, was born and their bedroom was full of the smell of old blood and milk and baby shit, and the sounds were of squalling and sucking and Alma’s sleepy groans, all reassuring of fecundity and life’s continuance to one who worked with livestock.

When the Hi-Top folded they moved to a small apartment in Riverton, up over a laundry.

Ennis got on the highway crew, tolerating it but working weekends at the Rafter B in exchange for keeping his horses out there.

A second girl was born and Alma wanted to stay in town near the clinic because the child had an asthmatic wheeze.

“Ennis, please, no more damn lonesome ranches for us,” she said, sitting on his lap, wrapping her thin, freckled arms around him. “Let’s get a place here in town.”

“I guess,” said Ennis, slipping his hand up her blouse sleeve and stirring the silky armpit hair, fingers moving down her ribs to the jelly breast, the round belly and knee and up into the wet gap all the way to the north pole or the equator depending which way you thought you were sailing, working at it until she shuddered and bucked against his hand and he rolled her over, did quickly what she hated.

They stayed in the little apartment, which he favored because it could be left at any time.

The fourth summer since Brokeback Mountain came on and in June Ennis had a general-delivery letter from Jack Twist, the first sign of life in all that time.

Friend this letter is a long time over due.

Hope you get it.

Heard you was in Riverton.

I’m coming thru on the 24th, thought I’d stop and buy you a beer.

Drop me a line if you can, say if your there.

The return address was Childress, Texas.

Ennis wrote back, “You bet,” gave the Riverton address.

The day was hot and clear in the morning, but by noon the clouds had pushed up out of the west rolling a little sultry air before them.

Ennis, wearing his best shirt, white with wide black stripes, didn’t know what time Jack would get there and so had taken the day off, paced back and forth, looking down into a street pale with dust.

Alma was saying something about taking his friend to the Knife & Fork for supper instead of cooking it was so hot, if they could get a babysitter, but Ennis said more likely he’d just go out with Jack and get drunk.

Jack was not a restaurant type, he said, thinking of the dirty spoons sticking out of the cans of cold beans balanced on the log.

Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack get out of the truck, beat-up Resistol tilted back.

A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the landing pulling the door closed behind him.

Jack took the stairs two and two.

They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying son of a bitch, son of a bitch; then, and as easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard,

Jack’s big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis’s straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other’s toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters, “Little darlin.”

The door opened again a few inches and Alma stood in the narrow light.

What could he say?

“Alma, this is Jack Twist. Jack, my wife, Alma.”

His chest was heaving.

He could smell Jack—the intensely familiar odor of cigarettes, musky sweat, and a faint sweetness like grass, and with it the rushing cold of the mountain.

“Alma,” he said, “Jack and me ain’t seen each other in four years.”

As if it were a reason.

He was glad the light was dim on the landing but did not turn away from her.

“Sure enough,” said Alma in a low voice.

She had seen what she had seen.

Behind her in the room, lightning lit the window like a white sheet waving and the baby cried.

“You got a kid?” said Jack.

His shaking hand grazed Ennis’s hand, electrical current snapped between them.

“Two little girls,” Ennis said. “Alma, Jr., and Francine. Love them to pieces.”

Alma’s mouth twitched.

“I got a boy,” said Jack. “Eight months old. Tell you what, I married a cute little old Texas girl down in Childress—Lureen.”

From the vibration of the floorboard on which they both stood Ennis could feel how hard Jack was shaking.

“Alma,” he said. “Jack and me is goin out and get a drink. Might not get back tonight, we get drinkin and talkin.”

“Sure enough,” Alma said, taking a dollar bill from her pocket.

Ennis guessed she was going to ask him to get her a pack of cigarettes, bring him back sooner.

“Please to meet you,” said Jack, trembling like a run-out horse.

“Ennis—” said Alma in her misery voice, but that didn’t slow him down on the stairs and he called back, “Alma, you want smokes there’s some in the pocket a my blue shirt in the bedroom.”

They went off in Jack’s truck, bought a bottle of whiskey, and within twenty minutes were in the Motel Siesta jouncing a bed.

A few handfuls of hail rattled against the window, followed by rain and a slippery wind banging the unsecured door of the next room then and through the night.

The room stank of semen and smoke and sweat and whiskey, of old carpet and sour hay, saddle leather, shit and cheap soap.

Ennis lay spread-eagled, spent and wet, breathing deep, still half tumescent; Jack blew forceful cigarette clouds like whale spouts, and said, “Christ, it got to be all that time a yours a-horseback makes it so goddam good. We got to talk about this. Swear to God I didn’t know we was goin a get into this again—yeah, I did. Why I’m here. I fuckin knew it. Red-lined all the way, couldn’t get here fast enough.”

“I didn’t know where in the hell you was,” said Ennis. “Four years. I about give up on you. I figured you was sore about that punch.”

“Friend,” said Jack, “I was in Texas rodeoin. How I met Lureen. Look over on that chair.”

On the back of a soiled orange chair he saw the shine of a buckle.

“Bull ridin?”

“Yeah. I made three fuckin thousand dollars that year. Fuckin starved. Had to borrow everthing but a toothbrush from other guys. Drove grooves across Texas. Half the time under that cunt truck fixin it. Anyway, I didn’t never think about losin. Lureen? There’s some serious money there. Her old man’s got it. Got this farm-machinery business. Course he don’t let her have none a the money, and he hates my fuckin guts, so it’s a hard go now but one a these days—”

“Well, you’re goin a go where you look. Army didn’t get you?”

The thunder sounded far to the east, moving from them in its red wreaths of light.

“They can’t get no use out a me. Got some crushed vertebrates. And a stress fracture, the arm bone here, you know how bull ridin you’re always leverin it off your thigh?—she gives a little ever time you do it. Even if you tape it good you break it a little goddam bit at a time. Tell you what, hurts like a bitch afterward. Had a busted leg. Busted in three places. Come off the bull and it was a big bull with a lot a drop, he got rid a me in about three flat and he come after me and he was sure faster. Lucky enough. Friend a mine got his oil checked with a horn dipstick and that was all she wrote. Bunch a other things, fuckin busted ribs, sprains and pains, torn ligaments. See, it ain’t like it was in my daddy’s time. It’s guys with money go to college, trained athaletes. You got to have some money to rodeo now. Lureen’s old man wouldn’t give me a dime if I dropped it, except one way. And I know enough about the game now so I see that I ain’t never goin a be on the bubble. Other reasons. I’m gettin out while I still can walk.”

Ennis pulled Jack’s hand to his mouth, took a hit from the cigarette, exhaled.

“Sure as hell seem in one piece to me. You know, I was sittin up here all that time tryin to figure out if I was—? I know I ain’t. I mean, here we both got wives and kids, right? I like doin it with women, yeah, but Jesus H., ain’t nothin like this. I never had no thoughts a doin it with another guy except I sure wrang it out a hunderd times thinkin about you. You do it with other guys, Jack?”

“Shit no,” said Jack, who had been riding more than bulls, not rolling his own.

“You know that. Old Brokeback got us good and it sure ain’t over. We got to work out what the fuck we’re goin a do now.”

“That summer,” said Ennis. “When we split up after we got paid out I had gut cramps so bad I pulled over and tried to puke, thought I ate somethin bad at that place in Dubois. Took me about a year to figure out it was that I shouldn’t a let you out a my sights. Too late then by a long, long while.”

“Friend,” said Jack. “We got us a fuckin situation here. Got a figure out what to do.”

“I doubt there’s nothin now we can do,” said Ennis. “What I’m sayin, Jack, I built a life up in them years. Love my little girls. Alma? It ain’t her fault. You got your baby and wife, that place in Texas. You and me can’t hardly be decent together if what happened back there”—he jerked his head in the direction of the apartment—“grabs on us like that. We do that in the wrong place we’ll be dead. There’s no reins on this one. It scares the piss out a me.”

“Got to tell you, friend, maybe somebody seen us that summer. I was back there the next June, thinkin about goin back—I didn’t, lit out for Texas instead—and Joe Aguirre’s in the office and he says to me, he says, ‘You boys found a way to make the time pass up there, didn’t you,’ and I gave him a look but when I went out I seen he had a big-ass pair a binoculars hangin off his rearview.”

He neglected to add that the foreman had leaned back in his squeaky wooden tilt chair and said, “Twist, you guys wasn’t gettin paid to leave the dogs baby-sit the sheep while you stemmed the rose,” and declined to rehire him.

Jack went on, “Yeah, that little punch a yours surprised me. I never figured you to throw a dirty punch.”

“I come up under my brother K.E., three years older’n me, slugged me silly ever day. Dad got tired a me come bawlin in the house and when I was about six he set me down and says, Ennis, you got a problem and you got a fix it or it’s goin a be with you until you’re ninety and K.E.’s ninety-three. Well, I says, he’s bigger’n me. Dad says, You got a take him unawares, don’t say nothin to him, make him feel some pain, get out fast and keep doin it until he takes the message. Nothin like hurtin somebody to make him hear good. So I did. I got him in the outhouse, jumped him on the stairs, come over to his pillow in the night while he was sleepin and pasted him damn good. Took about two days. Never had trouble with K.E. since. The lesson was, Don’t say nothin and get it over with quick.”

A telephone rang in the next room, rang on and on, stopped abruptly in mid-peal.

“You won’t catch me again,” said Jack. “Listen. I’m thinkin, tell you what, if you and me had a little ranch together, little cow-and-calf operation, your horses, it’d be some sweet life. Like I said, I’m gettin out a rodeo. I ain’t no broke dick rider but I don’t got the bucks a ride out this slump I’m in and I don’t got the bones a keep gettin wrecked. I got it figured, got this plan Ennis, how we can do it, you and me. Lureen’s old man, you bet he’d give me a bunch if I’d get lost. Already more or less said it—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. It ain’t goin a be that way. We can’t. I’m stuck with what I got, caught in my own loop. Can’t get out of it. Jack, I don’t want a be like them guys you see around sometimes. And I don’t want a be dead. There was these two old guys ranched together down home, Earl and Rich—Dad would pass a remark when he seen them. They was a joke even though they was pretty tough old birds. I was what, nine years old, and they found Earl dead in a irrigation ditch. They’d took a tire iron to him, spurred him up, drug him around by his dick until it pulled off, just bloody pulp. What the tire iron done looked like pieces a burned tomatoes all over him, nose tore down from skiddin on gravel.”

“You seen that?”

“Dad made sure I seen it. Took me to see it. Me and K.E. Dad laughed about it. Hell, for all I know he done the job. If he was alive and was to put his head in that door right now you bet he’d go get his tire iron. Two guys livin together? No. All I can see is we get together once in a while way the hell out in the back a nowhere—”

“How much is once in a while?” said Jack. “Once in a while ever four fuckin years?”

“No,” said Ennis, forbearing to ask whose fault that was.

“I goddam hate it that you’re goin a drive away in the mornin and I’m goin back to work. But if you can’t fix it you got a stand it,” he said. “Shit. I been lookin at people on the street. This happen a other people? What the hell do they do?”

“It don’t happen in Wyomin and if it does I don’t know what they do, maybe go to Denver,” said Jack, sitting up, turning away from him, “and I don’t give a flyin fuck. Son of a bitch, Ennis, take a couple days off. Right now. Get us out a here. Throw your stuff in the back a my truck and let’s get up in the mountains. Couple a days. Call Alma up and tell her you’re goin. Come on, Ennis, you just shot my airplane out a the sky—give me somethin a go on. This ain’t no little thing that’s happenin here.”

The hollow ringing began again in the next room, and as if he were answering it Ennis picked up the phone on the bedside table, dialled his own number.

A slow corrosion worked between Ennis and Alma, no real trouble, just widening water.

She was working at a grocery-store clerk job, saw she’d always have to work to keep ahead of the bills on what Ennis made.

Alma asked Ennis to use rubbers because she dreaded another pregnancy.

He said no to that, said he would be happy to leave her alone if she didn’t want any more of his kids.

Under her breath she said, “I’d have em if you’d support em.”

And under that thought, Anyway, what you like to do don’t make too many babies.

Her resentment opened out a little every year: the embrace she had glimpsed, Ennis’s fishing trips once or twice a year with Jack Twist and never a vacation with her and the girls, his disinclination to step out and have any fun, his yearning for low-paid, long-houred ranch work, his propensity to roll to the wall and sleep as soon as he hit the bed, his failure to look for a decent permanent job with the county or the power company put her in a long, slow dive, and when Alma, Jr., was nine and Francine seven she said, What am I doin, hangin around with him, divorced Ennis, and married the Riverton grocer.

Ennis went back to ranch work, hired on here and there, not getting much ahead but glad enough to be around stock again, free to drop things, quit if he had to, and go into the mountains at short notice.

He had no serious hard feelings, just a vague sense of getting short-changed, and showed it was all right by taking Thanksgiving dinner with Alma and her grocer and the kids, sitting between his girls and talking horses to them, telling jokes, trying not to be a sad daddy.

After the pie Alma got him off in the kitchen, scraped the plates and said she worried about him and he ought to get married again.

He saw she was pregnant, about four, five months, he guessed.

“Once burned,” he said, leaning against the counter, feeling too big for the room.

“You still go fishin with that Jack Twist?”

“Some.”

He thought she’d take the pattern off the plate with the scraping.

“You know,” she said, and from her tone he knew something was coming, “I used to wonder how come you never brought any trouts home. Always said you caught plenty. So one time I got your creel case open the night before you went on one a your little trips—price tag still on it after five years—and I tied a note on the end of the line. It said, ‘Hello, Ennis, bring some fish home, love, Alma.’ And then you come back and said you’d caught a bunch a browns and ate them up. Remember? I looked in the case when I got a chance and there was my note still tied there and that line hadn’t touched water in its life.”

As though the word “water” had called out its domestic cousin, she twisted the faucet, sluiced the plates.

“That don’t mean nothin.”

“Don’t lie, don’t try to fool me, Ennis. I know what it means. Jack Twist? Jack Nasty. You and him—”

She’d overstepped his line.

He seized her wrist and twisted; tears sprang and rolled, a dish clattered.

“Shut up,” he said. “Mind your own business. You don’t know nothin about it.”

“I’m goin a yell for Bill.”

“You fuckin go right ahead. Go on and fuckin yell. I’ll make him eat the fuckin floor and you too.”

He gave another wrench that left her with a burning bracelet, shoved his hat on backward and slammed out.

He went to the Black and Blue Eagle bar that night, got drunk, had a short dirty fight, and left.

He didn’t try to see his girls for a long time, figuring they would look him up when they got the sense and years to move out from Alma.

They were no longer young men with all of it before them.

Jack had filled out through the shoulders and hams; Ennis stayed as lean as a clothespole, stepped around in worn boots, jeans, and shirts summer and winter, added a canvas coat in cold weather.

A benign growth appeared on his eyelid and gave it a drooping appearance; a broken nose healed crooked.

Years on years they worked their way through the high meadows and mountain drainages, horse-packing into the Big Horns, the Medicine Bows, the south end of the Gallatins, the Absarokas, the Granites, the Owl Creeks, the Bridger-Teton Range, the Freezeouts and the Shirleys, the Ferrises and the Rattlesnakes, the Salt River range, into the Wind Rivers over and again, the Sierra Madres, the Gros Ventres, the Washakies, the Laramies, but never returning to Brokeback.

Down in Texas Jack’s father-in-law died and Lureen, who inherited the farm-equipment business, showed a skill for management and hard deals.

Jack found himself with a vague managerial title, travelling to stock and agricultural-machinery shows.

He had some money now and found ways to spend it on his buying trips.

A little Texas accent flavored his sentences, “cow” twisted into “kyow” and “wife” coming out as “waf.”

He’d had his front teeth filed down, set with steel plugs, and capped, said he’d felt no pain, wore Texas suits and a tall white hat.

In May of 1983 they spent a few cold days at a series of little icebound, no-name high lakes, then worked across into the Hail Strew River drainage.

Going up, the day was fine, but the trail deep-drifted and slopping wet at the margins.

They left it to wind through a slashy cut, leading the horses through brittle branch wood, Jack lifting his head in the heated noon to take the air scented with resinous lodgepole, the dry needle duff and hot rock, bitter juniper crushed beneath the horses’ hooves.

Ennis, weather-eyed, looked west for the heated cumulus that might come up on such a day, but the boneless blue was so deep, said Jack, that he might drown looking up.

Around three they swung through a narrow pass to a southeast slope where the strong spring sun had had a chance to work, dropped down to the trail again, which lay snowless below them.

They could hear the river muttering and making a distant train sound a long way off.

Twenty minutes on they surprised a black bear on the bank above them rolling a log over for grubs, and Jack’s horse shied and reared, Jack saying “Wo! Wo!” and Ennis’s bay dancing and snorting but holding.

Jack reached for the .30-.06 but there was no need; the startled bear galloped into the trees with the lumpish gait that made it seem it was falling apart.

The tea-colored river ran fast with snowmelt, a scarf of bubbles at every high rock, pools and setbacks streaming.

The ochre-branched willows swayed stiffly, pollened catkins like yellow thumbprints.

The horses drank and Jack dismounted, scooped icy water up in his hand, crystalline drops falling from his fingers, his mouth and chin glistening with wet.

“Get beaver fever doin that,” said Ennis, then, “Good enough place,” looking at the level bench above the river, two or three fire rings from old hunting camps.

A sloping meadow rose behind the bench, protected by a stand of lodgepole.

There was plenty of dry wood.

They set up camp without saying much, picketed the horses in the meadow.

Jack broke the seal on a bottle of whiskey, took a long, hot swallow, exhaled forcefully, said, “That’s one a the two things I need right now,” capped it and tossed it to Ennis.

On the third morning there were the clouds Ennis had expected, a gray racer out of the West, a bar of darkness driving wind before it and small flakes.

It faded after an hour into tender spring snow that heaped wet and heavy.

By nightfall it had turned colder.

Jack and Ennis passed a joint back and forth, the fire burning late, Jack restless and bitching about the cold, poking the flames with a stick, twisting the dial of the transistor radio until the batteries died.

Ennis said he’d been putting the blocks to a woman who worked part-time at the Wolf Ears bar in Signal where he was working now for Car Scrope’s cow-and-calf outfit, but it wasn’t going anywhere and she had some problems he didn’t want.

Jack said he’d had a thing going with the wife of a rancher down the road in Childress and for the last few months he’d slank around expecting to get shot by Lureen or the husband, one.

Ennis laughed a little and said he probably deserved it.

Jack said he was doing all right but he missed Ennis bad enough sometimes to make him whip babies.

The horses nickered in the darkness beyond the fire’s circle of light.

Ennis put his arm around Jack, pulled him close, said he saw his girls about once a month, Alma, Jr., a shy seventeen-year-old with his beanpole length, Francine a little live wire.

Jack slid his cold hand between Ennis’s legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about it, dyslexic or something, couldn’t get anything right, fifteen years old and couldn’t hardly read, he could see it though goddam Lureen wouldn’t admit to it and pretended the kid was O.K., refused to get any bitchin kind a help about it.

He didn’t know what the fuck the answer was.

Lureen had the money and called the shots.

“I used a want a boy for a kid,” said Ennis, undoing buttons, “but just got little girls.”

“I didn’t want none a either kind,” said Jack. “But fuck-all has worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way.”

Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the dirt.

One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent couplings was darkened by the sense of time flying, never enough time, never enough.

A day or two later in the trailhead parking lot, horses loaded into the trailer, Ennis was ready to head back to Signal, Jack up to Lightning Flat to see the old man.

Ennis leaned into Jack’s window, said what he’d been putting off the whole week, that likely he couldn’t get away again until November, after they’d shipped stock and before winter feeding started.

“November. What in hell happened a August? Tell you what, we said August, nine, ten days. Christ, Ennis! Whyn’t you tell me this before? You had a fuckin week to say some little word about it. And why’s it we’re always in the friggin cold weather? We ought a do somethin. We ought a go South. We ought a go to Mexico one day.”

“Mexico? Jack, you know me. All the travellin I ever done is goin around the coffeepot lookin for the handle. And I’ll be runnin the baler all August, that’s what’s the matter with August. Lighten up, Jack. We can hunt in November, kill a nice elk. Try if I can get Don Wroe’s cabin again. We had a good time that year.”

“You know, friend, this is a goddam bitch of a unsatisfactory situation. You used a come away easy. It’s like seein the Pope now.”

“Jack, I got a work. Them earlier days I used a quit the jobs. You got a wife with money, a good job. You forget how it is bein broke all the time. You ever hear a child support? I been payin out for years and got more to go. Let me tell you, I can’t quit this one. And I can’t get the time off. It was tough gettin this time—some a them late heifers is still calvin. You don’t leave then. You don’t. Scrope is a hell-raiser and he raised hell about me takin the week. I don’t blame him. He probly ain’t got a night’s sleep since I left. The trade-off was August. You got a better idea?”

“I did once.”

The tone was bitter and accusatory.

Ennis said nothing, straightened up slowly, rubbed at his forehead; a horse stamped inside the trailer. He walked to his truck, put his hand on the trailer, said something that only the horses could hear, turned and walked back at a deliberate pace.

“You been a Mexico, Jack?”

Mexico was the place.

He’d heard.

He was cutting fence now, trespassing in the shoot-em zone.

“Hell yes, I been. Where’s the fuckin problem?”

Braced for it all these years and here it came, late and unexpected.

“I got a say this to you one time, Jack, and I ain’t foolin. What I don’t know,” said Ennis, “all them things I don’t know could get you killed if I should come to know them.”

“Try this one,” said Jack, “and I’ll say it just one time. Tell you what, we could a had a good life together, a fuckin real good life. You wouldn’t do it, Ennis, so what we got now is Brokeback Mountain. Everthing built on that. It’s all we got, boy, fuckin all, so I hope you know that if you don’t never know the rest. Count the damn few times we been together in twenty years. Measure the fuckin short leash you keep me on, then ask me about Mexico and then tell me you’ll kill me for needin it and not hardly never gettin it. You got no fuckin idea how bad it gets. I’m not you. I can’t make it on a couple a high-altitude fucks once or twice a year. You’re too much for me, Ennis, you son of a whoreson bitch. I wish I knew how to quit you.”

Like vast clouds of steam from thermal springs in winter the years of things unsaid and now unsayable—admissions, declarations, shames, guilts, fears—rose around them.

Ennis stood as if heart-shot, face gray and deep-lined, grimacing, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, legs caving, hit the ground on his knees.

“Jesus,” said Jack. “Ennis?”

But before he was out of the truck, trying to guess if it was a heart attack or the overflow of an incendiary rage, Ennis was back on his feet, and somehow, as a coat hanger is straightened to open a locked car and then bent again to its original shape, they torqued things almost to where they had been, for what they’d said was no news.

Nothing ended, nothing begun, nothing resolved.

What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger.

They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a single column against the rock.

The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis’s pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals.

Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire.

Ennis’s breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight, and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still usable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, “Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you’re sleepin on your feet like a horse,” and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness.

Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words “See you tomorrow,” and the horse’s shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives.

Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see or feel that it was Jack he held.

And maybe, he thought, they’d never got much farther than that.

Let be, let be.

Ennis didn’t know about the accident for months until his postcard to Jack saying that November still looked like the first chance came back stamped “deceased.”

He called Jack’s number in Childress, something he had done only once before, when Alma divorced him, and Jack had misunderstood the reason for the call, had driven twelve hundred miles north for nothing.

This would be all right; Jack would answer, had to answer.

But he did not.

It was Lureen and she said who? who is this? and when he told her again she said in a level voice yes, Jack was pumping up a flat on the truck out on a back road when the tire blew up.

The bead was damaged somehow and the force of the explosion slammed the rim into his face, broke his nose and jaw and knocked him unconscious on his back.

By the time someone came along he had drowned in his own blood.

No, he thought, they got him with the tire iron.

“Jack used to mention you,” she said. “You’re the fishing buddy or the hunting buddy, I know that. Would have let you know,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure about your name and address. Jack kept most a his friends’ addresses in his head. It was a terrible thing. He was only thirty-nine years old.”

The huge sadness of the Northern plains rolled down on him.

He didn’t know which way it was, the tire iron or a real accident, blood choking down Jack’s throat and nobody to turn him over.

Under the wind drone he heard steel slamming off bone, the hollow chatter of a settling tire rim.

“He buried down there?”

He wanted to curse her for letting Jack die on the dirt road.

The little Texas voice came slip-sliding down the wire, “We put a stone up. He use to say he wanted to be cremated, ashes scattered on Brokeback Mountain. I didn’t know where that was. So he was cremated, like he wanted, and, like I say, half his ashes was interred here, and the rest I sent up to his folks. I thought Brokeback Mountain was around where he grew up. But knowing Jack, it might be some pretend place where the bluebirds sing and there’s a whiskey spring.”

“We herded sheep on Brokeback one summer,” said Ennis.

He could hardly speak.

“Well, he said it was his place. I thought he meant to get drunk. Drink whiskey up there. He drank a lot.”

“His folks still up in Lightnin Flat?”

“Oh yeah. They’ll be there until they die. I never met them. They didn’t come down for the funeral. You get in touch with them. I suppose they’d appreciate it if his wishes was carried out.” No doubt about it, she was polite but the little voice was as cold as snow.

The road to Lightning Flat went through desolate country past a dozen abandoned ranches distributed over the plain at eight- and ten-mile intervals, houses sitting blank-eyed in the weeds, corral fences down.

The mailbox read “John C. Twist.”

The ranch was a meagre little place, leafy spurge taking over.

The stock was too far distant for him to see their condition, only that they were black baldies.

A porch stretched across the front of the tiny brown stucco house, four rooms, two down, two up.

Ennis sat at the kitchen table with Jack’s father.

Jack’s mother, stout and careful in her movements as though recovering from an operation, said, “Want some coffee, don’t you? Piece a cherry cake?”

“Thank you, Ma’am, I’ll take a cup a coffee but I can’t eat no cake just now.”

The old man sat silent, his hands folded on the plastic tablecloth, staring at Ennis with an angry, knowing expression.

Ennis recognized in him a not uncommon type with the hard need to be the stud duck in the pond.

He couldn’t see much of Jack in either one of them, took a breath.

“I feel awful bad about Jack. Can’t begin to say how bad I feel. I knew him a long time. I come by to tell you that if you want me to take his ashes up there on Brokeback like his wife says he wanted I’d be proud to.”

There was a silence.

Ennis cleared his throat but said nothing more.

The old man said, “Tell you what, I know where Brokeback Mountain is. He thought he was too goddam special to be buried in the family plot.”

Jack’s mother ignored this, said, “He used a come home every year, even after he was married and down in Texas, and help his daddy on the ranch for a week, fix the gates and mow and all. I kept his room like it was when he was a boy and I think he appreciated that. You are welcome to go up in his room if you want.”

The old man spoke angrily. “

I can’t get no help out here. Jack used a say, ‘Ennis del Mar,’ he used a say, ‘I’m goin a bring him up here one a these days and we’ll lick this damn ranch into shape.’ He had some half-baked idea the two a you was goin a move up here, build a log cabin, and help me run this ranch and bring it up. Then this spring he’s got another one’s goin a come up here with him and build a place and help run the ranch, some ranch neighbor a his from down in Texas. He’s goin a split up with his wife and come back here. So he says. But like most a Jack’s ideas it never come to pass.”

So now he knew it had been the tire iron.

He stood up, said you bet he’d like to see Jack’s room, recalled one of Jack’s stories about this old man.

Jack was dick-clipped and the old man was not; it bothered the son, who had discovered the anatomical disconformity during a hard scene.

He had been about three or four, he said, always late getting to the toilet, struggling with buttons, the seat, the height of the thing, and often as not left the surroundings sprinkled down.

The old man blew up about it and this one time worked into a crazy rage.

“Christ, he licked the stuffin out a me, knocked me down on the bathroom floor, whipped me with his belt. I thought he was killin me.

Then he says, ‘You want a know what it’s like with piss all over the place? I’ll learn you,’ and he pulls it out and lets go all over me, soaked me, then he throws a towel at me and makes me mop up the floor, take my clothes off and warsh them in the bathtub, warsh out the towel, I’m bawlin and blubberin. But while he was hosin me down I seen he had some extra material that I was missin. I seen they’d cut me different like you’d crop a ear or scorch a brand. No way to get it right with him after that.”

The bedroom, at the top of a steep stair that had its own climbing rhythm, was tiny and hot, afternoon sun pounding through the west window, hitting the narrow boy’s bed against the wall, an ink-stained desk and wooden chair, a B.B. gun in a hand-whittled rack over the bed.

The window looked down on the gravel road stretching south and it occurred to him that for Jack’s growing-up years that was the only road he knew.

An ancient magazine photograph of some dark-haired movie star was taped to the wall beside the bed, the skin tone gone magenta.

He could hear Jack’s mother downstairs running water, filling the kettle and setting it back on the stove, asking the old man a muffled question.

The closet was a shallow cavity with a wooden rod braced across, a faded cretonne curtain on a string closing it off from the rest of the room.

In the closet hung two pairs of jeans crease-ironed and folded neatly over wire hangers, on the floor a pair of worn packer boots he thought he remembered.

At the north end of the closet a tiny jog in the wall made a slight hiding place and here, stiff with long suspension from a nail, hung a shirt.

He lifted it off the nail.

Jack’s old shirt from Brokeback days.

The dried blood on the sleeve was his own blood, a gushing nosebleed on the last afternoon on the mountain when Jack, in their contortionistic grappling and wrestling, had slammed Ennis’s nose hard with his knee.

He had stanched the blood, which was everywhere, all over both of them, with his shirtsleeve, but the stanching hadn’t held, because Ennis had suddenly swung from the deck and laid the ministering angel out in the wild columbine, wings folded.

The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack’s sleeves.

It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he’d thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack’s own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.

He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack, but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands.

In the end the stud duck refused to let Jack’s ashes go.

“Tell you what, we got a family plot and he’s goin in it.”

Jack’s mother stood at the table coring apples with a sharp, serrated instrument.

“You come again,” she said.

Bumping down the washboard road Ennis passed the country cemetery fenced with sagging sheep wire, a tiny fenced square on the welling prairie, a few graves bright with plastic flowers, and didn’t want to know Jack was going in there, to be buried on the grieving plain.

A few weeks later, on the Saturday, he threw all the Coffeepot’s dirty horse blankets into the back of his pickup and took them down to the Quik Stop Car Wash to turn the high-pressure spray on them.

When the wet clean blankets were stowed in the truck bed he stepped into Higgins’ gift shop and busied himself with the postcard rack.

“Ennis, what are you lookin for, rootin through them postcards?” said Linda Higgins, throwing a sopping brown coffee filter into the garbage can.

“Scene a Brokeback Mountain.”

“Over in Fremont County?”

“No, north a here.”

“I didn’t order none a them. Let me get the order list. They got it I can get you a hunderd. I got a order some more cards anyway.”

“One’s enough,” said Ennis.

When it came—thirty cents—he pinned it up in his trailer, brass-headed tack in each corner.

Below it he drove a nail and on the nail he hung a wire hanger and the two old shirts suspended from it.

He stepped back and looked at the ensemble through a few stinging tears.

“Jack, I swear—” he said, though Jack had never asked him to swear anything and was himself not the swearing kind.

Around that time Jack began to appear in his dreams, Jack as he had first seen him, curly-headed and smiling and buck-toothed, talking about getting up off his pockets and into the control zone, but the can of beans with the spoon handle jutting out and balanced on the log was there as well, in a cartoon shape and lurid colors that gave the dreams a flavor of comic obscenity.

The spoon handle was the kind that could be used as a tire iron.

And he would wake sometimes in grief, sometimes with the old sense of joy and release; the pillow sometimes wet, sometimes the sheets.

There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can’t fix it you’ve got to stand it.

Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal Brokeback Mountain (2005) dir. Ang Lee

[bookwyrminspiration]

Hello Quil!

I am here to finally tell you about the book I mentioned before that I think you might like. I have essentially needed to obsess over this book for months because I have to write a very long essay about it, so I have a lot of thoughts and hopefully you will enjoy some of them. 

The book is The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K Le Guin. You might have heard of it before, or maybe even read it, since I saw you reblogging a post about Le Guin a few months ago, but since you have not brought it up I’m just going to tell you about it and hope you will be interested! :)

To start, the book has this really interesting format where most of the chapters are the story narrated by the main characters, but every so often they’ll be a folktale from one of the cultures which relates to the story in an interesting way and really shows off the world building. 

As for the plot, the book is about this guy called Genly Ai who’s a representative of “the Ekumen”, which is kind of like the UN but for space, and he’s trying to get these people on a planet called Gethen to join so they can all benefit from trade. 

Two important things about Gethen:

It’s super cold there. A ton of the world is just ice sheets, and then there’s a small inhabitable section of land. This actually has some cool effects on their culture, like the fact that a ton of people use sledges, or that there’s literally dozens and dozens of words for different types and textures of snow (I thought you would like that part when I read it)

Almost everyone who lives there is androgynous. They don’t really have concepts of “opposite” sexes or genders except for animals, which are sexually dimorphic. So basically everyone is intersex and non-binary, which is pretty forward-thinking for a book written in 1969. 

The gender thing is pretty interesting, but my favorite parts of the book were the politics and the interpersonal relationships. I don’t want to spoil too much of the book if you haven’t read it, but there’s a lot of interesting political intrigue bits and towards the end two characters form a really close relationship which was fascinating to read about. 

Also this book just has really good world building. With the descriptions they gave I felt like it could actually be an alien world with its own culture and ways of life. All of the places had pretty awesome names, too. 

I think one of my favorite parts about this book is the narration, though, because the way the narrator talks about stuff is actually kind of funny, without really trying to be? Like there’s this one point where he’s running away from a burning village but talks about it so nonchalantly that it took me a whole page to realize he was actually running away from a burning village? He’s also a really bad judge of character but you don’t realize this until like halfway through the book, at which point it sort of becomes dramatic irony and I found it kind of entertaining?

Also this book uses the misunderstanding trope in a way that actually makes a lot of sense and it’s very cathartic when the characters finally understand each other, so that’s awesome. 

Anyway, I’ve been talking about this book for a while and I should probably wrap up but I guess I’ve just had a lot of thoughts, which makes sense given that I’ve had to think about a book that I actually love for months for a school assignment. I hope you read this book and enjoy it! 

I’m doing well (just helped to crowdsource a speech and I’m now on a not-field-trip and listening to random acoustic performances.) I hope you’re having a good day too!

- Amethyst

~

Hello Amethyst!! This is actually a little wild, because while I haven’t read the book myself, I have already (fairly recently) received an incredibly enthusiastic endorsement for the book from a classmate and I’ve read a short story set in its world about kemmer (i forget how to spell it). My fantasy class read it for gender week!

I’m always a sucker for worldbuilding, though. love hard/high fantasy. the more complex and confusing, the more I fall in love. i want to know the methods and frequency of food transportation across and between countries <33

I gotta admit though, I do think when I get around to it that the planet being named Gethen will throw me off for a little bit. I’ll just keep thinking of a cryptic blond guy in spandex jogger shorts. but!! you’re absolutely right I do love the language detail! reminds me of a project i did once that (anecdotally) showed how the vocabulary of a language reflects its location/culture.

okay, I went to find the title of the piece I read. it’s called “coming of age in karhide” by sov thade tage em ereb, of rer, in karhide, on gethen. so I am familiar, at least through that, of kinda how the gender and sex work on gethen! though I didn’t understand that in karhide on gethen part of the subtitle until now, since I didn’t know gethen was a planet. and I agree it’s quite fascinating. apparently the inspiration for creating the system was because le guin wanted to be able to write the sentence “the king was pregnant.” and while there are easier ways to get there (transgenderism), she did achieve that.

political intrigue!! love when we get to explore the political systems of the fantasy cultures and they have impact on the story. though sometimes it can get overbearing. there’s a balance, as with everything. side note: love the incorporation of politics in the lady trend memoirs. they’re tied to everything because the structure of the world shapes how you can act and move in it, but it doesn’t overtake the mc’s passions and focuses.

and of course the funny narrator is always a bonus. especially when its done well. i read a book the other day called the similars that had a pretty classic teenage nihilism kind of humor, and it wasn’t great (the book as a whole, but I knew that going in), but it was startling in a fun way to get to like page two and see, “Grasping for some semblance of order, I began naming my different moods. For example: ‘A Zombie Just Ate My Body,’ which is like being frostbitten and stun-gunner and about 94 percent dead inside. At least that one is bearable, unlike ‘Get That Serrated Knife Out Of My Chest,’ which is as painful as it sounds.”

ough the misunderstanding/miscommunication trope, the bane of my existence. it can be done really well, it just can also be done really really bad and when it’s bad? infuriating. being misunderstood/misjudged is one of my least favorite things irl. i don’t know why, it just sets off this like visceral frustration and need to correct it

anyway! i fully intend to read this book someday! I actually had meant to pick it up a few months ago, but it wasn’t where it should’ve been at the bookstore, and I was sneaking in a trip between other things to pick up a specific book for my dad’s birthday, so I didn’t have time to stop and look more thoroughly unfortunately.

i’m glad you’re doing well! i’m like a week late on this one, but i’m also alright--officially done with the semester. which is nice because no more schoolwork for a while. but also weird because I. am a very well trained worker who now needs to figure out what to do with myself in the absence of assignments. i’ve just been reading so far, but i’ll have to figure something out or i’ll lose my mind a little :)

[rodionray]

What is John silent about?

The bell rang, and a young girl rushed into the cafe. She immediately took a table and signaled the waiter.

"Mary?" the waiter exclaimed joyfully.

"John! What a coincidence! How many years has it been since I visited our town? Sit with me!"

"Yes, it's me," John smiled and sat opposite Mary. "The last time we saw each other was at graduation! How's your studies at the School of Arts?"

"In six months, my studies will be over! I don't want to jinx it, but my teacher promised to arrange some film auditions for me this year!"

"I'm so happy for you! You've always wanted this!"

"Want to hear something? Remember our graduation? Someone put an envelope with a large sum of money and a cut-out cover of the book 'Truth about Forever' by Sarah Dessen in my bag? Everyone knew that playing the lead role in the movie adaptation of that book was my dream! And everyone knew I couldn't afford the tuition! But no one ever confessed to the act! I left for New York without knowing the name of the person who gave me that chance. Well, finally, I found out who it was!"

"Really? Who was it?" John adjusted his glasses with thick lenses.

"Our classmate, Bobby! Three years ago, we accidentally met in New York. Turns out he's studying at the business school in the neighboring district! He invited me on a date and told me about his noble gesture! Unbelievable, John! Do you believe in destiny? Maybe, that's what it is! We got married a week ago! Oh..." Mary blushed, "I hope your high school feelings for me have cooled off by now? It's been a long time..."

"Of course, Mary. I'm so happy for you both," John smiled.

"And what about you? Are you not studying anywhere?" she asked, looking at his apron.

"I'm planning to. I think I'll work for another year and save up the necessary amount for tuition."

"But as far as I remember, you had money..."

"Yes, but life is a strange thing; you can find yourself in a predicament..."

"Too bad, really too bad. I'll have a coffee and a double Big Mac, John."

The guy took the order and returned to work. Ten minutes later, she left, bidding him farewell with just a smile and the jingle of the bell. That evening, the television in his house was silent, the radio wasn't playing, and the laptop was asleep. John sat at the table, and his hands instinctively reached for the bookshelf. He took out a book without a cover, placed it on the table, and put on his glasses. Pulling out a bookmark, John opened the book to the most worn-out page: "I must admit, unrequited love is much better than the real thing. I mean, it's perfect... Until something hasn't even started, you don't have to worry about it ending. It has endless potential."

[l-sincline]

Girlish Whimsy - Chapter 3

AO3 Link

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AO3 tags: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types, Ootori Kyouya/Original Female Character(s), Ootori Kyouya, Suoh Tamaki, Original Characters, Original Female Characters, Morinozuka Takashi, Haninozuka Mitsukuni, Fujioka Haruhi, Hitachiin Hikaru, Hitachiin Kaoru, Slow Burn, Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, smart people that arent smart about romance, Oblivious, Battle of Wits, Ouran High is one giant social chess game

Asuka has her eyes on the prize as soon as she steps foot on Ouran High School grounds. Her goal? Impress her father enough to convince him to let her remain as heir to the company instead of handing the title down to her younger brother. She knows going to school at Ouran will be one big chess game, especially coming in late at her second year- but she’s up for any challenge.

Asuka finds herself intrigued by the Host club and the inner workings of it. More than that, she sees untapped opportunities to grow her resume. Now all she needs is a partner on the inside who’s equally as motivated, and he was easier to find than she thought.

She hadn’t had to look very far to find the names of the rest of the hosts. A simple ask to Mayu and she rambled about them for quite awhile. It had worked– she was enticed. What Asuka had gotten stumped on, however, was the fact that the Ootori boy was not club president. Rather, the son of the school’s chairman– Tamaki Suoh– was. From everything Asuka could see, the pair were polar opposites. She’d gone back a few more times to observe while Mayu had fun- indulging in the tea and snacks so as to not seem like a loiterer, but never meeting with any of the hosts. Kyouya did not talk to her again after that first day, but she did notice that he and Tamaki were in her class. 

“Are you coming?” Mayu asked, standing above Asuka’s desk.

Asuka looked up, she’d been absentmindedly tapping a blank page in her notebook with her pen. She looked to the clock. For the past three days her obsession with figuring out the ‘deal’ with this host club had certainly possessed her. 

“No.” She finally answered, snapping the notebook shut and shoving it in her bag. 

“What? Why? Did your father call you home early?” 

“No.” She stood and slung the bag over her shoulder, using a free hand to smooth out the pale yellow skirt, “I just want to do other things today.” 

Mayu looked sad, but gave in easily. It seemed she knew she’d pushed her luck enough already. Asuka cocked her head to the side.

“You can still go without me. Surely you’re not still scared of showing up on your own? I’ve seen you talk to some of the girls too- you should get their numbers and hang out with them.” 

“But I like hanging out with you!” Mayu exclaimed, pouting. Asuka sighed.

“You can have more than one friend.” 

“I know…”

Asuka patted her on the head and moved to walk past her. 

“We can hang out this weekend– go out for brunch or something.” She looked back over her shoulder as she headed out the door, “Have fun!” 

Frankly, the silence on the way out was nice. She loved Mayu, but it’d been a bit since she’d been free from constant chatting. She supposed her social battery was running low. Ouran was a beautiful school, and she took the rare opportunity to admire it on the way out. Delicate carvings in the rails, soft curtains hanging from huge windows, and somehow not a spot of dust anywhere. It was even nicer outside with all the fountains and cleanly trimmed hedges. The bricks were all straight, the birds chirped cheerfully, and it was quiet enough to still hear a bit of chatter happening inside the building from open windows. The school was simply straight from a fairy tale. 

But with every list of pros there were always cons. She missed the rowdy hustle and bustle of the public school. Kids running all over each other to be the first ones out. The loud laughing and yelling, the general hijinks. To her, it felt that kids had been more free there– more at home. Ouran felt like a constant game of chess, and she’d fallen into it immediately. Starting to befriend some of the more beneficial girls in her class, maintaining an image. Ouran wasn’t a school for your basic, run of the mill kid. It was a playing field for the future rich and powerful. It was a breeding ground for relationships that would make or break you. Asuka couldn’t remember ever feeling like this at her old school. Maybe her father had intended this to click for her. Was this the behavior he wanted? 

She stopped in front of one of the fountains as the clock tower chimed. Asuka stared down at her reflection in the water, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. The water pattered back into itself quietly as a flock of birds flew overhead. She looked up across the pond- someone’s bag floated there. Sopping wet, papers and other contents strewn about. She ‘hmm’d to herself. Maybe this school wasn’t so different from the public one after all.

[lilmackiereads]

A TAXONOMY OF LOVE (2018) BY RACHAEL ALLEN - SPOILER-FILLED REVIEW

For the review WITHOUT SPOILERS, click here. To continue WITH spoilers, begin reading after the cover photo.

Overall Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

I am actually surprised with myself for giving this such a high rating as I am easily very bored with the teen romance novels. Of the few YA romance that I have read in the last year this has been my favorite which was a total surprise! I actually almost gave up reading it in the first 50 or so pages because I found the initial few chapters from Spence’s point of view unrealistic. For some reason I just didn’t feel like the dialogue and thought processes going on in this 13-year-old boy’s head felt accurate to the tween boys I’ve known growing up. There wasn’t enough swearing or boyish grossness. For instance, I feel like he needed a bit of a sprinkle of yucky (belching/ nose-picking/ farting/ name-calling) like the boys in Stephen King’s “The Body” aka Stand by Me (1986), The Sandlot (1993) or Stranger Things (2016) because many boys at this age are generally just pretty gross and obnoxious in my experience. (I grew up tween to teen between 2008-2018 and babysat lots of kids and now I work with middle school and high schoolers…)

HOWEVER, I think Allen did nail Spence’s dorkiness, which is why I ultimately kept reading because he is pretty adorable and his taxonomies are pretty funny.

Unlike John Green (The Fault in Our Stars, 2012 and Turtles All the Way Down, 2017) and Becky Albertalli (Simon vs the Homosapien Agenda, 2015) who are two of the best teen writers that can accurately display the minds of the opposite sex in my opinion, I feel like Allen struggles a bit with writing Spence’s point-of-view. I found Hope’s p-o-v more realistic (and relatable) as a female, but I think that Spence became more realistic as the book progressed from age 13 to 19. Especially once he hit puberty, I think the romantic stakes and thoughts were more accurate to a teenage boy. Haha. But what do I know? I’ve never been a teenage boy.

Hope reminded me a lot of myself because I’m generally happy-go-lucky, but I had a major emo-phase in high school that really warped my attitude at the time (and admittedly comes out to play occasionally as an adult.) I wish we had more chapters from her perspective. I was bummed out when her sister died. It's hard to lose someone so close to you, especially when they're so young. The only thing I didn't like about Hope was her last name, Birdsong. I think it was just a little too on-the-nose. If we're really going for the "girl next door" she could have just had a basic last name like Smith or Miller.

I really liked all the little parties the characters through for the holidays and the references to Hamilton (2015), Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), Grease (1978), and Pokémon. Jayla and Spencer's Pikachu and Ash costumes sounded adorable. I feel like Hope’s transition over the story is actually a lot like Sandy’s! Also, the two girls at the Halloween party who were Sandy before and after, such a cool costume idea!

Jayla and Dean were both kind of annoying at times, but ultimately, I think they had good hearts, but were just a little too self-involved for their own good. I really appreciated after Dean went to college and grew up a little and started to stand up for Jayla and Spencer.

I also like that the book goes over some important topics like racism and the Civil War, disability awareness, bullying, mental health, and using sexual situations as a coping mechanism.

My top three favorite parts are:

The Vice Principal’s Surprise -- I mean DICK CONFETTI? How much better can it get?

2. The Tree Stand in the Rain -- My little heart at all the romance:

3. The Lightning Bugs -- Just such a sweet and magical moment.

Would I Read this Book Again?

Low key kind of want to read it again right now! I hope they make a movie of this!

[greatwyrmgold]

There's a lot to criticize about modern education system in America (which apparently overlaps with what Denmark? does wrong), and this is definitely one of those things.

The example that's burned most vividly into my mind is one time in high school American lit when we had to write a 15-page paper about East of Eden...specifically one of a couple dozen narrow themes, based not off our own interpretations of the text, but off of interpretations we cited from books talking about East of Eden.

And further supported with quotes from the text, but I feel like the damage was done when we had to tie our interpretations to not only preselected themes (and the characters they applied to), but also prior scholars' opinions.

That Extra Credits video about Call of Juarez taught me more about why themes matter in a handful of blog posts than twelve years of public school, and they didn't even mention themes. School gave me the impression that themes were just something literature snobs looked for to justify their existence. It took an ASoIaF blog explaining why GoT sucked for me to understand why themes mattered.

...

Part of the issue might be that literature classes focus on High Art Classics, and it's easier to explain why themes matter when things go wrong than when things go right. But A. it's entirely possible to teach other kinds of art as contrast and B. it's not like High Art Classics are unblemished and without error.

My impression is that Shakespearean scholars mostly consider Romeo and Juliet to be, on some level, a tragic parody of true-love-against-all sorts of stories, portraying the love as naive and destructive. Yet "Romeo and Juliet" is used as a byname for that sort of guileless True Love as often as it's used to refer to the opposite, and that seems like a sign of a flawed parody.

Literature classes aren't failing to teach why themes matter because it's impossible to do in a classroom setting; there are ways to do it. If I had to guess, I'd guess that most literature classes aren't designed to teach students to analyze literature and understand why themes matter, but to teach them about Great Literature and why the classics matter.

Shakespeare is great, the Gatsby is great, Oedipus Rex and Antigone are great, fucking East of Eden is great; scholars have discussed them for decades, centuries, millennia, here are their conclusions, memorize them. It's like teaching history as a series of names and dates. Good for establishing and enforcing a Shared National Culture, shit at getting students to care about the subjects being studied. Also shit at getting students to respect the Classics, in my opinion.

But what would I know? I'm just a guy who swore never to touch another Steinbeck book after having to write 15 pages about, essentially, what other people thought East of Eden meant.

...

Shout-out to Crime and Punishment and my high school world lit teacher, though. The bit about Raskolnikov, Svidrigaïlov, and commentary on the ubermensch was the first time any of this theme garbage felt like something the author might have intended, instead of something later scholars interpreted over the story.

not a question, just wanted to say, it's been almost 10 years since i graduated high scool, the last time i picked up a book. It was due to how they forced us to read symbolism in every line, but also simultaniously demanded that the symbol they saw was the only option. Yet, a week ago, i started to watch your videos, and now i cant get enough of your boss design videos, that goes into the symbolism. Thank you for helping me appreciate the symbolism in games, and start thinking about them on more layers than the first, something that i struggled to do for so many years in school.

You're very welcome! That will be $180.000 in tuition, please.

In seriousness, I am also someone who got turned off HARD on critical analysis by the way that I got taught about it in school. Partly because, of course, I was a shitty teenage boy and engaging with art makes you vulnerable, which boys are taught is the single worst thing they can possibly be. I was also informed that it both IS gay and that it MAKES you gay, which is something I used to just sort of vaguely assume was terrifying and bad.

But also it was taught from the position of "you must know this to pass" instead of "hey check this cool shit out!" which just felt kind of cold and distant, like learning multiplication tables without any sense of what multiplication is useful for.

I have found the "hey check this cool shit out!" approach much more compelling, and I try to make my videos from that perspective.

[ageofbarbarians]

Pull Over

You and Harry take a drive along the coast only for a little pit stop…

Warnings: Adult Content 18+

Word Count: 4.9k

MASTERLIST

“You have to tell me everything about it. I don’t want any missing details! Do you think anything will happen?” Your best friend, Aluora, shouted excitedly through the phone. She had been your best friend since kindergarten but ever since you moved you haven’t seen her in a while. You two talked every day and it’s like nothing had ever changed even though you were on opposite sides of the country.

“I won’t I promise, but I don’t think so. I told myself I was going to take things slow. I told him that too. He hasn’t even kissed me yet! I mean I wouldn’t have minded because it’s just a kiss and I wanted to so bad but I’m not one to make the first move, you know that.” You shrugged. Your phone was set up against the sink and wall as you continued to get ready since you were on FaceTime.

“Wow what a gentleman. Most guys try to fuck after the first date. He must be a keeper.” Aloura laughed and you laughed with her.

“Tell me about it. I hope he is though. He’s one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met and god, he is so damn sexy.” You threw your head back at your last words and you could hear her laugh through the other end.

“Do you have any pictures of this mystery man? I still have yet to see what he looks like. You haven’t even told me his name!” She groaned. You grabbed your phone and went to his Instagram page and screenshotted a picture of him.

“Before I show you, you have to promise me you won’t freak out. I have no idea how it happened, but it did.” You point your finger at the screen and Aloura put both hands up in the air to show she wouldn’t.

You sent over the picture and as soon as it went through all you could hear was the loudest scream out could possibly imagine. You turned down the volume on your phone a few notches before she blew a speaker.

“Y/N, you’re fucking kidding me. The Harry Styles!? You’re lying.” She shook her head in disbelief. Aloura was a huge fan of his music, ever since he was a part of One Direction, which is one of the main reasons you didn’t tell her because you knew she’d freak out.

“I’m not lying. Again, I have no idea how it happened.” You continued to do your makeup, opening your mouth just so you could apply your mascara.

“How come there were no photos of you guys from your first date?” She asks curiously. Honestly, you don’t know how to answer because you’re not sure. You figured going out with a big name like Harry the paparazzi would be all over you two. But now that you recall, there was nothing.

“I… I actually don’t know?” You stood still for a minute trying to rack your brain of all of the possibilities.

You were in the bathroom finishing the final touches on your hair and makeup waiting for your date to arrive. You smiled at the thought of being able to see Harry again. The two of you were going on a second date. Nothing too fancy, just going for a drive along the coast and possibly a picnic if the weather decided to clear up. You hadn't been in California long but you were loving it so far. You only had a few friends here that you knew from high school since they moved for college but after you had graduated you just needed a change. Granted it was about three years since you had graduated, but better late than never right? 

You worked at a cafe that was down the street from your apartment and the money was good. You made a few friends through work but still had yet to hang out with any of them. You were a homebody and without Aloura here, things just weren't the same.  You still missed her more than anything. 

Right as you finished applying a thin layer of lip gloss you heard three knocks at the door. You gave yourself one last look over before turning off the light and exiting the bathroom to make your way to the front door.

“I gotta go he’s here. I love you!” You wave to Aloura and you end the FaceTime call. You took a deep breath, butterflies filling your stomach. You answered the door to see Harry standing there holding an assorted bouquet. Different types of white, yellow, orange, and pink flowers. You didn’t know what any of them were beside the sunflowers and daisies.

"Harry, you didn't have to get me flowers! You're too sweet." You grabbed them from him and stepped to the side so he could come into your apartment. You walked over to the small kitchen and tried to find a vase of some sort to put them into. You found a tall, skinny, black vase and filled it with water before setting the flowers inside to set on the counter. 

"Pretty flowers for a pretty girl. I couldn't just show up empty-handed. We’re you talking to somebody?" Harry shrugged casually and wrapped his arm around your waist before planting a small kiss on your cheek. You could feel your cheeks heat up at the small gesture as it took you slightly off guard since you guys haven't even shared a first kiss yet. Not that it was a huge deal, anyway, just a surprising gesture.

“Yeah, I was on the phone with my best friend. M’nervous to be honest.” You mumbled the last part. You played with your fingers for a moment waiting for a response from him.

“Nervous? What for?” He asked. There were plenty of reasons why you were nervous.

“I’m not sure.” You lied. Lying was never a good thing to start in a new relationship, or whatever this was, but you didn’t want to turn it into a whole thing.

You had just gotten out of a tough relationship a couple of months prior. One of your friends had introduced you to Harry and the two of you hit it off almost immediately. You told him from the very beginning that you wanted to take things slow, and he was doing just that. On your first date, the two of you went to a nice restaurant and got ice cream afterward. Even though you told him you wanted to take things slow, you were shocked he didn't kiss you after bringing you home. A kiss is just a kiss anyway. 

"I packed some food and wine for us. I thought maybe we could have a little picnic by the water. Has the weather cleared up any? I haven't looked outside." You grabbed the small basket from the fridge and pulled it out. There was an assortment of sandwiches, chips, fruit, and even a bottle of wine with some glasses just to spice things up a little. 

"A little bit, yeah. It's still pretty cloudy outside but it feels nice. Should we go?" Harry nodded his head and grabbed the small basket from your hands so you wouldn't have to carry it. You nodded in response and grabbed your phone and purse before the two of you walked down to his car. 

"You know, I had an amazing time last weekend. I know I told you multiple times already but I did." You stared at your feet as you walked down the hall and eventually down the stairs since you lived on the second floor of your apartment building. 

"I did too. M’really glad we're going out again. I wasn't expecting a picnic though, luckily I have a couple of extra blankets in m'car." Harry opened the door and stepped to the side holding it open so you could go first. He followed right behind you and then made his way back next to you. You noticed the yellow convertible sitting in front of your complex and you immediately knew it was Harry's. He had such a knack for cars and this just had to be one of them.

"What kind of car is this, H? I absolutely love it." Harry opened the door for you and you slipped into the passenger seat, whispering a small thank you. What a gentleman.

"It's a 1972 Ferrari Dino. I just got it not that long ago, it's one of m'new favorites." Harry got into the driver's seat and sat the basket down by your feet since there was no backseat. He put the keys in the ignition and as he turned them, the old-fashion yellow car purred to life. You gently ran your fingers over the black leather interior and looked around. It was an extremely nice car. 

"I love it. It even matches my dress." You looked down at the pale yellow sundress with little daisies printed all over. It was one you had just bought recently and you figured this date would be perfect to wear it for the first time. It wasn't anything special but it was a new favorite piece. 

"You look absolutely beautiful, Y/N. M'sorry I didn't say anything sooner." Harry scanned your body for a minute and the action alone sent chills down your spine. There was just something so intimidating about his gaze that you found it hard to make eye contact with him sometimes.

"You don't have to apologize, it's not like I was expecting any sort of compliment. But thank you." You blushed at his compliment and looked down to your feet. Harry pulled away from the curb and began driving towards the coast. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses that seemed to fit his face perfectly. He turned up the radio a bit and music played softly throughout the car. 

After driving for about fifteen minutes, the drive was filled with quiet music coming from the radio, but silence from the two of you. As you observed the scenery and you let him focus on driving. The wind had picked up which caused your dress to ride up slightly on your freshly shaven legs. Harry put his hand on your thigh and began to rub small circles with his thumb. The simple touch sent jolts of electricity through your body. He hadn't even done anything and he was already driving you crazy. You bit your lip before looking over at him, and he had the smallest smirk on his face, almost like he knew the effect he had on you. You observed his features from the side and scanned his body. He was wearing a black button-up shirt that was rolled up on his arms and only buttoned about halfway, exposing the tattoos on his chest. It was accompanied by a pair of black skinny jeans and a black pair of Vans. Rings scattered his fingers and he had a chain necklace with a cross at the end. The look was so simple yet he looked so insanely hot. His curly locks were blowing in the wind and every few minutes he would take his hand off the wheel and push them back, still keeping his other hand on your thigh. His hand moved up your thigh slightly, the dress moving over the top of his hand.

You looked back out the window to avoid any more wandering thoughts but they genuinely were getting the best of you. You had made a promise to yourself to take things slowly but there was just something about Harry that made you want to forget all of that. You trusted him fully, he hasn’t given you a reason not to. He was completely understanding of wanting to take things slow because of your past relationship and he never tried to break any of those boundaries thus far.

The thoughts never strayed though. You thought about what his fingers and mouth might feel like against your core, what his lips would feel like intertwined with yours. Everything about what his touch would be like took over your mind. 

You shifted in your seat and you could feel his eyes on you. A wave of heat crept to your core and you bit your lip again. All of the possibilities going through your mind.

We're going slow. You made a promise to yourself.

Harry's hand moved a little further, his fingers gripping your inner thigh and his thumb still rubbing small circles. Every time he would make a circle his thumb would slightly graze the inner part of your leg that meets your pelvic bone. You leaned your head to the side against the headrest and let out a shaky breath, hoping he wouldn't notice. You could feel your cheeks getting hot at the simple contact but he was just lighting you on fire. 

“Y/N I know you want to take things slowly but fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” His voice was deep and he adjusted in his seat, pulling on the material of his jeans to relieve some of the stress.

“In a good way, I’m hoping?” You laughed softly and Harry laughed with you.

“Yes. In a great way even. Frustrating, but a good way.” He nodded and squeezed your thigh a little tighter this time. You put your hand over the top of his and move it closer to your core, assuming he’d gotten the hint.

"Tell me to stop, and I'll stop." He spoke quietly, but just quietly enough for you to hear him. His thumb grazed over your heat, slowly starting to rub small circles over the clothed damp center. He continued his slow, circular movements for a few minutes and every time he made a complete pass you could just feel yourself getting hotter.

"Don't stop." You shook your head and as you did, you could feel the dampness becoming more prominent and you knew he could feel it too. You closed your eyes, and let the overwhelming feelings just take control. You lifted your dress ever so slightly to reveal the black lace underwear you put on this morning. Harry’s eyes went back and forth between your hips and the road. A small groan left his lips as he tried to observe the material as best as he could while still trying to focus on driving.

"Fuck, Y/N, you're going to make me crash this damn car.” Harry chuckled but never stopped his movements, if anything he sped them up. A soft moan left your lips that you were praying he heard just to get more of a rise out of him.

"Should I pull over somewhere? Say the word and I will." He asked swiftly, eyes going back and forth between you and the road again. You nodded your head but that wasn't good enough for him.

"I want to hear you say it. Do you want me to pull over?" His voice was low. You could hear the dominance in his voice and it was incredibly sexy. 

"Pull over." And without a second thought, Harry quickly pulled over down a dirt road that seemed like it would lead down towards the water. He sped up to get down faster and you hit a part of the beach that was pretty private. There wasn't anybody around and it was almost like he knew this was here. Maybe it was just sheer luck. Or was that his plan. 

Harry faced his car towards the rocky cliff that was near the entrance of his tiny private beach. He threw the car into park and turned off the ignition. He undid both your seatbelts and focused all of his attention on you. His fingers moved over your clothed entrance again, teasing you at every chance he could get.

"Please don't be a tease, H." You moaned, shifting your hips to gain more friction against his hands. His movements would go at a slow, steady pace before he would speed them up again and repeat the process all over again. 

"Let's get out, yeah?" Harry opened his door before rushing over to your side and opening your door for you. He put one arm behind your back and the other underneath your legs before lifting you out. He brought you to the front of the car and sat you on the hood. It wasn't hot but it was warm enough to make your legs sweat a little. It was a nice heat, but from how hot and bothered you were it definitely wasn't helping.

"Are you sure you want me on the hood of the car? You just said you just got it." You questioned. Harry positioned his body between your legs and brought one of his hands to the back of your neck.

"That's exactly where I want you, darling." He smirked before his lips crashed down onto yours. You took in a deep breath through your nose as the action caught you slightly off guard. Your eyes fluttered closed and you leaned a little more to the kiss. His tongue grazed your bottom lip, requestion permission to enter. You opened your mouth slightly to allow his tongue to slip in, both of yours fighting for dominance. At the same time, a groan rumbled from his chest as a moan escaped yours.

Harry's lips moved from yours to your cheek, to your neck, and down towards your collar bones, sucking and biting a little harder in some places that you knew were bound to leave lilac marks. With every kiss, he just kept sinking lower and lower until he was on his knees in front of your clothed core. He bunched up your dress at your waist and placed his fingertips at the sides of the lace underwear.

"Y/N, I mean it, tell me to stop at any point and I will. If anything gets too rough or your uncomfortable just tell me."

"I want you to do anything but stop. Please." You whimpered. His eyes flashed a darker shade of green before he ripped the lace right of your hips. The tear creates a slight sting against your skin. 

"Harry those were my favorite!" You whined. 

"I'll buy you more, I promise." He smirked as one of his hands made contact with your heat. Arousal pooled between your legs with every little touch he made and it was clear that he knew it was because of him. His thumb made circles against your bundle of nerves and the small bit of pressure caused a moan to escape past your lips.

"I wanna taste you, darling." He whispered just loud enough for you to hear.

"Please," was all you could say before his mouth attacked your core. A lengthy moan escaped your lips at the fact he had finally made some sort of contact. He sucked on your bundle of nerves causing your legs to shake slightly. You're pretty sure he noticed as his arms wrapped around them to keep you as still as he could.

"Fuck, H," You moaned as Harry licked a long slow strip up your core. Your hands moved to his hair and you tugged slightly which earned a groan from him that vibrated against you. His fingers teased your entrance before he entered one finger, curving it upwards to hit the spot you didn't even know existed. A louder moan left your lips as he pumped one of his fingers in and out of you before adding another one. You looked down at him to see all of the dirty things he was doing to you. Right as you looked down at him you noticed that his eyes were already focused on you, observing every breath, moan, and whimper you made under his touch. 

"Shit, I think I'm going to cum, fuck, Harry, don't stop," You gasped as you felt the familiar feeling beginning to spiral in your stomach. You threw your head back and let out a series of moans. Before you could even feel the release of your climax, Harry halted all of his movements, removed his fingers, and stood up, towering over you. His hands cupped your face before planting a kiss on your lips. 

"How about some wine, yeah?" Harry smirked as you stared at him in disbelief. Was he seriously just about to leave you like this?

"W-what the fuck?" That was all you could manage to say. You genuinely were at a loss for words. What the fuck is this?

Harry walked over to the back of his car and grabbed a couple of blankets that he had mentioned he had. He started to set them up as you just sat on the hood of his car in disbelief. As he sat down on the blankets he began to take the wine and glasses out of the basket. 

You hopped off the hood of the car and sat down next to Harry as he poured some wine for the both of you. He handed you yours first as you glared at him and you pretty much chugged the glass from frustration. Not that it was something you shouldn't get pissed about, but you were livid. 

"What's the matter, love?" Harry had a stupid grin on his face, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. You grabbed the bottle of wine from his hands and poured yourself another glass, drinking this one just as fast as the other.

"Oh nothing, just having the worst experience of getting denied what was probably going to be the best orgasm of my entire life. What the fuck do you think is wrong Harry?" You shot at him. You rolled your eyes and faced the water and watched the waves crash to shore. You felt one of his hands grab your jaw and he turned your head towards him.

"The best, eh?" He smirked and you couldn't help but roll your eyes again.

"At this point, make it the worst." You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest. You made eye contact with Harry and he had a serious look on his face with one of his brows raised. You knew you hit a nerve. 

You felt one of Harry's hands wrap around your wrist and pull you up, practically dragging you towards his car. He walked around to the front and pushed you down over the top of the hood of the car. You felt your dress bunch up around your hips and your arms were forced behind your back, leaving your chest and your head pressed up against the hood. Harry's lips attacked your heat again only for a moment before he gripped your dainty wrists with one of his hands. You heard the zipper of his jeans and knew he was lowering his jeans to about the middle of his thighs. He teased your slick folds with the tip of his dick.

"Fuck Harry, please don't be a tease I hate that shit." You groaned. It was only seconds after the words left your mouth before you felt him stretching you out. A long moan escaped your lips at his size. He was honestly bigger than you were expecting him to be.

Harry's pace started slow, giving you some time to adjust to him but it wasn't long before his thrusts became sharper and quicker. You so badly wanted to just run your hands all over his body and watch all of his movements but it didn't seem like it was going to happen since you were facing away from him and it didn't seem like he was going to let go of your wrists anytime soon.

"We'll see about that being the worst, love," Harry whispered in your ear before sending another sharp thrust into you. A loud whimper left your mouth and your moans were almost becoming pornographic. He had a perfect rhythm going and it didn't seem he was going to let up anytime soon. His thrusts were sharp and hard, not giving you any mercy. 

He let go of your wrists but one of his hands came up and wrapped itself around your throat. He didn't apply any pressure since he wasn't sure if you were okay with it but your next words nearly sent him over the edge.

"Choke me, Styles." 

His hand squeezed around your throat and you gasped at the feeling, a smile playing across your lips. You looked ahead at the waves and it was almost like it was resembling how he was making you feel. 

Being choked was one of your favorite things but nobody could ever seem to do it right or they were just too scared to hurt you. You liked the pain and you didn't mind if you even had bruises, in the end, it was just a nice reminder of the time you had 

It was almost like he was reading your thoughts as you felt a hard smack across your ass, sending out another loud moan. Harry reached his free hand down and began rubbing fast circles on your clit. Tears brimmed your eyes from the feelings being so overwhelming. Your vision was slowly going black from him choking you, but somehow it was just even more arousing. His hand released from around your throat and you gasped for air, the stars that were clouding your vision starting to disappear.

"Such a good girl," Harry groaned as he slowed his pace, trying to elongate the moment in any way that he could. His thrusts were still sharp and it was nearly perfect with every spot he was hitting.

"Oh my god." You gasped. As the familiar feeling of your climax starts to bubble in your stomach, you could feel yourself tightening around him.

"Fuck, if you don't stop tightening around me I won't last much longer," Harry groaned as he threw his head back.

"Shit, please let me cum, H, please! I'm so close," You begged. Harry's movements sped up as you pleaded.

"Cum for me, darling," He whispered in your ear and that was all you needed before you exploded around him. You cried out his name as he kept moving quick circles on your clit, riding you through your orgasm.

"Fuck, I'm going to finish," Harry groaned and you could feel his thrusts getting sloppier.

"I want to taste you," You felt Harry pull out of you and you stood up before dropping to your knees. He was much bigger than you were anticipating. Your lips wrapped around his slick head and you started bobbing your head up and down, using your hand for the rest that you couldn't fit into your mouth.

"Look at you and those pretty little lips around my cock," Harry hissed and his dirty words made you moan. You could feel him twitch and you just knew he was going to cum soon. You quickened your pace and played with his balls with your free hand, causing a loud moan to escape from him. You took his length as far back into your throat as you could which released another moan from him. You looked up at him with innocent eyes which only seemed to weaken him.

"Shit, Y/N, I'm cumming," Harry groaned and you felt his length twitch inside your mouth as the warm, salty liquid shot down the back of your throat. You continued to suck him off, trying to get every last little bit of him that you could. 

You pulled him out of your mouth with a 'pop' and licked a slow, teasing stripe against his length before standing to your feet. You grabbed onto Harry's arms since you were unsteady and he let out a small laugh.  Your dress fell back down hitting the middle of your thighs and Harry pulled up his boxers and jeans, adjusting himself. His hands came up and cupped themselves against both sides of your face before he placed a slow, passionate kiss against your lips. His tongue intertwined with yours slowly to fight for dominance. 

"Let's get you home and cleaned up, yeah? Do you wanna come back to mine?" He whispered as he barely pulled away from you, noses touching.

"Only if I can get more of you," You whispered back, tangling your fingers in his hair at the nape of his neck and tugging back slightly to expose more of his neck before you started planting a mark on his jaw just below his ear. He let out a shaky breath and his hands gripped around your ass.

"Ready for round two already?" He smirked, letting you leave a mark on him. It was only fair since he left multiple on you.

"After that? I'll never get enough of you." You whispered in his ear before turning away to grab all of the belongings that you left a little way down the beach. Harry wasn't far behind you as he grabbed the blankets and shook off all of the sand before folding them up. You walked back to the car and he was quick to open the door for you before he got in himself. He put the keys in the ignition and his car purred to life. Before he started to pull away he leaned over a placed a firm kiss against your lips.

"How about we go back and I fuck you properly this time?" He whispered in your ear before tugging on your earlobe with his teeth. You faced him as a wicked grin flashed across his face and his eyes filled with lust. You bit your lip and nodded your head, leaving you at a loss for words.

 After tonight, you were going to be absolutely wrecked. 

**************

It’s been so long since I’ve written any one shots wow, but this is the first one for this account((:        How would we feel about a part 2?(;