#awkward unflattering layering

[vaguedistress]

now what the fuck is minchan's styling in the track unveil ....

[benijbol]

ꔫ Melancholy

A/N; My mind is an OSHA violation,,, genuinely dk if i wanna continuously post my writing on here or just goof around el oh el ,,,

Summary; Your father betroths you to some old lousy lord and Davos helps take your mind off of it . Davos Blackwood x Fem!reader.

Warnings; 18+ smutty. choking?

3630 words.

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The sun hangs heavy in the sky, beating down with an unforgiving heat that’s almost unbearable. The air is thick and stifling, the kind that clings to your skin and makes every breath feel like a struggle. The meadow stretches out in front of you, a sea of wildflowers in full bloom—pale blues, deep purples, vivid reds, and soft yellows. You wander through them, one hand trailing lazily over the tops of the tall grasses, the other clutching a single wilted daisy that you had picked without thinking. 

The news of your betrothal still echoes in your head, like a bell that won’t stop ringing. Some lord whose name you barely remember. Old, balding, with the kind of belly that speaks of too much wine and too little work. You can’t quite picture his face, but you can picture your father’s, stern and unyielding. “It’s a good match,” he had said, as if that would somehow make you forget the man is twice your age and rumored to have a temper as fierce as a summer storm.

Your stomach twists at the thought of him. Lord Selwyn or Ser Sefton, was it? You don’t even care to recall his name. You were always told your duty would come someday, that your family’s honor and the weight of your name would eventually fall upon your shoulders. You just never thought it would be this soon or this… distasteful.

The sun catches in your hair, and you brush a few damp strands away from your forehead. The humidity is unforgiving, clinging to your skin like a second, stifling layer. Your dress, made of light cotton, sticks to your back, and you curse under your breath as another bead of sweat trails down between your shoulder blades. You feel the sting of it, itching, irritating, but you make no move to brush it away. 

You pause at the edge of a small stream that winds its way through the meadow. The water is clear, trickling softly over smooth stones, and for a moment, you think about plunging your hands into it, just to feel something cool against your skin. But then you hear footsteps—clumsy and unmistakable—and you know who it is before you even turn around.

“Davos,” you say, not bothering to mask the irritation in your voice. You don’t even look at him. Instead, you focus on the flowers, on the soft rustle of the wind through the tall grass. 

He’s been following you since you left the hall, and while you’re not surprised—he’s always been a persistent shadow—it’s not a comfort today. Today, you’d rather be alone with your thoughts, even if they are bitter.

“Figured I’d find you here,” Davos replies, a bit too cheerfully for your liking. There’s a rustle of leaves and a grunt as he climbs over the low stone wall that separates the meadow from the woods beyond. He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s an awkwardness to his tone, a hesitation that you haven’t heard before.

“What gave it away?” you mutter. “Was it the fact that this is the only place I go when I’m trying to be left alone?”

He chuckles, a little breathless, as if the walk has winded him. “That, and the fact that you’ve been glaring at anyone who comes near you since the news of your betrothal.”

You whip around to face him then, the wilting daisy crumpling in your grip. He looks exactly as you expect: messy dark hair that curls slightly in the heat, his tunic sticking to his chest in a most unflattering way. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his expression is somewhere between sheepish and amused.

“If you came here to mock me, you can go back to wherever it is you skulk about these days,” you say, voice sharper than you intend.

Davos blinks, taken aback, but he doesn’t leave. He never does. “I’m not here to mock you,” he says, a bit more seriously now. “I’m here to… I don’t know. Keep you company, I suppose. Seemed like you could use it.”

“I don’t need company,” you snap. “Least of all from you.”

His smile falters, and for a moment, you almost feel guilty. Almost. But then he shrugs, trying to play it off. “Well, you’ve got me anyway,” he says, plopping down on a patch of grass beside you. 

You sigh, exasperated, and turn back to the stream. The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable, like the humid air around you. You can feel him watching you, feel his gaze lingering on your profile, and it makes your skin prickle with annoyance.

“Do you even know who he is?” he asks finally, breaking the silence. “This lord they’ve promised you to?”

“An old fool with a red nose and yellowed teeth. My father would trade me to the highest bidder if he thought it would earn him favor at court.”

Davos's face twists in an expression of distaste. “He’s an ass, then.”

“An ass, yes,” you agree, “but an ass with land and men. Apparently, that’s what matters most.”

There’s a bitterness in your voice that you don’t bother to hide. You bend down to pick another flower—a bluebell this time—twisting its stem between your fingers until it snaps. Davos watches you, his eyes flickering over your face, searching for something in your expression.

“You could run away,” he suggests, only half-joking. “Steal a horse and ride to the edge of the world. I’d go with you, if you asked.”

You snort, shaking your head. “And where would we go? To the Riverlands, where your father would have us both dragged back in chains?”

“Could be an adventure,” he replies with a grin, his teeth bright against the dirt on his face. “We could join a mercenary band. Or a pirate crew. You’ve always looked good in leather, after all.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “Leather would be too hot in this weather,” you quip back. “I’d rather not die of heatstroke before I get to taste freedom.”

Davos chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar. It eases the tension in your shoulders a little, though you’d never admit it. He shifts closer, just a fraction, his knee brushing against yours. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to make you acutely aware of how close he’s sitting. How close he always sits, now that you think about it.

“Maybe you just need to cool off,” he says, his tone light but his eyes watching you carefully. “The stream’s right there.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I dunk my head in the water?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he replies with a smirk. “Might knock some sense into you, too.”

You swat at him, half-heartedly, and he catches your wrist with surprising ease. His grip is firm but not rough, his thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist where your pulse is fluttering a bit too quickly. You glare at him, but he doesn’t let go. In fact, he holds on a little tighter, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity you’re not quite used to from him.

“What?” you snap, more to break the moment than anything else.

Davos' smile fades, replaced by something more serious, more uncertain. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Just… you don’t have to go through with it, you know. Not if you don’t want to.”

You pull your hand away, feeling a sudden wave of frustration. “And what choice do I have, Davos?” you demand. “Run off with you to join the pirates? How noble. How honorable.”

“Maybe honor isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And maybe you’re just a fool.”

Davos looks like he wants to argue, but then he shrugs, a resigned sort of smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am. But I’d rather be a fool than see you miserable.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat of silence that stretches on too long. You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing, turning your attention back to the flowers at your feet. But then, you feel his hand on your shoulder, tentative and awkward.

“What are you—”

Before you can finish, he’s leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear. “I mean it,” he murmurs, his voice low. “You could have more than this. More than him.”

Your breath catches, and you don’t know whether it’s the heat or his words that make your skin feel like it’s on fire. You twist your head to look at him, and there’s something in his eyes—something you haven’t seen before. Or maybe you have, and you’ve just been too blind to notice.

“Davos,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You’ve always been too good for them,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Too good for any of them.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “And what about you, Davos Blackwood? Are you saying you’re good enough?”

He doesn’t answer, but his gaze is steady, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your neck, thumb brushing the line

 of your jaw. There’s a reckless determination in his eyes now, something bold and unrestrained, and it sends a shiver down your spine despite the oppressive heat.

“You could find out,” he suggests, and there’s a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Before you can stop yourself, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his with more force than you intend. He makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat but doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hands come up to cradle your face, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss.

It’s awkward at first, all teeth and misaligned mouths, but then he tilts his head just right, and your lips slot together more easily. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing tender. It’s heated, desperate, like you’re both trying to prove something. You taste salt and sweat on his skin, feel the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of your dress.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice rough. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”

You don’t. 

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin through the damp fabric of his tunic. You can feel his breath, hot against your cheek, hear the unsteady rhythm of his heart beneath your palms. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

He grins, and it’s a little wicked, a little wild. “You always did like playing with fire,” he says.

“Shut up, Davos,” you reply, but there’s no venom in it. Only want.

His hands move down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he pushes you back against the rough bark of a nearby tree. The sudden contact makes you gasp, but he covers your mouth with his again, swallowing the sound. His lips move against yours with a new urgency, a kind of raw hunger that sends heat pooling in your belly.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “Is this madness?” he asks, his voice low and hoarse.

“Probably,” you reply, breathless, and he laughs softly.

His fingers find the hem of your dress, skimming up along your thigh, and you shiver despite the warmth of the day. “Then let’s be mad together,” he whispers, and there’s something fierce and determined in his tone that makes your heart race.

He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me,” he murmurs, voice dark, “tell me what you want.”

Your voice catches in your throat. “I—”

He cuts you off, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple through the thin fabric. “Tell me,” he insists, a little more forcefully now.

“Touch me,” you breathe, and he obliges, his hand slipping lower, beneath the hem of your dress.

He watches you closely, his expression intense, waiting for the slightest sign of hesitation. But there is none. You feel his fingers brush against the dampness between your legs, and your breath hitches, a low moan escaping your lips.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and there’s something darkly triumphant in his voice. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, and the heat between your legs only grows more insistent. You feel the roughness of his palm against your inner thigh, his fingers deft and exploratory as they tease along the edges of your smallclothes. You should be embarrassed—should feel some kind of shame at how wet you are, how much you want this—but you don’t. Not with him.

His eyes never leave yours, even as his fingers dip beneath the fabric, brushing over your slick folds with a lightness that makes your breath hitch. He grins at the sound, his mouth hovering just inches from yours, and there’s something wicked in the curve of his lips.

“Sensitive today, aren’t we?” he murmurs, a teasing lilt in his tone. You shoot him a glare, but it lacks any real venom. Your body betrays you, arching into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

“Don’t play with me, Davos,” you warn, though your voice comes out breathier than you’d intended.

He chuckles, low and dark. “Oh, I think you like being played with,” he counters, his fingers slipping between your folds, finding the spot that makes you gasp and clench around nothing. “Like a fine-tuned lute… I just have to find the right strings to pluck.”

You bite your lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape, but Davos seems to notice, his eyes lighting up with amusement. His thumb circles slowly, deliberately, around that sensitive bundle of nerves, not quite touching it, just enough to tease. You can feel your breath quicken, your skin flushed, heart racing like a wild thing.

“Davos,” you growl, and he laughs again, that soft, husky sound that sends heat pooling low in your belly.

“What? You want more?” he asks, voice mockingly innocent. His fingers press deeper, stroking, exploring, and you can’t help the small sound that slips past your lips.

“Say it,” he demands softly. “I want to hear you ask for it.”

You glare up at him, trying to muster some shred of defiance, but it’s hard to think with his hand between your thighs, with the rough pad of his thumb brushing over your sensitive clit, making your head swim with sensation. The heat is unbearable, the humid air wrapping around you like a shroud, but all you can feel is him—his breath on your skin, his fingers inside you, coaxing, teasing, filling.

“Please,” you finally whisper, hating how desperate you sound, but unable to care. “Please, Davos.”

“Please, what?” he presses, his grin widening as if he’s enjoying this far too much. “You have to be specific, my lady. I’m not a mind reader.”

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. You’ve never been good at asking for what you want, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something dark and intense and… hungry. It makes you feel bold. Reckless.

“I want you to fuck me,” you breathe, barely recognizing your own voice. “Now.”

For a heartbeat, he freezes, as if he can’t quite believe what you’ve said. Then a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, and he leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “As you wish,” he whispers, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that sends shivers down your spine.

In one swift motion, he pushes your dress up over your hips, his hands firm and demanding. You feel the cool breeze against your bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing against yours. He steps back, just enough to fumble with the laces of his trousers, his eyes never leaving yours.

There’s a hunger in his gaze now, a wild, reckless glint that makes your pulse quicken. You want to say something, anything, but words fail you. All you can do is watch as he frees himself from the confines of his clothing, his cock hard and thick in his hand.

He looks at you, almost as if seeking permission, and you nod, a small, jerky motion. His grin returns, sharp and wolfish, and he steps forward again, pressing you back against the rough bark of the tree. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you with surprising ease, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the head of his cock brush against your entrance.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice rough, and there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes, something almost… vulnerable.

You nod again, and he doesn’t wait for further confirmation. He pushes into you with one smooth, powerful thrust, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips at the sudden, overwhelming fullness. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

“Gods,” he groans, his hands tightening on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. “You feel… perfect.”

You can’t respond. All you can do is cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he starts to move, slow at first, then faster, each thrust deep and sure and deliberate. The rough bark of the tree scratches against your back, but you barely feel it over the intensity of the sensations coursing through your body.

His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing over your skin, and you shiver at the sharp sting of it, a delicious contrast to the heat of his tongue as he soothes the bite. His hands are everywhere—gripping, squeezing, exploring. One hand slides up to your throat, his fingers wrapping around it with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin, his voice a low, husky growl. “So needy. So desperate for me.”

You should be offended, should slap him for his insolence, but instead, his words only make you moan, make your hips buck against his, wanting more, needing more. He chuckles, dark and amused.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You like it when I talk to you like this.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the moan that threatens to spill from your lips, but he’s relentless. His hand tightens around your throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp, to make your blood sing with the thrill of it.

“Say it,” he commands. “Tell me you like it.”

Your voice comes out in a ragged whisper, barely more than a breath. “I… I like it.”

His grin widens, and he leans in to press a rough, hungry kiss to your mouth, swallowing your gasp as he thrusts deeper, harder, making you cry out against his lips. His hand moves from your throat, sliding down to where your bodies are joined, his fingers finding your clit with practiced ease.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his voice low and husky, and the praise sends a rush of heat through you, pooling between your legs. “Come for me. I want to feel you come.”

You don’t know if it’s his words or his touch or the sheer intensity of it all, but you feel the coil tightening in your belly, winding tighter and tighter until it snaps, a wave of pleasure crashing over you so intensely you see stars. You cry out, your body shuddering around him, and he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.

“Fuck,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurts. “Fuck, you feel so—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, his words dissolving into a low, guttural moan as he comes, his hips jerking against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. You feel him spill inside you, warm and wet, and for a moment, the world seems to blur around the edges, the only thing that matters the feeling of him, the weight of him, the heat of him.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your heavy breathing, the pounding of your heart in your ears. Then, slowly, reality begins to seep back in. The heat of the sun on your skin, the sticky humidity of the air, the rough bark of the tree at your back. You feel Davos’s breath against your cheek, hot and uneven, and you realize he’s still holding you, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he’s afraid to let go.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and uncertainty. “Are you alright?” he asks, and there’s a note of genuine concern in his voice.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. “I… yes. I’m alright.”

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods, his grip on you loosening slightly. “Good,” he murmurs, and you can see the relief in his eyes.

You both stay there for a moment longer, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around you slowly coming back into focus. You know you should say something, but the words elude you, tangled somewhere in your throat.

Davos seems to sense your hesitation because he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You know,” he says, his voice light, teasing, “if you wanted to distract yourself from this betrothal nonsense, you could have just asked.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, but there’s a warmth in your chest that you can’t quite deny. “Next time, I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply dryly.

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I feel like i should be making a taglist of some sorts idk UHM,, if ur up for itttt... im so awkward sorry

[pinheadsboyfriend]

a perverse enamourment [part 6] — pinhead / self insert [ao3 link]

Elliot was certainly Crawford's first love, though they were well aware that the former had taken many lovers before them. He was older than them, more confident and self-assured, conscious of the appeal and allure of his own arrogance. And while they were excited, if not nervous, to recreate just about every scene they'd ever had the displeasure of witnessing in a Hallmark film, they didn't like Elliot enough to hope he was their last love, too. Not yet, at least. Despite their appetite for connection, Crawford did not delude themselves into naivety, and understood that Elliot likely felt the same. 

He was still a novelty, really; they'd finally given in and purchased the glimmering snowglobe that caught their attention every so often from behind the store window - it was just a matter of whether or not they thought the snowglobe was tacky in the end. Of course, one can't politely put a man in a cardboard box, tape it up, and take him to the local Goodwill.

Unfortunately, the return policies people had were a bit more punishing. 

Elliot knew well that Crawford had never been loved before, even if they hadn't said it to him outright. Between the bewilderment they displayed toward any proximity with them that was closer than what one would tactfully keep with a stranger, and the acute humiliation they failed to hide when trying to interlace their fingers with his, it wasn't particularly hard to tell. He hadn't either, really, unless you counted his many post-war hedonistic indulgences or the occasional man he'd paid or met in an alleyway for a fuck or two, which, he did not. There were some that lingered in his mind here and there, but there was never any time, and they were hardly alive for long enough. The hostile climate didn't allow for many opportunities, either. 

Unlike Crawford, however, he did not so obviously crave it. He found that a bit pathetic of them, the helpless romantic that quietly leaves their heart out upon the street, waiting for someone to come and pick it up without putting in the effort required to make a connection. Wide, brown eyes, practically indistinguishable from black, incessantly flickering over his form when they thought he wasn't looking — it would have been flattering had they concealed their worry and suspicion better. Yet, despite their inexperience and neuroticism, they were accessible - pliable, soft, masculinely androgynous, and at least marginally attracted to him. 

Occasionally, when he found Crawford particularly draining, perhaps as a reminder of what he was tolerating them for, his mind conjured an image of their muscle, divaricated by his own hand. Elliot pictures the many layers visible in the meat - the skin, the dermis, the yellow sticky fat of the subcutaneous tissue, the fibrous muscle. He sees them clutching at their wounds on the bed, eyes slick with tears. Arousal ensues, but so too does guilt.

Romance fit them both very poorly, like unflattering and constricting fabric. They had stiffly agreed one night, next to the Seine, to try anyway. 

Crawford shifts uncomfortably, sitting on the floor in front of the window at Elliot's flat. He had extended an awkward invitation they were too timid to deny. Elliot sits on his mattress and thumbs through a book picked up earlier that day that he hoped would be more interesting. 

"You can see the Eiffel Tower from here." 

"What was that?", Elliot asks automatically for clarification, looking at Crawford overtop delicate rectangular frames that made him look rather smart. 

"Oh", Crawford reddens, turning quickly to face him, "I just said you can see the Eiffel Tower from here."

"But you already know that. It's just - a really pretty view. You're lucky," they quickly add.

Elliot laughs at that, folding the top corner of the page he'd stopped on as a bookmark. 

"I'm lucky?" 

Crawford didn't know all of it, yet. No one had elected to tell them the disconcerting details of the prior position he had in hell, but he was sure that if any of his associates found out they were seeing each other, they would demand that he did, or would perhaps do so themselves. 

They eye him quietly. "Maybe not. If you really were lucky, you'd have a bedframe."

Elliot laughs through his nose and leans against the wall in his undershirt. His book sits face down on his crossed legs, and his glasses slowly begin to slip off of his face. He looks very pretty like this. 

He reaches a hand up to remove his glasses. 

"Hey - don't." 

Elliot freezes, curious. He adjusts his glasses, placing them rightly on his nose, if not putting them away. His eyebrows twitch, a wordless inquiry.

Crawford uncrosses their legs and shuffles a few feet on their hands and knees to be next to him. The position allows them about a head's worth of leverage, and they carefully cup the sides of his face, tilting it upward. He allows this, and feels the tips of their fingers quivering against his cheeks, but only just. He waits for them to say something. 

"Your hands are cold."

"I don't remember ever liking anyone with blue eyes before." It's said quietly, out of near reverent admiration. They wanted to see him weep more than they've ever wanted anything in the world. Something feels like it's lodged in their throat. They feel like they're dying. 

"I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Crawford presses their lips against his with torturous caution. Still, this kiss is firmer than the last, which was firmer than the last, which was firmer than the last, and so on. Their thumb skims over the corner of his lip, and his hand sits comfortably at the bend of their waist. Their other hand finds the back of his neck, and they squeal in surprise when they feel a hand grabbing a fistful of their sweater, yanking them closer. The heat rising to their face is overwhelming, and they can feel gooseflesh quickly erupt over their arms. 

Elliot slips two fingers underneath the edge of the fabric, but pauses, waiting for a reply. Crawford offers their assent by moving so that his palm touches their stomach, and shudders pitably at the contact. He slides both hands over their bare, warm torso, and feels alive. Momentarily he dismays at the barrier of skin, unable to explore them in the way he desired, but there was a gift on his lap, now, and he wasn't going to allow himself to be distracted. Crawford parts from him, and partially out of a desire to avoid eye contact, nestles themselves into the crook of his neck. 

"I like you, at least," quietly thrumming behind his ear.

"You were doubting?" He rubs a loose lock of their hair between his fingers.

"You aren't?" 

He doesn't reply, electing instead to breathe them in.

[macaroni-rascal]

Really good skating from Green/Parsons, but the colors are awful. It's a shade of red that looks like dried blood, and it's the same issue I had with Hawayek's Heart of Glass dress. And then to pair it with this awkward teal? A lot of teal this year, some more successful than others. The worst part is the ribbon on his waist, he needs a longer, less puffy shirt. This program is a non-starter, not just because it tries and fails to capture the magic of their iconic free dance from 2 years ago, but also because it's so meandering and devoid of concept and a coherent movement vocabulary (in contrast to the French, who will get to). They're making nice shapes with their bodies, but it doesn't add up to anything. I would've understood if the judges had dropped them in this program rather than the RD, since this is just a bag of random stuff pulled out the junk drawer. Her dress is contemporary, while his kinda period-inspired and doesn't fit his build, much like the Trennt sitch. I wish they'd scrap this one too.

Natalie, my sweet. While this is a great color on her, it didn't work paired with grey when VM did it, and it doesn't work now. His costume looks like an afterthought and the construction of hers is lazy and unflattering. I know they probably don't have the same resources as some other teams, so I'll let it lie, but also, the real problem here is the program. All they're doing is power skating between lifts and choreo elements. They're on two feet sooo damn much, and I dare them to take a step that isn't a crossover. It's not really ice dance, which sucks, because I really, really like them, but they're not an abstract concept team. Sorry about their dad.

Okay, the team that's really been impressing me this season, in spite of myself - the French. I loved the simplicity of her dress, which is why I don't get why they did the awkward, random dyeing on his. So many of these boys are wearing tops that look water-damaged. But I thought this program had a consistent movement vocabulary, it had a sense of dance history, and while we've seen them sharper this year, they did well here. I hate to say it, but Guillame did a great job. It's familiar music but it builds and they picked up every nuance and note, and this from a team I don't normally enjoy, so kudos. Good transitions like L/Q, great skating in hold, really seamlessly put together. Only they and H/B can pull off abstract.

LaLa - gorgeous colors, they looked like spring! Marjo was the force of the program, Zak looked a bit closed off in the chest, but I'm assuming that's from the injury and will pass. Some truly breathtaking elements and entries into them, and better levels, it seems. Skate Canada needs to get their scores where they need to be because Lolo and Nik hath no knees left. He did this to me with his shirt last year - it's big and boxy and flowy and bunches up at the waist, obscuring and cutting off his lines. Marjo, on the other hand, extremely pretty but a little too much skirt, I won't be surprised if it throws off her twizzles with how heavy it is. Such softness of movement yet such punctuation moments throughout, such effortless musicality and responsiveness to each other and the music. The one thing I will say is that it's maybe a bit too similar to the Nureyev and the Warsaw, but then again, it hasn't held other teams back, so why diversify? Get Zak a more fitted shirt and remove a layer of fabric from Marjo's skirt and they're ready for world domination. Nothing but respect for my next Olympic champions.

Okay, I really didn't want to become a C/B hater, but here we are - they've forced me over the past 3 years. What a load of pretentious schlock. We need to stop validating people just because they're hot. I'm pretty sure we've seen this concept 20 years prior. Her dress is well-made but it's what a teen whose social studies teacher once told her she should be a designer because she likes clothes would draw. Evan's outfit is straight out of Nathan Chen's closet of non-costumes. All of this is right out of the P/C guidebook on emperor's new clothes programs where they tell us we're too dumb to understand the high art that it is, when in reality they're just doing whatever to low-tempo music. All but one team here are stronger skaters than them. The whole program is just an exercise in figuring out how little actual skating they get away with. The fact that this is being celebrated and scored like this is why the sport is losing viewership, it makes the fans feel gaslit and taken for fools. And they can only do the planks and straight limb lines for a minute or so before they run out of steam, so whatever vague common visual thread there is totally falls apart. The USFSA fucked up when they let them win the nationals over the far superior H/D with that alien program because they wanted to give them a boost for the team event, but the lesson they took from it is that they could literally get away with murder, which is how we ended up here. I'm literally begging them to retire, they have me cheering for teams I usually can't stand. Prayer circle for the Italians to get a better RD.

Otherwise, Romain and Patrice serving looks like the dapper daddies they are, skaters take notes!

10s 10s 10s across the board.

[beautiful-and-terrible]

little things

Rating: Gen

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, SoftBoi!Rodrick, Insecure!Reader

Ship: Rodrick Heffley x Reader

Warnings: Body Image, Eating Disorders / Body Dysmorphia, Insecurity 

A/N: this is. SO shmoopy and cheesy lmaoooo but this was an anon request and i live to please :) enjoy!

---

You dragged yourself through your front door, kicking off your shoes in the foyer. The house was dark - your parents were probably asleep already.

You had just spent the day with Rodrick at Six Flags, and you were exhausted from spending all day in the hot sun, running around with your boyfriend like children. You smiled to yourself thinking about the events of the day, the thrill of the rollercoasters you went on.

You clutched the teddy bear Rodrick had won you close to your chest as you slowly ascended the stairs, trying not to make too much noise.

You entered your room and tenderly placed the bear on the bed, giving it a little kiss on the head as you did so before starting your night routine. Change into pajamas, brush teeth, wash face. As you were putting on your final face cream, your phone vibrated on the bathroom counter. You knew who it was from the specific rhythm of the vibration - two short bursts, like a heartbeat.

Rodrick had sent pictures of you two from today - a lot of selfies, but also a couple of far away shots that Rodrick had harassed people into taking for you. People rarely were able to say no to Rodrick once he had gotten an idea into his head - even if that idea was wrapping himself around a street lamp like a stripper for a good picture.

You finally, blissfully laid down in bed, letting out a giant groan as you cracked your back. You browsed the photos, feeling your heart-rate pick up as you gazed at Rodrick in the pictures. He looked so cute today - he had been wearing cut off black jeans, black high-top vans, and a loose button down Hawaiian shirt, half-way unbuttoned to show off his tanned chest and the multiple layers of silver necklaces he was wearing. His nails were painted black, but his eyes were free of makeup, simply accented by his naturally long eye-lashes and the smile-lines around his eyes.

After admiring Rodrick, you turned your gaze to yourself in the pictures. You felt your heart sink into your stomach. When you had left the house this morning, you had felt pretty confident in your outfit - just ripped jean shorts and a crop-top with converse. But as you looked closer, you couldn’t stop thinking about how unsatisfied you felt with the way you looked in the pictures.

As you continued to scroll through, the more faults you found in your appearance. Your thighs being squeezed by your shorts, which didn’t feel too tight but apparently were not as flattering as you thought. In one picture, you were sitting down on a bench, your legs over Rodrick’s lap, but you couldn’t stop staring at the roll of your stomach that came over the waistband of your shorts. You felt tears pricking your eyes, but you stubbornly refused to cry. You spent a long time trying to feel confident in yourself - you weren’t going to let that hard work be ruined by a few unflattering photos.

However, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way your body looked in those pictures. You got up to stand in front of your full length mirror, looking at the reflection critically. You were craning your neck to look at your butt when you heard a soft tap-tap-tap at the window. You jumped about 2 feet in the air before you realized it was just Rodrick, grinning from outside the window and placing a wet kiss on the glass, making you laugh. He made a grossed-out expression when he realized the glass was not as clean as he thought it was, wiping his tongue on the back of his hand.

“I swear to God, you’re like a toddler. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to lick random surfaces?” you asked as you opened the window to let him in. He folded himself gracefully through the window, all long limbs and messy hair. You felt both comforted and electrified in his presence.

“Since when have I ever listened to any authority figure?” Rodrick asked, grinning wolfishly and leaning down to kiss you softly, juxtaposing his rebellious tone. For someone with such a seemingly hard exterior, Rodrick was always very gentle and sweet with you. It was one of the things you loved most about him - he seemed to hate everyone but you. It made you feel special and appreciated. 

As he pulled back from the kiss, he frowned, stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Have you been crying? Your eyes are red,” he said, making a pouty face. You shrugged, turning away and shaking your head.

“No, just allergies probably.”

Rodrick scoffed, “Sure, allergies. You’re a bad liar, you know that?”

You refused to look at him, instead going to your record player and flipping through the vinyls you had stacked in a black milk-crate. “I’m not a bad liar,” you said half-heartedly, not really able to come up with any other excuse.

“You totally are, you avoided eye contact and everything. Seriously, what's wrong? Do you not like the bear?” Rodrick asked. You felt his arms wrap around your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his nose tucked into the crook of your neck. You felt yourself smile despite your bad mood.

“No, I love the bear. I named him Sasha Bear-on Cohen. Get it?” you said, turning your head to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Ahh, a-very nice,” Rodrick replied in his best Borat impression. You giggled. He gave you a squeeze, hands warm on your waist, but the sensation made you self-conscious about your body again, and you wiggled away. You couldn’t understand how Rodrick could bear to touch you. You had no idea why he was attracted to you in the first place. It made tears spring to your eyes again, and you sniffled.

“Y/n”, Rodrick said softly, looking genuinely concerned. “I know you. You don’t get sad for no reason - unless you’re on your period, or you start thinking too much about the Mars Curiosity Rover.”

You sighed, but you knew he had a point. It took you a minute to get your thoughts into words before you spoke.

“I just... I know its silly. But those pictures - you look like a Hot Topic wet dream and I look... I don’t know. I just don’t like the way I look. And most of the time I don’t let it bother me - at least, I try - but I hate having my picture taken because whenever I see them, all I can see is the things I hate about myself. So. Yeah.”

You feel the tears making steady rivers down your cheeks, and your voice shakes as you speak. Rodrick listens attentively, sitting on the foot of your bed. He pats the space next to him, and you sit down. His hand rests on your leg - not constraining you or placating you with a hug, just letting you know he’s there.

“Y/n, I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like a giant cheese-ball, but... holy fuck. You are so beautiful. I - every time I look at you all I can think is goddamn, I can’t believe she’s into a loser like me. And don’t argue, it’s just a fact,” he says quickly as you try to defend him from his own self-deprecation. 

“I’m not good with words... I’m more of a man of action, y’know?” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You smack him on the arm, but his silly expression still makes you smile.

“But, I can still tell you - and don’t repeat this to anyone ever because I’ll never live it down - you give me butterflies. Every time. No matter if you’re in pajamas or a ballgown. You make me feel like a stack of pancakes with warm butter and syrup,” he pauses as you laugh, his warm brown eyes gazing into yours. “Just... I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. You make my bones feel funny. That’s how beautiful you are.”

Rodrick finally wraps his arms around you. You let yourself be folded into the embrace, feeling content and more than a little overwhelmed by his confession.

“Thank you,” you murmur, unable to find any other words at the moment. You want to say all of that back to him, ten-fold. You want to tell him he makes you feel like flashing concert lights and Fourth of July fireworks. But your mouth can’t make the words, so you just wrap your arms around him tighter.

“Do you want me to spend the night?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple. You simply nod, already moving up the bed and pulling back the covers as Rodrick goes to turn out the lights.

In the dark of the room, only illuminated by the street-lamp outside your house, Rodrick looks very alien - all long lines and lean angles. It makes your heart-rate kick up again, and you feel a blush form on your cheeks. It’s not as though this is the first time you’ve slept in the same bed, or even been intimate, but this feels... different. 

Rodrick tucks himself in next to you on your bed - it’s a queen size, so it fits both of you well enough that you could sleep together not touching if you wanted to. But Rodrick is a big cuddler at heart, even if he would deny it to his grave. He wraps his arms around your waist as you lay your head on his chest, already being lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You feel like it’s important to tell him before you both lose the tenderness of the moment, so you finally open your mouth to speak.

“I’m so lucky. I know you think you’re... a loser, or whatever but, Rodrick. You aren’t. You are so beyond cool, and brave, and courageous. Thinking about you makes my head spin. And whenever I see you... I’m home.” You trail off, feeling awkward, but Rodrick simply tightens his arms around you, stroking your back with his fingers.

“If I knew we were getting this sentimental I wouldn’t have brought lube... and maybe a few tissues,” he snickers, and you pinch his nipple, causing him to squeal.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch,” he teases back, and you sigh softly, feeling your body and mind relax. You had almost completely forgotten about the pictures - and at this point, you didn’t really care. The pictures didn’t speak. The only voice telling you that you weren’t beautiful was the one inside your head, and it could definitely be a bitch sometimes.

You could’ve imagined it, but as your brain was finally shutting down, you could’ve sworn you heard Rodrick start to sing, “you are my sunshine... my only sunshine...”

“you make me happy... when skies are gray...”

“you’ll never know, dear, how much i love you...”

“please don’t take my sunshine away...”

[thefanficmonster]

Stranger In The Crowd

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None

Genre: FLUFF, Humor, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Having recently ended the process of moving, Y/N is rightfully very tired but also very excited for the new chapter of her life. Funnily enough, this new chapter includes a newly formed long distance friendship/crush with a very special person from San Diego.

Requested by @boiled-onionrings Hi darling! Thank you so much for your wonderful request and I’m really sorry you’ve had to wait so long for it to be posted but here it finally is and I hope you enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

I let out a heavy sigh, relieved to finally be at home after such a long day of standing around in the Georgia heat with only a thin layer of fabric to protect my eyes and head from the scorching sun. Yeah, anyone who says that tent did well at protecting everyone under it today is nothing but a liar. I was in a short, strapless white summer dress, the fabric of which barely had any weight and consistency to provide heat of its own yet I still damn near melted. Ok, I’ll admit, some of the roasting heat probably came from the energy and force I put into singing the songs of my band’s new album ‘Starting At The End’. 

The mini concert we held in this large open field was meant as an introduction to the city of Savannah where all the band members - myself included - are actually from but we all moved to the West Coast to pursue our music career. And now that we’ve grown, and the majority of us are married, one of us is a father now as well, we’ve decided to return to our hometown. The decision was so spontaneous and was executed so quickly due to no one objecting to it that it still hasn’t me that I’m no longer in LA. The heat isn’t helping my ‘processing’ process but I’ll get to it eventually. Do I miss LA though? Not sure I do - I think I more miss the people I was closer to while I was there.

Suddenly, as if perfectly timed, my phone dings, notifying me that I’ve received a message. I don’t have to look to know it’s from - there’s only one person I actively text and his name is....

C ~ Your virtual buddy Corpse here, making sure you didn’t die of a heatstroke today. If you did indeed survive, just reply to this message, if not....don’t do anything, I guess.

I can’t help but giggle at the sight of the message. I promised Corpse I’d text him after the concert to let him know I was ok, but the even dragged out for longer than anticipated so I’m guessing he got worried.

How cute.

Me ~ Alive and well, but I do feel like a popped tire of an overloaded truck. Hope that’s a visually appealing description

Corpse and I met on the charity livestream Jacksepticeye organized and invited our band to so we could play Among Us with some of the best gamers and streamers on the internet. It was a huge honor and a ton of fun, definitely an event I’d like to repeat in the near future because I had such a good time and I know all my bandmates did too. We all got acquainted and even became official friends with the gamers that were practically our hosts, Corpse becoming the closest friends I’d earn. That livestream happened months ago and we still text just as consistently.

C ~ Oh I know EXACTLY what you mean. Anyway, as to not exhaust you further to force you into typing, how about you send me pictures to sum up your thoughts and emotions and plans for the evening

This is OUR THING trademark, mine and Corpse’s and no one can take it away from us. It’s a significant element of our friendship that enables us both to understand one another when one of us feels the way I described in my message - a popped tire or a deflated balloon. I’m usually the exhausted one - blame the many shows we do and the many meet-and-greets we organize for our lovely fans. It’s the type of exhaustion none of the band members mind at all, but we definitely need some time to recover from it.

As I go to sit down on my couch, the flower crown I’ve been wearing slips off the top of my head, falling on the floor, creating a soft noise that attracts the attention of one of my many cats - Sasha. She’s the youngest and most curious kitty in the family, always protected by the other four - Luna, Cassie, Silver and Lynn. Those four are far lazier and a lot more disinterested in comparison to Sasha who immediately runs over to see what’s fallen.

I smile to myself, taking the flower crown and undoing it to lessen it by a few stems to make it smaller, all the while being watched by the curious Sasha whose interest is rewarded in the end when I put the now adorably tiny flower crown on her head.

While she still hasn’t shaken the thing off I manage to snap a pic which I send to Corpse who opens it mere seconds after it was delivered. 

C ~ Sasha’s pulling off your aesthetic better than you. Sorry, someone had to let you know

I burst out laughing for two reasons - 1.The message itself, damn it! It’s hilarious; 2. Corpse has learnt the name of each one of my cats and never mixes them up - not even Luna and Lynn who look almost identical. That amount of attention to detail is astonishing and very meaningful to me, it genuinely warms my heart and that may or may not be dramatic but it’s definitely not exaggerated.

Me ~ You think I haven’t caught on yet? 

C ~ Well, if it makes you feel any better you pull off my aesthetic better than I do

He’s referring to the e-girl look I did for one show the band had in downtown LA one night. I was drunk and looking forward to trying new things so I improvised the hell out of my outfit but I apparently looked presentable enough to leave a good impression on Corpse despite the pic I sent him being a bit blurry and being a mirror selfie in the bathroom of the very bar we were performing in. It goes without saying that the mirror was dirty too - had a bunch of writing on it which Corpse said only added to the aesthetic. Looking back on it now I kinda agree, and luckily so did the fans in the comments of that same photo when I posted it on Instagram.

Me ~ Means a lot actually. Nowhere near enough to aid the burn of having a cat pull off cottagecore better than I do, but still helps XD

As if sensing that we’re talking about her, Sasha hops on the couch, poking her head over my phone to look down at the screen.

Now this is gonna be golden.

I take a selfie with my phone in my lap, the camera capturing both me and Sasha at a rather unflattering angle which has me losing my mind laughing when I send the picture to Corpse who immediately sends back a string of cry-laughing emojis.

C ~ I can’t tell which one of you is cuter

Me ~ If that was a compliment, I gotta say I appreciate it greatly

C ~ Just telling the truth ;)

It’s times like these that the butterflies in my stomach remind me just why I’ve started catching feelings for this man despite all the distance between us and despite barely knowing him - he knows me more than I know him but I don’t mind it, oddly enough.

I’m fond of our connection and though I sometimes dream of something more, I’m also content with what we already have considering that ‘something more’ seems rather unattainable as of now.

My phone dings again, clearing the fog of thoughts and presenting me with a new message from Corpse.

C ~ Oh, by the way, look what I got....

That message is followed up by a picture of a ticket. A plane ticket to Georgia! 

While I’m still busy stomaching this and dealing with my quickly rising excitement, he sends another message.

C ~ I hope to catch a The Silver Rays concert while I’m there. Heard they had an adorable frontwoman ;)

My breath catches in my throat as a wide grin spreads across my face. The thought of having Corpse so close to me sends those aforementioned butterflies in my stomach into a raving mood and they practically explode my insides with excitement and joy like I’ve never felt it before. I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that we’re about to go from having an entire country between us, to being just some ways away - him in the audience and me on stage without a single clue of who to look for. That’s part of the excitement though, I guess, part of the guessing game that’s gonna make our meeting all the more interesting.

He’ll be a stranger in the crowd and I’ll be a performer on a stage - seemingly two people who have no relation whatsoever. But damn does it go beyond that: No one has to know how hard I’m falling for that stranger in the crowd.

Me ~ I’ve heard so too, can’t confirm it though

If this is gonna be a guessing game, I’ll flip the tables a bit - I won’t take any guesses. I’ll let the answer come to me. I’ll give the first move over to the stranger in the crowd, let’s see what he does.

C ~ I’ll check and let you know, don’t worry

Not worried whatsoever, Corpsie. I’m not worried at all.

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[latenightcinephile]

Film #700: ‘The Piano’, dir. Jane Campion, 1993.

If I had been born and raised anywhere but New Zealand, I don't think I would feel quite as ambivalent about my national cinema as I do being a New Zealander. There is pride there, to be sure, but New Zealand's culture has always been victim to 'tall poppy syndrome' - the tendency to cut anybody down to size - and the arts have always been the primary victims of that. New Zealand cinema has also been, for at least thirty years, an unflattering Venn diagram with its most populated circles being 'Awkward Weirdos', 'Murder and Domestic Abuse', and 'Just Middle Earth'. Our cinema has its own particular obsessions and fetishes, and whenever a film gains attention overseas, we indulge ourselves in that soul-searching: 'Is this really us?' Some of the most accurate portrayals are also the least conducive to vanity: Taika Waititi's big splash was with Two Cars, One Night, about children left in the parking lot while their parents are in the pub, and it's telling that I both recognised the experience acutely and also disliked Waititi at the time for having the nerve to say it (I also disliked Waititi's films for being cringeworthy - it wasn't until What We Do in the Shadows that I actually confessed to myself he was an excellent filmmaker).

Back in the 90s, though, one of our earlier successes was Jane Campion's The Piano, and it seems timely to return to this film as Campion wins Best Director for The Power of the Dog. The Piano was a significant statement, both in terms of putting New Zealand film forward to the world, and also in terms of what we as a culture think of ourselves, and looking at some of its successes and shortcomings, can potentially explain a lot about the director's wider body of work and the culture that fostered it.

The Piano begins with the voice of Ada (Holly Hunter), explaining that we are hearing her internal voice rather than her external one - that she has been mute since childhood. Her muteness is not voluntary, exactly, but perhaps more accurately a skill that she has waived. Her chosen method of communication is her piano, which is unceremoniously dumped on the beach with her and her daughter, Flora (Anna Paquin). Ada has been betrothed to a settler in 1800s New Zealand, Alisdair (Sam Neill, the only one who is working in his original accent), whom she has not met before. Immediately Alisdair is taken aback by Ada's tenacity and her muteness, worrying that his bride is "brain-affected", but her personality appeals to Alisdair's friend Baines (Harvey Keitel), who quickly intuits that the piano is the way to court Ada. He has the piano brought from the beach to his house, where he barters with Ada for 'lessons', which is code for 'increasingly sexual favours while she plays'. Needless to say, this secret cannot be kept forever, especially when you have an increasingly uppity six-year-old as your translator, and Alisdair is not thrilled to find out that his wife is being unfaithful.

What seems like a slight and basic plot is layered deeply in visual and aural sensation, until the most fitting word for The Piano seems to be 'sumptuousness'. Campion and her location scouts spent ages discussing the various moods of the New Zealand bush, and there are some sequences (especially as Alisdair descends into jealousy) where characters move from one side of a tree to the other and the landscape on the other side has a markedly different tone to it. The treatment of landscape doesn't usurp the emotional intensity of any of the scenes, it instead draws your attention to it more. It's a popular idea that the pioneer days were more textural than the modern era - associated with wood, wool and water rather than metal, glass and plastic - and where the camera lingers, how the actors behave and move, and how the score weaves into the scenes are all precisely coordinated to create the maximum effect of melodrama.

Because, let's be honest, this is a melodrama as much as it is a romance. If melodrama consists of bringing emotion to the brim without letting it spill over, The Piano is making the most of that surface tension. Partly, this is an inspired effect of Ada's muteness: one of the most precise ways of conveying complex emotion is denied to us here, and replaced by music, which can convey the broad ideas of an emotion without being able to make its particulars concrete. When Alisdair pursues Ada, or Flora's betrayal leads to a moment of wince-inducing violence, Michael Nyman's score switches from the rhythmic and evocative piano to harsher strings. Both lack the precise communication that language would have, but language becomes a secondary concern when your film is about a love affair that transcends language.

The visual style was also highly influential on the film theory of the 'haptic', espoused most clearly by Vivian Sobchack's 'What My Fingers Knew'. The film's opening shot is of blurry pink and red shapes which are soon revealed to be Ada's view of the sunlight through her fingers, but Sobchack writes that before this reveal took place, although she didn't cognitively know what she was looking at, "my fingers knew what I was looking at" [her emphasis]. In some ways, she writes, all our film viewing is a corporeal experience, not just in those genres that seek to create bodily response (horror, comedy, pornography), but in everything that displays the body at all. What drives Sobchack is the odd contradiction reviewers displayed when writing about The Piano, simultaneously indicating that they had visceral responses, almost Proustian, while at other points contextualising and intellectualising those experiences away with words like 'almost' and 'practically'. Either you can taste the salt air on the New Zealand beach, Sobchack thinks, or you can't - and if you're going to say you can, you ought to commit to it, because this film is just that powerful. She's right. Given the right frame of mind, you can sink into The Piano like a sensory deprivation tank, absorbed into the mud and the water and the wood. You can watch those arrhythmic and human ways in which the actors interact with the physical world (it's so visceral it feels like a disservice to say the characters are doing the interacting). Sometimes, though, you don't want to sink into this film: you want to be alert to what it says and does. In the middle of the film, after Baines has begun his awkward courtship of Ada, we're treated to an interlude of sorts. Flora appears, along with the other children of the town, in a Christmas pageant, the centrepiece of which is a performance of Bluebeard's Castle. We've seen some of the preparations for this pageant already, including the special effects the Reverend has planned. The actual production is less important, though, than what takes place in the foreground. Baines is encouraged to sit near Alisdair, with Ada between them. With Alisdair oblivious, Baines attempts to touch Ada's hand, but she sharply pulls away and he storms from the audience, thwarted.

A production of Bluebeard's Castle is an unusual choice for this, but it reflects the competing relationships in an interesting way (as well as foreshadowing injury via axe). Bluebeard's wife discovers the severed heads of his previous wives, and is about to meet the same fate when the production is interrupted. Baines isn't a very good analogy for Bluebeard - to think of yourself as Bluebeard you have to be okay with being a murderer - but he probably does like to think of the scenario he's in as being like a play, with clearly-delineated roles and a clearly-defined conclusion. What this scene does is show the collapse of a theatrical production at the exact same time that Baines' delusion of being in command of the situation begins to crumble as well. Ada has shown herself to be a stubborn and shrewd negotiator, whittling away Baines' bargaining power at a much faster rate than he would normally be willing to accept, and here she torments him further by refusing to show him the least amount of affection, no matter how fervently he desires it. He believes himself to be controlling their affair, but this moment breaks that delusion as easily as pulling down a curtain. It's also fitting that Baines is aligned closely with the Maori people, as their apparent inability to tell the difference between reality and theatre is what brings the play to an abrupt halt. Campion does not treat Maori people with particular dignity in The Piano, and this is the largest sticking point I have with the film. The film suggests they don't know what the piano is for, they don't bargain in a sophisticated way, and they're generally lacking in etiquette. Whether this is an indication of the director's actual beliefs or a depiction of what the white characters believe the Maori to be is unclear, but I don't think it particularly matters. There doesn't seem to be any reason for the Maori characters to be here, other than the legitimate criticism that their absence from a film set in 1800s New Zealand would be even more deplorable. If you're using this setting, you have to deal with questions of race and colonialism one way or another.

The problem is that it doesn't seem like Campion has given race much thought as an issue. This is a criticism, incidentally, that has been levelled against The Power of the Dog, as well - this time with questions of homophobia. Campion is telling a story where the presence of a theme is entirely necessary, but it's not the major theme of the film and so it's not considered in any detail at all.

(Time for an aside: about five years ago, the Royal New Zealand Ballet commissioned an adaptation of a Czech dance company's adaptation of The Piano. The process was made far more complicated and fractious when the Czech choreographers showed little understanding of the cultural implications of what they had done, and almost no desire to change their artistic decisions to accommodate the taonga they were dealing with. My heart goes out to the cultural advisor, Moss Patterson, who had to repeatedly explain the issues involved with having white dancers portray Maori characters, especially when adapting a work that treats its Maori characters so callously to begin with. The ballet was incredible in the end, and the documentary The Heart Dances is equally breathtaking and frustrating. My point is that The Piano's legacy with race is a long and complicated one, expanding beyond the film itself.)

In some ways, Campion is fortunate that race isn't the major theme of the film, but in some ways it makes it worse: if this is what your film becomes when you treat the subject offhandedly, what happens when it is your focus? I don't want to imply that it's so tone-deaf or off-putting that it becomes impossible to like The Piano - that's definitely not true, it's a film I have an increasing affinity for - but it also doesn't feel appropriate to wave it away. This is a blind spot that contextualises some of the other missteps Campion has made. I'm writing this in the immediate aftermath of a furor surrounding the statements Campion made during her BAFTA acceptance speech, and it reminds me of what I find troubling about New Zealand cinema and New Zealand culture. We like to position ourselves as naive, because wilful naivete can be funny. We say things without thinking, and we put our foot in it quite regularly. For a decade or so, that was our shtick; it was how we presented our country to the world. Don't believe me? Four words: Flight of the Conchords. But our culture has matured, and it's no longer nearly as acceptable to ignore these issues in our films as though they're not important.

I think The Piano might still be one of the best films we've ever produced in this little country. I don't think it's an overstatement to say this film changes people, or that it changed film history, even if it's just film analysis that was changed. And I felt a thrill seeing Campion get rewarded for that tenacity in 2022 - I hope it's an indication that New Zealand film is heading in the right direction.

[bedlamsbard]

About 1K written today...also nothing else I intended to get done today (yikes), since I got up so late. (Love how after break it takes a WHILE to get back on a schedule I was barely hanging onto in the first place.)  Did make meatballs today after having meant to for a while, so that was good.

Snippet from The Horizon Line 3.

“Jane –” Darcy began, halting, then freed a hand to wipe furiously at her eyes. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.  I just – I just really miss her.”

Natasha let her bags fall to the floor and went over to hug her, a little awkward through their layers of heavy coats.  Darcy hugged her back immediately, regardless of the fact that Natasha was a virtual stranger, and didn’t pull back until Natasha released her.

“Thanks,” she said, and gave her a small smile.  She wiped at her eyes again, then said, “Is that – is that really all the Avengers? Everyone else is –”  She hesitated briefly before she finished, “– gone?”

“Tony’s still around,” Natasha said. “He got out, after.  Otherwise – yeah.  It’s just us.”

Darcy frowned. “Something like this happens and he gets out?  Why?”

Natasha bit back her first response, which was unflattering even to Tony Stark.  “This job is hard,” she said when she had gotten that urge under control.  “Tony was in a tough place, he got hurt, he lost people.  He’d wanted out even before, but when New York – six months ago, not back in 2012 – he was in a place where he couldn’t walk away, so he got dragged back in anyway.”

“Jane hates him,” Darcy said, then winced and corrected herself. “Hated him.  Because of the Sokovia Accords.  And other reasons.  You know, according to the Accords, Jane and Erik and I would have all been arrested in London, not just Thor?  It’s how Ross got me and Erik here, even though the Accords didn’t exist back then.”

Natasha bit her lip.  “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I know that.”

[metalheadkells]

Just... fem kells seducing Em’s dorky ass in public before they get into a relationship

anon this isn't exactly what you asked for but i hope you like it anyway

Kells is interrupted from intently planning her escape route through the mass of celebrities, photographers, and potted shrubs; by a tentative poke to her lace-wrapped elbow. She turns to find Eminem standing before her, recognizing him not by his face - which is partially obscured by the brim of his hat - but by his arm tattoos, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his nondescript black hoodie. 

Before she can ask him to, he explains, “You dropped your… medieval torture device.”

Kells realizes, then, that he’s holding her clutch; a deep red, asymmetrical thing studded all over with dramatic black spikes. She takes it from him as gratefully as if it contained her life savings, though there is nothing inside it but an emergency joint and lighter, the Fenty Beauty Stunna Lip Paint in the shade Uninvited, and a strawberry KitKat bar. Only the essentials. Naturally, her phone is stashed inside one of her tall clompy boots instead. 

“Thank you,” she says. She offers Em a smile, and is unable to tell if he returns it, but generally that’s not really his thing. “Sure,” he says tersely. He’s a lot smaller in person than she would’ve expected. Shorter, the frame of his body more slight. 

“I like your shoes,” she says of his colorblock Margiela sneakers, gripped by a sudden and strange urge to keep him here a moment longer; this unknowable and iconoclastic man who clearly wants to be anywhere else but this premiere. 

He is silent and still for an awkward enough length of time that Kells almost feels embarrassed, which is definitely stupid, and definitely not like her at all. And then he says, “I like your… pointy… hair… things.” He gestures at her head with two twitching fingers. 

Kells smiles at him again, a real one this time. He’s referring to the spikes woven into her messy updo in a sort of crisscross pattern, black to match the ones on her clutch and the general vibe of her outfit. It’s an interesting thing to compliment… for a man. 

“Wanna help me ditch my manager? She’s comin’ back any second now with, like, creepy old industry veteran number seven.”

“You know I’m technically also a creepy old industry veteran, right?”

“Yeah,” Kells says, “but you make it look cool.”

“Oh.” Em sounds genuinely bewildered by this, which Kells finds terribly endearing.

“So? You coming?”

“Uh. I guess, okay - ”

Kells takes his hand, effectively cutting off his waffling, and starts to lead him through the crowd, grinning to herself when he says, “Shit, s-slow down! Fuckin’... giraffe legs.”

-----------

“I call this look, high-fashion anime villainess,” Kells says, swishing her layered skirt for dramatic effect. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Em says, “but it’s beautiful.”

He goes all quiet after he says it, ducking his head so his face is even further obscured, and Kells suddenly can’t stand the fact that she’s unable to meet his eyes. 

She reaches over and plucks his hat off his head in one quick motion, holding it straight up in the air to evade him when he tries to snatch it back. 

“Really?” 

He sounds almost bored, but the pink rising to his cheeks is a dead giveaway of his true feelings. 

He starts to slide the hood of his jacket up, and Kells makes an unflattering noise of complaint to distract him. “Stop hiding your face,” she tells him sternly, “It’s a good face.”

He frowns at her, and his eyes are a splash of ice water. “You must’ve seriously hated it back there, huh?” 

She balks at the change of subject, especially with how preoccupied she is by the shape of his eyes. “Why?”

“‘cause,” Em says, and makes a little circular gesture between the two of them. Kells thinks she understands what he’s trying to say. 

She steps in close and puts a hand on his chest, the tips of her red-and-black ombre, coffin-shaped acrylic nails almost reaching the collar of his shirt. “I’m out here with you ‘cause I think you’re interesting,” she tells him. Em stares up at her, silently processing. “And cute.”

“I’m too old for you,” Em says immediately, like it’s been on the tip of his tongue. 

Kells smiles. “Just so you know, I’m 30. An ancient hag by Hollywood’s standards.”

“Hollywood can eat shit.”

“Yeah,” Kells says, enlivened by the vehemence in Em’s voice.

“Fuck ‘em.”

“Fuck ‘em!”

Her hand is still on Em’s chest. She slides it down to his waistband, rests it there for a moment. She watches Em’s throat move when he swallows. She wants to kiss it. So she does, bending to brush her mouth over the juncture of his neck and jaw.

“Stop,” he says softly, and she does, drawing back to meet his eyes again, to take in the kaleidoscope of emotions shifting in his heavy gaze. “I’m,” he says, and takes an unsteady breath, and shakes his head. “You don’t… know me.”

Kells gives him an incredulous smile. “And?”

“I’m just not… good enough for…”

“Nuh-uh,” Kells says, interrupting Em with a gentle finger to his bottom lip, “First of all, you don’t know me, either, so don’t be makin’ assumptions about how good I am. Second… I really, really, really wanna kiss you. If you want that too, why’re we wasting time talking about it?”

Em bites his lip on something that may or may not be a smile. “Of course I want it. I mean… look at you.”

Kells flushes at the praise, beaming at him like a sappy idiot with a crush. “Okay then,” she says, and leans down, and curls her fingers into his collar, and kisses him on the mouth. 

And Em lets her set the pace, but he is so eager and so soft to the touch that Kells wants to pick him up and throw him over her shoulder and drag him to a hotel to have her wicked, wicked way with him.

[pls-let-me-out]

Invisible String

Epilogue 

12th of February

From Will to: the Royal Asshole

landed. where r u? i’m lost

From the Royal Asshole

At the entrance. Where else would I be?

From Will to: the Royal Asshole

where I landed so you could help me find the way out

tbh it’s like u don’t care that I get lost easily

From the Royal Asshole

Turn around, idiot.

 Niccolò has grown even more beautiful during the time they’ve spent apart. Will’s breath is caught in his throat for a moment that feels like forever, and they just stand there, looking at one another, a secret challenge between them, to see who will break first and look away.

Niccolò is growing out his hair, which he told Will about, because he ‘wants to see how long they can get’. (“They are hair, doofus. They can reach your waist, if you let them. Honestly, are you just trying to piss me off?”)

The air is cold, and they both wear several layers of clothing. Niccolò is in New York for ‘very important business’, which means that Will has come all the way here from Austin to spend some time together. Seeing each other only on FaceTime is hard, but Will has to admit that it’s still good. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s something.

Will doesn’t know whether he has moved or Niccolò has, but next thing he knows they are crowding each other’s space, and then hugging so hard it should hurt. The soul-mark on Will’s shoulder throbs, but not in pain. Niccolò still has a faint smell of pomegranate, and Will knows, as he takes a deep breath, that he’s going to deny doing so for the rest of his life.

They finally separate, and Nico takes both his and Will’s luggage. Niccolò is staying in some fancy hotel, while Will is going to be with his siblings, in his old room. When he told them he’d be visiting, Austin just sighed. ‘Where am I going to put my wardrobe? It’s literally all on your bed, Will.’ Will ignored him.

“How is everything going?” Niccolò asks, as they exit the airport, and cold air comes hard and unforgiving.

Will shivers. “It’s going, I guess. My grandma is happy to have me there with her for a bit, and I think we needed it.” He tucks his scarf over his nose, sniffling in the cold. A car stops in front of them, too fancy to not attract any attention.

Will gives Niccolò a side-glance. “How fancy, Your Highness.”

Niccolò blushes, but it might be the cold. “Fuck off, will you?”

Will bites back a grin. “Maybe I will. Maybe I Fitz-will.”

Niccolò shakes his head, but a fond and tender smile breaks out on his face, and they climb inside the car. Warm air is far more welcome than that outside. Niccolò rubs his hands together, with a little pout on his face that makes him look even more beautiful.

“How is your grandmother doing?” he asks.

He often does, he’s nice like that. He always sounds interested in Will’s life, even when Will himself realizes how boring it should be, to someone who lives between throne rooms and ancient gardens. Will tells him of his grandmother’s friend, Alice, but he doesn’t say that she’s trying to set him up with his daughter. People don’t recognize him as Prince Niccolò’s soulmate, and the people of his grandmother’s neighborhood know him as Naomi and Apollo’s son.

Will asks him how things are going in Elysium. Niccolò talks about his father, who stubbed his toe in a wall the other day, and has shouted so hard that the guards rang the bell, thinking they were under attack at three in the morning. As he tells the story, Niccolò leans forward to laugh, and hits his forehead against the driver’s seat.

It’s easy to forget the way they said goodbye the day after Christmas. They have been texting almost non-stop ever since, and sometimes they called each other, even if hanging up hurts.

“So, this event of yours,” Will says. He clears his throat. “What time does it end?”

“Late.” Niccolò huffs, crossing his arms on the chest. It seems like they’ll be going to be stuck in traffic for quite some time, but he’s looking out of the window as though he’ll never be here again. “I don’t even want to go there.”

“Prince business and all that,” Will encounters. “You don’t have much choice, do you?”

“Not really, no.” He clears his throat, and it’s terrible how awkward things get when they both remember he’s prince at the same time. “Unless I renounce the crown, I guess.”

Oh. Yes, that. Will snorts, amusement clear in his face as he flashes Niccolò another side-eyed glance. “As if.”

“Yah, I could live like one of you peasants,” Nico grumbles, sinking a bit in his seat.

Will snickers. “You peasants? Say that in Texas, and you’ll get shot.”

“I really hope that’s not a threat, principino,” Niccolò says, his voice low, little more than a whisper, as smooth as a caress.

Will blushes a deep red, ignoring the shiver that runs down his back, he looks out the window. Yeah, the view is very interesting. He tries to keep his eyes there for the rest of the ride, but he doesn’t have half the necessary strenght, not when Niccolò is sitting right next to him.

When he turns, Nico is already looking at him.

 Kayla opens the door with a loud shriek, making Austin startle a bit. He pushes her aside, to step up and hug Will. He takes Will’s face in his hands, turning it left and right.

“What the hell? How do you have a tan?”

“I’ve been in Texas, you know, this past month or so,” Will says, words muffled by the way Austin is squishing his cheeks.

Austin hums. Kayla shrieks again, jumping back, and only then does Will realize that he hasn’t introduced Niccolò yet. He takes a step to the side, allowing everyone’s attention to shift.

“So, this is my–”

A dark aura falls upon the presents. A glittery, sparky Drew Tanaka steps in Will’s visual, wearing only a large flannel shirt he recognizes as his own, open to reveal a white, coffee stained t-shirt. Oh, yes, Kayla’s style has rubbed off on her.

“And who might that be?” She asks, managing to look intimidating. She throws her hair behind her shoulder, looking at Niccolò like he’s some kind of disease.

“As I was saying,” Will responds, grabbing Niccolò’s wrist to drag him forward, steadying him when he stumbles. “This is Niccolò, Prince of many things, and you might call him His Royal Highness on the days he’s particularly generous. On the other days, I suggest you don’t call him at all, because he can be a real bitch.”

Nico rolls his eyes, offering his siblings his hand. “Sorry about him, I’m sure you know better than me to never listen to him. It’s very nice to meet you, and just Nico is fine.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Kayla says, blushing to the tip of her ears as they shake hands.

“Well, are you going to offer us food or what?” Will says, interrupting Nico and Drew’s sudden staring contest. Their hands drop back to their hips. He drops his luggage in Niccolò’s hands. “Come, you can drop it by my bed.”

“I didn’t clean it!” Austin shouts after him. Will responds with a groan, louder when he realizes just how unclean Austin has left it.

“Who’s Drew to you?” Niccolò whispers when they are alone in the room.

Will blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Niccolò quickly retreats. “Was just wondering. So, is the saxophone Austin’s?”

Said saxophone is at the corner of the room, on a pile of books, shiny even if it has been used for many years. Will remembers Niccolò’s question a few moments later.

“Oh, yeah. It’s a gift from our father.” He grimaces. “I always thought I’d buy him another one when I became a doctor. I don’t like the thought of it being our father’s gift.”

“His birthday is on a week though, right?”

“Yeah. Next Wednesday, I’m going back to Texas on Thursday.”

“Oh, someone’s getting wasted then.”

Will throws him a sock, but Niccolò dodges it with a grin.

“I used to dodge bullets, you loser,” he says. “Before even having breakfast.”

Will narrows his eyes. That’s kind of a game of Nico’s, saying crazy shit about the army, and most of the time Will can’t guess whether he’s joking or serious. Even now. It sounds incredible, but he’s got that serious expression on his face.

“That’s true,” Will says.

Niccolò laughs, a sound Will misses even before it’s over. “Yeah, every day they woke up the Prince of their nation at dawn, so that they could shoot him.”

Will bites his tongue. “I knew that wasn’t true.”

“You still got it wrong. How much are we at? Fifteen for you, seventy-three for me?”

Will pulls him down on his bed, falling on Austin’s papers and schoolbooks. He hopes they aren’t too important.

“Get the stick out of your ass,” Will says, whacking him with the first textbook he finds. Niccolò has the audacity of laughing.

Someone clears their throat, and Will turns, only realizing he’s straddling Niccolò’s lap when he notices how red Kayla’s cheeks are.

“We have some coffee.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking everywhere but at Will. “I also took out the good cookies.”

“Oh, dear, this is a great occasion then,” Will says, getting off Niccolò. He stumbles, but doesn’t fall. “By the way, do we still have that stain of mold under the window?”

Kayla nods. “It actually has a child now.”

Will pouts. “It’s a manifestation. It’s because it missed me.”

“Are you comparing yourself to a stain of mold?” Niccolò asks, elongating his step to avoid a shoe abandoned in the middle of the floor. “That’s very unflattering but also very realistic of you.”

Kayla bursts out laughing, as Will grabs another pillows from the sofa and keeps on hitting Niccolò. Once again, he only laughs harder, and soon enough Will is, too.

“How’s being a prince like?” Drew asks Nico, as soon as they sit on the sofa.

“I thought you’d know with the way you put yourself on a throne,” Austin responds. She sends him a saccharine smile.

From what Will’s heard, she and Kayla haven’t changed all that much since they’ve gotten together. They just look at each other like the other has hung up the moon in the sky herself, and sometimes they hold hands.

“It’s not very exciting,” Niccolò says with a shrug. “I guess it’s like being famous, I just wear a crown sometimes.”

“And the cool, black military dress,” Will adds. He doesn’t add that Niccolò is extremely hot in that, and the thought alone makes him blush.

“It’s called a uniform, Fitzwilliam,” Niccolò says, tilting his head to the side. “You ever heard the word?”

Will blows him a kiss. Niccolò diverts his eyes, and Will counts it as a win.

“I guess you have lots of beautiful women around,” Drew adds, bringing the cup to her mouth. She grimaces at the taste. “Who wouldn’t want to be with a prince, after all?”

“Are you trying to seduce him?” Austin blurts out with a frown.

Drew pinches him in the leg, hard. “I’m making conversation, dear.”

“Don’t make conversation about his bedroom’s activity,” Austin hisses.

“Don’t be so fucking rude,” she responds.

“Alright!” Kayla exclaims, a blush deep on her cheeks, her grip on the cup a little desperate. “Why don’t you tell us more about your interests? Your hobbies?”

“By the way, talking about interests,” Drew jumps in again, this time looking at Will like a predator seeing its prey. “Remember Sherman?”

“No!” He exclaims. “Sherman who? Sherman… I don’t know any Sherman. Mh, no. You got the wrong Will, sweetheart.” He takes a long sip of coffee, only to sputter half of it back in the cup. “Who the hell didn’t put sugar in my coffee?”

“Me, because I’m not your fucking barista, you fucking rude animal,” Drew responds.

Austin sighs, leaning back in the armchair. He rubs his temples. “What even is this conversation.”

“I wouldn’t have given your number to Sherman if I’d known you’d be so rude about everything,” Drew continues, holding the cup as if it were a glass of wine.

Will spits his sip of coffee right on the table. He coughs, and Austin hits his back. Niccolò sends him a confused glance, but the rest of his face is completely blank. Will is pretty used by now to picking up his moods, by the sound of his voice and the crease of his brow. Niccolò still hides pretty much most of his emotions, but there’s an instant when he can’t, and the crease of his eyebrows betrays him. Now he’s skipped it, somehow. A pang of pain shoots through Will’s heart.

She turns to Niccolò. “He’s a friend of Will’s family’s son. Didn’t your grandma really like him, Will?”

“She didn’t,” Austin answers for him.

“Oh, I think you’re wrong,” Drew says, waving her hand in dismissal.

Kayla puts her hand on Drew’s on the cup holder. “Let’s have a word alone, mh?”

When they return from Kayla’s bedroom, Drew doesn’t add a thing about Sherman. She and Niccolò politely ignore each other, until he has to leave for the gala, or whatever he is attending.

 Niccolò leaves around seven pm. Will hugs him on the doorstep, and if his breath hitches a little, no one has the heart to point it out. Afterwards, Will stays on the cramped sofa with his siblings and Drew, somehow everyone is on someone else’s lap. They watch Golden Girls, and Drew makes an Instagram Story. She’s careful not to take Will’s face in, he’s been trying not to appear too much on her social media. When he does, people remember that he’s Prince Niccolò’s soulmate, and somehow it ends up on gossip sites. He isn’t ready to be under the spotlights again.

Eventually, Austin and Kayla drift off to sleep, and Drew speaks softly to him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have butted in.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He plays with Austin’s hair as he talks, avoiding Drew’s eyes, and everything he might see in them. “I never really told you what happened on our last day together, did I?”

“You haven’t told anyone, no.”

Will finally looks up, and Drew is already looking at him. “I don’t even know how to say it. We talked about… well, everything. He told me he couldn’t be with me, it wouldn’t be fair to either of us, we’d have to sneak around, hiding behind everyone’s back. He’d have to get married to a nice girl someday, anyway.”

“But he loved you.”

Tears burn in the back of Will’s eyes. “He said he knew he was already falling for me.”

“God. That’s awful.”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, deep enough for his lungs to hurt. “We spent the night together.”

“You… like, sexually?”

He doesn’t respond. “And it was nice, the next day. Before we left the house. I thought that if I knew what it would be like to be with him, then eventually I’d be fine. I’d be satisfied with the night and half-day we’d had together.”

“But you aren’t.”

“I just want to go back there, to that day. Like, I wake up in the morning and I want to see him, what he’d be like with my grandma, if he’d be nice with her friends when they come over. You know the neighbor’s daughter? She has a son, now. He’s, like, four. He was learning to use his bike, and he fell, and then I saw his father going there, picking him up and everything. And I realized that I only once saw Niccolò with a kid, and it was in the middle of a packed road, but he was so nice with her, I mean he was talking in Italian, but she kept on giggling and everything.”

“You want kids with him?”

“I just realized that it has never been a possibility for us, and it hurt so fucking much I couldn’t breathe. I just–it’s so unfair. I wish he weren’t a prince and so famous, but then I realize that he is, and that’ a part of him.”

Drew looks down at her lap, playing with the hem of her shirt. “You always despised the thought of soulmates.”

“I know.”

“I was just saying. I was, I mean. I didn’t think you’d ever change your mind.”

“It was before getting to know him. He makes me all–he makes me feel like the world isn’t such a shitty place. And it shouldn’t even be possible, because he’s pessimistic and he pretty much says the world sucks. But he also wants to make it a better place.”

“Now I feel awful for how I treated him.”

Will laughs. “Yeah, the Sherman-thing was pretty shitty. By the way, I really don’t want his number.”

“I guessed.” She grimaces. “I haven’t actually given him yours.”

Will chuckles again.

 15th of July

Will rubs his eyes tiredly, still in his pajama, and almost jumps out of his skin when something attacks him.

“Happy birthday, Willie!” Jonathan screams.

Will smiles, taking Jonathan off the ground and throwing him in the air. A smile blooms on his face, so strong he almost forgets the pain in the back of his heart. Kayla, Austin, Valentina and Grace are standing next to his grandmother, with matching smiles on their faces. Will opens his arms, adjusting Jonathan on his hip, and they all come crushing against him.

“Drew, Mitchell and Piper are coming in the afternoon,” Valentina says. She’s fifteen, and she’s actually thinking of becoming a pediatrician. She lives in San Francisco with her mother, and spends a couple of weeks each summer with their family in Argentina. “Lacy couldn’t make it.”

“Thanks for being here,” Will says. “Y’all are looking good.”

Kayla giggles. “I almost forgot how Texan you get when you’re here.”

Will groans. “Gimme a break.”

Jonathan laughs, throwing his fists in the air. “Gimme!”

Will kisses the top of his head. He hears a shutter going off, and when he glances up he sees his grandmother with a camera in his hands. She has a huge grin on her face, and the flowery dress she wears only on special occasions.

“We’re opening the gifts when everyone comes here!” She says. “And now y’all go off to prepare the table, Willie and I got a talk to get through.”

Austin groans, which earns him a smack on the head by grandmother. She puts her hands on her hips, until only she and Will remain in the room. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and hooks her arm in his.

“Come see the geese. They’ve returned in the pool this morning,” she says.

Will grimaces. “Disgusting.”

“Shut up, boy.”

Outside the temperature is far too hot, the sun shines far too bright, but they walk to the garden in the back. There are no geese in the pool. Will turns to his grandmother, but she shushes him, and sits on the wooden bench, under the shadow of the apple tree. He sits beside her.

“Has something happened?” he asks.

His grandmother eyes the too long curls on his forehead. Will can feel them sticking to his damp skin. He brushes them away, but a second later they fall back.

“Your father sent you a gift,” she says. She takes a letter from her pocket, and passes it to him. “Do you want to read it alone?”

“Later. I’ll read it later.”

“Alright.”

 Every year Will’s family flies to Austin for his birthday, and they stay at his grandmother’s house for the summer. They spend the morning together, then in the afternoon Drew’s family reaches them. It’s the first year since his brothers’ death that Piper comes.

Will is in the pool with her when he feels it, a tugging from his shoulder, his soul mark pulsing. He lets his empty glass fall from his grip, his fingers going limp.

Niccolò is standing next to his grandmother, shaking Jonathan’s hand with a shy smile as Valentina watches the scene unfold with her jaw gone slack.

“Fancy seeing you here, you gremlin!” Piper exclaims, shaking Will from his trance.

His grandmother has a hand on Niccolò’s shoulder, and he’s still holding Jonathan’s, but Will can see the way he turns softer around every edge when his eyes meet Will’s, comfort falling onto him.

Will doesn’t even realize he’s climbed out of the pool, until he is in Niccolò’s arms, and his clothes are getting wet.

“Ooops,” Will says when they let go, and Niccolò’s clothes stick to his body.

“Go, Will!” Drew shouts from where she’s sunbathing in the sun. “You still got your sneaky techniques to get the boys naked!”

Niccolò blushes a deep red, but Will just flips Drew off. His grandmother smacks him on the head, but it’s worth it.

“Is this how we welcome guests, children?” she asks.

Jonathan, the traitor, shakes his head, tugging her dress. “I shook his hand! You saw?”

Grandmother pats him on the head, a smile stretches on her wrinkled face. “Finally someone educated in this household.” She turns back to Niccolò. “Take everything you need. If you can’t find something, just ask Will. He’s missed you, you know?” She caresses Niccolò’s cheek, which has him blushing a deep shade of red, and leaves to go back inside.

“I really did miss you,” Will whispers softly. He intertwines his fingers to Niccolò’s, and tugs him towards the others. “You ever met Piper’s siblings?”

Niccolò shakes his head, but Will is blinded by the light in his eyes, and almost misses it.

 They spend the night together, but this time they only stargaze, laying on the old deckchairs near the pool. Niccolò teaches him about constellations, and Will has lived in LA, his best friend is Drew, so he already knows. He doesn’t say, and just listens. If the smile on Niccolò’s face is anything to go by, he already knows.

 19th of August

Nico spends the weekend in Livigno with Hazel. Every corner of the house is Will, and his smile, and his laughs.

“Do you miss him?” She asks, as they watch the TV in the living room.

Nico doesn’t find it in himself to answer. He looks back down, at the speech he is holding in three days in front of an audience filled with important people he doesn’t even know the names of. Taylor Swift’s Christmas Tree Farm blasts from TV, and Hazel along under her breath. Nico should have built a blanket fort with Will.

 23rd of September

In New York, Will tells Nico that he wants to teach in kindergarten, and every time he talks about it his eyes shine, in a way they never did when he talked about medicine.

They sit on a bench in New York, and Nico asks Will a question he’s had on the tip of his tongue for some months now.

“Will you get your mark covered up?”

Will blinks, as though the question is a sudden thunder, and maybe it is. Nico continues eating his hotdog. It’s too spicy for him, his tongue burns, and so do his eyes. His heart is thundering in his chest, and he isn’t sure why. (That’s a lie. He knows.)

“I never thought about it. Not since I’ve known you.”

Nico’s shoulders relax. He sends Will a side smile, but there’s still a lump in his throat.

 6th of November

Nico talks to his therapist. She asks him how he feels about Will, why they haven’t been talking much lately. It’s easy to trust her with the truth after all these years. When he was younger, he’s learnt that telling her half-assed truths doesn’t help him. He doesn’t go every single week to her studio anymore, but sometimes he needs help processing how he feels.

“Guilty,” he says, after thinking about it for a while. “He’s stuck with me, and he hasn’t done anything to deserve it. He deserves a soulmate that can be with him.”

His therapist, Juniper, tilts her head to the side. “If you had the possibility, would you like to be with him romantically?”

She’s one of the first people he’s told about his sexuality. Actually, she had been with him for quite some time when Cupid ‘exposed’ him for the first time. It was a moment of deep bonding for them, she told him it explained many things about his behavior. It also sucked and gave him trauma on too many levels to count, but Nico is trying to see the positive side.

“I don’t have the possibility. Day-dreaming about it won’t help me.” Nico’s tone is cold, far too cold in the regards of such a question. Heat comes to his cheeks. He scratches his neck, even that feels warm. “Sorry, I–I think I would like it.”

“Maybe it would help you feel less guilty if you talked about it with him. I shouldn’t say my personal opinion, but he sounds like a very sweet guy. Someone you can have a real dialogue with.”

 9th of November

Will crushes Niccolò in a hug as soon as he sees him. Then, before he can reciprocate, he throws him back and flicks him on the forehead.

“Is this the way to behave?” He turns on his heels, hands on his hips, and walks right back in the apartment. He talks again only after the door is shut behind Niccolò. “You fucking ghosted me!” He sits on the sofa, it creaks dangerously, but it holds on. “You can just tell me when I’m too much, or, I don’t know, if I…when I annoy you.”

Niccolò’s hand is on Will’s shoulder, and then he’s the one being crushed in a hug. He holds onto Niccolò’s shirt, inhaling his perfume. He ignores the tears in his eyes. Will finds himself caged on the couch by Niccolò’s knees on either side of him. Eventually, they find themselves with their foreheads against one another’s. They haven’t been so close since Christmas.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep on doing this,” Niccolò says, his words daggers in Will’s heart.

“I know. I know, it hurts me too.” Will sniffled. Niccolò’s hair are dark and soft, and he presses a kiss on his head. Niccolò is tall, but now he feels so small in his arms. “It hurt more when I didn’t have you anymore.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

 23rd of December

The door opens, and Will is there, in the middle of his grandmother’s house, with his siblings scattered around him. Lidia, Will’s grandmother, hugs Nico, thanking him for coming, and saying words he can’t pay attention to, because his gaze is on Will, who’s looking back at him, and his heart skips a million beats.

Nico has brought Jason, Leo and Piper with him. Drew is already here, with Kayla’s head on her lap, and Jonathan talking her ear off about the gift he’s asked. Jason deposits their gifts under the tree (Nico has asked Austin what to bring to each of them, he didn’t want to be unprepared).

 24th of December

Will finds Niccolò in the garden. The moon has been high in the sky for the past few hours, but the air is still warm. Will sits with him in the grass, linking their fingers.

“Can you believe it’s already a year?”

Niccolò smiles. “Next year we could fly to Livigno, if you wanted to. Bring everyone there. Do your siblings have passports?”

A smile grows on Will’s face, and he doesn’t even try to stop it. “Would you really do that?”

“If they are okay with having me for Christmas again.” He clears his throat, as he always does before starting a rant coming from his self-deprecation. “I’d leave you the house if you wanted to, without me. It’s not a problem, of course, we could–”

Will puts a hand on his mouth, stopping him. “But next year you should bring Hazel, too.”

Nico takes the hand off, holding on to his wrist even afterwards, although he’s also trying to maintain a frown on his face. “Would you like that?”

“We’ve been calling each other since Halloween.”

“Halloween?”

“Yeah. We saw each other, she was in New York with Annabeth and the others.” Will shakes Niccolò’s fingers off his wrist, to intertwine their fingers. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah, she did.” There’s a deep blush on Niccolò’s face, and he shouldn’t like it so much. “You also sent me a selfie with her.”

“She gets along a lot with Austin. A bit less with Drew, for some reason.”

“Some reason?”

Will lets his head fall on Niccolò’s shoulder, something he wouldn’t do normally, but it’s almost Christmas. He can have this on Christmas. “Drew can be a bit hard around the edges. As sharp as her eyeliner.”

“She hates me. Hated, whatever. Now she just looks at me strangely. Suspiciously.”

“We used to date. For a couple of years, but then–it was back when we lived in LA with my parents, we were neighbors. I really did think we’d last forever.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. After my brothers died, I moved here with my grandparents. I was shitty to Drew, I dealt really badly with grief. I talked with my parents only once since. You can ask me how my brothers died, if you want to.”

Niccolò hesitates, just a second, then his hand squeezes Will’s, and he talks. “How did they die?”

“Overdose, the both of them. Lee first. He was at a party with my father, but dad left him alone, and he overdid it. Michael a couple of months later. He and Lee were really close, and he–he did die of overdose, but he did it on purpose.”

“And your mom?”

“I’m her only child. We just don’t have a relationship. I don’t even hate her. I don’t know her enough for that.”

Will tries to smile. Nico wraps his arms around him, and Will hides his head in the crook of his neck.

 27th of June

They talk over the phone every day, and Will calls Nico every night before going to sleep.

“I miss you,” Will says, and his voice is husky, a bit raspy, but his tone is soft.

I miss you, too. These days, I miss you so much I forget I do, and think the longing in my chest has always been there. “I know. Drew told me you’ve been turning that friend of yours down.”

Nico can imagine the frown on Will’s face. “Drew should mind her own business.”

“Why do you turn him down?”

“I’m not interested in him.”

Hearing these words shouldn’t make Nico so happy. They’re trying to move on, the both of them. If Nico doesn’t, nothing changes. He will still marry some girl, maybe be friends with her, have a child together, and die as king. If Will doesn’t, he will be lonely for the rest of his life.

“It might help, though. I–I assume the reason you’re turning him down. Don’t wait for me, Will.”

Will sniffles, and Nico closes his eyes. He closes them so hard his head starts hurting. He almost doesn’t breathe, so Will can’t hear how broken it is. He is.

“You shouldn’t be stuck with me,” Nico says. His words are spoken quietly, so much it’s a wonder how Will hears him. “I’m sorry.”

Will’s sniffles become louder. “I’m not stuck with you. How can you say that, when you make me feel free?”

Nico shuts his eyes tighter. He opens them again. There’s a photo of him with Bianca on the wall in front of them, one of the few he keeps around. He and Bianca are sitting at their table in their house in Venice, with pencils scattered around, as they draw with passion. Nico can’t remember what he was drawing, in the photo he is covering his paper with his whole body, as he leans forward to watch Bianca’s drawing.

 29th of June

Niccolò is at the front door of Will’s apartment.

“I wanted to check in on you,” is all he offers as an explanation.

 17th of December

“Oh, we broke up,” is all Will offers as an explanation, when he and his family land in Milan, a car waiting for them to bring them to Livigno, and his boyfriend of a couple of months isn’t with them.

Niccolò nods with a tight smile, but worry is clear in his eyes. Does he feel like Will is some kind of burden? Is that what it is about? Will turns away, taking his grandmother’s luggage.

Reyna and Hazel are waiting for them at the house. Will has never met Reyna before, she has never been able to come with Niccolò when he visits. She warms up to him quicker than he thought she would, saying Niccolò has talked plenty about him, and it makes Will’s heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. His soul-mark pulses every second they are in the same room, yet not touching or at least close. Will uses it as an excuse to hang off of Niccolò’s arm for the rest of the night.

“And there, Lidia,” Niccolò says as he and Will show him the house. “Is where Will punched my cousin Percy in the face, thinking he was a burglar.”

Will blushes. His grandmother’s laugh echoes through the house, and Niccolò looks smug and proud. For a moment or two, Will can’t breathe. He belongs here, and Niccolò belongs with him, too. His eyes sting, and he looks away.

 30th of June

Will visits Nico in Rome, in Italy. They travel by bike, and they are on a bridge over the Tevere, whose name Will can’t pronounce, but it’s close to San Pietro. It’s filled with people, and Will is looking at a little girl braiding her friend’s hair, one has red hair, the other is a brunette. When he looks forward again, Nico is some meters away, with the sun kissing his face so well, and his hair getting longer, almost enough to be kept in a ponytail. He smiles, and laughs at something a man says in Italian. He laughs, and over every other noise, it reaches Will.

He curses loudly, falling to the ground, but falling even harder for Niccolò, and now he knows.

He’s in love. Also, he has scraped his knees and a strange bruise with the shape of an almond appears on his cheek the next day.

He’s in love, and he’s been for a very long time, maybe even years.

 25th of December

“I keep thinking of our first Christmas together,” Niccolò says.

Hazel’s laugh reaches them from the living room. They are even more this year. Hazel, Reyna, Frank, Piper and her siblings, Jason, Leo, Percy and his family, Annabeth and Will’s family. Earlier, they even had a video-call with Apollo. He’s trying. They’re all trying.

Will still hasn’t decided what to reply, when Niccolò shakes his head and takes a step back.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I can’t stand it.”

Will’s eyes widen. His hands shake, the glass of water he had been filling falls in the sink, cracking. The house is filled with loud people, there are a million other sounds, but it’s as loud as a bomb in the kitchen. “What–what do you mean?”

He heard his father saying that to his mother, a long time ago, and the next day he moved out. They separated, asked for the divorce, and now they don’t talk anymore. Will can’t let that happen. He can’t.

He surges forward, and kisses Niccolò square on the mouth. They haven’t done anything like that in a very long time, since that first Christmas together three years ago, when they were barely more than children. Even now, they aren’t all that grown.

Nico relaxes against him. He kisses back. Through the years, Will has always thought that yes, maybe Nico could be interested in him that way, but that they would never be able to do something like this again. That if Will kissed him, Nico would tell him they couldn’t, and step back.

Nico doesn’t step back. They have to break apart somehow, sometime later, but they don’t look away. Nico’s eyes are so, so dark. Will is so, so in love.

“That I can’t do anymore,” he says. His voice is warm, all kinds of soft, and he leaves a trail of pecks on Will’s cheeks, probably one for every freckle. “This I want to do forever.”

 27th of December

It’s all over the news when Nico travels back with Will to America. It’s all over the news, that he’s decided to step away from the crown, and Hazel is now Crown Princess. They have talked about it, and it was her who convinced Nico that she was okay with it, it was something she wanted to do. She also said that she noticed Nico wasn’t happy, hadn’t been for a long time, and that his eyes always wondered to faraway places, even when they were together.

“If being with him makes you happy, and being here and having the crown on your head doesn’t, then I want you to do it.”

During the flight, Nico’s hand stays on Will’s, his thumb stroking with such tender movements over Will’s knuckles, it hurts a bit. They go back to Will’s apartment. Nico is going to look for one of his own, not too far, even though he still has his grandfather’s money if not the Crown’s, so he could buy a whole condo in Manhattan. He wants to be close to Will, close enough to never have to miss him again.

When they are in their pajamas, Austin and Kayla in their rooms, Nico presses a kiss to Will’s forehead, their sides flush together, their feet on the coffee table. There’s a show on the TV, and Nico should thank the director. If not for the plot, since he hasn’t followed it half-enough to know what it talks about, for the way the lights from the TV kisses Will’s face.

“I missed you, too,” Nico says softly. “All those years. I never said it, but I did, too.”

Will lets his head fall on Nico’s shoulder, and takes Nico’s hand to hold it on his lap. He looks up at Nico, through a thick layer of eyelashes, and he smiles. A little smile, because it may take a while for them to be completely okay, but they have all the time in the world now.

“I know,” is all he says.

[tothedarkdarkseas]

do you have any hcs for murdocs mom?

Hi anon! Really quickly upfront, I’m worried that I’ve been chasing people off with my long answers and unflattering descriptions of everything (bird’s gotta fly, fish gotta swim, I gotsta be me) so I’m going to go back to chucking answers behind a read more! Alright, more details below the cut!

I know Murdoc’s Mum has long been a popular figure to speculate on and the fandom’s had a few AUs and stories around her, so I must apologize upfront for having fairly simplistic ideas about her: it’s more of the same from me, unremarkable people living unremarkable lives! It’s not for everyone and I recognize that, but I still really dig on this uncomfortable semi-realism stuff so I quite enjoy what bits of flavor it adds to Murdoc’s gnarly character soup if his mum, like his dad, is just... someone with substance problems and an unkind personality who wasn’t equipped to raise a kid.

I’m notoriously bad with some of the fuzzy bits of canon, or the bits that might’ve been implied but then redacted-- in my memory, it was suggested that Murdoc’s mum was in a “halfway house” at the time of his birth? It’s been a while since I’ve read ROTO, so this may be something that is only suggested as a rumor or doesn’t even make it into the text at all, and it’s just something old fandom mentions that can’t necessarily be sourced. Nevertheless that tends to be my “primary” headcanon for her, I suppose, that she was an addict who knew Sebastian through a shared bar scene, and spent her life thereafter mostly unwell and unconcerned with him-- I don’t tend to think of her as being his wife or girlfriend, but more of a passing paramour. I can also see her possibly dealing with severe mental illness, which would manifest more strongly in Murdoc as he aged.

However, my opposite-end-of-the-spectrum headcanon for her is that she went on to live a “normal” life, marrying and having more children after Murdoc or possibly taking on a more esteemed career path that radically changed her lifestyle. I really see a lot of potential in her simply not wanting to engage with a darker part of her life. I understand a desire to portray her as morally upright in contrast to Sebastian and don’t begrudge anyone that, but I’m such a fan of giving female characters and especially maternal characters permission to be flawed-- I just feel like I can picture the discomfort of Murdoc finding out she’s just a person, a person with her own life and her own goals and Murdoc wasn’t part of that. And she would know this was a selfish response, but she’s been able to distance herself so far from it now and for her it’s simply this regrettable, messy, troubled time in her life marked with terrible decisions and terrible people. She took that step toward upward mobility and doesn’t try to reach back to make anything right because it’s-- it’s not like she can change it now, and it’s complicated, and it’s-- well--

Truthfully it’s crabs in a pot, you know, and she isn’t interested in being pulled down. Maybe she and Murdoc have that edge of cynical pragmatism in common. Nothing good comes from her trying to reconnect with a baby she gave up; he’d resent that she didn’t try when he was young enough for it to matter, and she’d fear him doing damage to the life she built now. And I know that’s dark, and I know it sucks, but sometimes I’ll picture this horrifically awkward, tense scene of the two stood in her house, both knowing he shouldn’t be there and not understanding what he expected to get out of this. He’s betrayed, but too emotionally splintered as an adult now to express that in a meaningful way. She’s sorry, but not so sorry that she wishes she’d made a different choice for herself.

Aside from that, I do enjoy headcanons of Murdoc as mixed-race but largely disconnected from it, and most likely completely unaware of the specifics. It’s not a subject I see him talking with his dad about, and frankly I bounce back and forth between believing he’s got suspicions and believing he’s just completely blind to it. Based on population statistics for Northern England it makes sense to me that his mother could’ve been partly Pakistani, and I think that throws an interesting extra layer into Murdoc’s early bigotry and flirtations with the far-right, and his brother’s out-and-out fascist associations.

I can’t say I have many strong opinions about her appearance except that she’s rather short, has a nose much flatter than Sebastian’s because I still can’t picture Murdoc’s nose pre-childhood breaking looking like that, and I don’t envision her as especially good-looking. Like her son she probably has baggy deep-set eyes, thick hair, and amphetamine sweats. Unlike Sebastian, who had a more cruel edge to his personality when he wasn’t neglectful and is photographed with a slimy smirk, I picture her own “unkindness” as more aloof, unromantic, unsmiling. Just the way I see it! Obviously that isn’t to say it’s the only way it can go, though.

Thanks for the ask!

[chantelle-x0x]

It’s Getting Hard - Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

A/N: It’s been a hot minute! So I know this took a while and I apologise for the wait, but I lacked motivation to write and I thought a fic like this needed all of my brain working, so here it is! This is my fic for @tropicalcap who had a writing challenge. Sorry it took a while, but here it is! Thank you so much for letting me be part of this and congratulations on your milestone! My song prompt was ‘Are We Alone’ by Coin. This is a one-shot! I also interpreted one of the lines ‘Don't wanna dance in the dark’ in a different way. Enough of a A/N now!

Disclaimer: **All characters besides Reader, belongs to Marvel (MCU)**

Word count: 3,171 (including lyrics)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

MCU Characters: Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Rhodey, Bruce Banner, Tony Stark (mentioned), Bucky (mentioned), Sam (mentioned), Wanda (mentioned), Peter Parker (mentioned), Shuri (mentioned), T’challa (mentioned), Vision (mentioned), Fury (mentioned)

Rating: PG13+

Warnings: Angst, sadness, light drinking, IW spoilers, careless Steve, probably a little OOC for Steve but yeah.

Summery: Your anniversary doesn’t go to plan, and then the day after doesn’t either. Your relationship is like a rocking boat at the moment and you’re trying to keep yourself at bay, but it’s getting hard.

(Gif not mine - it’s a huge gif whoops)

You’re disconnected Staring down at your phone Some company you are Across the table In that unflattering glow How did you get so far?

Even though the snap happened only a little while ago, you were celebrating your one year anniversary with Steve. It wasn’t easy the past couple of months since Steve had been so disconnected, but you made it work. He never let himself be Steve anymore either, he was almost always Captain America. The few times he did let his guard down, it was only ever with Nat. It hurt, of course it did. Natasha and Steve had a friendship that was strong, and only strengthened after everything happened, but that didn’t mean that you felt okay. Yes, it was good that Steve was talking to someone, but you would much prefer if he would talk to you. Tonight though, you had a spectacular evening planed.

As you were lost in thought as to what to wear with what was in your wardrobe, Steve knocked on your shared room door. ‘It’s fine to come in.’ You said, now turning around as the door opened. ‘You don’t have to knock on the door Steve, it’s your room too.’ You sighed, walking towards the bed to sit down in front of him.

‘Banner said that we have a device that was Fury’s. They’re hooking it up to find the power source and figure out what it actually is.’

‘That’s awesome! We could actually get some more help.’ Steve nodded in agreement before walking to what you had set out for him to wear.

‘We going somewhere?’ He asked with a confused frown. A sad pang hit you heavily, but you brushed it away, making yet another excuse for him in your head.

‘Mmm-hmm. We have a reservation at that place in Brooklyn that you said looked as though it hadn’t changed a bit since before the ice.’ The way Steve cocked his head to the side knocked down that last, thin layer of hope you held out. ‘For our anniversary.’ You said, laying back hard on your bed with a deep sigh and your eyes closed. You felt the bed dip beside you after a few seconds, and your hand was graced with a warm presence.

‘I’m so sorry doll, I completely forgot.’ Steve whispered. ‘I’ve been so preoccupied with everything lately, I wasn’t paying attention to the dates.’ You shrugged, still not opening your eyes; you knew that if you did, you wouldn’t be able to let those held in tears, stay held in.

‘It’s fine.’ You said simply in response. Steve’s movements were so swift, your brain took a second to realise what he was doing, but before you knew it, Steve had you sitting in his lap, facing him. You let your forehead touch his as a weak smile formed on your face.

‘Forgive me?’ He whispered to you. You kissed his cheek softly,

‘Of course.’

You had just made it in time for your reservation after leaving late that evening. Steve and you had made amends in one of your favourite ways possible, which is why you had high hopes that things were going to get better. When you looked over at your boyfriend, you see this sparkle in his eye, one you hadn’t seen in a long time. ‘Remind you of your pre-serum days?’ You asked as a light smile graced your features. Steve nodded with the biggest smile you’d seen in weeks.

‘Thank you doll.’ His tone was so soft and light, like bringing him to this place rebooted his character. A waiter came to your side and showed you to a small, private booth; somewhere where you’d both go unnoticed, where the music was clear to be heard and the performer was in view but still let you and Steve be together. You ordered a bottle of red for the table, along with what Steve had recommended you both order; Devilled Chicken with Sweet-Sour Carrots on the side.

You didn’t think your anniversary dinner would be awkward, but it was so silent. You suddenly thought to ask him if he had any memories of him and Bucky coming to a place like this in the 30’s, but as you lifted your eyes from the wine in your glass to your partner across from you, you saw that he was 100% not with you. His brows were furrowed as he stared down at his phone. Some company you are tonight. You couldn’t help but think. ‘You’re food’s getting cold Steve.’ You said softly, as you looked at his untouched plate.

‘Hmm, sorry. I just got a message from Rhodey, ‘said that they found some sort of a signal with that little device.’ You hummed in response as you slumped in your seat. Just when you lost all hope in the night, a man about your age, asked for a dance. You looked at Steve, who was probably still having a conversation with the group, for any sign that he wouldn’t want you to dance with this stranger…nothing.

‘I’d love to dance.’ You said instead of answering with a no. You were pulled up gently by this new found man, and he led you gracefully to the dance floor. The dim lights caught the sparkle of your necklace, and your dress twirled around you with every twist and turn. A stunning woman came out to the microphone and started singing a 1940’s swing version of ‘Dancing with a Stranger’. How ironic. You thought with a little chuckle.

‘What’s so funny?’ The young gentleman asked.

‘The song.’ The man looked at you in question. ‘It’s called ‘Dancing with a Stranger’. It’s ironic is all.’ You said sheepishly.

‘I’m Flynn.’ He introduced.

‘Y/N.’ You replied.

‘No longer strangers.’ You both laughed as the song ended. ‘I hope that made your night better. You looked pretty down.’ You smiled and thanked him for the distraction. You exchanged numbers as well, before you left for your table with a smile still plastered on your face.

‘Had fun?’ Steve asked from behind you.

‘I did, thank you.’ You honestly couldn’t tell what Steve was thinking at this point. He was physically a step away, but emotionally and mentally, so far away.

Break my back just to make conversation Pulling teeth just to ask how your day went You're disconnected An inconsiderate mess You've got me all to yourself but

It was too quiet when you were walking around the park near the restaurant. Steve looked like he was in another world, and it really did feel like the most uncomfortable day you’d ever spent with Steve. ‘Are you mad because I danced with Flynn?’ You asked your boyfriend calmly.

‘So that’s his name.’ Steve responded so softly, you probably wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t in the park alone with him.

‘Don’t do that Steve.’ You said with annoyance taking over you a little bit.

‘Don’t do what Y/N?’ He asked in a similar tone to you. ‘You’re the one that danced with a total stranger!’

‘I only danced with him because you were too busy on your phone!’ You both took a small breath to calm yourselves down. ‘I’m sorry that I upset you Steve, but this is not how I wanted today to go. This was meant to be a day where we could relax together. Be together. But it seems that all you want to do is be working.’ You knew you sounded a little whiney and childish, but you had hoped this would be the one day he’d open up to you; such wishful thinking.

‘I’m sorry doll, I just…I really want to get everyone back soon, especially Buck and Sam. I miss them. I lost Bucky again, and I’d do anything to get him back for hopefully, the last time.’

‘While you’re busy doing that, you’re losing me Steve. I can’t keep chasing you and giving you all the space you need, but being there when you need me without getting any love from your side.’ His facial expression turned hard and his jaw clenched.

‘I’m trying Y/N, but if you feel that way, then just break up with me. I’m not going to be the one to do it since I know I care about you a lot, but if you don’t think this is working, you break up with me.’ You know that there are tears falling slowly down your cheeks, but you refused to show that you noticed them.

‘Let’s just go home Steve.’ You say weakly, before walking in front of him.

I see you hiding Behind a flickering screen What did you come here for? And then you light up Who's keeping you company? Don't wanna dance in the dark

When you enter the compound, it’s eerily quiet, all you can hear is Steve walk in behind you and shuffle to a room in the compound. Following him, you enter the lab and see what everyone has been doing for the past couple of hours.

‘This is a nightmare.’ You hear Steve say as he’s looking at the strange paging device.

‘I’ve had better nightmares.’ Nat responds to him. You see Rhodey come in and tell the two of them something. They both sigh before following him into another lab where Bruce is. You keep silent, not sure if your presence was yet noticed by anyone. Like most of the time, Steve and Nat were on the same side to reboot the pager. As they spoke, you were almost knocked off your feet. A blonde lady was now standing in front of Steve as he had turned around. After you offered to make coffee for everyone, you all went to the living room and started to talk to the space lady who’s name you had learned was Carol Danvers.

‘So you’ve known Fury for a long time, why didn’t he recruit you into the Avenger Initiative?’ You asked Carol.

‘I guess he didn’t think I was needed but now, I take he didn’t think that anymore.’ You saw Steve chuckle. This comment made Rhodey get a little annoyed. He voiced your opinion but Carol didn’t back down; you honestly couldn’t fault her for that, in fact, you admired how she was strong to her beliefs. Steve took a fast liking towards her and you could tell that from where you were standing.

After everyone had dispersed for the evening, you went to you and Steve’s shared room and changed into a white t-shirt that belonged to Steve, before hoping into your large bed and picking up the book you’ve been reading, up off your beside-table. Steve entered the room not too long after, and you raised your eyes above the pages. ‘You still mad?’ You asked quietly as he took off his shoes.

‘Are you?’ He responded not looking at you yet, heading into the bathroom. You sighed as you placed the book down and got out off the warm blankets surrounding you. Walking to the bathroom door, you lean on the frame and look at Steve.

‘I wasn’t mad Steve, I was disappointed and maybe a little let down. I just thought that you and I could act as though things were more normal for tonight.’ This is when Steve finally decides to look at you, his features softer.

‘That’s the thing Y/N, we can’t live as though things are normal because they aren’t. As hard as we’re trying to come up with a solution, it hasn’t happened yet; and until it does and we have solved this issue, things aren’t going to be normal.’ You could see the pain Steve was hiding.

‘I’m sorry Stevie. I didn’t realise how bad all the trial and error ideas were effecting you.’ He managed a weak smile, but instead of continuing a conversation, you walked into the bathroom and hugged him tightly; he didn’t take long to reciprocate the hug. After a while, you let Steve get out off his clothes before he climbed into bed beside you. This is when he checked his phone and a smile graced his face. ‘Something happen?’ You ask your boyfriend.

‘Carol got a new phone and she’s now in the Avenger group chat.’ You hummed in response, trying so hard not to get jealous. You kissed Steve before turning on your side with your back to him, and fell asleep. You woke up to your boyfriend still on his phone. You picked up yours to see the time; almost 3:00 AM. He had a smile on his lips and you sighed then rolled over, whispering his name. You leaned up on your elbows and rested your head on his shoulder.

‘What are you doing Steve? It’s almost 3 in the morning.’ Your voice was soft and quiet.

‘Sorry doll, I got carried away with talking to Carol. She found out about the language thing.’ You laughed lightly as he showed you the message.

‘Can you put the phone down now Stevie?’ You asked in a whisper as you kissed the crook of his neck lightly. The truth is, you didn’t mind Carol at all, but you did mind that she had just met Steve and he was closer to her in a day compared to you, who had been with him for a year and known him even longer. Steve turned off his phone and set it on the table beside him, before stretching. You took his hand in yours and entwined them together. His thumb rubbed the top of your hand, before he pulled you closer to him. You kissed him gently and he quickly reciprocated, before he pulled you so close that space wasn’t known between you two, and kissed you deeper and harder. Before anything could happen though, Steve pulled away and sighed.

‘We have a lot to do tomorrow Y/N, we should probably go to sleep.’ You couldn’t help the disappointment that settled in you, but you did roll back to your side of the bed and tried to fall asleep again, but it didn’t descend on you, so instead, you went to find Tony’s “secret” stash of single malt whiskey. This was where he kept the few bottles the two of you shared on your sleepless nights; it was always fun together.

Why are you hiding? An inconsiderate mess

You sat on a chair that was in the dim room and finally let your emotions out. One by one, tears started to fall. You cried for Tony, Bucky, Sam, Wanda, Shuri, Peter, T’challa, Vision and Fury. You cried because you hadn’t done that yet. You’d been so wrapped up in making sure Steve was okay, you completely forgot about your own mental health and how you felt. You also cried because you knew you were losing Steve. It wasn’t a secret anymore, not to you anyway. Maybe you stayed because he had already lost so much. Did you feel obligated to do it? You weren’t manipulated to stay, he did tell you to break up with him if you wanted to. Everything became too much at this point, and you had to let it all out, so what better place to do so than the place you shared with Tony. Tony was like a father figure to you. He was your dad’s best friend, but when your dad passed when you were a young child, Tony took you in. You were glad he had taken you under his wing instead of your mother, she left for a reason, a reason you still didn’t know. If you lost Tony, that would kill you. Peter was like a little brother to you. You always laughed and joked around. He taught you everything his suit could do and even locked you in your room once because you lost a bet to him. Bucky and Sam never failed to make you laugh and you missed their companionship. Their constant bickering always made for some good, live reality TV. Wanda was your best friend. She always knew what to say and encouraged you to do things that pushed you out off your shell. Vision and you would work together on your knowledge. You loved learning, so you and him would sit together and just talk about things that were going on around the world; he’d inform you of issues and you’d do research and tell him all about your finds. T’challa and Shuri, although you had barley met them before they were taken, they were good people, they fought for everyone just like the Avengers. Thinking all of this made you chuck back the drink and pour another as you felt the burn going down your oesophagus. You tasted the salt of your tears before you downed the remnants of your second drink before leaving for your bathroom.

A headache from the crying, late night and alcohol made you need to take some medicine so that you’d be clear for the day ahead. Coming out off the bathroom after a shower and brushing your teeth, you dressed into your suit (just in case), before bumping into Steve.

Are we alone? Your eyes are staring vacantly Oh are you even listening at all? There's no one here but you and me So tell me, would you rather be alone? Would you rather be alone? Would you rather be alone?

‘Mornin’ doll. Where were you this morning?’ Steve asked, curiously.

‘I went to a place in the compound that Tony and I used to go to together…when we couldn’t sleep.’ Steve just nodded.

‘Just wanted to make sure you were okay.’ He said beginning to head into the bathroom.

‘You know Steve, you never asked me how I was after the snap.’ You said, the alcohol probably giving you a boost of confidence.

‘You seemed fine.’ He said casually.

‘Well, I wasn’t.’ You let the anger and hurt bubble inside of you, prepared to let it out like a fiery dragon.

‘Okay, how are you then?’ He asked monotony.

‘I could be better.’ You replied sharply. ‘I have a really crappy boyfriend that pays little to no attention to me, half of the people I consider my family are gone, and I might have lost the only parent figure I had because of stupid Thanos! How do you think I’m feeling Steven?’ Your shouts becoming louder as you finished talking. Steve looked at you with a guilty look.

‘I didn’t realise that doll. I’m so sorry that I’ve been so neglecting and distant.’

‘As much as I’d love to accept your apology Steve, I just don’t think you mean that. You’ve said sorry so many times over the last 24 hours, it’s starting to become meaningless.’ You begin to walk out the door, but right before you do, you look Steve right in the eyes, your eyes tearing up, and say, ‘Rhetorical question Steve, but, would you rather be alone?’

---

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[glorious-spoon]

Body of Memory [1/7]

Title: Body of Memory Pairing: Alec Lightwood/Magnus Bane Warnings: None Other tags: Temporary amnesia, Magic-induced memory loss, Identity issues, Angst with a happy ending Summary:  After a patrol gone very wrong, Alec Lightwood comes to in the infirmary with no memory of the past three years, and that turns out to be just the beginning of his problems.

Chapter 1 on AO3

*

As he rises through the layers of unconsciousness like dark water, his own name is the first thing he hears, spoken in a soft, unfamiliar voice that seems to resonate through his bones, strangely compelling.

“Alexander. Come back to me, Alexander. Come back, open your eyes. Wake up, just for a little bit. Good. You can sleep in a moment, but just for now—”

He blinks, opens his eyes.

“--wake up,” finishes the man leaning over him. A warlock. That much is obvious from his eyes, which are a shifting, luminous, inhuman shade of gold. Beautiful, Alec thinks, before he can stop himself. The man leaning over him is beautiful, with his dark hair and his sharp cheekbones and the soft bow of his mouth, which curves into a smile that seems entirely too warm to belong to a total stranger when Alec finally manages to focus on him. “There you are.”

His hand rests on Alec’s cheek for a moment. He can feel the fizz of magic against his skin, which means that the warlock must be healing him, but something about the gesture seems… uncalculated. Familiar, in a way that unbalances Alec. He licks his lips with a tongue so dry it feels like sandpaper, and his voice is a hoarse rasp when he speaks. “What--what happened? Who are you?”

A spasm of something unreadable crosses the warlock’s face, and he lets his hand drop, sits back a little. “Of course. My apologies. You were attacked, and you’ve been unconscious for a few days. I’ve been helping the healers attempt to unravel the aftereffects. My name is Magnus Bane.”

“You’re a warlock,” Alec whispers. The name brings a faint twinge of recognition, but it’s not something he can dig out of his foggy mind right now. The corners of his brain seem full of static. He must have been in really serious trouble if they brought a strange warlock into the Institute to work on him, but as far as he can tell, there’s not even a guard in the room. He and the warlock are completely alone under the cool fluorescent lights.

The smile that crosses the Magnus Bane’s face is a faint shadow of that first one. “I am.”

“You have, your—” Alec lifts one hand, which feels way too heavy, and gestures a little, vaguely. He’s never actually seen a warlock mark this close up. Not attached to a living person, anyway. There aren’t many warlocks who’ll let their glamours drop around shadowhunters. “Eyes.”

“My eyes,” the warlock repeats. For an instant, he looks entirely blank, almost baffled, and then he winces slightly and squeezes his eyes shut for several seconds. When he opens them again, the irises are dark brown, entirely ordinary. Human. “There. Better?”

“I--I didn’t mean, just, they were—” Pretty, he doesn’t say. God. His filter is completely fucking shot, and there’s a too-handsome warlock leaning over him, close enough to reach out and touch, and even glamoured his eyes are way too intent, and Alec is… really not coherent enough to deal with this right now. He clenches his teeth together before he can let anything else slip, then says, “Jace? Izzy--Isabelle, my sister--are they okay?”

Jace is okay, at least. He can feel the echo of his heartbeat through the bond when he focuses, half a beat slower than his own. Sleeping. He feels steady and calm in a way that he--hasn’t, actually, in a while, which probably means that Izzy is okay too.

“They’re fine,” Magnus Bane confirms. “Sleeping, for now. It’s been a very long few days. Would you like me to wake them? I know they’ll want to know that you’re—” he pauses, almost infinitesimally. “Awake.”

“No, ‘sfine.” Alec yawns. “Let ‘em sleep.”

“You can go back to sleep too, if you want.” He smiles a little. “You really should, actually. The healing took a lot out of you. I just needed you awake for a moment to assess the, ah, after-effects.”

“What—” he starts to say, but he doesn’t quite manage to get it out. There’s an itch at the back of his throat, rasping and dry, and it catches when he breathes in, a sudden hacking cough. He tries to muffle it with the back of his hand, too late. At the back of his mind, somewhere under the fog of exhaustion, he’s embarrassed to be flat on his back, helpless and useless and weak in front of this man, who even under the wan unflattering infirmary lights looks polished and powerful. And gorgeous. Strikingly so.

Don’t, he thinks firmly at that stupid part of himself, the one he’s never been entirely successful at stomping out, and braces his palms on the mattress to lever himself upright, eyes watering. His elbows feel like loose hinges, head spinning when he moves it, and for a moment he thinks that he might actually tip over before strong hands catch his shoulder, bracing.

“Here,” Magnus Bane says, “let me just—”

There’s a puff of blue magic that blows coolly across his skin, and a glass of water appears on the bedside table. The warlock steadies Alec easily as he curls in on himself coughing, reaches across to tuck the pillow behind his shoulders before pressing the water glass into his hands. Helps him hold it steady as he drinks, too, which is humiliating but probably necessary, given how weak Alec feels right now. He’s shaking so hard that the glass rattles slightly against his teeth.

“Thanks,” he mumbles when his coughs finally subside. He can’t quite meet the man’s eyes.

“Of course,” the warlock says. His voice is soft; his fingers warm where they’re still curled around Alec’s. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Magnus Bane lifts the glass out of Alec’s hands and sets it back down on the table, sitting back, and Alec curls his fingers, feeling oddly bereft. “You really ought to get some more sleep, though.” He lifts a hand, magic sparking from his fingertips, glittering in the dim light and catching on the multitude of rings adorning his hands. “I can help, if you’d like.”

“What, just magic me to sleep?” Alec says, skeptical.

“I’ve done it before. You always—” he breaks off. His mouth quirks into a smile that Alec can’t read. “That is, I can if you’d like. It’s up to you.”

He actually considers it for a moment. But as unexpectedly kind as the warlock has been so far--as good as he looks--Alec isn’t quite at the point of letting strange Downworlders mess with his mind, even just to make him sleep. He’s pretty much tilting off the edge of consciousness already anyway. He shakes his head, shifting down until the pillow is tucked under his cheek again. It’s a little awkward, and he’s almost certain he sees the warlock reach out abortively to help him, fingers splaying in the air for a moment before subsiding in a graceful sort of twist as he sits back in his chair.

“‘S’fine,” Alec murmurs, and yawns again. He still feels strange and unsettled, but his eyelids feel like they have weights attached to them, and really all of this can probably wait until morning. “Just. Stay?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. He’s not a child, to need someone to watch over him while he sleeps safe in the infirmary; he’s never had anyone sit up with him other than Jace or Izzy, and that only occasionally. Magnus Bane is a stranger, a warlock, someone who, for all his solicitous, baffling kindness, is only here because he’s being paid to be here. Alec has neither reason nor right to ask that of him, and yet the words slip out of his mouth unbidden.

The warlock’s expression twists slightly, strangely, and then he says, “Of course I’ll stay. Close your eyes, Alexander. Go to sleep.”

No one calls me that, Alec thinks, but it feels like a soft and distant thing as his eyes slip closed. Layers of darkness pile over him again, and as he slides off the edge of consciousness he could swear he hears the warlock speaking softly in a language he doesn’t recognise; could almost swear that he feels the warm curl of fingers around his hand.

*

The next time he wakes up, the warlock is gone, and Jace is sprawled in a chair with his legs kicked out, his head tilted back against the wall, snoring softly. Beside him is a vaguely familiar redheaded girl, sitting with one leg tucked up under her and peering down at her phone. She lifts her head when Alec moves, face brightening. “You’re awake! Hey, Jace!” She jabs him in the side, none too gently, and he jerks upright with a snort. “Alec’s awake. Wake up.”

“Ow, Jesus,” Jace mutters, shoving his hair out of his eyes. His face softens when he looks at Alec, though, a sudden relieved warmth suffusing the bond. “Hey. Good to see you back in the land of the living.”

“Good to be here,” Alec rasps. “What—” he breaks off coughing before he can finish the sentence. Jace is up in an instant, pressing the half-full glass of water on the nightstand into his hands. It’s lukewarm and slightly stale on his tongue. Jace helps him steady it for a moment before Alec shoves him off, and that awakens a twinge of memory, something dreamlike and fuzzy in the back of his head. “There was… was there a warlock here last night, or did I imagine that?”

Jace looks at him for a beat longer than normal. “You mean Magnus?”

“Magnus, yeah. Magnus Bane,” Alec says. Apparently he was real after all. But the look on Jace’s face is bothering him, and he’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the sudden unease thrumming through the bond. It makes his stomach twist, anxious. “I was pretty out of it. Thought I might have dreamed him up.”

He wants to bite the words back as soon as he says them. They’re a little too close to the things he never admits to anyone, not even Jace, who already pretty much knows anyway.

“Yeah, no,” Jace says slowly. “He was here last night. For the past couple of nights, actually. He, uh. I made him go home and get some rest, he’s been… Alec, how much do you remember?”

“I don’t…” Alec shakes his head. His mind feels clearer now, but no less bewildered. If anything, he’s more confused than he was last night, with a beautiful stranger leaning over him and talking to him with a gentle intimacy that seems… strange, in retrospect. That felt more than halfway like a dream. This is just an ordinary morning, in the infirmary after another patrol gone south, with Jace hovering by his bed and doing a bad job of hiding the worry that’s now thrumming through their bond like a swarm of angry bees.

And there’s another stranger here, sitting behind Jace and staring at him with a similarly worried expression.

No, wait. Not a stranger. He shakes his head, and the name suddenly surfaces in his mind, bringing a prickle of annoyance with it. Fray. Clary Fray. Jace’s mundane girlfriend, who is apparently not content to just show up and upend Alec’s entire world; now she’s following Jace into his infirmary room and staring at him while he’s flat on his back and helpless. Alec jabs a finger in her direction and doesn’t bother to hide the ire in his voice. “What’s she doing in here?”

Jace actually glances back toward Fray like he’s expecting someone else to be there. “What?”

The never-very-distant edges of Alec’s patience are fast approaching. His head is pounding and his stomach is unsettled, and every interaction he’s had since he woke up has been baffling, and the frustration of that is grinding into the bones of his jaw. “Look, just because you have a—”

“I’ll go,” Fray interrupts, standing up. She’s staring at him with wide eyes; her face is so pale and anxious that he almost feels bad for snapping.

“Clary,” Jace starts, looking unhappy.

“It’s fine. I’ll wait outside, okay? I’ll call Izzy and Magnus, you can...” She trails off, makes a vague sort of gesture. “You know. Explain. Since I guess Magnus didn’t.”

“Okay,” Jace says finally.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Alec,” she adds, glancing at him, quick and stuttered, almost frightened. “We were all really worried.”

Before he can even think of a way to respond to that, she’s slipping out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her and leaving him and Jace alone in the empty, brightly-lit infirmary.

“Shit,” Jace sighs after a long moment, sinking back into his chair. Unease twists in Alec’s gut, and he can’t even tell how much of it is his. That warm relief of a moment ago is long gone; Jace is a bundle of cold anxiety beneath his mask of practiced calm, and even that is cracking.

Alec pulls himself upright, relieved when he can manage it without help. He still feels too weak, but he doesn’t feel like his bones are about to disintegrate inside him, which is a start. He braces his palms against the rumpled sheets and fixes Jace with a stare until he lifts his head. “Jace. What happened?”

Jace rubs a hand over his jaw, which is rough with stubble. He looks exhausted, actually. “How much did Magnus tell you?”

“Not much. He said…” Alec lifts one shoulder. “I was pretty out of it. He said I’d been attacked. That was pretty much it.”

“Shit,” Jace says again. He rocks forward in his seat, and then says, quickly like he’s lancing a wound, “Yeah, you were. You almost died, Alec. We weren’t sure Magnus would be able to pull you out of it, and you, uh. He said you might lose some time, and I guess you did. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Alec opens his mouth, then realizes that he’s not actually sure how to answer that. His mind feels fuzzy and vague. He can remember flickers of movement, darkness and something sparking, but he doesn’t remember gearing up for the patrol. He doesn’t remember what he last had for breakfast. He doesn’t know what day it is, or how long he’s been here, or anything. Jace will be able to feel the sudden trickle of unease, but it’s long-standing habit that keeps his voice steady and careful. “I’m not sure. We were on a patrol?”

“Someone summoned a soul-eater. It killed a bunch of mundanes and went after a training patrol, and when we went in to trap it…” Jace shakes his head. “Alec, look. Do you know what the date is?”

“Yeah, it’s…” He stops. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in the infirmary, but more than that, he doesn’t know what the last date he remembers is. It was… spring? Warm air on his morning jog and the smell of cut grass and petrichor, a distant spooling echo of some mundane’s car radio playing a song--he shakes his head. The trickle of unease is becoming a flood. “Uh. May?”

Jace stares at him. “What year, Alec?”

The fact that Jace is asking that is worrying, but at least it’s something he can answer. “2016.”

Jace rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. That’s about what Magnus was thinking, I just hoped—you remembered Clary, right?”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Alec manages. He can feel the burn of impatience on his tongue, anxiety coiling in his gut. Some of it is Jace’s, but not all of it. “You’re the one who brought her into the Institute. Against my strenuous objections. Of course I remember her; I wish I didn’t.”

“Jesus, I forgot what you were like about that,” Jace murmurs, shoving a hand through his hair. Then he takes a short breath and says, “Okay, look, it's just. It’s been three years.”

“What’s been three years?” Alec asks slowly. There’s something like horror unfurling inside him, threading delicately through his veins, and it’s worse when he sees Jace’s face. He does understand. He doesn’t want to, but he understands. “No.”

“It’s 2019. June fifteenth, if you want to be exact.”

“That’s not possible.”

“The soul-eater got her claws into you. You were--you were disintegrating, Alec. Magnus grabbed you and that interrupted it, but--Jesus. I almost watched you die. I could feel you dying.”

“I’m sorry,” Alec says uneasily, because he doesn’t remember it at all, but the look on Jace’s face is kind of awful and the feeling echoing through their bond is worse.

“Don’t be sorry, you idiot. Everyone else who came into contact with that thing is dead. You--we’ll get your memories back. Magnus is the best there is at what he does, and he’s pretty fucking motivated right now, believe me. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“Okay,” Alec says, and rubs a hand over his face, trying to get his thoughts in some kind of order. Three years. He doesn’t even know where to start with that, and he’s suddenly desperately glad it’s Jace here with him. He’d be panicking if it was anyone else, but Jace has always been there to steady him, a counterweight that Alec can balance himself against. Whatever else has changed in the time he’s been missing, at least he still has that; at least he’s not waking up to this with a stranger. Again. “Okay. What do I need to know?”

“What do you want to know?” Jace asks carefully.

“If I knew what questions to ask, I’d ask them,” Alec says, and it’s brittle and sharp enough to cut, but Jace doesn’t even flinch. It's like somewhere along the last few years Alec has lost the ability to bruise him with a careless word, and he’s not sure whether or not that’s a relief.

It’s a shift, anyway, in the bedrock of the one thing he’s always been able to count on.

“Sorry. I am, seriously, I can’t imagine how confusing this must be for you. I just…” He breathes out a laugh. “I don’t know where to start. It’s a lot of time to cover.”

“How about you start with the patrol,” Alec says, tamping down as hard as he can on the impatience in his voice, although his ears tell him that he’s not particularly successful and Jace would be able to tell in any case. He’s not sure if it’s worry or proximity or something else, but their bond is more open than he can remember since they were kids, a smooth reciprocal flow of warmth and emotion. Alec almost reaches to close it off, habitual wariness reasserting itself, but he can’t quite bring himself to step away from that simple comfort. Things have been… difficult with Jace recently, especially since Clary Fray showed up. It’s nice to have them easy again, even if it is just because Jace is worried about him. “Tell me about the soul-eater. We can go from there.”

[pussymagicuniverse]

Ribs

Let us laugh, ugly laughter, from the pits of our bellies, from the bottom of our soles, pushing into the veins of our eyelids. The same bodies that we rued since the day we met them––let us meet them once more. Greet them with kindness and refuse the estrangement that creeps into the periphery. Let us be still again, lucid. We shall no longer think of ourselves as floating heads, seeping vulvas, hard breasts, black gums, crooked, and harsh teeth. We will no longer have the desire to compare our round and dark selves to the moon or to the sun or to the stars. We shall drink from the final and sweet waters.

Let us mend ourselves, weft by weft, refusing the distance between Ourselves and the Other. Tenderness and softness, subjugation and servitude, beauty and frailty; these things are not needed where we are going.

9

A gaggle of self-important nine year olds stuck in the confines of Gifted English went through their weekly list of vocabulary. In the sticky Georgia heat, they listed off words and their definitions, one by one, the syllables bumping against each other across uneven teeth. The lazy recitation waned into the white clock face, waiting until the sweet, sweet hour of freedom. 3:30. Thirty more minutes until the words were soon, and rightfully, forgotten. The air was alight with the giddy, yellow excitement of these final school weeks. The memory of the school year was already faint, fleeting.

As testament to my selective memory and emotional hoarding, I do not remember a single word from that list except for one. Zaftig. It’s a word of Yiddish origin, meaning “a woman who is full-figured.” Or more specifically, as my jaded fourth-grade English teacher phrased it, “pleasantly plump.” Zaftig. Pleasantly plump. It makes sense that I would hold onto such a word, even after the steady passage of time and maturity. As I sat in that classroom, buried in my threadbare, oversized, maroon sweatshirt shaped to hide the nascent form of a fat kid’s prepubescent and uncertain body, I imagined the kind of woman who would call herself zaftig. She would be a happy woman, probably a good and prolific cook (a skill which would serve to make sense of her large existence.) She would have many round and plump babies who would eventually run their way into an athleticism, distance themselves from maternal fatness, but never let their own memories erase the tenderness of her embrace. Zaftig. I imagined her as viscerally entwined with her own culture, chosen as a cornerstone of communal abundance, the only symbolic element of fat womanhood that dripped with nobility, purpose.

I was, of course, not this woman. I sported maroon, high fantasy-chic, thin-rail glasses to match the lumpy sweater. The weekly cycle of jeans began and ended with a scratchy pair of bootcut, black pants that I rolled into an unassuming, and deeply unflattering capri. I wore converse that I intentionally scuffed and dirtied on the pavement because they never looked cool when they were pristine and new. I made myself feel sufficient in my clothing. Was it pretty? No. But it did not have to be. I was a smart kid. I couldn’t do math, but I could read, I could feel. Novels made me cry and my friends made me laugh and my teachers always seemed to like me enough. I was sufficient.

I did not realize the apologies that I stuffed into the folds of my sweater. The tender and shameful sorries that I hid under layers of cotton and polyester. The embarrassment when anyone would look too long at my frame. How dare I force them to see the ways I shove myself in the tube of my own skin, a fat sausage girl with buck teeth and round fingers. With each tug at the bottom of my shirt to make sure no one saw the dip of my belly, with each long sleeve that covered the tapestry of new stretch marks, I whispered sorry. Sorry you have to experience me Sorry you have to see me Sorry.

I carried these apologies in my hands, in my face, in my voice for years. I channeled the unfortunate circumstance of my heaviness into my attitude. Pleasantly plump. Pleasant. Smile comfortingly when they look at you so they know where to cut first. Speak clearly, confidently, smartly. I learned quickly to laugh with other women and girls when talked about their community-organized starving sessions, speaking of their own bodies as inconveniences. I learned to talk about the fat on my bones like a glue-like phlegm that “just wouldn’t budge.” I did not know how else to speak of myself. The woman in my memory, zaftig, was a caricature. She was not real, nor would she understand the ways I dreamt of pulling my stomach and cutting into it deeply, cutting it away from myself.

18

I remember the first time I laid against a partner; the room dark to hide the rolling plain of our bodies. He dipped his fingertips in the curve of the space where my thigh met my hip. “I like this,” he whispered. This meaning how it all melted into each other, this meaning the places on my body where hands and lips could find purchase. My heart hitched in my throat. As we drifted to sleep, the phantom pressure of his hand pressed deep into my skin, I planned how I would leave his house as soon as dawn struck.

I would, of course, call him again. Open myself again. Being desired is an addictive and ugly thing. But to be treated tenderly, with hands that know the weight of your thighs, eyes that do not look away when you wear your love for them so openly across the roundness of your face. To know that, to feel that, is to feel the realness of your heart, the warmth of your very living body. I hate that men can give this to me, even when they are unworthy, even when they are cruel. I hate that I cannot give this to myself.

19

I’ve caught myself as a woman obsessed. Obsessed with the running of my fingers across the jagged lines spread flat against my belly. My ribs can only be felt when you gently, persistently, press into the soft, malleable skin, the brownness of several generations pooling at the bottom of my spine. Seeping with the rich history of this body. I feel the metal of the button on my old jeans bite deeply into the fat above my belly button. Stare at the denim stitching stretch against the expanse of my legs. This body is unrepentant, straining, aware.

We eat these reflective parts of ourselves. The cold seeping and puncturing our lungs; we delve deep into the pain of being wanted. Loved as they told us to be loved. But if we release, refuse the bite and the cut of the knife, who are we? What are we then but the gnawing husk of our mother’s, our grandmother’s failures?

We know that, inevitably, we will fail. We will bargain our happiness and our lives on the whims of men who will never, not ever, love us. We will eat at the tables we set despite our tears blinding us, thickened with maize flour and salt. We will raise children, girl children, who we will integrate into the cult of self-immolation. And as she burns, falls into the rot and dysfunction and isolation of womanhood, we ask ourselves again and again.

When did we begin to want the things we do? Who gave us this knowledge, seal broken and soft insides scooped out, consumed? We bleed, hot and red, across the pavement.

How cruel it is to sell this to us as freedom, as liberation. How cruel it is to see our bent forms, emaciated chest cavities gaping open, and dig into us with that horrific avarice. How cruel it is to refuse threading of the needle, the suturing of the wound.

When did we begin want this? When did we begin want this at all?

20

I struggle to believe that this belongs to me. I drink most nights and wish I were free. Lipstick on the back of my hand running bloody like an open sore. I am beautiful when I say no.

22

We are stunted and painfully awkward. I try to hide the relief when you reach for the light switch, flooding the room with a comfortable blackness. And perhaps it is the headiness of mint liquor from the punk show, or the beat of Kreuzberg, but in the soft recess of your small corner room, in the furrows of a gray and blue apartment complex, I swear that you're the most beautiful person I have ever seen. 

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and the glow of the streets below illuminate the curvature of skin. You've put yellow marigolds in a tin can and placed them by the window. We are dense with wanting.

Chromatic and warm lights behind the eyes. It matters very little what I do when I am pressed against you like this. And when you rest the rough-hewn hands of a person who works too often against my frame, when you breathe heavy and vulnerable, I am alight. Is it because you are, if only for a moment, weak? This is why women have lived like this for generations––waiting for the brief and tender second when she loves with her throat exposed, mouth agape and ready for gutting.

It's over as quickly as we come down, the fresh magic dissolved into the heat of the night. It should feel shameful, but the sheen of sweat reminds me to stretch into my skin a bit more. There should be that eternal burden of the girl, the bleeding of a lived-in body. But it is not there; instead, we share the most gentle laughter that we have had in months. I am embracing the unknown hollow of this feeling, and remind myself that we both hold this. 

A consciousness lazily but persistently rounding the edged glass of a death, a release––recuperating in the spaces where we are no longer categorical, no longer fragmented. Where the necessary condition for our justification is not the deftness of our performance. Body neutralized into the heat of a natural and bearable light.

•

The streetlight streaks white-yellow into the room. I can smell the hot oil of the french fries in the ​Döner shop across the way. I count the number of times your leg grazes mine as you fall into welcomed sleep. I relearn the art of holding. The various ways of grasping something that is not my own. Lightly so as to not possess, but steadily so as to heal, to understand.

I know it is not freedom that I see when you look at me, but for once, I am laid flat against a semblance of humanity. I am not sucked in, pressed back, holding pose, holding gut, stretching out neck, and wondering if it is enough. I am not outside of my body, pinching and pressing and figuring out the ways I can make you want to look at me. You want to look at me. And I want to look at you. In this way we witness each other. I am lucid, waiting, awake. I understand the weight of each breath I take.

In a few hours, we drink coffee and try not to smile at each other in that coy way that asks for more information, more knowledge of the other. You ask if I need directions to the train, and I say I do not, but thank you. Your eyes no longer contain that once-familiar alacrity, and the silence is still with the thoughts of the night previous. We are no longer disjointed by the alcohol, almost too aware of one another to find comfort. And yet, I find myself hesitating to leave. The thought of it runs over and over in my mind, crackled 35mm film of heat and tongue and laughter, as I board the train to Alexanderplatz. As I step from the train and onto the platform, up the gum-and-paper splattered steps into the solid and sure pulse of the morning, I am aware of how I trust myself.

A body is a strange and wrought place to feel like an imposter, but I slowly unfurl, and allow myself to sink into the sureness of my existence.

Milka Kiriaku is a queer black writer, educator, and emulsion extraordinaire. Ever the personal welfare-idealogue, they rely religiously on strong community, great books, terrible movies, and hylauronic acid.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

title: "i wouldn't say it sober, but the truth is coming out. i didn't miss you until now, until now."

Thanks for this! And for your help fact-checking. this story just wanted to keep going on and on. I have too much fun with them.

FP x Alice, Riverdale. Also on AO3.

She could hear his motorcycle long before FP pulled up to the trailer: a low rumble that grew into a roar, vibrating under her feet as he killed the engine. Alice was grateful for the warning–it gave her time to collect herself.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

She couldn’t decide if he looked or sounded worse. Clearly he was sober enough to ride home, but FP still had the hard-edged look he usually carried during a bender. His tone, though, was more exhausted than anything.

He’d never been able to hide much when it came to her.

Alice stood as he approached, squaring her shoulders. “Are you going to invite me in?”

FP shoved his door open with unnecessary force, leaving it gaping open behind him. Apparently that was all the welcome she was going to get.

She followed him in and closed it.

“FP Jones, do you have the gall to be upset at me right now? Because I came here to give you a piece of my mind, and of the two of us, I’m certain that I have the right.”

“You always think you have the right, Alice. What else is new?” FP ran a hand over his face as he dropped onto the couch.

Frowning, she stepped closer. “You look like hell.”

“Quite an investigative mind you’ve got there.”

“No, I mean it.” Concern cooling her anger, Alice perched carefully on the other end of the couch. “You weren’t in great shape at the bar, but this is something else. What’s going on?”

“It’s not your problem. Why don’t you say what you came here to say, so I can get some sleep?”

FP stood as he spoke, moving into his kitchen. She could hear him rummaging through cupboards, eventually emerging with a bottle in hand.

“What happened to AA?”

“I’m over that.” He let the bottle hit the table with a thud, then returned to his kitchen long enough to bring two glasses out.

FP poured whiskey into both tumblrs, nudging one her way. “You look like you could use it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I saw the look on your face when Betty was onstage, Alice. I’m assuming that’s what brought you here.” Tossing back the whiskey, FP drew his eyes down her body. “Surprised you didn’t change first, though.”

Shrugging, Alice reached for the glass. “I came straight here. I didn’t think you’d be at the Whyte Wyrm for so long.”

“Didn’t you hear? It was a party in my honor. No reason for me to rush out.”

“Besides your parole.”

He pointed a finger in her direction. “Don’t you start with me. You’re not my mother, or my wife.”

Alice slid her glass back towards him, raising an eyebrow when he refilled it and his own. “What about Jughead? I thought you were ready to be a better example for him.”

“That can’t be why you’re here,” FP replied. “You don’t care about Jug…or me. And I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

“I came here to thank you.” She sighed. “Give me that.”

FP’s fingers brushed hers as he passed her the second round of Jack. “Well then, I guess hell is ready to freeze over,” he drawled while she drank.

“I walked back into the Whyte Wyrm tonight,” she pointed out. “I think it’s safe to say there’s an ice rink down there now.”

FP chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” Alice said, “I wanted to thank you for stepping in, earlier. I was too shocked to think clearly, and I appreciate you breaking the silence. Covering Elizabeth up.”

“Of course. Hey, she earned that jacket.”

“God, don’t remind me.” Alice shuddered. “I fought so hard, FP, to keep her as far from my past as possible. It’s like she’s determined to ruin her life.”

He spoke the words she didn’t have the heart to add. “Like you ruined yours? Come on, Alice, that’s not what happened. You seem happy enough, where you ended up.”

“You live here,” she said quietly. “How would you know?”

“We’re divided by train tracks, not an electric fence. I have business on the Northside often enough. I see you.”

Alice stared at him, not sure what to say. She couldn’t remember the last time she was actually happy. Maybe before Polly…maybe before everything she built started to crack. But FP didn’t need to know that.

“One more?”

His surprise was brief, replaced with that grin she’d never needed to see again. It was the same smile a younger, bolder FP aimed her way while his hands traced her curves, the one she used to kiss off his face before climbing on the back of his bike.

Alice swallowed the need and the regret along with the whiskey. “That’s the stuff.”

“You probably have Johnny Walker at home,” he said. “The kind that’s a hundred bucks a bottle.”

“Three hundred,” Alice agreed, smiling in spite of herself when FP whistled in appreciation. “But nothing beats a bottle of Jack in a lonely trailer after a long ride. I haven’t forgotten everything.”

“Good to know.” He toasted her with his third glass, then capped the bottle and leaned back.

She pretended not to feel his eyes on her, relaxing into the couch and closing her own. “Do you think maybe you could help me, FP?”

The crude reply that occurred to him first was too easy. Alice had no right to crash his home, a place she’d sneered at for years, and sit there sounding so fragile. Especially covered in leather and mesh, looking like under different circumstances she could eat him alive.

He hadn’t been able to save her when they were kids. Or himself. He’d lost his wife and little girl. Jughead was the last–and least expected–straw.

Older, if not exactly wiser, FP Jones was the worst possible choice to be anyone’s savior. And still, it tugged at him. He had never been able to ignore that quiet, broken tone.

“Help you how?”

“She won’t listen to me. And given our history, I can’t really blame her. I have zero credibility, trying to keep Betty away from the Serpents, but I need her to be safer than that. I need her…”

Alice sniffled, eyes shut against tears he could hear but not see. “FP, I need my daughter to be more than I was. She’s so smart, so capable. She could do amazing things, but not if she gets stuck here.”

He hummed in agreement. “Preaching to the choir, Alice. If I knew how to keep our kids from following our example, believe me, my son would be working on a novel right now, instead of god knows where with a snake on his arm.”

“You–” She cut herself off, eyes flying open to meet his. “Huh. I assumed you sanctioned Jughead’s initiation. Like father, like son.”

“I approve of Jug’s choices about as much as you enjoyed Betty’s snake dance. Kid takes after me a little too well–can’t make him do anything.”

FP shook his head. “Honestly, you should’ve known better than that. I may have been full of stupid pride at his age, just like Jughead, but I cleaned up my act in Shankshaw for a reason. This life isn’t good for anybody.”

“The Serpent King,” Alice mused, still watching him closely. “You don’t sound like you used to.”

“Time comes for us all. Neither do you.”

“Seeing Betty tonight was a particularly unflattering glimpse in the mirror,” she admitted. With a smile, Alice added, “For someone who supposedly cleaned up his act, you’re down half a bottle already.”

“Best laid plans.”

She leaned over, plucking the Jack Daniels off the table by its neck. “I hear ya.”

FP watched the head of the Northside Neighborhood Watch swallow whiskey straight from the bottle, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve missed the hell out of you, Alice Cooper.”

He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t even mean to say it. FP could hold his tongue pretty well, even when he couldn’t hold his liquor, but something about the picture she made sitting in his living room…a little too bright on the faded couch, a little too loud in the quiet.

Funny how easy it had been to forget that about her. Seeing her around hadn’t hit him like this; Northside Alice was a different animal, stiff and cold and defensive.

This was the girl he’d loved, with the years layered over her like the dark makeup she’d put on for his party. She shined through it all regardless, fierce and hurting and alive.

No one FP had ever known was as goddamn alive as Alice. 

“Sorry,” he offered into the silence that had fallen between them. It didn’t feel awkward, exactly, but it didn’t feel calm, either. He chose not to think about the unavoidable tension in the room, two married ex-lovers with broken hearts drinking alone. It was safer ignored.

Alice took one last drink from the bottle, pushing herself up off the couch onto shaky legs and resettling at his side. “Don’t you dare,” she told him, her voice low and insistent. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”

“What–”

Her free hand brushed his mouth, lingering on his bottom lip before she set the bottle aside and gripped her hands in her lap. “Just hush, would you?”

He nodded, squinting at her like her behavior would make more sense if he was wearing his reading glasses. Alice wondered idly beneath her buzz if he still had the wire frames she used to like.

“I can’t tell you the last time someone said something like that to me, and I believed them.“

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and with only inches between them, FP could feel her words as much as hear them.

“That’s how long it’s been, I can’t even remember. In a way…it feels like the last time was with you, too. I always knew you loved me, FP. I could always feel it.”

“That was never our problem,” he agreed.

Lifting his hand to her face was a mistake. It wasn’t his first terrible decision of the night, and probably wouldn’t be his last, he thought as Alice turned her cheek into his palm.

“Sometimes, I miss you too.” She looked away when his eyes widened in response.

It hit him like a gut punch, and FP accepted the pain as penance. For the things he’d done.

Or things he wanted to do but didn’t.

He cleared his throat and stood, ignoring the way she blinked up at him. Those hazy blue eyes would be the death of him if he wasn’t careful.

And he was drunk, but not so reckless that he could make tonight that night.

“You should go home, Al.”

Nobody called her that anymore. It used to annoy her how often he shortened her name, when she liked how old-fashioned and feminine it was. Hell, it used to be one of the things she loved about Hal, the delicate way he’d say her name and make it sound like a caress.

Hal still never called her anything but Alice, but it was impatient now. Annoyed. There was no affection there. 

FP could fit more affection into two letters than she’d heard from her husband in a year.

He was right, she realized. She had to go home. Now.

Before she didn’t.

“Thank you,” Alice said, straightening her jacket as she stood. Pulling her Northsider voice on like she pulled the leather down. “For the drinks, and the company.”

“Anytime,” he replied easily, like she wasn’t taking a part of him with her when she left.

She always did. He’d learned to live with it.

Pretty Alice Cooper would go home to the suburbs, and hellraiser FP Jones would drink himself to sleep, and the world would go back to the way it always had been. Or at least they would both pretend it had.

After all, that was one more thing they had in common these days.

They’d both gotten really good at pretending.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I absolutely loved the royal equerry story! I know it was just posted but any chance we could get an update soon?

You can read Part I: The Crown Equerry here. 

I am so excited to continue this tale about Queen Claire! 

xx. Mod Kate

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part II: An Accidental Queen

It wasthe first time she had indulged herself in this habit since hercoronation.  Before the coronation, whenthings were not normal but still her normal, she rode alone withsome regularity.  Living here with her Uncle Lamb escaping for anevening ride had been tricky, but it had been far from impossible.

Lamb waswholly committed to looking the other way. An unspoken agreement meant the house staff did the same, making thesight of Princess Claire slipping out of the palace in riding boots well afterdark a not unfamiliar sight.  Clad inriding boots well after dark, hair bound in a tight bun at the nape of her neck,she would spirit away down the rolling, manicured lawns of the palace to thestables.  After dark, they were quiet andempty.  

Theritual was almost a religious experience to her –– the quiet whispered greetingto her horse, saddling her, riding her, cooling her down, and getting her backinto the stable and settled for the night.

Butsince Claire’s coronation, the unspoken agreement had been more or less disregardedand she had been confined to the palace at night.  Surrounded by priceless treasures of anempire caught in a permanent ebb and flow of influence and importance, thewalls of the palace and its hundreds of rooms were stifling.  Though thoroughly aware of her privilege, shehad come to think of it as a gilded cage.

HRHPrincess Claire Elizabeth of York had never been the odds on favorite to becomethe Queen.  She came upon her role ratheraccidentally.  

HerUncle Lamb’s coronation was well before she was born and long before he hadbeen ready (he said).  He had been young – barely twenty –– when his mother passed away from cancer.  At the time, everyone (press, public, family) had just assumedthat the young king would someday marry. It was not for a lack of trying –– an impersonal royal matchmakingthrough diplomacy and whispered observations of “oh well she’s very pretty” met only with laughs and smirks.  Andwith the assumption of marriage camethe corollary assumption that Lamb would have children.  He would fulfill that which was chief among hisroyal duties: have children.  Then from thatlineage would come the next king or queen.

Clairehad never bothered herself with such assumptions or the point when the failurefor him to abide by them became a talking point.  To her, she was just Uncle Lamb.

He washardly a king at all in her eyes, though she knew the formalities to beobserved in the public eye.  Behindclosed doors, he had just been her goofy uncle who gave generously atChristmases and birthdays, told silly jokes with bad punchlines, traveled a lotfor work, and showed up on the television periodically, looking somber andtalking about pride in country.  

But thenthere was the accident that tore away nearly everything that she knew.  

Claire,at six, had not known that the world could change in a moment. At least until onecold afternoon.  She was asleep betweenher mother (Her Royal Highness PrincessJulia Louise, heir presumptive to the throne) and father in the back seatof a state car.  Her older sister (Her Royal Highness Princess Anne Catherine)was pressed between her mother and the car door, also slumbering. And then abridge fell out from beneath their motorcade, well above a snowy creek.

Shealways found it funny that something so profoundly disruptive could exist asonly a distant, fragmented memory.  Whentrying to recall it (something she rarelydid), she was bombarded with only a series of disjointed recollections ––full technicolor and visceral.  

The icecold water burning her throat when she gulped for air.

Thescreams of her mother (“Henry –– thegirls… save them”) that made her eardrums ache.

The roughhands on her arms, wrenching her away from her father, out of the water, andonto grass.  

Thescratch of a tartan blanket over her as she shivered violently, her teethfeeling as though they would grind themselves into dust.

Thesterile bite of hospital air and the soft, winter-chapped lips of the nurse whostood over her, whispering “you’re alive,love, you’re alive.”

Thesearing ache when she tried not to bealive any longer ––­­­­­­ violent compressions on her narrow chest that shiftedher bones.  

Thedoctor who smelled faintly of cigarettes imploring her to “breathe god dammit.”

Darkness. Cold. Emptiness.

She woketo her uncle’s broad thumb drawing small circles on her shoulder through astiff green hospital gown.  Being part ofthe royal family did not save her the indignity of a tie-back hospitalgown.  She was emotionless as her eyesdarted around the sterile room (tubes inher hand, Lamb’s warm touch, the hum of a fluorescent overhead light, the smellof cleaning fluid and layers of illness).

But thenthe realization hit her.  Her Uncle Lambhad no reason to be here, here except….

Andalthough she was young, she knew immediately that they were gone forever.

Her mother(Julia).  Her older sister (Anne).  Her father (Henry).

Dead.

Thosememories, while technicolor and visceral, were not what she rememberedbest.  More vivid than that tumble intothe creek was the moment when Lamb told her that her entire world had vanished.

Shemoved into Buckingham Palace and goofy Uncle Lamb awkwardly transitioned into afather-like figure.  She went to boardingschool, kicking and screaming, crying every time she left to anyone who wouldlisten.  It was only when she was caughtsmoking cigarettes in the girl’s lavatory that Lamb brought her back to Londonfor good.  It had been Christmas. Hisdisappointed eyes glared at her over half-moon spectacles when he said, “Youneed to manage your reputation.  Yourfuture rides on it.”

At thetime she had not grasped what he meant. But then, shortly after she turned fifteen, media chatter started thatthe King was a “confirmed bachelor.”  Claireguessed what it meant.  Nonetheless, Lambsat her down, brushed the back of his hand over her cheeks, and explained theconcept of a euphemism (something she alreadyknew).  He told her that he was notromantically interested in women (somethingelse she already knew).

Thencame the interview.

“Will we see the king marry?” thedoe-eyed reporter had asked, a finger nervously twisting at the cap on his pen.

With alaugh, Lamb’s response had been short: “Iwould not count on it.”

It wasonly then that the chatter about Claire started.She was no longer just the unfortunate child of a dead royal.  The lanky, awkward little thing –– an orphan –– was not really a placeholder heir presumptive. TheKing would not have children.  She was it.

And thenhe died.  Quietly, unexpectedly, warm inhis bed. A heart attack took him well before his time.

Thenewspaper headlines were none too flattering when Princess Claire Elizabeth – whohad been the third in line to the throne – was thrust into her new role.

Chiefamong the headlines: The AccidentalQueen.

Photographsof her from the boarding school materialized, no doubt from the stash of anunidentified, so-called friend. Cigarette dangling from her lip and skirtrolled at the waist to be shorter, every paper published it with the label: The Party Queen.

Readingit, Claire had thrown a vase against the door and screamed.  No one came to see what was the matter.  After a full meltdown in the bathroom, sheexited wrapped in one of her mother’s robes to see that the face had been sweptup and the flowers put into an identical cut crystal vase.

She wassuddenly stuck on the thought that both vases (the broken and the unbroken) were hers, but neither truly belonged to her.

“We willtake care of it ma’am,” was the official line given to her as she prepared forher coronation.  The newspapers becamenotably more generous in their coverage after that.

Gallingas the unflattering press had been, she threw herself into the work of a queenwith a certain abandon. Her dedication gnawed her other dreams, things she hadonly been allowed to dream as one with a laughably distant claim to the throne,clean from her bones.

The dayshe broke –– running down the hill, tear-streaked and needing a release–– had been a long and her every move choreographed by others.  

She had awokento the sound of bagpipes and immediately forgotten whatever dream she had beenhaving.  The only shadow of it was thewarmth of a touch on her cheek, the sensation of wide-open space, and sky asfar as the eye could see.  Then that toodissolved.

Shebathed, perfumed herself, sat staring as her hair and makeup were fixed andclothes laid out for her to dress.

Then itwas on to responding to a small selection of letters from the public (adoration, condolences, the sharing of personalstruggles), the red box (telegramsand state papers for her review and approval), and a series of meetings (the identities and positions of each visitorwhispered into her ear along with a brief explanation of the meeting’s purpose).

A lunchwith the Argentine ambassador (sea bassand vegetables, a glass of wine) and then preparing for an engagement withthe Prime Minister of Canada (a tiarapinned into an updo that straightened her curls and did not move, red lips, abillowing ivory dress, and elbow-length gloves).  

Andfinally, a brief telephone call with Frank–– the war hero introduced to her by Lamb and who she was to marry comeautumn.  Frank was “just fine,” he said and when they hung up there was no proclamationof “I miss you” or love.  “Just fine” was how she felt about thematch.

Scrubbingthe day from her skin in a too-hot shower, she was struck by the fact that shehad not made a single choice in the preceding forty-eight hours.  Save how she wanted her morning eggs, she hadlittle say in much of the last week.  Shehad not even applied the red lipstick smeared across her palm or mascararunning in black rivulets down her cheeks and over her neck.

Everythingin her day had been cursory. At the end of it all, she found herselfyearning for depth with an ache soacute it felt as though it would split her breastbone clean in two.  

Thoroughlyexhausted, but thrumming with need for a piece of herself, Claire finished her shower, toweled off, and took off downa back stairway that she had never before taken. Clad in black clothes fit fora caper in the night and with damp, unbrushed hair, she made her way to thestables.

Andthere, like a breath of fresh air, she stood –– her beautiful girl.  Long lines, sweet disposition, and aneagerness to please.  It gave Claire ajolt of emotion. Through absence, she felt that she had neglected the poorcreature.  However, Brimstone’s earsflattened as Claire smiled and clicked her tongue softly, leaning over thestall gate.  All was forgiven.

“Thereyou are, you good girl.”  She sighed asthe horse nudged her hand.  “I havemissed you, my beautiful love.”

Just asshe moved to pop a hip against the gate –– the only way to get the blastedthing to open without a screwdriver –– she had been interrupted.

“Can I help ye?” the voice called to her.

“Oh fuck off,” Claire muttered, browsfurrowing.  She had made it this far andto be taken from her plans by a groom.  Well, the thought was enough to make her seered.

Warm,broad hands took her by the upper arm and she turned, her face contorting.  He was a hulking thing of a man with broadshoulders. His collar unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, shecould tell that he had an immense amount of power hiding beneath the cleanlines of his work shirt.  He stooddumbfounded, staring at her for more than a few moments before releasing her.  He had fiery crop of hair.  It looked mussed by a hand, a tick used todistract a mind deep in thought.

For amoment, she bantered with him about her stables,her horses, her desire to take Brimstone out. She still hated having staff.  And then, her mind fuzzy from champagnecocktails and too little food, she had given in, said to call her “Claire,” andagreed he could follow her.  She mentallykicked herself.  Had she really told theman to call her by her given name? Had she really relented that easily?

With thematter of her taking the horse out settled, Colonel James Fraser set to ridebehind her at an appropriate distance, she climbed onto Brimstone, mutteringonly to herself, “You are losing it, Claire.”

Heproved himself an unobtrusive riding companion –– hanging back an intentionaldistance and allowing her to put some space between them.  Her initial disappointment of not being ableto take Brimstone out alone faded incrementally and she found her mind driftingto the past, a place she had found herself dwelling quite frequently of late.  

Years ofriding Brimstone.  

Lamb’sinsistence that he give her the horse outside of others’ presence, his coolfingers resting lightly over her eyes as he beseeched her to “keep them closed, just a bit more then,squirt.”  The feeling when she openedthem and saw the horse. Hers.

Thegilded horse-drawn carriage kept just kitty corner to where she had saddledBrimstone.  An ornate monstrosity ofriches that had carried her from the palace to Westminster Abbey for hercoronation, her heart aching with the loss of her uncle and her gut churning atthe thought of her new role.

The accidental queen, indeed.

Eventuallyshe as almost able to forget that Fraser was following her.  

Almost.

Theymade it a fair distance before she brought Brimstone back towards thestables.  Her hands carried her throughthe routine of readying Brimstone to be put back in her stall.

Fraserinterrupted her.  The damn bloody Scot.

“Shelikes ye.”  He was closer than she hadthought.  Lifting Brimstone’s saddle off,she sighed at the heft of it. The back of his hand brushed over her knuckleswhen he took it from her.  

Shestepped around to the front of her horse.

“Well, Iwould hope so.”  Claire’s eyes driftedshut for a moment as she reveled in the soft nudge of Brimstone’s nose againsther neck.  “I did all of the work withher.  Did you know that?”

“I didnaknow that, ma’am.”  

Fraserwas apparently wise enough to have not taken her earlier bait.  

Somethingin her, though, wanted him to say her name. Just to hear it. To lend even a moment’s more normalcyto the evening before she had to tromp back up the hill and into her gildedcage.

Theyworked in tandem to finish untacking and grooming Brimstone.  The silence was companionable and she smiledat him when he passed her a curry comb. The fact that he did not offer to just do the work himself struck her.  And she was deeply appreciative.

Brimstonewatered, cleaned, and tucked in for the night with a handful of apple slicesand a kiss to the nose, Claire turned to leave, wiping at the sheen of sweatthat had sprung up on the back of her neck.

“Yourmajesty?” Fraser called after her, his voice firm and somehow tentative all atonce.

Sheturned on her heel and continued to walk backwards.  “Yes, Colonel Fraser?”

“Ye’re afine rider.”

Sheoffered him a quick smile before turning and continuing back to thepalace.  Although she was returning toher gilded cage, it somehow felt as though she had opened a door.