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alette-stars · 4 months ago

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Over 240,000 words, 45+ chapters, written over 4 and a half years. Blood, Water is complete.

This post is long overdue. I finished the fic over 6 months ago (can you believe it?!) and I’ve been caught up in things offline, to put it lightly. But on the 5th (!) anniversary of the posting of the first chapter, i thought there was no better time than to, finally, put this out.

I really couldn’t have finished this work without all the love and support i received while it was being posted. I know we like to say to write for yourself, not the crowd, but god that support really motivated me and brought so much happiness to my life. And i hope i was able to return some of that to you, through my work.

Well you’ve all waited long enough. Let’s get started!

The inspiration of fic title is given in the fic summary. Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Although this quote is attributed as the full version of the common adage blood is thicker than water, it actually isn’t! It was coined later, though i don’t know by whom. (i actually didn’t know this when i first wrote the fic, but i stand by the quote—it’s great and very fitting)

I think i came up with the title like minutes before i posted the first chapter. I ended up posting it impulsively, kind of. I knew it was gonna be a big project but i wasn’t thinking about my other ongoing fics at the moment, i was so excited and i just had to start sharing this one

The entirety of the fic was written in a Google Doc titled Vampire 8.

Seonghwa’s favorite kaomoji (as referenced in Chapter 11) is (❁´◡`❁)

All the prominent vampires in this have ‘unsexy’ ages, and that’s on purpose. I wanted to do something different from the typical centuries-old vampires. So, instead, at roughly 200 years Seonghwa is the oldest, while Mingi would still be a young man if he hadn’t been turned

Don’t ask about the progression of time in this fic. It went on so long (i wrote this over literal years) i genuinely forgot

I like to write other idols into my fics, and this one is no exception. Most prominent would be VIXX (current and ex members) as the coven essentially in charge of the vampire world, but there’s also Monsta X’s Minhyuk, whose conversation with Yeosang was brought up in Chapter 22.

All our main coven’s makers were named after famous Korean actors and actresses. Ji Sung for Wooyoung and Yeosang, Nam Ji Hyun for Jongho, and of course Kim Tae Hee for Seonghwa. Mingi’s maker is never referred to by name but her name is Nara, after Jang Na Ra.

Author has a cameo in Chapter 6! Cashier staring shamelessly at Seonghwa in his full vampiric glory :’)

Seonghwa’s real-life fits were often used as inspiration, but one was straight-up duplicated. This was of course the teal turtleneck + mushroom hair combo from the amusement park date in Chapter 13.

I did do a little color theming for some characters, but nothing too strong. We have red for Hongjoong, turquoise/teal for Seonghwa, purple for San, and gold for Yeosang.

Another theme i love for all my writing is space. Seonghwa and his planet/star comparison is probably the most obvious. Personally, i have a lot of fondness for the framing of Wooyoung and Yeosang as the sun and moon, and then the addition of San as the Earth.

There have been some questions about the systemic issues in world of Blood, Water that i’ve kind of avoided answering because i wanted to focus on the immediate, personal story. But basically vampires are an open secret in the world that the government continues to staunchly deny. The vampire population has historically been very, very small. Vampire society, as a whole, didn’t exist until recently. Around 20 years ago, the government decided to crack down and eliminate the vampire ‘issue’ once and for all, leading to the hunting days that cost many vampires their lives—including Yeosang and Wooyoung’s maker, Jisung. When the regime changed, the new government stopped the state-operated vampire hunting. The blood den/club business that had always operated on a small scale—accessible only to the most connected/wealthy vampires—grew and even regular vampires (and humans) could get in. This reduced the ‘mugging’ operations less well-off vampires had to resort to, but bred new problems. Increased vampire-human interactions resulted in more turnings. By the start of the Blood, Water timeline, vampire population has started to outpace the blood available at the blood dens. Vampires of a certain level of society, like Seonghwa, are strongly advised not to turn any more new vampires, because soon the problem might get too big to hide.

Technically there is no vampire leader, although the authority everyone defers to is Hakyeon and his coven. But, as Hakyeon himself would say, they’re not a government—they’re businessmen. Anything they do—keeping the surrounding areas safe, putting down dangerous vampires, providing blood and feeders for newborns and adults—is to keep their business running smoothly. Vampire society is officially lawless so, yes, if Wooyoung wanted he could kill another vampire.

In the 4 and a half years from conception to completion of Blood, Water, a lot of things changed. My initial conceptualization of Yeosang was as a cold, dangerous individual, one that you might think would actually hurt San. Early on i decided to go for a tragic angle, so his sensitive, selfless nature came through.

Another change that got made very, very late was Yunho and Mingi’s ending. Don’t shoot me, but i initially plotted a different, sadder ending for them. After Yunho almost dies at the big house by newborn San, Mingi gets too into his head about Yunho’s safety and they break up. They uh don’t get back together. Yunho leaves Seoul for a better opportunity (a job, possibly a dance position—one of those things Mingi could never be a part of). It’d be kind of hinted that they’d get back together, but in the future, after Mingi’s worked through more of his vampirism issues and his anxieties. Obviously this isn’t what ended up happening, but, damn, it almost did. I decided not to do this because things were getting too heavy at the end there haha.

Finally, a not-insignificant part of Blood, Water was the chapter graphics that accompanied every chapter release on Twitter. It wouldn’t have been possible without all the wonderful stock image available for use online. A full list of resources:

Chapter 1 - people partying inside room by Pim Myten

Chapter 2 - Street Night Light on pixabay

Chapter 3 - Silhouette Photography of Trees by Jesse Bowser

Chapter 4 - Orchid Flower Blossom by anncapictures

Chapter 5 - This was a composite of two images that i think i accidentally deleted from my laptop and i cannot for the life of me find anywhere online. I’ll update this if i ever find them, i am so sorry for my carelessness omfg

Chapter 6 - Jewelry Boxes Red Blue by furud

Chapter 7 - Silver and black laptop computer by Jay Wennington

Chapter 8 - Painting Abstract Background by mondschwinge

Chapter 9 - Bridge Night Architecture by nqcoc9

Chapter 10 - Full Moon Night Sky by Pexels

Chapter 11 - Sunset clouds background from the National Park Service

Chapter 12 - Fully made by yours truly

Chapter 13 - Ferris Wheel Night Shot by CloudyBird

Chapter 14 - Amaryllis Flower White Open by Sponchia

Chapter 15 - half filled wine glass beside half empty clear pint glass by Sérgio Alves Santos

Chapter 16 - Glass Piece Broken by qimono

Chapter 17 - Macarons Dessert Food by TheoCrazzolara

Chapter 18 - white pillows by Anastasia Mezenina

Chapter 19 - Daniel von Appen on unsplash. I believe the original image has been deleted

Chapter 20 - Cfl Spiral Lamp by Public Domain Pictures

Chapter 21 - a red and blue painting of a building by Jr Korpa

Chapter 22 - Red rose in dark room by Ben Decoster

Chapter 23 - Cakes Strawberry Sweetness by Alexas_Fotos

Chapter 24 - Nature Fire Flames by StockSnap

Chapter 25 - Milky way by Ivana Cajina

Chapter 26 - Sunset branches silhouette by lovexxpeace

Chapter 27 - Lightning Thunderstorm Night by anvel

Chapter 28 - Chandelier Glass by Tedd

Chapter 29 - Splatter, Blood, Paint by Clker-free-vector-images

Chapter 30 - Clear glass wine by Luke Besley

Chapter 31 - white cushion on bed near brown wooden nightstand by Annie Spratt

Chapter 32 - Blood Moon on a Dark Sky by Roberto Nickson

Chapter 33 - Red Light Behind a Door by Jamal Yahyayev

Chapter 34 - Flower White Wilt Black by bmartinseattle

Chapter 35 - Brown wooden bed frame with red bed sheet by Janko Ferlič

Chapter 36 - An Open Red Flush Door by Kei Scampa

Chapter 37 - two arcade cabinets by Ben Neale

Chapter 38 - Gambling Chance Luck by Ogutier

Chapter 39 - time lapse photography of cars during nighttime by Roman

Chapter 40 - Vine Plant Sprout by ngyuenbuihoai

Chapter 41 - Gold Pocket Watch by John

Chapter 42 - red and yellow thread in needle by amirali mirhashemian

Chapter 43 - Red hibiscus flower photo by Kai Oberhäuser

Chapter 44 - Node Red Knot by moritz320

Chapter 45 - Lighted Brown Bridge by Burst

Chapter 46 - Brown wooden framed glass window by Tim Rüßmann

Chapter 47 - the same as Chapter 1, people partying inside room by Pim Myten

You can find all the edited images in the Twitter thread.

Fun fact: all the images follow the red/black/white color scheme, with one very glaring exception: Chapter 22 (and to a lesser extent Chapter 25)

If you have any further questions (which i didn't cover in this super long post...) you can reach out to me on Twitter or retrospring!

Well, we’ve done it. We’re at the end of this post. Pretty long-winded but i figured if we could power through 240k words of the fic, we can survive a few paragraphs of my rambling. Thank you all again, so, so much, for all the love and support you’ve given my work. I really could never have done it without you. It was an honor and a blessing to go on this journey with you, and i wouldn’t give it up for anything.

So what’s next? Keen readers might’ve noticed Blood, Water is part of a series, titled Ties of Blood and Silver. I do have plans for a direct sequel. Yes, our vampire boys will be back! With new challenges, new angst, and even new relationships. I’m organizing shit in my real life so it won’t be starting immediately, but you can all look forward to it! Until then, thank you, i love you, and see you all around ♡

#blood water #fic #my fic

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lithium80writer · 1 year ago

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Bad Things (Eddie Munson Short Story)

⚠️Warnings: Explicit sexual content. MINORS DNI. Toxic relationship. Drugs. Angst.⚠️

Summary: Modern AU. Rockstar Eddie. Nova Gray is a pop star and the on again/off again girlfriend of rockstar Eddie Munson. Both of them are at the height of their career. Fame and trouble follow these two everywhere they go. They both know they are no good for each other but can they stay away? Just a heads up that this will not be typical sweet Eddie. He's kind of an asshole. But a hot one.

Characters and intro, Chapter one

Chapter Two: Eddie Fucking Munson

****Don't matter what you say. Don't matter what you do. I only wanna do bad things to you..****

Nova's POV

You had an interview today which you were dreading already. Rebecca White was one of the most nosy people in the industry and you already knew her questions would consist of nothing but Eddie Munson.

"You're gonna do great, babe." Max says gently as he kisses your cheek. You give him a half smile as you grab your purse and sling it over your shoulder. "Fuck.. where's my phone? I'm gonna be late." you groan as you flip the blanket on your bed searching for it.

You hear it ringing in the distance and Max makes it there before you. You see Eddie's face on the screen and Max's turns to you, his eyes full of questions.

"The performance at the VMA's is soon. I'm sure that's what it's about." you lie as you take your phone. Though broken up, you and Eddie still had to perform your duet together in a few days. That should be fun.

"Yeah, I'm sure... Call me when you're done with the interview. Maybe we can grab lunch somewhere?" Max calls as you head for the door.

"Sure!" you call back slamming the door behind you. You run to the elevator as your phone continues to ring. "Hello?" you answer the phone in a rush.

"Hey Princess."

God, his voice makes me melt.

"I don't have time to talk, Eddie. I'm in a hurry." you say quickly as push open the doors to the outside world. You see your driver parked and waiting for you.

"How's my favorite girl?" he continues anyways as you slide in the backseat of the car.

"When did I become your favorite over Stacie, or Jessica, or what was the bendy one's name... oh yeah... Trixie?" you snap.

"You're stressed. What's going on... hey, no teeth.." he mumbles.

"Are you seriously getting your dick sucked while you're calling me? Fuck you, Eddie!"

"Oh come on, you're the only one I let use teeth..."

You hang up the phone and lean back against the seat with a sigh. He's literally impossible.

Why does everything in me want to tell the driver to head there instead? Why am I always craving him?

You grab your phone again flipping through your contacts.

"I fucking hate him." you say as soon as she picks up and Chloe snorts.

"No you don't. But I've told you a thousand times, come to the dark side, baby. We have so much fun." she teases.

Chloe Monroe. My only true friend in this industry. Proud lesbian and hater of most of the male species.

"I do. He's such an asshole." you groan and she sighs deeply.

"So you're trying to decide if you should go fuck him or not." she states bluntly.

"What? No!" you protest. "Shit... maybe. I miss him." you mumble.

"Suck it up, baby. You need to go to this interview and then you need to go home to your sweet hunk of a man." Chloe says sternly.

"You're right. I know you're right."

"I'm always right. But if you do go, tell me all the filthy details later." she giggles and you just roll your eyes.

"I love you. Gotta go."

"Love you!"

Your driver meets your eyes through the mirror and shakes his head with a laugh.

"You do keep an old man like me entertained." Sal laughs and you can't help but give him a smile. He pulls up in front of the building and you take a deep breath before slipping out of the car.

I can do this. Just talk about my music. Stay focused.

The fact that it's filmed in front of a live audience wasn't helping your stress level. This was your first interview since your breakup six months ago. People wanted to know what happened. Everyone wanted to know the dirty details of your life as if it wasn't breaking your heart into pieces.

These people didn't care about you. They just wanted information. It was just the business.

You made your way to hair and makeup. The guy who tended to you was a sweetheart. He kept the conversation light and focused on getting you perfect for the camera.

And then came Rebecca.

"Nova! You look incredible!" she gushes as you stand up from the chair. You give her the fakest of smiles as she pulls you in for a hug.

"Thank you. So do you." you reply sweetly. "So I just wanted to make sure we were clear on the topics..."

"I know, dear. No talk of that handsome boy of yours... is he still yours?"

Fuck this shit.

"Rebecca, with all due respect, I don't have to do this interview."

"I'm only kidding. I received a list of all the off-topic things before the show. No Munson. No diets. No Max? Such a shame.. he's a cutie." she chatters.

"Are we clear?" you say shortly.

"I'll see you soon." she disappears swiftly and you feel even more nervous than before.

You quickly dial your manager and she answers immediately.

"You can't back out."

"She's gonna spend the entire interview talking about the breakup. I can already tell." you argue.

"Nova, you need this. You need to get back out there. You need to talk about your new album. You need to show them he didn't destroy you." Lisa pushes back.

You pause for a second weighing your options. She's gonna eat me alive.

"Put your big girl panties on. Those sexy ones, with the little bow." Lisa chuckles.

You exhale deeply and tell her you'll call her after.

Here we fucking go.

You walk out on the stage and the crowd begins with their clapping and cheers. You look out and give them all a wave as you plaster a smile on your face.

You see Rebecca seated in her chair as you make your way across the stage. She stands and greets you before you take your place across from her.

The questions start simple. "How have you been?" "What new projects are you working on?"

She lets you talk about your new album which makes you feel excited and a little more relaxed. Maybe she won't bring him up.

"Nova will be performing a song from her upcoming album for the first time for all of you!" Rebecca cheers. The crowd is filled with excitement as you make your way to the side of the stage.

The lights dim and you take the mic in your hand.

"Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I shall die before I 'wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take."

You speak the first verse slowly. You close your eyes and shut out the people around you. You feel the music running through your veins as you begin to sing.

"I, I keep a record of the wreckage of my life.

I gotta recognize the weapon in my mind.

They talk shit, but I love it every time.

And I realize..

I've tasted blood and it is sweet.

I've had the rug pulled beneath my feet.

I've trusted lies and trusted men.

Broke down and put myself back together again.

Stared in the mirror and punched it to shatters.

Collected the pieces and picked out a dagger.

I've pinched my skin in between my two fingers

And wished I could cut some parts off with some scissors.

"Come on, little lady, give us a smile"

No, I ain't got nothin' to smile about.

I got no one to smile for, I waited a while for

A moment to say I don't owe you a goddamn thing.

I, I keep a record of the wreckage of my life

I gotta recognize the weapon in my mind

They talk shit, but I love it every time

And I realize..

I'm no sweet dream, but I'm a hell of a night.

That I'm no sweet dream, but I'm a hell of a night.

No, I won't smile, but I'll show you my teeth.

And Imma let you speak if you just let me breathe.

I've been polite, but won't be caught dead.

Lettin' a man tell me what I should do in my bed.

Keep my exes in check in my basement,

'Cause kindness is weakness, or worse, you're complacent.

I could play nice or I could be a bully.

I'm tired and angry, but somebody should be.."

You lose yourself in your song as you perform. Fuck, I missed this.

"Someone like me can be a real nightmare, completely aware.

But I'd rather be a real nightmare than die unaware, yeah.

Someone like me can be a real nightmare, completely aware.

But I'm glad to be a real nightmare, so save me your prayers..."

You finish the song softly.

"I'm no sweet dream, but I'm a hell of a night.

That I'm no sweet dream, but I'm a hell of a night."

The crowd cheers wildly as the lights brighten. You smile and give your lip a little bite. They liked it.

You start to feel a new confidence. One that's been missing these past few months. Maybe Lisa was right. This was needed.

You take your seat again across from Rebecca who praises you dramatically. She's so fake. Her personality and her entire face. It's not my business.. I'm just saying. You wouldn't recognize her if you had met her 5 years ago.

"Dark and dramatic and sexy all at once. I love it!" she purrs.

You give her a smile and thank her before glancing at the clock. It's almost over.

"Now.. a question we've all been wondering.."

Don't do it.

Your smile immediately fades.

"What happened between you and Eddie Munson? Everyone thought the two of you would be together forever. Well maybe not forever.. this is the fourth time you guys have split? The last one was pretty nasty." she flings the words out before you can even process.

This bitch. I can't overreact. It's a taping but there are people here, fans. She knows what she's doing.

There are murmurs throughout the crowd.

Calm down, Nova. Breathe.

"I like to keep some things private. My romantic life being one of them. I hope everyone here can understand that." you repeat the rehearsed lines Lisa fed to you before the show.

"Well I wouldn't call getting into a fight in a bar in front of one hundred people very private... what started that? Did he cheat?" she lowers her voice on the last word as if everyone in the room can't hear your conversation.

"Rebecca, I was in this industry before Eddie. I am an artist. My entire life doesn't revolve around Eddie fucking Munson." you spit the last words and Rebecca does a dramatic gasp.

Shit.

"I think this interview is done." you quickly make your way off the stage.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You call Sal and rush down the stairs. The paparazzi is waiting for you as you open the doors.

"Nova! Over here!" Shouts and screams surround you as the flashes blind your eyes. Sal quickly makes his way to you and helps you into the car.

He pulls off quickly as your tears begin to fall.

"Home, Ms. Gray?"

"No... I.. can you take me to see him?" you sniffle.

Sal nods and turns down the familiar street. He slowly comes to a stop in front of the apartment building.

"Want me to wait?" Sal asks as you open the door to leave.

"No. Thank you, Sal." you say before shutting the door behind you.

You walk in and the security guard gives you a nod as he lets you past him. You slip in the elevator and chew your lip as you watch the floor numbers rise.

You reach his floor and stand in front of his door. Your phone goes off in your pocket.

Max: Any requests for lunch or you want me to pick?

Fuck.

The door opens and you look up to see his dark brown eyes. A shit eating grin on his face.

"Hello, sweetheart."

*A/N: lyrics from Halsey's song Nightmare

Masterlist to follow along 🖤

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welcometogrouchland · 2 years ago

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luz noceda for the ask game

Anon you caught me right before I was Abt to go to sleep but I can't not do this. It's for my girl (feel free to send me more while I sleep btw these r fun)

favorite thing about them: LITERALLY WHERE DO I EVEN START. She's one of my top ten protagonists of all times. I love the lessons she learns, the way she learns them, I love watching her grow and struggle and thrive. I love her so so so much. To keep things simple(ish) I will say that my favorite thing about Luz (which I've mentioned once or twonce before) is that she's an objectively cringey, very ND coded kid who's still given the utmost love and respect from the narrative. She gets to be objectively fucking uncool and this story still loves her. And it's nice it makes me feel loved by proxy

least favorite thing about them: I mean, I'd say in season 1 it's the tendency to flatten the boiling isles and it's people into 2 dimensional tropes for easily comprehension, but that's also one of my favorite flaws of Luz and the narrative always makes an interesting point out of this attitude. Maybe it's the suicidal ideation bc it really scared me the first time I watched thanks to them. I knew nothing bad was gonna happen (within reason), this is Disney, but I was like DAMN THEY'RE GOING THERE!!!

favorite line: okay I actually cannot in good conscious choose one bc my friend once informed me that me and Luz just. Talk the same. Same silly idioms and phrases same whimsical expressions and syntax same humour, etc etc. It's a chicken egg situation and do not know who started it but I know that it's frighteningly accurate. So I'll just go for the safe classic "the only thing I've ever really wanted was to be understood" bc. Y'know. Best moment in the whole show and everything

brOTP: LUZ AND HUNTER DREAM TEAM I LOVE THEM SO SO MUCH!!!! OH MY GOD. Close second is Willow tho

OTP: you guys already know I'm here for lumity but I will let you guys in on the fact that when I first watched the show and was still on the early episodes of season 1 where Amity is a dick I was firmly on team willuz. I still love them <3

nOTP: Luz and Hunter. It's just really not for me, even if I can see why it appeals to others. I'm too attached to the familial reading of their dynamic and the doors that opens up analysis wise. Also my irl brother is a hunter kinnie and I just outlined my credentials for being a Luz kinnie so /j

random headcanon: she played guitar when she was younger! The one in the basement belonged to Manny and he'd sit her on his lap and show her simple chords and riffs. She got a ukulele so she could practice. Then when Manny died she fell off playing it bc it felt wrong doing it without him, even though she still played uke sometimes. She picks it back up though during the season 3 timeskip and post canon! Also she was born in New York and lived there til she was 2/3, at which point she moved around a few states until landing in Connecticut at the age we see in the thanks to them video diaries (I wanna say 7 or 8?)

unpopular opinion: I also think Luz gets characterized as more bitter/vengeful/surly than she really is, especially in fics set around season 3. She wants to be happy, to have fun with her friends, she just feels like doesn't deserve it. Also I low-key think Luz is like. A genius. Just in an unconventional way. She rediscovered a lost form of magic and then taught herself it all on her own. She probably struggles with long division but I mean it when I say she is literally a genius imo

song i associate with them: TOO MANY TO NAME MAN!!!! LITERALLY!!!!! The ones on my brain rn are sweet hibiscus tea by penelope scott, underground and life on mars by david bowie, people pleaser by yet to bloom, towards crescent park by bad moves and fine, great by modern baseball

favorite picture of them

Tie between the iconic "to be understood" frame (boarded by Emmie Cicierga) or like. Literally any Dana art of her but specifically the "see you in 2023" gif cycling through all of luzs most iconic fits. I love both of those sm

#ramblings of a lunatic #asks #toh #thanks for the ask anon!#again feel free to send more these are fun they make the gears in my brain turn

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freckleslikestars · 2 years ago

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Oh, I thought you'd reblogged @wheres-mulder 's X-Files list (coulda sworn it was on your timeline, whoops!) I'll clarify: 8. David or Gillian?// 13. Favorite season(s)? Why?// 39. When do you think Mulder and Scully first started dating?// 40. How do you feel about the direction Chris Carter takes as the series progresses?// and 50. Any X-File blogs you would recommend? :D Thanks for taking the time!

Hmmm I don’t remember reblogging it but also there’s a (high) chance I did it whilst incredibly drunk and just don’t remember. (I have just found and reblogged it now though)

8. Gillian. Every time.

13. Season 1 cos they’re babies and season…I like season 6 actually because I think they’re facing so much adversity and yet they still manage to be them. (But also don’t like season 6 because the aesthetic suddenly changes from dark forests to light deserts and my heart lives amongst the trees so boo California move I guess)

39. Oho, what a question. Essays have been written upon such things. Also like…how do we class dating cause like? Sleeping together occasionally definitely isn’t dating, but I like to think they probably slept together around memento mori time and then never spoke of it again. And then probably again towards the end of season 4. But then nothing for ages so that’s not dating. And then I like to think they started casually sleeping together around millennium time. But is sleeping together without naming it and without talking about it but it’s regular enough that you’re spending most nights together, despite not actually, y’know, going out on dates or telling one’s parents or explicitly stating that you’re exclusive despite neither of you intending to sleep with anyone else dating? He takes her out for dinner after all things. She wears the blouse her mother bought her for Christmas that’s just a little bit too flirty for work and they share tiramisu for desert because ‘Mulder, I can’t eat a whole one, do you know how much cream they put in those things’ and he waggles his eyebrows and takes two bites before declaring he’s full because he loves the look of pleasure on her face as she delicately licks cream from the fork. Sorry, what was the question?

40. I’m gonna fist fight crisp cracker in a car park one of these days

50. Oh my god so many and I’m terrified of missing people so please please please don’t feel offended if I miss you, I’m bad with…everything, but names especially:

@baronessblixen for the amazing fic and generally being lovely

@enigmaticxbee for an incredible series of episode reviews and season breakdowns (god I love a spreadsheet)

@jewish-mulder for the gifs and the fics and the insights

@frogsmulder for the art and the fic and everything

@gaycrouton for the fic

@wexler-mcgill for the gifs

@wexleresque for the fic

Ummm oh god I feel like I’m missing so many people here but my brains dead so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#getting to know me

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septembersghost · 2 years ago

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Hello my love, I don't think I've ever asked - what is your FAVORITE song from each ts album? You can add why but it's not necessary.

hello darling! oooh i love this question and some are harder than others!

debut: cold as you. for every reason, but when i really got into and then clung to taylor in 2009, i was going through a horrible situation that was...damaging...and it felt like she was writing specifically for me. you put up walls and paint them all a shade of gray, and i stood there loving you, and wished them all away, and you come away with a great little story of a mess of a dreamer with the nerve to adore you...you never did give a damn thing, honey, but i cried, cried for you, and i know you wouldn't have told nobody if i died, died for you...she was the only one who understood and one of the only things in the world that made me feel less alone and kept me from. a far worse outcome.

fearless: unexpectedly, this is the HARDEST?! how do i choose? love story? perfect. you belong with me? perfect. forever and always, you're not sorry, the way i loved you, white horse, breathe? literally all helped save my life. even though red is My Album, i am so emotionally attached to fearless and i talk about it less due to some of the visceral reasons. but my favorite may be the title track. it just makes me so happy. there's somethin' 'bout the way the street looks when it's just rained, there's a glow off the pavement, you walk me to the car, and you know i wanna ask you to dance right there, in the middle of the parking lot. pure. joyfulness. also because the driving parts of the song, and run your hand through your hair, absent-mindedly makin' me want you will always be about my fave fictional boy to me.

speak now: long live. i love a lot of speak now, but there's just. nothing like long live. it is a song that makes me cry EVERY TIME i hear it, without fail. hold on, to spinnin' around, confetti falls to the ground, may these memories break our fall. will you take a moment? promise me this: that you'll stand by me forever, but if god forbid, fate should step in, and force us into a goodbye, if you have children some day, when they point to the pictures, please tell 'em my name. meli, simply typing this makes me cry, i'm serious. it's the beauty of a moment, it's the nostalgic sadness knowing no moment ever lasts. it's the love she poured into it when it became a song for us.

red: holy ground. it's hard with red because it's so special to me as a whole. it's state of grace and all too well and treacherous and begin again and everything has changed and i almost do and sad beautiful tragic and red and...it's the entire record. but. holy ground is my taylor song in so many ways. the "would save me from vecna" song. the fact that you can ache so much and lose so much, and yet still feel this profound love and gratitude, still look back and say, this was painful to experience, but it was also beautiful and blessed. as a terribly reminiscent girlie, who thinks too often of the past and the story and the paths taken (and not), it hits me where i live. the fact that the dust on the page still sparkles. that even heartbreak can still be holy. tonight, i'm gonna dance, for all that we've been through.

1989: also a bit difficult because i'm inclined to say clean or wildest dreams or style (her most perfect pop song), but it's this love. the poetry of this love, the longing of this love, the almost lullaby melody, the crashing and returning of the waves. a ghost lyric! the lantern flickering in the night. the tremulous hope. this love left a permanent mark, this love is glowing in the dark, these hands had to let it go free and this love came back to me. romanticism, baby.

reputation: i could say delicate or call it what you want or new year's day or dancing with our hands tied, but i'm basic and it's getaway car. the ties were black, the lies were white, in shades of gray and candelight? come on. that slinky synth. the sirens. the bonnie and clyde of it all. the light of freedom on my face. the knowing it's wrong and wanting something anyway. the guilt-laced escape. yes.

lover: I LOVE LOVER!!! my sweet. so many incredible tracks here, like. what am i supposed to choose? cruel summer? lover? cornelia street, daylight, afterglow? but it's the archer. the archer was another one that just...resonated indelibly and it felt like she particularly delivered it to me, like a prayer. i was grieving so inconsolably at the time, and she reached out with, i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost, the room is on fire, invisible smoke, and all of my heroes die all alone, help me hold onto you. and, i never grew up, it's getting so old. they see right through me, can you see right through me? that song is an eternal part of my soul and gave me an anchor in the night.

folklore: linked to the above, mirrorball. mirrorball came out as my #1 taylor song the last time i did the song ranker, and i went, yeah, that's correct. that tracks. it's so shimmery. it has such an embrace, and yet it's still filled with such a sense of yearning and self-criticism, of confusion and (calamitous) love. as a fellow mirrorball, it too resonates to the core of my heart. and yet again, as if she was plucking this from the constellations to give to me: i'm still a believer, but i don't know why. i've never been a natural, all i do is try, try, try.

evermore: it was gold rush for a long time, and then ivy, cowboy like me, 'tis the damn season, but as time has passed, i have settled more and more on that title track. the sharp cut of the grief in it. the slow, ponderous catharsis. that feeling of thinking you're going to catch your death, and then continuing to live. pain lingering but transforming. the indescribable sliver of hope in, and when i was shipwrecked, i thought of you. in the cracks of light, i dreamed of you. it was real enough to get me through.

midnights: so my lyric on midnights is obviously, i'm just too soft for all of it, but overall song? i've been captivated by maroon and midnight rain, but my initial favorite was snow on the beach (the clean version, because it works better for me), for being dreamy and soft and suffused with stardust, and i think that holds. stars by the pocketful.

ilyyyyyy, thank you for asking this! 🥺🥰💖💖💖

#bcyoureallthatmakessense #letterbox #taylor swift #thrown out speeches #bubble wrap around my heart #*#posting this at 1 am no one is here but <3 <3 <3

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castlebyersafterdark · 3 months ago

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I've always flirted with the idea of doing a booth at some local maker's market or something as some sort of outlet for art in the future, but my sensitive ass self has this fear that what if no one buy anything?! I don't know if I can handle that 🤣😭

ahhhh i feel like i wanna talk to you about this properly cos its so special to me when people to find that confidence! i ebb and flow all the time, even when im getting pro commissions for art. my sister is much better at the biz than me - she's a proper maker, does markets all year round. i think one of the most vulnerable and therefore empowering thing you can do (and what we learnt at art school!) is how to fail. just fail, fail again, fail better. ha! it's incredible when you fail and then realise youre still alive, no one cares, and you go again. or give up. whatever works for you! but the doing and trying honestly feels like a win. i mean, im anxious person, and i got a massive illustration commission in feb this year. i was less excited about that than i was that i managed to take a solo journey on the underground city trains, because getting on public transport has been rough for my anxiety in the past year. our goals and aspirations change as we get older and sometimes it makes no sense, but life eh!

so i hope you give it a go :)

also im so curious about your thing of not leaving the US, cos i always wonder where american people go on vacation! obviously heading to europe isnt as close as it is to those who are lucky enough to do that in the UK, so i always wonder what the typical holiday is for US folk.

I missed the continuation of this convo right before I left for my trip, hope you're still around lovely anon friend!! ☺️

But yes, yes. Confidence is definitely a point of struggle with my artistic ventures, but who doesn't experience that, right? Great advice though. "Do it scared" as they say around these parts these days. It's such a leap though. I write, I put it online, if no one reads it, well, I mostly got what I needed from it. Expressing an idea. Articulating a vision from my imagination. Physically creating something? Putting it out in the world and hoping someone purchases it? That is so daunting. I give paintings as gifts to people who I trust to enjoy them in my fam and social circle, but I know the kindness is gonna be there. I'm not asking for anything. But, that's the risk you're talking about. Man an art booth. Might get no sales. Might fail. God, that's scary. I'd love to work through it one day, have the experience. I often brace for the worst though... I appreciate the kind words and thoughts, it's given much to think about.

And vacation!! I think the thing about America is the size and variety of culture/landscape/options contained within the US? I've been to a decent number of states. Europe has all these closely located countries, and we have the states. Cali is so different from Maine is so different from Texas is so different from Jersey is so different from Florida. The typical holiday/vacation here is all over the place - but I'd say the biggest destinations are beaches and national parks. At least in my experience. I've been all over the country. Even if there's a beach that we can drive to, I've gotten on a plane to go to a beach halfway across the country instead! Beaches and coastal living is my favorite vacation type. The opposite coasts are so different, the gulf is so different. North vs. south. And the parks? Grand Canyon. Acadia. Everglades. Yellowstone. Yosemite. Redwoods. Theme parks and water parks, too lol. I have not been to all of the places listed! There's just a lot of variety. I'd love to travel further someday, just haven't had the personal funds or opportunity to do so yet. Still young. I'll get out there!!

#asks #queued #I have so many messages to catch up on from last week BEAR WITH ME I'm also trying to work on wips.#And have a life. hahahaha

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mr880fan · 1 year ago

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Are the Rocks Crying Out? – Godspacelight

1.3K by Catherine Lawton When I was a young child growing up in small towns, my preacher dad would take breaks from ministry pressures by going fishing. My sister and I happily followed him down trout streams as he sought the perfect fishing hole. We jumped from boulder to boulder or waded in the clear, cold water and delighted in discovering colorful, shiny rocks on the creek bottom. I saved some pretty pebbles and was disappointed when they dried and lost their shine. But a few came home in my pocket, nevertheless. Now, my children and grandchildren know I’m likely to pick up rocks anywhere I go. I examine special ones that catch my eye as I dig in the garden, walk in the neighborhood, hike in the mountains, and comb the beaches. I’m likely to have rocks in my pockets as well as a few rocks in the car, interesting rocks lining shelves and filling jars and boxes here and there in my home.

Microphotograph of design in a rock A few years ago, my son gave me a rock tumbler for Christmas. Then I felt more like a serious collector. When my first batch of stones came out of the tumbling process smooth, glowing, and glassy—much like the creek-bottom pebbles of my childhood—I was hooked on collecting, learning about, creating with, and even meditating on rocks.

A few of my favorites I have learned more about rocks in the process, and my children and grandchildren admire the polished rocks with me. Sometimes we look for pictures in their designs. I’ve even made a few Christmas gifts with polished stones.

A fun collage I made with beach rocks My favorite stones to polish are beach agates and jasper.

Here I am searching (in a relaxed way at the time) for the semi-precious stones on Agate Beach at Patrick’s Point State Park in Northern California. Looking for agates on the beach is what it’s like for me, as a poet, to be present to the thoughts, emotions, winds, and waves of gritty life… to dig into my heart at the moment and find metaphors that seem to reveal themselves to me: reflecting light, shaped by experiences and observations, by forces of the environment, by the workings of Love Rocks appeal to us for many reasons: - The joy of discovering treasures. - Rocks tell a story, often an ancient story, about where they have come from where we have come from, and where we are headed. And we sing, “On Christ, the solid rock I stand.” - Rocks feel solid and permanent when so much in life and in the world is fleeting and fragile. One of the prayers attributed to St. Patrick begins, “I arise today through the strength of heaven; the light of the sun, the splendor of fire, speed of lightning, swiftness of the wind, depth of the sea, stability of the earth, firmness of the rock….” Similarly, the prophet Isaiah exclaimed, “He will be the stability of your times” (Is. 33:6). - Rocks remind us of things hidden. We try to clear our vegetable garden of rocks, but every spring we find more rocks that have worked their way up from the deep. Small rocks seem to appear out of nowhere, but they remind me that rock makes up much of our earth’s outer layers, and rocks have a constant cycle of breaking down and being re-formed. - Rocks can speak to us. Even as a child, the famed Jesuit geologist and mystic theologian, Teilhard de Chardin delighted in the hardness and stability of translucent and glittering stones. He later wrote and taught how to see God everywhere, to “see him in all that is most hidden, most solid, and most ultimate in the world” (from Teilhard’s The Divine Milieu). - Rocks preserve, encapsulate, and speak of history (for instance, fossilized rocks, moss agates, picture rocks, volcanic rocks, and precious gems). - Rocks are sometimes symbols of difficulties and trials. We might say, “I’ve been traveling a rocky road lately.” But rocks can remind us that while constant change is a given in nature and in our lives, God who is everywhere, including in the cycles and changes of seasons, is also unchanging in essence. God’s love will always endure and keep rising getting our attention and sending us reminders. Though God’s loving reminders may sometimes feel like obstacles when we want an easy path … If we give heed, the very rocks in our path will speak and have the potential to help form us. Beautiful rocks and fine gemstones were formed by extreme pressures over long periods of time. These gems uniquely encapsulate the effects of pressures and changes in the formation of our earth home. Examine the depth and design of many stones and you’ll see exemplified the beauty and creativity of God.

We respond to heart-shaped rocks found along our way as if they are valentines placed by God for us to discover. September 17 is “Collect Rocks Day.” So, take a walk and look for Beauty in beautiful rocks, Stability in solid, hard rocks, and Creativity in interesting rocks, and maybe even listen to what the rocks might say if you could hear them “crying out.”

Join Christine Sine on October 14 or watch the recording later. October and November, the season between Canadian Thanksgiving and American Thanksgiving, is the gratitude season on Godspacelight. Christine Sine will encourage you to enter into the practice of gratitude in this interactive retreat that will help us enter this season of gratitude with joy and delight in our hearts. Related Source link Read the full article

#are #crying #faith #godspacelight #gratitude #out #rocks #the #uncategorized

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walkonpooh · 1 year ago

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Friday the 13th: Church of the Divine Psychopath - Scott S. Phillips Review

Friday the 13th: Church of the Divine Psychopath by Scott S. Phillips is a rare book now, but was a series of books that publisher Black Frame did, along with their A Nightmare on Elm Street series they published. In Church, there is a cult that worships Jason Voorhees as the vessel of God, punishing sex & drug crazed teens for their sins. The cult, The Ministry of the Heavenly Vessel, moves into the "hallowed grounds" of Camp Crystal Lake and awakens Jason. Meanwhile, a strike team, put together by "The Agency" is on it's way to Camp Crystal Lake to hunt and take out Jason once and for all.

So I'll start with the positives first in that I think the concept is a brilliant idea, because it fits like a glove. Jason *does* exactly what the cult says that he does, he punishes sinners. Having a church then worship Jason as a vessel of God, I was just completely on board with the idea. I think this book has everything you could want from a story in the Friday the 13th franchise, maybe with a X rating versus R, because it does tend to get a little more graphic in the sexual descriptions and includes some sexual assault, something I can't think of offhand being in the movie franchise. But if what you're looking for is Jason running around Camp Crystal Lake with his machete killing people, you'll be satisfied.

I think me, if this was a movie in the series, I think it's like sort of middling entry. I think the idea is great and it never really lives up to the concept. I wanted more from it. I kept waiting for the cult leader, Father Eric Long, to be super charismatic or something, ala Michael Parks from the movie Red State and he's just sort of a typical cult leader who wants to bed the women of his congregation at the first available opportunity.

One thing I love about the Friday franchise is how creative with the kills Jason will get, one of my favorites being Jason X, where he really gets creative (and that movie is a clever commentary on the franchise I think in a way this book fails at) and Jason here is just kinda, blah. Like he runs and kills people with his machete after the initial kill and doesn't do much beyond that.

So I don't think there was anything bad here, the writing was solid, but there just wasn't anything to really make me love the book. The characters are fine I suppose, but save for two specific people in the cult, you're not really rooting for Jason to get any of them, which is some of the fun of the movies. Yes, you should have *some* sympathy for the various teens, but the movies know why we're watching and it's for Jason. So yeah, if you want to read this one, then there's a YouTube group who is putting audiobook versions of Black Frame's books, just search for this book and you'll find it on there. I'm not in any way affiliated with them, but that's how I listened to this and I think it's cool that they're preserving a harder to find book series for a wider audience.

3/5

#halloween reading 2023 #horror #horror fiction #friday the 13th #church of the divine psychopath #black frame #a nightmare on elm street #jason voorhees #the agency #camp crystal lake #father eric long #michael parks #red state #jason x

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lord-of-the-demons · 1 year ago

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Sometimes America seems like a really fucked up place and I assure you it can get like that sometimes but I like to remember that we have some pretty cool stuff too. This is not to say that you should ignore the bad stuff because it definitely needs improving but taking a second to look at some cool stuff we have here is nice too.

The first one I think of is those soft drink dispensers with like +100 drinks to choose from. After some research they’re not exclusively in the US anymore but they’re still cool.

Secondly I want to mention our Nature Parks because holy shit we have a lot of them. I say Nature Parks because there’s National Parks and State Parks and there’s like thousands (Wikipedia says 6792 state park units and 424 national park units). They make up an incredible variety of environments and are home to many millions of animals and plants that are maintained by the parks. Some parks are purely for historical purposes too which is also cool.

Here’s a picture of Zion National Park from Wikipedia, one of my personal favorites. Definitely worth the trip if you’re interested.

A third thing I love about this country is just how weird it is. We don’t have as much of an easily recognizable history as other countries when it comes to culture, since from what I’ve read a lot of Native American culture was either destroyed outright or orally transferred only. There’s still some architectural elements that remain like the cities carved into the walls of cliffs or the snake mounds, but you don’t have massive castles like Europe or ancient palaces like Asia.

This is not to say, of course, that Native American culture is inferior. The effects of colonization and imperial domination of the continent have irreversibly impacted the lives and culture of the people living here when Europe came plundering and so much of their history is scattered and fractured. If anyone has a good resource for learning more about what we do know I’m all ears, I’d love to learn more.

I’m more referring to the weird thing Americans do in terms of how we treat mythologies. A majority of the American population is currently or descended from immigrants from all over the world and with that comes a mash of cultures blending together in some interesting ways. Forgive me for rehashing the melting pot thing with the US but the large immigrant population combined with the massive size of this continent produces some really interesting cultural influences in a distinctly “American” way.

You can’t have one defining American mythos because of the incredibly varied amount of cultures all in the same country, so you make something new. You create a Moth Man, a Sasquatch, a Jersey Devil, and you keep creating new things with the new people you live nearby because there is no way in hell that people should be going in that part of the woods.

There’s a lot of fear baked in to the American identity, isn’t there? But that makes perfect sense if you know where American people come from. Fear of the unknown, fear of what’s outside your perception, outside your control, fear of the Other that treats you like a friend but there’s always something Off about them that you can’t quite understand. These new people seem to be your friend, come from a different land and want nothing else but to trade valuables until your friends begin dying mysteriously, one by one, until the mask of diplomacy is off and you’re being hunted down because you don’t worship their god, your skin color isn’t theirs, your language, culture, identity isn’t a part of their view.

Colonization is one hell of a traumatizing process.

All that fear and hatred and grief and malice towards human beings that are being treated like something less than livestock, like a pest to be pried from the land sold for pennies, or ripped from your home and dragged in chains thousands of miles from home to be forced into labor until you’re told you’re allowed to die. Out of all of that, we can still come together afterwards and say, “let’s make a community.” Let us live together. We can’t fix the past but we can sure as hell try not to make the same mistakes as we try to help you up from when our ancestors beat yours to the ground.

That’s beautiful, I think.

America gets it wrong sometimes. Well, a lot, and “getting it wrong” is a gross simplification of “some of the most disgustingly vile things you could ever think of doing to someone or thing,” but at least we’re still here, trying. The people that make up this country, and the majority of the world for that matter, are good people. The governments that they think they live under are much less so and must routinely be reminded who they serve.

In America, the government is supposed to be run by its people. It’s supposed to act out the will of it’s people and not a single thing different. The government is not a faceless entity, though, and is entirely made up people. Crazy, right? But people run the government and make up the government, so where does that disconnect come in?

I don’t have an answer for that. It might be that having power over others affects a person’s thought process, it might be that the type of people who work administrative government jobs are not the type of people you actually want there, whatever.

In any case, I’m a big fan of America as it should be. That glittering dream of freedom and opportunity sounds great. Less so the boat and picket fence and all that junk. I mean what you think of when someone says to think of all the good things that make up the good ol US of A. I acknowledge that this could be the American media propaganda roots in me somewhere that’s doing this talking, but I really love this country.

Whenever the government does something right I applaud it and think about how great it is that we can make progress like this, and when it royally fucks up I’m equally disappointed and angry because we could be doing so much better and helping so many more people if it weren’t for some people’s insistence on holding onto their hatred of those outside their culture sphere they don’t yet (and thus don’t want to) understand.

That’s what this post is about. I started out just making a post about stuff I liked about America but I thought it pertinent to disclaim that holy shit do we have some issues. It’s just that we have and do good stuff too though.

#textpost #america #USA #mini rant #thoughts #analysis #love #nature #national park

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verbo-s-e · 1 year ago

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july 4, 2023 2:43 pm

entry #whateverthehell it is in this grief diary. a month though. that feels like something. well since i started this.

but it’s been a year. happy birthday, america. it’s a low mumble i can barely whisper out of my mouth. a year of what would’ve been us being back in each others lives. a year of starting over. a year since that afternoon in the smoke shop.

a year since i woke up from the most outrageously real dream. i felt you in my bed. under the covers like kids in a fort. 365 days.

and yet, here we are.

can’t say i’m surprised. it’s kind of our thing. the back and forth i mean. i’ve been watching too much sex and the city as a means to keep me mentally in nyc as much as possible. little did i know that life would imitate art for the billionth time between us. you, my mr. big. me, the wild haired, verbose carrie bradshaw. the irony is sweeter than a magnolia cupcake. big and carrie share our thing. but they got married. this doesn’t give me hope. no thank you. he did leave her at the alter after all.

it’s independence day or whatever. (don’t even get me started on the lack of freedoms this country has) but i’m celebrating my own independence today. cornier than a hot dog on a stick at the state fair, i know. but you really did set me free that afternoon in the park.

so why do i feel like i’m still in a gilded cage? it’s this proximity that will do me in. i swear it will.

last night — last night! it was such a shit show on so many levels (thanks full moon). i was going to go out at 11 pm on a monday for an emotional booty call. ended up backing into someone’s car. cried to taylor swift on the way to the gas station and went home after instead. but i was willing to make one stop.

any guesses? of course not!

i won’t fill in those blanks as my attempt to be coy.

——

5:42 p.m.

not even an hour later, just after 3:30 coming home, there you were. pulling out of your driveway and i, almost to my street. i pulled over so you could pass. you did the same thinking i’d move first.

i didn’t.

rooted in those old oak floorboards, i stood my ground. re-enacting my dream into the waking hours today feels way too cosmically aligned for even me. no accidents, after all.

and like my dream, when our eyes finally met along with awkward and small hands waving near the safety of our drivers windows, was the same look you gave me. haunted and desperate for answers, broken almost. pained. with how close we were, our hands could’ve touched if we let them.

how ironic.

the moons magic is sparing no one this full moon, us included.

nothing feels real, including me.

—-

7:48 pm

i keep thinking of the drive by. i really shouldn’t. a million questions burst through the door of an already extremely overcrowded room that is my mind. they’re amped up on speed (the sighting of you) and the loudest and flashiest of them all: why?

why this? why that? why everything?!

i can write you a letter explaining everything? right? slip it in your mailbox again? right? that’s ok? right right right!? i suppose you can read all these one day, but that’s not the point of these entries.

what is the point of these? a grief diary i suppose is what it’s become. ‘that’s the thing about pain. it demands to be felt.’ a memorable line from one of my favorite books. another winner: ‘we accept the love we think we deserve.’ i won’t tell you the title — you don’t get that kind of access anymore. but i will say, that like me, it’s a story about wallflowers.

that was me. a wallflower to your life, begging to be seen or noticed or included. part of me is coming to learn that you’re, just not that kind of guy. but i know different; i’ve held the letter in my hands. read the words you could never write. (for me.) you just weren’t that kind of guy to me. the (painfully) self aware part of me knows that’s not your fault. but the rest of me? god does it wish it was your fault. and maybe some of it is. some of mine. we’re so entangled and in such a mess! cuz that’s what this is: a mess.

i’m giving myself to the end of the summer to grieve.

i just want this to be over.

#verbo-s-e #verbo-s-e blog #eternal sunshine of the spotless mind #joel and clementine #Spotify

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suckitsurveys · 1 year ago

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1.) What did you do last Friday night? Do you have any plans for the upcoming Friday night? Last Friday night my friends and I danced on table tops and took too many shots and I think I kissed someone but I forgot. We also maxed out all our cards and got kicked out of the bar so then we hit the boulevard. Then we went streaking in the park followed by skinny dipping in the dark, and then had a ménage à trois. And I think we broke the law. We always say we’re gunna stop, but this Friday night, we’ll do it all again. 😂😂😂

2.) When does spring break start for you? I’m not in school or anything that has spring break.

3.) Do you have anything planned for June so far? June is literally half over. I have a few things planned here and there.

4.) What is the weather like right now? It’s 62F and kinda cloudy and hazy.

5.) What song are you listening to? I’m not listening to music.

6.) Name all the people that you talked to today. Online, through texts and in person. My husband and a handful of coworkers.

7.) Do you know anyone who self-harms? Yes.

8.) If you have a science class, who did you last talk to in that class? –

9.) What did you eat for lunch today? I haven’t even had breakfast yet, but I brought a salad.

10.) If you were president, which one would you legalize first: abortion, gay marriage or marijuana? These are all pretty much legal depending on what state you are in, so I would make them all legal throughout the US, with no way for an individual state to ban or deny any of them.

11.) What are your parents’ names and what do they do for a living? My dad, Rick, is retired and my mom, Janet, is no longer with us.

12.) Do you have any siblings? What are their names, age and grade they are in? I have an older sister, Corrina.

13.) Do you know a schizophrenic person? I did.

14.) Do you have a threewords.me account? I don’t even know what that is.

15.) Who were you last in a car with and where did you go? One of my coworkers. We went to a reception for one of the graduations that happened at the college I work with.

16.) Aren’t you excited for the 4th season of Jersey Shore?! Oh wow.

17.) Did you ever watch Sailor Moon? If so, who is your favourite? I haven’t really watched it.

18.) Have you seen the game show “Baggage”? OMG I forgot about that show. I don’t want to pay for cable but god do I miss The Game Show Network.

19.) Name the last 3 people you kissed and list one nice thing about each one. Mark is the only one who matters. He’s my favorite person on this planet and he’s so funny and sweet and loving.

20.) Have you ever had cranberry vodka? Probably.

21.) When was the last time you felt EXTREMELY depressed? Why is that? Blah.

22.) Don’t you just want to move out of your parents’ home already? I did that.

23.) Are you friends with a Conner? Nope.

24.) Would you ever dye your hair pink? I have and I am going to again soon.

25.) Who was the last person to kiss your forehead? Mark.

#surveys

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quaranmine · 9 months ago

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Notes under the cut!

If you’ve made it to the end of this fic, thank you so so much for reading it. If you’re one of the people who followed along with this fic while it was being uploaded, a special thank you for all the support (and patience!) over this past year. Your support really helped give me confidence in sharing this story, and also a great “live monitor” of if I was successfully conveying what I wanted.

This is a fic that has consumed my life over the past year, from deep research to visiting real-life fire lookouts, outlining the fic and analyzing its themes in my car while I commuted, to trying to write a little every day. It’s very important to me. It’s (clearly) not autobiographical, but there are similarities in my own life that seep through the cracks anyway. I won’t tell you which parts, though. My secret :)

In the beginning of this fic, I debated whether or not Grian and Scar should ever meet face to face. I even made a poll back in March 2023. In the original Firewatch game, Henry and Delilah do not, and to me that feels right. Did I kind of want it? Yes, but it felt like the right narrative choice anyway. But Delilah is an original character, and every player would have had their own mental image of her by the end—it would have been difficult for the developers to match that. But you guys? Y’all already know who Scar is. I also think that a huge theme in this fic is Grian’s relationships with people, and how he intentionally pushes them away and isolates himself as part of his grief. Throughout the fic, while it never becomes perfect, he gets better and better at letting Scar in and accepting that support. And thus…it makes sense, thematically, for Grian to come back for Scar and not let this friendship die. It makes sense for him to reach out as a final part of his character development.

But this fic also has the problem where the ending that I want (Scar and Grian continue to be besties and work together forever and ever) is not the one that makes the most sense (Grian goes back home to his support system, pieces his normal life back together, and learns to live.) There’s no verison of this fic where it makes sense for Grian to stay in America or keep being a fire lookout, regardless of him being fired or not. He always had to go home. Anyway, y’all have my authorial word-of-god that they stay friends. I’m sure they’re real happy in the 90s when suddenly the internet starts becoming a feasible way to talk to people around the world LOL

This fic is also kind of a love letter to the outdoors and hiking, something I love. (It kind of kills me that I do not live in an area with any cool hiking for hours.) I grew up going to a National Park in my state every winter, and to this day it’s one of my favorite places on earth. I’ve backpacked less (only twice), but I know the drill. I hope some of this information rings true for y’all if you’re also hikers—though I think I have a habit of overestimating the distances Grian can hike per day! Also, you probably knew, but I have a background in environmental science and I used it for this fic wherever I could! My actual work is more in line with children’s environmental health/toxics/pollution than ecology so it was a nice diversion to research this instead. I also tried to apply as much of my knowledge about federal agencies as I could, so I hope that rings accurate too…though I often got to things like “well, idk how it worked in the 80s so I may as well guess!”

Additional notes: The meteor shower mentioned is the Perseids, which happens every year around August in the Northern Hemisphere. My mom used to wake me up late at night sometimes in the summer and take me to our front field to look at them when I was a kid. I bet they’d be even more spectacular in a dark sky park. I also didn’t know how long to keep him in the hospital for his burns, since it is SO variable based on the injuries received. So I just decided on a number for something that was serious, but not so serious it required a burn unit or any significant extra procedures.

Grian goes on to be okay in this universe, even if it is off-screen. He gets therapy. He heals. He stays friends with Scar. It's important for me to include all of that, because as sad as this fic is, the core of it is this: sometimes bad things happen, and it isn't okay, but you can get through it. Love you all, and thank you so much for reading.

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Twelve; Final)

The after, and the end.

Chapter twelve: 7,050 words.

<< Chapter Eleven | Masterpost

Hi, thank you all so much for reading. I hope you like this chapter. I already know some of you will :)

No CW for this chapter. Trust me that I can’t do worse to you than the last chapter. This one will, of course, continue to reference events of the last chapter though so be prepared for more discussion of grief and death.

September 1989

It’s late afternoon when Grian walks down the trail, boots crunching softly on the leaves and gravel. His boots are rubbing his feet, despite the many miles he has walked this summer to break them in. He’s still wearing the old pair, battered and trashed as they are. It’ll be their last journey. It only feels right in the way it feels wrong. It’s like he’s slipping back into a part he played once that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

Still, the walking is meditative in its own way. One foot in front of the other, back and forth, every time.

He zones out so thoroughly that he’s almost, but not quite, surprised to realize he is already at his destination. He knows he’s at the end of the line because the last pitch is steep and rocky, with nothing but sky above him. There’s nowhere left to go but up, and reaching for the sky is what all fire lookouts do best.

Perhaps he expected this trail to be longer because the trail to Two Forks was. It took a full day of walking if he started incredibly early, and two days if he didn’t. He always seemed to fail to start early, except for that time with the firework idiots. This isn’t the trail to Two Forks, though.

Grian scrambles up the last portion of the trail, and sets his eyes on the prize at the end: the Thorofare lookout.

It’s not perched on a tower the way many classic lookouts are, rather it takes on a different blueprint that is common to many fire lookouts in the western US. It sits alone on top of a foundation of a heaping pile of granite rock. It doesn’t need a spiraling staircase to give it height above the trees; it’s already the highest point in the surrounding mountains.

For a random, silly moment, Grian wants to duck himself behind one of the rocks and hide. He wants to play spy for just a little while, and go back to being that unobtrusive observer in the forest that he was paid to be only weeks ago.

The lookout is fairly well kept. The siding has been painted recently, but the shingles are a little messed up, likely from the hail they’d received earlier in the summer. Grian smiles to himself, just slightly. That’s probably not something Scar can fix for himself, and it’s probably driving him crazy. He clearly cares a lot about keeping the building and its surroundings looking nice.

He should just…go to the door and knock, like a normal person.

He doesn’t. He just hangs back.

He’s not entirely sure why. Scar seems, by every encounter he’s ever had with him, an objectively friendly person. Perhaps even too friendly—a person who was willing to put up with Grian’s relentless, doomed quest and offer total support. And maybe that’s why he’s scared: because it’s always easier to reveal your whole soul anonymously, but putting a face to it is final.

He has to do this, though.

He rolls his shoulders, adjusting the weight of the pack—a new one—and anticipates dropping it at the door. Then, he steps out from behind the rock, walks to the door, and knocks on it.

There is an immediate yelp of shock from inside the cabin followed by the sound of something clearly being dropped, which Grian can’t help but snicker at.

“I’m uh, I’m—coming!” Scar says, with a hint of sing-song on the final word. Grian is struck by how clear his voice sounds, without the interference of many miles between them. Of course it would be, but still. He sounds just slightly different.

A second later the door is flung open, and Scar is there, right in front of him, leaning a little on the door frame. Standing there, right in front of him.

He’s taller than Grian, which he knew to expect but is still mildly annoyed by. He somehow looks nothing like, and exactly like, what Grian expected him to. His hair is light brown, and needs a good combing. It’s a little long in the back, since it’s probably been weeks or months since Scar got it trimmed. His eyes are green, and they contain just a touch of cockiness. He’s smiling at Grian, all bright teeth and good cheer, and the facial expression tugs slightly at a scar under his eye. That had been caused in the accident, if Grian recalls correctly.

“Well, hello there,” Scar says. “You startled me a little back there! We don’t get very many visitors to this fine establishment, but welcome! I’m the one who staffs this here Thorofare Lookout, so what can I help ya with?”

And Grian, embarrassingly, just stares at him.

The moment extends for an amount of time that is just edging into uncomfortableness. Grian can see it in the way Scar’s smile freezes a little on his face, like he’s gone from being genuinely friendly to just holding the expression in place for some weirdo tourist who has decided to come bother him out in the middle of nowhere.

Grian shakes his head, lifting himself out of the moment and back into reality. “Sorry,” he mutters quietly. “Sorry about that, I’m just—” He stops. Then, he extends his hand. “Hi Scar, I’m Grian.”

It’s Scar’s turn to stare now. The smile on his face melts away in shock, and his gaze flickers across Grian, giving him a once over. It makes Grian want to shrink back some in shyness.

Then he accepts Grian’s extended hand, and in one fluid motion uses it to yank him into a hug instead. It’s soft and warm.

Grian somehow didn't expect that, although he's probably received more hugs in the past two months than in the last two years, so this one shouldn't be that much of a surprise. It feels more important though, like it's communicating something left unsaid between them all summer.

"You had me so worried," Scar says to the top of Grian's head.

They pull away. Grian smiles sadly. "Sorry about that."

"What are you doing here?" Scar says.

“Ouch. Not even a hello?”

“Hi Grian,” Scar says, and immediately tacks on: “So what are you doing here? Not that—not that I don't appreciate it of course! You know, I just didn't expect—"

"I thought I'd come for a visit," he says. Then he adds, amused, "Can I come in?"

"Oh! Of course!"

Grian steps into the lookout, and it's organized chaos. He gets the distinct sense that Scar has too many belongings for such a small space, and that he has at the same time put great effort into decorating and turning it into a little home. The interior layout mostly matches his tower, with a few differences like the bed being in a different corner. There’s a notebook on the floor, which Scar quickly snatches and replaces it on the desk. That must have been what he dropped earlier when Grian knocked.

“Guess you weren’t expecting visitors?” he says.

Scar laughs. “No! You scared me!”

“Yeah, I was never expecting any hikers either,” Grian says. “I got visitors…just a few times? I think? And the one time I didn’t even see them coming, they just made it all the way up to the catwalk and knocked on the window.”

“Oh, that’s not even a bad one,” Scar says. “Once I had a hiker come in really late at night. So I just woke up to seeing a person literally trying to open the door in the dark. I thought I was gonna get robbed, or murdered, or—”

“Now I know how I should scare you next time,” Grian says, and Scar swats his arm.

“I think a lot of people don’t realize it’s inhabited,” Scar says. “Like, they think the cabin is empty so they get all the way up here and don’t realize someone’s there? I ended up letting that person crash on the floor in their sleeping bag. After I finished having a heart attack!”

“There aren’t many left that are still used, are there?” Grian asks.

Scar looks away a bit, eyes flitting over to the window by the desk where the mountains lay beyond, the ones he’s known for years. “Less each year,” he says. “I always wonder if each year’s my last one. Two Forks went inactive for several seasons. It’s just this year, after all those Yellowstone fires, that they hired more people. Like you!”

“But that funding won’t last.”

Scar shrugs. “They’ll forget about it again once the public forgets about it. Or once a new administration wants to do some cost-cutting and wonders why they’re paying so many people to go do nothing all day.”

Grian makes a noise of agreement. It goes without saying, of course, that the job isn’t only nothing. It’s a lot of nothing right up until sometimes it’s suddenly a lot of something. After that it’s hours of overtime, maps, math, weather, radio chatter, and monitoring fire.

It only took the briefest introduction to the job for Grian to realize it was like stepping into another world, and not one that would last for much longer. Manned lookouts would continue to have some advantages, of course. He and Scar could be a 24/7 relay to firefighters if needed. The job may not ever fully go away. But the more that things like satellites could be relied on, the less people they’d need to cover these vast networks of forest.

The wind whistles outside of the windows as they stand there. The sun’s angle throws little warm squares of light through the windows, checkering the floor of the cabin. It’s later in the year now, and the days are getting shorter. It’s still warm out during the day, but the lows at night are starting to get below freezing again. Scar won’t be asked to come back after October 1st, unless a really large fire breaks out again. There’s limited days left in this cabin.

The strangest part of it all is that they’re standing here together. He keeps throwing stray glances at Scar, hoping he won’t notice, as if he’s trying to verify that he’s really standing there.

Grian changes the subject slightly. “Do you have room for me to sleep tonight? Or is that offer only open to potential thieves in the night?”

Scar pretends to deliberate on this for a second. “Nah, I’m gonna make you sleep in a tent. On the rocks. In the wind! And the cold!”

“Rude,” Grian says. “Is this how you always treat your fri—guests?”

He backs out of the word at the last minute. It’s silly. Part of him wonders, though, if he messed up his chance with Scar. If he was too hurtful, or weird, or difficult to deal with. If it was easier to talk with him long-distance and not worth it face-to-face.

It doesn’t escape Scar’s notice. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out. “I guess I could make an exception for making sure a friend doesn’t freeze to death.”

“How could I ever expect to live up to that kind of hospitality,” he deadpans in return, matching Scar’s sarcasm even as tension trickles out of his shoulders.

They were both joking, of course, but Grian had packed his bag with everything he needed in case he got rejected. He’d been willing to sleep outside. Jimmy told him that was stupid, because there was no way Scar wouldn’t let him stay with him. Grian told him that may be true, but he was never going to set out on a hiking trail again without all his gear regardless. Jimmy got quiet after that and agreed.

“Maybe I’ll just make you do some chores,” Scar says. “Hey, I have an extra pair of binoculars—”

And like that, the ice is broken.

»»———-　　———-««

Hours later, it’s dark out.

They spend a pleasant afternoon and evening together, talking mostly about nothing at all. Intentionally talking about nothing at all, really. Grian guides them away each time the conversation turns, and Scar lets him like he doesn’t even notice.

Scar is an even better storyteller in person—for the first time, Grian’s able to see how he stops what he’s doing to pour every ounce of attention into his words. Scar fills him in on everything that’s happened since July.

“You know it’s a lot more boring without you, you know,” Scar says. “The replacement lookout didn’t dramatically steal anything? Jump out any windows?” “Not a single one, G-man!” he cries. “I mean really, how’s a man supposed to find any other entertainment out here? Nice lady, though. But she didn’t want to talk to me, she just told me she wanted to do her job. I think our supervisor might have warned her off me.” “You’re a bad influence,” Grian says. “I don’t blame her.” “I’ll have you know, I was rated Most Wholesome in high school.” “That did not happen. I don’t even think that’s even a real thing.”

He receives a mini tour of the lookout. It’s not a long tour because there isn’t much to see, but Grian pays rapt attention anyway. Scar tells him about his efforts to paint the siding earlier in the summer, and specifically the way someone had come specially to deliver him those supplies twice because it was the wrong product the first time.

He points out landmarks through the windows, and Grian gets to see some of the same mountains he spent so long watching from a new vantage point. He looks at the sunny south faces of all the mountains that were north of Two Forks tower.

There’s another new feature in the cabin that Scar has added, in the form of a high shelf above the windows and close to the ceiling.

“I built that so I could dry paintings without Jellie stepping all over them when they were wet,” Scar tells him after he catches Grian eyeing it. “How’d that work out for you?” he asks. “It’s the only place she wants to sleep now!” Scar groans. "Cats like high places, you know. Wait, is she around here? I haven’t seen her at all! I'd like to meet her." "I knew you'd be more excited to see my cat than me," Scar mutters. “She’s probably hiding under the bed.” Grian kneels on the floor and peers under the bed. Deep in the shadows in the corner, a pair of bright eyes look back at him, regarding him with suspicion. Her eyes are the same color as Scar's. He watches her for a moment, but she does not make any effort to come closer. He silently vows that he will manage to pet her before he leaves.

Scar also gives him a short demonstration of some of the paintings he’s made this year. He has a sketchbook full of little things—the trees further down the hill, an undulating column of smoke with all its curves, and a delightful series of cat sketches. There are some pages where Scar skips past quickly and refuses to show Grian. When he catches a glimpse of one, the drawings look just as good as the others, so Grian remains unsure what exactly was wrong with them.

Just as impressive are his oils and watercolors. He’s made a bunch this summer—Scar claims it’s actually bad because he’s done less than usual, which Grian can’t really comprehend—and most of them are small studies.

“I want to capture more movement and texture and color and life,” Scar tells him. “The smaller pieces of paper make it so that I can’t get too hung up on details!” Grian nods along. “The Impressionists did that, you know,” Scar starts, and Grian gratefully settles back in to listen to another tangent while he thumbs through little brightly painted cards, each one more impressive than the last.

Now it’s getting late, and they’re sitting out on the catwalk together, backs against the cabin. There’s a very cold bite to the air, but the stars are pretty regardless. No clouds at all tonight, in fact, and a waning moon shining gently. The lights in the lookout are turned off, and as his eyes adjust he can start to see the outlines of the distant mountains.

Grian has two cans of beer he picked up at a gas station somewhere along the way, and gives one to Scar. It’s not a brand he recognizes, so maybe it’s from some local or state-specific brewery. Scar brings a blanket out on the deck for each of them. The cold air seeps up between the cracks in the boards they’re sitting on, but he’s cozy nonetheless.

“I wish you could’ve been down here back when the meteor shower was going,” Scar says.

“Meteor shower?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s, uh, I don’t know. Every year at the end of summer. It’s nice to be out here ‘cause you can see so many stars at night.”

“I bet that was nice,” Grian says. “I wish I was there.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, just sipping on the drinks. The stars twinkle far above him, the furthest so faint that he can hardly tell if he’s really seeing them or not. He absently wishes he learned more constellations, since he can’t recognize any right now. He’s going to miss being able to see so many stars.

When he turns to face Scar again, his expression is stormy. Grian goes still. Scar fiddles with the edge of his blanket and doesn’t meet his eye. He can’t tell if he looks angry, or just upset, but either combination of those makes his stomach turn. Grian waits though. They’ve waited long enough today.

"After all…of that," Scar starts finally, neatly sidestepping any discussion of what all of that actually was, "I didn't hear from you again. At all."

Grian lets that settle in for a moment. "I know," he responds finally. "I’m sorry. That's why I came here."

"I mean," Scar continues, voice growing stronger, "I knew you weren't dead because it was all over the radio traffic. I was monitoring the communications with the hotshot crew. I hear about—” he gestures with his hand “—all that, with the fire and helicopter. And our supervisor took pity on me and told me some of the details afterward.”

“And it was on the news.”

Grian knows the story was run on a few American and British outlets. He avoided the TV, and the paper, for a while afterward, but it doesn’t take the press long to get bored. Mumbo’s death was barely a blip in the news cycle. It was a dramatic story, but not that dramatic. It doesn’t matter if it will haunt Grian for the rest of his life; the average person wouldn’t remember reading about it after a week. “Missing British Expat Found Dead in American Wilderness One Year Later.” He grimaces even at the mere thought of it.

“That too. Not that I get much of that up here.” His voice is clipped. Hurt. With good reason, really, but—

Truthfully, Grian didn’t quite think to contact Scar until later. Everything after he was evacuated from the forest was a blur of activity that made his head spin, and he wasn’t in the best of shape at the time. The helicopter had taken him directly to the hospital in town, and they’d kept him for three days. They evaluated his ankle, which was only a grade 1 sprain that had been aggravated by his constant movement. They treated him for severe dehydration. They evaluated his lungs and airways. Mostly, though, they focused on his burns.

Grian was lucky, all things considered, regardless of if he felt that way or not. He lived when he could have very easily died. He’d been in a rocky area that burned fast and had little tinder, with the boulder next to him to act as a heat sink. He’d been stuck in a finger of the fire near the edge, so it had burned over quickly. He hadn't ever caught on fire himself. He’d kept his nose and mouth protected and close to the ground. His clothing had protected most of his body, but wearing a t-shirt meant his arms had been bare and he’d used his hands to cover his head. They fared the worst.

Grian thought the hand was perhaps the most annoying place to receive a burn, with the painful way he struggled to do anything, especially writing, for a few weeks. But it hadn’t been very severe. It could have been worse. He got to go home, and monitor his recovery from there.

He answered a million questions over the days following the incident. He spoke to rangers, search and rescue, fire crew members, and the police. He was scolded for stealing documents, but the words held little bite or legal weight. They had other copies available, after all. They asked him to pay a small fine. The rangers’ eyes looked sympathetic. Perhaps they felt he suffered enough, or perhaps it was the fact that this confrontation took place in the hospital room.

He called Mumbo’s parents again the morning after he woke up again.

And then when he sat in the hospital on the second night, waiting for Mumbo’s parents and his own mum to arrive, he pulled out his radio again and charged it. Once it came back on though, he realized it couldn’t do anything for him anymore. It was still set to the frequency he and Scar always spoke on, but now there were new voices speaking on it.

Of course they didn’t own the frequency, it was just a national talk frequency. They’d always just carved privacy out of the sheer remoteness surrounding them. Now, he was simply too far out of that limited range and was picking up more nearby conversations instead.

“I’m sorry,” Grian says. “I didn’t have a radio to reach you with. It was out of range as soon as I left the forest.”

“I have a phone.”

“I didn’t know the number,” he says after a moment. They’d only ever spoken over the radio when he was a lookout. Then, he tacks on jokingly: “I also don’t really think the agency wants to foot the bill for international calls.”

Scar scrunches his eyes shut for just a moment. “It hurt a lot,” he says. “That day—when I think of it, it’s so….I just—I was just worried about you. I was…”

“Scared?” Grian offers.

Scar nods, and Grian feels something horrible wash over him, a guilt that makes him want to walk straight off the catwalk into the dark. He tries to place himself there for a moment, on that evening, but this time from the inside of this lookout. Scar could see the fire from his tower. He’d been desperately trying to save him with no way to interfere on his own. Helpless. He listened to Grian say things. Worrying things. He saw the fire’s movement, where it spread, and how fast it spread.

When Grian’s radio died, he must have felt like he was watching him die.

“It’s okay,” he says, speaking all in a rush. “It’s okay, I—I’m fine. See? I got out of there, and now I’m here. I’m sorry, I came to say I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

Scar tilts his head skeptically. “Are you? Because…”

Suddenly, Grian’s eyes well up with tears. The mere question is enough to crack his veneer of coping. He casts his eyes away and blinks fast, trying to keep them at bay. Scar has heard him cry, but never seen him cry, which is somehow more embarrassing.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I really am.”

Scar doesn’t ask him any questions, he just puts his arm around him. The warm weight of it grounds him like a comfort. For every time Grian was convinced he could do it all by himself, there was another time that he just wanted it to be like this: a person who cares. He ducks his head down, and lets the tears drip across his cheeks and into his lap. He isn’t sobbing; it’s a quiet cry.

Eventually, he simply whispers, “I’m just so tired.”

“I get that,” Scar agrees.

“Everything’s just…too much,” he says. “I’m—”

One step from losing it all?

One missed breath from drowning?

“It just feels like the beginning again,” he finishes instead.

“The beginning?” Scar inquires.

“Like I haven’t figured it out. But last time I had hope, I guess. I thought it could be fixed. It hurt but I thought it could still work out in the end. I need it to work out and be okay. And now it can’t. It’s not ever going to be okay. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

There are lows Grian has felt in the last few weeks that he doesn’t want to share with anyone. That’s part of the problem, though. His life is everyone’s concern now and he’s being treated like glass by all his friends. They mean well, of course. They may even be wise for it. But people know what happened. They just can’t know how it felt.

He tries to remember they’re upset too. They’re also grieving. But they’re not the ones who have to leave the kitchen in a panic for a bit of fresh air whenever something burns in the oven.

He wants nothing more than to be left alone. He knows what it’s like to be alone after this year, and it’s familiar. And yet, he also wants nothing more than this—to be hugged, and comforted, by someone else who can do a little reasoning for him.

It’s hard to feel like anything matters right now. He dedicated all his time to finding Mumbo. He shaped his ideas, his time, and his relationships with people around the belief that Mumbo was alive—and was wrong. So what’s the point? Where’s he supposed to go now? What’s he supposed to do?

He doesn’t know.

Scar hugs him a little closer. “It’s not okay. It won’t be. But maybe eventually you’ll start filling in things around it.”

“Like you did?” Grian says, a little sharper than intended. “Isolating yourself for years in the middle of nowhere? That didn’t work for me, in case you didn’t notice.”

“No,” he responds slowly, “like I did by being reminded of the good memories, picking up art, getting a cat, trying new jobs, looking at pretty sunsets, and meeting new friends. See! Small steps first.” He lets go of Grian, and pats his shoulder. “You can do it.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Grian says.

“I kind of think you do.”

“I don’t though,” he says sourly, “because I—I already do, and I hate it. Sometimes I feel relieved. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to be relieved. My friend is dead.”

“Why’re you relieved?” Scar asks.

“Because—because it’s just. Over, maybe. Because I finally know the answers. Because it’s horrible but at least I don’t have to wonder anymore.”

The what-ifs used to plague him constantly. They were an ever-changing carousel of worst case scenarios that danced around his head. Now, something different plagues him. But the truth doesn’t change. It just is.

“Hm.” Scar pauses for a second. “Well, you figured out what happened. You found him. You can put it to rest now. It’s okay to do that.”

“But—”

Scar interrupts. “You’re not forgetting him, you know? That’s not what it means to move on. There’s a lot of people out there who don’t have anyone to believe in them. Mumbo had you. And you did good.”

And Grian doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t. He just sits there and lets the thought swirl around and around his head. Scar lets him. The two don’t speak.

He did good. Did he?

It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel good to be hell-bent on saving your best friend only to find his body. It doesn’t feel good to fail so thoroughly from the goal you set. It doesn’t feel good to be the only one left in something that was special. He has so many memories with Mumbo. Now he’s their sole keeper, the only one left to carry that knowledge.

But he did succeed, in a way. Mumbo might have been lost forever out there. Some people never do get found. He brought Mumbo home, back to his family, and back to a place with respect. Where he could be buried.

He breaks it down in his mind, over and over, like maybe he can polish away all the sharp edges like a rock in the river. Maybe it’s okay to let the sharp edges go away. The heavy weight of it remains. Maybe it doesn’t have to cut his hands every time, though.

Eventually he takes a deep breath and sits back up.

“Sorry about all that,” he mutters, as he hastily wipes the tears from his eyes.

“No,” Scar says.

“No?”

“Don’t say that, don’t apologize for crying. It’s okay!” Scar says. “If anything, I’m sorry I didn’t help you more back then, or—”

“No,” Grian says this time.

“Oh,” Scar says. “No?”

“No,” he repeats.

“Okay.”

“So that’s out of the way, then,” Grian says, breaking into a watery half smile. “No more apologies.”

“I guess so,” Scar says.

Grian sighs. “I just don’t know what to do now. What do I do next? You…you managed to do it.”

Finding Mumbo was a year-long priority. Without it, he can’t seem to figure out the structure of his life. He never thought this far ahead. He only thought about what it would be like when it was all okay—not about what he planned to do when it wasn’t okay. Now he’s falling through his own cracks.

“That’s an easy one,” Scar says. “You’ve got a lot of houses to draw!”

“We call it drafting.”

“Drafting then,” Scar nods. “Go forth and draft some buildings.”

Grian tips his head back, looking at the stars. “I don’t know if I want to do that anymore.”

“Oh! You don’t have to,” Scar says. “I know you liked the job, but you don’t have to go back to it. You can do something else too. You can do whatever. Or even nothing.”

“I don’t want to do anything else, that’s the problem,” Grian says. “I just—ugh.”

He still likes architecture. He literally can’t turn it off in his brain, the way his eyes catch on the details of buildings when he travels past them, equal in praise and criticism for it. He doesn’t know if he has a place in that career anymore, though. Maybe he can’t do it anymore. Maybe he doesn’t remember how.

“You have time to figure it out. You even have the rest of your life to keep trying things out!” Scar says. “Why do you think I’m always seeing new places and doing these seasonal jobs? And if you want to go back to it you can. It doesn’t have to be now though. It can be whenever.”

For the first time in a long time, Grian feels a little spark of something about his future. It’s a little flame and it will need to be nurtured. He cups it close in his mind, trying to peer through its light. There’s no plan, just a glimmer of something that doesn’t sound too bad.

Every time he thinks about what to do next, he’s locked in decision paralysis. Mostly, he just wants to sleep and not have to deal with it. He has already tried that method, and while it doesn’t work well, it does eliminate the thoughts temporarily. The nothingness is comforting, even though he never feels better afterward. He wants this to all go away, but day after day since Mumbo first went missing that has been proven impossible.

But sometimes one of his friends comes along to drag him out of his room and onto the streets of London, and more times than not he finds himself enjoying it. He finds himself, even for just a moment, living in that reality instead. Is it so bad, to want that a little?

Like it always does, the guilt comes stalking back in behind the thought. He lived, Mumbo did not. Mumbo deserved to live. Grian did nothing spectacular, nothing out of the ordinary, to deserve to have this life that was robbed from his friend. It eats at him, cutting holes in the very fabric of his being. He lets the thought settle in the corner of his mind, like he always does, but he doesn’t dismiss the hope either. Not this time. He holds them both at once.

Then, his thoughts are interrupted by gentle, tentative paw steps on the edge of the blanket.

“Oh my goodness,” Scar says. “Jellie finally decided to come say hi!”

Grian watches her carefully from the corner of his eye, and dares not move an inch. Scar had left the door cracked when they came out here on the catwalk, so Jellie must have decided to explore a little. And now she’s slowly crawling over toward him. She’s a classic gray tabby cat with a white chest, paws, and blaze. She sniffs Grian’s hand with great contemplation, before carefully stepping over his arm and sitting on his lap.

“Oh!” he exclaims softly.

Scar silently fist-bumps the air. “Yes!” he says. “She likes you! I knew she would!”

“Can I pet her?”

“Of course,” Scar says. “That’s why she’s on your lap! Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out if she doesn’t want to be pet anymore.”

“By biting me, I’m sure.”

“Uh,” he says, “no comment.”

Grian gently strokes the striped fur along her back. It’s soft and short. It’s been a while since he owned his own cat, but he likes them. He wanted to get one, but their apartment in Denver hadn’t allowed animals, so the last cat he had was one back in England that passed away while he was in university. Maybe he’ll get a new cat when he goes back. Jellie is a dignified cat, the type of animal who looks at you and possesses an uncanny type of intelligence in their eyes. He honestly feels honored that she decided she liked him enough to sleep on his lap.

After a moment, she starts to purr.

Scar is watching the two of them with a funny look on his face. Or rather, after a moment, Grian realizes that Scar is actually watching his hands.

“You got burned,” he says, like he’s only just now noticing it.

His hands still. The second-degree burns had already healed in the weeks since the fire, but the skin on the back of his hand was still pink and patchy-looking. Healed, but only just, with the potential of any long-term scarring still up in the air. Jellie senses that he’s stopped petting her, and moves her head to push his hand until he resumes the motion. He does. Demanding cat.

“Yeah,” Grian responds simply.

Scar puts his head in his hands. “I should have directed you better—if I knew better, or—then maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt—”

“Hey, no,” Grian says. “That was…that was all me, Scar. I got into that situation myself. I was…I probably would have stayed put if it weren’t for you, honestly. You saved me.”

Scar looks up again. “Really?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t have got out of there,” he says softly. “And, really, I would have never found Mumbo if it weren’t for your help. Thank you for that. I know I…got mad at you, that day, but really. I, uh, do mean it. Thank you.”

“Oh,” Scar says. “That was—something I couldn’t imagine not doing.” He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Grian for once can see this in the expression on his face, rather than the silence through the radio. He waits. Finally Scar asks: “Did they—did they ever find out what happened?”

That’s the big question, isn’t it? That’s been the big question this whole time. And for all the effort that Grian went to in order to find Mumbo, it wasn’t one he could fully answer on his own. That was for the rangers and the medical examiner.

He begins, “They found him, based on your map skills I’m sure. Um, recovered his body. Made a real identification. Not that I—not that I was going to be wrong. I just knew. They used dental records I think.”

He keeps petting Jellie.

“They don’t just—they don’t just send him home right away. They had to figure out what happened first. For his death certificate. Or maybe their records. Or maybe for us. But they did an autopsy—which was part of the identification I think.”

“What’d it say?” Scar asks.

It’s a long moment before Grian responds. “He probably died of dehydration. Which meant it probably only took a few days. They don’t think he had any water on him. They think maybe he’d been headed to the creek—” like I was, but he doesn’t say it. He continues. “He had a fracture in his leg. They think that’s why he was stuck there.”

“Awful,” Scar says softly.

“He was probably dead before the first week of the search was done.” Grian shakes his head sharply to dispel the thought. “Anyway, uh. They flew him back to England. We buried him. Had a funeral. It was really nice, actually.”

There was just so much happening at the funeral that it’s a blur in his mind. He was still receiving treatment for his burns and had everything wrapped. He was still having trouble sleeping. He felt like a shell of a fake person being forced to interact with the real people. The funeral was wonderful, affirming, and full of people he hadn’t seen in years. People who’d loved Mumbo, too. But it was also deeply overwhelming.

“You were in England this whole time then?” Scar says. “‘Cause you said something about international calls earlier.”

Grian nods. “Yeah. I went back a week after all of it happened. Stayed there, with my family.”

“But you came back here.”

“I had to,” he says, trying to force some brightness into his words. “Couldn’t just leave you all alone without saying goodbye.”

Scar reaches out a hand, and scratches Jellie under the chin. She purrs harder. He says, “Why’s it have to be goodbye?”

“Scar.”

“I know,” he says miserably. “I know.”

This isn’t his home, and it especially isn’t without Mumbo. Grian had followed him here, and now that he was gone, there wasn’t any reason to stay. Well—not a good reason. He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t breaking his heart too.

“I have things I have to wrap up here,” Grian says. “Stuff like our apartment. Those things need to be packed up and shipped back. And I need to sell my car. It’s all tedious stuff. Two of my other friends came with me to help me so I didn’t have to do it all by myself.”

“Your friends came? And you didn’t bring them to meet me?” Scar says in an exaggeratedly scandalized tone.

Grian smiles a little, and looks over at Scar. “It was private.”

He’d left Jimmy and Martyn in a cabin just outside of town. They’d been gracious enough to allow him to take a detour on their trip just to come here. None of his friends were very keen on questioning him these past few weeks. Sometimes he hated it, and wished they just treated him normally. Other times he was grateful they spared him any need to explain.

Then, he abruptly remembers. “Wait,” he says. “I had something for you. I would get it but…” He gestures at Jellie, who is not planning on letting him stand up any time soon.

“You’re cat-trapped,” Scar says. “Where is it?”

“The outer pocket of my bag. It’s a piece of paper.” Then he adds, “Don’t look at it until you get back out here!”

Scar steps gently over Grian, and disappears into the lookout for a moment. It’s dark and silent outside, except for the constant purr from Jellie that seems to radiate through his body. Then, just as fast, Scar is back and settling back down onto the catwalk boards. In his hand is a battered piece of yellow lined paper, singed on one edge.

“You can unfold it now,” Grian says, and Scar does.

He has to squint to appreciate it in the dim moonlight, but once he sees it recognition snaps across his face like lightning.

“This is my lookout,” Scar says, and then turns to look at Grian with wide eyes. “Wait, you actually drew it when I said so.”

Grian’s face heats up, and he glances away. “I…thought that maybe you should have it. As a thank you.”

“I love it,” Scar says. “It looks amazing.”

“Sorry it isn’t in better condition,” he says. “It was in my bag that got left behind. The rangers retrieved it along with…they mailed the stuff they found back to me, afterward. So I brought it here to you.”

“I think it’s in perfect condition,” Scar says. “It makes it real.” Then, he beams. “I’m going to hang this in the cabin. Frame it, maybe.”

Grian groans. “It isn’t that good,” he says.

“It should be on display!”

“Please, no,” Grian says.

“I guess you’ll just have to come again next year so I can prove you wrong. You won’t know what hit you when you see how good this looks framed,” Scar declares. Then he adds, softer. “You can come again, you know. You can always come back.”

“I’ll come back. I hope so,” Grian says. “After all, I’ve got the rest of my life to do it.”

»»———-　　———-««

Grian leaves the lookout the next morning, a little before midday. The day is bright and sunny and cloudless. In his bag are two new items: a pair of rolled up mini paintings, and Scar’s contact information penciled on a piece of paper.

He walks forward, one foot in front of the other, just like always.

<< Chapter Eleven | Masterpost

#hc_firewatch_au

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junisfics · 4 years ago

Text

All This Time — Armin Arlert (1)

series masterlist

Pairing: Armin Arlert x Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Series Summary: Reader messages her best friend Armin late one night while she's drunk and needy, but will she remember the things she said to him in the morning, and if she does... will she regret it?

Part Summary: After Armin receives a disturbingly vague message from his best friend, he shows up to her house only to find her drunk and needy

Content: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Eventual Smut

Content Warnings: Sexual Content, Mentions of Masturbation, Sexual Fantasies

You met Armin in your freshman year of high school. You had gone to separate middle schools, but those two schools fed into your then high school and you became classmates. You shared a band class together, Armin played clarinet and you played the piano. The entire band was split between two periods, you and Armin’s seventh period consisted of woodwinds while the other period held brass… percussion was split evenly between the two periods.

That was the first game of chance.

The second one was after-school practice sessions with Mr. Steunberg. Apparently, Armin was struggling with sight-reading just as much as you were, so you were paired together for practice lessons on Mondays. And every Monday for the second semester of freshman year, you and Armin played your instruments in that little sound booth while your music teacher corrected you from outside.

Eventually, the twenty minutes between the end of school and the beginning of lessons was being shared between the two of you rather than each of you hiding off down some hallway. You had decided to come down the band hall early, conveniently at the same time Armin had as well.

It started with one of you asking if the other had a certain teacher, followed by asking if they had completed the night’s assignment for that class. Over time, the floor distance between you two closed and you’d sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor just outside the booth, knee to knee, sharing snacks before Mr. Steunberg made his way from his History class and down to the band hall. You’d work on homework together and laugh over the squeaking mistakes from the neighboring booths.

Just around the time when you and Armin began to grow comfortable with each other, your organized lessons had stopped and your blooming friendship had been put on pause. Neither of you missed it too much, you barely knew each other, but you still smiled at each other in the halls and occasionally talked before your shared class if there was time, but there really wasn’t.

It was like that for a while; little waves, sentence-long conversations, awkward silences followed by equally as awkward good-byes. It was months before you ever talked the same way you had in that little hallway.

It wasn’t like you craved his presence. Christ, you would completely forget about him if you didn’t see him every day in class. But when he came up to you at the end of the day one day while you were sitting on the piano bench, waiting for the final bell to ring, you couldn’t help but smile.

You still remember the shirt he was wearing, how he pushed those thin-rimmed glasses he still wore up his nose as he talked with you, “Can you help me with sight-reading? I don’t wanna tell my mom I need lessons again and I’m embarrassed to ask anyone else.”

Of course, you had said yes to him, you wouldn’t be pulling your phone out in the middle of the night in the peak of summer to text him while you’re shit-faced to text him if you hadn’t.

Your practicing together turned into practicing and doing homework together, which turned into getting off track and watching YouTube videos together. Then came the hanging out outside of homework and lessons; goofing off at either of your neighborhood parks, walking down the road to get fast-food, running around in a grocery store because there was nothing else to do in the suburbs.

There wasn’t an exact moment where you agreed that you were best friends, it just happened. You were always there for him whenever he got pushed around by the baseball boys, when his parents got divorced and his grandfather moved in, when he got his acceptance letter to the college of his choice; and he was there for you for your first boyfriend and your first heartbreak, he was there when your dog was lost for five days… he being the one that found her, and when you got your acceptance letter, he was the one sitting next to you with open arms.

There were moments when you found yourselves distancing; when you got into little arguments. But at the end of the day, the love that each of you had for each other was stronger than anything. You always came back to him, and he to you.

No matter how many times you broke his heart by flirting with him just to hook up with some random guy at a party the same day, told him that he was your ‘best friend’, talking about how he was ‘like a brother’ to you, he couldn't leave you and he couldn’t stop loving you.

Armin would do anything for you and you would do anything for Armin. This is why when he got your messages in the dead of the night, he was over to your apartment before he could even text back.

‘armin’ ‘come over’ ‘help’ ‘need help’

Every second between the moment he got your messages until he reached your door, he was mortified. His heart was pounding out of his chest, knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering while swerving around corners recklessly, eyes flitting over your parking lot to try and find anything out of the ordinary.

He almost tripped on the curb of the sidewalk while running up to your building. He was whipping open doors and frantically pressing elevator buttons as his keys still jangled in his hands, he didn’t even think to shove them into his pockets. His eyes bore into the red, electric lettering at the frame of the elevator, watching the numbers increase with his hand pressing against the metal doors like it’ll somehow make it go faster.

Once he reaches your door, he knocks frantically, jolts of pain shooting through his knuckles as he does so.

And you’re right at the door waiting for him. You tug it open the second you hear him outside of it, a giant smile of relief on your face.

“Oh my god! Thank god you’re here! I was going to pass out from waiting so long,” You giggle, grabbing ahold of his forearm that was still outstretched from knocking and pulling him inside.

It took him a moment to realize that you’re alright, that you’re standing right there in front of him, unharmed and unscathed, with his sweatshirt pulled over you, the one he gave you before leaving for university. You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet as you grab at his arms to bring him forward, stumbling back over your own feet in the process which just sends you into another fit of giggles.

You had a slight sheen of sweat over your face and neck, not a lot, just enough so when your head turned to look behind you the kitchen lights bounced against the gloss on your skin. You didn’t have pants on as well, just these light grey boy-short panties that completely exposed the length of your legs.

It wasn’t like Armin hasn’t seen you in a swimsuit before. Many times your parents had taken you on trips to a lake where you would go tubing and swimming for hours on end until you were both drained of all your energy. But seeing you in, presumably, nothing but his sweatshirt and panties that bared your thighs and bottom curves of your ass had him far more flabbergasted than a swimsuit ever could.

“You’re — you’re okay?” He asks, voice still wavering with concern as you continue to drag him towards the kitchen.

“Absolutely not!” You sound serious, “I need help… with making my dessert.” Your faux serious tone falls apart and you’re choking back another wave of laughter.

Armin watches you incredulously but intently as you slide your hands down his forearms until both of your hands meet his own, giving them a squeeze before spinning around and gripping the kitchen island’s counter.

You have an array of stainless steel bowls crowded beside each other while a mixture of dry baking goods sits unstirred in one of the bowls. You shuffle through the measuring cups and spoons before picking up a large wooden spoon and holding it up to Armin, presenting it to him, like you’ve found a block of gold.

When you turn away from him, he looks over the state of the kitchen. Sugar and flour remnants cover the countertops, series of baking instruments litter them as well, and on the kitchen table is a bottle of vodka.

And then it hits him; you’re playful nature, unpredictability, clumsiness, and intimacy.

“Are you drunk?” He asks you. He isn’t disappointed, or angry, just slightly taken aback.

You bring your head up from the bowl and tilt your head side to side like you were thinking over his question, “A little.”

It was much more than ‘a little’. Before you had even started drinking you were in a playful mood. You had just gotten the offer for a summer job for lifeguarding at the apartment complex’s pool and you thought to celebrate by binging your favorite television show and having a few shots. Then, a few shots turned to many and you were dancing around your living room while having the time of your life before you had settled on making yourself some food. ‘Another celebration’ you had convinced yourself.

But the measuring and the mixing were too hard and who else was there to call other than your best friend?

“Oh my god.” Armin smiles, shaking his head at you and making his way towards you as you continue to mix at god-knows-what you’ve put into that bowl, “You need actual food, not whatever you’re making here.”

You let go of the spoon, letting out a little huff of frustration at his words, scrunching your nose real cutely as you turn towards him. You take the front of his tee-shirt in your hands, gently fiddling with the fabric as you pout.

“I want dessert, Armin.” You whine, bringing your head forward to rest your cheek on his chest. Your chest was pressing against his torso, bare legs knocking against his own.

“’Tomorrow-You’ is going to thank me for not letting you have dessert.” He awkwardly brings one of his hands to your back, patting it a few times before letting his hand rest between your shoulder blades.

“Please?” You whisper, tilting your head up until he can feel your tiny breaths against his chin. Armin hopes you can’t feel the way his heartbeat begins to pick up in his chest at your close proximity.

“No… No, I’ll — I’ll make you toast or something, how does that sound?” He suggests, snaking his hands between the two of you to gently nudge you off him.

But the space between the two of you is quickly closed when your slide your hands up his chest and around his neck, “Don’t want toast.” You murmur, standing up on the tips of your toes to get in his eye-line. Your nose was only a breath away from his.

Armin carefully takes your wrists in his hands, taking your arms off him as he stammers out, “Well, you’re going to have toast.”

You let out another noise of frustration as you pull yourself away from him, your hands balling into fists at your sides while he pulls open your fridge for the loaf of bread on the top shelf. You watch him with your head tilted in fascination like you’ve never seen bread before, admiring the way his hair falls into his eyes as his pretty hands unwrap the plastic sleeve of the loaf then tug the toaster away from the counter backsplash.

He truly was so beautiful. You always contained your attraction towards him so well, but now your restraint was slipping.

You prance over to him, slipping your arms around his waist and resting your head against his back as he slides two slices of bread from the loaf. His skin is so warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. You can feel the muscles in his shoulders and back flex as he moves his arms, his abdominal muscles twitching as well in reaction to your fingertips skimming over them.

God, he’s so fucking nervous.

Why is he so nervous?

Because you’re all over him in just panties and his shirt when he’s had a crush on you for as long as he can remember. You’re being so touchy, so intimate with him, he’s afraid he might explode.

“Go sit down. Can’t — can’t help you if you’re in my way.” He says. Oh but he could help you, he could help you even if you were hanging on him like a spider monkey, he’s just afraid you’ll realize your effect on him if you do so.

“I just wanna be close to you. You’re so cute.” You nuzzle your head under his left arm until you and slip your whole body under it and stand ever so slightly in front of him, wedged between his torso and the countertop.

Your hands play with the hem of his shirt as you look up to him, your eyes glossy, and your pupils were blown. Armin tries his best to keep himself subtly distanced from you, but it’s no use. Every time he inches away, you’re just back on him.

You’re sliding your hands up his chest, fingers tracing over his jaw and cheekbones as you cling to his side. He can feel your hips knocking against his, your thighs rubbing against his as you shift around to try and get closer. Your fingers follow along the curves of his neck, tracing down his throat then skimming over his collarbones.

“Sit here then. Sit on the counter.” Armin grabs ahold of your torso and pushes you against the counter, the edge of it rutting into the small of your back. You grab ahold of his biceps and let out a flirty little giggle at what his actions could be insinuating.

Your fingers press into the plush muscle of his arms as he strains to lift you, your heels grappling at the cabinets below you to try and aid him. His waist ends up slipped between your knees when you’re finally seated, and you can feel your body flush hot with arousal.

You were already sweating from the exertion you had put forward before he had arrived, but the added closeness with Armin was just driving you crazy.

“Now sit, and stay.” Armin places his hands in front of you to enforce his directions.

You giggle a few times, smiling at the fact that he’s treating you like a dog, “Woof.”

Armin slips his waist out from your knees to come to your left slide, plucking the now toasted bread from the toaster and setting it on a napkin. He pulls open the drawer to his right for a butter knife, then snatches the butter from the island and brings it to your toast.

His hands shake as he pulls the glass top of the butter dish, they shake as he dips the knife into the butter, and continues to shake as he spreads the butter over the first piece of toast. He can feel your thigh brushing against his hip as you swing your legs.

You begin to breathe heavier, the heat of exhaustion and heat of arousal begin to grow overwhelming. You fan your face a few times, pushing your hair off your neck, before grabbing the hem of his sweatshirt and pulling it up and over your head.

“What — what are you doing?” Armin stammers, taking a tiny step away from you.

You absentmindedly fold the sweatshirt before setting it aside to fan your face again, “It’s so hot… I think it’s you, Armin.”

You can see his face flush red this time, his ears as well, turning his cheeks and nose a pretty pink shade that doesn’t help your problem.

Armin tries to ignore you, he really does, but it’s so difficult because now you’re in this skimpy little tank top with spaghetti straps. And the straps are slipping off your shoulders and Jesus fucking christ you’re not wearing a bra. He can’t stop his eyes from flitting over your scantily clad figure, drinking in the way your thighs squish against the counter, the curve of your ass as it’s pressed to the granite, the way your nipples tease the thin fabric of your skin.

“Have I ever told you that? That you’re so fine?” You giggle, running a finger down his bicep as he finishes buttering your toast. You’re so grateful that he’s got that stupid white tee shirt on, the one that keeps your gaze lingering over the lean muscle in his chest and back.

“Um, n — no. Toast is done, hop down.” He refuses to make eye contact because if he does, he’s scared he won’t be able to stop himself from kissing you.

“Help.” You pout, reaching out your hands and grabbing for his shoulders.

Armin listens to your plea, setting the toast back down and grabbing ahold of your waist to slide you off the counter. But instead of bringing your feet to the floor, you wrap your legs around his waist and hook your arms around his neck. You have to tilt your head down to look into his eyes, only to see his pupils blown and lashes fluttering as he blinks. He doesn’t push you off him. Instead, he uses his left hand to snatch the food off the counter while his right hand comes to brace your lower back.

He’s afraid he’s going to have a heart attack now; feeling your thighs wrapped around him, your cunt hovering just right over his growing cock, your back arching your chest so close to his face that he swears if he looked down he would get a perfect view of your tits, your parted lips all glossy, breath fanning over the bridge of his nose as you run your fingers over the curves of his pretty pink lips.

Fuck. He was definitely getting off to this later.

You’re giggling all the while, and to an extent, you know exactly the effect you have on him. It’s cute, the way he stumbles around your house and trying to keep his footing as he brings you to your bedroom.

“C’mon, Armin. At least take me on a date first,” You tease as he kneels down to bring your backside to the foot of the bed. Once your legs release his waist, he stands again.

“I’m — I’m not trying — we’re not —” He stutters, bringing his hands forward again like he’s scared you’ll pounce on him.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. Armin wants nothing more in the entire world than to have you beneath him, to have his cock sheathed inside you, to have you moan out his name as you cum around his cock…

But he couldn’t let it happen like this.

You were drunk, so so drunk. And you probably didn’t even know what you were saying.

“We can if you want to.” You speak softly, your knees knocking together as you settle into your seat, fiddling with your hands in your lap as if you got all shy all of a sudden.

And when you look up to him through your lashes, brows furrowed slightly in a pout, Armin almost caves. But he catches himself just as fast, shoving your toast in front of you like it’s a shield.

Your eyes shift down to the food that’s presented before you, and your pout turns into a cute little smile as you daintily take it from his hands. You let the napkin rest in your left palm as you hold the food in your right, immediately taking a little bite out of it.

“You want some water?” Armin asks, still standing in front of you.

You give him a nod without looking up, taking another bite out of the toast while he fills up the cup that he knew rested beside your bathroom sink. As he stands in front of the mirror he takes a moment to breathe in and out deeply as the water fills the cup.

You were going to be the death of him.

“You know, I mean it when I say you’re attractive,” He hears you say, still sitting all obediently on your bed and waiting for him to return, “Everyone’s like, ‘oh Armin got so hot!’, but I always thought you were cute… you just got so — nnghh — in the past year.”

He returns with your glass of water, holding it out to you as you finish chewing. You take it from him gently, holding it in both your hands, careful not to drop it, as you take little sips.

He knew you were being irrational, but he truly hopes you mean what you say.

When you finish drinking, you pat your hand against the mattress as you set your cup to the floor. You want him close again, want the warmth he radiates both physically and spiritually. Armin listens to your ask and sits beside you carefully, running his hands over his thighs as you pull your legs up on the mattress and cross them under you.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” You ask, voice getting tiny again.

That was real… that question… he’s so sure of it. You were always insecure about your looks when you had no reason to be, but he had no idea that you cared what he thought about you.

“I — um… I — I don’t think my — my opinion matt —” He tries to get it to come out sounding right, but the moment he opens his mouth he already knows he’s failed terribly.

“Do… do you not think I’m pretty?” He can hear the feeling of betrayal in your voice, you turn your head away from him.

“No! No, y/n, I think you’re really pretty —”

You grab ahold of his shirt collar and tug him towards you as you let your back fall to the mattress. His torso comes over you and his hand shoots out beside your head to keep him from falling atop you. He can’t even bring himself to pull off of you, because your noses are touching and he can feel your knees knocking against the left side of his waist.

“I — you’re — God, y/n you’re so pretty. Don’t ever think I don’t think that.” He breathes, trying so hard to your lips from touching, for his own sake.

Your mouth splits into a smile and a little laugh escapes your lips. Your free hand grabs ahold of his shirt as well, assuring both you and him that he isn’t going anywhere. You look down to his lips, slightly parted as he pants heavily to keep his composure.

“No, but you don’t understand,” You keep your eyes on his lips, fighting the desire to kiss him, “You’re so fucking hot.”

Armin’s breath gets caught in his throat because you had spoken that in a borderline whimper. Your bottom lip had been taken between your teeth after you finished speaking, and he swears he could see your back arch slightly.

It was completely visible now, how much you needed him. You were holding onto him for dear life, your thighs were squeezing together and your arched back had your stomach brushing against his. You looked at him through half-lidded eyes, irises filled with lust and hunger.

Armin’s so grateful that your legs are to his side and now wrapped around his waist again because he would not have been able to stop himself from grinding down against you… it would have been completely involuntary.

“And — and don’t tell anyone this but sometimes… sometimes I get off to you,” You bring your voice to a whisper as you reveal your secret, lifting your head to move closer to him. He can feel your lips brush against his as you speak, “Actually... like all the time.”

Armin lets out an audible exhale, his jaw slacking at your revelation, he has to shut his eyes again.

“Do you get off to me too?” You ask. And you speak like you didn’t just reveal that to him, bringing your head back down to the mattress and smiling.

Of course he does. Of course he does.

Junior year of high school you offered to be his first kiss, just for fun, ‘cause you were friends, right? And you wanted to help him get it over with.

But every night since then, Armin has gotten off to you; laid back in his bed with his cock in his fist, and whispering your name as he cums.

“I — we’re best friends — y/n, I —”

“Best friends don’t wanna fuck each other, Armin.” You say, your voice losing all its playfulness and growing serious like you had suddenly become sober.

You stare into his pretty blue eyes for a moment, letting your own flit between the two of his. You were watching for any change in his expression, any look of disgust or repulsion, but you don’t find any. He just keeps that same incredulous, lust-filled look on his face.

He looks over you as well. Your eyes were still so droopy and hazy, your lips parted like you’re manually breathing. You were so drunk that it almost hurt him. You weren’t going to remember a single thing in the morning, and the two of you would be back to square one because Armin would never be able to repeat to you what you said to him or admit his searing desire for you.

Armin can feel your grip on his shirt tighten once more, and instead of lifting your head to him, you pull him down to you.

“I need you,” You whisper, voice shaking with arousal, “Fuck me... please.”

Armin swallows hard, his arms beginning to shake under his weight. He was going to fucking explode. He needed a break, just a moment, anything so he can catch his breath and regain some of his composure.

Christ, he was so fucking hard. If you were sober, he wouldn’t hesitate for a single second to rip off both of your clothes and push his cock inside you.

“I can’t — you’re drunk,” He murmurs, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. You can hear the fact that he truly wanted to do what you begged him for.

“No, Armin, I want it. I need it. I mean it, I swear.” You plead, your hands pawing at his shirt like he was attempting to get away from you and you wanted him to stay. But Armin was set put, he wasn’t moving, he couldn’t move even if he wanted.

“I need your cock.”

“Not — not now. You need to sleep this off. You’re… you’re not yourself right now,” He takes his eyes off yours, closing them once more and squeezing them shut.

“I’ve — I’ve always wanted you though. Always, I promise.” You continue, hoping that somehow you’ll convince him.

It was true. You wish he could understand how true it was. All the guys you had gotten with after-parties, after football games… they were all just replacements, they were fill-ins for him. You would pretend that it was him that was filling you up, gripping your hips and whispering dirty things against your ear. And for seconds at a time, it would work and you would convince yourself that Armin was right there with you.

And every time you would see him helping another girl with school work, see them flirting with him and getting touchy with him, playing with his glasses or drawing shapes on his hands with a pen… this disgusting feeling would churn around in your stomach and bubble up into your throat. And although Armin was oblivious to their flirting, it still hurt so fucking bad.

“I’ve always wanted you too… just — just not like this. Just sleep it off, okay? And — and then we’ll talk.” His left hand wraps around your waist while his right switches to brace beside your head. He grabs ahold of your torso and shimmies you up the bed until your head meets the pillow.

He sits back on his calves, his left arm sliding out from under you while his right hand brushes your messy hair out of your face before petting your head.

“And, and you’ll fuck me in the morning?” You ask, completely genuine.

Armin swallows hard again, pulling himself away from you and helping you slide your body under your sheets, “If — if you still want me to.”

You look up to him with your eyes full of admiration as he smoothes the sheets over your body, “I’ll always want you to.”

It comes out sounding much more intimate than it actually is to say that ‘you’ll always want Armin to fuck you’. And Armin lets his eyes meet yours again, matching the love that’s filled them.

He smiles to hide the doubt he has inside his chest. In the morning, you’ll either regret every word and ghost him or you’ll forget everything you’ve admitted. Both options made Armin’s heart hurt, but he decides that you leaving him would be the worst of the two. He wouldn’t know what to do if you’d never talk to him again. So for now, he truly hopes you forget.

Armin pulls his hands away from you, shuffling his knees on the bed to get off of it. But before he can bring his feet to the ground, you grab ahold of his wrist.

“Stay, please.” You ask, your eyes struggling to stay open. He wonders if you even know that you’re talking.

He listens to you anyway, bringing his hand down to the mattress as he slips himself under the sheets and next to you. And if he wasn’t sure about staying before, he sure was now because you were so warm and so soft as you shimmied back against him. You take his arm and sling it over your waist, letting his palm splay out over your stomach. You can feel every rise of his chest against your back.

You were going to doze off so easily, he was so warm, he was so comforting. You could feel sleep beginning to creep up on you quickly. But before you let it take over, you slide your hand back and between your bodies to grab the source of the hard thing poking into your ass.

“You’re so hard,” You giggle.

Armin chokes on his breath again and grabs your wrist to pull your hand off his dick, “Stop. Go — go to bed.”

You listen this time, retracting your hand to slip it over his that rests on your stomach, interlacing your fingers as you succumb to your exhaustion.

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