#apparently i NEED to write this. i cannot start another thing though!

[rarepairnation]

do you think faramir ever found out about gandalf’s part in denethor’s death. oh yes i do think he had a part in it. i think he knew him too long to not know the effect of what he said. i’m generally very enamored by the concept of the gandalf faramir wizard-pupil relationship being very close so just a blanket disclosure that that is the theory i am operating from but like…no matter how much he cares for and trusts gandalf. it was his father he cried out for at the end. and everyone tries to keep the specifics of what happened in the house of the stewards at the end from him but i mean, he is who he is. if he sits beregond or pippin down and very seriously says to them i will not have you keep secrets from me any longer, even if it is for my own sake. i mean it is over for them. i just think that it would take him a certain amount of time to process through how he feels about all of it at all and eventually he comes down solidly on the side of being absolutely incandescently angry. which is an emotion he has never ever directed towards gandalf and i don't think either of them come out of the confrontation particularly well at all.

i mean its so complicated because faramir cannot tell if what he's feeling is grief at all and in there is also a certain amount of guilt for feeling. relieved? freed? by the absence of that presence at the same time as there is an enormous gaping hole in the middle of his life. a part of his foundation has been torn out and people address him as lord steward and the tower guard salutes him as he goes by and he thinks that isn't me that should never have been me. and i think maybe he thinks i would have traded any amount of scorn for having him back. and when he finds out that gandalf was there, that he stood by and watched - no, he may as well have lit the pyre himself - no, it is neither, but the point is that he did nothing to stop it. he did nothing to stop it and by doing that he has robbed faramir of any choice in reconciling - OR CHOOSING NOT TO - with his father because his father is dead and he will never know how he would have loved him without the war. it IS his father's own fault but he cannot blame him for it. not when he knows precisely how he got there and precisely why he made the choices he did. and of course it is the fault of the war but he cannot shout at the war and the war is gone and over and they have won but faramir is not feeling victorious in the least and gandalf is Right There and he is Someone To Blame.

gandalf does not want to tell him what he said, at the end. but faramir makes him, or perhaps is he so angry that he takes it by force - for a moment he is the very image of his father and his mind is the same keen lance that denethor's had always been - and he should not be able to but perhaps gandalf lets him - if faramir takes it then he does not need to be responsible for needing to tell him. and faramir goes very still and quiet and terribly, terribly coldly he says you should never have taken me from him and gandalf says you do not understand he would have burned you with him and he says maybe you should have let him. and he says i would always have died for him. and he says perhaps it is you that does not understand.

i don't know how much of it he means. i don't know how he reconciles all this with his very real love for gandalf (perhaps easily. after all, he has spent a very long time knowing love as a double-edged blade). i don't know if he ever completely forgives him (it is always a scar, even if he does). but. just thinking about it.

[linguistwho]

So apparently there's an official Gallifreyan translator now.

On the one hand, I'm really excited that Sherman's Circular is becoming more and more canon. On the other hand, it feels weird that such major part of the fandom is now being kinda... corporatized. But this blog isn't for my opinions and I don't want to influence yours. All I will say with conviction is that I really hope they credit the original creator.

However, for those who want some more info, I did a comparison between the new "official" translator, the old translator that most people just getting into Gallifreyan probably used, and my own style.

The first image in black is the old translator, the second in yellow on blue is the new one, and the third in blue is my style from two years ago, and all of them say "Never Give Up, Never Give In". (Though only mine includes punctuation). The first and biggest difference between the computer-translated ones and mine is that mine has the various words interlocked. This is something that anyone can do when they write the Gallifreyan on their own, little practice required, but it cannot be done by the computer translators. They only ever put the words in fixed, equidistant positions. Another major difference is the curve of the connecting lines -- this is another thing that neither translator will do for you. The old translator does allow you to curve the lines yourself, but is very finicky about it. The dots are worth noting as well -- in both translators, they are quite small, while I make them big and pretty separated, for ease of reading. In other words, in terms of style and readability, these computer translators will never replace those created manually.

However, there are clear benefits to the translators. They are extremely helpful for those who are just getting into Gallifreyan and want to double-check their work. So long as you remember that what really matters for readability -- the shapes and positions of the circles and the number of lines and dots -- the rest is just stylistic flourishes. And both allow you to download the Gallifreyan as a .svg so that you can edit it in Inkscape or Illustrator or whatever vector editing software you prefer. As for the comparison between the two translators, the new one has more color customization, and will probably better match how Gallifreyan appears on-screen (though I find it interesting that the Gallifreyan on the new Sonic has the starting point of each word be at the furthest point from the center of the circle, while this translator has them at the usual bottom), but the old one allows for more in-engine editing, and as the lines actually connect to somewhere and the dots are slightly larger, it is easier to read.

TL,DR: Manually-made Gallifreyan still allows for far more stylization and is generally the most easily readable, but both translating websites can be useful, especially as both can be downloaded as editable .svg files. The old one is more readable and has in-engine editing capabilities, but the new one allows for color customization and may be more accurate to what is seen on-screen. And Sherman needs to be credited for its creation.

[finnlongman]

I've been thinking about this passage from The Butterfly Assassin. In context, this is a conversation about trying to be better than the worst version of yourself (and, for those who haven't read the book, "the worst version" of Isabel is a literal contract killer, so the stakes aren't low here). I think of it often in the context of choosing to nurture your kinder instincts, your second thoughts, your better choices, even when they don't come naturally, but it struck me that it works too when thinking about the world.

The world often -- at the moment, and always -- feels like a black hole. There is so much bad in the world. There are so many awful things happening that I can do nothing about, that you can do nothing about, that hundreds of people making a concerted effort can do nothing about. That is devastating and disempowering and the apparent impossibility of reducing the amount of awfulness in the world can make us completely disinclined to try.

We cannot, it seems, make the black hole smaller.

But can we light a candle? A torch? A single lightbulb?

Perhaps we can't subtract badness from the world. Can we, though, add goodness? Can we create some small lights, whether that's being there for a friend or making life easier for a colleague or doing a job that, ultimately, helps someone we'll never meet -- even if what we do is far behind the scenes without a clear sense of the direct impact? Can we make somebody smile, and remind somebody they're not alone, and be a friend to someone desperate for connection?

These candles, lit one by one, will not shrink the size of the black hole. But they will make it a little easier for people around you to see.

I think, over recent months, that I have found myself so focused on what I couldn't do that I lost sight of what I could, especially when what I could do seemed mundane and tiny in the grand scheme of things. But the grand scheme of things is not the only measure by which we should look at these things. A single candle to the darkness of the world might be a lighthouse to the one person who sees it.

The small goodness matters. Even if it doesn't change the world or fix anything or even save lives. There is never a situation in which putting more goodness into the world is a bad thing, however inadequate it may feel in scope or quantity. It is hard to take time for the candles when I'm focused on the black holes, but I'm trying to shift my focus to them, because I've felt so lost and helpless amidst the big picture and I've lost sight of the personal. Perhaps in this, I've been so focused on the forest I can't see the tree that needs watering.

There are a lot of big things I don't have any power over. There are a lot of small things I do. There are a lot of big evils I cannot stop, and a lot of small goodnesses I can choose, every day.

There's a reason I often write light another candle in copies of TBA that I sign for people, but I think I need to start listening to my own advice.

[darkpoisonouslove]

HotD S02E08

I do not want to do this but I also want to be fucking done with this season so I'm powering through.

TL;DR: What the fuck even was that finale? Also, a relevant question - WHERE is the finale? 'Cuz, like, nothing happened except for more setup and the total assassination of the source material. This is gonna be full of negativity.

gif by oscarwildebutwilder

(Couldn't resist when I saw Freddy Fox.)

Tyland Lannister was the only good part of this episode. He was having such a bad time but he did not give up and not only did he secure allies for the war, but he also got to sleep with a whole harem. Good for him!

The way that they have Larys smuggle Aegon out of King's Landing to protect him from his own brother instead of from Rhaenyra... Though, he also inadvertently ends up protecting him from Rhaenyra but that whole thing is purely because of Alicent. I just... RIP any sort of integrity this show fucking had. But I'm gonna talk about that later. At least that provides us with an interesting parallel between Alicent and Larys. She was horrified when he killed his family but now she's the one sacrificing her son and Larys ended up saving him? Again, for his own benefit but that doesn't change the fact that he has taken on the burden that caring for Aegon will be for the next however many months while Alicent just... did that (*whispers* what the fuck). What we need now is for Alicent to get Helaena's development from the book. She knowingly chose to give up Aegon to death but then he is the last of her children that evades death. Imagine her seeing him come back to King's Landing and being unable to look him in the eye, knowing she chose to let him die but at the same time wanting to hug him because he is all she has left... because of Larys. Insane!

I can see how much everyone cares for Rhaena since she disappeared from the convoy and no one even fucking noticed apparently! Or if they did, they just didn't give a shit. They really are putting her through the wringer for that dragon... and they didn't even give it to her. I cannot believe that they just decided to fucking leave it there. At least let her claim it to close the season. That way the Blacks would gain even more power even if no one knew it yet. It would have been some kind of closure if only on 1 out of 10 fronts. But no!

Jace and the horrible, terrible, no good, really bad days. His face when Rhaenyra asked Addam to go with her AND left him to deal with the "mongrels". Ooh, sorry for that rough patch, buddy, hang in there! (Not Baela only appearing when she has to tell him how awesome and totally Targaryen and fit for the throne he is after her last appearance was her telling her grandfather how awesome and totally fit for the throne of Driftmark Joffrey would be. Hmm... almost like there's a fucking pattern!) I think it would have been more interesting if Jace had suggested that they get bastards to ride the dragons. That would have required them to write him an arc during this season where he confronts his feelings on it first but think about it! He knows he's a bastard and that's enough to let him have a dragon. So it should be enough for other Targaryen bastards. Rhaenyra would be the one to protest based on her ideas of the dragons being the Targaryens' key to ruling but she's already bending the rules for her own sons. What if she bends them further to win this war? And that way Jace would be the one to slowly but surely be dismantling the pillars upon which the Targaryen supremacy is built like he's already done with his very existence. Rhaenyra would have still started this but it would be Jace realizing that he's probably going to face another war for his own succession anyway and he decides to pull out all the stops and prove himself in this war plus simultaneously watch out for those who would be future obstacles to him and weed them out right now.

Fucking clown behavior from Corlys once again. I am so glad Alyn just ripped into him like that.

What exactly was Gwayne thinking bringing up Criston and Alicent's affair so publicly and drawing everyone's attention? There's no way none of the other soldiers around them didn't hear what they were discussing. Great way to protect your sister's virtue, buddy! The way Criston also went through an existential crisis this season - just like Alicent - and has come out of it just as jaded, having lost his faith and his sense of purpose. The writers really fucking copy-pasted that arc, huh? On both characters obsessed with Rhaenyra. As if they're trying to imply that without Rhaenyra the world will end. Oh, wait! Did I say imply? They are outright stating it! But yeah, I want to be invested in the Alicole angst of him sniffing her handkerchief but I can't, knowing that Alicent was on her way to betray him and everyone else on her side. (*whispers* what the fuck)

Aemond is coming up so desperate and this could be interesting if they explore how he was so sure he could do it himself but now he has to face the fact that he's not a one-man(-and-dragon) army and he needs help. Which would have been easier to get if he hadn't torched his brother. He might have even persuaded Helaena to join him then, or at least Aegon could have if they had fucking let him and Helaena seek comfort in each other over their son's death. Aegon, due to their extenuating circumstances, could have chosen to stoke her feelings of anger and grief over Jaehaerys contrarily to how he tried to avoid that in 2x02 when he didn't say anything to her on the stairs because all he had was rage and she wasn't looking for that. The world we could have been living in! But no! We have this instead where Aemond is now turning on all of his family members and threatening their lives while Daemon has overcome his ideas to overthrow Rhaenyra and is now a loyal little soldier. At least can they give us some Aemond and Jacaerys parallels? Both feel that that is something making them not enough rn and if Aemond is to have a relationship with Alys, it would be interesting to see him struggle the same as Jace, who is also a bastard like her.

Apparently, if you are tripping balls for long enough, you will completely change your entire personality and start believing in magic and fate and the divine right of kings - oops, sorry, queens - even though you were the one character that openly admitted that it wasn't some magic-prophecy bullshit that got your house the throne but your flying nuclear lizards. Good to know! At least the writers had the decency to give us two different visions that clearly intersect somewhere but also wildly diverge. We didn't get to see Helaena's vision but she was just as certain in Aegon sitting the throne as Daemon was in Rhaenyra sitting it. Though, clearly Helaena sees further since his vision ended at that point but Helaena was also there and has seen beyond it. At least that way they keep the intrigue because if we know for certain one side is ordained by the gods to save the realm, then what's the point of watching the show further? That is to say, they could have fucked this up even more but they managed to not destroy their basic premise.

Love how they kept Helaena's dreamer side so vague until now and suddenly bam! She has a very clear map of when and how Aemond will die. She might not know the exact day but that was pretty specific, especially compared to her other visions. I am at least relieved that it's mostly because of the visions that she doesn't want to join Aemond, since she knows what will happen. It still feels like "women don't like war because they're so gentle" but a little less annoying nonetheless. (Not Rhaenyra saying that Helaena doesn't like riding Dreamfyre. And that on the heels of Aegon saying that Sunfyre is dead which is a confirmation because he would be able to feel it. My inner monologue rn: kill kill die kill.)

Ser Alfred when Daemon declared for Rhaenyra:

I was starting to think that he had just decided to cut his losses and fuck off to another kingdom. Rhaenyra clearly sent him away to get rid of him and showing up at Harrenhal to demand from the Daemon that left Dragonstone to check with his wife would have gotten him killed. It would have made sense for him to bail. Why did it take him so long to arrive? I know he wasn't on a dragon but this seems like some awfully convenient timing.

Rhaenyra still wringing her hands after she had 30-40 people die a horrifying, excruciating death AND broke the rules so bad that she pissed off all her dragon tamers is ABSOLUTELY. FUCKING. RIDICULOUS. Crack? Is it crack you smoke? Mysaria being there to urge her further into war while telling her how right and just she is is starting to feel a whole lot like they're setting up Mysaria to be the devil on her shoulder while Alicent, who wants peace, is the angel on the other shoulder. It's completely devoid of logic and stupid. I wish they would just cut that shit out.

This episode completely turned me off from Rhaenicent. I just cannot support this bullshit. I don't care how many parallels they've woven in between Alicent and Rhaenyra and how they were always each other's answer because they had what the other wanted and balanced each other out. This behavior is just completely unacceptable from a storytelling perspective, from a character perspective, from any kind of perspective, especially from Alicent.

What the fuck are they implying that Alicent is now fReE and she has shed the chains that kept her suffering and self-sacrificing?! She just agreed to let her son get killed so that she could save the realm from a war. That sounds exactly like self-sacrificing! Except that it's worse because she's not just sacrificing herself, but her child! (Also, fucking watch the writers imply that being disabled means you're completely disposable because you'd be better off dead anyway!) And that's coming after she spent 15-20 years agonizing over the fact that Rhaenyra will kill her sons just because they're a challenge to her claim to the throne! That was the whole reason why she put Aegon on the throne in the first place! How did it even occur to her to go to Rhaenyra at all when now more than ever there is no way to end this war without one of the claimants to the throne dying?????

Season 1 Alicent: *stands in front of a dragon for Aegon*

Season 2 Alicent: *agrees to let Rhaenyra execute Aegon*

Like??????????? WHAT. THE. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I hate, haTE, HATE how they are still trying to present Rhaenyra's bid for Aegon's head as just or at least deserved because Lucerys got killed. Aren't you fucking forgetting that her husband ordered the decapitation of Aegon's six-year-old child????????? There was a son taken! Rhaenyra was allegedly horrified but now she is still thirsty for blood and wants Aegon's head. And when she kills him, she'll want Aemond's head - for Lucerys and because of all the innocent people he's killed, of course, not because he's also a threat to her claim. And when he's dead, she'll want Daeron's head if he dares to join his family and try to fight her. The attempts to present her as the hero are so outrAGEOUS... Why am I even watching this show? I should stop watching this show!

Otto being imprisoned was both "I fucking knew it!" and "Thank god he's alive at least!" I knew to be worried when Aemond wanted him back and Alicent said he hadn't responded to her letters.

[dandelion-wings]

In the classic 'warmups that ate my whole writing session,' have some not-so-baby Kaeya (he's like fourteen here, but still fairly newly-come to the Dawn Winery) from yet another AU @theabysscomeshome and I were kicking around on Discord yesterday. >> I like the Dawn Winery family vibes, okay.

---

They have a lot of trust to rebuild after the incident. Master Crepus says that they need to start with more focused language lessons, so that they can actually explain to Kaeya what's going on. Adelinde does understand where he's coming from, but she thinks it needs to be a little more basic than that.

Fortunately, Kaeya seems to have latched onto her as the safest person around: domestic, slight of build, without a Vision and apparently not combat-trained. He doesn't have to know what the head housemaid has taught her to do with kitchen knives (or what she has done with them for Master Diluc, the once, and what she would gladly do for him). She takes care to be always gentle with him, to keep her voice soft, to reinforce that perception of safety. To make her someone he doesn't feel he has to flee.

Master Crepus looks sorrowful every time Kaeya ducks behind her when he enters the room. He understands why, though, and he doesn't press. There's time enough for Kaeya to re-learn how kind he, too, can be. For now, Master Crepus reassigns Adelinde from all her other duties. Taking care of Kaeya is one of only two she has to concern herself with. Keeping watch on him is the other.

He *was* the other half of the incident, after all. What he did cannot happen ever again.

Despite that reassignment, Adelinde carries on with some of a housemaid's work, picking and choosing whatever seems to suit Kaeya's needs that day. It means she spends a lot of time in the kitchen. He may not trust them, but putting temptation in front of him long enough does induce him to eat. And everyone from the Cathedral's healers to the fieldworkers agree that he absolutely needs to be fed.

"Two cups of flour," Adelinde tells him, showing him the bag, then each scoop, as she measures it into the bowl. Formal language lessons are all well and good, but she knows that the expensive Akademiya tutor isn't teaching him this vocabulary. That he can see in the process that she's not putting anything harmful into the food is just as important.

(That first potion was, she thinks, a terrible idea. It was absolutely necessary; the Mages' taint *had* to be cleared, or it might have killed him or worse. And there was no way to tell him in words why it was given, or what the effects would be. But they never should have slipped it into his food.)

"Salt," she goes on, showing him the block. "We'll scrape some off. That's enough. Then we'll cut in the butter, and the lard. You want to taste that? It won't taste good, but all right. Now we sprinkle milk over it as we knead it together. I'll do that. Do you want to start chopping the meat?"

No one else would approve of giving him a knife, which is why Adelinde has cleared out a small side-kitchen instead of working in the main one. The thing is, he knows full well he's under watch. She sees how he flinches whenever someone looks so much as alarmed at his behavior. He's afraid of being hurt, again, if anyone even thinks he's trying more magery. How can he think otherwise, with his burns still healing and Sir Jean checking in almost daily on Diluc's behalf? It's not as if his fears are groundless. If he attempts another Abyssal ritual, they'll have to do *something* to stop him.

If they want him to trust them, they need to demonstrate that they're willing to trust him in exchange. So, the knife. Adelinde isn't ready to turn her back on him yet while he's holding it, but she'll do that eventually, too. For now it's no surprise that she isn't when she's working at the same counter and all that they'll need is already arrayed in front of them.

She rolls out the pastry and divides it out into the pie pans while he chops the meat fine and dumps it into the bowl. Then, after making him wash his hands, she presents the spice rack before him. "What do you want to put into this?"

For this, she gives him is the appropriately-sized spoon and free rein. The pies may come out oddly-tasting this way--they have before--but he knows by now what she does use, and she wants to let him experiment. He tastes a bit of each spice, thoughtfully, mixes them in his hand and tries various combinations, and finally pours scoops of each one he's chosen into the bowl. Adelinde watches him out of the corner of her eye as she whips the eggs, but he doesn't do anything she'd have to scold him for--dumping a whole spice jar in, or licking his finger and sticking it into a jar to taste, or touching the meat and then a jar. He's so much more careful with food than Master Diluc ever was.

Pouring the eggs in, she offers him the spoon. "Do you want to stir?"

He does. Adelinde watches as he mixes it all together, then pours it into the pastry herself before showing him how to fold the tops up. Then into the oven--he stays well back from the heat--and she makes them both hot cocoa while they wait for them to bake. He huddles over his mug like he expects it to be taken from him. Or tampered with.

(*How* she wishes they hadn't put that potion into his food.)

She takes the pies out herself and puts them on the cooling rack, pretending not to notice Kaeya scraping the last, dregs of cocoa from the pot while her back is turned. He never tries to ask for more

than he's offered, and that's from more than just the language barrier; he's expressive enough in his gestures when he wants to be. Someday she'll be able to tell him that he can have as much as he likes. For now, she'll let him get away with all his pilferage.

And make more hot chocolate while the pies are cooling, of course.

By the time they've finished the second pot, they're cool enough to eat without burning his mouth. Adelinde gets out a plate, then pauses, a thought occurring to her. Instead of loading it up herself, she hands it to Kaeya, then steps back, gesturing towards the rack. "How many do you want?"

The look he gives her is eloquently disbelieving. She can almost hear the question: surely she's not telling him to take the whole batch. There's no way to explain to him yet that she *would* let him have it all if he wanted, and hope he had the sense to save some for later rather than give himself the stomachache, but that's not the point. Right now she just wants to give him a choice.

She's expecting him to simply take a pie or two, readying herself to smile and nod in approval so he knows he's not taking too much. Instead, he looks at the rack, clearly counting off, then looks at her and says, with tremendous care, "I want... two?" He holds up two fingers as he says it.

It's the first time he's actually tried to answer her in Mond. Adelinde beams at him.

"Yes, you can have two," she says. "Or more. Three, or four, or five," she adds, holding up her fingers in turn, because she doesn't know whether 'more' is a word he's learned yet, nor any of the numbers. "As many as you want."

Kaeya studies her for a moment as if looking for a trap, then says, "I want four."

"You can have four." Adelinde gestures again towards the rack, encouragingly. "Choose whichever ones you like."

He takes the pies, quickly, before she can take the offer back, and then returns to the little table in the corner and hunches over them. Adelinde takes three pies for herself. She only really wants one, but she hopes that this way he won't think he's over-indulging; she can manage two, and wrap the third in her napkin as demonstration, so that if he does end up finding he's taken too much he'll know it's all right to keep for later.

She compliments his spice choices as they eat, though privately she thinks the rosemary was too much. Kaeya unhunches, slowly, once he's wolfed the first two down and finds himself working his way more slowly through the third. He's looking uncertainly at the fourth when Adelinde finishes her own second pie. She deliberately wraps hers in her napkin and tucks it into her pocket, making sure he's watching. He wraps his own, watching her as she does it and relaxing further when she nods.

"I want... one more?" He holds up a finger, again, and the wrapped pie in the other hand, and Adelinde smiles and nods at him before rising to get him another napkin. Kaeya pockets them and looks satisfied. Then he looks up at her and, again in Mond, says something that from the intonation he must have learned in his formal lessons. "Thank you."

Something warm swells in Adelinde's chest. "You're welcome," she tells him, and on impulse holds her arms out wide. He steps forward into the hug, tentative at first, then clinging tight when she pulls him in against her. She pretends not to notice how he's shaking and simply holds him until he chooses to let go.

It feels like a first step forward, after all their steps back. She's so, so proud to be part of it.

[thatbanditqueen]

No One Walks Out Ch 5: Salty Lips

Warnings: Tarot misinformation, penetrative vaginal sex, manipulation, fluff, smut, then angsty tears. 18+ Minors DNI.

Apparently I don't know how to schedule things so I am posting earlier than expected. Please file your complaints accordingly.

Word Count: 9.4 K

Summary: Becky has settled into the rhythm of life at Graceland over the first few days there, though she still has not had a full tour. Luckily, her hosts finally get it together to show her around. She goes to visit her sister, but encounters an unexpected guest. At least for her.

I need to first thank my alpha, @whositmcwhatsit for reading the first draft and giving me feedback as she corrected my grammar. Which is generally bad. Thanks Jade, I some how fooled you into hanging out with me and I would feel guilty for asking you to read my stuff, because it takes you away from your own writing which is necessary and needed for the good of the fandom. But you always make my work better so I cannot feel guilty at all. No, I selfishly will take every glance and glint and comment you give me.

Also thanks to my fellow Elvis sister wives for all their morale support and brilliance. Just being in your orbit is a gift: @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @be-my-ally @ellie-24 @from-memphis-with-love

If you need to catch up first:

Chapter 4: Kaleidoscope

or start from the beginning: No One Walks Out On Big Daddy Masterlist

Chapter 5: Salty Lips  

11:45 a.m. Thursday, June 19, 1975

Graceland Estate, Memphis, TN

A cardinal twittered loudly, joined by a chickadee, and Becky was so ensconced in the bubble of idyllic life at Graceland that she wondered if this musical rendition wasn’t just for her benefit. Lisa gave an excited hum where she sat next to Becky on top of the picnic table by the pool and slapped down another tarot card.

“Alright, Becky, ‘Page of Swords’, what does this one mean?”

Becky looked closely at the drawing, closing one eye and squinting nearer for effect.

“Well, babt,” Becky mused, trying to stifle a grin and pronounce the girl’s fortune with complete confidence. “They all go together.” She set it next to the other cards they had drawn: Strength, The Chariot and The Moon. Becky was not sure how many cards you were supposed to put down when reading tarot, but four seemed like a good number.

”So?” Lisa slapped her hand on the table.

“Well, so, Page of Swords, as we can see here now, obviously means you are gonna live on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and you’ll have yellow tights, and a pretty pink dress, and a big ol’ sword that you’ll be very good at using,”

“I’m already pretty good with my daddy’s samurai sword, wanna see?”

“Hmmm, maybe later.”

Becky thought of her shooting lesson the other day and decided against more deadly weapons. Getting through the day without letting Lisa kill or be killed would count as a win for bonding with the kid of her new  - lover? fling? friend? - whatever Elvis was to her. She decided to go with fling. A short fling. They were two grown adults having a casual, fun, very short fling. Well, one rock star and one adult. 

Was she even an adult? She had spent most of the last three days playing with a seven year old until the late afternoon, and then playing with Elvis into the night. She felt like she had wandered into a strange, enchanted land where all the adults acted like children and all the children acted like adults. Water fights, target practice, ice cream for breakfast, and impulsive shopping sprees. 

Not having a schedule or others depending on her had been freeing at first, but now, on day four of life at Graceland, Becky had started to feel somewhat unmoored from reality away from the structure of her daily life back home.

She looked down at the table, where Lisa was tapping on the next card, and continued her tarot reading. 

“Ok, see here, Strength, that’s an angel with a lion. Of course, now, that is just symbolic. The angel is your conscience telling you the right thing to do, but you won’t have this moral confidence until you own a lion. They can be very difficult pets, I hear, I recommend getting an ice locker for all the gazelle meat you are going to need to feed it.”

“You’re silly, Becky, no one owns lions as pets.”

“No one yet, but hey baby, according to your fortune, you are gonna change all that. There’s nothing you can do. It’s in the cards. That means it has to happen.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, her lips betraying a smile. “Ok, what else?”

“Well, here, The Chariot, clearly one day you will go to Egypt and meet a prince -”

“And marry him?”

“Well, that depends. On whether you like him or wanna feed him to your lion?” Becky growled and gashed her teeth playfully as if she was going to eat Lisa’s shoulder. Just as Lisa shrieked and hit Becky, the back door slammed and they glanced over to see Elvis’ aunt Delta stagger out.

“Alright, Lisa Marie now, s’getting to be round lunch time. I just got Ma settled out in the rockin’ chair, so it’s time for you to come eat.” Delta looked Becky up and down as she spoke. 

“Whatcha y’all got goin on?” she said, and Becky noticed Lisa stiffen and gather up the cards.

“We’re just playing Old Maid, Aunt Delta.”

Becky raised her eyebrow at Lisa, who just shook her head with a crafty smile. Becky turned to the older woman. Hmmm, I guess these older ladies don’t approve of mystical practices. Or maybe they only let one resident here get away doing whatever he wanted. 

She thought of Elvis’ grandmother, who had turned to her after he had left the dinner table the night before, taken her arm and whispered low:

“I hope ya don’t break his heart, like all the rest. That young boy ova there has been through so much. Don’t know why he canna find a good woman. Guess they just don’t make us like they used ta.” Minnie Mae had then released Becky’s hand and spit part of her chew into the tea cup next to her dinner plate. 

Becky only had a moment to feel uneasy before Elvis swooped back in and pulled her into the den and onto his lap, where he cajoled Lisa to perform “Crocodile Rock” for the group on top of the coffee table. 

No, I reckon these good ole girls who sit around bemoaning the lack of any good women left would probably not go in for tarot cards, Becky thought, as she looked at Elvis’ aunt.

“How are you doing today, Ms. Presley?”

“Hmmm, it’s Biggs. And it’s Mrs. And never you mind, you can save it, I don’t care for you kissing up ta me. I know your kind.” 

Becky tightened her smile at Delta’s grimace, wondering if that was the faint odor of vodka wafting off the older woman. Just then, Delta weaved towards her and gripped a nearby chair to steady herself. Her eyes narrowed at Becky in judgment. 

“You are like all the others, waiting around for your payday. Out for all you can get. Bout as useful as gum on a boot heel. Humph.”

“Oh brother, here we go!” Lisa jumped up and walked past Delta. “C’mon, Becky Butt, let’s go get some chocolate cake.”

Becky smiled even wider at Delta as she followed Lisa, and watched the older woman scan the pool area, before tottering back to the house behind them.

“Chocolate cake? That doesn’t sound like a good lunch.”

“Oh, it’s the best lunch, don’t worry, I told Nancy before she left this morning, so it’s all ready.”

“They - they  let you have that for lunch”

“Let me?” Lisa grinned a devious grin and her eyes sparkled. “I’m the boss round here when Daddy’s asleep. If they ever give me any guff, I just lay down tha law an let ‘em know how it is, jack.”

“Oh? And how is it?”

“Get with the program or git!” Lisa held the door to the kitchen open for Becky, and grabbed the milk out of the fridge.

Sure enough, there in the middle of the counter was a tall, chocolate cake adorned with a circle of pink frosting rosettes. Lisa poured two tall glasses of milk  and carefully set out china plates with all the hospitality of a true, Southern hostess.

“Don’t worry, Becky, it’s vegetarian!” Lisa announced, grabbing the biggest knife Becky had ever seen, almost the length of the short, seven year old’s arm, as she proceeded to carve two large, unwieldy pieces from the beautiful dessert.

*********************************************************************

Becky was certain that her chocolate cake was about to make an encore appearance as the golf cart whipped around the bend. Grabbing the top of the seat, she looked over at Lisa as the little girl pushed her foot harder on the pedal and yelped with glee while she steered them down the grass behind the carport.

“I didn’t realize golf carts could go this fast.” Becky gripped her seat tighter, her knees jostling up and down against the metal bar at the front.

“Oh yeah, these are top o’ the line, Becky. Watch, I can get it to go even fast—” Becky put her hand up in protest.

“Nope, not necessary, this - this is great. Very refreshing in the heat.”

Lisa pushed her feet down a little further and Becky held on for dear life as the air whipped through her dark curls and reminded her very much that she was alive and wanted to keep it that way.

“Ok, so this is the stable,” Lisa pointed to a large white building coming up on their left side. “It’s called House of the Rising Sun, and most people think it's after a song, but actually, it's named after Daddy’s horse, Rising Sun. Though I always say he should be named Setting Sun, on account of the fact that the sun is usually setting before Papa gets up and goes riding.” Lisa slapped her thigh, as if making a rimshot on a drum set, and Becky realized this was her cue to laugh, so she let out a chuckle and rubbed Lisa’s hair.

“Yeah, that is a much better name. Or Sleeping Bear, hmmm?” Lisa giggled. 

“Or Grumpy Sleepy Bear.”

“That one sounds perfect, what do you think? We have time to paint a new sign?”

Lisa laughed as she drove them on, showing Becky the trailer where her daddy’s nurse, Tish lived, and the other where Billy, Jo and their kids lived, and they wound their way around the back of the paddock.

“That’s where Daddy likes to race his horses with the guys.”

“For special occasions? Or just for fun?”

“Oh, he does it to show off for the fans.” 

Becky snorted down a laugh and and attempted to catch her hair and pulled it back up as it escaped into the wind. 

“Um, ha - how do you know he does it for the fans? He tell you that?”

“No, my mama told me; he likes to race the horses round for no good reason, just to show off for the fans cuz he’s a big show off and he’ll never really be a true questrion.”

“Well, I don’t know, I mean your mom may not know —”

“Oh, she does, she knows everything. Daddy’s always saying my mama’s the biggest know-it-all you’ll ever meet. And hippo cat. Why would he call a woman a hippo and a cat?”

“Hmm.” Becky grabbed the side rail as the golf cart swerved back around towards the mansion, trying not to laugh at Lisa’s casual description of her parents. “I bet he meant something else and said it wrong, cuz you’re right, doesn’t make any sense.”

Lisa seemed to agree, nodding her head. And on to the next point of interest, her proud, confident tour guide voice explained that the house butted up to fence over there used to be her granddaddy’s. 

They drove past the throng of fans at the front gate near the bottom of the hill they were coming up and Lisa asked Becky if she needed any money or a new camera. Becky wasn’t sure exactly how this related to the crowd, but she had some suspicions as she looked over her shoulder at the people mulling aroun down at the gate. So, instead, she rubbed the sweat off her forehead and complained about the heat. 

Parking the golf cart back at the side of the house, Lisa led the way back inside, suggesting they cool down in the pool. Becky didn’t have a bathing suit, but jumped in wearing her tee shirt over underwear, letting her feet push off the rough, concrete bottom of the pool. She felt an almost instant sense of relief and rejuvenation as she sprung up weightlessly through the cool water and floated to the top, rubbing the chlorine out of her eyes. This was, of course, a futile exercise, as more chlorine water was in her face almost immediately, followed by the sounds of Lisa laughing from where she was splashing Becky a few feet away.

“Oh, you are gonna get it!”

Lisa’s screams ricocheted through the patio as Becky swam over, grabbed her and threw her playfully back into the water.

They raced each other like this for a bit, and then played catch in the water. Lisa particularly liked trying to aim directly in front of Becky, and shrieked with delight when Becky let the ball hit the water and then dramatically flustered about in the wake of the splash, uttering out a loud, affected:

“Now heyyyyy! That’s not fair!”

After a while, Mary brought them out some lemonade, and ham and cheese sandwiches, and they dangled their feet in the side of the pool, eating. Becky pulled the ham out of her sandwich, and Lisa opened her mouth, motioning for Becky to drop the cold cut in, chuckling.

“Hmmm, we make a good pair, huh?” 

Lisa nodded, speaking with a full mouth:

“Mmmm choww nuhff.” She swallowed, and took a sip of lemonade. “How’d you get to be such a good swimmer? You don’ all kinds of fancy moves out there, I never seen anyone swim sideways like that or stay underwater so long.”

“I was on my high school swim team. Then I used to lead canoe trips down the Cahaba, that’s the big river where I’m from, over in Birmingham.” She ruffled Lisa’s hair. “And I was a camp counselor for a while in Mississippi, we spent most of our summer in the pool. I reckon I was a fish in my past life, that’s what Helga used to say.

“Your nanny?”

“MMhmm. You have a good memory, kid, I can tell. You’re whip smart.”

Lisa giggled and splashed Becky with her foot. Water was violently flying up in the air as they commenced in an epic foot splash fight when a loud, deep ‘Ahem’ made their feet still. Lisa’s lips were pursed, emitting a nervous laugh and Becky met her eyes with frightened giddy trepidation as they turned in unison to see the tall, broad silhouette of Elvis behind them. Becky coughed nervously.

His thumbs hung down from the belt at his white trousers and he tilted his sunglasses down to look over them, adjusting his stance.

“MMMM what's - a -a - ahappenin’ ova round these parts, mhmmm?” Elvis tried unsuccessfully to keep his lip from quirking into a smile as his voice boomed out comically deep.

Lisa giggled, and pointed. “Becky started it!”

Gaping, Becky pushed her into the pool with a whispered, “Thanks a lot, Lisa Marie Benedict Arnold Presley!” Then jumped up to say hi to Elvis.

His face beamed with a grin but then, as she got closer, his lip tightened and his chin tilted out as he took in her swimsuit.

“Becky, what the hell are ya wearin’, girl?”

Becky pulled her shirt down, and Elvis went to grab her hands to stop her, as it just made her nipples more pronounced through the thin, wet fabric.

“Elvis, I don’t have a bathing suit, I didn’t think it was that big of a differe—”

“Honey, I can see your hair through your panties,” he whispered gruffly, wrapping Becky in the thick, white, suede jacket he’d been wearing. As part of his outfit. Outside. In June. In Memphis. Becky rolled her shoulders, trying to shirk it off, looking into his eyes imploringly.

“Elvis, I’m all wet, it will ruin this suede and get it all dirty. It’s so humid, too, I just th—”

“Becky, don’t worry about the jacket.” He pulled her in, unable to resist flicking her over her nipple imself as he scolded her to cover up. “Anyone could see you out here.”

“Baby, no one is out here.”

“But they could be, boy, they could be.. ‘Sides, think now what if a band of drugged-out commie burglars jumped the back fence, and I, I had to send you running to safety at that motel across the street? You don’t wanna be waiting for me and the boys and the police in public like this.” He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Elvis, that’s ridiculous - what is the likelihood tha—”

“Now, c’mon on, you never know, it’s getting rougher every day out there. These are the things ya gotta consider.”

Becky was about to argue with him further, that he was being paranoid, and where did he even come up with this stuff, commie drug dealer burglars? She thought of Elvis doing some of the karate moves he had taught her as a band of crazy-eyed youths scaled the back wall, and almost giggled. However, she was suddenly distracted by the fingers tracing over her hips, underneath the suede jacket, and she shivered as she felt goosebumps rise up on the back of her neck, still chilled from the water. Elvis leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she closed her eyes with a low gasp, feeling his belly press into hers.

“Good thing you got me around to think of every angle.” Elvis clicked his tongue and point to his head. ”Go on upstairs and get cleaned up, wanna give you a tour of Graceland.” He patted Becky on the butt as he turned her to the house.

Shuffling forward in the comfort of her new mobile suede sauna, Becky heard Lisa pull out of the water and ask her dad if they could have a bonfire tonight with hot dogs and baked potatoes and corn and s’mores and coconut cake and ice cream.

“Course, baby, jus let Mary and Charlie know how you want it.” 

Becky opened the door at the side of the house, she looked back to see Elvis kneeling and smiling as he wrapped Lisa in a towel. 

“You’re the boss, booger, I jus’ work here.”

Becky could feel the brightness radiating from Lisa’s broad smile as she went inside, and she shook her head as she mused to herself how sweet they were together. The way Elvis spoiled his daughter was charming when Becky pushed aside her own parenting philosophy, which she had always considered to be overly permissive until spending this last week at Graceland. 

She frowned at the prospect of having to parent with someone like him, and felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Priscilla, a woman whom Becky had always regarded as a bit of a cold Yankee. As if you could ever know what someone is like from reading gossip magazines, silly girl. 

Getting dressed, Becky chided herself for not telling Elvis about her earlier tour of the estate. It was just that he had looked so intent as he told her what they were doing, and the sound of his voice gently commanding her made her agree with whatever he said, take whatever he offered, do whatever he wanted to do. 

Yeah, a long term relationship with this man is trouble. Becky reflected on how relieved she had been when Lisa didn’t wake up and come get her until 10:30 that morning, instead of 8 a.m., like she had the first day, and felt a bit disgusted with herself. Ugh, Elvis’  lifestyle is warping your judgment. Sleep all day, play all night, and now I have to go pretend that I haven’t already seen the grounds of Graceland.

*********************************************************************

The dirt shifted under Becky’s Keds as she walked beside Elvis towards the stables, holding his hand as he squeezed it tightly and turned to look at her, eyes soft and bright as he spoke. Becky summoned a look of awe as if seeing the building for the first time.

“Right, now this is the House of the Rising Sun, on account of my horse, Rising Sun. Though I reckon I shoulda named him Setting Sun, because, ya know, that’s usually when I’m getting up.” Elvis looked at Becky expectantly, and she forced a giggle, leaning into him as they walked into the building.

The sound of horses’ snorting and whinnying greeted them, and Becky followed Elvis as he grabbed a handful of sugar cubes from the front counter and leaned against the white gate of the first stall, waggling his eyebrows at Becky as she cautiously stepped forward. He took her hand, unrolling her fingers and putting a piece of sugar in the middle, then clicking his tongue as the large palomino nuzzled into him, nickering and searching for treats.

“Now, go on, he won’t bite ya - much.” Elvis smirked, watching as Becky rolled her lips in and put out her hand, shrieking at the tickle of the horse’s chin hairs on her hand.

“Is this one yours?”

“MMhmmm, this is Rising Sun,” Elvis told her, turning to ruffle the blonde tuft of hair between the golden horse’s ears.

Becky cautiously stroked the white blaze down the middle of his face, stopping to rub his muzzle as he sniffed her hand for more sugar. She looked into Rising Sun’s large brown eyes, wondering how such a majestic creature could be tamed, and how quickly he would trample over her for more sugar.

“He’s beautiful. And terrifying.” She said, then looked up at Elvis. “Just like you, I suppose.”

Elvis’ fingers caressed over Becky’s dress, stopping at the small of her back to rub into her tenderly. 

“Oh now, don’t tell me ya afraid of me, now honey. Or these horsies, are ya Becky Butt?” He moved behind her, his hand trailing slowly over her arm, down from her shoulder, until it was over the back of her palm. He slowly guided her palm up to smooth over the side of Rising Sun’s face and cheek, leaning into whisper into her neck. “See, now, now, see? He’s a good boy, gentle and well trained as can be. Ain’t got nothin ta fear from hims.” 

Elvis kisses warmed her skin, and Becky shuddered as his lips crushed into her. Moaning, she dropped her hand and turned into him, biting her lip in anticipation as Elvis rolled back on his feet and then forward, pressing her into the white pole that separated the stalls. Rising Sun grunted at them and blew his nose, and Becky squealed at the feeling of his large, gummy mouth chewing at her hair. Elvis' mouth quirked into a smile, but his hand rubbed her side more intently, and a fierce, starved look animated his eyes.  

“Get now, silly horse, that ain’t hay.” He gently pushed Rising Sun away, and pulled Becky into him, gripping her tightly.

A tingle burned in Becky’s belly and she breathed out in hushed desire.

“Huh. How - how does my hair look?”

“Looks a a a, a whole lot better than it's gonna once I’m through wit ya.” Elvis said softly, through a high breathy giggle. Then he looked down, bashfully, his hand rubbing Becky’s waist up and down then pinching her on both sides. Becky giggled, pulling herself into his frame, her hand working up over his chest as she kissed his jaw. 

“Why, Elvis Presley, I declare, are you - are you trying to seduce me? In the barn?”

He shook his head, a goofy expression pushed his lips into a pout.

“Depends.”

Becky arched her eyebrow, her fingers toyed with the high blue collar of Elvis’ shirt. “Mmmmmm? Depends on what?”

Elvis withdrew, blushing, his jaw tightening, suddenly changing his mind from whatever he had been thinking about doing,  “Neva mind, baby. Here, let me introduce ya to the other horses.”

Becky followed him, brushing her hand over the top of his belt and sweeping along his back. 

“Ok darlin’, you’re the boss.” Pushing her hand around him, Becky leaned into Elvis, and he drew her tighter into his side, looking ahead to give a large, black horse a sugar cube.

“This here, now, this boy is special, this is Ebony’s Double, come from a real champion stud, Ebony Masterpiece.”

Becky put her hand up to the horse’s neck, feeling his muscles ripple under his silky black coat as she rolled her hand over him. Breathing in, her eyes locked with Elvis as she caught him looking down at her, and she thought about reaching up on her tiptoes to try and kiss him, but instead kissed his shoulder. It was easier, and she relished the way he squeezed her into him in response. His bottom lip dropped down with his chin, and his voice came out in a raspy croak.

“Hey there, lil’ girl.”

Becky nuzzled in, and shifted the rubber soles of her shoes to pivot and bring her closer into Elvis' chest.

“Hey,” she whispered into his armpit.

Elvis brought her chin up and leaned down, his hand moving to cradle her neck as she curled her fingers into his shirt. Gentle kisses became more fervent as his hands crept lower until they cupped her bottom and Elvis was holding Becky up. Notched above his tummy, Becky’s knees bumped up awkwardly against his elbows, and Elvis chuckled as he carried her towards the back of the barn, almost dropping her with a mild stumble. That would have been the end of the white suede suit. But he quickly recovered, grunting as he jostled Becky up and smiling at the sound of her breathy chuckles as she held onto his shoulders while they staggered to the back of the barn. Becky could hear the sound of horse’s hooves, grunts and neighs, but they were peripheral to the sound of the heartbeat pulsing through her ears.

Becky felt the edge of the workbench where Elvis placed her atop. They were at the back of the stables, next to a saddle presumably left for repair. Beckys legs hitched on either side of Elvis' body, and she dragged her thumb over his cheek, moaning out as his lips found that spot on her neck once more and his hands moved under her skirt, slowly, carefully, tugging on her underwear.

“Hey,” she murmured. Elvis cheeks reddened above a smirk as his dark blue eyes looked down at the ground.

“Hey,” he breathed out in a deep voice.

Becky fell back on the table, resting on her wrists.

“Hey.” she waggled her eyebrows and dangled her legs, then tightened them at his side.

He shook his head, unbuttoning his trousers and moving over her, his lips feathering above her as he whispered: “Heyyyyyyy.”

Becky gasped as she felt him thrust slowly upwards into her, moaning out into his mouth. 

“Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”

She wrapped her legs around him, rocking her hips to meet him in the slow, gentle cadence of their love making. His eyes narrowed on hers as his movements became more deliberate, and his thumb found the slick over her clitoris, swirling in time to their needy rolls back and forth over the workbench. Heat coiled in her belly, and Becky leaned back as a guttural cry escaped her mouth.“Heeyyyyyy fucking ohmygod heyyyyyyYYYYYY GODDAMMMIT” as her climax overtook her.  

Elvis leaned forward, peppering kisses over her collarbone and burying his head in her bosom where he continued to slow move in and out of her until he came with a vehement grunt and remained there, head in her chest, panting through the final thrusts before stilling completely. 

Becky relished the weight of his body pressing down on her, insistent, immediate, she wanted it to crush her forever. His shaggy swath of black hair moved as Elvis’ chin protruded forward, and she met his blue eyes, looking up at her from his smug, boyish expression. She melted in the radiance of his smile. “Hey.” Elvis blushed, again, then grunted as he pulled himself up and grinned at Becky’s playfully shove.

“Hey is for horses, Presley,” she gasped, and he laughed as he zipped up, bending down to restore her panties to their rightful place.

She wondered if she had made the wrong first impression on the horses, as they ambled out of the stable and back toward the house.

“Hmmm, so that was the tour huh?”

“I think that’s all the tour I can manage right now, lil girl.”

“OK, well, Lisa already showed me the smokehouse, and I’m definitely not having sex in there.”

“Hmmm, well, figured you should know by now, telling me something isn’t gonna happen just about guarantees I havta try.” He slapped her bottom  and she shoved him away, only to have his arm instantly around her, drawing her into the warmth of his body as he kissed her head.

“Just so you know, Becky, I did not intend to get busy back there.”

Becky nestled into his shoulder as they walked. She could still hear the sounds of twenty horses behind them if she focused, joined by the sound of crickets and cars on the far off roads buzzing into the twilight of early evening. Above it all, she could feel the grain of Elvis' voice as it rumbling into her ear, heating the side of her neck with each word.

“I, I  - I just, well, suddenly couldn’t help myself. Don’t feel that way very often, honey, I think - ” He stopped talking abruptly and turned Becky in to face him.

“Honey, now stop walking already, I’m tryin’ to tell ya something.”

As he looked at her, he noticed that her hair really had come half out of the up twist she had styled it in that evening, and he paused to take out her hair pins, freeing her curls and arranging them over her shoulders.

“There, better.” He nodded with satisfaction. “What was I sayin’? Oh yeah. OK. Here it is. I think I’m starting to really fall for ya, baby. I think, well, I think you should move up here. Can’t bear ta think about taking you back to Jackson next week.”

“This week,” Becky muttered, crossing her arms. “Sunday.”

Suddenly the buzzing, post-coital glow disintegrated and she stood still trying to process what he had said.

He took her shoulders in his hands. “Think about it. Didn’t you say you have a sister here in Memphis?”

Becky nodded, her mind still swimming, wondering if there was any way in hell she could, would, should pursue this. Looking up into Elvis’ eyes was like diving into a sea of endless optimism where everything was possible.

“Hey, I got a business meeting I gotta handle tomorrow night, maybe you could go visit your sister? I was thinking you probably would want to while you're up here anyway. And you can think things over. How it would be, if I got you a place up here, come live with your lil girl in Memphis?”

Becky stood there, nodding again, looking back down at the house. Elvis started to walk.

“Don’t just stand there woman, get in here. The most handsome man in the world just asked if you’d be his baby, least you can do is give him some sugar and say thank you.”

Becky leaned back into Elvis' open arm and kissed his chest. “Hmmm, just took me by surprise is all. I, um, I need to think about it, that’s a big deal, Elvis, I , well, I feel strongly about you too.”

She tickled his side as they walked, and he jerked back with a, *Hey, now.*

“You’re right, though, I should try and see my sister. Tomorrow night, I guess.”

*********************************************************************

6:15 p.m. Friday, June 20th 1975

Still at Graceland, for now…

It was one of the new dresses Elvis had bought her that week, a purple, jersey halter dress, that Becky pulled over her head, before asking Lisa to help clasp the simple, diamond drop necklace around the back of her neck. Lisa jumped back, and put out her wrists for a spray of perfume as Becky doused herself and twirled around.

“How do I look?” Lisa put her hand to her chin, thinking carefully. 

“I think you need more eye make-up.”

“Ha, maybe, but trust me, my sister is the opposite of glamorous. She’s a judge. And I’m crashing a dinner party, so I think modest, simple, less-is-more sort of look is what I want.”

“Well,” Lisa sighed, ”you definitely nailed the less part. You’re hardly wearing any diamonds. Sure you don’t wanna borrow some of mine?”

Becky fidgeted with the ring she was wearing, the gift Elvis had given her that first night at Graceland. It was almost too large and gaudy for her style, let alone her sister Deborah’s taste. But it had come to be a comforting talisman, something she felt and twisted when she felt nervous or out of her element here with Elvis, doing whatever she thought she was doing. *Acting like an immature teenager who just discovered what sex is*, she thought to herself. 

Becky also sensed Elvis would be hurt if he saw her without the ring, because he’d mentioned how nice it looked on her several times, usually taking her hand and kissing the ring there before turning her palm and kissing the center of her hand. And pulling her in for a kiss. *Ughhh, these kisses*. Even the way his dry lips bumped over hers at first touch caused a burning electricity to electrify her face and she became instantly incapable of reason. 

Becky sighed, she had this impending sense of doom, her inner Cassandra, as Ida would say, always on high alert to call out trouble at the slightest provocation. Just trust him. This is fun. This feels right. Everything is ok. Wear the damn ring to Debbie’s dinner party.

Becky’s dress swished around her legs as she carefully walked down the staircase, trying not to trip in the orange platform heels Elvis had picked out at the boutique during a late night shopping spree on Wednesday. As she descended, she saw him whispering with Charlie, then the two men heard her and turned around, smiling in an eerie unison. Elvis was somewhat dressed up for his business meeting, in a dark red suit with a light blue dress shirt with a high, starched collar framing his face.

“There she is, Charlie. There’s the most beautiful gal in the world. And the smartest. And the funniest.”

Becky teetered on her platforms as she put her foot down another step.

“And the most graceful woman in the world.” He let out a low guffaw with out, and Becky narrowed her eyes at him

“Oh, keep laughing, Elvis Aaron Presley, I’mma get you for that. Buying me mile-high shoes an then laughing at how I walk in theses unnatural torture devices!”

Becky ran down the rest of the stairs and leapt onto his waist, ruffling his hair as Elvis chuckled.

“God, crazy woman, tryin’ ta kill me?” Becky kissed his forehead as he jostled her up and down, then placing her safely on the ground.

“Mhmmm. Just wanted to give you a kiss for good luck with your business dinner.”

Elvis kissed her back on the cheek as he ushered her and Charlie out of the door with a swat to the butt and a “See ya later, sweetheart.”

Charlie’s white Pontiac was waiting in front for them and they walked around, Charlie leading to open her door. Just as Becky was about to duck into the passenger seat, she saw the long, black snout of Elvis’ Stutz Blackhawk rolling up the driveway, Jerry at the steering wheel. Next to him sat the thin, blonde frame of Linda Thompson outlined against the dark, red leather interior. Jerry was a statue, stoic and serious as he pulled up and Linda burst out of the car to stride over.

“Charlie Hodge, you handsome man, where you runnin’ off to this evening? And who’s your friend?”

Charlie let out a shrill, high-pitched laugh, wondering to himself how Jerry had managed to arrive twenty minutes earlier than he had been told. Becky smiled awkwardly as she watched Linda give Charlie an air kiss on each side of his face, and then turned to Becky and her tight, wide forced cheerful smile.

Charlie stammered quickly, “Ugh, Linda, this is my cousin Becky, from Birmingham, come up to visit while her kid is at summer camp. I, ugh, well I -”

“He promised me I’d get to meet Elvis while I was here,” Becky gushed, summoning all of her energy to force her tongue to sound excited. She watched Jerry get out of the car and walk to join them. His lips were pursed, and his shoulders were stiff.

“Oh, well, it just dills my pickle to meet Charlie’s family, I feel like we’re practically family ourselves, seein’ how much time I spend with this good ole boy.”

Becky tried very hard not to tense up as Linda threw her arms around her to squeeze her tight. Linda wore a red, satin evening gown with cutouts along the side that emphasized her the curves of her sveltetorso and the wide hips below. Becky felt as though her tall, awkward fleshy figure and bust overwhelmed Linda’s body completely.

“Gosh, I just love that dress,” Linda exclaimed, adjusting the layers of Becky’s hair off her shoulder. “Though I don’t know if I could pull that color off, mhmmm, don’t know if that would be my choice, but it's so you, isn’t it?”

Becky smiled. “That’s so sweet of you to say.”

“So, Charlie, the old boy been behaving?” Linda winked at Becky, then whispered conspiratorially. “You know, Elvis is a good, Christian man, s’just that the devil is mighty powerful, hmmm, know what I mean?”

“MMMhmmmm.”

Becky nodded. It was like she was back in high school and one of the popular girls had waltzed up to her desk at the school newspaper, indirectly ordering her to do a story about the committee decorating the homecoming game bleachers. Ughhh.  Becky steeled herself, falling back on the niceties that she was well versed in.

“I can’t even imagine! Gosh, it’s so exciting to meet you, I’ve seen your pictures in the paper and, of course, Charlie has told us about you. But you are just more precious in person, you really are.”

Linda gave Becky another hug. “Well bless your heart, Becky. Aren’t *you* the sweetest.”

Jerry coughed. “Hm, yeah, we better get going.”

Linda shrugged her shoulders. “Ugh, I know, we got this Police Charity Dinner to go to, I flew in from LA just for this. I guess the Lord saw fit for me to make it. And meet you! I hope I get to see you again while you are visiting, are you staying here? With Charlie?”

“Oh God no.”—“No she aint!”

Charlie and Becky both answered together. Becky smiled big again, hugging Linda one more time. From the big, wide-eyed puppy dog look on her face, Becky felt she seemed to expect it. “No, no, I’m staying with my sis - sorority sister from college, who lives here, we’re actually just heading there now, for dinner. In fact, we better scoot, eh cuz?” Becky looked at Charlie, and sat into the car.

Charlie closed the door, a big  smile at Linda as Jerry led her up the steps into the house, and Linda waved goodbye. “I hope y’all have a the best night, see you again real soon!”

A tense feeling pushed up from Becky’s tummy and seized her shoulders in a tight anxious grip. It was one thing to know you were spending the week with a man who was seeing several women at once. It was another thing to come face to face with one and have to lie about who you were and what you were doing. Becky felt dirty, dirty and sick. She didn’t know how she could possibly face her perfect fucking sister, Deborah, and Debbie’s husband Steve, another lawyer, and the various lawyer professional type guests she expected to be at this dinner party. Charlie patted her thigh, seeming to intuit her thoughts, at least in part.

“Ya know, he’s not a bad guy, the boss man. He carries a heavy burden. And Linda’s moved out to LA to try and break into the movie biz. She had him buy her a home here in Memphis. It’s like they both know it’s over but neither one can bear to pull the trigger. And she knew how it was to date someone like him.”

Becky nodded, telling herself not to cry, and leaned against the window, hitting her head on the cool glass a few times as she swore under her breath at how stupid she was to be here. She muttered to herself in yiddish: 

“Ugh, whenever you have choices, oy vey, my sheyna maidel, boy oh boy do you somehow always manage to pick the worst. Your picker is broken, that’s what it is. When you go home, you are turning your love life over to Ida and her yenta brigade. There is a reason they used matchmakers in the old country. People are incapable of making good choices in men when left to their own devices. Stupid, foolish, idiot girl!” She hit her head on the window one last time, and then realized they had pulled up in front of Debbie’s house.

Charlie rubbed her shoulder. “I’ll be out here waiting when you’re ready. I - he - I - he’s gonna be dropping Linda off at the other house. It was, it is, all part of the plan. You see, her brother’s in the police force here. It, ugh, it just made sense that she would be his date for this big charity ball fundraiser for the cops.”

Becky nodded, half in a daze, trying to mentally prepare for her sister, for the dinner party, and for Elvis later.

“Hmmm, yeah, no, totally makes sense, absolutely.” She breathed in, then looked over at Charlie’s apologetic face. “Wait, you’re just gonna wait here?”

“Yeah, the boss, he, well, he wanted me to look after you. On account of all the druggies running wild these days.” Becky nodded. 

“Right. The drugged out commie burglars, those are clearly the biggest threat to my livelihood right now. Not Elvis Presley and his selfish manipulative ways. Not his powerful girlfriend, or her cop brother. Not my family and their judgment. No, no no, it’s the invisible commie drug criminals supposedly lurking everywhere. Well, thank god you’re here Charlie, I feel so much safer.” 

She slammed the car door, knowing it was unfair to take it out on Charlie, but the look on his face when she bent to the window made her heart sink even further before she uttered one word of apology. Because his goofy, winsome smile told her she was not the first woman to yell at him like this. Not only did he seem to expect it, he had mentally braced himself for it. Becky’s face softened apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, for that. I’ll try not to be more than an hour.”

“S’ok, we’re family now, cuz.” 

Becky knew that Charlie’s smile was meant to be reassuring, but it made her stomach drop even more as she turned and braced herself for a night at the Hoffman - Blumfeld’s (very intentionally hyphenated modern family of the 1970s) Dinner Party.

*********************************************************************

To say the night was uncomfortable and embarrassing would have been generous. Everyone else at the dinner party was dressed in jeans, khakis or linen pants and some sort of comfortable blouse or semi-casual shirt, and Becky felt she stood out like a Vegas showgirl at a library full of nerds. Which was probably the best way to describe Debbie, her husband Steve and their social circle. She was grateful it had been Debbie who opened the front door, so she could walk Becky into the side room and they could make their flustered hellos alone. 

Debbie wore a pair of sensible khakis and a tasteful floral button up top tucked in. As predicted, Debbie wore no make-up. And all judgment, though she tried to repress and be loose and fun.

Six years older than Becky, Debbie had always been half friend/half-parent to her, and this was a characteristic she inhabited calling out “Rebecca, please come in!” when she greeted Becky at the door.

Thank god for wine, the Hoffman-Blumfeld intentionally hyphenated household had some very good bottles of wine on offer and, after sipping one glass gracefully, and the another quickly in the kitchen, Becky was able to exhale and confront the evening with a blundering fort of confidence. She decided to pretend the meeting with Linda never happened, and stumbled confidently through her description of her relationship. She was dating a man who worked in the music business, after meeting him with Danny at a radio event fundraiser for the tornado in Mississippi. Was it serious? Well, sort of, he had invited her to Memphis for the week to meet his daughter, and he was trying to persuade her to move there. But her very successful life managing Saul and Ida’s store, and all her f.’

riends, made her reluctant to leave Jackson.

“I’m just taking a day at a time.” Becky winked and sipped her wine, before taking another mouthful of salmon.

After dessert, Debbie cornered her in the kitchen and asked if they could talk somewhere. Putting up her finger while she poured another glass of wine, Becky nodded and followed Deb to a bedroom, where she sat on a tasteful quilt blanket and had a tasteful restrained conversation about the impossibility of letting her father see Ruth secretly the next time she was in Birmingham.

“She is his only grandchild, Becks.”

“Well, they should have thought about that possibility when they kicked me out. Three months pregnant. Pronounced me a shonda, and disowned me.”

“Do you really want to have Ruth grow up without her grandparents?”

“I didn’t make that decision, Debbie, they did. Maybe, maybe, maybe if Papa was willing to admit how wrong they were, and stand up to Mama, and if he had any backbone at all and publicly welcomed me home for everyone to see, for Ruth to experience a true family, maybe.”

Debbie responded with a knowing look. “Well, I told Papa I was gonna see you when he called earlier, and I promised to ask, but I don’t blame you. I wish Ruth was here now, it’s been too long. And this guy, hmmm? Sounds promising. He wants you to move here?” Becky gulped her wine down first, rubbing her sister's arm. 

“Yup, yes, mhmmm. Oh yeah, finally, right? Everything’s coming up Becky. I can’t wait for you to meet him, because I’ll definitely be back up here with Ruth after she finishes camp. Ah, yes, mmhmmm.” She downed the last sip of wine, smiling so enthusiastically she almost laughed at how absurd the charade was. “I feel like, ugh, finally, right? I’m finally getting that happiness I searched for, for so long. ”

*********************************************************************

“You are never going to find happiness.” Becky said to the fork of coconut cake as she brought it to her mouth, letting the sweet, sticky crunchy sugar do its work comforting her momentarily as she chewed it and swallowed it down with some chocolate milk. The door to the kitchen opened, and she jerked her head up to see little Lisa Marie poke her head around.

“What are you doing?”

“Umm, late night cake?” Becky answered.

“Have you been crying?” Lisa asked as she stepped closer, getting herself a plate and a piece of cake.

“No, honey, no, it’s just been a long day.”

“Is it cuz of my daddy?”

Becky shook her head, too vigorously perhaps. “Npoooo no nononoo. No. It’s just been a long day.”

“You’re a bad liar, Becky Butt,” Lisa said, taking a big bite of cake, and then rubbing Becky’s shoulder. It broke her heart to see Lisa’s genuine look of pity staring up at her as she tried to comfort Becky. “Why is he like this? Mommy says he ruins every relationship and he’ll never truly be happy.”

Becky laughed at Lisa’s matter-of-fact statement. “Oh, my dear, I think your mama is very wise, but who knows what the future will bring. I do know your daddy loves you, that’s a relationship that makes him happy. Trust me, my parents never openly showed me love the way I see him show you. He’s a good man. There are just some things I might do differently if I were him.”

Lisa looked up at her. “Like what?”

“Well, for starters, I’d carry around less guns, I guess, that's dangerous. And maybe wear less jewelry, probably out there blinding people with all those dazzling gems and diamonds all over his person.”

Lisa laughed out loud as she finished her cake, and let Becky walk her up the stairs where she tucked Lisa back into bed and then returned to the kitchen.

Becky was down on her knees, looking through the drawers under the phone when she heard the door behind her slam shut. Glancing up, she saw Elvis’ broad figure swagger slowly toward her in the dimness of the kitchen lit only by one of the lights under a cabinet. He sighed and stopped, hands bracing the front of his hips, spread out fully extending his fingers as they tapped a little ditty over the sides of his belly. 

With his jacket pushed back at the hips, he looked even wider and more intimidating than usual. His lips were pursed in a frown at the sight of Becky in the jeans, converse and Destin tee shirt she had been wearing when she left Jackson the previous Sunday.

“Huh, hey.”

Becky turned back to look up at him. “Oh, hey!”

He adjusted his stance, pivoting his feet and twitching his left knee, his thumbs tapping over his belt.

“Watcha doin’?”

“You don’t know where the yellow pages are, do you? I’ve been looking for a phone book for the last fifteen minutes.”

Elvis sucked in a deep breath and adjusted his glasses. “Why, uh, why ya looking for the phone book?”

“Well, maybe you can help me.”

Becky returned her attention to the kitchen drawers in front of her, trying not to flinch as she heard the thud of Elvis boots walk closer and stop directly behind her. She chose not to twist back around and look at him, afraid she might cry or be dramatic, so she decided to speak directly into the drawers as she continued to look through them.

“You see, I’m trying to find a number for a local cab company, so I can get to the Greyhound station.”

“Mhmmm. I noticed your bag in the foyer.”

“Oh yeah, that,” Becky sighed, shutting one drawer and then opening another. “Well, you see, it just dills my pickle to be all prepared and ready to go when I call up a car to come get me. Although I had rather hoped I would have been gone before you got back, I didn’t want to bother you. But, since you’re here, maybe you can make yourself useful and help find the phone book?”

Elvis bent and leaned over the island that jutted out of the counter at the front of the kitchen.

“Honey, I have absolutely no intention a helpin’ you find a phone book.”

Becky stopped and fell back against the cupboard next to the set of drawers, her legs stretching out over the dark, burgundy carpet that covered the kitchen.She banged her hand back and closed her eyes.

“Why? Why can’t you just give me the phonebook?”

Elvis walked over and stood above Becky, his hand reaching down. “Cuz I don’t want you ta leave, honey. Not like this. C’mon, let’s talk. If you still wanna go home, why, I’ll drive you back to Jackson myself, like I promised.”

Becky glared up at his hand. “No.”

“What, you just gonna stay there on the ground?”

“Mhmmm.” She crossed her legs and her arms and tilted back into the cabinet. “Yup, yessiree. This is my home now, til I get a cab, I reckon.”

Elvis meandered over slowly and groaned as he lowered himself next to her on the floor. He moved his hand out to touch hers, only to be rebuked by their swift retreat back under her breasts in a huff of crossed arms and limbs. He rolled his neck to meet her gaze against the wooden cabinet.

“Honey, you are actin’ like a child. This is all one big misunderstanding. Now, c’mon.”

Elvis put his hand over her thigh, but Becky swatted it away, so he grabbed the foot she had criss crossed over her knee, and rolled into her shoulder as he scooted closer, squeezing her foot.

“Becky, look, you know I have other friends —”

“Girl friends, yes, I know about them, but apparently they don’t know about me. Do you have any idea how horrible that felt? Lying, looking at your beautiful beauty queen girlfriend, pretending to be Charlie’s cousin?” She pressed her face against the cupboard and let the tears come pouring out. “Ugh, I am so stupid, I know this isn’t me. I am not cut out to be the other woman.”

“Sssshhh.” Elvis put his arm around Becky’s shoulder, massaging her as he drew her body into his, bringing her head to nuzzle in his chest, where she gave up and grasped his shirt, letting the sobs come out as she cried into him. “Sshhhh. S’ok, s’ok.”

“No, s’not ok, ugh, I’m a horrible person, a traitor to my sex.” Her fist bumped tepidly into Elvis’ chest. She looked up at his chuckles. “What, why are you laughing at me?”

“Baby, you are too pretty to cry. Now, come on. Linda is not my wife, she knows it, I know it, things haven’t been going well and our relationship has been sorta peeterin’ out. But I have to do things my own way, ok? Her brother is on the police force, it made sense, right now, for me to take her as my date. But I swear, nothing happened. I’m here with you. At my house. Would I have a mistress at my house, where I lived, if I was keeping her a secret?”

Becky wiped her eyes. “You think she knows about me? She knew when she met me?”

Elvis sucked in his breath. “Honey, I don’t know, and frankly, right now I don’t care who knows. I-I, I didn’t wanna get into it tonight. But Linda knows well enough how it is with me. Look, I want to be with you, here, now. So let’s be together, and let’s go to bed.”

He said this with finality, and stood up, groaning slightly and steadying himself against the sink,  and Becky followed, exhaling loudly as she pulled herself up on his outstretched hand and walked with him out of the kitchen, still sniffling and wiping her eyes into his silk dress shirt.

“Ok, but only because the floor was starting to feel uncomfortable. And I couldn’t find the phone book.”

Elvis smiled and Becky watched his cheeks twitch above the pout of his mouth, and she couldn’t help it, she led herself into his embrace.

“There now, lil girl, why you go get yourself all worked up like that?”

Becky looked down, blushing trying to just calm herself and feel good about making peace, or whatever it was she was doing. Giving in. No, you are having fun, she told herself. It’s silly to be upset over Linda, and was the use of fighting? This is a short, fun, little fling. Somehow his logic made sense at the same time that it made no sense at all. Becky’s head ached trying to sort it out, she decided that she was tired and exhausted and still a little tipsy, and needed to stop fighting and let herself fall forward into Elvis’ pliant, warm belly. He took a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped her eyes, then softly pressed his lips to Becky’s mouth.

 “Mmmm, baby, those are some salty lips.” 

Elvis lifted his hand, thumbing over her lower lip slowly, it made Becky gasp and she watched him respond with a smirk. He leaned in slowly, and Becky shivered when he breathed on her, watching with anticipation as he  licked his own lip and hesitated with a wider smirk before pressing his mouth into hers. More forcefully this time, his hands soothing up her sides. 

“S’alright now, s’alright, no more cryin, ok, lil girl? Too pretty ta cry like this. Goin’ on and making my favorite lips all salty. "

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[bipanicoverthegravessiblings]

soooooo, i don't know if you already did that and i just could not find or something, but i'd really love you to write something about julia dating the reader, like, her love languages, how would be the perfect date night, etc

there's not enough julia content for me

thank you so much in advance! ^^

You are so right about the need for more Julia Content

Julia x Reader

You cannot fathom the idea of anyone mistreating Julia

She’s just so- sweet. Even raising your voice at her feels like a crime punishable by death

You just wanna hold her face in your hands and squish her til she pops

But you won’t- you’ve been told you were too rough last time you tried to do that

The best way to describe the start of your relationship with her was….slow

She was slow to trust. Slow to allow you to touch her. Slow to even get into a relationship to begin with

But- you didn’t mind. You don’t have all the details of her previous partner, but honestly he sounded like a jerk

He never raised his voice or hit her or anything, he was just weird

Apparently he wanted her to tie her hair up to look like another girl

That’s where she stopped though

You’ve gotten bits and pieces of some other trauma though

Being harassed and stalked by an ex friend, and another friend of hers being killed and the body never being found

You just wanted to hug her when she told you that last part

When she did- you thought you might’ve died then and there

If she trusted you enough to let you hug her…it means progress was being made

As the relationship progressed, you started to see more of Julia

Not the timid girl you began dating, but more of the side of her that was comfortable around you

The side that would kiss you on the cheek, or cling to your arm

The side that told you about her ideal date over the phone one late night

“Why do you wanna know?..” You could almost hear the small head tilt usually did when asking a question. It warmed your heart to bits.

“So I can take you on it,” you exclaimed, grabbing a notepad nearby and balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear, “Now tell me, please?”

Julia hummed, debating whether to tell you or not, “What’s wrong with the dates we already have? I like them plenty.”

“Nothing’s wrong with them,” you waved your hand, though you know she wouldn’t see, “But I wanna do something special for our anniversary.”

“Oh shit that’s coming up?” You heard some shuffling on the other line, likely Julia sitting up in bed and rushing to look at her calendar, “Fuuucckkk it is! How did you remember that?”

You grinned, “I’m a genius hun, now tell me!”

“Fiiinnneee-“ Success!, “It’s stupid though..”

“Noooooo!” You objected, leaning back against your bed frame, “Come on! It’s not dumb! I bet it’s wonderful.”

“Hmm…okay- I’d…really like to go to a petting zoo.”

You blinked, “That’s it?”

“Is it bad?”

“Not at all!” You sat up a little, “What’s so dumb about petting a bunch of cute animals?”

“I guess I just worry about that ya know?”

“Well stop it!” You knew that wouldn’t stop it, but it’s worth a try, “Wanna know what you can get me for our anniversary?”

“Uhhh…flowers? Food?”

“Nope!” You shook your head, grabbing the phone from its spot between your ear and shoulder, “You can’t worry or apologize for anything the entire day!”

“What?!” She objected, “But that’s gonna be so haarrddd..”

“Don’t care, it’s my gift!”

“Can’t you just stay over and I give you a different kind of gift?…”

You felt your face heat up a little. Tempting as the offer was, you were stagnant on her not worrying or apologizing for something out of her control.

“Maybe next year—“

Your heart fluttered at the sound of Julia laughing on the other line, “Okay- okay…I guess I have a date to look forward to.”

“Yup! I’ll leave you be now, I know you’ve got studying to do.”

“Can’t I procrastinate more? I like you better than studying..”

“Sorry babe, not happening. Loveyoubye!” Julia started to object but you hung up. You can apologize for that later. You scribbled down various things on your notepad, the plans for the perfect date!

It was clear to you that Julia’s love language was quality time

She liked being around you, and indulging in your hobbies was how she showed her love

Whether it be physically being there, or calling every night before she went to bed- or had to cram for school.

It made you happy- seeing her this way.

Excited to be around you, comfortable enough to hang off of you in public, to let herself love you

And you’re glad she did

[pomegranate-pen]

Hi iv really enjoyed your lackadaisy writing and was wondering if you’d be willing to write dating headcanons for Mordecai Heller?

He’s one of my favorites atm

A/n: hey everyone!! hope you're all having a good day!!! so a lot fo you requested mordecai dating headcanons, so here it is!! this will probably be the last headcanons I'll do, and I'll now stick to writing scenarios while also my main focus being continuing my fanfics. also going to start making up the plot for the potential rocky fic. though that all may come out in summer, since I'm slowly but surely exam seasons. anyways- hope you all enjoy this!!

Mordecai Heller x gn! reader general

-Mordecai is definitely cold toward you the very first time you meet. He will not speak to you about himself or his interests, he will keep the conversations short and straight to the point and he will not care about a single thing you do, only he will be annoyed when you do a task wrong.

-If you’re a regular of sorts, or someone who will become his partner or co-worker, then you’ll learn a few more bits and information about him and if stayed long enough, you will get a few more lines other than orders about what he feels about a certain subject matter or a few other workers around here (mostly complaints about the Savoy siblings, given how much he has to spend time with them on the daily). even then, he merely considers you an acquaintance. And it will take many years and much more meetings for him to see you as a friend. and when it does happen, it is subtle, but the conversations are more apparent, and your opinion on different matters is valued much more.

-Being his lover, however, will take much longer, and needs a much more deal of spending time and getting to know him. Which can be hard given how closed off he is about his life and past. Despite that, it’s not an impossible task. Rather, it’s made extremely difficult due to Mordecai’s own lack of interest in such things, his trust issues, and a bundled amount of feelings of unworthiness towards such a thing as love. He believes he doesn’t need it nor does he deserve it, and he doesn’t mind either of those.

-However, though his feelings are completely uninterested in such matters, that doesn’t mean he won’t fall for someone, which in this case, becomes you after half a decade or so of being friends with him. 

-the first to realize their feelings is most likely you. since Mordecai will first assume that his emotions towards you are just ones out of the care and respect he has for you as a friend. If you realize them, you must keep quiet about them for the most part, since Mordecai won’t really understand why there would be such a feeling harboring between you two, and he must process his own feelings himself before accepting yours. When he does realize them, oh boy, it’s rough. He feels guilty for loving you, because he doesn’t trust himself with any intimate relationship. Given how his friendship went with Viktor, he was already extremely hesitant about the idea of another friend, now, a lover and a partner, someone that he needs to trust and share a part of his life with, and they must do with him, is frightening and confusing to say the least. As said before, he doesn’t believe he’s worthy of such things. And now that he wants it from you, he feels like a villain of sorts. Taking something that doesn’t belong to him in the first place.

-It will take quite a few months for him to accept these feelings of his, almost half a year even. You seriously need to be very patient with him, something that he will appreciate the world of when you do. his confession is short, and straight to the point. Though, a few ticks of stress and anxiousness can be seen in him. For example, his ears are twitching here and then, his tail is flicking up and down in his seat and he cannot for the life of him seem to stare at you in the eye for more than three seconds. His words are quick, and his tone is a bit clumsy for a guy like him. at the end of it, the flicks of his tail are quicker in speed, and now, he’s looking straight at you with a hesitant look, as if he’s regretting the confession already a second after it’s done.

-He’s calmed down and surprised when you do accept his confession, and he’d not know what to do at that point. he’d nod his head, clear his throat, and thank you. “very well then,” his ears twitched a bit. “ I suppose we’d have to…plan a date now?” 

-It takes him some time, but with some help from yours, he finds, in his opinion, the true meaning of dating someone. It is not about dates and being over the top like he presumed, yet it is a way of spending time and enjoying each other’s presence, and being loyal to one another for more than anyone else. 

-So as you can guess, dates are quite rare. He never sees the point in it, though if you want such an activity to happen every once in a while, perhaps with a bit of pleading and coaxing you’ll get him to begrudgingly get time out of his day to do such things with you. yet, even though he seems annoyed by the entire occasion at first, you find him calm and even smiling at some point the more time you spend with him on the said dates.

His love language is spending time with one another. Though at the start of the relationship, miscommunication will be common, since Mordecai isn't one to speak about his feelings, if you try your best to tackle it healthily, your relationship with him will be all about communication and it will be the very reason why it’s so strong at the end of it all. It also makes him see communication as the most important part of the relationship, so he’s completely honest, brutally so at times. 

--The love language he’d like to receive most is the same, though he does get a bit flustered anytime you use words of affirmation and compliment him, then quickly denies your compliments or thanks you for them. 

-Not at all a PDA person, nor is he a physically affectionate guy in private either. He doesn’t like physical contact, either finding it too stuffy or too warm for his liking and just not being in much of a mood for it most times. Though, if in a situation you truly seem like you need a warm embrace or a hand to hold, he wouldn’t mind giving that to you, though he’ll be a bit flustered and quiet the entire time while doing so. He wouldn’t ever say this out loud, but his favorite act of affection from you is when you kiss or peck his cheek. It's surprising to him and it makes him melt a bit, being treated with such softness is quite rare in his life, so he doesn’t know what to do when you peck him, but his heart is beating so fast he can’t focus. He could only look at you in shock and touch the cheek you have kissed in instinct. Give him a forehead kiss and you’ll have an extremely quiet Mordecai awaiting you. he’s processing every second of that quick kiss and he’s speechless by how much it moved him.

 -Word about your relationship will never spread out, since Mordecai is extremely private about such things. No one realizes you two are dating unless one of you says so. The only ones who do notice by connecting the dots themselves are the Savoy siblings and Viktor. 

-Whether you like it or not, information about Mordecai’s family will mostly never be revealed. You’ll most likely just know that he has two sisters, but that is all he will ever tell you. and in fairness, he never tries to force you to speak about yours either, so it’s a mutual agreement at times to just avoid the topic unless it is deemed necessary by a dangerous circumstance to be said. 

-He doesn’t have many hobbies, but if you still try to enjoy a few things he does such as reading the same book he has on his shelves, you’ll be met with a cautiously excited and info-dumping Mordecai who starts debates and discussions with you about which part of the books you enjoyed and detested.

-He’ll try to indulge a bit in a few hobbies you have as well, but he’ll probably not get much invested in them. Though, he still sees it as a worthy journey, since in the end you were smiling and excited when explaining things to him.  

-Mordecai feels much more comfortable ranting to you than anyone else. So most times when he comes back from work for the day and has a weekend to look forward to, he spends that time drinking tea with you while speaking about anything and nothing that is on his mind. Treat this like it was diamonds in a mine full of charcoal. because not everyone has the luck to meet this side of Mordecai Heller. He’s more expressive when he’s with you, more open with his emotions, which means the level of trust he has with you is most than anyone else’s.

He’ll listen to all your rants and complaints as well, and if needed, he will give honest advice for your problems. Don’t expect any comfort, though. Because he isn't the best one for such things and he makes that clear all the time before you start your rant. 

-Wherever you live, whether it's in a separate apartment from his or if you’ve moved in with him, it will be extremely clean. Whether it’s because of his actions or yours, a completely clean and tidied-up house becomes the absolute norm in your life. If you were one who never really cared about those things, well, you will have to at some point for his sake, since he’s always extremely uncomfortable in messy areas.

 -Mordecai Heller loves you, but he won’t ever verbally say it. yet, you’ll always know that, because his actions speak much louder than words ever can, and you understand every word he's saying when he’s making tea for you or asking about your day, speaking to you on the daily or just sitting next to you. you know he loves you, and you know he loves you back. and perhaps, that is why this relationship worked in the first place. It will have its hardships, yes, but like any other relationship, it doesn’t mean it won’t have its good moments either. 

[chairofchaos]

The Introduction: A Letters of Love Short Story

Summary: Carmine writes the Introduction Letter to “Letters of Love” while enjoying the company and comfort of his mate. You do not need to have read Letters of Love in order to enjoy this one shot, though it would be recommended you read at least the first two sections of Part I to understand things fully.

Rating: Teen (Letters of Love still holds an Explicit rating.)

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: Thank you to all of you lovely people who enjoyed Part I of Letters! You all have been phenomenal, and I cannot thank you enough. Thank you for your patience in letting me get to Part II when I get home from vacation. Let me know what you think about this one! Comments, DMs, asks, blood oaths of loyalty to get the next part early: I accept them all!

“Love,” Carmine called gently from his desk in the shared office.

“Hmm?” His mate didn’t move an inch, responding with an air of sleepiness. The water of the river was glinting with the summer’s dwindling evening sun, which bathed the room in warm light tinted various pastel shades. Carmine sat back to admire how it fell across the lounging body of his mate. The male’s wings twitched as he shifted to wrap his arms around the purple decorative pillow that had assumed the very functional role of supporting his head. Carmine smiled at the sight.

”Do you want to go to bed? We were up early for the opening of the art exhibit. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

”No, no,” his mate grumbled, turning over again and rubbing his eyes. “I’m up, darling. I want to be here while you write this.”

Carmine couldn’t help but chuckle, spinning his chair to face him fully. “My love. You’re here, but you’re falling asleep, which means you actually aren’t. We are also much too old to be carrying each other to bed.”

The answering smirk was as much a challenge as it was a wry acknowledgement of the truth. “I don’t want to leave you. This is a big moment.”

”Alright,” Carmine sighed, smiling. “I won’t push you out.”

”You’d better not,” was the only reply.

”I wouldn’t dare.”

Carmine returned to his still very blank paper. How could he thank them, for all that they did? His fathers, long since passed, had made it possible for him to have this love with his mate, openly and happily. His fathers had struggled through the years so that he could have this domestic bliss.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything. The love he had for the male who shared his bed, and had for centuries, was unmatched, except by the love which Carmine received from him in return.

How could he not acknowledge that, all of that, in this letter? He needed ten pages for this. This introduction was everything. This was the book which had set him on his way to where he was now. He had researched and written hundreds of books. He had told the stories of great loves, some fully romantic from start to finish, others tragic in ending. His own wasn’t over. But his fathers’…

Eris and Azriel. The love they had shared had changed a fair few things for Carmine and he knew it. This would be the best thank you he could offer them, the best hope he had to acknowledge the work they had done simply by loving one another.

Carmine’s gaze drifted as he leaned back, considering what words could come close to expressing that sort of gratitude. And there were others to thank, as well. Aunt Elain needed thanking most of all, for gathering the letters in the first place. Azriel had apparently been near fury at first, until he realized that all the letters were pieces of their hearts that they had shared. Elain had sworn to him she had a reason. Looking back, Carmine could see those pieces scattered in the other letters she had assembled. Even the smallest note held a hint of love. Every word mattered.

It was Eris who had asked Carmine to bring him the letters when he realized he was dying. Carmine hadn’t even known they existed. And yet, as Carmine found himself watching his Father walk unfaltering toward the end of his life, he began to understand more clearly the start of that great love that had torn Eris’ heart from his chest as his Azriel, Carmine’s Papa, left the living behind.

Carmine had known they had loved each other. He had seen it daily as a youth, and most days since. But to read their beginnings, in their words, was the closest Carmine had ever come to fully understanding that all-consuming fire that wove his parents' hearts into one.

He did as his Father asked. He assembled the letters in chronological order. He put them together in a binding that wouldn’t damage them, a new technology which allowed him to slip them into clear sleeves where they could still be read without being damaged by contact with the world. He took it to his father, and watched as his father’s tears fell while rereading the many words he had once written and received.

Tears fell. Carmine was startled suddenly by the splashing of water against his hand, finding that he was, in fact, crying.

This book was everything to him. After Father’s death, the letters were reproduced, copied onto paper and bound into books for the family. Flora had a copy that had been her mother’s, a thank you Carmine had given to the seer without whom the book couldn’t exist at all. Carmine had his own copy, and the copy that had once been the possession of his brother, Ash. Between him and his mate, they had six extra copies. Carmine had gifted one to the male (who had fallen back asleep on the couch) for the Autumnal Equinox the year after Eris had passed.

The five others were advance copies of the first edition to be published, without, of course, the introduction that Carmine was neglecting to write. One was to be sent to Autumn for his sister. Two were for Carmine’s own home. He would dedicate the one intended for his mate another day.

One was for Flora, for her help in research and for her undertaking of the work her mother had begun centuries ago to preserve and protect the original letters. One would be buried at Aunt Elain’s grave, one last thank you to the High Lady who had seen what no one else did, and who had done what she could to make that future possible.

The last would be buried at the graves of his fathers, between where their bodies lay. It had been their wish that they not be separated, even in death. Now, they would be joined at their end by the words which marked their beginning.

“Darling?” The sound of his mate roused Carmine from his nostalgic sorrow. “Yes?”

The male came to stand before him, reaching to tilt his chin up. Carmine smiled up at him, even as a tear dropped from his chin.

”Are you alright?”

”I am.”

”Shall I help you?”

”There’s no need,” Carmine sighed, letting the male brush away the stray tears with the softest of touches. “I know what I want to write. The issue is there’s so much I wish to say that I could write an entire volume of how this book even came to be.”

His mate hummed, running a hand through Carmine’s short red hair, now streaked with silver. “Well. You could start by saying that.”

Carmine just nodded.

“In the meantime, maybe we should go to bed?” The male suggested, running his hand firmly and steadily down Carmine’s neck and arm to his wrist. Carmine sent the wave of love the comforting gesture brought up barreling down the bond. He didn’t hesitate to share those things with his mate, not when time was so short and there was love to be had. His mate said nothing, tracing circles against the skin of Carmine’s wrist with gentle fingers.

”I suppose I could get up in the morning to work on it. I think I can make it work,” Carmine said slowly.

His mate bent to kiss him on the forehead. “I’ll go turn down the covers.”

Carmine watched him go, the wings folded against his back, the greying, dark hair which curled slightly at the nape of his tan neck, the arms which bore too many scars for Carmine’s liking, though of course he loved them all the same.

“Nyx,” he called.

Nyx spun to face him with an eyebrow raised, his sensual gaze tempered only by the pure exhaustion which lay within. “Darling.”

”I love you.”

A smile graced his mate’s tan face, the corners at his blue eyes crinkling. “I love you too, Carmine.”

***

A/N Part 2: Dear friends, Let me know if you want on (or off!) the taglist (or if you want to jump from a fic list to the permanent list!)! I only want to be in your notifications if you want me there. All my love! Hope you enjoyed it!

Letters of Love Universe Taglist: @c-starstuff-man0 @talibunny30 @jir67

Permanent Taglist: @ninthcircleofprythian

[myfandomprompts]

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟒)

Synopsis: You are a French girl that had the opportunity to teach in Manchester, and you had been lucky enough to be granted a bed at the Bennett’s place. As Europe is on the brink of war, you start to worry for your family back at home, and you are surprisingly consoled by the one man of the house you would never have thought capable of landing you an ear. It’s not that you like Tom, is it?

Previous Part - Masterlist

Tags: angst, fluff

A/N: Sorry for my long absence, but until July I am swamped. I should be working instead of writing but here I am. There is work in the do, another Aemond fic among others things, but I'll try to finish this one first. And I am not forgetting the other work I promised to some of you. Thank you to @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan & @babyblue711 for awesome beta reading. Enjoy.

French spoken -> italics

It was a terrifying thing to witness. 

Mass and queues of thousands of men waiting on the sand with the hope of being evacuated upon the Channel before the Germans broke the last lines of defence. And Tom had only one job: bring back as many as possible to the destroyer and manage to make it home.

“Come on lads!” he shouted against the wind. “Fritz is due to call again soon, and he won’t be selling ice creams!”

Then a bloke with a thick eastern accent tried to board the barge, a wild look in his eyes as he approached the boat. “You cannot stop me,” he spat as Tom pushed him away, telling him off. 

“Oh, yeah? I can with this, mate,” he replied, drawing his handgun and pointing it at him.

Tom didn’t want to be here. Every minute he spent away from home felt like part of himself was betraying him, his father’s look as he refused him fresh on his mind, as well as the discussion with you. He had a task to accomplish, and even though he understood why this guy wanted to flee, he could not let him. Who did he think he was? 

He tried to explain why he couldn’t board with them, but the wild look in the man’s eyes grew more determined. He was not giving up, Tom reckoned.

“I’m ready for death.” 

But neither was he. “We’re all fucking ready for death mate! We’re all ready for death.” 

Because life was apparently set to make him feel like he was in hell.

“Shoot me!” the man screamed and Tom had widened his eyes a little before finding his cocky expression again, refusing to let compassion take the better of him before the blond-haired man's desperation. Because every second he was spending on French soil infuriated him, wishing that the aching in his chest would disappear and be replaced by the usual soldier dread or determination his mates all seem to possess, like that eastern man obviously had. 

Instead Tom was doing everything he could to get you out of his head, one way or another, and being geographically close to you did not help, at all.

“Right, behave, lads! Any more hassle and I’ll be going home with a boat half-full!” he shouted at the beach, the feeling of his gun heavy in his hands as the blond boy was shoved away.

Then that sound. That shrilling howl, that recognisable whistling that meant death filled the beach and all looked up. Several Stukas, Luftwaffe’s most dreadful aircraft were diving on them, dropping bombs and shooting away.

Everybody around him started to shout and move, panic taking over the entire beach as he saw the bombers dive one by one. Tom felt his whole body fill with dread, the same feeling he had had on the Graf Spree as it got bombed kicking in and the next minute he was running, sprinting among the soldiers and the fire raining down on them. 

He had said he was ready for death, but as it came nearer and nearer his need to escape it only grew stronger. That would not be how he ends, not how he parted with his father. With you.

So Tom ran. And Tom fell.

The Nazi flag that hung below l’Arc de Triomphe was flapping against the warm wind of June like it belonged there, red, black and white flashing against the blue of the sky. Behind it marched hundreds of German officers who were parading on the Champs-Elysées with arrogance under the sour gaze of the Parisians that had enough courage to leave their home to witness their entrance.

But Paris felt empty, most of its inhabitants had fled when the capital had been declared an open city a few days prior, the government relocating to Bordeaux the next day as the threat of a German bombing loomed over it. What was left of the French forces was only a deformed mass, scattered across the North of France as soon as the German had pushed through the Meuse and Sedan, trapping them between them and the sea. Many died as they covered the evacuation of Dunkirk, some even lucky enough to reach English shores when the remaining troops were either taken prisoners or killed. Only a few had managed to come back, either wounded or forced to take the German’s advancement by speed as they tried to reach Paris.

But Paris was now occupied, left defenceless as the exodus carried on. And there you were, in the city since the start of May, learning day after day of news of defeated battles and death, heart falling in your chest as the enemy crept closer. 

It was upon your return from England that you had decided to go to Paris, after you had found your parents and after they told you that your brother had enrolled in the army back in January and hadn’t come back. An argument ensued in which you blamed your parents who had hidden this from you in order to have you stay in Manchester, feeling betrayed and left out by their omission. So you had packed and headed for the capital only a few days before the Germans had crossed the Maginot Line and put the whole country in disarray.

If your brother was to appear somewhere, you hoped it would be there. You would not sit back and wait for him to appear or not appear. You would not wait to learn of his imprisonment or death comfortably with your parents. You would not experience the same feeling you had had when Tom Bennet, whose blue eyes and wry smile haunted you every day, had been away at sea.

As he surely was now.

You sat down in your tiny flat and, feeling like it was for the millionth time, began writing the same words at the top of the paper again: Dear Tom, Then, after two minutes of agony you crunched up the paper into a ball and threw it in the bin atop of the rest.

It had been months, and you doubted that you would ever be able to put your thoughts into words, what you wanted to say to him. You felt that a letter was not enough, and it surely was.

You weren’t even sure it would reach him.

If he was still alive.

"They dismissed you? Just like that?"

"They didn't really have any choice. The Germans do not care about a shabby café, they prefer three stars restaurants."

It was several days after the German parade and you had just entered the American Hospital to find Henriette, catching her on her way to the office in order to enter new deaths to the registry. 

Just in time.

“If you aren’t able to work anymore, you should leave Paris. Maybe go to the zone libre,” she suggested to you as she washed her hands thoroughly in a tiny sink.

“No, if I want to have a better chance at finding my brother, it’s here in Paris. No matter how much I hate being here,” you said, looking around to witness some Nazi officers stroll the corridors. You lowered your voice. “You should be the one leaving. Go in the countryside, not… staying among them.”

Henriette looked at you terrified as she glanced at the Nazis disappearing beyond the halls, then she gave you a frantic shake of her head. Your friend was Jewish, and you were awfully worried for her since the Germans’ arrival, the anti-Semitic ideas they brought with them spreading at an alarming rate.

“My duties are here and I am helping people, the ones who fought for us,” she answered as she went to the desk to grab the log book. “Even when some are ungrateful, might I add. Always feels rewarding when they are getting better.”

You eyed the book in her hands before giving her a short smile. “Men giving you a hard time, then? Hope it’s not the doctor,” you winked, aware of your friend's crush on the American.

She gave you a scolding smile. “Non. Some British guy who was very unhappy to be in Paris. Just, straight rude, called Jacques a coward. He did not like it,” she scoffed.

“Right, I swear they aren’t all like that," you laughed, picturing in your head a man like Tom doing the exact opposite of what you were claiming British people didn’t do. You tried to ignore the pang of guilt and longing you felt thinking about him again, a daily struggle, “What’s an English man doing here anyway? Prisoner?” 

“Wounded at Dunkerque and brought back, shot in the shoulder. That boy was a sacré numéro.”

But you were not listening to your friend saying that the soldier had been a handful, because your anguish was considerably growing at the sight of the papers she had mulled out of the drawer, drawing all of your attention to it.

“Je peux voir ?” you said, voice slightly trembling. Can I see?

Every week it was the same routine. Ever since you had settled in Paris, you visited the hospital where you knew your friend received a daily list of the deceased soldiers that had passed away in the hospitals of the area, and every few days you came and consulted said list, hoping that your brother’s name would not appear. You dreaded the day you would learn that he had indeed made it to Paris, only to die there.

Henriette sighed. “Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” she asked, assessing your worried eyes staring at her.

As an answer you just extended your hand so she would give you the list, and she reluctantly did. As your eyes travelled the papers, you heard Doctor O’Connor enter the room and greet you. You absent-mindedly greeted back, eyes not leaving the list of  names. 

“Are they gone?” Henriette asked Webster in English.

“Yes, the one that vomited was pretty eager to leave. I doubt they will ask to go downstairs again after that.”

You gathered they were talking about German officers that had visited earlier. They were everywhere, even in the last place you wanted them to be. You try not to let it get to you.

“Good,” your friend answered with a firm nod. “Because I don’t think I could pull another miracle like that next time.”

You were about to put the paper back down on the desk, relieved not to see your brother’s name written on it, when your eyes noticed something and your heart stopped.

No.

“Henriette?” you said in a voice you did not recognise, your eyes refusing to leave the piece of paper. “What did you say that English guy’s name was?”

Both the Doctor and your friend exchanged a look before answering. “Uh… Bennett, I think,” she said.

“Tom Bennett, Royal Navy,” finished Webster matter-of-factly while watching you with curious eyes. “Why, you know him?”

You looked up from the paper, feeling the world spinning. No, there was no way. 

“What did he look like?” you heard yourself ask, your voice barely audible as you felt your throat burn.

“British?” Webster answered with a scoff. “Blue eyes, blond hair, a pain in the ass. Big mouthed.” 

You felt your vision blur for the briefest moment before it cleared again, and you let out a trembling breath you didn’t know you were holding.

This wasn't happening.

You had to sit down, and when you reached the chair next to the desk you felt Henriette rush to your sides in order to ease you down.

“Y/N, qu’est-ce qu’il se passe? Do you know him?” she repeated in French, concern in her eyes as Doctor O’Connor was looking at you dumbfounded, a brow arched high on his forehead.

You struggled to speak, your eyes fixated on the ground. No…You needed more time.

“How…” you began, swallowing hard to control your tears from flowing, hand over your mouth. “…when did he die?” you asked, your voice escaping your throat with difficulty. It took everything you had not to close your eyes and not fall apart on the spot.

“Oh no, no he is not dead, Y/N,” said your friend as she took your hand gently. 

You glanced up at her. “What? But…” you stammered, looking at the paper you had put back on the desk with the names and back at her.

Doctor O’Connor seemed to catch up, closed the door and came to crouch next to you, lowering his voice as he spoke. “He is not, we only declared him dead so he would not be taken prisoner of war. We found a way for him to make it back home.”

You widen your eyes, not realising that they were wet from your own tears, heart beating hard in your chest. Tom Bennett was in the same building as you were.

Alive.

“What the fuck do you call this outfit? This your revenge?”

Tom had just grabbed the brown vest that looked like it had been lifted from a dead body from the male nurse. Jacques, he thought his name was, from what he had gathered when he had woken up five days earlier. 

When he was met with silence, Tom sneered. “I know you speak English, you understood full well when I was calling you a coward.”

Tom smirked at the man looking out of the window to see if the way was clear, but when the nurse stopped him from exiting the room and uncovered the stretcher near the shelves, Tom’s smirk fell as he understood the plan. 

“You’re fucking kidding me?”

Being rolled around in a stretcher was humiliating, but his desire to get away from this place and the stinkers that crowded it was worth this humbling experience, the prospect of even making it home in one piece, seeing his dad, Lois, and little Lois and Harry warming his heart a bit. 

He laid still, even when he felt the stretcher come to a stop and a German officer ask questions to his “saviour”. Minutes later, the ambient sounds of the hospital died and he felt the linen over him being lifted off.

“Fucking finally. Did you take the long road or something?” he asked, straightening his clothes as he got up and took in the small room he was in, dimly lit with only one window and chairs put up against the walls. “What now?”

He was satisfied to see the frustrated scowl on the man’s face but he soon noticed the way his eyes glanced over his shoulder. When he followed his gaze, Tom felt his heart stop altogether. "...Y/N?”

You were standing at a corner of the room, unmoving, your eyes roaming over him and Tom felt crushed under it for a moment before you suddenly moved. He barely had time to register it was really you before you crashed on to him with force, enveloping him in your arms. 

“Oi, careful there,” he winced with a scoff when he felt the pain that shot through his fresh wound at his shoulder. But he didn’t make any move to push you away as he felt your breath on his neck and your scent fill his nostrils, so familiar, so sweet. He had no choice but to assess that it was really you. 

You were finally in his arms. 

Well, almost. “Sorry! I didn’t think…” concerned, you pulled away from him, giving him space and making him instantly regret his words. “I know you’ve been shot, I was just so happy to see you…” 

“It’s ok. You can’t be as bad as a bullet,” he chuckled, taking in the way your cheeks reddened at his joke and eliciting a small smile on your lips.

He managed to stay still for only two whole seconds before pulling you back against him, willing to take everything you would give him, everything you were. Your warmth, your embrace, your presence. You were the first familiar face he had seen in weeks, and he was still processing that you were really here.

He felt your hands coming to rest on his back again shyly, taking care not to press against his shoulder and he exhaled in blissfulness. He held you close until a clearing of throat came from somewhere behind him. You both pulled apart to look at Jacques, hand on the doorknob and absolutely not ashamed to have ruined this moment.

“Hey, Y/N. Tell him that he must be in the hall at nightfall, the contact will wait for him there. Meanwhile, he must not move from here, it's too much risk, d'accord?"

Tom saw you frown. “Oui, understood. But I thought you spoke English, why don't you tell that yourself?"

"I don't have time to lose with that merdeux. He can already count himself damn lucky that O'Connor accepts to help him, and you seem to have things well in hand... So, all the better for me."

You chuckled dryly, your eyes lightening a bit as you did so, and Tom arched a brow on his forehead at that. What was so funny?

“Very well,” you replied as the man opened the door and made him stop when you thanked him with all of your heart. Jacques gave you a nod before barely granting a glance at Tom and left the room.

“What did he say?” inquired Tom as soon as the man had disappeared. 

“He said that you must meet the contact in the hall in about…” you eyed the clock that was hanging above the door, narrowing your eyes. “Two hours, when the sun will be down. It’ll be easier not to get spotted. The Germans are tense today, it is said that Hitler himself was in Paris this morning.”

Jacques’ interruption had you take a step back away from him and as Tom mourned your closeness, he was able to notice the way you shivered at the mention of the Fuhrer. His instinct instantly went to soothe you, but he stopped himself. The distant memory of the last time he saw you and the struggle he endured during this last month slowly came back, and he suddenly didn’t know how to act anymore.

All he knew was that he had been mad at you at some point.

“So it’s not you, huh? The contact,” he said, putting his hands in his pocket bitterly. “Seemed too good to be true.” 

You must have seen his mood change on his face because you brought your arms to cross them over your chest protectively in reaction.  “No… I know my way around, but I don’t have the means to go to Spain,” you tried to joke with a smile, but it didn’t stick.

Instead, Tom felt everything he had on his heart slowly takes over. “I came for you, you know,” he said, not leaving your gaze. “Back in Manchester. I came back to your flat, but you were already gone. No goodbyes, no letters, nothing. You said three days.”

He watched as your eyes filled with guilt instantly, making him want to take back what he had just said, make you understand that it was all because he had been miserable. 

But it was too late. “I thought it would be better that way, for everybody. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry…” he nodded, tongue pressing against his inner cheek in animosity. “You didn’t even send a letter to us afterwards. To Dad and Lois. To me.”

“I… I thought you wouldn't have wanted me to. I thought you would be mad at me,” you tried to explain.

“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” he scoffed. “Did what we had mean so little to you, Y/N?”

“Tom…”

“No, really. I know you’re the bravest out of the two of us and all, but when you take so much place in my head, I would have expected you to at least try and end things properly,” he blurted out, nostrils flaring a bit in repressed rancour. “That would have been more like you.”

Tom was spiteful, but otherwise he found himself rather calm considering what he had experienced the last two months after he had discovered you gone. And now you were staring back at him, tears in your eyes, and he felt awful.

"It was a mistake," you suddenly said, shaking your head and hiding your face from him. "Coming here. I should have left you alone, I'm sorry."

You made for the door, passing by him in a blink of an eye and he barely had time to react. He tried to stop you as he made to grab you with his wrong arm, making him groan in the process and he was left with no choice but to rush to the door as well. He slammed it shut as you opened it, trapping you against it.

"No wait-" he called out before lowering his voice to a whisper, your hair brushing against the side of his face. "Wait… I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." 

You turned around, leaning your back against the door as you tried to not let a single tear fall over your cheek.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, coming to press his forehead over yours as you closed your eyes in reaction, his own refusing to leave your face. "Don't leave again."

You let out a trembling breath that fanned over his skin. “You’re the one leaving…” you said sadly, smiling weakly as you opened your eyes, glimmering. Then he felt one of your hands flatten against his chest between the two of you, resting there.

“It would be so much easier if you hated me…” you continued, looking somewhere between the hand on his chest and his lips, and he felt compelled to bring his own finger over the side of your jaw.

“Yeah…” he scoffed, grazing your skin. “Well I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Only your breaths could be heard in the room as he savoured your closeness, slightly pulling back from your face so he could see you better.

“Come with me,” he said in a low murmur, making you look back at him with wide eyes. “I don’t know where I’m going, but at least it will be away from here. Away from them.”

You bit your lip, almost like you had waited for those very words, a pained expression instantly appearing on your features. “I can’t Tom, I-” you started as he felt the pressure over his chest grow. “I have to stay here, in case he returns, I can’t…”

“Who?” he asked, his fingers falling at the hem of your dress over your shoulder in incomprehension.

“My brother,” you answered in a light shake of your head. “He was in the north, fighting. We have had no news for months, and I hoped… I hoped that he would come here, after everything that happened. After they were pushed back. Just maybe.”

Tom felt a rush of empathy take over him as he watched your eyes turn mournful, feeling the need to take the anguish away, to erase the pain on your face that he had pictured you with so many times when he was at sea himself. He wanted to be even closer.

But you have never felt so far away but at that moment. 

“Y/N…” he started, seeing you escape his gaze once more. “If your brother is still… If your brother is still out there, Paris is the last place he’ll come.”

“But you made it,” you said, eyes fluttering, hopeful. “You’re here.”

“I was lucky,” he admitted grudgingly. “I was wounded, they told me they passed me through the lines before the Germans got here. Otherwise I’d be taken as a prisoner of war. Otherwise I’d be…”

He stopped, choosing not to think about the horrible things that would have happened but rather of what was.

“Otherwise I wouldn't be here, with you,” he pressed, applying a light pressure on your shoulder that made you shiver. “Trust me, if I had a choice I wouldn’t have come here, and your brother won’t either, Y/N.”

You let out a defeated sigh. You already knew all of that, you just didn’t want to admit it.

You ducked under his arm, leaving him cold and longing next to the door while you brought a hand to your throat in anguish, not quite looking at him. “I know. I know I just… I can’t just wait, not knowing while they kill and terrorise and take over. It’s just… horrifying Tom.” 

“Come with me,” he repeated, coming to stand right behind you. “There is nothing left for you here, right?”

You turned to him, the tears in your eyes gone as you looked at him with renewed determination. “I can’t, you have to go home, and they have a plan to get you there, a sound one. You are the first of many, this is important, and I won’t be the one to jeopardise that,” you argued, taking his hand at his side with purpose.

“You’re just being stubborn again.”

You sighed, a sorry look on your face. “I can’t go with you because two people have less chance to be spotted than three. I’ll be fine if I stay, you won’t,” you pointed out, eyes intense. “I have ways to leave the city, legal ways. I… I heard you, I know I should leave, go back to the countryside. I’ll do it I promise.”

Tom remained silent, the sour taste in his mouth descending into his throat and he found nothing to say, no arguments, not even a witty response to give you. All of that because he knew you were right. 

All he wanted was for all of this to be over and to be back to the time where you read your books in his living room, drinking tea while he enjoyed a smoke and the way you laughed. But that was impossible now. He was meant to probably die somewhere at sea, or in France if he didn’t make it back, and you were meant to be with your family, two armies separating you.

“There is a curfew,” you stated after a long pause, finding your words again and speaking in a low voice. “I have to get back…” 

He wanted to argue, to find something, anything, but his mind was blank. Instead he watched the way your eyelashes fluttered and how you looked at the clock like it was the fouless thing you’ve even seen.

“Oh, I have something for you,” you remembered, and he saw you reach into your purse to put out two packets of cigarettes. “I figured you would want it. It’s not mild like back in Manchester but, maybe you’ll like those anyway.”

Tom stared at it, unable to take it at first. That was it, the sign that your time together was coming to an end, that you would disappear again and although neither of you wanted to, he knew that you had to.

You put the packets in his hands yourself instead, letting your fingers rest on his hands for a while, pensive.

“Come home safely, Tom, and desert,” you stated, a smile at the corner of your lips. “Properly this time.”

He smiled back. “Well, I’ll have to come back eventually. Who would be left to save your sorry frog’s arses if not us Brits, eh?”

He had talked in a joking manner but he absolutely didn’t feel like laughing, rather focusing on not letting his frustration that was growing by the minute get the better of him and on your fingers on his hands.

You had smiled a bit but your stare was intense, meaningful. He felt like time had stopped before you suddenly came to hold him, wrapping your arms around his shoulder again softly and staying there, silence stretching. 

“Take care of yourself, Tom,” you breathed in his neck, your voice trembling. “Please.”

He held you back, wishing the moment would never be over and he could feel the beating of your heart somehow, beating along with his own. But after a while you slightly pulled back, letting go of you and he felt your lips press a single kiss on his cheek, unsure if the wetness there were your tears or his own.

“Goodbye, Tom.”

Then you were out of the room, barely letting him take a last look at your face as you closed the door behind you, and he just stood there, waiting for the steps to fade away in the corridor like some sort of dream. Then he brought his hand to his face, brushing it as to wake up.

He looked around, alone in a room he was doomed to wait in in order to get back where you weren’t, and when he kicked the bin that was beside the door with his foot, sending it to the other side of the room, it didn’t soothe him at all.

That was the longest two hours of his life.

You had no appetite on this yet another Franco-German morning in your flat. Pigeons were cooing by your window where your bag laid open, half packed, clothes spread other the bed and left abandoned there. Maybe what had pushed you to start packing last night when you came home, dry tears over your cheeks was the will to finally make the sound decision and leave Paris, the conversation with Tom ringing in your ears telling you that your brother wouldn’t make it back here. You’d be better back at your parent’s, you gathered. Or maybe what had pushed you to pack was something else, but you didn’t want to dwell on it, deciding to chase the ache in your chest for now.

You decided to visit the hospital in the afternoon, unable to rest until you knew if it had worked. You knew it was too early, but you didn’t care. If something had happened, they would know of it. Webster would know.

When you entered the lobby, you almost turned back when you saw the abnormally high number of German officers, coming in and out of the heavy doors as you tried to make your way to the first floor. When you reached your friend, she immediately dragged you into an empty room, panic in her eyes.

“Ils l’ont arrêté, Y/N,” she said, taking your hands.

“Arrested? Arrested who, Henriette?” you asked, feeling your throat tighten at her expression, desperately looking into her eyes.

“Léon, from the psychiatric unit. They came this morning and arrested him.”

“What?” you exclaimed, half relieved and half scared. “Why? On what ground?”

Henriette gave you a pained look. “Because I think that he is… Because he is Jewish.”

You recoiled, dread filling you as you thought about your bag on the bed back in your flat and your friend in front of you, all alone.

Like you were.

“That’s it. You’re not staying here. You’re leaving, and I’m coming with you.”

“But I can’t! I have work here, I’m useful, I save lives… I need the money.”

“You won’t have money when they’ll put you away in those labour camps. Henriette, we can't wait around until they take you away.”

Your friend only stared at you, defeated. She didn’t want to leave Paris, what she had always known. She didn’t want to leave her job or Webster.

But you were right.

“Très bien. I just don’t know what to do.”

“I do. Pack, we leave in the morning.”

A/N: By the time the Germans entered Paris the 13 of June, the Parisians that remained stayed inside their homes in fear, as there was a strict curfew. I made reader witness the parade for image purposes.

Here's an accurate representation of myself in my father's attic searching for testimonies of my grand-father and objects from WWII.

I frigging' love that attic.

Part 5

(bold means I couldn't tag you) @chainsawsangel@mischiefmanaged71@depressedperson88@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @yentroucnagol@crlttpstrn @tssf-imagines @omgkatherine01 (I allowed myself to tag you) @nightdiamond8663 @r0segard3n

[pythonees]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ TENDING WOUNDS — scott lang

WARNINGS: 18+, younger woman/older man, blood, injuries, established relationship, oral (m), handjobs

A/N: first time writing male oral 🫣 hope it doesn't... suck.

It's easy to forget that you're an actual adult with an adult job when you've got a fully grown man sulking like a toddler on your couch. You don't even know what time it is, only that you should absolutely still be asleep right now instead of cleaning up Natasha's latest mess.

"For someone trained by Hope, you would think you would learn when you should back out of a fight." You say, carrying your worn medkit into the living room, facing a put out Scott looking like he was just sent to time out.

"I was." He mumbles his way through his words, and you're barely able to understand them even though it's only two things he's said. Still, he doesn't look like he's in that much pain, physically at least. You move to stand between his legs, trying to get a good look at the mess Natasha has made of him.

You hum, getting to work on laying out your things for the very simple task of tending to his scrapes and bruises. It's nothing a little butterfly tape can't fix, from what you can see, anyways. Keeping your touch light, you make quick work of his face, cleaning the cuts with a damp towel before applying the butterfly tape.

He flinches only slightly, a hand coming up to grip behind your knee as you smooth out the pained wrinkles in his forehead, "How long did you last against Natasha?"

"Few minutes, better than Tony did the first time they fought, apparently." He tilts his head without being asked so that you can clean up the painful looking rug burn along his chin, blotchy and already bruising. You work quickly, only both of your breathing filling the silent room.

As you trail your fingers along his face, admiring him up close while looking for anything else that needs to be bandaged and cleaned. It's as your tilting his head up to double check his jaw that you feel the hand on the back of your knee start to slowly work it's way up your leg.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" You ask while trying to ignore the ticklish feeling of his fingers grazing up your bare thigh. You hadn't bothered to but on pants when you realized it was just Scott at your door, wearing only one of his shirts.

Scott simply hums, other hand coming up to mirror the other on your neglected thigh. He tugs gently on you left leg, guiding it up and over his leg, urging you to do the same with the other. You do, making sure he sees your eye roll as you do. Scott is far too used to you by now, the charming smile on his face melting whatever annoyance you were pretending to feel.

You settle fully on his lap, and while he doesn't make a sound, he does tense up significantly. Lifting your weight off of him right away, hands pressed onto his shoulders for support, you glare down at your boyfriend until he breaks.

"Okay! There might be some bruising on my legs... and my chest."

"Scott!"

"You can't blame me when you open the door looking like that, wear my shirt," he tugs on the end of it, an old thing that doesn't even fit him properly anymore. It's been worn so much that it's disgustingly soft to the touch and never seems to loose his scent no matter how much you wear it.

"It's not like we can do anything if your this hurt. You should have said something."

"Darling, baby, light of my life. You cannot expect me to not have some sort of reaction to you," and it's then that you notice the sizeable tent in his black sweats. Your drop a hand onto him without even thinking, grinning at the loud groan he lets out when you give him a soft squeeze.

"If you can sit still and be good, I'll help you out with your little problem here, okay?" You give him another teasing squeeze before letting go.

Scott let's out a pathetic whine at the loss, hips rolling up to chase your touch. You've lifted yourself too far off of him, leaving Scott to desperately roll his hips into the air before he's settling back into the couch.

"Mhmm, yeah. Yeah, I can be good," Scott babbles, hands dropping to the hem of his shirt. He pulls it off with some effort, his slow movements eventually revealing a patchwork of bruises deeper cuts that make you wince in sympathy. There aren't many cuts on his chest, but you do still take your time rubbing cream into his bruises and covering the mystery cuts, making sure to "accidentally" brush your fingers up over his pecks and across pert nipples as you make you way across the expanse of skin.

Scott does nothing more than moan low in his throat, heavy lidded eyes watching you and your every move as you work you way down his chest and to the waistband of his sweats. And if you make a few extra seconds to trace the shape of his abs, well, that's no one's business but your own.

The careful removal of his pants isn't to tease him, though the impatient sounds Scott makes would say otherwise. But his reaction to you sitting on him was alarming, and you desperately wanted to see what was going on.

You have to stand up to be able to get the pants off without doing any harm, and as the tops of his thighs are revealed, you can see that they're already covered in folded up, haphazardly taped down squares of gauze, tiny spots of dried blood peeking through the white fabric.

"What happened?" You whisper, letting your fingers dance along the edge of a smaller piece of gauze.

"Got too close to the mirror, crashed into it when she flipped me. Most of it hit my legs. Sam helped me get all the glass out.

"Well," you start, hands drifting to the hem of his horrible flamingo covered boxers, "it's a good thing you legs took the brunt of the hit. Don't know what I would have done if you were fully out of commission."

You pull the elastic until his cock spring out, tip red and already starting to leak. There's no time wasted between when he's freed and when your hand is wrapped around the base, dropping swiftly to your knees to get a better angle as you start to slowly work your hand over the soft skin.

Scott let's out an obscene moan, hip rolling up into your fist, urging you to go faster. You don't, though, keeping the brutally slow pace as you look up at him in amusement. He's trying his best to be annoyed at your blatant teasing, but the flush settling on his face and down to his pecks ruined the effect.

Slowly, you inch your face closer, sure that he can feel ever exhale on his pre covered cock. It gives a feeble twitch is your hand, pre dribbling down the shaft and getting lost in your fist as you slowly drag it back up, giving the head a twist as you lean foreword.

You've barely got your mouth around him before he's thrusting up into the warm heat of your mouth. You take him down as far as your comfortable, not having to move much at all as Scott unconsciously does all of the work. Fist gently gently the base, your free hand comes up to cup the heavy weight of his balls, working both your hands in pace with your slowly bobbing head.

His eyes are screwed shut as you look up the toned expanse of his body to his face, mouth open as he pants, the occasional moan forcing its way through his stuttered breathing. You let your teeth just barely touch his head as you go back down, catching his attention as his eyes shoot open. They drop down to you, only to squeeze shut right away when he catches sight of you between his legs.

He opens them again with a bit of effort, eyes half lidded as they stare down at you. His hand comes up to cup the hollow of your cheek, thumb swiping high on your cheekbone before hi hand makes his way into your hair. He doesn't try to guide your head despite the desperate roll of his hips, pressure light enough to know that it's there.

Your hand is soaked in a mixture of his pre and your saliva, making the most obscene sound as you pull off of him to take in some much needed air, pumping your hand over his entire length. You give his heavy cock a few pumps before your bringing your hand up to your mouth, licking over your palm and finger to try and clean up the mess you've both made.

Scott groans low in his throat, cock dribbling out even more pre that glides all the way down, mixing with your saliva and to the hand still fondling his balls. You quickly bring your head back to his cock with a less teasing pace, desperate to make him cum.

All it takes is the teasing slide of your tongue along his weeping slit for him to start babbling, the hand in your hair grabbing a fistful that borders on painful as his moan become more drawn out and desperate. You barely have time to take a steadying breath before he's coming, painting your mouth and throat in his cum, hips stuttering to a stop as you swallow him down.

The death like grip he had on you hair quickly lets up, hand cupping your cheek to guide you off him when the absent minded sucking around him began to be overwhelming on his spent cock. You tuck him back into his boxers, moving to sit over him again when he stops you.

"Help me lay back so that you can sit that pretty pussy of yours on my face," He rasps out, voice raw from moaning as load as he was. You can't help but roll your eyes at his eagerness, quickly helping him when he starts to do it on his own. Who are you to deny him what he wants?

©︎ pythonees — do not, under any circumstance, repost, plagiarize, modify or translate my work.

[landwriter]

Are you doing the Spotify wrapped thing as well? If so, could I ask for the Nr. 4? If not, just ignore this, it's just that I have resigned myself to appear as the greedy being I apparently am and figured I'd just ask.

greedy beings unite <3

this is the incredible, perfect, flawless Hot Knife by Fiona Apple. i would write a meta/personal history on it

originally i was going to sort of throw up my hands and say it's just oaths - it is so incredibly oaths: two people who are very much a bit unhinged by one another, both hot knife and butter at once, hearts made cinemascopes etc.

BUT - butter, okay, hot knives, ok, perhaps - Hob is a scruffy professional baker who owns a little patisserie and Dream is a miserable IP lawyer at his family's law firm, which is incidentally located only two blocks away on the other side of a small city park.

Perhaps - one day a harried Matthew bursts in to Hob's bakery and says, since it's empty, and he has a flair of the dramatic, "I need all of your croissants for my lawyers." The caterer hadn't shown up and Matthew had actually been jogging down the street in his dress shoes and panicking when he saw Hob's storefront. The meeting starts in ten minutes.

"How many?" asks Hob.

"Lawyers, or croissants?"

And so Matthew leaves three minutes later with two dozen croissants, muffins, and a couple palmiers for good measure, as well as a sympathetic grin. When Dream, who is hanging on by, and I cannot stress this enough, an absolute thread, absent-mindedly shoves a blueberry muffin in his mouth, he pulls out his phone right in the prep meeting and texts Matthew at his desk: Who made these

Matthew writes a very hot dude who had flour on his face and then decides he likes his job, actually, and texts Dream the name and address of Hob's shop.

Dream means to go, but work comes first, and he keeps finishing long after they're closed. One day he finishes so late it's actually close to the bakery's opening hours, so, exhausted, he decides to show up.

Hob normally wouldn't answer the door except anyone who can knock loud enough to be heard over his music is probably the cops or the fire department - which is enough to get him out of the kitchen, and then when he sees Dream, he decides to open up anyways. He can tell this man isn't up early at 6 AM, he's up late, Hob knows the look - and also, well, he's beautiful, so he unlocks the door while Exodus' Toxic Waltz is blaring from the back, is halfway through apologizing for the mess and music (Why is apologizing? He's not even open yet.)

Dream blinks once, slowly, and when he opens his eyes again he understands he's fallen in love. He puts this knowledge aside for the moment, and stiffly offers his hand to shake (Oh, shit, sorry, yeah, let me just - oh god I've gotten flour on your suit) and introduces himself. "Do you have any more blueberry muffins?"

Hob, even though he has a thousand other things to do, for some reason hears himself saying, "For sure, yeah. I mean. Not right now. But I could. If you want to come in and sit?" and then mortifyingly continuing to say, "I have a coffee machine - I mean, I don't use it, but I have it, I'm pretty sure it works - do you want a coffee, are you going for the full 24 hours thing, or if not, I do also have a shitty couch in the office, you can nap?"

Then he realizes he needs to let go Dream's hand.

And so begins our love story, in the liminal hours between night and day, when Hob wakes up early to bake and Dream finishes work late. They make a routine of it, and although Hob is a little freaked out by Dream's apparently work-life balance and sleeping schedule, he doesn't mind the company, doesn't mind it either when Dream just shuffles to his back room and curls up on his sofa, because at least he's sleeping sometime.

They both try and impress the other - Dream by requesting increasingly obscure confectionery, Hob by nonchalantly making it perfectly. (He thinks he's found the culinary history book Dream is using and is staying one recipe ahead, in secret.) They both challenge each other and get under each other's skin, and think about the other person far, far, too much than appropriate. I think this one would be mostly sweet (ha) but with some proper actual We Can't Be Together Because of X or Y obstacles. I think this is the sort of story where they actually have a huge blowout argument in the second act about, like, the protestant work ethic, because they might be nursing massive crushes, but they also both are nursing massive proprietary feelings as a result, and have very different values surrounding work and hedonism and a life well-lived etc. Do they work it out! I think so! I don't think they can stay apart! And every chapter would be titled after a thematic baked good.

(p.s. alternative song mood for this fic: The National's Fake Empire) (p.p.s. i do imagine dream in this as one of those lawyers who makes buckets of money and drops a LOT of it on his version of therapy, which is gradual progress on like, an entire gorgeous tattoo bodypiece, some gorgeous hyper surreal cosmology thing, and i do think hob accidentally walks into a post one day when he glances into a tattoo shop where dream happens to be having his monthly session)

[nerdylittleguy]

are spidersonas still a thing? yes? cool cool...

Okay, he's not my spidersona per se, he's based on a favourite character from a forgotten 80s show (robin of sherwood, and the character's name is Nasir, if you're interested) but I wanted to make a spiderman based on him since watching atsv, but because of how well Pavitr was designed (culture and representation wise) I wanted to make him also more representative, but had no idea where to start where to even find designs or inspiration. So I wrote down in one of my many diaries that he's Palestinian, and left it at that for months.

And, if you're somehow not yet aware, Palestine has actually been noticed by the west for the past month, though it should have been for more. People should not have to die, civilians should not have to die, hospitals, mosques, churches, schools, bakeries and people should not be targeted by a powerful military, blamed for the conditions of their suffering and resistance under an apartheid state. I'm Polish, fun fact, and when Russia started its invasion of Ukraine we were all crapping ourselves, supporting the Ukrainian fight back against people who had already oppressed them in the past. Of course, every story of oppression is different, but the moral is this: the world supported Ukrainian resistance against oppression, and suddenly when it's in the oh-so dreaded middle east, it's apparently a threat to everyone, and apparently it's completely justifiable to murder innocent civilians, but not justifiable for them to fight back. Ideally, I'd like to say "violence is never the answer, it's not correct to fight fire with fire" but realistically, after 75 years of oppression, of western ignorance, what other options are there? You cannot debate for peace with a government that calls you "children of darkness" or "human animals" or whatever other dehumanising things the Israeli government and military have been saying. Now is the obligatory time I feel I need to clarify, no, I do not support acts of terror (from either side!! Israel deserves as much criticism as Hamas, if not more, seeing as they are a powerful military) and no, I am not antisemitic. I have not been studying World War 2 for almost 4 years as an autistic hobby to be called antisemitic, but also neither to ignore a genocide unfolding before our eyes on social media. My issue is not with Jewish people, who have suffered for years, centuries, especially in Europe, my issue is with the weaponisation of the Holocaust and the misleading Israeli/ Zionist idea that they, the children of the Holocaust, cannot cause the same atrocities. Especially when many, many Jews, also children of Holocaust survivors have spoken out again Israel and its actions towards Palestinians. Trauma is a cycle, one that the state of Israel has clearly not dealt with and is now willing to cause in another population.

So. Autism and activism (another fun fact, I'm a former climate activist who quit due to burn out) combined in my brain to make this artwork. I have a few more drawings of Nasir as spiderman, I'm still mulling over if I want to post them, but if people want to take my design and run with it, redraw it, make it more accurate or interesting (I literally just took the patterns on the keffiyeh and threw them on a spiderman suit, not very creative, or not as much as it could have been) absolutely do so. I would ask for a little credit, but if you feel you make the design entirely your own, it's yours. I'm just some Polish idiot living in the UK, what do I know about accurate middle eastern representation? (Also feel free to use this as pfps and what not, I don't care, I'll be happy with the knowledge I drew it, and if it makes you happy, I've achieved more than I hoped.)

Obviously activism has more to offer than just drawing spiderman, so if you can, write to your MPs or representatives or what have you, share information (I will do my best to share information on tumblr as I have been very inactive on here recently), maybe even attend protests if you can, but first and foremost, stay thinking!! Stay learning and educating yourself as having information keeps you one step ahead of propaganda. If you have the energy to, compare and criticise different news outlets, find yourself some Gazan news sources and journalists (a lot of people have been following Motaz, Bisan and Plestia on Instagram, I don't have that but it's easy to find reposts of their videos on tiktok or twitter) and stay informed!! Boycott those companies suggested by BDS, MacDonalds, Starbucks and Disney as the main ones (or just ignore capitalism all together and shop local!! That's what I've been trying to do, but obviously it's not an option for everyone, it's better to have focused efforts on those big three than smaller, scattered attempts at boycotting). We all have something we can do to help and show out support.

However, from my burnt out activist's perspective I have to highlight that you MUST take time for yourself, your hobbies, your wellbeing. Yes, you are privileged to be able to turn it off, but from my privilege of experience, I tell you that you will burn out and loose your spark. You need to be able to support those who need us (and not just in Palestine, but in the DR of Congo and many other places where crises and genocides are occuring) but you can't do that if you've burnt yourself out. You, your comfort and safety is important, your ability to sustainably fight for these important causes is more valuable than you know. Important causes like these require a lot of energy, but we as activists cannot let ourselves become completely burnt out as there will be no one left to fight. Just pace yourself. Do as much as you are comfortable with. Everyone has different styles of activism, different abilities, and that's the beauty of us. We can do so much if we don't start with too much and end up burnt out.

In conclusion, Free Palestine <3

[pe4nutastic]

So I made another writing thing, but like WAY longer than I originally thought it'd be. Conventionally, I've never really written things that involves me balancing more than one character lol so I'm not sure how adept I am at the balancing act yet.

All the same, this writing thing takes place in sort of alternate universe where Giegue survives M2 (originating from my old, now defunct, RP blog @anearthstruckalien) and is stuck in a kind of limbo where he needs to put his own destroyed mind back together. This is one of the many fragments he addresses.

Everything is muddled like an unwound thread, always unraveling without apparent end, splayed in all directions like spiderwork and tangled into painful knots where it had been unfortunate enough to cross into its own endless trajectory.  Muddled away into agony and nothingness.  Drenched in darkness and blood, only punctuated by a distorted painful buzzing of so much something. Hot and cold. Wet and dry.  Sparking yet dimmed.  Suffocating and all-encompassing, like a tomb.  Something short and flitting at some points, rising and lowering like especially mercurial tides, and endless at others unlike anything even the deepest and darkest depths of the oceans have ever seen.  Thoughts cannot be formed… whatever that is supposed to be.  Identity cannot be found, whatever that is supposed to be.  Memories cannot be fit together.  Whatever that is supposed to be.  He cannot discern how long it has been.  He cannot even conceptualize how something like that is measured or what it means, even as it passes through him like wind, there and yet not in an instant.

And then.  Abruptly, as if forcibly cutting to the next scene of a film in an especially jarring way with bemoaning screeeeeeeech upon reaching the terminal of some arbitrary counter, a sharp pang brings a few things to focus.  And now, he can perceive and process his environment.  A shred of clarity.  A void-like place, painted in an inky and seemingly never-ending darkness–one tinged in an oddly despairing and desolate hue somehow–and littered with glistening bits of bright shards.  Incomprehensibly bright and ever-shifting in colour and form; iridescence incarnate.  Glimmers of that which is missing, seemingly unable to fit with each other anymore yet drawn to one another anyways with the sense that with enough effort, somehow it could all fit together and become recognizable anew.  And altogether with it all, the first proper thought–as opposed to a mess of disjointed sensations and tortuous pain–springing to mind with a sudden start, something indescribably heavy like a pit coursing through what little remains of his very being intact:

Am… I… dying…?  Ceasing to… be…?

He squints or rather… would, if he had any associated visual to him.  As it stands now, it would seem that the being known as the Universal Cosmic Destroyer, is little more than a flicker of consciousness.  The tiniest and most fragile ember from a flame which had previously been extinguished, now sparking anew against all odds and probability.  Against the schematics of fate which had dictated that he die in the battle against the Earth’s latest set of Chosen Ones.  Dying.  Finality.  Somehow that seems daunting–though he can’t recall why–yet he cannot feel alarmed by it at all by his own questions nonetheless.  He had just regained (or gained?) the ability to properly process his environment and string together thoughts after all.  And either way, somehow he knows that this isn’t the end anyways.  Or at least, not yet.  All he has is a feeling.  One padded out by that which sparked that ember of consciousness, fragile as it is, into being.  A sense of resilience and indomitable spirit that refuses to bend or break, no matter how hard it is chipped away at by the harshest of elements:  willpower and determination.

The will to not die (but from what?).  The determination to endure and survive.

And somehow, without definitive rhyme and reason, part of that lies in the glimmering points of iridescent radiances before him, scattered about like stardust in the void.  He shifts his gaze towards the one closest to him, feeling something almost like a magnetic pull towards it, and as though on cue… –the very moment he eyelessly stares at it for more than a few seconds, the scene before him is softly wiped clean like chalk off a blackboard and replaced with far less monotonous and simplistic scenery:

A brightly lit room adorned by ivory wallpaper dotted with artfully-administered strokes of tiny multicoloured carnations, light brown hardwood floors, and containing little more than a small window with nothing to see but golden radiance of some kind shining through and a tiny wooden table full of various desserts and cups of tea; one cup before the entity himself and the other… before a blonde woman in a neatly-pressed pale pink dress ruffled at its ends and hanging just past her knees.

Dark blue eyes squint anew with a shrewd sense of calculation as he assesses the room anew, trying to piece together what had exactly happened to shift the location, but unable to come to an answer.  A train of thought that inevitably comes to an abrupt halt anyways when he catches sight of himself in the murky reflection of the tea soothingly settled in the ivory nook provided by its petite cup.  Shock jolts through him almost immediately, eyes widening just a smidge, as he almost jumps straight out of his plush seat.  Small fingers tap at his face and pull his cheek in an almost clinical way, as though jumpstarting a more thorough tactile examination.  He looks quite a bit like the blonde woman.  He looks… what was the word for it?  Human.  A young human boy to be precise.  Fluffy blonde hair.  A set of blue eyes set in white sclera and black pupils. A nose and mouth set into a relatively flat profile and smooth skin.  Real skin tinged with warmth, but with minimal color rising to its surface.  Human.  Somehow it feels like an illusion and yet he cannot recall every being anything else save for the formlessness he had experienced a moment prior.  Has he always been human?  It doesn’t feel like it, but…

…–and almost as soon as that particular thought starts, it comes to a grinding halt when, after what feels like an eternity of confusion and strangeness (but in actuality was little more than a few seconds worth of time), the blonde woman speaks up.

“Ah you’ve finally arrived!  I’m so happy to see you here!  It’s been a long time huh?”

She tucks a few strands of gently curling blonde hair behind an ear and all the while, the now human-boy tilts his head to the side a little at the inquiry.  A long time?  A long time for what?  He taps small stubby fingers against the solid wooden top of the table or rather, the long and lacey pale pink tablecloth daintily hanging over it, dull gaze averting in an oddly concentrated way as though attempting to grasp onto something.  Bit-by-bit, it feels like something is trickling in so as to fill an emptiness he had not realized he had, but not up to pace enough to leave him anything but perpetually confused and disoriented nonetheless.  There must be a more… a more… –efficient? yes, efficient method to this but it would seem that he has little more than the ability to think and process at the moment, knowledge itself lacking save for what inevitably trickles in.

“Are you comfortable?  I’ve prepared your favourite tea and some desserts that you’ve always liked just for this occasion.  So feel free to take as much as you want of whatever you want.  Nothing ever runs out here --take my word for it!”

She winks, one bright and lively blue eye–practically brimming with a zest for life and unwavering optimism for whatever the future may bring–of two, momentarily being obscured by the attached flap of skin before re-emerging.  In return, the human boy stares blankly at her for a few seconds before seemingly relenting his inscrutable gaze–unable to find whatever it is he was looking for–before gingerly plucking a shortbread cookie off its pristine plate, intrigued by both the dessert and by what the blonde woman had said.  By the very notion of having information that he lacks.  Something about that feels right… familiar… but he can’t quite place why exactly.  Lifting the cookie directly before him, rather than immediately consuming it, the human boy examines it with just a glint of intrigue in his comparatively dull pupils.

“My ‘favourites’...?  I have a favourite?  How would you know?”

A genuine question.  The entity rather delicately nibbles on the perfectly-formed edge of the cookie, swirling the tiny bit on the tip of his tongue, before taking a proper bite out of it afterwards.  One which he hopes will at the very least serve as a good point of reference or direction towards easing away that thick fog cluttering his mind.  The cookie is… hm… ‘good’.  It tastes good.  Familiar.  Safe.  Safe…?  Safe.  Dark blue voids flicker back up to meet the blonde woman’s gaze.  She seems to have no immediate response, thick eyebrows knitted in thought albeit without ever breaking her gaze on the entity himself, before settling on something, smile dimming a little to something less exuberant and more gentle and understanding.

“It’s a liiiittle tricky to explain if you even need to ask in the first place… but, I know what I do about you because in a way, I’m a part of you.

The one part that’s never changed… –that never could.

No matter how much everything else got rearranged.

…it’s never changed.  You were still you.  You still are.”

She taps a finger over where the human heart would be located, over the left side of her chest as she makes a claim of being part of the entity himself.  And she does just that, something lights up in softened iridescence over that point, in the shape of a stylized heart, the same occurring immediately to the entity himself in the exact same point and thus emphasizing the verity of her very point, dark blue voids widening just a smidge in surprise before giving way to a small pensive frown.  He sharply glances down to his own chest as the light fades away.  Part of him…?  He taps the same spot a few times.  But, he’s right here and yet… even though it seems nonsensical, it somehow seems to make perfect sense anyways.  Instinctively so.  The answer isn’t as direct as he had been hoping, but maybe it’s meant to be this way.  Meant to be?  There’s a word for that.  Destiny.  A bitter taste in his mouth.  Fate.  A sensation that twists and churns his guts (if he had any to begin with) with intense fervor for reasons he cannot entirely parse out… –doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t apply in this situation anyways.  Because this is on a significantly smaller scale anyways.

The entity takes a small sip of the hot and soothing tea before him, a cooling sensation immediately hitting afterwards despite its true temperature setting.  Peppermint.  Much like the shortbread cookies, it indeed seems pleasant to his palate.  Between this, what he captured beyond this world in the form of glittery fragments amidst a void, and the growing conglomerate sensation (familiarity, safety, trust) towards the blonde woman… it seems that there’s more merit than ‘meets the eye’ to this interaction.  Clarity starts with this.  Perhaps that’s why he was the most drawn to this fragment.  Another small sip of the peppermint tea.  Perhaps that’s why not receiving a direct answer is the most conducive to dispersing that thick fog over his mind.  Towards feeling less empty.

“Perhaps.  But, if what you are saying is accurate, then I must be incomplete.

In… pieces.

It is what my… ‘gut’ is telling me… though it also ‘feels’... incorrect to rely on such a thing.”  He glances back down at the tea, settled shortly after his last sip, and down to his murky reflection in it before shaking his head.  “This form feels incorrect.  As though I should have a different shape...”

Yet another sip of the peppermint tea, head tilting slightly to the side afterwards as he continues to speak, any uncertainty from before evaporating to be replaced by what seems to be rather characteristic of him; blank neutrality and flatness.

“Being in pieces is not my natural state, is it?  Is this interaction a way of pulling everything back together?”

The blonde woman takes a sip of her own tea.  Chamomile tea.  He can tell what it is somehow, without having tasted it and even before its smell registers with him.  It’s her favourite.  Just like the carnations dotting the worn wallpaper.  She taps her head for a moment as she responds, a hint of playfulness entering her tone as she does so.

“Maybe.  Maybe not. I can’t just tell you directly, but I can give that knowledge as an exchange of sorts.”

The entity lifts up his own cup of tea anew, as though planning to drink it, before deigning to just swirl the liquid around a bit as if mulling something over before responding, a twinge of determination entering his tone as he does so.  Of course not.  He isn’t being fed direct answers, but being directed towards them after all.

“What kind of exchange?”

Her smile widens, matching the playful tone as it continues to seep into her next few words.

“We can play a game and if you win, then I’ll be more direct with you.  A game of…”

She pauses, frowning a bit herself in a rather pensive manner as if mulling over a few options herself to determine which one would be best for truly helping the entity, before settling on something and with that, clasping her hands together with renewed enthusiasm. 

“... –of riddles!  It’s a pretty simple points-based game with two roles:  the one that makes up the riddles, the Riddle Master, and the one that answers them.

The Riddle Master gets points by making up riddles that the other player can’t answer while the player gets points by successfully giving the correct answer to the Riddle Master’s riddles.  No one loses points, you either get them or you don’t.

In this game, I’ll be the Riddle Master and you’ll be the one answering.  There’ll be a total of 5 riddles.  How does that sound for you?”

The entity hesitates very little, taking just a moment to mentally go over the exact parameters of the suggested game, before offering a definitive nod.  He’s already determined that judging by every minute improvement in his state here… it’s best to simply ‘play’ along, no matter how counterproductive it may seem.  He implicitly trusts her, even if the reason why exactly cannot be parsed out, and so this aspect to him must represent someone that was (and perhaps still is) important to him.

“I accept your arrangement.  Proceed with the ‘game’.”

The blonde woman takes another sip of her chamomile tea, gulping the rest of it down in one fell swoop before gently moving aside the empty cup… one which stays empty for only a second or so before the familiar steam of freshly crafted tea wafts through the air anew, as if no progress had been made on it to begin with.  ‘As much as you want’ huh?  The entity consumes the rest of his shortbread cookie, as if to test the theory for himself, and in line with what he had just seen… the empty spot on the plate from which he had plucked it is immediately filled with a new shortbread cookie as its replacement; a reinforcement that this is a matter of the mind… he thinks.  At this juncture, he only has sensations and hunches –not true concrete data to confirm if there is anything more than this.  He smoothes out the neck of his grey sweater before folding his own hands together with definitive intent and concentration, dark blue voids narrowing accordingly.  All the more reason to ‘play along’ and succeed in this game.

“Alright!  Let’s get to it then.  I’ll keep the first three riddles simple and easy; a good warm-up before getting to the trickier ones.

What… disappears as soon as you say its name?

That’s it.  That’s all you’re getting to work out the answer!”

The entity immediately gets to thinking over the answer.  A riddle is an inquiry that appeals to logic, problem-solving, or both.  And so, it either has an answer that’s so obvious one wouldn’t even consider it or clues scattered throughout as the characteristics of what the answer is supposed to be.  Judging by the minimal nature of this riddle… it must be the former.  The answer is obvious.  Something in plain sight.  An auditory component to it.  Speaking aloud the name of the subject will make it disappear and so, it can only exist so long as one doesn’t speak… ah.  He almost smiles, satisfied, even by such a trivial accomplishment.

“The answer is ‘silence’.  Not making any sound is a condition inherent to maintaining it therefore, it ceases to be once sound is made.”

The blonde woman gives an affirmative nod in agreement, sticking two closed fists with thumbs sticking out as if to reaffirm the point.  The entity isn’t entirely certain as to what he should make of the gesture, but based off her body language, he can only deduce that it is a positive gesture.  One whose continued enthusiasm is admittedly a little endearingly infectious though he doesn’t quite outwardly show it yet.  He doesn’t feel as though he is the sort to ‘warm up’ quickly to others, but something about this comes just as naturally as trust did, tinged with a sense of ‘deja vu’, as though he’s done this many times over before.  Something about this contents him, the familiarity and warmth prevalent throughout their entire interaction thus far playing no small role in this, even though the game has just started.

“That’s right aaaand one point for you!  You’re a natural at this –I knew you would be!  You’ve always been clever.  But, can you handle this one too?  

What has many keys, but can’t open a single lock?”

Hm.  Yet another question with very minimal clues and in lieu of that, an obvious answer to it.  Keys and locks.  A key?  A key is… a key is… hm… oh! something that is used to open places safeguarded by a matching lock!  Keys and locks are a pair, one shape fitting the other in order to move the mechanism keeping its interconnected block in place against those without the necessary key.  Small fingers pensively tap his chin.  But, in this case… the key in question has no matching lock.  Several keys without matching locks to be specific.  A quality inherent to the object in question and not the result of some defect or damage, if he has analyzed the phrasing correctly.

Admittedly… be it due to his gaps in actual knowledge or not, he cannot imagine anything which would have multiple useless keys attached to it.  But then… perhaps the term ‘keys’ does not refer to what his initial instinct falls upon.  Maybe he needs to consider alternate contexts of it…–an abrupt pause mid-thought, by the sound of the blonde woman tapping her fingers over top the table’s wooden surface.  A rhythmic and intentional motion…

… –as though, she’s creating music.  An oddly familiar tune, sweet yet bitter in a way he can almost grasp, like words just at the tip of his tongue.  Understanding clicks into place.  Playing an instrument.  With keys. 

“A piano.  The answer is a ‘piano’.”

No need to explain this time.  The abrupt, almost enthused despite the blandness of his tone, way in which the entity himself answered, cutting straight through the tapping says it all.  He’s certain in his conclusion with no need to explain it to the one that created the riddle in the first place.  And as such, he receives another set of ‘thumbs up’.  Something which sparks a bit of brightness in his heart anew; contentment and satisfaction at succeeding.

“Correct!  Two points now!

For someone that doesn’t remember much, you’re pretty good at this game, but remember, this is the last easy question before things get more challenging okay?”

A playful wink on her part while the entity does little more than offer a curt nod, much of his attention glued more to whatever the next question may be.  It’s difficult to parse out the exact words for this sensation, but it’s hooked him in rather quickly; a combination of its familiarity and the mental exercise it offers.

“What do you call two birds in love?”

And with that question, the blonde woman uses her respective thumbs and and index fingers to form the shape of a heart as if to emphasize the ‘love’ part.  The entity himself stares at the motion, from start to end, with a blank stare despite his enjoyment of the game before focusing in on piecing it out.  It doesn’t seem like a true riddle.  The question does not seem to have an object inherent to its answer, but a term instead.  He rubs his chin.  An odd departure or perhaps a format that he cannot recall, due to his fragmented state of being at the moment.  He thinks on it for a few seconds more before shaking his head, a touch disappointed in himself, and ultimately relenting.

“Apologies.  I do not know.  Would you be so kind as to enlighten me on the matter?”

A short and sweet–almost as musical as her voice, like gentle wind chimes–burst of laughter bubbles out her mouth at that before its obscured by an arm, bare skin far less effective than actual fabric would have been were the sleeves of her dress not short.  Nonetheless, once the blonde woman regains her composure enough, the answer comes out in one similarly short burst as if retelling an especially thrilling punchline to a joke.

“Tweet-hearts!  Get it?  Because they’re birds and in love –like sweet hearts haha!”

Another short and sweet burst of laughter, her hand gently smacking the table with a soft yet no less resounding thunk, clearly thoroughly enjoying the joke herself.  The entity on the other hand… though he understands the concept of it and the wordplay that inspired it, mouth twitching a bit, before he just turns his head to the side.  And he does so in a rather petulant and oddly childish way, as if overcome with an emotion from a separate moment in time tipped in deja vu, before huffing through his nose to forcibly dissipate any genuine amusement that may (or may not) have been felt by him.

“That is not a riddle.  It is wordplay.  You tricked me.”

In response, the blonde woman sticks up a single finger and wags it side-to-side, having long since gotten the last bit of her amusement out of her system, evidently finding great amusement in jokes like this.

“Uh-uh!  By definition, a riddle is a question or statement with a clever twist to it. And all clever twists need ingenuity to properly entangle, don’t you think?”

Incapable of actually keeping up the petulant facade–the emotion as insincere as everything else might as well be about him at this juncture–where the human woman herself is concerned, the entity ultimately relents and turns back to her with a nod.

“... I suppose.  Does it count against me then?”

She shakes her head, high energy dimmed a little but no less bright and warm in her overall demeanor nonetheless.

“It’s just a joke –a bit of humour!  Pretty punny don’t you think?  Don’t worry, this one doesn’t count against you.  You still have two points.  Two for you.  Zero for me.

Are you ready to move onto the next riddle?  Two more left.  And remember, it gets more challenging from here on out.”

The most immediate answer that pops to mind is a resounding ‘yes’.  And yet, the entity finds himself halted by a sudden and odd sense of melancholic emptiness, one which almost completely replaces the contentment he had experienced before.  He downs the rest of his peppermint tea, somewhat hoping to distract himself from the uncomfortable sensation, but ultimately failing.  How familiar.  The sense of deja vu is even stronger than before and it’s only really hitting him now.  It isn’t just the game itself, but the exact questions and wordplay interjection that’s familiar.  Nonsensical as it sounds, this exchange feels as though it’s happened before in every exact step…at least on the blonde woman’s part.  The entity himself has changed.  Somehow, he’s certain of it… certain that when (if) this actually happened in reality… he more closely mirrored the blonde woman’s demeanor.  He glances back down at the now empty cup before it immediately refills itself with the steaming and soothing aroma of the peppermint infused liquid.  The entity himself has changed, even before the fragmentation event, and likely for the worst.  He takes a renewed cursory glance at his surroundings, one with renewed clarity even through the still ever-present fog in his mind.

The surroundings make a lot less sense now.  The odd minimalism and the overly bright hues to everything (now that he really looks at it) as if it all has a subtle glow to it… the lack of anything beyond pure radiance outside the window… it seems less like reality and more like a dream.  A thing of the mind after all.  Something in his chest tightens.  Hesitation encased in dread cutting through what remains of his contentment before he mentally presses on with a determined nod, ready to hear the next riddle.

“A star twinkles in the distance, a wonder of its existence. In exchange for a bird, the silence of a child. A question of the sheep's provisions.

What is it?”

More challenging indeed.  The format is far less simple, especially when he’s on the cusp of what feels vaguely like an awakening of sorts.  A stab through delusion which, if he is to fully submit to the idea that this isn’t what reality is actually like, he must not have wanted to recover from on some level.  Not if it took for him this long to figure it out if he really is as supposedly clever as she claims.  And yet, despite the cloudiness introduced to his logical processes, the answer comes much quicker than before with little introspection needed on his part.  Like he already knows it… because he almost certainly already does.  Quick as it comes however, some of that hesitation from before rushes back with a biting vengeance.   It… hurts?  Something does.  The game is almost over after all and yet, his determination to see it through remains anyways.  Feeble as it may be… the entity nonetheless, pushes on anyways like before.

“...a lullaby.”

Almost despondently so, his gaze averting off to the side, but never fully breaking the blank neutrality of his tone.  Then silence for a bit.  A much needed reprieve and yet, one which even in the absence of the final riddle, only lasts for a short burst of time or so before his mind wanders back to the blonde woman’s tapping from before.  With a bit more clarity gained now… he not only realizes that she was giving him a hint as to what the answer to the second riddle was, but that he actually knows the words.  Sweet yet painful.  More clear images–and with it, the surroundings losing their subtle glow and coming more into focus–starting to filter through like film from an old movie that might have once been in pristine condition, but has now long since degraded, cutting off at certain points while slanting in an unsightly way at others.  Another pang of clarity.  He almost doesn’t want to play anymore.  To stop it at this before things go too far… before he is far too gone to return to being more contented and… and… normal.

N o r m a l.  He’s always wanted to be normal, but they would not let him.

A discordant thought.  One which he neatly sweeps aside, finding it easier to do so as opposed to letting it run any further, before forcing his attention back on the game.  Despite everything… he still, at the end of it all, feels inclined to finish.  He has to finish because this is important.  More than he had initially surmised in his far less lucid state upon arriving here.  At that conclusion, as if on cue, the blonde woman starts on the next riddle with no further lighthearted comments or jabs, her expression going completely inscrutable yet no less determined as if she knows the end is near in more ways than one.  An awakening is coming and though it’s a bit hard to pop the entity’s bubble… though it feels cruel… she must press on.  It’s better this way.

“Three points.  Onto the last riddle

I’m always old yet sometimes new.

Never sad yet sometimes blue.

Never empty but sometimes full.

Never pushy but always pulling.

Always here even when I’m gone.

What am I?”

The entity’s eyes widen as though he’s just been sloshed with a bucket of ice-cold water.  Inexplicably so.  Nothing about the wording is especially offensive and yet something tightens in his chest anyways.  The very feeling which had been building up over the course of this whole interaction peaking and exploding by the very last sentence of the riddle, small hand reaching up to tightly grip just over his chest, where his heart would be were he actually as human as he appears.  The moon.  Gone.  He knows it.  Not real.  She’s gone.  He knows that this is the answer with 100% certainty and yet the answer is caught in his throat anyways, as blocked and paralyzed as he’s abruptly become as something inscrutable splits, fracturing like glass or like one layer of a haze which had hung over him ever since he had gained cognizance anew.  She’s gone.  The moon in all of its mundane glory.  A basic satellite that orbits the earth.  Her home.  She’s gone.  A rock inhospitable to humans and littered with maria, dark flat regions that look like bodies of water from a distance–

…–maria? He shakes his head to himself.  No.  Not maria, but Maria.  Maria.

Maria.  She’s gone.  Always here.  Always gone.

It all cliiiiiiicks into place.  Not in full–that much requires a far lengthier and more arduous journey–but enough to properly identify that which pertains to the blonde woman before him.  His hands curl into tight fists by his sides, posture going completely rigid as he shakes his head, as though that would somehow magically make this particular ‘awakening’ stop.  To Maria.  His dearest mother.  His only family.  The one and only bit of good in his life before everything was irreversibly poisoned.

Poisoned by them.

And as if in direct response to that particular thought, rising up against it amidst everything else, something abruptly breaks on the inside and against all odds, out gushes a sensation even more overwhelming than what’s just hit him.  Overwhelming enough to push aside that odd melancholic emptiness, bitterness, and despair which had all too fast begun to fill him.  A jumbled patchwork of emotions that shouldn’t fit together yet do all the same nonetheless, tumbling out at various intensities and moments without rhyme or reason.  And it is all because of her, with one particular emotion far above the others at the core and helm of it all.  The very base origin behind everything felt now.  The planet to everything else which revolves around it.

An all-encompassing, rich, and impossibly deep sensation, almost suffocating in its concept, almost too overwhelming to contain within his fragile body yet somehow it manages to be anyways.  It permeates every fibre of his being.  It exists in every crevice and space where it could fit within the essence which constitutes who he is.

Warmer than the simple, bright, and short sprigs of happiness from before.

More passionate than the most concentrated poisons of hatred.

Beyond all comprehension and in complete violations of all logical conventions;  the very pinnacle of irrationality, evolved beyond its initial spark and into its final transcendent format.

Love.

Yes.  That’s right.  It’s clear to him now.  More than anything else, he loves her.  He had forgotten that he did, for a bit, but now that he is no longer blinded by… other things… he realizes that there is nothing more important than that.

Nothing more important than her.

That is what has come gushing out with such vigor.  The true form of his feelings towards his adoptive human mother.  That is the precise name of that sensation.  It only hurts because he loves her.  It hurts because it mattered.

Because it still does.

Despite everything, it still matters.

She still matters.

“Maria.  Mother.”

He hesitates, sadness sharply pinpricking his heart with renewed enthusiasm against the seemingly endless onslaught of love as if attempting to strike a particular emotional balance and with it, a strange and foreign wetness forming at the corners of his eyes.  Liquid.  Strange, upsetting, and rending liquid.  Are his optical receptors broken…somehow, even here in a dream…?  He rather tentatively glances down at his refilled cup of peppermint tea to discern the true identity of the mysterious liquid, almost jumping back as he does so, his chair making a muffled skidding sound on the floor as the only indication of his shock.  His appearance is no longer human.  He appears as he feels he should, but perhaps a bit small?  A small clawed digit pokes at an upright and triangular ear, then at his stubby snout, large dark blue voids (the same colour through every part of his eyes, from the sclera to the pupils) narrowing in the welcome distraction that this provides before closing his eyes with a sigh, the clear liquid dripping out and staining the otherwise pristine pink tablecloth before him.  Fists somehow becoming even tighter, claws digging into the palms of his hands without drawing blood.

“Are you really here?”

The question comes tumbling out, rigid neutrality finally properly breaking a bit under the enormous weight of what can only be his own grief reborn–having originally never been permitted to properly manifest and instead, kept at bay by things that seem awfully petty and meaningless now–before he can stop himself.  He knows.  He knows the answer to his own question.  The painful, bitter, and ugly truth.  He knows and yet he can’t help asking, hoping to be wrong.  To receive an answer to halt what he’s reliving; the warmth and intensity of love, outlined by crushing and unrelenting sadness.  Maria herself reaches out–the chairs, table and everything on it having mysteriously vanished now seemingly in accordance with this change in the entity himself, as smoothly and seamlessly as if it had been like this all along–and bending down to the entity’s now diminutive height, her expression twisted a little with concern, and gently presses a thumb at the corners of his eyes to wipe a few more budding tears away.

“My dearest Giegue, I’m always with you.  And I always will be.”

She pulls him into a hug and overwhelmed by the flurry of emotions as he is, Giegue does not resist.  Rather he numbly allows for it to happen, more liquid leaking out his eyes to replace that which Maria had so kindly wiped away, his mouth pressed into a rather tense line that faintly quivers as if holding back so much more.  He can’t breathe, physiological impossibility of that aside.  He can’t move.  He can barely think, what little he can manage utterly dedicated towards “getting it together”, simply-put.  His memories are largely incomplete, but this feels awfully pathetic anyways.  As though he’s supposed to be better than this.  As though he has no right to break and bend at all and rather, has a duty towards remaining completely militant.  To otherwise fail to do so, as he is now, admittedly makes him feel hatred not just for them in general but for himself for being unable to do something so basic and so much more.

“You’ll always have a bit of the most important people inside your heart.  They’ll always be a part of you, even after they’re long gone.

Memories might hide in different parts of the mind’s maze, but they’re never really gone.

You never really forget the important things.  Do you understand?”

Of course he understands, comprehension cutting through the budding self-hatred for a moment.  He slowly, almost tentatively moves just a bit to loosely return her hug.  But, that’s exactly what makes this so difficult.  He knows.  He knows that, though the sincerity of her words rings through, this isn’t the real Maria.  It’s an aspect of his mind.  Love and maybe a bit of hope made manifest in the form that which exclusively inspires such an irrational state of being.  He closes his eyes shut rather tightly, pointed teeth grinding harshly from behind the tight line of his mouth.  He knows.  His fingers claw into the pink fabric of her dress as if he’s been starved of something for a very long time and can no longer continue to push back the desire to be satiated at long last.  He knows that he needs to complete this interaction in order to move onto the next fragment of many out there.  To become more complete.  And yet… his grip on the pink fabric abruptly tightens at the thought of having to move onto something else.  How despicable.  And yet… he briefly entertains the thought of never properly waking up.  Disgusting.  Of never becoming complete again.  Lowly scum.  Of the dream never ending.

Irrationally so.

Irrational.  Stupid.  And selfish.

Childishly so.

Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid.

Let go.

But, he can’t.

Move on.

To what…?

Get over it.

How can he?  Everything has unraveled too far to neatly tie back up in its box.

Let go.

NO.  Never again.  That fleeting thought of never repairing himself is promptly crushed underneath his proverbial and unyielding heel.  How can he even think like that?  Be that pathetic and weak?  Somehow.  He knows that it isn’t like him.  And even if it is, then he knows that he needs to transcend such a basal nonetheless.  To be better.  Stronger this time around.  A slow and disapproving shake of his head to himself before the Psion pulls back from the hug, letting go of her dress and recomposed just a bit albeit still teary, and levitates up enough to meet Maria at eye level.  The first display of his psionic power since he regained his ability to think and process things at all, perhaps in response to the latest bit of growth towards becoming complete.

For several moments, he just stares at her.  Just stares and stares and stares while she patiently waits, completely nonplussed–a glimmer of understanding no less prominent in her gentle gaze–by this particular development.  He can’t find the words.  Despite his renewed, albeit still shaky, determination… words fail him anyways.  Despite knowing just how much of an illusion this actually is… mountains of mountains of mountains of words pile up all at once, much like the way all these feelings and thoughts of his had come rushing back in a jumbled mess.  There’s so many things that he wants to say.  Things he’s always wanted to say to her; archived for millenia until the consequent backlog became almost impossible to contain, now bursting out and flooding his mind in violent waves.  She’s not really here.  She’s gonegonegone.  

Destined to never cross paths with him again.  

Like lines that can never intersect.

GONE.

There’s NO POINT in saying anything meaningful.  And yet…

“I am sorry.  I could not be what you wanted me to be.  I have failed you.”

He cannot help himself anyways.  His head dips down, gaze averted towards the ground while his shoulders hunch ever-so-slightly, thoroughly miserable.  Shame.  Pure and unadulterated shame.  Out of the billions of things that he could say… that he shouldn’t bother with saying on principle… this comes out anyways.  A hollow apology tinged with regret.  Like that fixes anything, especially when he cannot entirely recall what he’s sorry about in the first place.  All he knows is that he’s deeply regretful about everything and that it is because he has in a way that is exceedingly wrong.  Utterly unworthy of all that she has invested in him in the short time they had known each other.  Is that really all he can say anymore after everything?  More liquid leaks out his eyes and falls, guided by the gravity of this dream towards the nonexistent ground now, blanked out by pale yellow hues in place of the wooden floor from earlier.  All the while, Maria shakes her head as if in disagreement with the Psion’s outward claims and the thoughts running through his mind earlier on, before gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.

“You haven’t failed me.  I think that… sometimes… we lose our way in life.  That doesn’t mean that we can’t find our way back.  Most people don’t stay lost forever.

The fact that you’re sorry at all is proof that you’re part of that majority.”

She steps forward and takes his small stubby hands into her own, cold contrasting against the very human warmth of her fair skin.  A beat.  And the Psion himself instinctively returns the grip–even though he shouldn’t–though he still doesn’t shift his gaze off the ground.

“Giegue.  You’re capable of more good than you know.

I still believe in you.  I always have and always will.  Because… just as I’ve said before, despite everything, you’re still you.

And I’ve always believed that you had a good heart.  I still do.

It’s never too late to turn away from the path you’ve been on thus far and do what’s right.  To be good against all perceived odds.  Even your own.”

Giegue wants to irrationally resist.  Hands twitching with intent to ball into fists, but only halting that particular action because said appendages in question are intertwined with hers.  Resist her words.  Resist the sense of ease starting to creep its way through him.  He wants to hold onto all that hatred, bitterness, and misery for as long as he can… to press it so close to his very core that he will never forget how rendingly awful it feels.  He deserves it.  Just as much as he wants to never let go of her, even if she’s just an illusion here.  And yet, he finds himself comforted by the words anyways, pain ebbed away by her warmth and kindness.  It’s absurd.

Because even if she’s an illusion… an apparition of his mind… he cannot bring himself to sincerely fight her on this.  He cannot deny her.  Not anymore.  So the only option he has is to simply let himself be comforted by it, somehow, and instead focus on seeing this interaction through to its end.  The surrounding details fading further away, window and wallpaper disappearing until the background is little more than a pastel rainbow of color splotches twinkling with a mysterious kind of radiance, like the starry night sky.

Good.  Being good.  Is it really that simple?

It hardly seems like it, especially for a creature such as himself.  The sincerity of her words come through as clearly as his rediscovered… love… for her and yet, he cannot help doubting himself anyways.  He’s comforted by her words, but doubt creeps in just as swiftly as comfort comes nonetheless.  He’s done nothing to warrant such faith in his apparent intrinsic ‘good’.  Absolutely nothing.  That much, he’s certain of, even in the absence of supporting memories and knowledge to that.  Because he was created by them.  The Psion species and they are certainly not good.  Because Maria is indisputably good and Giegue himself is nothing like her.  His shoulders hunch further, twitching but not accompanied by any further tears, his gaze somehow dipping down even further –fixed to the ground with even more intent than before.  Then he speaks, expression as blank as the tone of his words despite the uncertainty, misery, and lack of direction behind them.

“Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I nonetheless no longer have a purpose.

What am I supposed to do anymore?

There are many gaps in what I can recall at this juncture, but somehow I simply know that there is nothing meaningful beyond this ‘dream’.”

He pulls his hands away from Maria, so as to wipe away the last few pinpricks of liquid off the corners of dark blue voids, shaking his head as he does so despite the resignation from before, emotional vulnerability of a new sort cracking through his renewed neutrality as he continues on, volume gradually quieting as he reaches the end of his message.

“I don’t know what to do anymore.

I’m… I am…. afraid that I am not strong enough to do anything else.

That I am only good for causing destruction and harm.

I am… afraid that… that I am not strong enough to be more than what they wanted.”

For a moment, there’s a brief flicker of sadness in her ever patient, gentle, and understanding gaze–a breakage in kindness and optimism paralleling the breakage in the Psion’s neutrality–before it snaps back to normal.  Then a pause as Maria carefully thinks over how to answer.  How to even begin addressing his feelings.  Complex things entangled in such a way, hatred completely and utterly integrated throughout, that it could not possibly be resolved in one fell swoop.  Nonetheless, the apparition has hope and unwavering belief in her son’s strength.  The memory of her would not exist at all if he really were as hate-worthy and weak as he believes.  And deep down he knows it.  She places her hands, one atop the other, over her heart while a small, hopeful, and knowing smile makes its way back onto her face anew.

“I only want for you to be happy with yourself and your life again.  It might seem impossible to you now, but I know that it will come to pass.

Giegue.  

You are so much stronger than you know.

The answer might not be immediately clear to you on what you’re meant to do now, but that’s okay.  You’ll figure it out and make it through.  You always do.”

Much like before, the Psion is hit with that impulsive and irrational desire to rebel against her words, but this time he quashes that impulse much more quickly.  Even if he cannot quite believe in himself the way she’d like for him to… he has to somehow try anyways.  If not for his sake, then certainly for hers.  He straightens his posture out and finally returns Maria’s gaze more properly, a fragile yet no less determined glint reflecting off dull pupils.  His doubts and fears cannot be mitigated so easily, but that does not matter because if he allows for himself to be completely consumed by such lowly sensations then he will only end up wasting the time, effort, and love–unworthy as he is of it at all–the real Maria had put into him long ago.  Apparition or not, the feelings of his which manifested it to begin with are real.  And in his… ‘heart’... he knows that this is how the real Maria would feel.

“Do you really believe that…?”

One last slippage, one last glint of vulnerability, and he’s done.  It’s a question he cannot help asking.   Especially now that the apparition before him has abruptly lost her details in line with the renewal of his resolve, demoted to little more than a vague pink outline while the multicolored splotches of their collective backdrop fragments to reveal the void from earlier on, sans a glimmering fragment.  The very development he had been dreading, but he holds strong against it with rigid neutrality.  He has to.  For her sake.

“Do you even need to ask?  Of course I do.”

She then looks down at herself, starting to fade now with the rest of the scattered backdrop pieces, and sighs a touch disappointed.  As if she had been hoping for a little more time despite knowing that this final outcome was near.

“Our time here is almost done.  You’ve achieved what you needed to.  Before I go… can I make one last request of you…?

I know that it might be a bit much with everything that you’ll have to face moving forward–”

The apparition is abruptly cut off before she can finish her sentence when the Psion sticks out a stubby arm, palm facing outward and towards her as a silent indication to cease speaking immediately.  No explanation is needed.  He will always help her without question.  She needn’t even ask.  Such is the ‘power of love’ in all those… stories of heroes and monsters that his adoptive human mother used to tell him, is it not?  In the end, love always prevails and though mere fiction, it certainly applies here.

“Yes.  Anything.  You can have no request that is too unreasonable for me to fulfill.

Though I may be uncertain on where I… ‘fit’... now… there is something that I can nonetheless say with certainty on how I will exist from now on.

And it is that… no matter what happens, has happened, or will happen… I will always stand by your figurative side through it all.

No matter what, I will never abandon your memory.”

The Psion receives no immediate response, the apparition taken aback for a moment, as if she hadn’t been expecting this particular response.  Or at least, not so quickly.  Strange for a mere apparition born of his mind.  As an aspect of him, she should have anticipated this particular result anyways, but then… he was rather heavily damaged.  His entire mind had fractured and so, certain… incongruencies can be expected.  Nonetheless, the apparition quickly recovers, a bit of pride making its way into her fading features as she smiles for the last time, embracing the Psion as she does so which he more immediately returns this time around. A tentative and awkward, as if completely unused to contact like this, but not less sincere in its gentle nature.

“I should have known.  I won’t hesitate then.

Protect the Earth and all life on it, won’t you?”

Gone.  Gone.  Gone.  Her voice fades away as she speaks along with the rest of her form, little more than a ghostly whisper lost to the void.  She’s gone.  One hand curls into a small and tense fist, both dropping by their respective sides, while his eyes screw shut.

Some part of him admittedly felt compelled to reach out, as if that would somehow stop what had happened. Another part felt inclined to call out to not leave, even though he already knew such an inevitability was near. The visuals made that much abundantly clear. He should have done this. He should have done that and yet, it happened too fast for him to do anything but reel in the cold and isolated aftermath of it all. An aftermath from which he cannot falter; he had already done far enough of that and at this juncture, he must remain strong even as renewed bits of wetness threaten to deftly slide out the corners of his eyes.

The real Maria is long gone. She has been for a very long time. That was just an apparition. Nothing more and nothing less.

Gone, but certainly not forgotten.

The pale alien takes a moment to just… accept what’s happened… the part he supposed would be hardest, even though he had braced for it.  One.  Two.  Three.  An inhalation of air.  Four.  Five.  Six.  An exhalation of air.  Then he opens his eyes anew and glances out at the remaining fragments in the darkness as the remaining bits of the previous fragment’s backdrop morph into pure glittering golden light–the very same which had once shone through the window in the dream–before concentrating into a beam that fades into his body, right where a heart would be if he physiologically had one.

“I will.  I promise.”

The semantics of that do not matter. Whether it's more complicated or simpler than he can currently envision, limited as his current database is, he will certainly see her request through to the very end.

It's the least he can do. The only thing he can do for her anymore as her son.

[freneticfloetry]

Okay, Nice Ask Week Ask -

Okay, because I know you've watched a bunch of the same old school fandom shows I've watched - what was your fandom journey? Where did you start? What did you first read? Where'd you go next? (following authors or shows?) Livejournal - yes or no?

The noise of distress that I just made cannot be accurately described.

Okay so, I started both reading and writing fic in OG Roswell fandom. As I’m sure you know, fandom activity back then tended to be splintered into silos by pairing, and I lived in Polar land (Michael/Liz. All the Roswell ships had names. It was A Time.). The compulsion was more about Michael than anything — broken boy soldiers are always my weakness. I was intrigued by the scrapped storyline that was supposed to be a love triangle, especially since they had chemistry, but I didn’t love Liz as written, she just made the most sense with him, to me. Canon-wise, I was mainly there for Michael, Kyle, and Isabel (something that was ultimately painfully apparent in my fics).

(I did finally watch the reboot recently, and while I liked Liz a hell of a lot more, Kyle and Isabel were still my faves. Go figure!)

I was a one fandom reader and writer for a long time, though I did dabble in crossovers. Then I wrote a tiny little ficlet for Lost, and it opened the floodgates — I started writing Firefly, then Smallville (specifically Chlollie, another silo, which was definitely a LiveJournal thing), then Supernatural. And once I signed up for my first year of Yuletide, all bets were off — I got into the habit of writing my one perfect fic in a fandom and then fleeing to flit off to another, never to return.

I just realized that I’ve only ever followed a few of authors to new fandoms — @earlgreytea68’s Sherlock fic, for instance, was what made me start reading Arthur/Eames. What happens most often is that I randomly get a bunny for a canon I enjoy (or one that’s wildly pissed me off) that won’t leave me alone until I start writing.

The Magicians is the canon that made me settle down again, and nurture more than one idea for the same fandom. And even though I’ve had to step away from it for awhile (because just thinking about it still makes me anxious and angry), I think it was exactly what I needed to prime my brain for the Tarlos takeover — I think I would’ve been overwhelmed otherwise, and probably never written anything for them at all.

Sorry so long. I’m ridiculous.

[the-trinket-witch]

Yandere!OC Headcanons, Part 2 (Actual Original Characters!)

I've explored the toxic sides/What Ifs of my TWST OCs, through a yandere lens. So I thought I'd try writing the same idea for my original characters as a way to start better introducing them. (NOTE: I shouldn’t have to but apparently need to preface that writing this is not me condoning said behavior or idealizing it. If you recognize patterns like this in people in your real life, I cannot advise one way or another what you do with that information.)

Wilfred O’Toole: 

A volatile one, this cowboy is. Sadism could be the one word to describe him in all realms. He’s AroAce, so none of his actions come from either place, but if he wants to get his hands on you, he will. He’s not above incapacitation, by any means available. Pray you haven’t done anything that warrants your wanted poster to state ‘Alive or Dead’. Though, with the Fae, death may be one of the better outcomes.

Brom Thorinson: 

Lucky you to have met someone who seems to have it all put together. He would treat you as the jewel in the heart of his dragon hoard, just don’t go making plans of leaving said hoard. His small ‘business’ affords him the resources to make him a blackmailer extraordinaire. He's also got the muscle (both physically and connections) to make separation difficult. Best to just keep at his side; it leaves less of a mess. 

Alphonso Ketzal: 

This boy was difficult to pin what his 'yandere/toxic relationship' dynamic was; he's just that sweet and easy-going. What a dramatic bish, though, if you really caught his eye. Be glad he isn’t also a theater major. But being an art major, He'll get creative in his attempts to keep you around. He will question where all his handmade gifts to you went. But any attempt at pushback will result in him showing his belly; he’s that whipped for you. It’s kind of pathetic from an outside perspective, but he doesn’t care about them; only you.

Kostara Segado: 

She's basically a cop. 'nuff said. She isn't physical, but as someone who’s legally untouchable, she is morally and from a safety perspective unfuckable. Do Not Engage.

Cassius Baker: 

He's a medieval fantasy private investigator. Never expect privacy again. There is a file on you, and he's got it locked and loaded like a crossbow the moment anything turns sideways. Why else would people you love and grow attached to suddenly grow wary and distant from you? ‘It’ll be okay,’ he’ll say. ‘Let’s get some bread started and forget about those people.’

So'e Albertis: 

Another sad-sack. The 'everybody leaves me' type, willing to jump through hoops to satisfy you. She doesn't have hypnotic abilities, and while she is normally a Hard No on love potions/death magic, she isn't above microdosing you poison. Little Miss 'Munchausen by Proxy'. 'Oh you poor thing wouldn't survive out in the swamp, let me take care of you.' And don’t think because she takes off to forage for ingredients, that you are home alone. Keep an eye on the shadows, there may be a pair of familiar’s eyes staring back.