#fucking wild a decade ago I was so scared of the future and now I have a great job and awesome friends and a community

[raynertodd]

Life update: I bought a house!

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Do you think you’ll continue with the lawyer Nessian fic. It was so amazingly written I’d love to read more! I love all your writing anyways I’ll be happy with anything❤️

Ok not *technically* a Drabble request BUT I’m not ready to commit to a full lawyer AU that happens in order however I did just drum up a part 2 that we’ll say is several years before the previous lawyer AU. Nessian teasing in a bar and Rhys being a dumbass.

FYI the lawyer Drabble I’m talking about can be found HERE.

“I’m in love,” Rhys slurred. Cassian, a decent bit bigger than his brother and two drinks behind him, had a gentle buzz so he could only surmise that his brother was well passed sober.

“Congratulations,” Cassian grinned, clapping his hand on Rhys’ shoulder. “May I lay eyes upon the future Mrs. Dumbass.”

Rhys stared at him flatly. Blew a laugh out of his nose. “She’s not marrying you, brother.”

Cassian snorted, casting his eyes around the elegantly decorated little lounge they’d stepped into for the night. Lounge, not bar. Because they were mature adults now looking to take the edge off after a long day of work, not college students looking to get fucked up.

It was different.

It was different because the cocktails cost $20 and were served in actual stemware instead of red solo cups. They were evolving. Growing. Cassian was a lawyer now and Rhys was supposed to be doing actual work for his dad’s company so… no more dive bars.

Now they frequented little lounges where accountants and lawyers and bankers sat in tailored suits and discussed… adult things.

It was all very civilized.

And yet here was his brother. Every bit the horny college student they were trying not to be. Oh well, old dogs and all that.

“End of the bar.” Rhys jerked his head to the left and Cassian grinned.

“Might be a little old for you, champ.”

Rhys wrinkled his brow and turned to look at the grandmother doing a crossword puzzle on the far left side of the bar. A martini glass in front of her. Good for grandma.

“Other end of the bar!”

Cassian smirked. He didn’t need to turn his head, since he’s noticed her the second she walked in, but he still did. Just so he could look some more.

“Ah, you mean the deliciously dishevelled leggy brunette with her suit jacket on the chair beside her who just ripped the pins out of her hair like they personally offended her and then laid them in a neat little pile beside her Kobo?

“Mmm,” Rhys grinned, “I’d like her to rip those fingers through my hair.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Go for it, brother.”

Rhys grinned wider. “I think I will.” He straightened up, ran a hair through his artfully mussed hair, and pulled on the lapels of his Gucci suit jacket until they were even again.

Cassian snickered into his Old Fashioned. Rhys could straighten his jacket all he wanted. He could pretend he wasn’t drunk all he wanted. It wouldn’t matter one bit.

Not with Nesta Archeron.

Nesta Archeron who hated men that stunk of trust funds and privilege more than anything else in this world.

This would be fun to watch.

Watch her try to ignore him at first. Eyes glued to the page of her book, hand reaching up to wave through the air like Rhys was an annoying fly she could swat away.

Rhys, to his credit, was a clever little bastard. He asked the bartender for a refill of her drink and set it down in front of her then sat himself one stool down from her.

He didn’t move her jacket to sit next to her, which would have had her going feral. He just sat there, waiting.

After a few moments Nesta let out an exacerbated sigh that Cassian could hear from across the room. There was his girl.

Well, not his girl. Not even a little bit his girl, but… someday.

Cassian decided that he was going to Marry Nesta Archeron the first time she kicked his ass up and down a negotiation meeting. It was a couple years ago now. He’d been young and new at his firm. She was young and new too, but the words learning curve were not in Nesta’s vocabulary. Everything she did, she did with perfection.

Including getting rid of men she didn’t want hitting on her.

She said something to his brother that made Rhys’ half drunk, cocky, smile fall halfway down his face.

Cassian would’ve given his left eye to know what she said in that moment. She had a knack for jumping at the jugular and Rhys… oh Rhys. So obvious.

After a few moments and the continual fall of Rhys’ face, Cassian decided it was time to intervene. He knocked his drink back and straightened out his own suit jacket. Armani, still overpriced and designer but not so obvious or try hard as Mr. Up On The Trends with his Gucci. Nesta appreciated classics.

Simple. Clean lines, solid colours, classic. Which was why it was so fun just how attracted she was to his half wild self.

Unlike Rhys, Cassian plucked Nesta’s light grey suit jacket up off the stool beside her and reached over her head to hang it on a coat hook at the end of the bar. Settling himself into the chair beside her like it was exactly where he belonged. Which it was.

She turned around with an indignant shriek and a fire-breathing snarl that narrowed into just a hard glare when she realized it was him. Touching.

“This guy giving you trouble, Nes?”

Rhys choked on his whiskey and Cassian fought his hardest to keep a straight face.

“I so don’t need your saviour complex right now, Cassian.” Nesta scoffed.

“No,” Rhys rolled his eyes. “She was doing perfectly well scaring off everyone in a 10 mile radius all on her own.”

Nesta smiled sweetly, “I was just playing your game.”

Rhys sputtered again. Looked up at his brother. “This devil woman that you apparently already know,” he glared, “is all yours. I’m going home.”

“Be sure to drink plenty of water!” Nesta sing songed after him. Rhys flipped them both off on his way out.

“What’d you say to him?”

Nesta smiled. A pretty, feline little thing. “He said he wanted to chat. Suggested 20 question, which is the lamest, oldest, crustiest line in the book. So I went first. Asked just how small his dick was that he felt the need to overcompensate with the swagger and the gratuitous displays of wealth. He thought he was quite clever to use his question to ask if I wanted to check for myself how not small his dick was and then I asked if his daddy never loved him and that’s where all of that machismo masking painfully obvious and deep seeded feelings of inadequacy and insecurity came from. I was going to offer him my friend’s number before you showed up. She’s an excellent therapist.”

Cassian laughed. Hard. For a very long time. He loved Rhys, but sometimes the kid could use a nice set down. It was always sweeter when delivered by a beautiful woman. Not to mention, Cassian himself had gotten the same ice cold rejection the first time he met Nesta. When he asked if she wanted to get a coffee and she looked at him like something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. That Rhys was chased off so easily just proved he couldn’t take the heat.

“You know the walking trust fund, I presume?” Nesta boredly sipped the drink Rhys had bought her. And even that was somehow amusing.

“Only for the last couple decades or so,” Cassian grinned. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“Explains a lot.”

“Your insults are more impactful when you clarify which person is being insulted.”

“I was going for the two birds one stone method.”

“In that case, consider me wounded, sweetheart.”

Nesta scoffed, “Unfortunately not mortally.”

“Oh Nesta, if I weren’t here you’d die of boredom and you know it. No one else can run you up and down the courtroom like I can.” Now. Cassian grinned as he watched the word flash across her eyes. He’d never live that first blunder down.

Nesta rose an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume you present any challenge whatsoever.”

Cassian signalled for another drink and leaned forward. “Alright, I’ll bite. Who in this entire city can give you more of a run for your money?”

“Vanserra.” Nesta looked him dead in the eye. And managed to keep a straight face. As if that wasn’t the funniest fucking thing he’d heard all day.

“Oh yes, Nepotism and Nepotism LLP certainly has us all shaking in our boots,” Cassian blew out a breath. “What are you working on now?”

“I’m working on upholding attorney-client privilege.”

“So, the Suncurser merger.”

Nesta looked up. “How did you-”

“Helion and I are old friends. I checked the zoning on the lots he was buying before the merger went ahead to make sure the expansion was even feasible. But, as you know, M&A isn’t my thing. So I may have… given him a referral.”

“Are there any rich playboys in this city that you aren’t friends with?” Nesta finished off her drink and pointedly didn’t signal for another. “And if you think I’m going to be grateful to you for sending this my way you’ve got another thing-“

“Helion is my friend.” Cassian repeated, cutting her off. “He believes in this merger and he wants it done right. You’re the best, Nesta. Why wouldn’t I send him to you?”

“It’s not just to get in my pants?” She narrowed her eyes.

Cassian laughed again. “Oh no, sweetheart. When you invite me into your bed it will have nothing to do with work. It’ll be because you’re tired of denying how much you want me.” Cassian leaned in closer, one hand resting on the back of her chair. “Tired of denying the thrill that shoots through your whole body when we lay into each other. In the court room or out.” His nose brushed against hers, just a little, and Cassian felt Nesta tense up. He smirked, mouth just inches away from hers. “Tired of denying how right this is.”

Nesta’s voice was rough, husky. “So your plan is to wear me down?”

Cassian smirked. “My plan,” his hand came up to stroke the silk covered expanse of her upper arm, “is to marry you, Nesta Archeron. But sure, we can start with wearing you down.”

***Feyre and Nesta look physically similar so you can’t tell me drunk Rhys wouldn’t hit on Nesta in a bar before realizing he’d made a terrible mistake and running away thank you***

Also tags yourself, I’m the grandma doing the crossword puzzle with a martini. She’s an icon and she is the moment.

[sushiburritonoms]

okay fine, I’ll play. let’s see, something you can’t make sad (and no, that is NOT a challenge!)… Summer has me in a vacationy mood, so how about DinLuke number 30, tourist/knowledgeable local au? I’ll leave you to decide if Din is the reluctantly knowledgeable local, or if Luke is eager to show the hot dad and his son around

FINE. YOU WANT HAPPY, I'LL GIVE YOU HAPPY!!!

Wait, sorry that came out in my drama voice. *coughs*

30 of AU Ficlist: tourist/knowledgeable local au

Din was no longer a religious man, not since he gently but firmly broke away from his Mormon upbringing years ago. But there were some habits that were hard to break, especially for an exmo, and he couldn’t help but offer up a quick prayer to...something...before he set out on his hike with Luke. Maybe he was praying to Poli`ahu; she would be the most appropriate goddess, given where they were (and wouldn’t his adoptive mother have had a fit over that!).  He sent up a quick prayer for no rain, for clear skies, and, most importantly of all, no tourists.  That last was a big ask, even for the Goddess of Mauna Kea.

But it was the off season for the Big Island, and a weekday, so the trail was quiet.  It was a short hike, five miles roundtrip. It was practically nothing for the two of them. Din wasn’t trying to wear Luke out….yet.  That would hopefully--fingers crossed and prayers sent to all gay friendly gods/godesses out there--come later.

“It really is unbelievably beautiful here,” Luke said quietly as walked near the ocean.  He paused for a minute to close his eyes, tilting his face towards the sun, looking like some sort of god himself, especially with the way in which the light hit the highlights in his hair. A sun god, maybe. Din felt a wave of fierce affection and lust rush through him, like a burst of wind off the sea. His hand drifted down to his cargo shorts pocket, where he reassured himself that the small box he’d put there that morning was still there.

“I can’t believe you left,” Luke admitted as he opened his eyes. “If I was raised here, I’d never leave.”

Din had heard that before from many people. But coming from Luke it felt sincere and probably was, given his childhood history.  “You’d be surprised how quickly you get used to all this,” he said as he waved his arm at their picturesque surroundings. “You don’t notice after a while. The island is too small to spend your whole life here.”

He’d wanted more from his life and freedom from the expectation that he would settle down, marry a nice Mormon woman, and have a small army of children.  He’d always been fine with the children part, and even the marrying part. But the woman part had been the dealbreaker, and when he left the Big Island for the mainland he’d also left that childhood expectation behind.

Now he was back home, a decade later, and surprisingly it was almost how he’d originally expected his life to turn out. He had a son, he had love, and hopefully….

No. Best not to think about it, not to jinx it.  Instead, he waited until Luke had his fill of the ocean before they continued on their way.

“I can see why you didn’t want to bring Grogu,” Luke said as they carefully navigated a rocky curve.  “This isn’t very kid friendly.”

“There’s not much for him to do. The current here is too strong for him,” Din explained as he reached out a hand to Luke so he could help him across.

Luke pouted. “But I thought you were taking me to a secret beach so we could swim. Or...do something else.” Luke raised his eyebrows at him.

“I never said swimming would be involved,” Din said as he gave Luke’s ass a swat.  “We’re not doing what you’re thinking about doing either.” Yet. “This beach isn’t secret, it’s pretty famous.”  There were other more private beaches he could take Luke but that wasn’t the point. It had to be this beach for a specific reason.

“Almost there,” he added as he felt his nervousness begin to grow.  Din could see the ridge where they would begin their descent into the bay. “This area is called Puʻu Mahana; it’s an ancient cinder cone that erupted eons ago.”

“Hmm... I love it when you talk about eruptions,” Luke leered at him.  “I could listen to you talk nerdy all day.”

Din snorted.  “Shut up and get over here.”

“Alright geez, wait up. I--woah.” Luke stopped at the top of the ridge next to him and stared in amazement. “That’s beautiful.”

“Papakōlea beach,” Din said with satisfaction as he looked at the pristine and--miracle of miracles--completely empty sand. They were early enough so they had the bay to themselves. Everytime Din came to Papakōlea he was taken back by the bay’s contrast of colors, with light green cliffside melting away into bright blue water.

“It’s so green!” Luke exclaimed happily. “Is that grass on the sand?”

“Not quite,” Din chuckled as he led the way down the ragged cliffside, towards the old metal staircase built into the cliffside.  “Papakōlea is special because it’s one of the few green sand beaches in the world.”

“Wait? Green sand?!”  That was it, Din had lost Luke. His love ran ahead, hoping over rocks to clammer over to the staircase like a small child.  By the time Din had caught up, Luke was pulling up handfuls of sand and letting the small grains fall through his fingers.

“I never knew sand could be green! We should have brought Grogu! It’s his favorite color!” Luke beamed at him as he approached.

“And yours,” Din acknowledged with a nervous smile. It was rapidly becoming his favorite color too, after silver.

“What is it?” Luke asked. “Fossilized seaweed or something?”

Din snorted. “What? How the hell did they let you graduate from Cal again?!”

“I wasn’t a science major,” Luke retorted. “So why don’t you explain, Professor Djarin?” He leered at Din and oh fuck. He had to bring up his favorite roleplay right now, right when there was a 50% chance he was about to ruin one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

Din pushed aside vivid memories of Luke dressed as a slutty schoolboy out of his head with extreme effort. “Ah..it’s olivine,” he said, suddenly nervous.  “Tiny specs of olivine that is created by the volcano on the island. It’s a dense mineral so it tends to accumulate on the shore rather than be swept into the sea like most other deposits…” His voice trailed off as he saw the moment when Luke suddenly realized why he’d been brought to this particular beach.

“Olivine aka peridot,” Luke said slowly. He let the last of the grains of sand fall from his hand as he moved to touch the small, slender peridot gem that was always around his neck on a smooth silver chain.

Din had asked Luke in the very beginning of their relationship why he always wore the green gem around his neck. Luke had explained that the peridot was the last gift from his grandfather, Qui-Gon.

“He told me he was originally going to give it to my dad’s future wife, because it was a family heirloom. But my biological father never really got along great with my grandfather, and dad and father weren’t able to legally marry until after grandfather died.  So he gave it to me. I don’t know why he didn’t just give it to Leia, but when he died, I put it on and never really took it off.  I’ve always loved the color. Peridots are the stones of compassion and I think that’s just really nice.”

As their relationship grew Din realized that the peridot gem was a perfect description of Luke himself. Compassionate to a fault but also vibrant and full of life. He was spiritual, creative and strong; all characteristics of the gemstone according to the hippie websites Luke liked to frequent.  So when they decided to return to Din’s hometown of Kona for a vacation, Din immediately thought of Papakōlea beach. Olivine was a common mineral on the islands--they liked to market them as “Hawaii’s Diamonds”.

So where else could he bring Luke to propose to him?

“I need to ask you something,” he began. He pulled Luke further along until they were in a spot where Din could see the green sand and the crystal clear blue ocean. Blue and green, the colors that reminded Din of Luke.  “The day we met, you gave me the greatest gift of my life by saving Grogu’s life.  You came in like a superhero, flying in on your stupid skateboard and grabbing him from the path of that car. That could have been the worst day of my life and instead it was the third most important day.”

Luke stared at him with bright eyes that sparkled with unshed tears. “The third?”

“Second one was the moment they said that Grogu could stay, that I could start the adoption process,” Din acknowledged.

Luke nodded. “And the first?” He whispered.

Din took a deep breath and sent another wild prayer to  Poli`ahu or Peli; whoever was listening and had got him this far.

“I’m hoping the first is right now.” He slowly reached for the ring box in his pocket and got down on one knee.  The sand was rough against his bare skin and he was shaking--but so was Luke. There were tears slowly falling down his face and he was looking at Din as if he was the sun god and not him.  “Luke Skywalker,” he said slowly as he opened the ring box, “Would you--”

“YES!” Luke blurted out.

“--You have to let me finish!” Din said with a laugh.

“You’re taking too long!” Luke grabbed at Din’s hands and pulled them to his chest. “Yes, yes a hundred times yes! Of course I’ll marry you! I thought we pretty much were already.”

Din laughed, his voice cracking. “I want it to be official--”

“Of course you do. Can’t take the fear of God out of a exmo like you.” The softness of Luke’s voice tempered the teasing words.

“Hey this is scared land,” Din said somewhat seriously, “on this part of the island, it belongs to the goddess Poli`ahu.”

“Well, then with the grace of ‘Polly-hue’, I say yes, Din. I’ll marry you.”  Din had only a second to frown at Luke’s butchering of the Hawaiian language before he was dragged to standing. He ditched the ring box on the sand so he could put the ring onto Luke’s finger. It was a silver band embedded with koa wood and olivine, made by a local company on the island.  It sparkled perfectly against the backdrop of the sand but Din had only seconds to admire it before he was dragged into a searing kiss by his fiancé.  He tangled his hands into Luke’s hair and let all the love and relief he’d been carrying on their short hike pour out of his mouth and into the other half of his soul.

When they finally parted and pulled away, the light caught the peridot on Luke’s neck and shone brightly, like the slender gem was alive and winking at him.

--

Au List is here if you have a request

Previous answers:

19. parents meeting when they take their kids to class au

15: meeting in the E.R/A&E au

40: Soul destroying exes meeting again after not speaking for years au

25: Library/Avid Reader AU Part I

Library AU part II

[jaskiersvalley]

My Bounce A Coin Bingo card has a square for Immortals/Gods. There were so many plans and ideas for it (Old Guard AU was one of them). But sometimes the brain wants something else. Such as Jaskier unironically calling Vesemir ‘Baby’. So, using those infamous words, here we are.

All along, Geralt had known there was something not quite right about Jaskier. He flitted through the world with a naive wonder of sorts. Though that wasn’t quite right because as innocent as Jaskier could seem at times, he was also quick to anger and vicious. Geralt had dragged him away from enough brawls to know better. Even worse, each time he did it, Jaskier always thanked him.

“Thank you sweet pea” or “Dollface, you’re my hero” or, the worst “You’re such a wonderful pup”. They were all so diminutive and Geralt had no idea what to make of it. Jaskier was barely an adult by human standards, in Witcher terms he was basically a babe. As the years passed, Jaskier didn’t change much. He still blindly followed Geralt around, huffed and grumbled about how Witchers were treated. For some wild reason, he had made it his life mission to change humanity’s views. Not that Geralt thought he would succeed but that didn’t stop him from trying all the same. Starting with that stupid, catchy song.

“I think it’s about time I saw where you hole up each winter,” Jaskier announced one autumn. “And meet your fellow Witchers too.”

If anyone else spoke like that to Geralt, he would have left them in the dust. It was as close to parental that anyone ever got with him. Despite his bristling, he relented.

“This has changed so much since I was last in the region,” Jaskier said as they approached the mountains. To Geralt it didn’t look any different when compared to the last 3 or 4 decades. Though, when things got to his age, things did tend to blend into one and memories got a little fuzzier. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed more subtle shifts over time.

At Kaer Morhen Jaskier greeted Eskel with a hug, taking the witcher off guard. Lambert was a little more wily and sidestepped the arm while Aiden laughed behind him.

“Oh! Such diversity,” Jaskier cooed which made zero sense. “I thought it was just Wolves. It’s a struggle to remember. But I’m so excited that they found a way to expand on the gift.”

Lambert grumbled about it being a curse more than a gift but Aiden smacked him in the arm to shut him up. Not that it did much to distract Jaskier and he looked about to ask when Vesemir walked into the entrance hall.

“Baby!” Jaskier all but flung himself at the oldest Witcher. “You’re all grown up!”

Which was just disturbing to hear.

“You back again?” Vesemir asked, patting Jaskier on the back. “You said you’re going out to pick something up. That was almost 300 years ago.”

“Was it really?” Jaskier was wide eyed, a hand covering his mouth with a gasp. “I lost track. But what do you think of my current body?”

Arms out, he turned his back to Vesemir, showing off, striking a few poses.

“Geralt,” Eskel murmured from the corner of his mouth, “what the fuck?”

If only Geralt knew. He was as lost as the others and watching with wary confusion. The worst part was, Vesemir didn’t look all that surprised.

“You always knew how to pick a good one,” he was saying. “Though I got to say, your previous one held more appeal.”

Jaskier’s sly “you fox” was laughed off. “Look, boobs are great and all but I now have a prostate and that is so much more fun.”

Lambert and Aiden side eyed Geralt with a knowing look while Eskel stared at him openly. Resolutely, Geralt kept his eyes to the front.

“Dude,” Lambert whispered to Aiden, “I think Vesemir fucked Geralt’s boyfriend.”

“Oh come now, it was a different time and different body. Humans get so hung up on the body thing.”

Which was true, Geralt was very much hung up on the body thing. He could do with an explanation and why his bard was talking like he had a different body and knew Vesemir come 300 years back. His very human and very male bard.

There wasn’t a chance to quite ask. They were all herded into the dining hall where Jaskier settled next to Vesemir, sounding like he was catching up with an old friend. It was all going quite well until the incredulous “they what now?!” that Jaskier shrieked.

“They lost a page. Cobbled something together but it was excruciating,” Vesemir replied. “And lost meaning too. No longer guardians as promised but exterminators.”

It was the first time Geralt had seen Jaskier look livid and it genuinely scared him. Even the others looked a little uncomfortable as dark eyes moved over them.

“I thought things were a little skew-whiff but I’ve been fixing that. I should have stayed longer last time rather than just stick my head in for a winter.”

 Finally, Eskel had enough. “I’m sorry, what the hell is going on?”

What followed was a truly typical Jaskier story, involving a lot of detours, reminiscing about food he once ate or a lover he left behind through some creative means. But the general gist of it seemed to be that Jaskier was some sort of god.

“Only a minor one, mind you. But I’m still bigger than Valdo.”

“Wait, Valdo Marx. Your arch nemesis. He’s a god?” Geralt couldn’t quite get over it.

“He’s claimed ‘quality music’ as his domain. Sucks to be him because I’ve adopted ‘popular music’ and I am way more worshipped than he is. But aside from that, I’m also kind of a guardian to humanity. Like witchers were meant to be friends of humanity. I showed a group how to nurture and bring you into power. Would have thought there would be more of you.”

Except Lambert only heard that Jaskier was the one responsible for Witchers and he snarled. Not even Aiden tried to hold him back. For his part, Jaskier allowed himself to be tackled to the ground and have a dagger held to his throat.

“When you’re quite done,” he said, sounding bored.

It was Vesemir’s sharp bark of ‘Lambert’ that broke the moment. Gruffly, Lambert stepped back but he was still seething about Jaskier being a fucking sadist. When Vesemir quietly described how Witchers were made, Jaskier looked horrified and he looked at all the witchers at the table one by one.

“You all went through these horrors? My sweetlings, I am so sorry. That was never my intention.”

There wasn’t much Jaskier could do to change the past. But he could change the future.

“You were all made to help me guard humanity. You were meant to be cherished, born of love and treasured. I made you to be my equals, my friends. It seems that while waiting for you to mature, I have made some mistakes. Forgive me.”

If Geralt had thought Jaskier was dedicated to following him around and protecting him before, it was nothing to how he was when they left Kaer Morhen. Within a year, Jaskier was turned the tides and things got a little easier.

[philsbrownquiff]

the dangers of premarital divorce

guess what I wrote something!!!

words: 1702

summary: A reflection on all the years that Dan's commitment issues have motivated him in various ways, and how realizing he accidentally is planning on spending 20 more years with Phil is maybe a bit scary.

It had started years ago really, back in Manchester. They had always talked about the future, but never too far into it. But, like it is with all young loves, he had the idea of forever in the back of his head. He would sit with Phil watching anime, eating dinner quietly, laughing while playing video games, and he would think, "This could be my life. This could be how it is every day."

And of course he didn't really share these thoughts at first. They were almost too intimate to verbalize. They were intimidating. They were meant for late at night when he was by himself thinking about life at 3 AM. That was the only time he could really entertain them for any amount of time. They were filled with laughter and loving embraces and all of the things he had come to associate with spending the day with Phil. And it was good. He had never met anyone like Phil, and he intended to hold on as long as Phil would let him. And that was how it would inevitably end: Phil wouldn't let him. That's how it always was in his head. He was just holding onto the coattails of life, undeserving, and would therefore eventually be left in the dust as soon as he let up his grip.

The first time he realized that he might not actually need to be clinging on so tightly was when Phil had asked him to move in with him. It was so casual. They were laying together in bed one night with Dan's head perched on Phil's shoulder, his body tucked safely into the crook of his arm.

"Would you want to move in with me next year?" He had said, suddenly in the quiet.

Dan froze. Fucking of course he would want to move in. That was his ideal life, actually. But he was suddenly overcome with emotion that he wasn't able to process, and so he just froze for a few seconds, willing his brain to catch up. After what he is sure was an entire lifetime, he sputtered out a "y-yes, I would actually." He could feel Phil relax, even though he hadn't really been able to tell he was tense in the first place. Dan glanced up and saw the somewhat relieved and very much in love grin on Phil's face. It was a reminder that maybe Phil was clinging on tightly as well.

This was the first real time that Dan had realized maybe Phil wanted forever just as much as him. Which, in turn, would cause another problem for his undeserving and overthinking brain: who gave them the authority to decide. Up until now, it had been Phil that was deciding if they would stay together. It was Phil that would decide if Dan could continue to exist with him, because he so obviously wanted it. So if Phil was deciding that yes, he wanted to be with Dan for at least another year, that meant something else was going to stop them. He just had to figure out what it was.

The thing he decided would stop them was the world at large. Homophobia. Tabloids. Their fans. All of it would eventually combine and become too much. They would fall apart at the seams that Dan had tried so hard to re-enforce. It wouldn't be enough. One day, Phil would get tired of hiding or Dan would get so fed up with all of it that he would lash out in a way they wouldn't be able to recover from. And eventually, he thought it was happening. He had so fully convinced himself that this was inevitable, that he basically welcomed it in. One too many testy comments, one too many shut doors, a walk alone without his phone. Maybe it would be better this way. He could just grit his teeth and it would be over. He'd be on his own, just how the universe had destined him.

But that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Phil. He wanted the security and comfort of being loved, of holding Phil in the night when he was anxious. He loved it, he loved Phil. He loved the home they had built and the career they shared. So he snapped out of it. He forced himself to fight for it, to fight the world and its odds in order to get to be with him and to keep the things he loved. And he did. He built an empire, tours, books, merch, and, while they were at it, started building a house.

And during all of that, he was aware of the pressures and he was aware of what he wanted. He was accomplishing a lot. Honestly, he didn't think about if he would get to keep it that much. He was otherwise occupied with defending this life he had made. So, when he realized that maybe he could stop fighting about it, he was a bit relieved. He could finally relax.

Idle minds do the work of the devil. Suddenly, he had time to think. They were out, they were building a house. He was writing a book. He wasn't impacted as much by his fans these days. All of his worries about what would break them up had turned out to be untrue (if this was because they were baseless or because he worked so hard to keep them from doing so, he could never be sure). But, that old seedling of thought that had haunted him for the last decade was still lying dormant in his mind: he didn't deserve this.

And that now had time to fester. It grew in his mind, this time without any reason. The future, something he could never be certain about, was suddenly his enemy. Dan had changed so much and in so many ways in his life, why couldn't it happen again? Phil could wake up one day and decide that he actually wanted to leave and there would be nothing he could do about it. Dan could wake up one day and realize he was straight, or that he hated Phil, or one of them could do something unforgiveable and nasty and harmful and they would have a bitter end where he would have a bad aftertaste any time he thought of the entirety of his twenties. He couldn't control the future. Any day, there could be another global pandemic (even though this still had not ended them) that throws them completely off kilter. It hadn't happened yet. But any day, it could.

Which is why when his friends started asking him when they were getting married, he told them to calm down. It's only been ten years of steady companionship and love. It's just a mortgage. Oh god, they had a mortgage. He started to get the same feeling he got when Phil had asked him to move in all those years ago. Phil wanted to spend thirty years with him now? Ten plus a 20 year contract. He started to recall the joint bank account conversations, the first time Phil had asked him if he wanted to be the emergency contact, the fact that they went to the same accountant and financial advisor, all of these things that meant forever. Oh god, why weren't they married at this point. They were already almost there except that one piece of paper. He had already signed himself up for something they didn't deserve and he would eventually change his mind about…right?

"I'm confused, Dan," Phil had chuckled out. "Are you saying you want to get married? Is this your way of proposing?"

"No, I mean, no, I just," he stuttered. What did he want? He wanted to keep things the way they were. He wants this life. He just knows he can't have it. His therapist would yell at him about this and he knew it. Deep breath. "I am just scared that I can't control the future. What if you decide to do something wild or what if I decide to do something wild. Then what? There would already be so much paperwork if we broke up, and then adding in a divorce? It seems ridiculous."

"Ah, so you want a premarital divorce instead…?" Phil trailed off, looking at him with those shining, mischievous eyes that Dan loved so dearly.

"God, fuck off, Phil. No! I'm just saying." He didn't need to elaborate. Phil was just taking the piss, he knew what he meant. He always does when it comes to things like this. That's what happens when you're together for this many years.

They were quiet for a moment while Phil got over his own joke. "Dan, we don't have to get married if you don't want to. If the label is freaking you out, then just forget it." They were quiet again. Phil stared at him. "You know, as far as I have been concerned, we could've eloped years ago. I would've done it. There's no guaranteeing the future, but that gives me more reason to make myself happy today. It could be gone. We could both die in a fiery explosion. And if that's the case, I certainly wouldn't mind being married to you until the very end."

Phil was right. Dan knew that. He was basically spitting his own advice back out at him. If life was meaningless and unpredictable, he may as well do whatever he wanted in the present. And he wanted to be with Phil. But he also knew that it was just a piece of paper. And that if he was going to get married, it would be the best damn party anyone's ever been to, so eloping is off the table. He supposed, maybe, he could just trust himself to make the right decision about forever. He had already made a 10+20 year decision on accident, and that was damn close to the marriage certificate.

But he wasn't about to admit defeat to logic. Not in front of Phil and god and everyone. So he didn't. He just sighed a long sigh with about 50 emotions embedded in it. "That's gay, Lester."

[drtanner]

wondering if you're still racist, like you were ten years ago when you were regularly ranting about how americans can't tell you not to use the p and n words about pakistani/indian british people and how it's offensive that the NHS treats people in languages other than english etc? and if you are, please list all your blogs so i can block them, every time i think ive blocked you another one appears

So hey, I know this is blatantly supposed to be like, either a troll or a trap or whatever, but I have absolutely no problem whatsoever admitting that I was an objectively terrible piece of shit ten years ago and that I was extremely racist, which probably takes a lot of the intended sting out of this message! I hung out on 4chan all the time in my 20s and it went about as well as you’d expect! Funnily enough, being racist is really easy when you’re surrounded by similarly racist people who encourage and support your racism!

I get the feeling that it won’t matter to you - you seem to have your mind made up about me already, and you obviously haven’t bothered to actually look at my blog before asking this extremely incendiary question; you absolutely would have got your answer by now if you were interested in getting one! - but for anyone else who genuinely wants to know, I’ve been working on myself a lot since I left 4chan (and the other racist as fuck people in my life, there were a lot of them back then!) behind. While it’s pretty much impossible for a white person to conclusively say they’re not racist, given that we all benefit from racism whether we actively engage in it ourselves or not, I can, at the very least, say that I do my best to listen and learn, and that I don’t do racist things on purpose. I’m a better person than I was, but the work never ends, my dude! I’m working on it and I always will be!

I explain all of this because if people go digging for long enough, they’ll almost certainly find things, and I’m not going to go back and retrace my internet footsteps over a decade or 15 years just to delete that stuff. I own my past, because it made me who I am!

Anyway, it’s fucking wild that you’d show up on my blog after ten fucking years apparently and not only still remember me but also have so little to do with the non-refundable hours of your life that you’d take the time to send me this message. Like, was this supposed to be a gotcha? Was this supposed to ruin me or something? Was this supposed to scare me? Upset me? Unlikely! The joke’s on you! I know I was awful! And I know I’m better than that now!

So I mean, block me or don’t, I guess! I don’t give a shit what an Anon thinks, lmao. Have the guts to come here with your username on show or shut the fuck up and mind your own business. I hope you’ll become a happier person in the future. 💜 💜 💜

[haeres-viaticum]

Choke

Names are ambitious, don’t you think? They can hold power, they can strike fear, they can bestow honor and shame, they hold eras of history at a glance or erase them with a penstroke. The Sapphire Exchange, the Jeweled Croizier. I’ll hand it to Ishgard, she’s got Ul’dah beat when it comes to aspirational nomenclature, but that’s about as far as their competitive edge extends. Once you see the sad, snow-dotted kiosks shuddering in the howling arctic blasts, its wares barely hanging on for dear life as textiles are beaten threadbare where they hang, you understand that this name is a relic, much as its namesake.

As for me, I am a Briar, a patch of thorns that creeps and pricks and blossoms into wild roses. Ilm by ilm I’ve wrapped myself up the stalk of the Fousaux family tree and sank my spindles into its brittle bark, and now I drink deep from its ancestral sap to explode into bloom bigger and brighter than I ever could on my own. I’ve traded desert reds for brumal blues, but the trouble is that I no longer recognize the flowers on the vine.

What am I now? Who is this that stares with a peaked face and deep circles while she styles her hair the morning after she’s barely slept? What do I call this woman who rolls the lipstick over her mouth like a proper housewife and whispers mors tua, vita mea like an inspirational cross-stitch? I was a student of psychodynamics not so long ago, an awkward woman scared to venture out away from the realm of the dead that made up the hallowed ground of her quiet inheritance. I was setting out into new unknowns as an uncertain, timid thing who didn’t know how to touch the living until the books told me how, and oh, how the living has been touched ever since.

My greatest concerns used to be how I was going to keep a troubled, brilliant woman from killing herself, how I was going to undo decades of extremes etched into her basic survival instincts so she could exist at some base level free of turbulence. I spent more hours than I ever billed simply paging through case studies on sexual deviancy, shame, and childhood trauma to treat a man who compulsively fucked just about anyone who would ask in order to fill the craters left by childhood inadequacies with cum and saliva. I still wonder how he is, if his partners know, if he feels any remorse, if he’s suffered any black eyes for his careless indiscretions, if he’s accidentally spawned a new generation of broken children.

I find my thoughts meandering to the Ala Mhigans who held me captive at least a thousand years ago, the memories glossy with the splendid paintbrush of time that makes it feel like a funny, nostalgic little adventure that wasn’t in fact absolutely terrifying. I think of the Kharlu I killed with more pride than guilt these days, and I find myself with funny new feelings of emptiness in spite the absolute, bursting fullness of my days as of late. I miss Toragana’s laugh echoing in the empty, dusty halls of my family estate while the peculiar smell of Steppe fare wafts from what must have been such a strange little desert kitchen. I lament how much I took her for granted and how much time I spent instead crying alone in my office wishing for solitude, wishing the infuriating bonds of the Jhungid would stop doing to me what I’ve done to the Fousaux.

I sit now on the precipice of change paralyzed by fear that I can’t share. At risk of being trite, who counsels a counselor? I’m thirty years old, hardly a crone, and what the hell do I know about anything? What business do I have telling anyone what’s right for them when lives have been crushed underfoot in my march toward bold new futures. I’ve long since abandoned trying to grapple with the morality of what’s been done in my name, by my name, for my name. I’ve crossed lines that I had no idea I’d been towing under the dubious guise of legal rights in the sinister city of Ul’dah, and now my scruples look to be in complete, weightless freefall. Scatter them to ashes. I mourn in private.

Not so deep down, a reclusive mortician who tells macabre stories at fine dinner parties, embarrasses herself with wildly out-of-place gallows humor on dates with suitors, and smiles at rumors of cursed blood yearns to turn the clock back and return to a time when her most pressing concern was natron crust under her manicure rather than navigating a transnational hostage situation involving one of her closest confidants that could very well end in tragedy. But here I am, like it or not, with the power to start wars, to slit throats, to break legs, and to choke an entire lineage with my suffocating bramble.

[no-error]

Fantasy Klance Ficrec

Finally new list for fic recs. Hope ya all enjoy these awesome fics. :)

Remember check out tags!

Of Wolves and Wisps

Lance knows not to seek with his mind in the woods. The fae have a habit of twisting the desires sought by those who chase after the wisps. But when given no other choice, Lance makes the decision to alter his path. To change his fate.

He should have known, really, how things would turn out.

Never call out to wolves. One may just answer.

Words: 145,585 AO3

The Criminal Witch and His Knight of a Husband

Series

Under the rule of an unjust king, witches not employed by the crown had become illegal in the kingdom of Altea. Not wanting to work for a filthy murderer of a man, Lance spitefully refused to get his certification at the normal age of sixteen. But that was over half a decade ago. Altea is now ruled by the beautiful and reasonable Queen Allura, and Lance finds himself happily married to her head knight, despite his fugitive status.

Lance struggles with helping hot headed, prone to danger Keith stay alive, while simultaneously keeping his ability to cast spells a secret. He can't have him figuring anything out. After all, the last thing he wants is for his own husband to arrest him.

Words: 80,309 AO3

Star Cursed

A Dragon familiar is the last thing Lance expects to summon when he graduates lowest in the class at the Magerium. All he wants to do is summon a toad or a cat and get to work, but summoning a High Magic creature like a Dragon is something no one has done in hundreds of years. The Dragon, named Keith (why, WHY is he named Keith), is trained to be a familiar for the most powerful of mages.

Unluckily for him, Lance is assigned the task of lesser potions master. Lance has to navigate a precarious balance of grumpy-Dragon-with-nothing-to-do on top of his workload of boring tasks. That’s when he isn’t enduring the ridicule of the other students, who believe him to be “Star Cursed.” To make matters worse, discontent in the Magerium is brewing and it might mean danger for all High Magic creatures, which currently includes one Dragon named Keith

Words: 152,239 AO3

fit the crown to my head

“What’s the fun in a masquerade if you don’t flirt outrageously with the prettiest person in the room?” the young man says flippantly, and then winks at Keith. Keith huffs a laugh, amused.

“You keep saying things like that, but you haven’t seen my face,” he says, gesturing to his mask. “I could have warts under here. I could have spots, or scars.”

“You’d be lovely even with all of those,” the young man says, and he suddenly sounds serious. It takes Keith by surprise, makes his heart twist along with his stomach. “Your eyes,” he continues, tilting his head. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours before.”

Words: 75,705 AO3

Magic Bound & Unbound

Set in a world where familiars and witches are paired to perform magic together, Lance is an aspiring witch who is desperate to find his bondmate. He's dreamed of the day when he would be able to perform bonded magic, but hides a dark secret that could ruin everything. Keith is a familiar who's seen a little too much of the world. He's been paired with witches multiple times and each one has forced and broken a bond on him, so now he swears off ever letting himself be paired again.

When they meet, though, Lance triggers something in Keith and it scares the hell out of him. A part of him desperately wants to be paired, but he's not sure he can take rejection one more time.

Words: 56,345 AO3

Regarding Park Benches and Demon Bites

Lance forces his eyes open, all the way this time. It takes them a second to adjust, and when they do, his stomach plummets to the center of the earth. The man is in a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms to reveal the runes inked across his pale skin. There’s a sword strapped across his back, a big one.

“You’re a Shadowhunter,” Lance blurts. Lance’s mother had warned him about getting mixed up with these bloodthirsty maniacs, and here he is, half conscious next to the very people he’d worked so hard to avoid the last two years. He’s fucked. Royally screwed. He isn’t sure what kind of punishment is handed out to warlocks for public intoxication but his mind races through options like indefinite imprisonment, dismemberment, death?

Words: 8,999 AO3

you build your tower (but call me home)

In the land of Arus, the youngest Nalquodian prince—Prince Leandro—is hidden away in a little castle that overlooks the kingdom; a countermeasure to protect him from the Galran assassins that have sworn to take his life.

And in the tallest tower of the castle, behind a grimy rose window and under a dusty sheet, is an enchanting gargoyle that the prince finds himself compelled to visit every day.

Almost as if by a spell...

Words: 63,041 AO3

Wild Magic

The Vastaya are an ancient and proud race, born of magic and man, and they are dying. The spread of humans makes the magic of their homelands run thin. What is left is preyed upon and corrupted by the rising galra influence.

After losing their home, what remains of the Marmora tribe scatters, fighting the spread of corruption where they can. For the last few centuries, this is the only life Keith has known. And with Shiro’s disappearance, he’s more alone than ever. But he keeps going, even if it means losing himself. For the fight. For his people. For their future. For his homelands. For magic.

The last thing he expected to find is another feathered vastaya, one with wings that shine like the sky and move like waves when he dances. He never asked for company, never wanted it. But as Keith finds himself growing fond of Lance’s flippant attitude and determined blue eyes, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to fight alone anymore.

Words: 151,776 AO3

A Touch of Magic

"Keith—" He feels his heart lurch as Keith squats down next to him. One hand on his wolf's head, scratching behind his ear. His eyes, however, remain fixed on Lance, and he had really hoped that the whole dry-mouth-lump-in-the-throat-heart-skipping-a-beat thing would've stopped happening when he turned, but here he is. Vampiric and still the flustered mess he was when he was human. "Buddy, I can't breathe—"

"You don't have to breathe," He says, that ghost of a smile still fixed and the whisper of amusement in his voice.

It sends chills down his spine.

Lance huffs as much as he can when there's a large wolf crushing his chest. "That doesn't mean it's not uncomfortable."

"You'll survive." He pats his wolf one last time before pushing to his feet. "Better luck next time, Lance."

"I'll get you one day, Keithy boy." He calls out as Keith walks away, disappearing from his vision and continuing down the path. "Just you wait."

Words: 19,953 AO3

For Fox Sake

Foxtail series

Photography has always been an passion of Keith's. Being able to capture that perfect moment - grant it immortality and unleash it to the world so that the people may decide what stories they tell - is what he lives for.

So when given the opportunity to expand his horizons, Keith finds himself on a month long excursion in the middle of nowhere, with only his camera and his own thoughts to keep him company.

And this forest - this mountainous landscape seemingly untouched by human hands - holds more than just a vast array of scenic landscapes and wondrous wildlife worthy of being captured in film.

It holds a secret. One Keith hadn't anticipated discovering, much less believing. And though they say "take only pictures, leave only footprints", Keith worries that when he finally has to return to his mundane world, he'll be leaving more than just tracks on the ground.

But his heart has always belonged to the woods, and he knows the fox will guard it well.

Words: 80,888 AO3

Ghost on the Shore

After moving into an desolated house in a swamp, Keith finds that the area's not as abandoned as he anticipated. He soon meets Lance, a mysterious boy that apparently lives out in the marsh, and who seems to possess magical powers to a certain degree.

Words: 37,055 AO3

It Never Rains on Saturday

Rain or Shine Series

In the magical kingdom of Altea lies an ominous tower filled with monsters. Every day, adventurers battle through the tower’s levels in a never-ending quest to slay the Demon King who lives at the very top.

Lance, a talented archer, is one such adventurer. However, Lance doesn’t want to kill the Demon King.

Lance wants to marry him.

Words: 22,726 AO3

Nameless

Lance McClain was not pale. He enjoyed the sun as much as any other, and though he was often run down or fatigued, this was due to his steadily amounting college work, not his need to sleep upside down. He was everything a vampire wasn't. Oh, except for his constant cravings for blood, and the name in cursive permanently scrawled over his wrist.

Since the name had appeared on Lance's thirteenth birthday, he'd been desperately waiting for the day he'd finally meet his soulmate. And it finally comes, the first day of his second year of college, delivering a boy that causes everything Lance had fantasized to come crashing down around him. Not only is his mate a human, but he's the kind of human that despises vampires. A hunter named Keith.

But matters of the heart aren't the only thing standing in Lance's way, for a much greater enemy is on the horizon, posing a threat not only to Lance and his family, but to Keith, too. The nameless are coming for them, and soon.

Words: 102,409 AO3

Were-woof

Living off the grid is one thing. Keith had been doing it his whole life. However, now that the mountain he has lived on his whole live is slowly being developed thanks to a ski resort it's getting harder and harder for Keith to keep to himself. Especially when he happens to catch the eye of a rather cute looking townie.

Words: 133,954 AO3

An Eternal Flame

“Do you have a deathwish?” The phoenix answers him with a question this time, apparently intent on dodging the question about its name. Maybe it’s for the best, Lance’s mama always warned him that he tended to get attached to things once he’d named them. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

He isn’t going to get attached this time.

Making sure that he’s still holding the phoenix’s attention, he reaches down and pushes his cloak aside, then lifts his shirt. There, bright red and ugly against his hip, are three long slashes. They aren’t scars, they aren’t healed in the slightest, they’re still red and open wounds. They don’t hurt, not in the physical sense, but Lance can’t help the repulsion he feels whenever he looks at them.

“Not a deathwish, a death sentence.”

Words: 63,692 AO3

[donteattheappleshook]

Of Cars and Bars Chapter 14/14

Here it is, after three years, the epilogue to Of Cars and Bars. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and commented and sent kudos/liked or reblogged here or on Ao3 or Fanfiction.net. Every single one brought me so much joy and made me keep writing even when I didn't think I could. I hope you like the ending I gave these two idiots. 

Also, as always, thank you to @kmomof4​ for all your amazing help and support writing this story <3 Dedicating it to you for the last time :’(

Also thanks to @artistic-writer​ for helping me start this freaking epilogue when I was tearing my hair out! 

Summary:

Rated E

When Emma Swan is offered the chance to go on tour as an opener for one of the most popular up and coming bands of the decade, the last thing she expects is to find that the lead guitarist is the stranger she had a one night stand with five years ago.

This started out as a smutty two shot about Emma Ruby and Mary Margaret going on a road trip and has evolved into a slow-burn mutual pining angst-fest.

Read it from the beginning on Ao3 and Ffn because tumblr eats all my italics.

Epilogue - Heal Me

I wasn't looking for you / But I think maybe I was and didn't know / Oh this is love like wildness / Coursing through you like a drug

The trial had dragged on for another month. Another month of long nights and exhausting days at the end of which Killian came home to the tiny apartment he shared with his brother and his sister-in-law drained and worn out both emotionally and physically. But it was different now than it had been. Because Emma was there. She’d stayed. She’d joined them in their cramped little two bedroom until all of the drama was over and they were finally able to go back to New York.

It had been fun if he was honest. Sure, the four of them had been practically living on top of each other, but he felt supported, surrounded by love. He and Emma spent that month sneaking around like teenagers, occasionally waking up to disapproving looks from Liam and Belle, but they didn’t hold any real venom. He could tell that they were happy he had Emma.

Emma had been worried that Liam wouldn’t forgive her. She’d told him the whole story, about how she’d promised Liam back when they were on tour that she wouldn’t break his heart and when she had, Liam had called her out on it. While he was annoyed with his brother for meddling in his life, it was also another reminder that he had a family who would always look out for him.

Liam had forgiven her. Easily, to everyone’s surprise. He’d said that he understood that sometimes it took time for people to realise their mistakes and do the right thing. Killian was shocked to hear those words come from his brother’s mouth. He was always so black and white. Perhaps Belle was rubbing off on him. But maybe it was because she had come back and Liam realized that the present and future were what mattered, not the past. Whatever the reason was,  he was glad that the two most important people in his life had made peace. 

Gold had been denied probation, had been denied a mistrial and he was sent back to prison. He would likely have another chance at parole, another chance to appeal the decision, but they would deal with that when they came to it. For now, justice had been served and Killian could finally rest, feeling that Milah had been avenged in some way. 

When the dust had settled, they’d headed back to the States. Originally, they had wanted to start their tour right away but had decided that it was better to wait until the next summer. Besides, the Ugly Ducklings were in the middle of recording an album and Robin wanted them to finish it - wanted to have it drop while there was still some summer left. He also suggested that it would be better for them to tour after the record had been released so that people would know their songs and buy more tickets. 

There had been negotiations about that. About whether or not it was a good idea to have double headlining acts or if the Ugly Ducklings should still open for Abandon Ship! since they were still lesser known. That decision had been made for them however, when the girls’ album went platinum two weeks after it was released. 

Emma had been shocked. She didn’t understand what the hell had happened but somehow, overnight, they were famous. They couldn’t go out on the streets without being recognized, without constant demands for photos and autographs. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with requests for interviews and appearances on talk shows and morning shows. 

That had been another reason the tour was delayed. Between the success of the two groups, there was barely time left to schedule one, hardly any time that they were both available. Belle, as both of their managers now, had wanted them to ride the success of the album, to go on tour right away. But it hadn’t been possible. So it had been delayed until the new year. 

A sort of competition had started between the two bands as both their albums continued to have songs rivaling for the number one song in the country over the months that followed. Killian particularly enjoyed it because whenever Emma would brag that her song had beat his, he could brag that he still won because the song was about him. In fairness, she could claim the same. 

Emma was convinced that their sudden popularity had more to do with the very public display of affection between her and Killian that day in London. She was sure that people had looked her up and found the album that way. Killian was convinced that it was the video of their last encore that had gone viral. She’d created a one-time, exclusive song that had no other recording apart from one enthusiastic cameraman who had leaked it online and the throngs of cellphone videos. 

She’d given them that one taste of what she could do and then had finally released it a few months later with a whole album of equally fantastic songs. Besides, Killian had said, Why did it matter? People were listening to her music. They heard it and they liked it and she touched people with her lyrics and her melodies. Did it matter how they had gotten there?

Despite how busy they were, Emma and Killian still managed to find time to write together. They’d started in London whenever Killian had a particularly rough time with the case and needed to vent, needed an outlet for his pain. They’d continued when they moved back to New York - Emma with Ruby and Mary Margaret, and Killian with Graham and David. It was all of three months before their friends demanded that they move out of their apartments and in with each other, sick of the constant displays of affection. 

Emma felt bad - kind of. She kept expecting it to stop. Kept expecting to want him less, for the pull between them to relax, to slow. She thought she’d eventually stop wanting to touch him all the time, to make love to him all the time. But she didn’t. She couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t keep her hands to herself, nor could he keep his to himself. 

She couldn't help it. She loved being around him, loved the way he made her feel and laugh and think and the way he brought out the music in her. She liked talking to him, listening to him talk, liked being vulnerable with him and seeing him open up to her. Maybe this was just love, she thought. Maybe she really hadn’t felt it before him.

One of their songs, however, had blown up in a way she never expected. Most times, when they wrote, it was one helping the other work through a bit they were stuck on, helping them fix the chord or the lyric that sounded wrong. But this one they'd written together. The lyrics, the melody, and the feelings that inspired it were equally his and hers. 

They hadn’t even meant for it to be released. Ruby had overheard it when she’d come over when they were in the middle of a writing session. Her exact words had been ‘holy fuck’. She’d had them play it for Belle and the guys and Mary Margaret, all of whom insisted that the song needed to be recorded, not by either group but by the two of them, released as a stand alone single. 

Belle had insisted they release it on social media first. On twitter and instagram and others Emma hadn’t heard of. They’d released it under Killian Jones from Abandon Ship! and Emma Swan from the Ugly Ducklings, and they’d recorded it in their apartment, both of them sitting on a pair of kitchen chairs in their living room with a few mics set up. Just them and their guitars playing together and to each other, two of the biggest new faces in music, one of the most talked about and gossiped about couples in the industry (and drooled over as Killian liked to remind everyone), singing a love song to and about each other. 

They went viral in an hour. The song was constantly talked about online and on talk shows and in press interviews - as was their relationship. They were asked dozens and dozens of times to confirm that they were in fact a couple. Killian was thrilled that he could say yes, that he could tell the whole world that he loved Emma Swan and that she loved him too. He was even more thrilled when she was the one to say it. 

It didn’t scare her anymore. She was still a private person, still didn’t like anyone knowing anything about her personal life really, but he knew that she didn’t care that the whole world knew she was in love with him. And that thought made his heart soar every time. 

And then the really crazy thing happened. They were nominated. For a Grammy. They hadn’t believed it at first when they’d gotten the call, had thought it was a prank orchestrated by Graham and David. But when it turned out to be true, and it really sunk in, he’d pulled her into his arms, laughing into her neck, unable to stop smiling. He’d known that they wrote good music together, knew that she made him better and that he made her better. But he’d never imagined this. 

Arrangements had been made quickly, Belle determined to ride the wave of their Grammy win - nomination, Belle, Emma kept reminding her only to receive a dismissive wave. They managed to find a way to book a tour, to move enough things around so that they could start the day after the awards from Los Angeles and then make their way across the country. And then the UK. And then the rest of Europe. 

That was where they were now, in a hotel room in L.A. the day of the Grammys. Emma was supposed to be getting ready for the awards tonight. She should have left a little while ago really. But while she was excited to go back on tour, was honoured and humbled that they’d been nominated for best song, the idea of leaving the hotel room, leaving the hotel room bed where she was currently tangled up with a very attractive and very naked rockstar made spending hours being gussied up sound like a far less appealing option.

“We need to get going, Swan,” Killian said detangling himself from her arms despite her best efforts and stepping off the side of the bed. Emma pouted.

“No, we don’t,” she whined, reaching for him again but he danced out of her reach. He laughed. He always laughed when she was this frustrated, and a little needy for him too, honestly. It wasn’t her fault. He was standing there next to the bed in all his God-given glory, miles of bare arms and legs and chest and ass on display. It was really just cruel of him. 

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t have to get going. You do.” 

She groaned and rolled her eyes, not happy with the reminder of what the rest of her day and night was going to look like. “Do we have to go? Why don’t we just stay here?” she asked, reaching for his hand and trying to coax him back into bed with her. He was really doing his best to resist, she could tell, but his resolve was weakening. She saw the smirk pulling at his lips, saw the way his eyebrow ticked up. He didn’t pull his hand away.

“Emma, it’s the Grammys. We’re nominated. We can’t just not go.” She couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince her or himself.

She dropped his hand, rolled over onto her back and let out another, long-suffering groan. She knew she had to go but there were so many other fun things she’d rather do instead. The fact that they’d just done them was irrelevant. He sat on the bed next to her, laughing again.

“I know that,” she said. “But you get to just throw on a suit and head out the door. I have to go let myself be poked and prodded by a bunch of strangers trying to fit me into some ridiculous dress that Mary Margaret picked out.” 

“Don’t you want to go and be pampered by people whose only job is to dote on you?” 

“I’d rather you pamper and dote on me,” she said, running her arm up his forearm. 

“Oh, really?” he asked, eyebrows raised, leaning in just a little.

“Mhm. Poked and prodded sounds good too.” 

He grinned. “And how exactly would you like to be pampered, Swan?” he asked, his own hand finding her wrist, trailing up the inside of her arm to her elbow, up to her shoulder and across her collarbone. 

“You know exactly how I like it,” she told him, trying to keep her breathing steady as his hand ghosted down between her breasts, over her stomach and across her hips. 

He hummed. “But I want you to tell me.” Fucking hell. 

“Kiss me,” she said, still shy when it came to this sort of thing but the way he reacted whenever she told him what she wanted, when she talked when they were together like this spurred her on. 

“Where?” he asked with a wicked grin. She rolled her eyes, grabbed hold of the back of his neck and pulled him down to her lips. He went willingly, his mouth sliding over hers, lips parting when she licked at them, stroking her tongue with his. She really really thought she’d get over the way he kissed some day, that she’d get used to it, that it wouldn’t turn her on as much as if his mouth was moving between her legs. But god the man could kiss. She was already squirming under him, caged between his arms that were braced on either side of her, decidedly not on her body. 

“Touch me,” she whined against his lips. She felt him smile against her. 

“Where?” he asked before kissing her again. She took hold of his hand, lowered it to the ache between her thighs.

“Here,” she breathed. 

She felt his breath catch, puffed against her lips as his fingers met her wet heat. “Always so wet for me, Swan,” he mumbled.

“Always,” she said. “Please, Killian,” she asked and he obliged, slipping one finger inside of her, sliding in easily and pumping slowly. She arched her back, pushing up against his hand. “More,” she begged and he slid in a second finger. 

“Like that?” he asked, increasing the speed of his thrusts. It felt amazing but not enough. She looked up at him, saw him watching her with that same hint of the wicked smile from before, but his eyes were darker now, hooded as she writhed beneath him. But he waited. She knew she would have to tell him what she wanted. Fine. If he was going to make her beg for it then she was going to make sure he paid for it. 

She grabbed his hair, pulled his head down. “Kiss my neck,” she told him, frowning when he began pressing soft, slow brushes of his lips down the column of her throat. “No,” she told him, tightening her hold, his fingers were still moving inside of her and she canted her hips, trying to increase his rhythm. “Properly. Bite me. Lick me,” she demanded. 

She gasped as his mouth opened against her skin, his tongue dragging and flicking as his lips sucked at her flesh, finding the spots he knew drove her crazy. She canted her hips again and he took pity on her, flattening his palm against her so she could grind her clit against the heel. His teeth found the spot where her shoulder met her neck, biting down, just the right side of painful. She moaned and his lips curled against her shoulder. 

“Lower,” she insisted, voice cracking as she dragged his face down to her breast. He waited. “Fuck, Killian, are you gonna make me ask you to suck my tits?” she growled, getting really annoyed at this game he seemed to be having so much fun with. 

“That will do, Love,” he said before shifting on the bed so that he was laying next to her, hovering over her, steadying himself on an elbow. He put a knee between her legs, kept up the slow, torturous movement of his fingers as he took her breast into his mouth, rolling his tongue over her nipple before sucking at the sensitive bud. 

“Yes,” she moaned. “Use your tongue again,” she demanded and he groaned against her before dragging his tongue over her nipple, flicking at it. “More,” she demanded, not even really sure what she was asking for but when he bit down on the tip she practically screamed in pleasure. Thank God he knew what she was asking for. 

“Both of them,” she begged, not realising until his fingers slipped out of her heat that she’d made a mistake. “Wait, no,” she started but he only chuckled against her breast, his hand coming to the other, cupping it, wet fingers drawing lazy circles around her nipple before he dragged his thumb over it. 

Her head fell back against the pillows, a small cry drawn from her lips as she arched her back into his touch. She needed more though, missed the friction between her legs and she grabbed at his hips, trying to nudge him over so she could press his thigh against her core. He didn’t move easily though and she cried out in frustration.

“Fuck, Killian! Give me something to ride!” She felt him stiffen, felt the way his fingers pinched at her nipple in a way that didn’t seem intentional. Good. She was getting to him too. She really only had the chance to feel smug for a second before he lowered himself into the cradle of her thighs, the rough hair below his navel pressing down on her clit as he let her grind her hips against him. 

Emma was reeling, unable to think of anything besides the feel of his mouth and his fingers on her nipples and the pressure between her legs that was growing with every grind of her hips against him. She was lightheaded, lost to the sensations, pretty sure she was going to come from this alone. She let out a desperate moan and felt his answering growl against her skin, felt him press his hips further into her. She wanted more. She wanted -

“I want your mouth,” she gasped. “I want your tongue inside me and your fingers. I want you to lick me, suck my clit.” She grabbed at his hair again, pulled sharply. “Eat me out,” she demanded. The words felt crass coming out of her mouth but she couldn't think of another way to say it. That was exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to lick and suck at her like a starving man. She wanted him to devour her.

He growled again, giving her nipple a harsh flick before sliding down her body, pressing fast, hot kisses across her belly on his way down. She cried out, doubling over when he began his assault, his tongue dragging through her folds once, twice, before pushing inside of her, curling and licking at the wetness there. She felt his groan vibrating through her core, sending shivers down her spine.

She moaned, called out his name, and he did it again. And then again before pulling back and sliding his fingers back in, reaching deeper, stretching her wider. He curled them the same way he had his tongue, dragging against that spot that made her see stars. She could feel his breath on her but not his mouth and she writhed in frustration. 

“What's wrong, Swan?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice but it was obscured by the rough tenor that betrayed his desire. “Is that not what you want?”

“I already told you what I want!” she snapped, lifting her hips towards his face but he pulled back. 

“Tell me again,” he rasped. Asshole, she thought, she glanced down at him and saw the darkness in his eyes, the blue almost completely swallowed by black, his lips swollen and damp. He was pleading, looking nearly as on edge as she was.

“I want your mouth on me, Killian. I want you to make me come on your tongue. And then again on your cock.” 

“Because I’m the only one who can make you fall apart every time, aren’t I? The only one who's ever been able to.” She never should have told him that. 

“Then prove it!” 

She saw the challenge in his eyes as they narrowed. His free hand grabbed hold of her thigh, wrapping around it and pulling her roughly against his mouth as he dove in, finding her clit with his tongue, flicking and circling and toying with it before pulling it into his mouth. He added a finger, thrusting faster, stretching her, filling her so perfectly as he continued to lick at her most sensitive spot.

“Yes!” she cried. “Oh, fuck, Killian, yes! Don’t stop.” She was grinding against his face, against his fingers, riding him faster and faster to her climax. He was relentless, pressing down on her hips to hold her steady as he pulled harder at her clit, curled his fingers, dragging them against her walls on every pass. The coil tightened in her belly, in her spine, every nerve in her body burning hotter until she was sure she would burst into flames.

“Make me come,” she gasped between moans and he rolled his tongue, pulling her clit harder into his mouth, sucking deeper and she broke, her back arching off the bed, toes curling into the mattress as her fingers gripped the pillow under her head. 

It felt like ages before she had enough control of her limbs, enough of her senses back to look up at him - to even open her eyes. When she did, he was kneeling at the end of the bed, eyes hooded and hand stroking lightly at his cock, smearing her wetness over it as he watched her. 

“I love watching you come,” he said, voice low and strained. He moved to fall over her but she stopped him, putting her foot on his chest. He raised an eyebrow and she smirked.

“You’re not the only one who likes to watch,” she told him and felt the heat of his desire wash over her as he gripped himself tighter, his hand pumping over his generous length. 

Emma cocked her head as she took him in, the clenching of his jaw, the tauntness of his neck and shoulders, and the way the muscles flexed in his forearm as he brought himself closer to the edge. His head fell back for a moment as his hand sped up and she bit her lip. Fuck, he looked hot like this, lost in his own pleasure, mouth hanging open as small, desperate sounds escaped him. 

His eyes found her again, raking over her from head to toe as he increased his pace, biting his lip. She rubbed her legs together, trying to soothe the ache that was already building between them. She saw his eyes flare and zero in on her center.

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he groaned. “Please.”

“Please what?” she asked and she smirked as his eyes darkened. “Tell me what you want,” she taunted, turning his own game against him. 

He growled before crawling up the bed, pulling her legs apart and pushing himself between them. She gasped when she felt the tip of him brush through her folds. He leaned over her, caging her in with his arms as he brought his face within breathing distance of her own, speaking his next words against her lips. 

“I want to bury myself inside you. Push my cock deep into your cunt until you cry out like you always do when I fill you up just the way you like.” She gasped into his mouth, back arching with every teasing, shallow thrust of his hips, his cock nudging at her clit and sending shockwaves coursing through her. He brought his hand to her breast, palming it, rolling her nipple under it until it was hard, craving more. Fuck. Why did she think she could beat him at this game? “Is that what you want to hear?” he asked, catching her bottom lip between his teeth and dragging them slowly over it before moving to her jaw. 

“Yes,” she moaned, grabbing hold of his hip, pulling him closer. “Fucking do it already,” she demanded and he didn’t even laugh, didn’t revel in his victory which told her that he was just as desperate as she was. He took himself in hand, finding her entrance and slid in with one firm stroke. 

“So wet,” he gasped, head falling to her chest. “So tight.” 

She pushed her hips up against him, letting him slip even deeper and he took the hint, pulling back only to thrust back in hard and fast and so fucking deep. She held on to his shoulders as he rutted against her, a series of grunts and gasps leaving him as he moved inside of her, his pace fast, rough, almost sloppy. She revelled in it, in his desperation and naked want for her. 

She could tell he was close, the cries falling from his lips coming faster, his thrusts matching them. She felt the sweat on his back, the strain of his muscles as he raced towards that edge. She was close too. The deep, powerful thrusts hitting a spot inside of her that always sent her careening towards her peak. She brought her hand down between them, circling at her clit in time with the pounding of his hips.

“Fuck,” he breathed against her and she didn’t know if it was because of his own pleasure or the thought of her touching herself. She didn’t care though as he increased his pace, arm sliding around her back, hand gripping her shoulder so hard she was sure he’d leave bruises - wouldn’t that be fun to explain on the red carpet - and she could tell he was nearly there. 

He pushed her hand away, his own fingers taking over, his thumb pressing and circling so hard it was almost painful. She let out a shocked cry as she felt herself racing towards her orgasm, no longer in control, the sensation overwhelming. She gasped into his ear, her words choking on her cries. “I want you to come.” 

He groaned, hand snapping to the mattress beside her, fisting in the sheets as he drove into her at a breakneck pace before crying out against her neck. He pressed down on her clit, scraping at it as he spilled himself inside of her and she jerked, scream catching in her throat as her body convulsed, her orgasm crashing over her hard and fast and sudden. He kept his hand there and the pressure, the sting of it kept the waves coursing through her, aftershocks pulsing through her endlessly until he finally released her, stroking her gently, soothingly as he eased her down. 

His arms shook with the strain of holding his weight off of her and he slowly rolled over, collapsing on his side. Still trembling, she turned her head so she could look at him, always loving the way his face looked after he came, eyes closed, brow pulled up, mouth open - an expression of blissful anguish. She reached out, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand and then brushing her thumb over his bottom lip. 

He caught her hand, kissed her palm though panting breaths. His eyes fluttered open, smiling at her sweetly at first and then with increasing smugness.

“What?” 

He reached out, traced her jaw with his thumb. “Darling you are going to look thoroughly fucked walking down that red carpet.” 

Right on cue, there was a banging at their door. “Emma! You’re late! You have two seconds to get your ass dressed and out this door before I come in and drag you out,” Mary Margaret warned. Emma groaned and Killian laughed.

“Well, at least she’s started asking before using her key,” he shrugged. Yes, she’d only made that mistake once and she’d gotten more of an eyeful of Killian than she’d ever wanted. Emma rolled out of bed, Killian’s laughter still following her as she pulled on a bra and underwear before throwing her sweats on. She went to open the door, Killian throwing the sheet over his hips. 

Mary Margaret stood on the other side, eyes raised to the ceiling before she looked down, making sure she wouldn’t be seeing a naked Killian again. She looked Emma over from head to toe and then glanced back at where Killian was laying in the bed behind her. 

“Oh, for God's sake,” she groaned. “You do realise we need to be at the Staples Center in three hours and we were supposed to be at hair and makeup twenty minutes ago.” 

“Can’t I just do that on my own?” she whined. “Just throw on some mascara and some lipstick and maybe a dress I can actually move in?”

Mary Margaret took a deep, centering yoga breath. “Emma. You are going to walk on stage in front of thousands of people. This will be broadcast world wide. You are not going to slap some makeup on your face and wear your damn jeans.”

“I didn’t say my jeans.”

“This is serious,” she said, taking her hands, her tone softer now. “Emma, your music has reached so many people, touched so many lives. And now people want to thank you for it, want to congratulate you for it with the biggest honour you can recieve in this business.”  

Emma looked down, a bit abashed. “Okay.”

“Good. So show some goddamn respect and let’s go doll you up!” Emma’s mouth fell open, eyes snapping to her friend. Had she been tricked? She’d been tricked. Damn Mary Margaret. 

After hours of being poked and prodded in a much less pleasant way than earlier, Emma was released from the studio. She had to admit, she looked pretty damn good. Her dress was a dark, midnight blue that brought out her skin tone and hugged her shape (probably enhanced it if she was being honest). Her makeup was flawless but thankfully not heavy and overdone like she’d feared. Her hair, however, had refused to lose that slight madness, that slight wildness that screamed that she had been completely and thoroughly fucked. She smiled a little secret smile at the idea. 

“I told you,” Mary Margaret said as she, Ruby and Belle all took a moment to complete a few finishing touches before heading out the door. There were limos waiting outside, the guys already dressed and ready to go. They probably even had time for a nap, Emma begrudged them. And a snack, she thought as her stomach growled. 

Belle had planned out the limos strategically. Graham, David, Liam and herself were in one, Ruby and Mary Margaret in another. Emma and Killian had been specifically instructed to show up in a third limo, last of the three to arrive. Belle said they needed to play up their relationship for the tour and the publicity. And they were nominated together. 

Emma wasn’t thrilled about using her relationship for fame but she did like that she’d have Killian beside her all night, there holding her hand and making sure she didn’t panic and freeze up in front of everyone. Or trip in the stupid heels Belle had picked out. 

Graham and David popped out of the car to say hello to Mary Margaret and Ruby. David took Mary Margaret’s hand, twirling her around like a princess as he showered her with compliments and she giggled like a schoolgirl. Graham, a man of few words, took one look at Ruby and his jaw dropped, a breathless ‘wow’ escaping him. Ruby smirked, grabbing him by his tie and pressing her lips to his. The dazed look on his face when she pulled away and wiped the lipstick off his face was priceless.

Killian stepped out, dressed in a dark blue suit that made his eyes look even brighter, as though that were even possible. His hair was combed neatly and his beard was trimmed. Emma’s jaw practically dropped when she saw him. In all the months they’d been together now, she’d never seen him dressed up like this. He looked good. She smirked as she watched his eyes rake over her, his tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip. 

“Swan,” he said, reaching his hand out for her. She took it, letting him help her into the car. She slid over and he followed her in. Before the door could be shut though, Belle stopped it, one hand on the frame. She shot Killian a death glare. 

“If she shows up with even one hair out of place, one smudge of lipstick on either of you, I will murder you myself. Do you hear me?” It should have been funny, but both of them swallowed, nodding, worried she might follow through on her threat. “Good,” she said, her stare still hard. “See you there.” 

The door shut and Killian turned to her as the car pulled away. He smiled at her, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I got you something,” he said. Emma cocked her head to see what it might be. He pulled out a little paper bag, the waxy kind. It had been folded at the end to keep it sealed. He handed it to her and Emma opened it, the smell hitting her first before she saw what was inside and her mouth watered. 

“I love you,” she said and he laughed. He’d brought her a freaking bear claw. She took a bite, making sure not to spill any on her dress and chewed gratefully. She loved that he knew she’d be starving, that he’d thought to stop at a bakery somewhere to pick this up. She loved when he did this kind of thing, the little gestures to show he cared. 

She slid across the seat, tucking herself under his arm and leaning against him as she munched on her snack, even offering him a bite at one point - that was how thankful she was. She liked these moments, the quiet ones. Sure, they were on their way to a huge, worldwide event, but for right now it was just the two of them. 

It was rare now that they had the chance to just sit and cuddle and feel normal. Their lives had become so hectic, but through it all, Killian had been there, had kept her feeling safe, had kept her feeling human even when she thought the world would overwhelm her. She was happy. Despite the madness of her new life, she was happier than she’d ever been. Her family had grown, she had a man she loved and who loved her in a way she hadn’t believed she’d ever deserve. She lay her head back on his shoulder, looking at him and wondering how she’d gotten so lucky. 

“What, Love?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Emma only smiled, reaching up with her non-bearclaw-occupied hand and cupping the back of his neck, pulling his lips down over her own. She didn’t know why it had taken her so long to let him in, but as he slanted his lips over hers, bearclaw forgotten, she was damn happy that he’d waited, happy that she’d seen the light before she let him slip through her fingers. She pulled him closer, holding on tighter. She didn’t plan on ever letting go. 

Belle took one look at them when they stepped out of the limo and joined their friends on the carpet. Her eyes panned over the two of them before rolling skyward, a heavy sigh leaving her. 

“Seriously?”  

[thetravelerwrites]

Aigoromo (Fishwoman) Lemon

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Male Human/Fishwoman Additional Tags: Exophilia, Fishwoman, Male Reader, Reader Insert, Sex, Fish Lady Content Warnings: Eggs, Babies, Broken Leg, Tornado Words: 3881

A commission for @redgunnit ! After a man breaks his leg and loses his house and job after a tornado rips through his town, he calls upon his brother for help. His brother lives on an island supposedly protected by a water spirit, whom the reader meets shortly after arriving. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

A surprise, unprecedented tornado had ripped through your town, taking most of the homes and businesses with it. Your own house, ten years worth of work and saving, was demolished in a matter of moments. Now, with a broken shin bone and without either a home or a job, since the factory you worked for was also crushed, you sought out help from your brother.

After sitting in a hospital bed and crying for a while, you called your brother, who lived with his wife and kids on an island called Farway. Within hours of getting out of the hospital, you were on a plane out to the island with nothing but a small bag of personal items you managed to salvage and whatever money was in your savings.

The only way to get to the island was by ferry from the mainland, so your plane landed at the airport in a city west of the coastal town where the ferry was located. You took a cab from the airport straight to the ferry. Luckily, you got there just in time to catch the last ride of the day.

You sat on the deck of the ferry, stretching your injured leg out with a tight grip on the bag that had what was left of your worldly possessions. You stared at the sky as the sun was setting, a deep, deep exhaustion in your bones. Half of the sky was a grey-blue and the other half was blood red, which seemed appropriate for your mood. If you weren’t completely numb, you were just… angry. Angry that you’re entire adult life’s work lay in ruins in a town you never wanted to see again. For the first time in a long time, you had no plan, no future, no prospects. Nothing but the clothes on your back and the kindness of family.

Your brother, Caleb, was there to meet you when you got off the ferry, and after a brief, tight hug that conveyed a bevy of emotions, he picked up your bag and helped you to his car.

“I’m so glad you didn’t get more badly hurt,” He was saying as he drove you to his home. “We watched the news about it. We heard people died, and I was scared to death when I couldn’t reach your cell.”

“Yeah, it was destroyed,” You replied. “I’m going to have to replace it while I’m here.”

“You had insurance on the house, right? Are they going to pay out?”

“I don’t know,” You said. “Our town has never had a tornado go through it, so I don’t even know if I have coverage for that.” You sighed and rubbed your aching head. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should just rest for a few days first, bro,” Caleb remarked, looking at you in concern. “You look beat.”

“Maybe you’re right,” You said, reclining and putting an arm over your eyes. “I’m… I’m… I don’t even have the words to describe how I feel right now. This has been the worst day of my life.”

“I know, bud,” He said with sympathy. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure this out. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like.”

“Becca won’t mind?” You asked. Becca, Caleb’s wife, didn’t have the highest opinion of you. You sort of made a bad impression on her when you first met, and it’s colored every interaction the two of you had since then.

“She’s agreed, too. Whatever she thinks of you, you’re still family in need. I love my wife, but you’re my brother. I’m always here for you.”

You clap a hand to his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

He nodded. “No worries. The space above the garage is empty, so you can have free use of it. There’s already a fold-up cot in there, but we can get you a real bed.”

“Nah, the cot will be fine. I don’t plan on living up there long.”

“Suit yourself. Hungry?”

“If I wasn’t so tired, yeah, but right now, I want to sleep for three days.”

“Gotcha. We’re almost there.”

Caleb had moved to this island three years ago, but you’d never actually visited it. If you hadn’t been half asleep and in a considerable amount of pain, you’d have noticed what a beautiful town it actually was. Most of the buildings were painting pleasing shades of blues, greens, reds, and whites. The streets were symmetrical, even, and clean. Beautiful cast iron streetlamps lined the roads and the sidewalks were cobblestone. The buildings somehow looked decades old and brand new at the same time.

Caleb made a quick stop at the drugstore to drop off your prescription for painkillers and picked up some over the counter stuff, then a short drive brought you to his house. It was a two story Victorian style place with a detached garage, the space above which had an outside set of stairs. Oh, fuck, that would be an obstacle with your leg, but you’d figure it out. The house was blue and white and had a short pier on the water down the hill behind a fence in the backyard.

Thankfully, the boys, Jake and Jack, were already in bed for the night. You loved your nephews, but they were five and a lot to handle all at once if you weren’t ready for them.

Becca greeted you when you came in.

“Hey, hon,” She said, giving you an uncharacteristically friendly hug. “How you holding up?”

“I’m alive, but that’s about it,” You said, your voice rough with exhaustion.

“I bet,” She said with a sad smile. “The cot’s all set up for you. Do you need anything.”

“No, but thanks, Becca. I appreciate you guys putting me up until I figure out what to do,” You told her.

“Think nothing of it,” She said.

“Do you need help getting up to the apartment?” Caleb asked.

“No, I can make it if I’m careful,” You said. “I’m lucky it wasn’t my femur, so I can still bend my knee, otherwise I’d be sleeping on the porch. I think I’m going to lay down, though. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Your brother patted your back and you made your way back outside. Climbing the stairs was arduous, but eventually you made it up into the apartment. It was sparse; there was a cot, a small bathroom with a shower, and a sink and counter with a microwave on it. It reminded you of your college dorm, strangely enough, and you felt comfortable in it immediately.

Falling face-first onto the bed, you were asleep within seconds.

The next morning, you awoke and had breakfast with the family. Your nephews were nothing short of ecstatic to see you, though they were confused by your sudden appearance. You tried to explain the destruction of your life and livelihood to them in terms five-year-olds could understand.

“So now my house is broken and can’t be fixed,” You told them. “It’s just bad luck.”

“You should go talk to the fish lady then!” Jake said emphatically. His twin nodded so hard, you thought he might get whiplash.

Your head rocked back and and an amused smile formed on your face. “Fish lady?”

“Yeah-huh,” Jake said. “I saw her out in the bay. She waved at me. She’s good luck.”

“I see,” You said, and then looked to your brother for an explanation. He snickered.

“It’s a local legend,” He said. “Aigoromo the water spirit. It’s supposedly why this island has such an ideal climate. It rains when it needs to rain, it’s sunny when it needs to be sunny. There’s never huge, crushing waves or bad currents. There’s always fish, year round. It’s like this island is the only place on earth that has perfect weather all the time.”

“I should have bought my house here, then,” You grumbled bitterly.

“Sorry,” Caleb said, wincing. “I didn’t mean to rub it in.”

“No, man, don’t listen to me. I’m just being salty,” You assured him. You turned to your nephews. “So how do I get good luck from the fish lady?”

“You gotta make her like you,” Jack said. “When we saw her, we threw flowers in the water.”

“Nuh-uh!” Jake protested. “We were feeding the ducks!”

“You were feeding the ducks! I was throwing flowers!”

“Flowers are stupid! She liked that I was feeding the ducks more!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Boys, that’s enough,” Becca said.

“So to get her to like me so that I can get my luck back, I give her flowers and/or feed ducks?” You asked with an indulgent smile. The boys nodded their head at the same time. “Well, I guess I’ll have to try that, then.”

Caleb laughed and shook his head and Becca herded the kids upstairs for their baths.

Later that night, you were having difficulty sleeping. The pain-killers that you’d picked up that day helped dull the sharp pain in your lower leg, but it made you feel itchy and extremely restless. You fought your way down the staircase, into the backyard and went to sit on the pier, stretching out your leg.

You looked out over the water, sort of mulling over your recent bad luck. It was pretty here, with the moon rising over the bay. Looking down, you noticed a little stack of flowers, nothing fancy, just wild daisies and dandelions. Sniffing a laugh out of your nose, you picked the little bundle up and laid them in your lap, picking up one of the daisies and just plucking the petals off and blowing them out in the water, honestly for something to do that wasn’t just sitting there, feeling uncomfortable and anxious about your future.

You heard a splash in the distance that caught your attention. It was dark, but the moon was out and over the water. After a minute of squinting, you didn’t see anything, and you relaxed.

Until you looked down into the water at the edge of the dock and saw wide eyes looking back at you.

Your leg prevented you from scuttling back on the pier like a startled crab, so you were frozen in place as the eyes rose up out of the water and stared at you. The eyes were set into a face that was light blue with purple contours, orange stripes, and no nose. There were large frilly gills around its neck that were thin and membranous. It swam closer and placed it’s webbed hands on the pier, staring at you curiously.

“Holy shit…” You whispered, not sure what you should do. It’s mouth was open, and you could see teeth, but they were like ridges, one on the bottom and two on the top with a gap between them. It chittered at you, as if expecting something. Looking around you, you saw the flowers still in your lap. Unable to think of anything else to do, you scooped them up and handed them to the creature carefully, concerned it would bite you or attack with the claws on its hands.

It reached out and took the flowers, and as your fingers grazed its hand, you were suddenly flooded with emotions and thoughts that didn’t belong to you. It left you reeling and dizzy, and by the time your head stopped swirling, the creature had disappeared.

Your heart was racing and you stared out over the water, expecting to see it again, but you didn’t. You stayed out there for two hours, but it didn’t return.

Your leg wasn’t hurting anymore and the itchiness had subsided, so you decided to try and go back inside and sleep, hoping when you woke up, this would have just been a dream.

You did dream, in fact, about underwater worlds and strange creatures similar to the one you’d seen, slowly fading away, until there was only one left, and you awoke feeling an intense sensation of loneliness that you couldn’t explain.

For the rest of the day, you were distant and unfocused. Your brother blamed it on the pain-medication, but you actually hadn’t taken any since the day before. The sharp pain that was in your leg had faded to a dull ache.

Around dinnertime, you got a call from your attorney:

“Good news,” He said. “They’re going to pay out your insurance.”

“You’re kidding me!” You exclaimed, overjoyed. “You said it could take months to get an answer, and even then, they might not pay out!”

“Well, it looks like it’s your lucky day,” He said with a smile in his voice.

Lucky, huh? “Yeah, I guess so,” You said.

That day, you made a special trip to the florist under the guise of buying Becca some flowers to thank her for being hospitable, which was partially true, but you also bought a bouquet for the creature in the bay. You wondered if it ate them, or just liked the look of them. Either way, you chose flowers that were both pretty and edible and hid them in your apartment above the garage.

After presenting the bouquet to Becca and taking the family out to celebrate, you told them all that you were exhausted and retired to the apartment, but in reality, you felt anxious and impatient, wanting to test how far this “good luck” was going to get you.

Caleb and his family finally went to bed around eleven that night, and you hobbled your way down the steps of the apartment with far more ease than the night before. You had the bouquet in your hand and sat carefully arranged your legs on the pier into a comfortable position, waiting.

An hour passed, and there was no sign of it. You took out one of the flowers, an orange nasturtium, and flung it out into the water. One by one, you took a flower from the bouquet and tossed it into the waters of the bay.

Then, it appeared in the distance. Your heart jumped up in your throat as it came closer. You still had a number of flowers left, but you wanted it to stay for a while. You wanted to try and communicate with it. As it came closer, you scooted back a little and took out a peony, holding it out. You were enough of a distance away that it would have to come up on the pier to get it.

It trilled, reaching out for the flower, but you motioned for it to come up on the pier.

“Come on,” You coaxed. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

It was hard to gauge its facial expressions, but you thought it might be confused.

“Can you understand me?” You asked slowly, but the look of confusion remained. You sighed and scooted closer, holding out your hand. “You communicate in a different way than me, don’t you?” You asked.

The creature seemed to make a decision, and pulled itself up to sit on the pier. Oh. Well, now you knew it was female. She was muscular and had no breasts, but there was very clearly… lady parts… between her legs. She had blue scales with orange ridges and frills like the ones around her neck flowing around her waist, as well. There were also patches of white scales around her belly and shoulders.

You held out the flower, but she knocked it away and took your hand. Suddenly, you saw yourself, saying the words, “Can you understand me?” but it was harsh and garbled and sounded like an animal attempting to speak. You could barely make out what it was supposed to sound like and only had the flower in your hand as a context clue.

Then, you saw a world underwater, and the sounds of other creatures communicating with each other, the words like a song. You couldn’t understand what was being said, but you felt the emotions through the creature.

“I see…” You whispered.

The creature tilted its head, and you felt a question come from it and flow into you. It wasn’t words, not exactly, but you understood the gist of it. Who are you? Why are you here?

In your head, you ran through the memories of your house, how hard you’d worked to buy it and how it had been destroyed in a matter of minutes, leaving you injured and homeless.

She felt your sorrow and absorbed it. In return, she flooded you with comfort and ease, showing you beautiful light and waving fronds, giving you the feeling of a gentle wave, like rocking a child to sleep. Peaceful.

You were lost in the flood of sensations and emotions she poured into you, and by the time you came back to awareness, dawn was breaking. Surprised by the sun on the horizon, you looked at her and smiled in thanks, trying to convey it wordlessly while the two of you were still connected.

Several weeks passed, and she came to visit you every night. During this time, your leg healed twice as quickly as it should have, the insurance company paid out nearly half a million dollars, and you’d taken a job with the butcher in town near the florist. A house by the wharf came up for sale, meaning you could buy it and move there. It even had an enclosed boat dock attached to it so that Aigoromo, which you’d taken to calling her since she couldn’t tell you her name even if she had one, could come and visit you without being seen.

Aigoromo was a constant presence since the day she revealed herself to you. Even during the day, if you looked out at the water, you could see her now and then, just watching you go about your day, and you would smile at her, feeling warm and tranquil. She would smile back and disappear under the water.

When you got the key to your house, she came to visit you the same day, coming up out of the water inside the boat dock. She seemed anxious about something.

You reached for her hand. What’s wrong?

She filled your mind with a flurry of images. It was hard to sort them all out, but you saw one picture very clearly: eggs. You suddenly understood. It was mating season, and she had no one to mate with.

She had shown you a while ago that most of her kind had either left this region when humans began to settle here, or died off when the humans began to over fish, before laws were put in place to stop those practices. As such, she had been alone here for many years.

You were sympathetic, but you didn’t know how to help. What can I do?

She took your hand and pressed it to her cold slit and trilled at you, spreading her legs and laying down on the wet wood of the dock, the frills around her entrance waving like the fingers of an anemone.

Your heart began to race and you looked at her in alarm. It’s true, sharing your emotions and memories with her had made you feel very close to her, and you felt a great affection for her, but… could you do this? More to the point, did you want to?

Aigoromo seemed to sense your uncertainty and took your hand, flooding your mind with an emotion: love. It was stronger than saying it out loud could ever have been; you really felt it in a way you never had from anyone else. It warmed the body and eased the soul.

“I didn’t realize…” You said, softly, knowing that talking too loud was grating to her ears. You tried to convey it silently, and she nodded in understanding. In your minds eye, you showed her a picture of people kissing followed by a questioning feeling. She rose up and pressed her lips to yours. This was a good start.

You began to remove your clothing, and she watched with interest. She’d communicated that she didn’t understand the purpose of clothing, and you tried to help her understand that humans didn’t deal well with cold and, well, there were laws. She understood the cold part, but not the law part.

After you had disrobed, she looked at your body curiously, using her hands to explore. She seemed mighty interested in how your length throbbed and grew as she touched it. She spent some time enthralled in how your body reacted to her touch, and you couldn’t help but groan in pleasure. She looked up and chirruped questioningly. Since she was touching you, you were able to convey wordlessly that it felt good, so she continued.

She lay back again, and you climbed over her, kissing up her body. You could feel it from her perspective and could perceive how she was feeling as you did it. She liked it. A lot.

It was a little strange, as she had no breasts to lavish attention on, but you made up for it by just touching her, which she seemed perfectly happy with.

As you moved to meet her lips, the tip of your cock touched the frond-like frills of her opening, and they seemed to guide you inside, creating an incredible suction around you that was mind-blowing, and you gasped. She trilled in response, feeling what you felt.

You began to move, pressing your warm body close to her cool one, kissing her neck and caressing the frills around her head. She clawed at your back, which drew blood, but didn’t hurt and seemed to heal immediately, heightening the sensation.

Your pace quickened, and she gurgled in response. The shared pleasure between the two of you made the experience unlike anything you’d ever felt before and you were bathing in it, drowning. You raised up on your knees, grasping her waist and thrusting hard, your body slapping wetly against hers, and she looked at you with her huge orange eyes, drawing her claws down your chest.

She was squeezing tightly from inside, and you could feel a ripple as she began to crash into the wave of ecstasy. You came at the same time, releasing deep into her and moaning over and over again.

You spent weeks with her during her mating period, making love over and over. Most people assumed you were taking the time to put up your house, but in reality, the house was still bare inside. Soon, mating season ended, but she still came to see you, to share her experiences and converse with you in the only way she could. You’d go swimming with her sometimes, and you had to admit, you’d never been happier.

A year passed. A new legend had popped up among the townspeople, one that said the water spirit had found her mate, and that there were now little Aigoromos living in the bay. People swore they had seen little heads the size of small children bobbing out of the water, only to disappear when people called out to them.

When you heard these stories, you’d smile and laugh. Then you’d buy a bouquet of flowers and head to your boathouse to make tiny crowns for your little visitors, due to come with their mother after the sun went down.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience!To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[gender-slime]

bit of a rambly post under the cut, not specifically T related

all the posts talking ab how “my 12 year old self would think current me is really cool and attractive” wild me out becuase 12 yr old me like. simply could not conceptualise a future for themself at all. i honestly think if i saw me the way i am now when i was 12, i would be scared and upset... 

when i was 12, not only did i not understand gender and saw my own gender as “child”, but i was slightly horrified by trans people’s existences (probably due to my own subconscious shit going on). my parents used to refer to the only trans guy who existed in media at the time, chaz bono, as a “fat dyke” and make derogatory comments ab “people who let their children ruin their lives”

i know that i wouldn’t understand at that age... i wasn’t ready to grow up and i wouldn’t be ready til only a few years ago. seeing myself on T would have probably scared the fuck out of me... i just wish things were different back then. there is so much difference just a decade can make

i’m so glad i went thru that journey and understand what i need to do to make a future happen for myself now, but as a kid you couldnt have paid me to predict i would end up where i am now... am i alone in that? 

[istheresomebodywhocanimagine]

Tomorrow Never Came PT. 4

You have one job - travel decades into the past and save your mother from a horrible future. You can’t fail or you’ll have to start over again completely, and you have to act on your own. Already having broken rule number two, a new revelation forces you to reflect on how much impact you’ll truly have, not just on your mother’s life, but on other’s as well. 

Read PT. 1 here | Read PT. 2 here | Read PT. 3 here

(a/n: i wish i could have put more deacon in this ksdkfjsd i love him but it felt forced if i put too much in there. anyways big things happening here hehe ok not huge but still wild. im gonna go to a basketball game now pray that the nacho cheese is good bc im craving a walking taco)

“So you were just working and you heard this loud boom? That’s terrible!” Brian exclaimed, leaning forward from between you and John. His abnormally long legs were spread out, leaving you scarcely any room to sit comfortably as the six of you chatted away.

“Yes, it was quite terrifying, really,” Mary practically gushed, leaning over Freddie’s lap as they lounged on the floor together, Freddie’s back against the side of the chair Roger was casually seated in. “There were hundreds of us in there, I’d never learned any protocol on how to handle a bomb threat. Closed us down until a few days ago, the back room was in shambles!”

“Who did it?” you questioned, genuinely curious about who would have a beef with Biba in this day and age. That being said, you also knew this day and age almost purely in textbook definitions and whatever the limited scope of your world had to offer you in the last two months – so basically, you only knew 70’s Kensington.

“Wasn’t it the Angry Brigade?” John chimed in, rifling through a magazine lackadaisically as he spoke. “I think I read that they claimed it in IT.”

“What have they got to be so angry about?” you asked, Roger snorting and letting his head fall back against the chair as he rested a leg on Freddie’s shoulder, quickly getting it brushed off. Giving Freddie a sour look, he hooked his legs over the armrest instead, lazing back in the chair and getting extra comfortable as he began to speak.

“I’d be angry if I had horrid taste in clothing too. Imagine wanting to bomb Biba and thinking ‘Wow, I’m really letting those fashionable fuckers have it! Anarchy!’”

Freddie toyed with Mary’s hair as she draped herself over his lap completely. Smiling at the sweet gesture, you hugged your knees to your chest and rested your chin on your right knee, looking down at the couch in front of you and tugging on a frayed fabric.

“Well, at least you’ve got a job again,” Freddie directed at Mary, who nodded and smiled as she leaned into his hand that was running through her hair.

“And you’ve got a place to come pester me besides my flat,” she added, laughing when Freddie retracted his hand and gave her a resentful glance before crossing his arms. “I’m joking, I love when you come see me at work, lovie! Don’t stop playing with my hair, I like it.”

Rolling his eyes playfully, Freddie sighed before going back to running his fingers through her hair. You were observing their conversation all the while, so when they quieted, you looked up and found that Roger had also been watching them. He looked up and met your gaze, pretending to gag himself with his middle finger and making you laugh as you turned away from him.

“What’s so funny? Surely, it’s not Roger.” Brian’s tone held a sort of faux innocence, but he was clearly prying at Roger’s patience – what was new, though? In the handful of times you’d been around this rag tag group of friends for the past two months, they had tested each other’s patience in every way possible. Yet here everyone was, laughing and having a good time with each other over a couple bottles of cheap wine. You regretted that you didn’t get to spend more time with them – you used overtime hours at the café as an excuse, but you knew that it was mainly because you really didn’t want to cry any harder than you already were going to when you had to return to your actual reality.

“I’ll have you know, Brian, I’m a regular comedian!” Roger protested, taking a sip of his wine as he glared over the rim at the curly-haired giant next to you. “Y/N was laughing at me, in fact. Or maybe it was your pants, who knows?”

Brian looked down at his admittedly hideous trousers, a shitty shade of brown that did not compliment his skin tone well at all. On top of that, they were a horrendous pinstripe pattern, and they didn’t match the striped green jumper he had on. “I’d rather accept that than even entertain the notion that you were remotely funny enough to make anyone laugh.”

“Salty today, Brian?” you asked, giving him a gently nudge with your elbow and receiving a nudge in response as he chuckled, crossing his arms.

Suddenly, Roger was giggling gleefully to himself, playing with a kerchief he’d had around his neck as he seemed extremely amused by it. “Brian,” you thought you’d heard him mumble, and you raised an eyebrow as you watched his snickers intensify, making him squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. He was clearly enjoying something, and you were eager to know what was so funny about what you’d just said.

“Rog, what in the hell are you going on about over there?” Brian asked, doing the dirty work for you as you watched expectantly, Roger’s eyes raising to meet the gazes of both of you.

His cheeks reddened a bit and he nervously let his eyes fall back to his kerchief, fiddling with it. “Nothing, I just thought of something funny.”

“Let’s hear it then,” you encouraged, giving him a smile as he chuckled and glanced at you quickly, giving an almost ashamed smile while he tried to decide whether he should say it or not. He felt anxious, like he was under a microscope suddenly, and he knew that the joke he’d said in his head was cringe-worthy at best. But you looked so insistent and so supportive of him that he finally grumbled and dropped the kerchief to his lap.

“I was laughing because I thought you called him Brine.”

The look on your face faltered as you struggled to comprehend what he was saying. “You thought I called him Brian? Isn’t that his name?”

“No!” Roger whined, Brian cocking his head to the side and making Roger groan as he pressed a hand to his forehead. “I mean, yes, that’s his name! But I thought you called him Brine, like salt water brine, and I laughed because it’s salty and so is Brine. I mean, Brian. Damn it! It’s fucking funny, okay?” He quickly shot up out of his seat, stomping towards the kitchen as you watched, still just as confused as ever, but Brian was laughing.

“You ever notice how much faster he moves when he’s wrong?” Brian noted, and you couldn’t help but laugh as he rose from his seat, following Roger into the kitchen as he refused to pass up an opportunity to keep giving him hell. Today, and only today, Brian seemed to have time to keep up with Roger.

Keeping up with Roger any other day? Now that was a chore. As much as you tried to focus on the sole reason you were here in 1970’s London, you couldn’t help but be intrigued by Roger as an individual. He was an enigma, his motives, knowledge, and way with words completely baffling to you. With people like Brian, it was easy. Brian, although reserved, was very much an intellectual when he spoke, and he always had a sort of predictability to him. Sure, he was a wild man when he’d had a few pints, but not like Roger. Roger was a wild man every single day, and it excited you so much that it simultaneously exhausted you.

You were lulled out of your thoughts by the feeling of the couch sinking down next to you again, and you found that Roger was now seated next to you instead, in the midst of an argument with Brian.

“Brian, you’re just upset because you’re so clearly up your own arse that you can’t understand anyone else’s humor! Get a grip, mate.” Watching Roger, you observed as he glared at the taller man, who sunk down into the chair that Roger had been in just moments ago.

“Or you just have an unrefined sense of humor?” Brian suggested, his voice laced with the slightest bit of animosity as he tried and nearly failed to ignore the “up your arse” comment. When Roger rolled his eyes and began mocking him in a high-pitched, feminine voice, Brian scoffed and looked down at Freddie, who’d been watching the exchange quietly. “What a pathetic display. I’m genuinely ashamed God made me a man.”

“Yeah, well I don’t think God’s doing a lot of bragging either!” Roger spit back, fire practically shooting out of Brian’s eyes as his head whipped up so he was staring at Roger.

“You fucking wanker! You’re just showing off and trying to be all funny because Y/N is here,” Brian accused, his usually gentle hazel eyes brimming with hostility. Your eyes widened at the tension that settled between the two of them, a heavy weight in the air as you desperately looked at Freddie for some help. Freddie just shrugged, though, offering no assistance and pretending to ignore the petty argument as he braided a small section of Mary’s hair.

“Um, should I go?” you asked, pointing at the door as you glanced between Brian and Roger. Obviously, this tiff had something to do with you, and while you had no idea how, you figured it was best for you to just let them figure it out. Rising to your feet, you tugged your pajama shorts down before grabbing your glass of wine and padding off to Roger’s room as Roger yelled at Brian once again.

“Now you’ve done it, you big moron. You’ve scared our roommate out of her own room! God, you’re really something, Brian.”

Snickering at the fiery words, you shook your head and entered Roger’s semi-messy room, crossing over to the window and curling up in one of the two beanbags situated next to it. Tucking your legs underneath you, you sipped your wine and stared out at the twilight sky, a creamy semidarkness to the horizon that framed the city’s buildings. You could just see the outlines of the church across the street, which made you scowl as you imagined your mom’s haggard face, her head leaning back against that damned rocking chair, just sitting there motionlessly. “Fucking prick,” you muttered, the fleeting thought of your father and the two men from the church poisoning your thoughts, a bitter reminder of your current purpose.

“Yeah, Brian can be a bit of a headcase, but he’s alright sometimes.” You jumped as you suddenly heard Roger’s voice behind you, and you turned to look at him as he crossed the room and stood opposite of you, leaning against the window frame..  “Definitely a fucking prick, though.”

“Oh,” you breathed out softly, furrowing your eyebrows as you pushed all of your previous thoughts out. “Yeah, he’s mental. Funny guy, though.”

“Don’t say that,” Roger groaned, giving you a small grin before he looked out the window as well. “Fred wants you back out there. Says he’s got an announcement.”

“I suppose I better bless the room with my presence then, huh?” you teased, Roger chuckling and pulling you to your feet before letting you lead the way. As you exited his room, he tried and failed to ignore the way your pajama shorts were riding up, just revealing the curve of your ass beneath it. Catching his tongue between his teeth, he had a brief ‘Lord help me’ moment before it was ended all too soon by your hand reaching down to tug the shorts back into their original place again.

Following you out to the main room again, Roger resumed his spot on the couch next to you as Deacon chatted with Mary politely, quieting down when he realized everyone was there again. Brian shifted uncomfortably in the chair, avoiding looking at you or Roger as he waited for Freddie, who was now in the kitchen, to speak.

“Now that we’ve decided to take the band more seriously, I figured I should start taking myself more serious now too.” Freddie walked out with an envelope of things, pulling out what looked like a passport and handing it to Brian, then pulling out a few sketches and handing them to Deacon, who marveled at the artwork as Brian looked up at Freddie. There was an amused look on his face, and you listened curiously as they spoke while you sipped your wine.

“Mercury? Like our song?”

“Freddie fucking Mercury. Doesn’t that sound delightful?” You choked on your sip of wine, turning beet red as they all glanced at you. This was news. Freddie Bulsara was actually Freddie Mercury, standing right here in front of you, your roommate and closest friend for two months, and you’d had no idea. “Well, if you didn’t like it dear, you could have just said so!” Freddie laughed, handing you a paper towel so you could wipe the wine off of your nose.

You laughed nervously with him, cleaning yourself up as you stared up at him, still floored at this development. “Just went down the wrong pipe,” you replied quietly, in awe at the living legend who’d just handed you a paper towel because you were a moron who didn’t put two and two together for actual months. If that was Freddie Mercury, then this must be Queen. It had to be Queen.

Your suspicions were confirmed as Deacon handed the sketches over to Roger, who ooh’ed and aah’ed at them as he eyed the details. There was the Queen crest, and you felt dizzy as you realized how blind you’d been all this time. You were casually rooming with two rock legends and you thought you’d just been slumming with a few students that had side gigs as musicians.

“Mercury seems like a bit much, but then again, you are a bit much,” Brian taunted, Freddie tossing a pillow at him as he sat back down again, chuckling.

“Well, as some illustrious person once said, ‘You can tell a lot about a man by his name.’”

“You just made that up, didn’t you?” Brian asked, raising an eyebrow at Freddie, who laughed once again.

“Maybe. But I do stand by it, honest!”

It all made sense now. Your mom had been a huge fan of these guys – you, not so much, for you were admittedly out of touch with the 80’s and 70’s. But you very vaguely knew about them, and of course, the two remaining members were still bigshots as far as your country was concerned. John Deacon, the bass player who’d dropped off the face of the Earth in the 90’s, lounging at the end of the couch. Brian May, the guitar legend who’d once played on top of Buckingham, squinting at Freddie’s passport and turning it in his hands. And next to you, ogling at the newly designed logo for his band, Roger fucking Taylor, a legend as far as drumming was concerned and one hell of a singer from what your mom had said.

You’d never asked him about the band or about the name. You really had thought they’d just been playing in pubs for fun, which at this point, they might very well be. And you’d never been around to hear them practicing or talking about the band – you’d been too busy in your own little world of the café and the church that you hadn’t paid any mind to their musical work. Now, you realized that you very well should have.

“You want to have a look?” Roger suddenly asked, grabbing your attention again as he offered you the papers, which you accepted shakily. It felt like your head was spinning as you stared down at the iconic crest, the two lions that framed the crown and letter Q, which was topped by a crab. Two fairy women stared up at the Q from below, and a phoenix stole the show at the top of it all, encompassing the entire work and bringing it all around into one big individual crest.

“Don’t hog it, I want to see,” Brian complained, and Roger rolled his eyes as you took a deep breath and handed it to Brian, who switched you for the passport. There was Freddie, long hair, clean-shaven face. This was not the iconic Freddie photo you knew. You only knew Freddie from the mustache, from the unique voice. This was a young Freddie, an inexperienced Freddie – this was not the same rock legend that your mom adored back in the present.

Oh, God. “I need some air, I’m getting a bit overheated,” you murmured, handing off the passport to Roger, who glanced at you curiously before looking over the document with Deacon. Excusing yourself, you tiptoed back to Roger’s room and opened the window, leaning out as your heart sank in your chest, heavy with the weight of what you knew.

Freddie Mercury was dead long before you’d even been born. AIDs had prematurely ended his life, his career, and that was something that even you knew. A man you considered to be one of your best friends as of currently would be dead in 20 years, and there was nothing you could do about it. You couldn’t stay here for a whole two decades, monitoring Freddie, keeping him out of harm’s way. Who knew how he’d contracted the horrible disease? It could have been anything at any time. And that killed you inside.

On the other hand, you had to watch yourself. This was literally Queen you were talking about here - if you meddled any more than you currently were, who knows what kind of shit could happen to the band? How big of an impact were you going to have here? Anything you say could alter their path irreversibly. If it was bad enough, you’d have to restart your mission completely, setting you back months in your progress already. God, this is some Butterfly Effect-type shit. I miss Brooklyn 99 and not having an existential crisis every time I make a choice.

“Freddie asked me to bring this to you, I figured you’d be in here again.” Roger’s voice once again interrupted your train of thought, and you sighed as you waved listlessly at the floor next to you, leaving your head resting on your other arm in the window frame. “You alright? You’re not gonna keel over on me, are you? ‘Cause I’d prefer if you bit the big one in Freddie’s room.”

“Fuck off,” you laughed weakly, sliding back into the room and dragging yourself onto one of the bean bags as you picked up the refilled wine glass that he’d brought you. When you looked up at him, he shrugged and took a seat across from you, his legs tangled with yours in the small space. “Sorry for being a party pooper. Just have a lot on my mind, and I’m tired.”

“Well, you are working a lot,” Roger remarked, a worried expression crossing his face as he crossed his arms. He was undeniably gorgeous, even in the dark. The streetlights coming in from the window highlighted his face in a way that made his cheekbones seem even more prominent, his jawline sharper than usual, casting an angular shadow on his neck. Light played around in his eyes, making them paler but just as striking as he observed you with a concerned eye. “Maybe you should take some time off, you’ll catch your death if you don’t relax a bit.”

His words were sinfully calming to you, and you beat yourself up inside as you sipped at your wine glass, tearing your eyes away from his irresistible gaze to look out the window at the now-night sky. “No, I need to focus on work,” you murmured, an uneasy look passing over your face as you avoided his piercing gaze, refusing to falter. You had to focus. Your mom’s livelihood was in your hands. “It’s too important.”

“Are you not important too?” he questioned, making your heart race. You couldn’t help yourself – you met his gaze once more, chewing on your lip as the intimidating stare seemed to try and pick you apart, piece by piece. He was worried about you - this meant he was genuinely attached to you, and that terrified you. But you couldn’t help yourself once again - you had to pry. 

“I don’t know. Am I?”

PT. 1 PT. 2 PT. 3

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EDIT: HI IM SORRY I FUCKED UP THE LAYOUT ON MOBILE I LITERALLY HATE TUMBLR MOBILE WITH MY WHOLE BEING HAHAHAHAA FUCK

[violetsystems]

#personal

I still haven't gotten my passport back yet. Old or new. I'm sure it's on the way but taking its sweet time. It hasn't been that big of a deal though it's a heavy inconvenience not being able to legally identify yourself. I have an expired driver's license and a lot of paperwork but that's not really good enough for most of Illinois. Work or leisure. I don't drink and don't really frequent bars anymore. I work for myself though I haven't paid myself yet this year. You have to have valid ID to be gainfully employed by someone else here. If I didn't have my life together already it would be more than annoying. I have health insurance still under a subsidy. I had my teeth cleaned earlier this week. No cavities. Mostly due to the electric toothbrush. I bought a waterpik right after. I've been so bored that I've started attacking problems I wanted to solve years ago. There's still drawers full of crap that needs to be thrown out. Lifetimes of shit do pile up if you are focused on other things like a dead end job or selfish personal relationships. I don't have either of those these days. So there really isn't any excuse for dirty drawers. I'm not planning to shit myself anytime soon to revisit the past. Which leaves the present and the future wide open. Much of that is dictated by my love of computers. I figured out how to mine finally. The open source way. I spent a lot of time in a terminal trying to apply the right definitions to scan my phone for the Pegasus spyware. I do think the results were negative so I'd rather not dwell on the past. Being a technological professional I have definitely spent a lot on electricity. That same idea of dirty drawers applies. You turn things on believing that they are ecologically friendly. It says so on the package. You don't dig enough to gather factual data to know it for sure. You get distracted by real life. Headlines. Drama. Nosy neighbors. The list goes on. And all the while, it just keeps bleeding out. I bought these smart plugs. Half of them monitor energy. The other half I didn't read the description close enough when I bought them. The ones that do measure electrical usage, I've set up in high power rooms. Both those and the low power rooms I can kill switch from my phone or whisper to my smart assistant to power off. I pay the electricity for the unit below me as well but that's more the agreement I have with my landlord. The biggest expense for me is always the AC and the heat. The appliances and everything else are just the icing on the cake. My rent has been affordable enough that with a little care and attention I can stay on budget. I never had that freedom or time to feel motivated enough to try. Now I know my razer laptop draws less than my rice cooker. Not that I'm the twelve hour rice in the rice cooker kind of guy. I have cooked chicken in it. What can I say I've had a lot of time on my hands. This happens when you can't identify yourself.

Sometimes you don't want to be identified. My past is so far behind me that it's a broken narrative. I've written about this narrative for years on this platform. I think it's a great place to write. This morning I saw a Tor books ad that looked like a regular blog post. Soon you'll be able to charge a subscription for your content if you wish. I'm not really here for that but I do think it's a great tool for creators. Bandcamp is still the easiest way for me to release music and shirts when I'm super fucking bored. But somehow five or six people always seem to support it when I do. I sold a shirt all the way out on the Ukraine once out of nowhere. I personally find it easier to mine and watch my electric bill right now then to fight to be seen as an artist. But situations do evolve over time under the right circumstances. And community is something I have never complained about Tumblr not having. Real life? Yes I have a lot of room to complain about the lack of community or respect for individual rights and will. But control over things is something I do have. And I've learned how to do that through setting boundaries for myself. I've learned a lot of those boundaries from being part of the culture down here. Unassuming. Anonymous. Hellbent on keeping it real. Chicago can sometimes be the same. It hasn't always been in the past. The fact that I'm completely disconnected from it is a large clue. The past. Not Chicago. I live here. Just like I do on Tumblr. That's a joke. But being able to write and stand my ground has given me a voice here and sometimes in the real world. Sometimes the wrong people listen. Or people get the wrong idea and make it more about them than me. But life goes on. If anything is true from what I wrote about a year ago, it's that I've both changed and stayed the same. There's things I can't escape about myself. Even if I can't prove to the state of Illinois I'm real enough to buy legal weed. Or how I've been fully vaccinated since April. Or how I can just leisurely set up a mining rig for research in my home office. How I can write here and challenge the status quo just by being the exception. Tumblr probably isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. I can't unlock any of my other social media from the past due to unfortunate circumstances related to identity and email. Not that I'm really complaining anymore. I was. As invisible as I am it feels more like a cloaking device than anything. Chicago in the news can be very dangerous and very wild. And yet, if anyone knows anything about me, I walk everywhere. Slow enough for people to follow you for blocks on end. Wanting to be seen. Worried about my safety. Worried about their safety because I left the house for once. Worried about everything. I'm not really that worried. Annoyed? Beyond annoyed. But as angry as I get, negativity does nothing for me to foster. It makes me look like every other secretly insecure white man here and just makes the turbulence around here worse.

If you have time enough to measure the difference in wattage between your rice cooker and your 6700xt gpu on full blast, you probably have time to pay attention to nuance. I pick up on the little things these days. I get that I share a porch with my neighbors and a cat. I get that I share a neighborhood too. I get that as a cis heterosexual white male I operate with privilege. It's not that hard to understand how to humble yourself in the presence of others. It's not hard to see how people have fought for rights harder than yourself. We're all fighting for the same thing. Freedom. I am understanding where I control the narrative and where I'm a guest. Where I don't have a say over other people's bodies, souls, or thoughts. I'm just as frightened by abuses or power and authority and yet they come as no surprise. I deleted everything Blizzard on my systems and am never looking back. I walk anywhere I choose freely with only a few annoyances. Jesus freaks and right wing antagonists are always up in my face trying to get a rise out of me. People think I'm a demon or haunted by some pirate ghosts. I have pretty good intuition and timing. I was a dj for like two decades. Beatmatching and pattern recognition. I get that I scare people and intimidate them just by breathing. Men are scary. Even to me. "Not all men!" Part of the reason people keep their distance from me is something I have to understand. I think we all have to understand who we are and what we can become when we live without care or intention. A lot of people just sleepwalk through this and blame the victims. They feel it's a weakness to share power. Sharing power is what cultivates freedom. But sharing power is almost pure chaos. It takes a lot of responsibility. And a lot of questioning of authority while asking the right questions and not just pinning a tail on a donkey. It's in the nuances and the people where freedom blossoms. Not in the polls or the pundits. We the people signifies something about America we ourselves have lost sight of. People buy their way into office at the behest of corporate and special interest money. The people are out there suffering while the profits guide the government. And it's really only the people who can turn this thing around. Here in Chicago, we know with our heart of hearts what to do. We have done it for so long. We survive together. We may not always like each other. We may feel like people are breathing down our necks and judging our every turn. But we always know where each other stands. We can stand to treat each other better. At least respecting that people have walls built up for protection more often than to hide something criminal. At least give people the space they need to grow. I have a lot of space to mine and play games. If I stay inside, it's so I don't rock the boat. If I go outside, just remember I have feelings too. We all could do better not to get caught up in them because we're overwhelmed by the bullshit. The bullshit we're in together. Respect is what is going to get us through. And I identify as down for the culture. As an ally you have my word. Love is the future. And the future is for everyone. <3 Tim

[4626songs]

Everyone deserves a great love story. This one is mine.

So. Here’s the thing.

Is it even appropriate for a 38-year-old guy to obsess over a major studio teenage rom-com flick? People my age who saw it usually say they wish they had something like that when they were that age – like, 20 years ago? I probably should behave like a proper adult, too: just love the movie and wish I had it back then when I was seventeen.

The problem is that after watching the movie and reading the original book, I feel seventeen once again. In all the right and wrong ways.

The case in point: Love, Simon.

I mean, yes. I’m done keeping my story straight.

When it comes to the emotional intellect – i.e., empathy and ability to recognize others’ as well as my own emotions – I am a certified piece of dumb and voiceless deadwood. I mean, I even officially have it in my DNA. But it also did not help that I grew up with emotionally detached parents and had very few friends during childhood. I’ve been struggling with the lack of emotional intellect all my life.

But when I hit adolescence and started to feel something big, it was the worst. I could not recognize and understand what the fuck was going on. And definitely I could not talk about it with anyone. Not even because I was scared. Simply because I literally did not have the words to describe it.

Eventually, it was music, movies and, ahem, slash fanfics that helped me find those right words that explained me to me. That big thing was me being helplessly and hopelessly in love with my best friend.

Curiously, I did not have any struggles with my sexuality or identity after this revelation. I sort of accepted me being gay as a matter of fact and moved on.

Telling anyone – and especially my best friend – about this was a completely different matter. Obviously, I was scared. As Simon says in the movie, announcing who you are to the world is pretty terrifying. But it was not just this fear. Once again, I did not have the words to tell my story. My go to sources of emotional cognition – music, movies and books – were failing me. You know, there was not a lot of coming-out, coming-of-age films or songs or books quarter of a century ago. Except maybe for Smalltown Boy. The most beautiful song. But do you remember the video? One more reason to be terrified and NOT come out.

So, I was silent. It also did not help that I knew for sure from our conversations that if I told my friend about me being gay and my feelings for him, pretty much everything good in my life would end.

I was correct. After suffering for several long years feeling increasingly cold inside from not being able to speak up and express what I feel, I finally managed to confess to him somehow. And yes, it went almost as bad as I expected. I was told that I was a misguided fool, and that I should never speak up about it again. Never speak up.

See. My first coming out experience was pretty bad. But not something objectively bad. I was not beaten up or bullied or outed, thank god. That was out of question, I knew him too well for that. But still. Somehow I was left even more dead and frozen on the inside than I was before. Not something to look for in the future.

But eventually, things got better. I found new funny and geeky hobbies, through which I met great new friends-for-life. I got three university degrees, including a PhD, and became a scientist. I started a music blog, and eventually freelanced as a music journalist. Finally being able to talk about what music meant for me was a liberation.

On a personal front, things were also moving somewhere somehow. There were other unrequited loves. Deeply engaging epistolary relationships with anonymous penpals. (Hi, Blue!) Casual sex. Proper offline boyfriends, and even serious long-term relationships. Some drama along the way, of course. But, until recently, no great love stories coming along with that. Somehow, deep inside, I ached for a great love story to happen in my life.

And then there were those other coming outs. Nothing objectively bad. Always insanely awkward. When I told my mother, she said that I had an irrevocable right to ruin my life and do whatever I want, and we hadn’t talked about me being gay for the next twelve years. A roommate did not believe I was gay at first, and then, when I insisted that I was not joking, he cussed and stopped talking to me for two weeks. A girl who had a crush on me laughed with relief that there’s something wrong with me and not her as I didn’t return her feelings. But there were other friends, who accepted me unconditionally, sometimes even without fully understanding what I was talking about and what it meant for me. I am so grateful to them. But in the end, it was not enough for me to shake that feeling of permanent awkwardness and fear of being me. I chose to remain in the closet for the rest of the world.

But you know what’s (not really) funny? That the same happened with all other important things in my life. It’s like I was permanently living in a giant ball of awkwardness. I had to keep mostly silent about my geeky hobbies at my wonderful science job, even though these hobbies were the main source of my creativity and inspiration. In turn, my wonderful geek friends could not care less about my music tastes. My music friends kind of respected me as a science guy, but I could never talk with them about actual science. And beneath all of that was this big-ass gay secret. It’s like I was living at least four parallel lives, but never a complete one.

I guess once you decide to remain in the closet about one thing, you cannot fully be yourself about other stuff. I became so used to self-editing. Self-censorship. Strategic omissions. And, worst of all, being mute about most important things with most important people.

There are all those reasons why you should continue doing so. It’s dangerous to come out in my home country. It could harm me. It could cause collateral damage to my colleagues, students, professional networks, projects I worked on. It could hurt my family.

But the truth is, people can get no less hurt when you choose to be mute. I know I hurt people by not speaking up about something important to them and choosing silence instead. But there is even a bigger danger. Once you start to pile up silences, little white lies, and strategic omissions, they may grow up to the size of a mountain, and one day simply crumble under their own weight. There will be a lot of pain and harm involved. And I wonder: what if there was no mountain from the very beginning?

Still, the worst is what you are doing to yourself. When you cannot make yourself talk about things that are important to you, you either become a pressure cooker and explode one day – or they slowly die within you, freezing you in the process. And these may be too precious things to lose.

I have thought that eventually, I became better at talking. I have a group of wonderful friends with whom, I thought, I could be more or less myself in every sense, including gay stuff. But somehow, even after all these years, I still cannot do it all, even with them. I cannot even reply to a Facebook challenge about 10 favorite albums, because, like, at least 3 of them would be too gay. I cannot make myself talk about my favorite movies that made an impact on me, because, again: gay. I mumble something unintelligible about my career goals in science, because, in truth, what I mostly care about is how to solve not a grand scientific challenge, but a classic academic “two-body problem” further complicated by a gay twist.

Then one day I saw Love, Simon. That same night, I immediately bought Simon vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda, devoured it in two sleepless nights, and re-read it twice since then. I went to see the movie, like, another seven times. And have listened to the wonderful soundtrack and the score, like, a hundred times already, and don’t plan on stopping any time soon. I simply cannot get enough of this movie and of the Simonverse. And all the time I’ve been trying to sort out why did it hit me so hard and sweet? Why have I suddenly turned into an obsessed teenage fanboy?

Then I realized, I am just so fucking sick and tired of not speaking. I simply cannot stand it anymore. I need to speak. I have to speak. I must speak. Somehow, Simon and his story made it so obvious. Why I was so stupid not realizing it before?

But there’s another twist to that. Everyone deserves a great love story.

I’ve never seen a movie in my life to which I could relate so strongly. Yes, I was that “just like you” kid back then. Living a normal life without any really big problems. Obsessed with music and friendships. Awkward and unable to speak about important things. Alone.

(Oh god. Do you even realize how lonely Simon should have felt if his favorite song is Waltz #2??)

Unfortunately, my great first love story never happened. Instead, I shut myself up for decades to come. But somehow, Love, Simon movie and incredible writing by Becky Albertalli put me right there, back into my seventeen year old me, and finally showed how that first love story could have happened differently, retroactively replacing those long-buried feelings of sadness and despair with joy about the things to come.

And, boy, they did come. Who knew that you can finally get your own very personal great love story when you are at 34, almost ready to give up on happiness? It was wild, it was unpredictable, it was fateful, it was insane, it was unbearably romantic. It was – and, four years later, still is – love.

This story also physically moved me across oceans and continents to, out of all places, the city of Atlanta, Georgia. So, imagine this extra little level of relatability in Love, Simon / Simon vs. (That damn Radiohead, April 2 concert that I did not get to! That gay bar scene!) And now I’m dying to tell my story. Because that’s the most important and amazing thing that happened in my life. Because it is about hope. Because it is about breaking through. Because it is about believing that you deserve everything you want. Because love is a game we deserve to play out loud.

The problem is that I still haven’t quite figured out how to tell my story. Old habits die hard. But I will try. As I said, I cannot stay silent anymore. I need to come out. And I’ll start here.

[hutchhitched]

The Vintage Joshifer Series: End of Love—Chapter 16

End of Love by hutchhitched

Author’s note: My sincere apologies for the wait between this chapter and the last. It’s been a very busy semester, and the aftereffects of Hurricane Harvey have been rearing their ugly heads. The rest of the story is complete, so there should not be a wait for the future chapters. The world keeps beating up our hero and heroine, but they find continued comfort in each other. Thank you to each of you who have read, reblogged, hearted, and supported this story. You are all rock stars.

Historical events in this chapter include the following:

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated by a white supremacist on Thursday, April 4, 1968, at approximately 6:00 pm at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee, which is the current location of the National Civil Rights Museum. He was 39 when he died. He was in Memphis working on a campaign to end unequal pay for African-American sanitation workers. On the night before his death, he delivered his final sermon, which is commonly called the Mountaintop Speech. The subject was of a future utopia he didn’t believe he would live to see. As a result, many believe he predicted his own death.

The original Planet of the Apes released on March 27, 1968. It was a commercial blockbuster and inspired a series of franchise films for decades after its release. 

Chicago, Illinois, April 1968

“Tell me there’s coffee.”

 Josh turned over his shoulder and grinned. “Good morning, sleepy head. You’re going to be late to work if you don’t get a move on.”

 “Mmmm,” Jen mumbled as she took the mug of coffee he extended to her. She couldn’t stop staring at his broad, muscled back and the cut of his hips above his cotton boxers. “I could be late if you wanted to distract me.”

 “Tempting, tempting,” he murmured and pulled her into a side hug before kissing her on the cheek. “Wish I could, honey. I have an early meeting and need to get out of here pretty soon.”

 “Fine,” she grumbled and took a sip of her drink. “If you want to go save the world instead of having sex with your…whatever I am, then go ahead.”

 His eyes flashed, and he retorted, “What I’d rather do is not get shipped off to fucking ’Nam and get killed, so if I have to go to work at Big Brothers to do it, I’m gonna go every god damned day, Jen. Jackson’s already over there. Do you want me to die?”

 She gripped her coffee mug and stared at him with wide eyes. She’d meant her words as a joke, but she realized now he hadn’t taken them that way at all.

 “No, I don’t want you to die, Josh,” she whispered in a trembling rasp.

 He turned his back and pressed his palms flat on the countertop. “I’m sorry. I had a nightmare last night about it. I’m a little on edge.”

 She crossed to him, set her mug on the table, and wrapped her arms around his waist. She pressed her cheek to his back and then kissed him in the dip of his spine right between his shoulder blades. “Jackson’s going to be okay, and so are you. So is Andre if his draft number gets called. We both need to go to work, but when I get home tonight, be ready.”

 “For what?” he asked, a tinge of humor lacing his words.

 “Good stuff. That’s all I’ll say. Go get ready. Besides, it’s Thursday. The week’s almost over. Maybe we could go see that movie you want to see. Monkeys or something?” She quirked her eyebrow at him.

 “Planet of the Apes. I’m free tomorrow night. It’s a da— Uh, yeah, we could go.”

 She swallowed her frustration at his refusal to admit going to the movies together was a date and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She chugged the rest of her coffee as quickly as she could down the hot liquid and returned to her bedroom to get ready for work.

 “This war has to end,” she grumbled as she slipped from her building and hailed a cab. She didn’t have the patience to brave the bus system in her frame of mind.

 The past few months had flown by, and Jen was grateful every day for Josh coming back into her life. The day after the Tet Offensive, once they’d satisfied themselves physically after their time apart, Josh insisted they discuss what had happened back in California. The conversation stalled after a few minutes since she was unwilling to admit anything beyond what she already had. She’d slipped from his bed because the depth of feeling and pleasure he’d stoked in her that night had terrified her. Josh was too passionate and too intent on social change to commit to a full-fledged relationship. That hadn’t changed over the past two years, and she cared about him too much to admit how she felt when she knew he’d not respond in kind—even though she was convinced his feelings for her were every bit as intense.

 She hadn’t asked him how many women he’d been with during the time they were apart. She knew there were some and forced herself not to care. She’d enjoyed herself during her senior year in college too, but no one else had driven her as far over the peak as Josh had. She craved him, but she also recognized the need to focus on and develop her career. Married women didn’t last long in the field of journalism, so that wasn’t something she could entertain at this point anyway. As the cab pulled up to the Tribune building, she shook her head to clear it. She needed all her faculties today if she was going to deal with her misogynistic pig of an editor.

 Jack waved at her as she entered the office, and she stopped by his desk to check in. He greeted her with his gruff smile and informed her, “Headlines of the day: the president’s in Hawaii trying to make peace with the Vietnamese. Everyone’s a flutter about the Mountaintop speech King gave last night. We’re working every angle—civil rights leaders, everyone who was part of the Chicago Freedom Movement two years ago, people who might have run into him on the street once.”

 She snorted with laughter at his droll commentary. “Thanks for the update. I thought I was going to get here early today, but I should have known you’d beat me into the office.”

 He studied her thoughtfully for a few minutes before asking, “Have you ever thought about television reporting?”

 “Are you trying to get rid of me, old man?” she teased. Jack was one of the few people in the office she really liked. He was talented and conscientious, and she’d learned a lot from him in the ten months she’d been at the paper.

 “Never. I just think you could be happier than you are here with Mr. Murrow leering at your legs. Just keep it in mind in case you want to get out of here. Or in case he ever becomes completely unbearable. I’m lucky. He doesn’t like my legs.”

 “Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate it,” Jen said with a soft smile and chuckle. She crossed to her desk and picked up the manila folder with her day’s assignment. She heaved a deep sigh and got to work.

 The day flew by as she worked on a follow up article to the day’s front page news about President Johnson in Honolulu and his attempts to bring the situation in Vietnam to a peaceful conclusion. As she typed her story, she forced herself to remain calm. Thoughts of Josh being drafted and shipping out scared her enough that her hands shook as she typed. She tried to ignore the list of names that came down the wire every day and prayed every time she perused it until she made sure Jackson’s name wasn’t on it.

 “Jennifer, where’s your story? Your deadline was ten minutes ago.”

 Shaking from a work-induced haze, she glanced at her watch and gasped when she realized it was almost 6:00 in the evening. Her brief lunch break had been almost over six hours ago.

 “I’m so sorry, Mr. Murrow! I didn’t realize how late it was.” She glanced at his stern expression, but he seemed appeased when he handed her the sheet from her typewriter. “Here’s what I have. I think it’ll work without any editing. Because of the deadline, I mean.”

 “I’ll be the judge of that,” her editor barked. Glancing over her words, he nodded and waved a copy editor over to make the necessary corrections.

 Jen swallowed a scowl and straightened the papers on her desk. She was just about to gather her belongings and head out the door when another reporter shrieked from the corner of the room. “What’s happening now?” she grumbled and shut her purse back in her drawer. The television screen showed a crowd of people milling outside what looked to be a hotel.

 Her editor bellowed across the newsroom, “Everybody to their desks. We’re going to have to work up a different front page in the next few hours. Call home if you need to, but I need everyone ready to go in five minutes.”

 “What’s happening? Jack, what’s happening?” she begged desperately as he rushed by her.

 He whipped around to face her, his eyes wild, and explained in a dazed voice, “Dr. King’s been shot.”

 Ice flooded her veins, and she shook her head in disbelief. “But he just gave a speech last night! He was in Memphis working with the sanitation workers! How could they shoot him? He’s got to be all right! He’s got to be!”

 As she sank into her chair, it quickly became apparent that the civil rights leader was not okay. The wire pumped out report after report from Memphis. None of them seemed to have any answers or a report of his condition for almost an hour. Just as she felt as if she must surely be experiencing a terrible dream, the news broke that the assassination attempt had worked. Dr. King was dead.

 Jen sat stunned, unable to move until a fellow reporter barked at her to pass him a folder she’d been holding listlessly. She closed it carefully and extended it toward him. When he took it, she sprinted from her desk to the nearest bathroom and vomited into the toilet until her stomach ached. Gasping for air, she rose from the concrete floor and splashed water on her face in the sink. She gulped handfuls of liquid in a futile attempt to dispel the foul taste. After several minutes, she stumbled back to her desk and waited for further instructions.

 “Lawrence!” Mr. Murrow barked from his office. “You can go, sweet cheeks. Be here early tomorrow. It’s going to be a huge day. I need my best tits and ass on the beat.”

 Jen resisted the urge to flip him the finger. Instead, she calmly gathered her belongings and bolted for her apartment.

 “Josh?” she called as soon as she stepped through the door. “Josh, where are you?” Frantic, she threw down her purse and jacket and entered the small living room. The overhead fixture was off, and the lamps remained dark.  He sat on the couch, facing the television. Flashes of light streaked across his face from the images on the screen. The volume was turned down so low, she could barely hear it as she stood next to it.

 “Josh?” she asked softly.

 He raised his red-rimmed eyes to her, and her heart broke at the pain reflected in them. Tear tracks stained his cheeks, and she took a step toward him. He didn’t move or speak as she crossed the room and sat next to him on the couch. When she reached over to grab his hand, she was shocked to find it was ice cold.

 “He’s gone,” he mumbled, and she nodded.

 “I know. I’m so sorry, hon.”

 He crumpled then, bending over onto himself and releasing a howling scream that echoed through her bones. He pounded his hands against his knees and unleashed a stream of profanity. She sat helpless, terrified of his reaction, and unsure how to help.

 “They fucking murdered him, Jen. They shot him down like a dog.”

 Tears streamed down her cheeks, her heart breaking for him and all those who felt a connection to King and the work he’d done during his lifetime. She knew Josh was horrified by the act every bit as much as he worried about Jackson’s reaction once he heard the news. She knew Josh would insist that he spend time with Jackson’s family as soon as he could. Most of all, she feared that King’s assassination would be the catalyst for him to leave Chicago and become more heavily involved in the protest movement. He’d been semi-idle for months, and she wasn’t sure their relationship—whatever it was—would be enough to keep him from rejoining his friends as they fought to change the system.

 After several minutes of bellowed rage, he finally turned to her and crushed her to him. He sobbed into her neck as she held his quaking body firmly in her arms. His mouth sought hers desperately, and before she knew what was happening, he pressed her backward onto the cushions and was grinding hard against her. He grunted as he thrust his hips, and she shimmied her skirt upwards to free her legs. He broke from her briefly to fumble with the button on his jeans while she pulled off her panties, but his mouth returned to hers almost immediately.

 “I fucking need you,” he gasped as his fingers slipped into her folds, and she arched her back at the contact.

 “Whatever you need. I’m here,” she panted. She squealed her surprise when he flipped her over and pulled her hips up to rest above her bent knees before nudging in between her legs. Without warning, he slammed into her, and she cried out as he filled her.

 “Jennifer,” he groaned into the darkened room. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

 She braced her hands on the arm of the couch and reared back against him. As his hips slapped against her bare ass, she yelped his name as he stretched her. Her cries grew louder and more erratic as his pace increased. Within seconds, he bucked against her frantically, practically lifting her off her knees as he fucked her from behind.

 “Josh! Josh, slow down! I can’t—” She broke off as he pounded her and bit her lower lip before releasing a prolonged wail. What he was doing to her was painful, but it also felt amazing to bear the brunt of such frantic passion. She knew he needed her, even if he was lost within himself.

 Josh cursed as he drove into her, practically incoherent as he released his frustrations. He smacked her bare right cheek twice as he neared his climax and grunted her name repeatedly. When he began to chant a warning of his impending climax, Jen braced herself on one forearm and reached down to rub her clit furiously.

 “Holy fucking hell,” she howled as her walls pulsed. Josh cried out his release and poured into her as she expelled a gush of fluid. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest as he stroked her several more times. Their skin dripped with sweat as they collapsed in a ruined heap on the brown plaid sofa.

 His body shook behind her, and her heart broke when she realized he was still sobbing. She pulled from him gently and grimaced as he slid out of her and a gush of his ejaculate streamed down her inner thigh. She swiped at the mess with her discarded panties, but it didn’t help. Instead, she turned her attention to the broken man she desperately wanted to help feel better.

 Jen tried to kiss him, but he pulled away from her. Stung, she slapped at his chest and struggled to disentangle herself from him. When she finally freed herself, she ran to the bathroom where she caught a glimpse of her image in the bathroom mirror.

 Startled, she studied her tear streaked face and the mascara that had bled to black half-moons under each eye. Her lipstick was smeared across her left cheek, and her hair stuck up in several directions. She looked like she’d just been bedded by a paying customer, and a rush of shame flooded her. Josh had never been so rough with her, and it scared her that she liked it as much as every other time they’d been intimate in more gentle ways.

 After cleaning Josh’s semen from her legs, she swallowed her pill and sent up a silent prayer of thanks for reliable birth control. Josh had made no secret of his belief in free love, so condoms weren’t something she wanted to push. She simply prayed that he’d been careful during the time they’d been apart.

 When she’d finally regained her composure, she returned to the living room to see Josh sitting lifeless on the couch, his fly still unzipped, and his flaccid dick hanging loosely out of his pants. His eyes were vacant as he lifted them to hers. He blinked slowly several times before rising and stumbling to her bedroom. Once there, he stripped and fell into her bed. He curled his body into the fetal position until she slid in next to him. She kissed his bare skin until he unwound enough to pull her against him.

 “Don’t leave me again,” she whispered against his chest as they lay together in the dark. “I know you’re hurting right now and that you feel like you need to make a difference, but don’t go.”

 He barked a wry laugh and argued pointedly, “I didn’t walk out on you, Jennifer. If I remember correctly, you snuck out in the middle of the night so I woke up to an empty bed the next morning.”

 “You were leaving Berkeley. You weren’t going to be sticking around for more than a few days, and I didn’t think I could stand to say goodbye to you after…”

 “After what? After you let me get you off? After I helped you realize Nick was a jerk who didn’t care about whether or not you enjoyed yourself? I tried to find you every day between graduation and the day I left. I wasn’t the one who wanted to say goodbye.”

 Wincing at the bitterness in his words, she knew she needed to word her next statement carefully. She couldn’t risk driving him from her when he was hurting so badly. “I know that now, and I’m sorry. My only excuse is the one I’ve told you—that you were already leaving and I didn’t want to beg you to stay. I didn’t want to ask when I knew you felt the call to go. Jackson needed you then, but I need you right now, and I think you need me too. Please stay in Chicago—at least for a little while longer.”

 “I can’t promise that, Jen. You know I can’t.” She trailed her fingers over his chest and grinned as his skin twitched under her light touch. His physical reaction to her made her feel much more powerful than she ever had.

 “I know, but please stay until you can’t any longer. Don’t choose to go.”

 He didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled her over and kissed her deeply. Her mouth opened under his, and she felt the beginnings of another erection poking against her inner thigh. Realizing there wasn’t anything else to be said that could alter the situation, she lost herself in the feel of him.

 “More,” she begged as he teased her with just the tip of his shaft.

 “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he murmured into her ear as he sank in another two inches before pulling out. When she moaned her disapproval at his absence, he stroked her deeper. “Forgive me.”

 “Forgive me too,” she begged. When he breathed his surrender into her neck, she shuddered and conceded to him and the orgasm he’d stoked inside her.

 They came together repeatedly throughout the night, clinging to each other as he woke from nightmares of burning jungles, maimed bodies, and pools of blood. His anguished cries haunted their bed for weeks, and Jen lost track of the number of times she woke with bruises from him thrashing against her in the throes of panicked, restless sleep. The time together was hard, but she kept reminding herself that it was better than being without him again.

 For weeks, Jen clung to the hope that her comforting presence would be enough to convince him he shouldn’t leave. Unfortunately, soon enough, it wouldn’t be.

[mikhalsarah]

This is the most depressing “defense” of a liberal by a liberal in I don’t know how long.

Police unions lead the conservative pillory project against anyone standing for oversight on police and respect for suspects’ rights because it’s not in their interests that the police have oversight or that suspects have rights respected...does it magically become slightly more in their interests when a white man says it, than when a Black/South Asian woman does? I can’t fathom how...

The essential message here is that it’s so very hard to be a Black-identified female that it’s sorta ok for anyone who is, no matter how otherwise privileged, to be an ambitious political opportunist who cares more about getting re-elected than about the values they claim to stand for. For a politician to be so is certainly nothing new, but the idea that people should not criticize politicians much for it if they happen to be the wrong colour or gender because “it’s a problem with the system and its racism” is quite new and dangerous, not least because we are essentially caring more about how “unfair” life is to an educated wealthy person because they might not get re-elected, or might get their feelings hurt, than about the people down at the fucking bottom of the dog pile who might get executed or spend decades in prisons for crimes they didn’t commit. “She did what she had to” sounds an awful lot like, “I only did what I was ordered to do”. Except, of course, she didn’t have to do anything. Nobody had a gun to her head, she chose to do it to fulfil her own vaulting ambitions.

And I’m sorry but all that, “but then she wouldn’t be in a position to do so much good as VP in a few months!” is so much bizarre quasi-fascist garbage like Saruman trying to tempt Gandalf into joining with Mordor on the grounds that at some hypothetical point in the future they might “come to direct it’s courses”. Sorry, I’m not “Woke” or morally compromised, I’m Jewish. I may suck at it, but I’m still good enough at it to not hold with the idea of permitting evil now for the sake of some hypothetical good in the future. A good which is by no means certain. First Biden has to win, after all (which is possible)...then Kamala Harris (along with Biden) has to decide doing right is more important than getting a second term, and then there’s the prospect of becoming “the first African-American female president” which two terms as VP might set you up to be tempted by (so I am not holding my breath but who knows, maybe she’ll do a little of that hypothetical good in her final term as POTUS, 12-16 years from now.) 

If we’re going to be hypothetical about things, what if Kamala Harris had never made it so far as an election and instead some other candidate with actual moral backbone had been run and now THAT exemplary candidate was just chosen for VP? Would it be just awful if that exemplary candidate happened to be a man and a WASP? Or perhaps she herself, having stood her ground and earned some grudging respect, might have won later on? Or some other worthy minority candidate?

But, as C.S. Lewis put it, “nobody is ever told what might have been”. You ultimately can’t run life based on hypothetical things that might have been or on hypothetical goods that might appear. You make the best choice you can based on the existing evidence and the likely trajectory it shows. A lifetime of opportunism and ambition does not suggest much to me by way of upward moral mobility so I’m gruntled not to be facing this choice as a voter, which resembles the choice I gave to a preschooler who doesn’t like art smocks this morning...do you want the green smock, or the red smock? (Because you’re wearing a smock or you don’t get to paint.)

This is part of the longstanding trope that “the problem is really racism” and all the wars, profiteering and predatory capitalism would stop if only we had more diversity at the top, because self-evidently BIPOC and female people educated and wealthy enough to run for public office would vote totally differently on the issues than educated and wealthy whites and men.

Do they though? I’m still waiting for it to happen.

And wasn’t that the god-damn point of all the diversity we were trying to get into government, that it was going to smash the patriarchy and white-supremacy and the good old boys’ mutual back-scratching club? And here’s Beinart come along to tell us that it’s actually working the exact opposite way and that all our diverse candidates are way too shit-scared of not getting elected to have more morals than the old white men they’re replacing. This is like Wile E. Coyote sent away for the ACME Social Justice Kit and it’s now blowing up in his face. 

What was it, “They can’t afford to have Bernie Sanders’ moral purity”? Why, because it’s such a cake walk being a Jewish socialist starting your political career during the Evangelical “Moral Majority” and Reagan cold-war years? And then running as an Independent in what has long been considered an unbreakable two-party system? Not even Bernie Sanders can afford Bernie Sanders’ moral purity...which is why the Dems didn’t run him against Trump when they should have...yet he still has it, and seems to mysteriously prefer sleeping well at night to whoring himself out for a few shekels and an office where ordering new carpets requires calculations involving Pi.

And the loss of that election was basically guaranteed by the fact that the Dems were all pissing about with identity politics trying to get a *vagina into the presidency even if it lost them the election. Which it did, so thus pissed away all the hypothetical good having a female president might have done, which was only ever going to be symbolic anyway. Clearly they have learned absolutely bobkes from that. *And yes, when the only thing you really care about is the genitalia of the person you’re trying to get into office, you’re no longer running a woman (a person who happens to have a vagina) you’re running a vagina.

This all reminds me of my annoyingly sanctimonious sister. She natters on and on about how many tenured professors are BIPOC and then looks at me aghast when I say I don’t actually give a shit how many educated and wealthy BIPOC people get bit more wealthy and secure. I care more about how many people can’t eat and pay their rent, or can’t afford their utility bills and are getting their power and water shut off. I care about people worse off than I am, not better off.  The toejam in the toe-cleavage peeping out of Kamala Harris’ pumps is more privileged than I will ever be, (and I’m not so badly off at the moment) and more privileged than 99% of the U.S. populace, so the idea that she needs a horde of people rushing to her defense is patently absurd. If she didn’t get chosen for VP what...she’d be so oppressed she’ll be living out of a rusted hatchback by next week???

 This entire drama of the Biden running mate has basically been “which woman of colour should Biden choose to best capture the vote” as opposed to “which of the available candidates is the best possible choice to achieve our progressive goals” and that’s a bit horrifyingly Orwellian.I It’s like a sort of trophy-wife...which one will bring me the most prestige and help me “win” at life. And, echoing my earlier comments, there’s something distinctly disturbing about the degree of emphasis on choosing a racialized woman. I’m not sure how electing a vagina with more melanin to office is an improvement over electing vaginas in general. Women have been complaining for decades about the tendency of some men to view them as disembodied sexual parts. How did it become something progressive women now cheer about? Whereas if he’d said, “All other things being equal, I intend to chose a running mate that will best embody the Democrats’ commitment to diversity and better proportional representation.”, I would not be feeling like women and minorities were just being added to the ticket to make up numbers, like goods in a packing crate; we need 6 of this, and 4 of that...

 If the Dems win are people next going to be discussing which Latinx he needs to appoint to the Senate, and which Indigenous person to the Judiciary and which trans doctor will replace Fauci when he retires? You’re laughing now, but let this sit on the floor awhile and see if the cat licks it up. I was right about the moral trajectory of Israel 15 years ago, something Beinart only discovered this summer, and I feel good about my odds on this prediction. Left unsupervised, these “woke” ideologies will do what all ideologies do, and reach peak stupidity, which will, of course, result in a a wild and reactive attempt to correct for them by rejecting everything about them. The only thing stopping that is for people to look at them critically now and correct for extremism and ideological blind spots before an iconoclastic paraxysm. I’m not societies great hope here...I’m just a woman with a tumblr adding my two cents to the critical mass needed to do that. 

I happen to heartily endorse more types of people getting into government who currently are kept out, just not at the cost of *good government itself, and not based on the laughable premise that a room full of people all from the same tax brackets, who all went to the same schools, is “diverse”. Honest to God, America should just stop having elections at this point and start mailing out notices to randomly selected citizens. Then they might get actual diversity, as opposed to La Senza diversity, where there’s only one actual bra but hey, it comes in 37 different colours so, hooray for choice.

*whether anything in American (or any) politics resembles actual good government is debatable but we’ve spent the last 4+ years finding out just how much further the GOP can get from the ideal than we’d ever thought it could and Right and Left always mirror each other. To my mind electing and appointing people by identity rather than competence freed from unnecessary stumbling blocks is also a giant leap backward from it.