#except for Queer Eye but I would just watch that with my mom at her house

[wanderinggrizzly]

My mom owns our Netflix account, but even though I’m on a different system in a different city I’ve been able to use it just fine. That is, until I got halfway through watching the live action One Piece and then Netflix decided NOW it wants to enforce the “no freeloaders sharing” policy. Honestly it feels like they intentionally waited until I was halfway through a season of something trending for them, like they want to hold the show hostage and force me to buy my own separate account (and I won’t).

[butchvampireheimerdinger]

any sevika x butch reader hcs? :P

i see her as soooo butch4butch omg. Transgression is so core to her characterization and I think she would find gender non-conforming dykes soooo attractive. Anyways

Butch4butch! Sevika x reader headcanons

✯ You’ve both got lil peach fuzzy moustaches and neither of u remove ur facial hair so when u kiss ur moustaches tickle each other a little bit.

✯ You’re both rather lesbian obviously and so your love for women n other queer people extends beyond romance. If some dude is bothering some poor chick at the bar, you become the Woman Protection Squad. You’re everyone’s lesbian moms/guard dogs.

✯ Idk who her parents are but she gives off military brat vibes/raised by a strict army father. Now she’s incredibly anti-military (”I didnt always see eye to eye with my old man) but she makes her bed meticulously army style. She’s disciplined like that.

✯ It drives her wild seeing you in “more refined” clothing. Which, for her, means pants without holes that are not jeans, and one of your gay little button ups you probably have. Especially when she becomes a counselor and you show up in Piltover all dyked out in your menswear. Old rich ladies are clutching their pearls and she could probably just take you right there.

✯ Your fav Sevika outfit is the rumpled boxers and wife pleaser combo. Nuff said. Also you share a closet and there’s not a really clear boundary with what belongs to who, except for a few items of clothing that are your “signature.” Like your leather punky battle vest. And her poncho.

✯ You guys would be the punky type of older lesbians that never fought for gay marriage because it was seen as assimilating to a heteronormative society and making queerness palatable to a straight audience. Regardless, you do refer to each other as life partners, domestic partners, sometimes wife. Not really girlfriend unless in a cutesy ironic sorta way.

✯ And as for cutesy nicknames? You call each other “my butch.” Or “my woman” or “my old lady.”

✯ If you did end up having a ceremony with friends and family to celebrate your bond, its double suits fosho. Not exactly matching, but complementary. Maybe borrowed parts from friends and family because who is gonna buy a new suit in this economy? We have a revolution to run!!

✯ It’s at The Last Drop obvs and you hop behind the bar and pour beers, getting your suit all wet. Instead of a bouquet toss, all the single people gather for a rapidfire round of blackjack for who’s the next to get married.

✯ Your “honeymoon” is camping in the nearest wilderness. its all either of you had ever dreamed of. You ride off on your shimmer motorcycle with a billion illegal modifications with cans hanging from it and a sign on the back that says “just hitched.” And you get to watch her chop wood. And she gets to watch you gut a fish. It’s like butchdyke brokeback mountain.

✯ Housework isn’t a masculinity or femininity thing to either of you. She can cook meat, you can do all the plants and veggies cause maybe ur like a gym bro health nut type. Her tendency to load up on protein and nothing else drives you up the wall. “Colorful plate, Sev.”

✯ She does vacuuming and laundry cause she likes to fold stuff a certain way. You do dishes cause neither of you are sure just how waterproof her arm is. And you pick up the clutter so she doesn’t irritate her bad back.

✯ She grills on the barbecue at the summer parties. You pour drinks and set up the trampoline and tetherball thingy/yard games for the kiddos

✯ Affectionate touches include: ruffling each other’s short hair. Pulling you in by the belt loops. Absentmindedly straightening ur rolled up sleeves. You like to rest your head in her lap when its the two of you on the couch and you don’t feel like talking. She uses ur head as a little desk for whatever she’s reading.

✯ You both wear gay little rectangular reading glasses. At night she reads whatever religious text Janna worshippers use in bed next to you and you gab. She peers over her lil glasses at u. Zaun is more religious than Piltover so maybe you both are people of the faith. But if religious trauma exists in this context and you’ve got it, she would always be respectful cause she knows what its like to feel like an outsider.

✯ Obviously you work out together, but neither of you have a consistent routine for that cause ur gay and probably have adhd and her line of work has inconsistent hours.

✯ You have a punching bag in the basement and sometimes the two of you let off steam by punching it back and forth like pingpong. (That’s not how punching bags move, but use your imagination.)

✯ It’s never been a plan for the two of you to have kids and i don’t see formal adoption/ivf/sperm donors being widely accessible in the undercity. But i can see it happening where a disparaged youth on the street adopts the two of you and you become parental figures in that way. Maybe you take in a young trans fellow with a rocky home life. also there’s isha.

✯ If you end up with a younger child in ur care, they call you mama sev or mama vika and mama y/n. Or a cultural name for mom if you have one.

✯ Sevika would be weirdly good with kids because she sees them as people with feelings. She wouldn’t talk down to them or anything. She would be the bad cop but also kind of a gentle parent type. And you know how people sometimes put their naughty kittens or puppies in “air jail?” She is buff enough to do that with her kid one handed until they’re at least ten. And she is the BEST at doing the airplane thing.

Fin.

[dipperscavern]

Who up pondering they orb rn? Dipper, that's who!

It's me, chonky, and I hereby request your finest 🔮 reading, please and thank you. Also, sorry for the oncoming wall of text.

As my self-proclaimed title suggests, I am chonky. I'd say I'm probably mid-sized actually but that's only really because I lost some weight when covid happened and the depression rolled in. Anyway, I think I'm 5'5/5'6 but I actually don't know so that's just an estimate based on how tall I am compared to my mom who's 5'11.

I'm biracial but my father's irish-italian genes colonized me so hard, my only afro-centric features I inherited from my mom is my nose, lips, and curly hair, textured around the 3a-3c mark depending on how agreeable my hair is.

I also used to speak spanish when I was way younger because I grew up around my mom's family and she's half puerto rican on her dad's side. Unfortunately, that got whitewashed too when me and my parents moved and I know longer know the language.

I'm from New Jersey but was primarily raised in the New England area of America. I'm (almost) 19 and unlike Jared, I did learn how to read and I enjoy it very much.

I love music of all kinds except country and k-pop is on really thin ice. I'm self-diagnosed autistic and incredibly socially awkward. I make a lot of race jokes but in the "white people can't season their damn food" way instead of the "racist remarks and racial slurs I can't reclaim" way. I'm here, I'm queer, and I really, really need a beer because these damn politicians are going to turn me into an alcoholic, I swear.

I'm a switch but I prefer to dom. Or at least I would. Unfortunately, I get no bitches for I have no rizz. I also have questionable taste in men and women because best believe, you put me in a room alone with Cersei Lannister, her brother (or her lover), Aegon Targaryen II, Aemond Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, or Criston Cole, all them bitches walking out pregnant and I will not apologize for that.

I think that's it. Sorry for the yapfest. All that not talking to people irl manifests into being a blabbermouth online.

-chonky anon

who up pondering they orb rn (me), ANYWAYS, come, dear chonky, and let my crystal friend tell us which man will you love until your timely end 🔮

hm… i see… who is that? no, seriously, who the hell in my orb rn?? OH A PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE— excuse my french, that’s your brother jared. *i outstretch my hand, and a nearby unseen hamster gladly walks on it. i flip it, using its back to rub my eyes clean. you watch in horror as i finish my business, setting the hamster down, and returning my gaze to my crystal ball*

ah, that’s more like it. yes yes… i gaze upon (the first) king in the north, robb stark. the thing that solidified that for me was the race jokes 😭 he’d think you’re sooooo funny, and you remind him a lot of theon (whether or not that hurts his heart after theons betrayal, we’ll never know). and your attitude about politicians is exactly how robb feels 24/7. he’s a great battle strategist, but politics make his head hurt, and he’d love being able to complain with you. the part about being socially awkward and preferring not to speak with people much would tickle robb’s fancy at times, because he feels like he gets you allll to himself. and don’t even worry about the rizz!! robb is a-okay being the charming one, and relishes in being able to tease you all he likes <3

[toastspirit]

I am bad at Hollow Knight because I have mediocre hand eye coordination but i love it enough to do all that stupid platforming I’m not dumb for taking years to beat it I didn’t want to be done with it because it made me happy

I was bad at Mario Kart for my entire childhood because no one showed me how to drift even though we played it so often. I learned on my own. I watched my brother. I was bad at smash because no one showed me how to block and I walk off the edge constantly. I main characters that are easy to play. I still don’t block because I don’t really care about smash tbh it destroyed my first set of joycons when I played it everyday for months :/

I am not a one trick pony. I know every single pokemon and I know several of their names in other languages. I learned how to make amigurumi even though I can’t crochet a rectangle and lose count of my stitches past three. I learned how to read despite having dyslexia. I read with the books close to my face because I couldn’t read the letters otherwise. They thought it was cute. I genuinely struggle to read books in small fonts with or without my glasses. My memory is not bad. My recall is. I spent hours studying for every spelling test I had. Because my parents shamed me mixing up letters constantly. They stopped when I learned how to spell “ambidextrous” because they’re too ignorant to think that a 3rd grader can learn and pronounce words they do not know. I was autistic and only allowed consistent access to books and stuffed animals until they noticed how neurotic my brother and I were getting living in a hotel. I still hate Full House. Warriors let me escape my fucked up family. I don’t care that the writing is mediocre and the characterization is nonexistent. I know enough about literature to know that that doesn’t make a book good. I had a speech impediment because I was surrounded by people with different accents, but no one talked to me enough to learn English correctly. Then they told me that I was placed in speech therapy because my school was racist. I was not stupid for refusing to play my family’s games. I have played them before. I know how to win. I know how to force them to give up. I know how to MAKE them cry. I would rather cry in my room alone than sit at a dining table with them and be judged for everything on my plate.

I am better than my dad at tetris because I spent over one hundred hours playing Puyo Puyo Tetris and he was too bored to ask about it until he watched me play it through the reflection behind my computer. I remember when he screamed at me while I was playing.

I did not deserve to be forced to play a numbers based game everyday when I could barely remember the rules. I did not deserve to be forced to go on walks with people I hate. I did not deserve any of this. I am not noble for accepting it. They are disgusting people for using me for twenty years. If my life scares them. They can be scared. I am not my mom, even if they compare all of my emotions to her. I am not my dad, just because I have his awkwardness. I am not wasting my intelligence. I fostered it myself. I am better than my parents. They did not need to constantly tell me how badly they fucked me up for me to be aware. I don’t trust them anymore. They do not deserve to know who I am. They deserve nothing from me except contempt.

I am not stupid because I kept fucking up basic addition while they stared at me and laughed. I am not stupid for refusing to edit my mom’s stupid flyers. I don’t fucking care about her friends. I hope they all have horrible reunions. I hope they know that my mom has a queer child and she cannot do anything to fix me.

My mom should feel guilty for making me hate France. I was indifferent towards it until I was forced to climb up the Eiffel Tower until I nearly threw up. Then I was shamed for not climbing up to the top. Then I was shamed for only wanting to buy jellycats and go to the Rainforest Cafe and drink hot chocolate. I would have been happier with a single stuffed penguin than that entire trip.

I do not want my parents to throw money at me. I want them to pay for the college they FORCED me to attend and stop shaming me for choosing a humanities degree. It’s all I ever wanted. All I ever wanted was to major in one of my favorite things. All I ever wanted was to get into a good college and get a job and live in my own little apartment. Nothing else seemed worth trying. I hated taking my medieval fiction classes. But I remember them. They showed me that I am a good writer, even when I barely try. They showed me that I enjoy poetry, even if I cannot understand it after reading it for hours straight.

I am good at poetry. I do not have to write poems about how much I hate myself to make them good. I can write about anything I want. I transformed that poem about art block into a horror because I was jaded and wanted to see my work get torn to shreds. They had nothing to say except nice things. I reread all of their feedback. I was too scared to look.

I can write whatever I want. I can get a boring day job and write poetry in my spare time. I can become a teacher then leave after a year. I can rip my own work to shreds and piece it back together. I did not deserve to be told I was cold by people who gaslit me for twenty years. I am cold because I don’t fucking like being around them. And they do not leave. Me. Alone.

[inmyhorrorsera]

S5E9 & S5E10 thoughts

Well, I liked it!

The biggest loser here is Episode 9 because all my thoughts are so occupied by the finale that I can't say much about the previous episode which wasn't even bad. So just three quick things:

Finally I get some good fucking food (The Guide content).

"I'm… going…to kill you… Guillermo" gave me CHILLS.

Guidja real.

Now, to Episode 10:

Didn't notice the previous episode how feral Nandor was filmed, his face all darkened except for a beam of light on his furious eyes, good and classic vampire shit!

Nadja Detective Policeman visiting Guillermo in that outfit😩

Wow, Guillermo treating Derek bad after all he did for him really make the point across that he's a shitty person.

There's something so 😙👌 about Nandor going back to Panera, always love a full circle moment.

I don't care about Patton Oswald as a comedian or person due some disgusting shit he pulled years ago, so sadly I couldn't enjoy his scenes with Nandor that much. I loved that after the whole conversation he still killed him tho. I read someone in the tags paralleling this scene to Guillermo and Meg in S3E2, and I fully agree with that interpretation.

Laszlo helping Guillermo and apologizing…😭 He loves him! I would love to see more of how Laszlo feels about his "frustrations" (his innability to help Guillermo, the impotency of seeing Colin grow up and not remember him). That's something that should be explored better next season imo.

Him trying to have a serious conversation but keep getting distracted by the porn is me trying to watch this show as a dumb comedy but getting distracted by the nandermo of it all.

All the vampires visiting him with dumb excuses was so cute. I wish I never see those creatures ever again tho.

Ahhhh Nandor calling Guillermo from his mother in law mom's house was some psycho shit. Also it remind me a bit of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when Spike visits Buffy's mom just to taunt her. Imagine Nandor pulling this shit:

(Silvia immediately stakes him of course).

"My friend, Patton Oswalt, he passed away". The solemn way he says it as if he wasn't the culprit 😭.

The moment of Guillermo putting the stake on Nandor's neck was an explicit sex scene for me and for everyone with good taste.

On the opposite side, Nandor helping Guillermo with the red cape is SO SOFT, it's all about being equals this time.

The Djinn… oof… as someone who was begging for his appearance since the beginning of the season, this stunt left me cold… sorry but everything that starts with "it happened off screen" it's bad writing. It's giving "Daenerys kind of forgot…" level of bad.

Didn't like that suddenly Nandor is smarter than the others (specially if we come from an episode when Laszlo called him 'a fuckin idiot' for not getting the Guide reveal).

I already mentioned this in a post I made last night, but I'll repeat it verbatim here, because I stand by it:

I don't believe FOR A SECOND that Laszlo didn't try to feed Guillermo human blood 🤔 Remember when Nadja on s1 went on an entire mission to help Jenna to complete her transformation? (hey everybody, remember Jenna?) How Guillermo 'all my life I dreamed of being a vampire' did not know that piece of lore??

"Guillermo can't kill people" Umm whoever decided to go on this direction, I recommend them this show on FX called What we do in the shadows it's very good! (when consistent).

I…. don't trust that "Guillermo is not cut to be a vampire" stuff… sounds like retcon… BUT! I love the "Guillermo is not cut to be a vampire YET, specially if he isnt sired by Nandor" interpretation.

From the beginning I had this hunch that Guillermo's longing for a family and community (I'm not saying he dislikes his bio family, but obviously he grow up distant from them, probably for being queer and feeling like "an outsider") was a reason for being so desperate to become a vampire. Now that he has the family (bio AND chosen) and the community, it's his time to think if he STILL wants to be vampire or not (and he said at the fake ceremony that he still wants it 😌).

Lmao Guillermo's beard... that thing... didn't look like it was growing from Harvey's face.

🗣️HE 🗣️KEPT 🗣️THE 🗣️GLASSES!!!

More Derek! And with better make up than that ashy talcum powder nightmare from Episode 1!! WTF they got rid of another character of color again??!! Benedict Wong what are you doing here???!!! Yay??????

I really like that Topher is a "functional" zombie in comparison with his state in S2E1, it makes sense with the zombies we saw on the original movie.

Still weird that we end the episode and season here, with Derek happy ending?

HOT take but I like that it didn't end on a cliffhanger, considering that we don't know the state of the show post strikes yet AND after s4 I don't trust this people with cliffhangers ever again lol.

Now that the season is finished I came to realize Nadja's entire arc AGAIN was a big 'ol nothing, huh? The hex, her Antipaxos found family, the little stunt as a teacher, literal "throw at the wall and see what it sticks". I'm sorry but I'll repeat: WWDITS learn how to write women challenge.

Excited to see how Guillermo and Nandor's relationship will develop from now on, I know some people are frustrated but as someone who is used to slow burns being SLOW this is my shit. I joke a lot about the pairing but also I understand that this is the shit&farts show first, nandermo nation second (unlike some people that appears they only consume and rate media depending on how much kissy kissy is on the screen).

From 1 to 10, I'll give this season a 7. Not that good as my god tier seasons (S2 is a 9, S3 is a 10), but not so bad as S4.

What I want next season:

Guillermo NEEDS to be a Bad Bitch again: slaying vampires like the Van Helsing he is, being gay af, not being scared to sass out Nandor, etc.

Laszlo and Colin NEED to have a real talk.

Consistency.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LEARN HOW TO WRITE FOR NADJA I'M ON MY KNEES AT THIS POINT!!!

[nami-lvr]

Correct OP: Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Ft: Shanks, Law, Ace, Sabo, Marco, Smoker, and princess Vivi

A/N: I love everyone on this list like for real come kiss me Vivi 🙁🙁 SHANKS TOO. HE IS SO FINE. SO IS ACE. LIKE GYYYYYAT!! Next part is Enel, Katakuri, Big Mom, Kidd, Arlong, and Yamato (last part)

Shanks

Loud ass snoring

Does not care

Aaabsolutley pulls bitches

Marines or not marines

Paints his nails the brightest most noticeable colors

Bright yellow

Hot pink

Neon green

Absolutely outstanding father

10/10 dad

The one you call to get drunk or high or cross faded with

Would deal his kids weed to make sure they stay safe

Would also give alcohol recommendations

all when they’re legally allowed ofc

Law

Definitely

A lil fruitcake

Sorry to all Law simps but he is AroAce and atp it’s cannon

Would not be into romance at all

Ever

He would definitely read gay dirty books though

“I WAS JUST CURIOUS-“

Boooo lame excuse

Like

Ok gay ass 🥸

Would dress like a teen boy trying to be cool

Would be an outstanding father if he ever had kids

Would be so into Star Trek not even joking

Speaking Klingon and allat

Stoner

WEED SMOKER

Is a Math/Science kinda smart guy

Ace

I do not give a single shit what this GIF looks like

Ace has a hooked nose

And crooked teeth

And heterochromia

One green eye one brown eye type shit

Is color blind

The green and red kind

Can not drive

Do not let him behind the wheel

Please

Got that greasy hair

That unwashed stench

Overgrown armpit hair

Has a forest under there

A REALLY GOOD LOOKING HAPPY TRAIL ☹️☹️

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW GOOD HIS HAPPY TRAIL LOOKS I SWEAR TO YOU

Sabo

This motherfucker is inSANE

Bro needs to go back to the mental health institution

Has a gold tooth

Has cologne on always

And it smells so good

Doesn’t brush his hair

But its fine bc he really pulls off the messy look

Tried to grow a beard and it did not look good

Is very organized

Is insecure about his scars

(Secretly) looks at guys

Not so secretly looks at girls

Is definitely bisexual

TRANSGENDER

Choked on the devil fruit when he ate it

Messy eater

CROOKED NOSE

It’s basically facts that the ASL brothers have crooked noses

Except for Ace with his hooked nose

Can speak Spanish but not Portuguese

Loser can’t speak the language he grew up around 💀💀

Marco

Just GET A DIFFERENT BARBER GYAT DAMN 😭😭

At least get a fade

Has male pattern baldness

Knows his hair is bad (doesn’t care)

Has cavities

Doesn’t floss

Does not wear deodorant

would definitely dress grungy

And or punk

And have a mohawk sometimes ;p

And think he’s the shit

When he needs to fix that GODDAMN HAIR

He would be gay

Oh my god how gay he would be

Has SEX

This guy FUCKS

Idk how but I feel like he pulls some major bitches

Smoker

TBH I would fuck him and I’m literally asexual

So yk this dude is getting it on

Has tried to smoke 20 cigars at once

Succeeded somehow

Type of guy to say “I bet five dollars that___” and always lose

But does it anyways

GOD at rock paper scissors

You may win the first time you play him, but that’s because he’s watching your tactics

Sneaky little bastard

Straight and Cis but fully supports the LGBTQIA+

“They don’t bother me, and even if a queer person did bother me, it would only be that specific one. Not all of them.”

It makes no sense how people get bullied for things they can’t control

Very stand up kinda guy

Beats up bullies type of fella

Princess Vivi

She is so fine istg

She would for sure pull

Would have an unbelievably dark past by age 30

God of never have I ever

Would just own everyone in it

The coolest backstory

Paints her nails to match her hair

Looks really good in modest dresses

Uh

She’s Hispanic

Not sorry

For real she is

I think she would really like cats

Keeps in contact with the strawhats

Buys them things and all that

Gives them supply crates like food and fresh ingredients

Really likes working with kids

Would be an amazing and patient teacher

Would have a really good singing voice

Looks absolutely amazing in white

[fuckselfloveihatemyself]

I am mentally screaming constantly since last night. I've been on a binge recently to watch as many old queer movies as I can to discover more of my history. Some of it is bad, with outdated terms and ridiculously homophobic stereotypes, but some of it is so phenomenal and it's insane I haven't heard of it before.

To start I was telling my partner this on date night, and they're older than me, so they went on to talk about The Birdcage as a magnificent one, and I explained how I read up on To Wong Foo Thank You For Everything, Julia Newman and wanted to see it.

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!

So last night we started with The Birdcage, which has Robin Williams, Armand, as one of the main love interests in a gay marriage with his husband/wife, Albert, who is a drag queen and goes mostly by she/her pronouns. It was very lighthearted and hilarious! I was pleasantly surprised and shocked, I couldn't stop laughing at some parts, and getting angry at other parts. As the plot is the gay couples son, Val, is getting married to his college sweetheart who comes from a conservative family. So they're trying to hide the fact that Val was raised by two queer men who own a drag club together. The majority of it is funny as the conservatives are made the buttend of the joke, and it has an amazing happy ending. I absolutely loved how Robin Williams played Armand as it wasn't offensive at all, just a very dedicated family man who loves his partner and child. Albert, Armand's wife/husband was so amazing, and I read up on the actor who at the time wasn't out but came out later in life and how Robin Williams helped him feel comfortable when it came to the part and ensuring he wasn't forced out of closet. The acting is so good as Albert definitely has mother hen instincts and clearly wants what's best for their son and Val acknowledges that that's his mom and dad. There is a scene where Albert is trying to act "straight" and it clearly goes all wrong, one scene comedic, but there's a second one where they're wearing a suite and you can see how much they're holding themselves back and trying so hard for their son and it honestly made me cry. There is a few scenes where you meet the sons bio mother, Katherine, but it's made abundantly clear that she does not really have any parental instincts and had no desire to raise her son, what I did love was how this wasn't framed in a negative light. It's clear the bio mother, Katherine, and Armand had a one night stand, accidently conceived, and Armand decided to raise his boy with his loving partner Albert. Towards the end of the movie there is a love confession from Robins character, Armand, that is so real to life and loving I had tears running down my eyes by the end of it. Honestly the movie is so feel good I could go back and watch it twenty times.

To Wong Foo Thank You For Everything, Julia Newman. Was also an amazing movie. It stars Patrick Swayze and Wesley Snipes who both play seasoned drag queens, but they also mostly identify as ladies, as throughout the film you only see them in drag, except for the beginning scene with Payrick Swayze coming out of the shower, and going solely by she/her pronouns. So I think with the time period it was made in they were considered drag queens, but had it been made today it would have been worded moreso as trans women who are also drag queens. As Vida, Patrick's character, only answers to her women name and pronouns, as does Noxeema, Wesley's character. It has guest star appearances from Robin Williams and Ru Paul. This movie, forewarning, has racists slurs, outdated queer terms, and homophobia. As the three drag queens break down in a small town in the country where people like them are not at all accepted. Despite all that though I still think it's definitely worth the watch, as it has a happy ending and an acknowledging by the town that they know that they're not typical ladies, but that they still think they're beautiful and amazing people.

I'll probably leave my thoughts on a few other films I've seen recently or before that I also loved or didn't. As I want to talk about But I'm a Cheerleader, and The Gay Decievers, but I'm still processing that one.

[skepticbeliever-bookclub]

What are your personal favourite fics? :D

Great question! A perfect excuse for us to reach out to our members and ask them for their personal favourites and thanks to our collective recs, we're about to unravel a list of some real gems for you and hopefully therein you'll find a few favourites of your own.

want you in my room - beethechange | E, 13k, Complete

As they watch, Tall Guy takes his beanie off, revealing a mess of thick, shiny brown hair. He runs his hand through it to shake out the hat hair and Ryan feels like he’s stuck in an Herbal Essences commercial, except he’s the one making inappropriate lustful noises.

Ryan adjusts his snapback, determined. He is, after all, wearing his very finest basketball shorts, without even a single hole at the hem, and the knowledge puts an extra spring in his step. “I’m gonna climb that dude like a tree,” he tells Curly.

guidance for sailors, lost at sea - varnes | T, 6.2k, Complete

“I’m not the mom,” Shane says, drowsily appalled.

Ryan raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t say you were the mom,” he soothes, sincere in the way that Ryan kind of always is, even when he’s being sarcastic. “I just said they reacted to you as if you were the mom.”

“It’s -- that’s the same thing,” Shane protests, but quietly, because he has a tiny ghost perched on his hip and he doesn’t want to wake her. It. Whatever. It’s kind of hard to tell, because they don’t look like people, exactly, more like -- outlines.

Actually, ironically, what they really look like is people covered in sheets, round at the top and kind of vague at the bottom, but Shane has stopped trying to say that because Ryan gets mad about it. He thinks it’s disrespectful.

Shane thinks it’s disrespectful that he was made step-parent to a bridge full of baby ghosts without anybody asking him, but sure. Pointing out that they look like sheets is the problem.

You can run away with me anytime you want - PhyllisDietrichson | E, 12k, Complete

But sometimes Ryan scrolls through Shane’s instagram when his socials go quiet and their text convo takes a long pause and Ryan knows it’s because Shane is off camping somewhere, and Ryan can’t deny that he feels the tug of his absence.

we were wrecks before we crashed into each other - uneventfulhouses | E, 24k, Complete

Cleo’s smile is soft. “Shane told me his memory. What’s yours?”

“Less about memories,” Ryan says truthfully. “More about the future. Where we’ll be and such.”

Arching a brow, she drops her arms, so she clasps her hands in front of her hips. “Where do you think you’ll be?”

Ryan laughs. “Dunno.” He isn’t brave enough to say that he does know that Shane will be there, somewhere, wedged between the regular, the obtuse, the breathtaking, the wild. The generic and the extraordinary. The weird and the wonderful.

or; this week on Weird and/or Wonderful World, Shane and Ryan visit a record shop.

Hold Your Breath, It Gets Better - beethechange | E, 10k, Complete

Ryan stops short in the doorway of his bedroom, banging his shoulder against the doorframe in his haste, because he’s too late. Shane’s kneeling in front of the bottom drawer of his bedside table, peering down at the contents, hand frozen in a hover like he’d been about to reach in. His face is a blank mask.

“Ah. I keep the batteries in the top drawer. Not. Not the bottom one.”

“Yes,” Shane says, cocking his head to the left in puzzlement, and then he pauses for a fraction of a second too long as he considers his words. “I can see that the batteries are not in the bottom drawer.”

darling it’s a faded notion - varnes | E, 28k, complete

The sun is too bright and Ryan’s whole body is alight with something that is eating him all the way up from the inside out, but he keeps his eyes open and he makes himself look, and he tells himself that once he finds Shane, he’ll think about it. Once he finds Shane, they’ll make a plan. Once he finds Shane, and only then, he’ll let himself have the thought he’s been swallowing down like bile since he came to: that they didn’t fall.

They were pushed.

OR: Ryan and Shane get cursed by a ghost, and now they can’t be not-touching. It’s … not great.

open all your doors - apologeticallybourgeois | E, 8k, Complete

Shane was almost sure that Ryan didn’t actually cast a spell for it to happen, if only because the price he’d have to pay would probably be counted in, like, human limbs instead of a couple of small animals.

The Leading Man - breathtaken | E, 95k, Complete

All things considered, he could definitely do a lot worse than this: a performer-owned and -operated, queer-positive, crossover film studio, promising creative input right from day one – directing, cinematography, [...] it’s everything he wants.

He just has to get his dick out for it.

Euneirophrenia - orphan_account | T, 4.7k, Complete

Euneirophrenia: The peace of mind that comes from having pleasant dreams

Maelstrom - liminalweirdo | E, 40k, Complete

Here’s the thing about driving halfway across the country to see someone. You can’t really deny, after that, that you’re pretty much head over heels for them.

The Denial Twist - beethechange | E, 35k, Complete

“This is kind of surreal,” Shane says, taking a sip of his tea. It’s piping hot and delicious, except it tastes like hot chocolate and not like tea at all. “Sort of—Wonka-esque, right? Or Alice in Wonderland.”

“If you’re aiming a shot over the bow about my height you can fucking forget about it,” Ryan says, watching with interest as Shane’s cup refills by itself. “But yeah, it’s surreal. Literally, because dreams aren’t real.”

Shane’s unsettled by the comment. It sets alarm bells ringing in his head but he doesn’t know why. He just wasn’t expecting Dream Ryan to be so, well—so on the nose.

Or, the one where Shane and Ryan have some really weird dreams and perhaps, eventually, some sex.

Collide - needywitch | E, 35k, Complete

Ryan is desperately in love with his best friend.

what's the point of this again? - touchinghearts | T, 9.3k, Complete

When Ryan invites Shane back for a holiday week to meet his family during a big reunion, it doesn’t even occur to Shane that it could be a big deal.

Lost a fic? Check out our fic found tag, and if you still can’t find it, send us an ask!

[readinginthereadyroom]

let’s talk about 9-1-1 buddie headcanons:

- eddie gets rid of his truck. christopher is getting older and wants more independence so he gets something with better clearance. and I’ve decided that something is a dodge durango. eddie is actually really into it. can’t stop talking about the fold down seats and towing capabilities. buck teases him and calls it his soccer mom van. then immediately starts researching CP-friendly soccer leagues for chris.

- buck strikes me as a podcast kinda guy. I feel like a lot of his random facts probably start with information learned via podcast and then researched separately on google or wikipedia. 

- luddite eddie my beloved. but not like luddite luddite. eddie’s a millennial so I see him as okay with all the 20th century technology he grew up with and just not all the newfangled smart home/internet gaming stuff. 

- abuela gives eddie an old turntable and a box of records and he falls in love with it. likes to play spanish love songs while cleaning on the weekends.

- eddie breaks up with ana. he does it quietly and cordially a couple weeks after the sniper incident.

- buck and taylor date for a little while but never really take off. and it’s super important that it’s buck who makes the decision to break up. they both have very busy lives and different priorities. and taylor acknowledges she probably shouldn’t have kissed him in the first place. she just hated to see buck so broken and wanted to comfort him. they decide they are better as friends.

- bosko and eddie friendship rights! eddie actually apologizes to her and they become gym buddies. lena stops going to the junkyard fights and finds an MMA gym that she’ll take eddie to. during the pandemic they somehow find themselves doing socially distanced tai-chi in the park. they keep it up once the gyms reopen.

- side note: lena does in fact get a cat. he’s a huge floofy maine coon named sarge who absolutely adores eddie. rubs his head all over him and immediately worms his way into his lap when eddie visits. he hisses at buck tho and lena finds it endlessly hilarious.

- demisexual eddie! I like the idea of lena no-nonsense asking eddie if he’s ace one day and eddie just having an internal panic attack but not being able to figure out why. karen gently brings it up few months later and he’s just deny deny deny. then he overhears david telling michael that he gives off ace vibes and that’s the last straw. so eddie pulls a full buck and starts researching just to prove everyone wrong. except it’s like a lightbulb clicks on and yeah. maybe there’s something to this.

- eddie and karen have a book club every other week. usually novellas or a short story collection. queer theory and literary fiction. the occasional poetry book. at some point they invite david to join them. they also have a not-so-secret romance novel exchange because they are big saps.

- eddie is also a sucker for a really good cup of black coffee. has a favorite hole-in-the-wall cafe where he buys beans in bulk. buck calls it his diesel fuel drink and grimaces at the taste. he prefers simple oatmilk latte from the place near the station. and yet buck always seems to know what days eddie will be running late and rushing to work and has a cup from said hole-in-the-wall coffee waiting. despite it not being on buck’s route. 

- christopher loves buck’s loft. buck keeps a stash of toys and coloring books in his coffee table trunk for when he visits. chris sees the stairs as a fun challenge and will often ask to go up and sit on buck’s bed to watch the city. or sit on the patio while buck bbq’s dinner for the three of them. he thinks it’s the coolest house ever.

- buck actually rides his bike. it’s not just for show. especially after the pandemic hit. he likes to go out in the mornings. drives to a nearby trail on his days off and enjoys the scenery while the sun comes up. sometimes eddie and chris meet him there after his ride and they have a breakfast picnic.

- the diaz-buckley-han’s share one netflix account. it’s technically buck’s in that he pays for it, but when maddie moved to LA he set her up with her own profile. then logged into his account at eddie’s one day and never logged out. renamed the profile buck & eddie after he setup a kid’s profile specifically for chris. then after learning about maddie and chim’s not-dating buff-fridays, buck put both their names on her profile as a prank. and then it just stayed that way. jee-yun even has a profile despite being a literal infant that doesn’t watch tv. maddie cried when she saw it.

- buck takes the legal guardianship thing very seriously. he’s already really involved in essentially co-parenting chris but he starts getting really nervous about asking invasive questions about chris’ medical history. so eddie sits him down with chris and the three of them talk about it. eddie very specifically asks chris if he’s okay with sharing that kind of info with buck. because even tho christopher’s a kid eddie always wants him to have a say in his own health decisions. then he has a more in-depth convo with just buck about insurance and bills and doctor’s visits. makes sure buck has access to all of it. 

- chris played secret matchmaker. went to his old friend santa claus and asked if buck would stay forever. santa came thru, as always.

- also carla knows. buck starts spending more nights at the diaz house and one morning she lets herself in and sees buck coming out of eddie’s room in just a pair of sweatpants. she gives him a coy eyebrow raise and buck blushes. then she just laughs, pats his cheek affectionately, and says your secret’s safe with me buckaroo. when a bleary-eyed eddie wanders out a half hour later she pushes a cup of coffee into his hands, waits a few moments, looks eddie dead in the eyes, and points at buck. I see you took my advice. eddie chokes on his coffee.

- speaking of carla she is family. she and her husband are regular guests at the 118 get-togethers, holidays at the firehouse, and family meals. she occasionally takes on other clients, but she’s mostly exclusive to the diazes these days. esp as christopher gets older and wants more independence. she’s been around since he was 7 and he’s comfortable with her. she stays his home heath care aide until she retires. then she personally vets a new one. because not just anyone will do for her boy. they throw her a huge retirement party.

- gonna jump into the future because christopher absolutely names his daughter carla shannon buckley-diaz. there isn’t a dry eye in the house.

- and I don’t actually see chris calling buck pops or anything. he’s just his buck. tho I can see eddie asking christopher if he wants to hyphenate his last name when buck officially adopts him. buck’s his hero so chris is 100% onboard. 

- buck and eddie don’t have more kids. eddie never wanted more and buck is surrounded by the ever-expanding horde of firefam kids. they love their little trio.

- also eddie is hilariously terrible with other kids. he just. doesn’t know how to talk to them. he’s literally the best father ever with christopher, but any other kid and he’s all awkward hello small human. it’s also the reason the team sends buck to handle kid rescues. he knows how to speak to kids and they light up around his sunshine energy. but then there are certain kids who just glom onto eddie. usually the quiet ones. they find something about his calm dad presence very soothing so they just cling to him until buck can coax them around. 

- I do not see the buckley-diazes getting a pet. buck and eddie work long shifts and it’s not fair to put that kind of extra responsibility on carla when her job is to care for chris. however, as chris gets older he does get a mobility service dog to help with counterbalance. she’s a golden retriever named stella and she’s a very good girl. 

- buck proposes by accident. they’re at the park with christopher and marriage just sorta comes up during one of his infodumps. eddie is eating his sandwich, nodding along, and just casually says of course I want to marry you. buck stops talking. christopher giggles. eddie panics. but when he looks at buck he’s all puppy-eyed and hopeful. you do? eddie nods. chris chimes in with a stage whispered ask properly buck and say yes dad. so they do.

[eugeniedanglars]

hm i’m just gonna post some random ted lasso thoughts because i have no one to infodump to about this.

the secret heat of this show’s success is that a solid 90% of the characters are himbos. any of the players except sam and roy would totally ask what color the pink panther is

i think the reason this show hits so unexpectedly hard for me is that it’s basically like if check please was about pro soccer instead of college hockey and also wasn’t a romance. like it’s got that same emphasis on friendship and building team camaraderie and also has a sweet southern main character who wins people over through baking yknow?

i can’t stop thinking about that gay little welshman. not that he’s actually canon gay but this show doesn’t have any queer characters and if a single grindr joke is the closest i’m gonna get then by god i’m gonna take it. colin hughes assigned gay at tumblr dot com, @ ted lasso creator bill lawrence if you have a problem with this please feel free to venmo me. also come on he turns all his instagram posts into rants about welsh independence he knows art history and he’s also so stupid that he tried to sacrifice his car keys in a ceremonial fire with no plan for how to get home afterwards, how could i not love him even though i keep wanting to call him colin robinson

dani rojas dani rooojas dani dani rojas football is life. i think dani, colin, sam, and keeley are in a four-way tie for my favorite character

roy saying he doesn’t know exactly who he headbutted because he doesn’t see so well at night anymore is probably my favorite joke from the entire show

i’m sad that this show is probably only gonna go for three seasons but it’s always better to wrap things up satisfyingly than to drag on for ages

keeley bicon

aside from the obvious (very white, very straight, very dude-heavy), my main complaint about this show is ted’s divorce storyline, mostly because all that michelle really says about it is that she wishes she still felt like she did in the beginning and i watched that episode with my mom (who has had a stable and seemingly content marriage to my dad for like 30 years and counting) and she rolled her eyes at that line and said that no one feels like they do in the beginning. i guess this actually does tie into the show being very dude-centric cause michelle has no real characterization or presence in the show and that makes me not care about her and ted getting divorced bc it’s like. i am informed that ted is sad about this but the show doesn’t explain why i should be sad about this; i can’t mourn the loss of something i’ve never seen and know nothing about. rebecca’s divorce is done much better because we actually get a sense of what her and rupert’s relationship was like pre-divorce and how awful the divorce process has been for her.

i can’t stop staring at keeley’s hairline just bc she clearly has the same hair texture as one of my irl friends, i.e. very frizzy curly hair that’s been artificially straightened

[autisticcassandracain]

Braids and Cuts

Fandom/Characters: Batman Comics, Cassandra Cain & Duke Thomas

Wordcount: 1475

Summary: Cass convinces Duke to cut his hair with her, and suggests getting braids. Duke has mixed feelings. The last person who'd done his braids was his mom.

Notes: Written for @duketectivecomics’s Duke Week Day 6: Family Bonding! I tried my best to do my research to be respectful and realistic, but I’m white, so if I got anything wrong regarding natural hair, please let me know! You can read this on AO3 here!

///

The Wayne Manor bathroom closest to their bedrooms - because there was more than one, he’d never get used to this mansion no matter how long he spent in it - was still larger than Duke’s old bedroom, which made it easily large enough to drag a truly gigantic standing mirror in there, so they’d be able to see the back of their heads without the hassle of a handheld mirror. Duke laid their guards out while Cass stood in front of it.

“Who’s first?” Cass asked, angling her head so she could see both her sides.

“You, ‘cause mine’ll probably take longer.” Plus, he hadn’t entirely decided whether he’d go through with it. It’d taken quite a while for his hair to grow back this long, and even cutting half of it off was... daunting, to say the least.

When you can’t jump off rooftops, just cut your own hair, you’ll get about the same adrenaline rush.

“I want just one side shaved,” Cass reminded him while she sat back in the chair.

Duke pulled out a clipper and rolled his eyes. “I know, you’ve only said it about three hundred times, but thanks for the reminder.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, lowest guard?”

The mirror reflected Cass’s huge grin. “Yup.”

It was easier than Duke had expected it to be, but then again, Cass’s hair was straight as a board. The scissors went in almost as easy as the clippers, and before he knew it, half her head was gone and shaved.

And yeah, it actually did look pretty damn good.

Admittedly, Duke had been skeptical when Cass’d first suggested getting dual haircuts. Not just because he’d never done his own hair, but because Cass’s fashion sense was... questionable. Sure, she had strong opinion on how she should look, which was something. It was just unfortunate that none of her opinions were any good. She’d been known to combine every colour in the visible light spectrum in the same outfit, socks with crocs, and just straight up rip off pieces of her clothes if she didn’t like how it looked. Sometimes it worked. Most of the time, it really didn’t.

But she’d come prepared with a photo album of approximately a thousand different tapered cuts, saved sides, and every braid, loc, and twist combo with those you could imagine, and, well. When Duke’d first started growing out his hair again, he’d hoped it would lead to him finally learning how to be creative with it, like his mom was. In practice, he’d done absolutely nothing, except narrowly keeping it alive. Maybe it was time for a chop.

“You sure you don’t want me to do the other side?” Duke asked, fully expecting a no.

Instead, Cass paused, looking in the mirror, angling her head this way and that. Then, she grabbed the clippers from his hand, and raked it through her hair.

“Cass!”

“I’m doing a buzzcut.”

“I thought you said you wanted one side? You were pretty adamant about it!”

“Changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Queer reasons.”

Duke rubbed his nose. “Sure, okay, whatever makes you happy. But can I at least finish it?”

Cass paused, cocked her head a little, then handed him the clippers.

“Thanks. And I hope you’re not expecting me to cut everything off.”

“Nope.”

“Good, because I spent way too long growing it for that.” And with that, he started shaving the rest of her head.

Around the time he was busy trying not to cut her ear off (easy, with the guard, but still), Cass said, “You should get yellow yarn braids.”

Duke threw her an incredulous look through the mirror. “You’re either wildly underestimating how long yarn braids take, or my patience.”

“You like them,” Cass insisted.

Which, yes, she wasn’t wrong, but, “How could you possibly know that?”

“You kept coming back to them. In the style collection.”

And, yeah, he had. Sure, getting yellow yarn braids was about as ironic as writing ‘I AM THE SIGNAL’ on the side of his head, but it was just such a cool look. He could save both sides of his head and keep them long, or shave only one and make them shorter, and both would be amazing.

“I’m not getting them,” he said. He shut the clipper off. “There, how do you like that?”

The only thing left on Cass’s head were tiny, prickly hairs, that she immediately went to rub her hand across. She stood up and twirled a bit in the mirrors, wearing a huge grin. “Love it.”

“Glad to hear that.” He gave her the clippers. “Go wash that, I should probably section my hair first.” She gave him a thumbs up and moved towards the sink.

They worked in silence for a little while, Duke carefully separating his hair with a comb and moisturizing it, while Cass washed and dried the clippers. The sound of running water would’ve been soothing if Duke wasn’t running high on nerves.

“Can I do it?” Cass asked.

“Cass, I love you, but I’d rather die than let you anywhere near my hair.” He gestured towards her hand. “Give me the clippers.”

And with a pout, she handed them over and hopped onto the washing machine to watch.

Well. No putting it off anymore.

He put the clippers to his head and went to work.

It wasn’t as difficult as he’d expected it to be. He slowly worked over his head, making sure to keep his eyes on the mirror, even as he could feel Cass staring at him.

“I could do the braids,” she offered, from atop the washing machine.

“What part of ‘I’d rather die than let you near my hair’ did you not get?” Duke answered, barely paying attention.

“You used to have braids.”

That made him pause his clipping. “How do you know?”

“Saw pictures at your house.”

“Ah.” He’d taken them down for a while, after he’d come out, but he’d taken a few  kid photos with him in foster care, after his parents... you know. It was comforting to hold onto these memories, and over time, it had stopped being strange or embarrassing to see himself look like a little girl. Even a bit nostalgic, in a weird way.

Which might be why he was considering bringing back the styles he’d worn before he’d come out. It made him remember the way his mom used to braid his hair. She was a fast braider, had to be, with box braids being her preferred style. She wore them for as long as she could get away with it, preferring natural looks for her own hair, but gladly braided his with as many beads and bright colours as he asked. He’d never actually been to a professional; braiding had been his and his mom’s little ritual, over the weekend, with Netflix or songs in the background. They’d only stopped when he’d come out and clipped his hair short.

“My mom used to do my braids,” he simply said, and Cass made an understanding noise.

“Don’t you want to learn?” she asked.

On the one hand, he did. He’d always wanted to learn, to be just as fast as his mom. On the other hand, he really, really didn’t. He just wanted his mom to do them for him, forever. Or at least for another few years, to make up for lost time.

Also, on a lighter note, he didn’t feel like sitting still for like, two days, while failing to do his first pair of braids, and really didn’t feel like doing it all alone.

He’d nearly reached the end of his haircut, detangling the last piece of hair to cut before going in for precision clips. It went swift, after that, and in the end, the haircut looked good. Full on the top, low on the sides and back. Mom had always had a full head of hair, but he felt like braids on this style would give it his own twist.

He’d like to show it to her. Maybe she’d even be present enough to appreciate it.

“I’ll do the yarn braids on one condition,” he announced, turning to Cass.

She peaked up. “What?”

“You stay with me the entire time while I do them, and you’re not allowed to get distracted on your phone.”

She grimaced. “You’re mean.”

“You’re the one that wants me to do the braids.”

“Only because it’d make you happy.”

“And because it’d look cool?”

“I’d prefer pink. And orange.”

“Of course you do, you lesbian. Do we have a deal?”

She wrinkled her nose, but said, “Deal.”

It took way longer than he (or Cass, who complained the whole time) would have liked, but two days later, he had yarn braids that ended mid-back, with electric yellow yarn.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his mom liked them.

[itsclydebitches]

Hi Clyde! I know this might be a bit late to the conversation but I just wanted to ask if you think M&K are writing Yang through a male lens? Not in the sense she's hyper-sexualised, but in the sense she lashes out at her allies without consequences (Fiona), has little empathy for female survivors of abuse (Salem and Blake) and gives her loved ones the cold shoulder when she doesn't agree with them rather than trying to reach an understanding (Blake and Ren).

Hi there, anon! No one is ever late to the conversation around here, not when I'm forever answering months-old asks lol

On the whole I would say no, simply because - as many others have pointed out in regards to other posts - this behavior is by no means seen solely in Yang. Ruby is out there lashing out in Volume 6, Jaune was giving Ren the same cold shoulder, no one else has expressed any empathy for the abuse survivors lately (though Yang might actually have a point in her favor there, given her talk with Weiss in Volume 5, when she learns about her mom's drinking). My point being, pretty much everyone is written with this classic masculine lens right now, where being angry, violent, and dismissive are framed as the correct way to approach problems, whether we're talking about Weiss shoving her weapon in Whitley's face, or Nora coolly brushing aside Ren's concerns. The exceptions being, to my mind, Ren - who learned this season that considering a kinder, more strategic approach is wrong - and Oscar who is embodying the archetype of the innocent child so fully that it allows him to forgive/grant absolution outside of the bounds of the story's internal logic and gendered expectations. Him reaching out to Hazel, Emerald, and even Ozpin is less a commentary on gender and more an extreme upholding of his status as the youngest and, comparatively, most innocent (which, as said previously, bumps up against Ruby's same, former status). Think Harry Potter, destroying evil with the love in his skin as an 11yo by merely touching Quirrel's face, not an older teenager hurling a dark curse at Malfoy while overflowing with rage. Oscar is still very much in that initial stage of being the young, baby-faced character who is not yet jaded and is thus able to overcome evil purely by wishing it so. Yet everyone else, including Yang, gets by on lies, secrets, violence, and anger - no matter how much the story wants to dress it up as heroics. So Yang is by no means alone in that.

What does interest me regarding Yang characterization right now is not, strictly speaking, about Yang. Rather, it’s about the presumed relationship with Blake and how changes to Blake’s character have reflected back on Yang. I won’t go into a full, eight season analysis of it here, but suffice to say, Blake’s personality has taken a sharp dive lately, most notably in the most recent volume. She used to be an opinionated, outspoken woman, the kind of person who marched up to Weiss in the middle of the street to denounce her family’s slavery, fighting for her people with as much intensity in a conversation as she gave on the battlefield. This is the woman who stormed off in anger at Weiss’ racism, demanded a solemn oath from Yang if she was going to believe her about the Mercury fight, rallied an army to defend Haven, set her own house on fire to defend her parents... I could go on. Blake used to only be quiet when it came to settling down with a good book. Now she’s far more meek and submissive. She’s been reduced to blushing prettily at Yang’s praise, begging Ruby to save her, going along with Yang’s plans for betrayal because she’s scared about killing again, clasping Ruby’s hands to assure her that she’ll save them all, etc. I use the term “reduced” intentionally because, on their own, there’s nothing wrong with any of these traits. If anything, Blake should be a more well-rounded character for being able to collapse crying over Adam, or go tongue-tied at a compliment. The problem lies in replacing her original personality with this new one: softer, less confrontational, less skilled, no longer as determined, no longer as angry, keeping to the background to play at comic relief or the damsel in distress. I bring all this up because - within the comparatively slim queer rep we’ve gotten in media - there’s a long history of writing them so that one is clearly the “man” in the relationship and the other is clearly the “woman.” This extends from visual markers like dividing them between assumed masculine and feminine clothing preferences - who wears dresses and who can pass for a boy in a baseball hat and sweats? - to caching in on equally assumed personality traits - who is the calm and compassionate individual; who has the temper and is constantly itching for a fight? To use two examples, think of couples like Sapphire and Ruby, or Kurt and Blaine. One is a cool blue in flowy dresses, always working to be sensible, while the other is an angry red in a sensible shirt and pants, easily pissed off. One is practicing a version of Beyoncé's “Single Ladies” in a sequined leotard, framed as the lady, whereas the other sings “Teenage Dream” in a suit at the piano, a song meant to appeal to the teenage girls watching, no matter the character’s sexuality. I’m simplifying a LOT here, including the context for the times (Glee) and the ways in which this divide is sometimes flipped (Ruby and Sapphire’s wedding), but my point is that whether authors realize it or not, they often force their queer characters into the gender binary, even while they’re supposedly meant to be challenging those norms. Blake and Yang, to get to a long-winded point, are becoming a part of that trend, wherein the closer they get to becoming a canonical couple, the more classically feminized Blake becomes. That, in turn, positions Yang as the “man” of the relationship. Already embodying some of those assumptions with her tough personality and brawl fight style, Blake’s regression into someone in need of rescue, someone less likely to speak up, someone who is visually positioned as less confident and in need of emotional care (think of her drooped ears and inability to make eye contact in “Ultimatum)” only increases that reading, especially given arcs like Yang’s insistence that she doesn’t need anyone protecting her, morphing into her becoming Blake’s protector instead. Yes, the dialogue states that they protect each other, but we all know RWBY struggles to show what the characters claim. Scenes like Yang arriving on a badass motorcycle to fight the majority of the battle against Adam, ending with her cradling a sobbing Blake who promises to never leave her side, or confidently taking Blake’s cheek in hand to comfort her after their not-fight, a moment of confidence and (unneeded) forgiveness... this all speaks volumes of something RWBY doesn’t think is there. So I don’t believe it’s intentional and, as said, there are a lot of complexities to take into account here, but I nevertheless don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’ve lost so much of Blake’s original personality right around the time the show got more serious about their relationship. As a presumed queer couple, there’s an instinctual desire to figure out which is the “guy” and which is the “girl” in the relationship, with Yang being positioned as the former the more Blake changes to fit the latter. 

[oakandcirrus]

the new american summer

hello meet my first foray into writing literature, based on the ideas in hypothermic / oljato. it's an exploration of my relationship with masculinity and how it intersects with my queerness.

words: ~11k

tw: period-typical homophobia (1984), abuse mention, suicidal ideation, uhhh attempted drowning?

anyway, it begins:

******

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Love isn’t supposed to burn, not like this…

It was the summer of ‘84. I was heading off to a Scout camp in the sierras. I think I was excited. I was doing scouts for my old man, but I loved getting far, far away from my parents. Some brief breath of fresh air and independence and freedom. I got to go somewhere where I could make my own decisions and be more myself than I could at home.

I should have done this sooner, the story’s getting fuzzier and fuzzier as time passes. But I’m not the only one who remembers it, so at least there’s that.

I don’t remember the drive, except for the heat of my mom’s car. The windows were down but Fresno in the summer was a special kind of hell. I guess that was an omen of the torture I had ahead of me.

It got cloudy, then sunny again: never trust the weather forecast when you’re up in the mountains. Said bye to my mom, didn’t watch her leave. I picked up my pack and followed the others to the campgrounds.

I’m pretty sure our troop’s site was called Navajo. It was at the end of the trail of different camps, of course, but it was better than I thought it would be: There were canvas tents on wooden pallets instead of the ground. I was glad to set my backpack down, damned thing was heavy. I packed my own pots and pans and dishes, or rather my dad told me to pack ‘em, and I wouldn’t ever say no to him. I didn’t need them, food was gonna be in a mess hall, so they just clattered around, useless and noisy.

I believe I was unrolling my sleeping bag (a twenty-year-old, poorly insulated one) or maybe I had already done it at that point. But then he came up, knocking on the tent flap with that stupid crooked smirk.

Actually, it’s coming back to me. Everything around him was so clear, always in focus. I have a hard time picturing what people look like, let alone sound like. But I remember him. I don’t think I could ever forget.

He said, “Can I bunk here?” Or maybe it was, “Is there anyone else sleeping in here?” Immediately, my mind was filled with images of him and me and us. Staying up late and talking in hushed voices by lantern light, trying to put my astronomy badge to good use, pointing out planets and constellations, leaning forward to kiss him. That was the beginning. The magic seed sown in blessed, toxic soil.

“Uhh, no,” I said. I was warm, warm all over. The sun beating down on the tent only made it worse and I tried. I really did try to keep my eyes off him but he was like a magnet. That needle in my chest pulled away from true north and towards a stronger pole. He was the kind of boy that played football or baseball or some other thing I wasn’t interested in unless my dad was watching.

He had green eyes, because of course he did. Because I knew that only 2% of people in the world had them and therefore that would make him special. Blond hair cut close to the scalp, so close it almost looked like he was going off to the military. One thing I noticed, completely against my will, was that he ran his hands over it almost compulsively, like it was new and he just hadn’t gotten used to it yet. The mold of his face was so distinct, square and sharp, hollow cheekbones and strong brows. The line of his nose was straight and unbroken, and his lips were pink; cupid drawing his bow.

I think I forgot to breathe. Forgot to blink. Just kind of went into shock, staring blankly at the floor. There was this sudden weight to my body, this feeling of gravity, like my blood had turned to molten lead, flowing slower through my veins so my heart had to beat faster to move this burning sludge.

He turned away from me, started unpacking. I did something to look occupied, I can’t recall what it was. He moved like, God I don’t know. There was a certain grace to it. He was bowed over his bag, searching for something. The muscles of his arms moved under his skin, tightening and relaxing, and his t-shirt (dark brown, reading Troop 233, my troop, on the back) barely seemed to be keeping him inside. The material stretched over his shoulders and the columns of his back and I was itching to touch that spot where his skull met his neck,

I looked away, eyes fixed on my bag. My breathing was heavy, felt like my heart was beating irregularly. I didn’t know the word for them then, but I was having a panic attack, and he caused it. He still does, but for different reasons now. Stupid ones that make me want to hit him upside the head after I’m sure he’s alright.

I got the hell out of there. Felt like I was being strangled by a boa. I found a tree away from the tents, leaned back against it, hugging myself and gripping my arms so hard it left purple marks. Those images were flashing through my head. Rapid fire.Tiny details like the hair on his forearms and how thick his eyelashes were. Other things too. Like how I wanted to peel that shirt off of him like the skin off a fruit.

I felt some kind of darkness aching deep in my chest: evil and monstrous and destructive. I wanted to devour him, wanted to take and take and take. That feeling, it was like claws digging into my flesh, like some thing that was all teeth and tongue and lips, swallowing me up. Inch by horrible desirable desolate inch. I was shaking, had to bite into my fist for my heart to slow down.

I wasn’t like everyone else. I didn’t feel like I was supposed to. I wasn’t my father’s son I was— (an abomination, a freak, an affront to the natural order, a motherfucking queer—) different. I knew these things. I knew that blood tastes like rust in the mouth. I knew that you can smile and punch someone in the ribs and gain some respect. I knew how to survive, because I hadn’t met him yet. Because I thought that This—whatever This was—wasn’t something I was capable of feeling. And I didn’t know that It could feel like this. Like a white-hot blade drawn fast across the skin, like a whip of glass and nails, that sharp gasp of pain and surprise and that deep-settling ache of want that comes after. To take the whip into your own hands, to give and take the lashes yourself.

That was the beginning. Things didn’t get better after it.

———

His name was Paul. Paul Curtis. He said he just moved here from Oregon. The name burned like acid in my mouth. Hung in the air and clung to me like campfire smoke did to fabric. We sat in the tent—our tent—and he—Paul—took out his walkman, set his headphones around his neck to listen as he read.

I was intrigued by him and I hated it. How half my attention was perpetually on him, trying to glean information and build a personality around the name. Paul Paul Paul. My ears strained to hear the music, to ask him what book he was reading, what he thought about it

The issue was that this silence that couldn’t be broken, that wouldn’t be allowed to be broken. It was a living thing that bound their teeth together.

All speech done through the eyes. His body lay flat on the ground. Orange and green sleeping bag. Why was he like this? How did he live in his skin as he did? Did he even notice it, like I did? Did he feel too, that gaunt thought, that it was a dauntless and cowardly thing to even breathe.

Of course he didn’t. He looked like he had never been afraid a day in his life. Like his daddy never hit him except for a slap on the back for a job well done. His body didn’t fold in on itself. His body was fully aware of the space it was taking up and it was comfortable in it. His body knew what it did to mine. And it didn’t care.

He caught my eyes. That shirt stretched over his chest as he inhaled. It was like he and I were sharing air. His inhale pulled the oxygen from my lungs, and only when he breathed out, chest and belly sinking, fabric wrinkling, could I breathe again, but still tasting that warmth from the inside of his mouth. This happened in a second, and I looked away before my heart could give out.

I got up, got out of the tent. The moment the tent flap closed I took a breath. The air was clear and sharp, coming off the water. Smelled like the earth and pines, baking in the sun. I followed it through the trees and to the water’s edge. Wandered along the beach. Clean blue sky, no smog or smoke like at home. This is what I missed, this is what I needed.

These small freedoms; a breath of frozen air.

———

I understood now why the words for love and death in French, l’amour and la mort, were so similar. Love could feel like death, cold fingers wrapped around your neck, and dying could be an act of sordid devotion.

I’m not sure anyone else understands the strength of desire. How ugly it feels. How humiliating. How it warps the mind. How giving that sort of attention to someone, surrendering your control of your heart and your mind, it demeans you.

Paul. I sneered the name sitting atop a rock, overlooking the lake. The light was growing golden, the shadows of the trees lengthening. He was like some beautiful poison, something rotten that tastes sweet going down, a deceiver. In truth, I had been trying to find some way to make him the villain in my mind. To banish the name from my mouth and sour the image imprinted on the back of my eyelids. I couldn’t.

But those images were already building up inside me. All these photographs that got blurrier by the second, until I couldn’t remember Exactly how those headphones sat around his neck and how the shirt fit him. There were other mysteries as well. What shade of green his eyes were, if they were the color of pine needles or a pond, or what he looked like smiling, or from the back. Questions I wanted answers to, that made me want to get up and find him again just to know something more.

There was a horn, like the kind I would think Joshua used when he brought down the wall of Jericho, and a voice calling: DINNER!

———

It was inevitable. Eventually I’d have to speak to him, but when the time came it was easy. Too easy.

“You don’t like Springsteen!” He was incredulous, I was scowling internally, angry I couldn’t find that coldness I gave to others and shove it down his fucking throat. “You like Fleetwood Mac and The Smiths and fucking Kate Bush, but not Bruce Springsteen.”

That was the thing about being here. We were all away from our mothers.

We all had loose tongues weak from not being sharpened against each other. It was our Pleasure Island. We had a thirst for everything we couldn’t do at home and we were, all of us, getting our fill.

“It’s not that I don’t like him, I just. I don’t know. I don’t understand the appeal.” Paul blinked at me a few times.

“It’s– It’s–” He went still, I was worried I broke him. “You don’t understand the appeal. Well I am doubly glad I brought the new album––”

“Paul!” someone shouted, just as dark-haired, dark-eyed David tore open the tent flap, holding a deck of cards. “Are we playin’ or what?” How had he already met people? I knew the answer: He was friendly and funny and not weirdly religious or queer; strange or a fag, didn’t matter. The real question was who wouldn’t want to be his friend?

He tossed me the tape and his walkman, flashing a smile. “Listen to it, I promise you’ll like him.” And then he hopped out of the tent, the flap closing and leaving me in the cold, dim light of my lantern.

———

It was cooling off in the night. A breeze had come in from the east, pooling in the little cove the camp was nestled in. There was a fire going, the sound of the ax splitting firewood and hitting the solid round it stood on with a mighty thunk. Boys stood around the blaze, roasting s’mores with their shirts discarded here and there. Paul was among them, bare-chested and almost reclining on a chunk of granite.

He was alone, guarding the graham crackers and chocolate and marshmallows. That was the only reason I was able to walk up to him. I carved through the trees and the broken-off groups of shirtless boys, skin shining with faint sweat, walking back to their tents to pretend to sleep. Their voices were hushed under the weight of the night.

“Hey,” he said. The firelight caught the downy hair on his forearms, highlighting the freckles like dotted smudges of ash. His tanned skin looked like gold, smooth and unblemished by moles and scars. He moved over so I could sit; I did, couldn’t look him in the eyes so I looked down at my shoes.

The fire was too large, burning too hot. But everyone would rather be too hot than too cold, that subtle but steady decline in body heat until the fingers pinked, joints becoming stiffer, harder to move until you fell, helpless and waiting. I would much prefer that over what I was feeling now.

I watched a spark die as it hit the ground. In this dry brittle heat and with this wind, an ember that strayed too far could raze the whole damned forest to a sea of ashes.

“So,” Paul began, having to speak up over the voices of the other boys. He started shaving the bark off a stick, sharpening it into a point. “Did you listen to it?”

“Yeah.” I ground my foot into the dirt, the sound rough against my ears. My chest got warmer, and I wanted to take my own shirt off like everyone else had. Wanted to be like them, wanted to be closer to Paul, wanted to feel the heat of his skin on mine. I couldn't have either, each desire cancelling out the other till I stood still. And that feeling of wanting didn’t ever go away, but I forgot about it now, as I thought about his music.

I smiled, forcing myself to look up at him, for conversation's sake. I still didn’t know what shade of green his eyes were. Paul stuck a marshmallow on the stick, stuck it near the red-hot coals to roast. “I liked it.”

He grinned. “See? What did I tell ya?” He bumped me with his shoulder and stirred up a feeling in my stomach I wanted to ignore. “What’s your favorite?” He said ‘your’ like ‘yer’.

“I’m On Fire,” I said. Added, “And Dancing In The Dark,” to cover my tracks.

“Good choices. Mine is My Hometown.” People were starting to leave. I checked my watch: almost eleven. When I looked up one of the older boys came up to us. Tall spindly Jamie with his honey-brown hair brushed out of his face, calculating blue eyes. He was working towards Eagle Scout and everyone talked shit about him behind his back. The way he moved and the way he spoke made them snicker “faggot”. I didn’t like him either, only because he had a penchant for barking orders at me that I didn’t like taking. Like right now.

“You’ll put out the fire, right?” He said, but before I could respond he continued. “Cool, I’m going to bed. G'night kids.” The talking began as he left, my skin prickling with each muttered insult. It was like a guillotine blade hung in the air, each voice was the threat of it falling on my neck.

“Least he thinks you’re responsible,” Paul said.

“I guess.” We sat in silence a moment longer. “Why?” I said, trying to cut the tension.

“Why what?”

“Why’s it your favorite song?”

“Oh.” He clearly wasn’t expecting that, and I regretted asking. I was digging myself into a deeper hole. “Uh. It reminds me of my dad.” Shit. I really regretted asking.

“Sorry.” I couldn’t look at him

“He’s not. Like dead or anything.” I said ‘Oh.’ “It’s just… complicated.” I understood that, also why he didn’t say anything else. Men don’t do heart to hearts. Men don’t take the saw and crack open the rib-cage to let other people inside. Men keep it locked up tight. But we weren’t men. Not yet.

“Here.” Paul offered me the s’more. The shadows of his throat caught my attention for a moment, then his eyes. There was that feeling again as I took it, thanking him. That fluttering thing that made me look away from his eyes and that made me feel like I meant something to him. It was a liar.

I took a bite of the s’more. Molten chocolate and crispy whatever the hell marshmallows were made from. It was strange eating in front of him, and the fact that he’d made it for me without asking was stranger. It was strange sitting next to him too. It felt like everyone’s eyes were on us, on me, waiting for me to do something stupid like smile and tell him he had a fleck of chocolate on his lip, or lean in and take the taste from him myself.

It was silent, save for the crickets and the fire crackling. Everyone else had gone away. I could vaguely hear the sounds of boys from another campsite howling and laughing, but around us, there was a pregnant kind of silence. Paul was washed in light. It fell on his chin, his nose, his brow. Caught at his hair like sparks. His chest rose and fell in the side of my vision, his throat swallowed. The lines of his stomach pointed to the hem of his pants and under and I took another bite of the s’more.

Paul started humming. I couldn’t place its familiarity it at first, but I was glad for the distraction, until it clicked. Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull. The melody was draped between us. And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul. He leaned back, our legs touching. I watched his adam’s apple move with the unspoken words. At night I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet with a freight train runnin’ through the middle of my head— He stopped abruptly, but I knew what came after: Only you can cool my desire.

“Should we put the fire out?” He said with a yawn.

I shook my head a little, coming back to myself, “Sure.”

We found a bucket, and we took it down to the lake. The moonlight danced on the ripples as I filled it. To use an expression of my father’s, it was ‘colder than a witch’s tits in a brass bra.’ I don’t know how Paul could stand it, but he did. Stood with his head tipped back towards the sky. I looked up too, spotting Ursa Major and Minor, Cygnus and Cassopeia and Hercules.

It was a clear night, but I could see the lighter blobs of cloud off in the east. There’s this odd feeling, when you’re standing next to somebody close like we were. Like there was friction between the two of you. Some sort of static. We weren’t touching, but it felt like it. Felt like the air he displaced was pushing into me.

I stole a glance; his body painted in a new kind of light. He was all silver now; moonlight was softer than fire, but he still radiated warmth. I wanted to lean into it and I hated myself for it. Wanted to wade into that frigid lakewater and take it into my lungs.

“A shooting star,” he said. My eyes snapped to where his finger pointed, and I just barely caught sight of it before it was gone. “Make a wish.”

My first thoughts, of course, were of chocolate, and his lips.

———

The fire was out, but I was waiting until the embers were out to go back to the tent. Jamie would absolutely kill me if I caught the camp on fire. Paul had gone back to the tent, and I watched him go. The fire was out but the guilt (and the lust) still burned hot. I missed feeling cold. Wished I could swallow enough water to put out the fire that he started.

I looked behind me for a moment. Saw the flash of naked skin through the tent flaps. The sight hit me like a bullet, like a punch to the stomach. There was a trembling of my breath and a tensing in my shoulders. A rising, searing heat in my face, my internal body temperature turned up to one-hundred and thirty-three. My heart beating faster and faster in my chest, this sickening, oily feeling of desire growing thicker.

I clenched my hand into a fist, against that darkness building in my gut, that ache in my jaw, that desperation for something to sink my teeth into. I wanted to stick my hand into the flames, wanted to let out a scream, wanted to go back to the tent and grab Paul by the face and put my tongue in his mouth. Steal a kiss from him.

I stared into the dying coals, till the black smoke burned my eyes to tears.

———

I couldn’t sleep. It was freezing. My sleeping bag wouldn’t warm up, and the wind that came in through the gaps in the tent fabric was cold as ice. I had my back to Paul in defiance, shivering and half-hoping he would offer to share.

Paul shifted behind me, rustling of fabric and soft groaning. “I know it’s counterintuitive but take your clothes off,” he said. His voice was hoarse and deep, and I swore I could feel that rumble in my bones. “It’s warmer that way.” He– Yeah, no, I was definitely warm now. Did he even know what he was saying? How that sounded. I went into a spiral. What if someone else had heard. What if–

A new voice spoke in my mind. It said: what if we moved closer. what if he woke you up and said, “Come on, we’re sharing. Your shivering ass is getting hella annoying.” what if he leaned in, what if he touched you here. and there. and there too. and what if he liked it.

I threw off my sleeping bag. The cold could kill me if it wanted to.

———

When I woke up, I was warm, and Paul was shaking me by the shoulder. “Come on. Breakfast is in ten minutes.”

I groaned, rolled over in my sleeping bag. It wasn’t even dawn.

The morning was cold, as night had been. The sun had just shown his crowned head, peeking over the heads of the mountains, its light making the lake steam. We walked between the long, orange shadows under the trees. Blurring between sharp and definite margins of interspaced hot and cold light. Burning to ice to burning again.

I had my sleeping bag around my shoulders, still in my nightclothes. Paul was talking and I wasn’t listening. The sky was blue. That pallid sort of blue that came with being awake far too early, where the stars still hung low in the west, where the sun hadn’t drowned out their light quite yet.

I can’t remember what was for breakfast. I must have eaten something. The rest of the day went like that, though. From the leatherworking group to archery to lunch, I barely remembered a thing. The next thing I knew Paul and I were walking back into camp, shoulder to shoulder, passing that ax buried deep in an oak log.

There was something in the air: that rich thread of closeness and the threat of deepening it, and the threat of losing it, and the threat of my blood in my mouth and on someone else's knuckles. Violence was a wicked, pretty little thing. Some morbidly erotic exchange. I give and you take. If he hit me for looking at him I wonder if it would leave a mark, like lightning did in the flesh of the earth. Some quick and brutal love.

I broke off, told him I was heading down to the beach. He said he was going to play Blackjack, and that he might go swimming later, if I wanted to be his lifeguard. (We had just came from a water safety workshop.) I gave him a smile I didn’t feel and we went our separate ways.

I found the rock, clambered up its high sides to the view of the cove: the dock with the kayaks off to the left, rocky beach to the right, water blown choppy by the wind, and I sat, slinging leather cord through two leather cut outs, sewing a sheath for a knife I didn’t have.

It was a bright, sunny day. Cold though. The wind was harsh, cut right through my t-shirt. I was glad for it.

Endlessly tall white clouds casted shifting shadows on the water and the mountains on the other side of the lake. The birds were chirping loud and incessantly, and there was the smell of smoke from a campfire somewhere nearby. Smelled nice, not as nice as cedar, but nice. Pine wood had a distinct scent. The sap in the fresh cut wood burned rich and thick and velvety, igniting like kerosene. I smiled, leaning my head back to soak it all in.

———

Paul made his way to the docks sometime around four, bringing along his buddies. They hadn’t spotted me, too busy screwin around, and I was a ways down the beach.

It had gotten colder, and I pulled my legs into myself against the wind. I thought that it didn’t seem like ideal weather for a swim, as the boys waded into the water.

It wasn’t. Their loud yells and curses echoed across the lake, made the birds fly away. But then I saw Paul.

Those red swim trunks, that laugh, those muscles flowing under the surface of his bare skin. His chest, the slope of his stomach and the curve of his back. His lips and his nipples were the same shade of pink and I wanted to kiss both. Do you know the sound a steel pot makes as whatever’s in it begins to boil? That steadily building rumble. Steam rising, water evaporating, leaving behind something stronger and searing hot. That’s what this was: a distilling of desire.

I dug my nails into the skin of my legs, watched him, unable to look away.

He was drenched in sunlight, the light on his skin and the light reflecting off the water and onto him and God I burned from this thing inside of me. I hated it, I hated him. I remember wanting to see him bleed, wanting to see hear my name on his lips, wanting to see him gone. Wanting to forget I ever saw him. This boy who drove a white-hot fire poker into my skull, rewired my brain, switched the gears around, everything an inverted image of what it was before.

[Isn’t this getting tiresome? Isn’t this getting repetitive? Aren’t I finished yet? Can this be over, please? Can I skip to the end where everything isn’t okay but I think, I pray, that it will be? No?]

We’re back at the lake. I’m on fire and Paul is screaming let me go you piece of shit and laughing, playing how long can we hold our breath.

I am atop the rock. I am watching him carve through the water like a knife parting flesh from bone. How lovely it would be to carve him from my heart. Or better yet to cut the whole thing out. Take the ember from the fire and there is no fire, take the fire from the ember and put it in the water, there’s still the cinder: flammable and ready when you are. He was hot and I was cold and then I was hot and we were both burning up, but there was this one thing and it was that

Light faded quick in the mountains. The warmth of the sunlight was swallowed up and suffocated by blue-black clouds. The scent in the air was a promise of rain. You could feel the weight of it on the sky’s lips.

Those first few drops of ice-cold water sizzled on my skin. I watched Paul hold his hand out, palm up, eyes on the shifting iron above. There was a rumble of thunder, and the giddy, livid thing in my chest broke out, screaming yes yes yes into the sound of roaring skies. I smelled petrichor, and I took a full gulp of it, breathing it in like fumes, waiting to get high off of it.

The rain began to come down in earnest and I didn’t move an inch. I watched it darken the rock. Turn the moss damp and ripple the water. The wind cut into my skin and there was that gaping and silent litany of wonder. Finally, finally I would catch a break.

David and his friends all bolted out of the water, splashing and yelling and why were boys so loud? There was a flash (one, two, three, four, five, six–), and Paul slapped one of them on the back, said something I couldn’t hear. I stopped looking at them, savored the feeling of the rain.

“Hey dumbass! Get down from there.” I looked down, and there was Paul, because of course he was there, of course he’d seen me. I’d thought he was angry, but his face was calm. On the surface at least. After 37 years I’ve learned better, but I didn’t then. “You wanna be next or somethin’?”

“Yeah,” I yelled back flippantly. Regard for my life? Who needed that? Wasn’t like it had been fantastic thus far. I grabbed my sheath and stuck the needle and thread between the leather, slid down.

“They told us, what? Not three hours ago to get away from water and high places during a storm. The fuck are you thinking?” I almost laughed in his face. When did he get all high and mighty? So paternal, so condescendingly protective.

“I was having a little moment of peace. Till you and your buddies came around and fucked it up.” I put the emphasis on the ‘fucked’. I put the emphasis on pushing him out, pushing him away.

[This was the way of men, and we were learning the ropes, learning how to move our wrists to flick them and whip them against each other’s virgin skin. You got tough or you bled. You sank or you swam. There were only two options. That was the truth we had been told.]

I watched the hurt flash across his face, felt guilty and self-righteous and regretting it already.

“Look,” His voice was calmer, steadier. “I don’t know what the hell crawled up your ass but are you coming or not?”

I paused a little, the anger simmering. Rainwater streamed down my face, through his hair down his forehead, off his nose. He set his hand on my shoulder and there was something in his eyes like I want you to be okay and please come with me and— God I was reading way too much into this and I needed him to get away from me, needed his hand off of me because there were licks of fire on my clothes and Christ, I was so tired of burning.

I brushed him off, . “I’ll be fine,” I said. The words came out colder than I had meant, and watching them hit him made that guilt all the more bitter on my tongue. Good. I deserved it and I definitely didn’t want him anywhere near me right now, or ever again.

“Fine, suit yourself.” He bit back, and I turned away.

I didn’t watch him leave. I didn’t see him turn back. Didn’t see his fingers twitch at his sides, his feet pointed towards me before deciding otherwise,

My shoulder still burned.

———

The rain was cold. I was cold. Everything was fucking cold and I was getting sick of it. My fingers were slow in their movements, the joints freezing and locking up, hands trembling. I was counting seconds and miles. A flash. One, two, three— then thunder. The storm was getting closer, made me want to head back to camp. But not yet.

The lightning tore across the sky, seared into my memory for good. I could draw that arc even now; the jagged edges, the precision, the divine moment it struck a tree across the lake. How it split down the middle in a shower of sparks and flaming wood, soaring through the sky like arrows. Thunder crackled across the sky again, vibrated through my bones, made my heart beat faster and I jumped, couldn’t help it, and when I blinked that strike was imprinted on the back of my eyelids.

Yeah, that manic excitement was gone now. Watching that tree smolder, the blackened, charred wood cutting into the sky like an ugly wound, that was my cue. Time to go.

My clothes were drenched, I was freezing, my whole body shook with it as I walked. Something sharp hit my back, stung like a bitch. Another one. I looked up at the sky, “Seriously?” There was a crack of thunder in answer, the sound like a whip, like a roar, like some Lovecraftian monstrosity awakening that was about to devour me whole.

I don’t know how to describe the fear. It was a living, pulsing thing. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and my heart was racing faster than I thought possible. My shoes sunk into mud, I was sure I ran through some poison oak. I could barely see a thing.

I wasn’t anything to this storm I was an ant, a small casualty, someone stupid enough to stay out in the open when the ground was shaking under my feet, and all of the sudden I was reminded how high we were: Seven thousand feet above sea level, seven thousand feet closer to fucking Azathoth and his limbs of ice-fire raining down.

The stench of ozone grew so thick it made me sick to my stomach; I started to run—and that fire came.

Purple light burning the sight from my eyes, the shadows rising up to meet me and wrapping dark, dead limbs around my body.

I laid there for a moment, not entirely sure I was alive. Nothing but the noise of the thunder deafening me.

This is how it ends, huh? Running through the woods, trying to find shelter only to be struck down by lightning. An act of God’s wrath, my dad would say. What was that, Dad? I’m a sinner? Some infernal abomination, no son of yours? Good.

I was fine, I was gleeful. For once in my life I was happy because of something he did. He pushed me into scouts, but I got myself into this camp. I’m the one who went wrong along the way and dirtied the sacrificial blood, put a period at the end of our family tree. Whose baptism didn’t take and who left something down deep underneath the warm water. And if I was dying at least it would be free of his will.

My body still shook from the cold, the hail still hit my back like bullets, and my leg hurt like a mother. Slowly, body aching and tired, I sat up.

There was a gash on my calf, which was a bloody gnarly mess. With a trembling hand I reached out and touched it, that seething whimper I made drowned out by the sheer sounds of the storm.

The thunder was ceaseless, roaring and cracking in my ears and pounding my body into the earth no break between sound and light, the storm was crashing down right over my head with all its might and I was ice cold and I wanted to burn.

I glared up at the clouds. “If I’m going to die here you better just kill me. Get it over with already!” The lightning was like webs across the sky and I was shaking, my body shaking almost violently, all this rage building up inside me. “You hear me? Do it, you bastard! JUST FUCKING DO IT!”

Maelstrom prophet don’t let go, maelstrom prophet just hold on, maelstrom prophet losing his mind and his voice in the middle of the woods on a tiny globe in a vast universe and yet…

The wind stopped. The hail softened into rain, weak sunlight filtering through the clouds, silence, for a moment, time suspended: The eye of the storm.

“Jonah!” That wasn’t my voice, and it definitely wasn’t God’s. I looked, and there, like some sign from the heavens, was Paul.

“There you are. What the hell happened?” He stomped over to me, raincoat dripping wet. The sun was gone again but it didn’t matter, I didn’t think I’d ever be cold again around him. I stared up at him, that look on his face, that old cinder and a new spark.

“I’m sorry.” The words were out before I could stop them, slipping between chattering teeth. “Sorry I didn’t listen to you, and for everything else. You were right.” Paul looked like he was seeing a ghost. Maybe he was. And maybe it wasn’t win or bleed, you or me. Maybe there was a third option after all.

“Look, that– That doesn’t matter right now. You’re fuckin’ soaked, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. I bet you’re halfway to hypothermia, and this break in the storm is only going to last a few minutes, so let’s get movin’.” He offered a hand to pull me up.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I said, “Okay,” and took it.

———

We cut through the woods as fast as we could. Each step was a fresh zap of pain, and the hail had started again, but sooner than I thought we were walking into our empty campsite.

“W-why are we here? Isn’t the mess-s hall s-safer?” We passed the oak log, sans ax, the campfire with coals still smoking.

“Yeah. But it’s too far, and you need to warm up. You’re a fuckin’ icicle.”

Paul basically shoved me into the tent, crawled in after me. We sat huddled together in the center for a spell. “You have a first aid kit?” he asked. I looked down at my leg, muddy and bloody and throbbing. Looked like an infection waiting to happen. I pulled out the kit while Paul got one of his t-shirts wet, to clean it I guessed. I set it down and he took it, popped it open.

“I can do this, ya know? I’m not a kid.”

Paul smirked, shaking his head. “My mom’s a doctor. I win.”

I rolled my eyes, stuck out my leg. He wiped off the crap around it with the shirt, used three or four alcohol wipes on the actual wound. I had to bite down on my knuckles. It was pretty bad, but not as bad as it looked before. The water made it look like a lot more blood. His hands were strong, fingers long and thick with almost elegant nails. I watched the tendons in his hands and his bony wrists as he taped gauze over the gash, wrapped it up. “Thanks.”

“You should get out of those clothes.” Whatever I was doing I stopped, mind short-circuiting as he washed his hands with a little sliver of soap and rainwater. I elected to ignore that second meaning, if only to keep my head from catching fire.

“Yeah,” I said, but I couldn’t feel my fingers. Tried to anyway though.

Pulled off my sopping wet shirt and tore out all the clothes from my bag searching around for a dry one, slipped that on. I started fumbling with the zipper of my shorts, not being able to do it because of the wet fabric and the shivering embarrassment of him seeing me like this. He must’ve got the hint, because he turned around so I could change into my jeans. I set my hiking boots, caked in mud and probably ruined, outside, because what else could happen to them? I was still freezing, but it was at least a little better.

“You don’t have a sweatshirt, do you?” Paul asked. I shrugged and he sighed.

“It’s summer! S-sorry I didn’t pack-k for freak hailstorms.”

“What’s the Boy Scout motto?” God damn him, just one punch, just one good hit to knock that dumb grin off his face.

“Oh fuck you,” I said instead.

“There is one thing we could do.” Jesus Christ. Did he know what he sounded like? I didn’t know it was possible to be both freezing and burning up at the same time, but now I did. My mind helpfully supplied various scenarios which involved the removing of clothes and crawling inside sleeping bags and skin gliding across skin.

“We aren’t cuddling for warmth,” I said, feigning an innocent mind.

Paul laughed, smiling, and he obviously didn’t know what that did to me. “Not unless things get desperate… but you can have mine.” Somehow that was worse. I nodded.

Not-watching as he took off that raincoat, then the Troop hoodie underneath it. It caught up his shirt, lifting it and baring the fine lines of his stomach. I’m not sure I could adequately describe how much I wanted to touch him. He was strong, I could be rough, and maybe he’d like it–– He threw the sweatshirt in my face, grinning as he pulled down his shirt.

I tugged it over my head, sure my face was as red as a beet. I couldn’t meet his eyes as I told him ‘thanks’. Smelled like campfire smoke and deodorant and a little like sweat. It was new enough that the fleece inside was still soft, and still warm from him wearing it. Yeah, I was on fire.

Paul wrapped his sleeping bag around himself and set his headphones around his neck. Springsteen playing loud enough for both of us to hear. My Hometown. I listened to the lyrics, tried to find any connection to him. Riding in his dad’s car, sitting in his lap, something I had never done. Bruce went into the chorus. This is your hometown.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said, breaking the not-silent silence. “I don’t- I don’t know why I said what I did.” I did though, I absolutely did know why I said that and I’m sure he knew that I knew that I was full of shit, but he nodded, arms ‘round his bent legs and looked away.

“Thanks.” Now he was looking back at me again. “I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. You- You scared me and my dad—” We were doing it. His eyes were open, and tunnels and I saw light and I saw stories and everything he said was true and it was water from a deep, deep well that tasted of the liver. “—always yelled when me and my sister did something stupid. He was afraid we’d get hurt. I guess I’m like him.” There was a pause and I didn’t know how to breathe right. The rain hail pelted the tent. “I’ll tell you about mine if you tell me ‘bout yours.”

“My dad?” He nodded. This was how it always worked. A transaction of vulnerability. Real truth was never freely given. “Okay.” I couldn’t tell the whole story. But maybe I didn’t need to. “My dad’s a preacher.” Paul didn’t say anything, so I went on. How did I sum him up. How did I take all the accidental bruises I had and the Fridays spent in some “therapists” chair, the fear, and stack it up neat and pretty? “And a liar. And a cheater.” Taking out my bones one by one and handing them over until he had the shape of me. “He isn’t nice. His hands don’t heal and he’s far from holy.” I picked at my leg, trying trying trying not to cry. “He.” My voice broke. I cleared my throat, eyes burning. My body was coming apart at the seams. “He hits me.” I lifted up the sweatshirt, showed him the bruises on my ribs. His body went rigid, knuckles gone white. I dropped it. “And I’ll never be good enough for him. Never be man enough. That’s why I’m here, trying to get away from him for a little while.” Laughed dryly. “Practice, I guess.”

“‘M sorry,” Paul said. His eyes reflected too much back to me.

I made a p’shaw noise. Said it was fine. It was ugly, it was clean. “What about your old man?”

“Well it’s kind of a long story.”

I looked out the tent: lightning flashed, thunder following right after. “I think we’ve got time.”

“Alright, I warned you,” he said. “My grandpa died in a mine, and my gramma worked in a factory, so my dad basically had to raise his little brother by himself. Vietnam rolled around and his brother volunteered instead of waiting to get drafted, and where he went my dad went. Felt like it was his job to protect him, keep him safe, get him out of there alive.” Paul took a deep breath. “He didn’t. I don’t know how it happened. But either way, there was a body, there was a funeral, and there was one shell-shocked brother and one heartbroken mother to remember it all.”

“Jesus.” I was too casual, didn’t know how to act. I don’t think anyone had ever opened up to me before then.

“Yeah.” He paused for a second, thinking. “Yeah. Anyway, they moved from Virginia to Oregon. My dad met my mom. Had my sister and then me.” He picked at a hole in his jeans, smiling almost bitterly. “When I was little, I’d help him change tires and oil, even helped him re-shingle the roof once. From the outside it would all seem fine.” His face went all stony, and I started to fidget, unable to watch the words fall from his tongue. “But it wasn’t. He’d drink. And he’d say things. He never touched us though.” He said it like not beating your kid was something worthy of a reward. He shook his head, stared through the plywood floor. “Not once. Just left the house. He was always sleeping on the couch the next morning.”

“I never understood it, not until now. Cuz all I’d see was the 100 mile stare and the empty bottles. Didn’t get why he was sad, and why he was angry. But he tried. They both did, for a long long time, but he couldn’t do it. So they split, my mom got a job up in Portland, my sister went with her, and I stayed with him, cuz he’s my dad, you know?” His voice cracked when he said ‘dad’, and all I could think about was how little I knew. If I had a choice I would be gone yesterday. But I didn’t care about my father. Paul did.

“Then we moved down here. ‘For a fresh start,’ he said.”

And here came the kicker. I watched the words try to form on his lips and watched him examine his palms. Wiped his eyes, swallowed thickly, licking his lips.

“He wants me to go to college, make something of myself.” The words were sour, drenched in sarcasm. “He wants me to have things better than he did, be better than he is. It doesn’t always look like that but that’s how he shows how he cares. Sometimes it gets to be too much. And he’s still got a temper. He gets so mad when I screw up, because all he sees is himself and.” Paul dropped his head into his hands—a deep shaky breath in and out.

There’s a certain way that men cry. They don’t. Their eyes water but they blink and they nod and they say something funny and vaguely sexist. But boys, boys cry like someone is reaching inside us and twisting and tearing and taking. Boys cry like the sounds are ripped from their lungs. We cry because we haven’t schooled ourselves in unemotion yet.

And seeing him cry hurt. It hurt because I realized how long he’d held it in. How long it must’ve been since he’d had anyone to hold him. It hurt because wasn’t this what was inside everyone? This soft, desperate boy who needed someone. And what did you do when you had no one? I guess that was when you became a man. When you learned to die quietly.

“And I have to be perfect for him.” The sound was muffled.

“Paul,” I said. He looked up and oh those eyes. Hopeful and sad and red and green, so so green. I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder because that’s all I could do to close this chasm between us, because I was here and he was there and there were certain things we could do and others we couldn’t. But the moment I touched him he fell forward, put his arms around me, breaking this rule like all the others. I almost gasped, not remembering the last time this had happened.

I didn’t understand heat before I met Paul. Never knew how hot a body could be. How the rib cage expanded against the circle of your arms. The warmth ate through his t-shirt and I could feel— I could feel how his muscles worked under his skin, how they tensed the closer he pulled me, pushing closer into my neck, finally crying.

His voice was low and gravelly when he said, “I hate him.”

And I said, “That’s okay,” ‘cause hating him was all I knew.

“Sometimes it’s like-” His hands gripped the fabric tighter and tears gathered in my eyes. “Like I- I- I can’t breathe, like I’m just going to split open and all I can do is clench my teeth and say I’m sorry while he yells and yells about grades and I can’t do anything.” He was almost hyperventilating. “I can’t do anything. Because he loves me and I love him and if I moved an inch I might just fucking kill him.”

That was it. The whole truth spilled from willing, desperate lips.

Paul sighed, all the air passing from his lungs as he relaxed into me. The sound was like wind through an empty house. His breath stirred my hair, and I wondered when he was going to let go because this couldn’t last as long as I wanted it to. Nothing gold can stay.

“Men aren’t supposed to hug like this,” Paul said. “Or cry like a fuckin’ baby.” There it was, the joke. One of those self-deprecating ones that hurt the person you tell it to as much as it hurts you, but I didn’t fall for it.

I rubbed my hand up and down his back, he really was warm, and said, “I know.” But he didn’t let go.

———

People weren’t quite happy that Paul disappeared during a storm and didn’t come back. Jamie was. Well, I was sure Jamie was going to have an aneurysm. I could see the veins bulging in his temples.

We got a slap on the wrist and we were helping with dishes tonight. It could have been worse. We could have gotten sent home.

Paul grinned at me from across the kitchen. He was lighter, now. His smiles didn’t seem so forced. They hadn’t looked it before, but now I knew I was looking at real ones.

And there was something between us now. Something real and tangible. A red string bound to both of our ribs.

“I thought I was going to die today,” I said, watching the dirty water whirl down the drain, thinking about the eye of the storm.

“Glad you didn’t.” Paul set a dish on the rack. I snorted, looked up at him. He was smiling softly at me.

“Yeah, me too,” I said, and after a beat I went back to scrubbing.

There was definitely a reason to be afraid. There were, in fact, multiple reasons to be afraid. I’m not going to be naive and tell you not to be afraid, but there were some risks you had to take sometimes. Because in the center of the storm was Paul. And Paul. Paul was the best person that I had ever met. Paul was a flame I was lucky to be warmed by.

———

It was cold that night, like it had been every night. But this time I had actually been able to sleep. I tried to give Paul his sweatshirt back, but he told me, “Keep it. Looks better on you anyway,” and winked. Without it my skin felt raw, nerves exposed to the open air, and even without that fact I was too flustered to decline. So I wore it to bed and I slept, peacefully, for once.

For a while at least.

Sometime—way too early—I heard Paul’s voice, felt his hands on my shoulders. “Wake up, you gotta see this.” So I got up, put on my wet shoes. Slipped out the tent and walked down to the lake’s edge. Crickets chirped, owls hooted. It was your typical nighttime scene, except for when I got to the beach, the canopy of the trees no longer blocking the sky.

The lake was still, looked like glass. But that wasn’t the part that took my breath away. That was the sky. The milky way stood out bright and proud, the arc of it bent over the lake from horizon to horizon, from lakeshore to lakeshore.

There were so many stars I couldn’t dream of finding any constellations, but—God, I was lucky—there was a shooting star. I made the same wish, just in case. Then there was another. And another. The Perseids.

“Jesus,” I said. Paul exhaled, his breath turned to fog in the cold air.

“Yeah.” He yawned, slung an arm around my shoulders, leaning into me. I didn’t move an inch, afraid the spell would break, but it didn’t.

———

I sat on my rock, overlooking the lake, Paul sat beside me, idly itching his arm; a run in with poison oak. We didn’t say a thing, just watched the triathlon. This makes it seem like it was quiet and serene. It wasn’t, cuz we weren’t alone.

We were surrounded by boys. All of them whooping and cheering. I kinda wanted to put my hands over my ears.

I had no idea who anyone was cheering for, if there were teams. I wasn’t paying any attention when it started. But now they were swimming, sleek bodies cutting through the water.

Paul had a soft smile on his face, he leaned back on his palms. I tried not to look at him, but I knew his right hand was very close to my left, fingers brushing, and I couldn’t stop feeling warm. I felt good, dare I say happy.

“What’re you grinnin’ about?”

Fuck. “Did you see that kid? He swam right into that other kid.” Paul didn’t say anything else. I was saved? I think?

I started humming Dreams (I woke up with it in my head this morning) unaware of him watching me, or that gut-punch impulse that he wanted to act on so bad it made him sick to his stomach. I leaned back When the rain washes you clean, you'll know. You’ll know.

You will know.

———

Bruises form when capillaries near the skin’s surface are broken. See, they’re really easy to break. A little too much force and there’s a mark on your skin to show for it.

I knew bruises. Had experienced many from my dad, from that storm. Currently, my leg was a nasty shade of purple-yellow. But Paul didn’t have any bruises. I wanted to give him a few.

No, not with fists on his cheekbones. On his neck, his collarbone, the hinge of his jaw. The thing you deny becomes stronger at the moment of acceptance. It’s the moment of allowing something out of your head and into reality, letting it take up space and prickle the hairs on your arms, that makes it worse than before. Giving permission to some cosmic force to manifest.

Desire is a ghost, and instead of getting chills I was burning constantly. This cloud of thick heat following me around and

knocking the wind from my lungs.

I didn’t know if I could take it for much longer. Because he was always there, and I was always burning. Paul. Paul. Paul. Hovering just beyond my skin. His words curled in my ear, curled in my stomach, curled up next to the hearth-fire like a cat in a window like the dog I wanted as a kid and the house I still wanted, deep in the woods.

Feelings like shadows that are illuminated are no longer shadows. They’re like prisms, refracting the light, showing us colors that none of us could see without one crossing over into the other. Without the forbidden and forsaken welcomed into the fold, there could not be beauty.

No, I was far from miserable, and yes, I was far from what I wanted. I was always wanting him. And there’s only so much wanting one can hold in their fist before the fist reaches for something solid.

———

I was laying awake, staring at the blank space above my head.

I was becoming impatient. And everyone knows impatience breeds recklessness. Recklessness bleeds and I was

Starting to stop caring about consequences. Because, I wondered, what if these days passed and he. He had felt the same way. This whole time. And because I didn’t say a thing he didn’t move.

I rolled over in my sleeping bag, watched his bare chest rise and fall with each breath. I could picture the heat rising off of him, felt how the night chill was leeching the warmth from my body. I wanted to be closer. I wanted to feel it. Pouring over my skin, sinking into the reservoir-heart.

I didn’t move. Instead, I forced my eyes closed, and didn’t open them until I heard Paul stir the next morning. The frost that had formed on the ground and the tents was steaming in the searing light of daybreak.

———

We were out collecting stones, shiny ones, pretty ones. Ones we would take home and put on our window sills and pick up and hold every once in a while to remind us of right now, this moment.

It was the sad, cyclical nature of time. The way it seemed to overlap and bend around important moments.

I stood knee deep in the lake and I was listening to my dad batter around the house and listening to my mom sitting quietly in her room and I was listening to Springsteen and I was holding this rock that was green like Paul’s eyes and thinking about how I should have kissed him when I had the chance.

“I don’t want to go home,” Paul said. He was scratching the algae off of a rock to see what lay underneath it. He gave up and tossed it back.

I pictured my mom and her car pulling up. Her smile and oh I missed you and she would ask about my week and I would say it was good and we would drive home in silence to the crackling sound of the radio.

“Me neither.” I thumbed over the stone in my hand. Smiled. Yeah, okay.

“Paul,” I said. His eyes clung to mine. And the way he looked at me when I spoke his name was something I couldn’t explain. It was as if he were compelled by it. Enraptured. It was then I realized names can be for more than idle use.

“Here.” I held out the rock. I added, cheeks flaming, “It looks like your eyes.”

And here it was. The frown, the confusion pulling the eyes together, shifting of the feet.

I waited. But it never came. Paul took it from my hand, looking it over for a minute. He met my eyes, smiling.

His face was pink—but we were in the sun—and he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. He didn’t look away, and I didn’t either. One long moment stretched ad infinitum. No one ever talks about truly looking at someone. Quick glances, though plentiful, were desperate and furtive, never ever enough. They were like drinking only one sip of water when you had a well to take from, reaching into the ever-present, ever-tempting Jar Of Delights and taking only one rose-flavored square. Nearly impossible, never satisfying, always left wanting for more.

But to eat until you’re sated, to fill your cup to the overflow. Taking more means needing less, in the long run, right? So I drank in the sight of him, took a deep drag of the taboo. His eyes were the mystery finally solved. They were green. Green like gold sunlight spilling through leaves, green like the first breath of spring, green like arsenic. He took a step, like falling forward, I leaned into catch him and—

There was a splash, we both looked. It was Jamie and one of the other to-be Eagle scouts. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the docks, skipping stones, ruining lives with sudden noises.

When I looked back, Paul was ten shades of red, like he’d just gotten caught. “Thanks— Thank you. For the rock.” He smiled, cheeks bright red and so freckled and yeah, I was flying too close to the sun.

———

I didn’t think.

He was just. Lying there on the sand, looking at me. What was I supposed to do?

Paul I think I love you. Yeah, he didn’t react because I didn’t say it. I didn’t, just leaned down, closing my eyes and pressing our lips together. His hands held my face and there was a moment of in-between—his thumbs under my closed eyes, my face in his trembling hands, breaths that were loud in the quiet air—and I opened them, bursting the bubble, and he pushed me away. What the fuck and what was that and what were you— Half finished sentences because he was red-faced and and panicking. We were standing and shattering and I didn’t know how to stitch up the skin. But there were things that hurt to hear and I thought it would be different but now it would never be the same because I kissed him and he let me and he pulled me closer and—

He hit me, bright pain blooming on my cheek.

It was a shock. My heart switching from this fear to that one. Thump thump thump; a release of adrenaline pulsing in jeweled blood. I thought he liked it. I thought he liked me. I thought I could take it. It wasn’t the first punch I had felt. I stepped up to Paul, opening my mouth to say. Something. God knows what. And he shoved me back. Tripped on some rock and landed in the water. Palms cut open.

There was something broken and unguarded in his eyes, the tears brimming over. I didn’t think he would, I had thought. Didn’t think he had it in him. But that didn’t matter now. He did have it in him because fear was a noose that tightened if you didn’t pass it on. He grabbed me by the throat, dragged me into the lake.

Water soaked my jeans and water enveloped my chest and water spilled over my face as the back of my skull met the sand and stones. His hands were warm, the water was freezing, my head was

blurring, and the water was so clear I could see his face all distorted and I wished he’d let me up because I didn't want this, not anymore.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Love wasn’t supposed to burn, not like these panicking, sporadic gasps of breath before getting shoved back down, and trying-not-to-open-my-lips-and-

scream. All of it was so polarizing, the cold on my skin and the fire in my lungs, felt like my body was just a vessel, just a container for something that was meant to cauterize wounds and keep frozen bodies warm, for some holy and furious love. This wasn’t supposed to be the end.

I reached and I- I gripped at his hands, tried to pry them off of me, grabbed his arms, felt the bones of his wrist grind against each other. He squeezed and I squeezed and I’d leave a mark. He wouldn’t forget me easily and I’d cling to this fire until my last breath, and it wasn’t going to be now so I kicked his legs, forced my head above water, yelling, breathing in anything I could, water slipping into the soft sponge of the lungs, coughing and inhaling and struggling only to get pushed back down again.

Like a baptism.

[the last rites before—] Something went wrong at the last one, some vital part of me left underneath the holy water. That image was reversed this time, in cold water, at the hands of someone I loved. (that question, the answer that was a truth that was a lie: I proclaim my life to the Lord and promise to uphold His commands and live my life in service to His word.…)

Praying to his, green green eyes: I love you I love you I love you there’s another way it isn’t us against each other it’s us— I gripped his forearms, the thin area around his wrists and I felt the bones move. All I had to do was squeeze, to make something give.

It did. He yelled and I kicked him in the knees, kicked him in the shins and I kicked him until his body gave and I (pinched my nose, my father’s hands on my crossed arms and on the back of my head, lowering me in, holding me under for a moment longer, sure to purge the sin. And then—) I was coming up through the water, falling backwards into the sky, [—a resurrection.] breathing again, retching up fluid and coughing and whole in my lungs, whole in my body, sunlight on my skin, burning and livid and iron on my tongue I found him and I took him in my hands.

Just like that, the prophet became the Messiah, the sinner saved. Bloody thoughts, bloody hands, cleaned off in the water.

I dragged him from the lake kicking and tearing at my arms, yelling like someone begging for their life. Like someone who had just seen the burning eyes of an Angel and was praying for Its mercy. I put him on the shore, pinned him to the stones where he turned away, frantic and frayed, where he reached for a rock to break open my skull because fear has teeth and survival was the only language men spoke. I said: Stop, stop moving, it’s okay. And I’m not gonna hurt you but he didn’t hear me, desperately thrashing underneath me, the fox cornered and baring fangs. He was so afraid that I was going to pick him up and break him, but that wasn’t his fault.

I spoke his name and he looked, I spoke his name and he stilled. I told him, “It’s alright, it’s okay,” and said it at least five times and each word hit him like a punch, tears slipping out of the corners of his red eyes like bullets. “Paul, you’re not—” Dirty, sinful, foul, inhuman. “Broken. It’s alright.”

He didn’t understand, said, “No, it’s not. It’s not alright—” eyes darting back and forth, searching for people, losing him to the white noise. I had to cup his face to keep his attention. His hands went on top of mine, warm and firm. “Because- Because, fuck. I- I wanted to, I wanted you and that’s not- I can’t, I can’t. My dad. I can’t, I can’t do this. Can’t be this.” I brushed my thumb over his face, wiped away the tears. He leaned into my palms, closing his eyes. I almost cried.

“There are more than two options, Paul.”

I had said it so many times and I still didn’t know what I meant, but I kept talking. “It’s okay, you— you’re okay, you. You’re perfect.” And other things I didn’t say like I love you and I would break myself for you, and Paul’s hand went on my arm and his other hand went on the back of my head and he smiled and he cried and I was feverish. I’d never felt holy in my life, but I felt it when he pulled our mouths together.

Water lapped at the shore. Birds flew above us, chirping and singing. The sun warmed my back, a new kind of prayer.

We broke apart, the way out, the third option still tingling on my lips and I said: “It’s us.”

-------

The end. If you liked it, fuckin reblog it or I'll take ur kneecaps. tanks.

-code

[kalofi]

Hey mx lofi I know nothing about sk8 so could u tell me if it’s genuinely worth watching or legit just gaybait?

ok i have a few things to say abt this

i LOVE sk8 i thought it was such a fun and exciting show and one(if not the only?) shounen-y skateboarding animes out there so obv it has moments of skateboard skills that r just not humanly possible but its an anime so. lmfao. but overall it stays p true to the heart of skateboarding!! awesome animation cool characters (except. well. we'll get to him) and just an overall eye catching aesthetic ❤️ v cool v swag v epic

there is ONE character whom i hate so dearly 🥰 i hope to kill him until he dies hes basically the hisoka of sk8 in which he is obsessed with a child due to their "skill" but its played in an almost romantic way and he calls them the EVE to his ADAM (his name is adam btw). so yea hes a freak i hate him sm if shit like that makes u uncomfy just. steer clear of this show i know there were some parts where i had to pause and take a walk around my bedroom bc i was so angry and uncomfortable when he was in a scene

putting THAT to the side, the show is also p focused on the whole bromance narrative so there r limited female characters and the one girlboss we DO get just putters around for a few episodes then gets kicked out like wtf 💀 its not my biggest gripe but it made me a lil salty lol

but id say despite that it is a v worth while watch tbh!!! i had so much fun binging the first couple episodes, then consequently waiting one week for every new one BDJFKNSKDOD i got hooked real fast, the main characters (reki (reki my beloved) and langa) have such good chemistry they r so fun and sweet together and the ensemble cast is amazing too, joe n cherry n miya n shadow deserve the world and more. ALSO. sk8 has made me laugh out loud so many times there r loads of silly moments to giggle at 🙏🏽

now moving onto the topic of queerbaiting...

first things first. there is a post out there somewhere talking abt this in better detail but i couldnt find it so i'll try to put it into my own words. u shouldn't rly look at sk8 thru a western viewpoint of whats queerbaiting or not.

in the western world, while still not as prominent or accepted as cishet relationships, lgbtq relationships r a lot more present, mainly bc they r allowed to b. now this is not to say that its sooooo easy to make queer relationships appear on the big screen, they still face a lot of backlash from ppl even IF the entertainment industry has made good steps in being inclusive. with this im just trying to point out that while still not normalized completely yet, lgbtq representation is easier to produce/consume

in this way, i personally dont believe sk8 was gaybaiting or queerbaiting at ALL. pls feel free to correct me if im wrong, im not the most knowledgeable on the subject, but it is arguably harder to produce or animate queer relationships in Japan, especially if its meant to be a shounen-type anime.

thru claiming sk8 is queerbaiting by not animating their two leads kissing or confessing to each other or whatever, u r discrediting everything else that makes reki and langas relationship so special. no they do not profess their love for each other under the light of the moon, but they are shown time and time again to care very deeply for each other, to push each other to b and do their best, they are shown to b very physically affection, to have have a strong bond built not only on a mutual love of skateboarding, but a mutual respect for one another

if u RLY wanna get shippy tho (not judging) there are a few moments that rly cement how much they like/care abt the other sprinkled throughout the show. i wont get into too much detail to avoid spoilers, but while one of the main characters is talking to his mom, she thinks he is asking her how to confess to a girl when he says he "likes the person." the same main character tells the other he wants to "skate infinitely" with him. which is pretty gay in and of itself if u ask me

so, from all that, i would say the producers, directors, animators, voice actors, and everyone who worked on this show did the best they could in terms of getting the ship as close to canon as they could what with all the restrictions they had to tiptoe around. i was pretty satisfied with the ending (bar the small complaints mentioned previously) and i know a lot of other ppl were too!! again, deffos worth watching in my opinion

this got kind of rambly so sorry for that but i hope this clears some stuff up, and if u end up watching it i hope u enjoy!

p.s. if u truly r desperate for ship content (again, not judging) u can always check the dub and the content that comes with it! the english VAs r very vocal abt their love for the ships in the show so u can get ur share of that from there ❤️

[hargrove-mayfields]

Harringrove April Day 7- Daisychain

Pluck, twist, pluck, twist, pluck, twist.

When he’s upset, Billy has a bad habit of getting himself caught in a rut, repeating the same action over and over again until he’s even more worked up.

Most of the time it’s chain smoking, lighting up one cigarette after another until his chest burns and he’s angrier than when he started, but right now, he had to resort to something else.

Susan was hosting some get-together in their backyard, and Billy had been told explicitly, don’t do anything that could embarrass the family and don’t try to stay inside and get out of it either, so even though he didn’t want a damned thing to do with the bullshit happy family routine, and especially not for Susan’s wine mom group, he knew better than to try anything.

There was a shady spot near the edge of their property where he went to brood, not out of sight of the little party but far enough away he finally had some room to breathe.

Finally away from the people, he started feeling jittery, just itching for something to do with his hands, so he plucked a mayweed, stuck his thumb under the flower to pop it off, and put the bitter stem between his teeth.

Max must’ve been feeling the same pressure to socialize, because she had come over and sat down beside him in the grass not too long after.

When Billy pulled up another daisy, she had scoffed, “You don’t have to kill them, you know.”

“Shut up, shitbird.” He flicked the head of the flower at her this time, smiling fakely when she rolled her eyes.

“God, if you have to ruin them you could at least like, make a chain or something.”

It was Billy’s turn to scoff at her, “Really, Max? Do I look like the type to braid delicate little flowers together?”

“No.” She remarked sarcastically, picking up the flower he broke, “But you do look like the type who’s going to find all these petals in your hair if you don’t quit killing my daisies for no reason.”

“If I make a stupid daisy chain, you’re wearing it.” He threatened, but nature is Max’s thing, and she had sat up straighter, a smile on her face, “Deal.”

So now it was pluck, twist, pluck, twist, pluck, twist, until he had a whole nother chain finished for Max. He ties it off and sits it atop her head, but his hands still need something to do or he’s going to tear his hair out as he slips into that same old routine of repetition.

His knuckles are locked from how aggressively he was braiding them by the time he finishes a second one, but he’s still got tons of energy to burn and no cigarettes to smoke, so it’s pluck, twist, pluck, twist, pluck, twist, again and again.

There are eight crowns in total before Billy decides his fingers are going to break if he keeps going, and he decides he’s sacrificed enough flowers. Max tries to stack them all on her head, giggling when the tower of flower crowns tips over, and then they have to decide what to do with them.

Max keeps two, one for herself and her friend El, and gives one to each of the women Susan invited over, getting a smile and a pat on the head from each one. She returns to Billy with one daisy chain left, and puts it on his head.

He shakes it back off immediately, sends a pointed glance towards Neil sitting in a lawn chair, drinking his fourth beer at two in the afternoon, “Gonna have to give this one away too.”

“Well don’t you have somebody special you can give it to?”

The answer is yes, absolutely he does, but he doesn’t know how appropriate it is, showing up at his boyfriend's house with flowers he picked out of his own backyard like he’s in some kind of puppy love.

So for now he just shrugs his shoulders, a noncommittal response to Max’s question, but really, he can’t stop thinking about it, delicate white and yellow flowers in chestnut brown hair.

He was supposed to go see Steve after this stupid social was over anyways, maybe he’d take it to him then. Yeah, that would work.

Except once the party’s over and he gets his drunken confirmation from Neil that he’s free to go, Billy’s just sitting in his car outside of Steve’s with the daisy chain hanging from his mirror, debating on whether to give it to him or not.

Because he wasn’t supposed to be that kind of queer or Neil Hargrove would’ve sniffed him out a thousand times by now. He was masculine, tough, not at all the type to bring his boyfriend fucking daisies.

So it stays in the car, but the whole time they’re together, he’s still thinking about it, likening soft porcelain skin to white flower petals, lean limbs to sturdy stems, until he decides he’s just got to see that pretty face framed by spring blooms.

Right before he leaves, he grabs it out of the car, holds it behind his back, “Got you something, pretty boy.”

He steps back onto Steve’s stoop and crowns his King, placing the circle of mayweed on top of his head, making Steve blush, just the lightest dusting of pink on his cheeks as he declares, “Oh, I love daisies! Our lawn boy always puts weed killer on all of our flowers, says it makes the yard look nicer, so I never get to see any.”

Then he kisses Billy on the cheek, gentle and soft, and tells him, “Thank you, Billy.” and closes the front door. In that moment, standing on his boyfriend’s stoop at midnight, having brought him flowers and got the sweetest display of affection in return, Billy felt like he was in one of those sad-sap love stories like Susan watched.

And maybe it’s a little much, but now how is Billy supposed to just show up at Steve’s door without one of the wild daisies that grows out back, since they have so many? Especially when each and every time Steve does the exact same thing, kisses him on the cheek and puts them in a little vase on the table.

It doesn’t take long until he’s picked the yard almost barren of any wild daisies just to see that sweet smile on Steve’s face again.

Now the only thing that could ruin this for him would be- “William Reuben Hargrove, what did you do to all of my daisies?”- if Max found out he’d picked her flowers.

It was so worth it.

[anemonenemerosa]

The Spare - Chapter 12

Here we go! Thank you, @lumosinlove for the SW-verse!

Chapter 12

Out of precaution, Regulus decided to sneak into Malfoy Manor through the kitchen window. He scoffed at the thought that everyone always assumed he was a model son. Sure, he kept his head down, all appearances and he was once very eager to please his parents but that didn't mean he hadn't a rebellious streak.

Sirius often got caught trying to sneak out the house... through the back door... too obvious. Idiot. But he learned over time. Regulus, on the other hand, learned to pick locks and sneak out of windows quiet early on. It was much stealthier and more unsuspected from the obedient, quiet kid.

Around 16, Regulus did this very often, trying to live a little under the thumb of his parents and while pretending not to. Sirius was bold, brave and often getting shit for it. Regulus was collected and sneaky. His escapades went unnoticed. It was all about the right balance. He asked to go out often enough to be considered normal. His parents said no more often than not and Regulus just had to ask for events he was not really interested in. When they said no, he would obediently stay at home and just sneak out to the stuff he actually wanted to go to. Unsuspecting.

He went to several high school parties and concerts, albeit hating crowds, because that was what teenagers did right? What they enjoyed. Regulus did not enjoy the drinking, the stuffed rooms and the gross drunk make-out sessions. Maybe he was born as snarky old man, always been more of a Waldorf, in need for his Statler.

Once in his room, Regulus showered, changed and was just in time for Lucius to take him to practice.

The mood in locker the locker room was disgustingly cheerful. Several Death eaters were reciting their favourite slurs against Sirius and all the “faggots”, how they called queers, in general, accompanied by hollering, whistling and applause.

Regulus thought of Sirius, of Ben and Mateo, how kind and loving they treated him, and it took all his badly patched up self-control to keep his expression blank and polite. This is not right.

He did not return to the shire this evening. Instead, he spent a long time running in the neighbourhood of the Malfoys, trying to sort through the last days.

When he collapsed exhausted into bed this evening, he came to the conclusion that there was actually no way he could get through the mess in his very own… The psychologist-thing was meant as a joke at Thanksgiving, Black…

                                                    oOo

The next evening, he nervously rang the bell besides the name tag Hayes/Alves, not knowing whether someone is even at home but he was let into the building and a moment later he found himself unable to knock on the door to their flat. These people owed him noting, why would they even let him in again after he practically stormed out yesterday?

The door was yanked open anyway and a relieved looking Mateo pulled him inside. “There you are, we were worried!”

“What? Why?”

“You were rather upset when you bolted yesterday” Jo provided from the kitchen, a spoon in her mouth and an almost empty can of ice cream in her hands.

“Hey, there you are!” Ben chimed happily, stepping out of the bathroom in his pyjamas and towelling his hair.

“Are you guys mad?” Regulus blurted suddenly, “You don’t know me, I stormed out yesterday after all you have done like an ungrateful asshole and you are actually happy that I'm back?”

“Sure.” All three answered as one, baffling him completely.

“Why?” He was almost desperate, “You have absolutely no gain from me being here... I am just a rookie so no one will buy my secrets from you, I am rather rich but you have nothing to properly blackmail me so what do you want?!”

“Are you serious?” Jo asked after a short silence.

“No, that’s my Brother, I am Regulus.” he answered absentmindedly. Ben and Mateo snorted but Jo just looked puzzled.

Regulus looked back, similarly puzzled. “Sirius Black, the famous, freshly outed, Captain of the Gryffindor Lions?”

Still nothing but a furrowed brow... “NHL?”

'Yeah, yeah, heard of it but hold on, your full name is Regulus, like your real name? And your brother is, in fact, named Sirius, that’s not a fake, too?”

“That is your Question? And no, its Sirius Orion and Regulus Arcturus Black, actually.” Jo anything but shrieked, joining the other two hobbits already shaking with mirth by now.  

“Ok, that’s - that’s just bad, I'm sorry” she wheezed after a few minutes.

“I always thought these were aliases… I see that I need to revaluate my bad-name categories.”

“Alors, I call you Josephine from now on?” Regulus was met with a surprisingly deathly glare that sent Ben and Mateo straight into another fit.

A grin started to tuck at the corner of Regulus’ lips but there were still pressing questions.

“Jo, you have no idea of the disaster that went on? You didn’t even check Twitter?”

“Nah, I don’t frequent social media. While I prefer to limit my direct interaction with other people, assholes accumulate there and throw all their bullshit around, guarded by the anonymity of the internet. I think a dentist appointment is less annoying.” The grin tucked again. This weird mixture of slang and hoity-toity wording was just gold.

“But you do watch ice hockey?” He was not sure why that was important for him. Maybe to find out, what she knew about him, maybe because to find out more about her.

“Sometimes yeah. For me you are Reg, the rather giant dude that slept on our couch, that prefers his tea bitter and gross and does not say thank you. The guy with the enjoyable dry humour and good taste in literature that luckily balances his abysmal taste in movies.”

At that Regulus laughed, too. He didn’t know, why exactly but he felt giddy with the idea that these were the first people who wouldn’t define him through hockey and his family.  That although they knew of his profession, here was just Reg, not Regulus Arcturus Black, Son of Orion Black, number 72 of the Snakes. Maybe I can have this, after all.

Is this, what Sirius had with his team, with Remus? Another pang of guilt let the laughter die in his throat, his eyes welled up. Not again…please.

But there was no time to recompose himself. Quickly, he was shoved onto the couch, wrapped in the chicken-blanket and surrounded by these idiots caring for him for some reason he still did not understand.

For the third time, his walls broke. Where there even walls by now? Regulus felt rather leaking with emotions.

But of course, he could not keep it in around them and spilled all his life to the three of them, not in as much detail he told Mateo in the hospital but also not keeping his role of Sirius’ outing to himself. Once all was out, there was a tense silence... of course there was, he just told the gay couple in front of him that he forced his brother out to be tormented by a crowd of imbecile haters on the internet.

Regulus was sure, his little excursion into a happy family ended now. Just as he guessed on the first evening here but instead of scolding and disapproving, cold glares he found himself hugged by Ben, again. He gives good hugs; his brain supplied uselessly.

“It’s a shitty move to out someone Reg, there is nothing to sugar coat.” Ben sighed.

“But what they did with that information and how the people online reacted is not your fault.”

Regulus said nothing, just closed his eyes and buried deeper in the shoulder of Ben, who practically sat on his lap to reach the height for such an embrace.

“But your feelings were hurt, too at that time and a lot of people used you. Fuck your family. You know what, I’m your mom now!”

Regulus just continued crying silently into Ben’s Shoulder, Mateo’s hand rubbing slowly over his back, chuckling at Ben’s statement.

“Mother hen.”

This showed what he had suspected for a while now, proof that his parents were not just a little strict. That something in his childhood went horribly wrong and he has no idea what to do with that information except crying it out.

When he calmed down a bit, Ben and Mateo got up to make some tea and finish dinner while quietly talking in Portuguese. So, it was something he was not meant to understand. His stomach knotted uncomfortably.

“Reg?” Jo tried quietly, she had not reacted in any way so far. He had even forgotten that she was still perched on the carpet beside him and somehow, he dreaded what was to come next.

“Hm?”

“Earlier, at the door, as you said that you do not know of what use you are for us as we cannot even blackmail you... you were not joking?” He shook his head, new tears threating to well up. How were there still tears left and what happened to his composure again?

“You really expected us to just care for you as long as we could gain profit?” There was no accusation in her voice just sadness and concern. He shrugged his shoulders; did he think that? No, but this was the only form of interaction he knew, everything always came with a price, an expectation.

The next thing he felt was Jo not practically but literally perched on his lap, straddling his hips, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her cheek against his temple. He knew already that, opposite to her brother, Jo was not the touchy feely type with strangers.

He was not considered a stranger anymore, after a day?

“I don’t know if there is anything one could say to make it better, so I will just keep my mouth shut and hug you until you believe that we like you and care for you. Just like that. As long as it will take.” She wiggled a bit to demonstrate getting comfortable.

There was nothing sexual about the embrace although they were pressed together from shoulders to hips und she just wiggled in his lap. It was completely opposite to the girls that approached him at the parties he sneaked out to. These were eyeing him hungrily, like a trophy. Some of them (very drunk, to their defence) even told him how similar he looked to Sirius… and how sexy they found his brother. He shivered a bit at the memory and gladly went back to reality.

“You might die of old age while waiting.” Regulus lifted his head to check the effect of his attempt in humour on her face but she just tucked his head back, giving a soft huff.

“Nah. 'M convincing but probably need to excuse myself to the bathroom or the fridge in between”

He closed his eyes again, wrapped his arms around her waist and relished in the hug without questioning why this hug felt different, more intimate than Ben’s or Mateo’s.

After an undefinable amount of time, the men came back with plates of Vegetable Quesadillas and Guacamole.

“Comfort Food, my avozinha’s recipe.”, Mateo commented

Instead of answering his question for cutlery, Ben met his eyes, pointedly grabbed a Quesadilla, dipped it in the guacamole and shoved the whole thing in his mouth without breaking eye contact.

Reg snorted with laughter.

                                                oOo

Of course, Ben spilled more than just a little on his shirt.

While Ben and Jo were cleaning the dishes and Ben, Mateo came over with a fresh cup of tea.

“Hey” Reg lifted his head. “I’m talking now as your fried -or co-mom, apparently- that just happens to also have studied medicine” he nodded for Mateo to continue.

“You went through a lot. Not just lately. And you struggle to cope.” Alors, the poker face seems to be gone…

“I do not say that you are weak, you are not! But you might want to consider the help of a therapist to sort through your feelings and your past. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign of knowing your boundaries and taking care of yourself. I do not want to talk you into this, you need to want that for therapy to help. So, take you time to think about that, if you need. You can always come to us to talk but no one here is a therapist so we can only help you so far. OK? We are not disposing you to a shrink. Our door is open for you but you might want to have different type of help.”

Reg sat the in silence after this speech, hand running through his hair and rubbing his neck.

He had thought about that, more and more serious since Thanksgiving but hearing it and having the confirmation that he was welcome here …a thought formed in his brain, shortly followed by his usual determination.

"I want this to stop. I want to get better." He looked at Mateo and was met with his signature genuine, warm smile.

"You have a team therapist, don't you? It might be the fastest way to an appointment."

Reg grimaced at the thought of Dr. Slughorn. Generally well-meaning but when in doubt always humouring Riddle.

"I wouldn't trust him with taking the trash out." Regs grimace it met with a raised eyebrow.

"Do you want me to help you find someone else?" Mateo asked carefully and after a relieved nod from Reg, continued. "OK. Good, this is really good. Now for the next part."

Reg furrowed his brows

"Ben and I talked, and we want to offer you to stay here for a while after All Star, out of the clutches of your family. Of course, you have to go to practice and stuff but maybe it would be healthier for you to feel less controlled, less suffocated by them. We would find something else for you to sleep on than the couch, of course." Mateo joked.

Reg blinked at the guy in front of him in disbelieve.  Encore: What the hell? "You would do that? Let me stay?"

"Yep. We are your moms now, after all." Ben all but yelled over from the kitchen.

 This isn't a fever-trip. This is a dream, and I hope that I will not wake up too soon.

This night, he spent in Jos bed.  

"The couch is lumpy so we will share that bed. I'm not ruining my neck for you." Was her announcement before she marched off, Reg in tow.

He was led into the room, expecting a bedroom and was greeted with a little bureau.

"Erm..." Was all Reg could say.

"Well I only stay here during semester breaks so it's mor like a multi-purpose room." Jo seemed to miss the point entirely.

"But there is no bed?!"

She gave him an odd look and... folded a mattress out of the closet? "You've never seen a Murphy bed?"

"Obviously."

A little while later Reg squeezed himself beside Jo in the double bed. How does such a small person take up so much space?

“Won't it fold up in the night and swallow us whole?" The thought made him nervous, but he was greeted with the Hayes™ way of soothing. Bullying into feeling better.

“Not with your fat ass in here. Sleep or I send you back to the couch.”

They did not sleep for a long while.

Instead the talked a lot like on the first morning that felt like years ago although it has been just two days. In these days, his life was turned inside out, fortunately. He liked this version better.

The more they talked and bantered, the more Reg understood, that she really did not calculate her moves but just did what seemed the honest, right and fair choice… which is why she was horrible at the midnight chess match: Not thinking a few steps ahead and no intention of sacrificing figures or threatening enemy figures… irritating and endearing.

Also, she had quite a lot of very good burns but apologised every time afterwards. Hilarious... too nice for her devilish mind.

The next morning, he woke up around four, with Jo's back tucked against his side. He had slept about two hours, not able to sleep any longer anyway but he stayed in bed, secretly enjoying the feeling of a warm weight beside him.

Thoughts about his brother were still omnipresent in his mind but right now, other thinks demand his attention. Reg was pretty sure that he was falling for Jo.

He had had one or another crush in school but what he felt now was magnitudes stronger. Coming to think of it, his feelings about Ben and Mateo were also magnitudes stronger but... different. The idea of the girl he just met not being within an hour driving distance, once she returned to Boston, left a weight on his chest, accompanied by an unfamiliar longing.

But that was not the point... everything would be OK with that point. The point was, it's not the same as he heard all the other guys in school, in the locker room talk about girls… he didn't get off imagining her naked, or both of them having sex, he never thought that about anyone, actually, and was convinced the boys boasting about how they want to hit all these girls and how they got horny every time some girl with a too-short-to-be-comfortable skirt walk by, were just exaggerating… or were they not? Was there something he just didn't understand, hadn't experienced yet? It's not that he hadn't had sex before and it was nice enough, but he never quite understood why people would go absolutely nuts about this past-time exercise. It was basically wanking with extra steps.

Hell, Reg felt not even aroused by Jo's ass pressed to his thigh in her sleep but he was very sure that he wanted to hold her close, feel her skin under his hands, her body pressed to his, to kiss her and be definitely more than friends with her; And he had absolutely no idea how to explain this to her and still hope for a chance of dating her eventually... This was not what people were looking for in a partner, was it?

He groaned... was there nothing simple on this world for him?

But then again, Jo was different, that's why he liked her, she had this no-bullshit attitude that let her stomp on several feet regularly. She was the only person he knew that would most likely appreciate if he just spoke his mind about the situation and have a balanced, rational and decidedly calm discussion about their feelings. He silently laughed. The thought about such a conversation was ridiculous but fairly simple. Maybe this would be easier than he first thought. He was not sure on what terms they would end but the situation would be evaluated and free of misunderstandings at the end.

He would talk to her after All Star, after facing his brother and trying to... what?

                                                     oOo

Telling Lucius and Narcissa that he wanted to stay elsewhere for a few nights went smoother than expected. After a short call with his mother she agreed to give him a bit of freedom. After the outing, his parents seemed to be eager to keep Reg as the good son. So, Walburga was in kind of open for some little claims. Of course, she wanted to know where he was staying so he pretended to need alone-time after the shock of his brother's outing and booked a hotel room until All Star as cover. He was definitely not risking his Mother taking this very fragile attempt of escape away from him.

Reg quietly packed a bag with clothes to take with him directly from the airport after All Star and spent his waiting time at the airport on the phone with Mateo, looking for a therapist. He would meet Dr. Bones close to the Hospital, Mateo worked at, next Thursday.

The flight with Snape was horrible. Reg tried to keep his thought about Sirius at bay, not checking social media at all but Severus kept sneering about Queers in general and Sirius. He laid open all the information he could dig up out about Remus and even announced proudly, that he forwarded it all to the commentators of the red carpet

Oh… merde. C’est pourri! They are in for a shit-show.

But Reg would not have to opportunity to contact Sirius before that.