#i like your life sized worm on a string

[tiredmamaissy]

Ralak te Sepwan ieyk’itan: Chapter Three

An Illustrated Collaboration with @zestys-stuff

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's creator @zestys-stuff.

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (24) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (19)

Warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, ptsd/ flashbacks, profanity, age gap, sexual tension, size difference/kink, praise kink, jealousy, scenting, fingering, recollection of non-con trauma (for the plot), alcohol consumption/drunk character, let me know if i forgot anything?

Word Count: 6.3k

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Sorry this one took a while, been a hell of a week. It's got a lot of angst, so prep yourselves guysss. Ends with smut, ofc. I hope you guys enjoy 🤍

Synopsis: Your family seeks uturu with the Metkayina in the village of Awa’atlu. You have a difficult time adjusting, and are assigned your own special teacher, Ralak.

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“Y/n. For the love of Christ, you better tell me that the storm held ya up last night.” Jakes voice rings in your ear, waking you up.

Oh shit.

You look to your left to see the first rays of sunlight shining on Ralak’s sleeping, naked body, chest heaving slowly from his unfaltering breaths. Perched on his side, his face sits in his palm, as if he’s fallen asleep partially sitting up. Two fingers still nestled inside you, his facial muscles are slightly tensed, like he’s ready wake up any minute and tend to your every need, just like he’s been doing all night long. 

“Get your ass home. Now.” Jakes irate voice brings you back to reality.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

What were you going to tell Jake? That the storm did keep you up? He’d never believe that. Not for a second. Either way, if you didn’t go now, this man would skin the love of your life. Unmated, in his bed, all before your second iknimaya? He’d try, at least.

“Sst-ah.” you let out a shaky breath, grimacing as you pull his fingers out of you. They’re covered in your cum, so much so that a thick string of slick connects you to his fingers when you pull your pelvis away. You scramble to your feet, wiping yourself up with the already damp cloth next to his bed.

I’ll be back, my love. You think, looking over at him one last time before rushing out of his marui.

On your way to the cave, you try to assess your state. It’s hard to tell, given the fact that your heart is pounding at a speed only an ikran could attain. Anxiety streams through your veins, but otherwise, you feel fairly normal. Maybe a little bit like you did after your first iknimaya, when you passed your dream hunt and had one too many glow worms. But nothing unmanageable.

Guess it’s over.

Finally arriving at the cave, frantic eyes search the body of water for your loincloth. It’s floating at the far end of the lake, so you dive in. As you’re swimming, you catch a whiff of your own scent, mixed with Ralak’s. You bring your arm to your nose and take a deep breath. “Fuck.” you curse under your breath, submerging your entire body in the water, trying to bathe his scent off you.

You knew you scented each other, but you didn’t know that it would linger this long. You scrub your body, paying extra attention to your chest and neck. Time is going faster than you can move. But it’s like the more you scrub, the more you rub it into your skin – into your essence.

“Forget this.” you huff, grabbing your loincloth and swimming back to sand. You wring it out, slip inside and tie the knot hastily. One last look back on his marui pod, and you’re gone like the wind – quick and silent.

The trek back home is nerve-wracking, you feel so uneasy that you could feel something in your throat. A lump. You swallow repeatedly, trying to get rid of it, but it grows a little bigger for every step you take. By the time you’re at your marui door, you feel like you can’t breathe.

Neteyam smells you first, wreaking of a male na’vi, nose scrunching at the odour. He huffs a harsh breath through his nostrils, attempting to rid the lingering scent from of his lungs. He examines your condition – clammy skin with little colour left in it. Eyes trailing up to your face, he could see the fear written all over it, along with something else. Something like –

“Jesus, what the hell were you thinking?!” Jake hisses through clenched teeth.

“D-dad. I-I can explain.” you stutter, throat so tight you can barely speak.

Jake pulls his head back, eyelids blinking furiously. It’s as if the scent quite literally hit him, square in the jaw. With his suspicions confirmed, his lips stretch into a thin line, his go to expression of disapproval. The type that makes your ears lay flat against your skull, and bottom lip jut out.

“I can smell him on you.” Jake brushes past you. “Stay with your brother.”

“Dad, please.” your voice is strained, fighting against the lump in your throat. “Where are you going?”

He stops dead in his tracks, back still turned to you, a hand flying up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. “To Tonowari, kid. Tsireya will teach you from now on.” He heaves a heavy sigh and walks away.

The anxiety quickly morphs into anger, bubbling in your veins and sizzling your skin. Your short fuse blows. How could he take this away from you? You weren’t a ‘kid’ anymore. You had passed your iknimaya back home, and you’re on the brink of passing it here, too. Despite that, he always treats you like this, like the late bloomer you are. He didn’t even care to know what really happened.

“Not a fucking kid!” you shout after him, only for him to shake his head and continue walking.

“Sis.” Neteyam mutters, gently guiding you into the marui pod by your arm.

You shrug him off, storming past him to dive into your bed, burying your face into your pillow – damp from last night’s tears. It only becomes wetter as your fresh tears stream down your face. You couldn’t help it, you cried whenever you felt overwhelmed with anything. Sadness. Happiness. Anger. Frustration.

The sound of your privacy curtain being drawn back snaps your head up from your pillow. It’s Neteyam, standing over you with a face of concern, a bowl of steamed fish in one hand and a cup of water in the other. He sighs quietly, crouching down to come eye to eye with you. “You were in heat, weren’t you?” He states, already knowing the answer. “You should eat and drink something.” He places the bowl and cup on the floor next to you.

You sit up, supporting your torso with your arms behind your back. Neteyam. The older, caring bother, always looking out for everyone but himself. Of course, he would be the one to care enough to find out what you’ve been through the past day. “Yup. Late bloomer finally got her heat.” you speak of yourself harshly, taking the cup of water and chugging it.

“You smell gross.” he chuckles breathily, nudging the bowl of fish closer to you.

“Thanks, big brother. Appreciate it.” you giggle between cries, nudging it back to him. “Not hungry.”

His arms rest on his knees, braids swaying in his face as he looks behind him before dropping his head. “Agh.” he lifts his head, staring at you for a few seconds, as if he were contemplating something. “You should not have done that. Not before your iknimaya.”

“I didn’t! Nothing... like that happened, Tey. Ralak isn’t like that.” your head hangs low as you utter the words. “He’s... a gentle giant.”

Neteyam scoffs, straightening his spine. “Gentle giant? He looks like he eats na’vi for breakfast.”

“Hey –” you sniffle, glaring up at him, “I like him, Tey. A lot. He’s good for me.”

Neteyam’s features soften. As if hearing your words plucked a string of sympathy in his heart. As much as he wants to help you, he can’t. Not with a direct order from his father. He shakes his head, eyes closed, and brows furrowed.

That’s his way of saying, ‘Sorry. Can’t’.

You sigh, bringing your knees to your chest to hide your face. You can smell Ralak’s scent now that your nose is near your thighs. It fills your lungs with every breath you take. His pheromones. His aphrodisiac. His arousal. He left it all on you, rubbed into your skin so deep it seems to have altered your own scent.

Is this what scenting does?  

Soon you’re breathing heavily, trying to savour what left you have of him – of last night. It makes you heavy in the head, like all the strength has left your body. You feel your face warm up, the heat spreading to the tips of your ears. You’re tired. Defeated.

“Neteyam! Neteyam!” Lo’ak’s faint voice sounds frantic.

You hear Neteyam shuffling to his feet to go and check what his brother is on about. “Stay here, got it?”

“Mhm.” you hum, too tired to even lift your head.

The sound of Lo’ak yanking back your privacy curtain makes you jump out of your skin, nearly knocking over the bowl of steamed fish. You stare up at him wide eyed, to see him motioning over to the door of your marui. Your brows kiss in confusion, unsure of what’s going on.

“Heard you were in... hea-a situation. Just gonna borrow big bro for a second, cool?” he raises his brows, nudging his head towards the door in an emphasized manner.

A smile pulls at your lips once you realize what he’s doing for you. You wipe your puffy eyes with the back of your hand and shuffle to your feet. “I owe you, Lo’.”

Ralak’s POV

Ralak rouses to an empty bed. He sits up quickly, scanning his marui for any sign of you. Nothing. The only thing that remains is your potent scent flooding the room. The only proof that you were ever here. “Oh, y/n.” he groans, head slumping into his hands.

You were gone. Gone like you were never here to begin with. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he tried not to assume the worst. But what if – what if it was the worst? To be used and discarded like an object. All over again. Surely, there’s no way that you would do this to him, not after opening-up to you like that. Not after last night. Not after the words you uttered to one another before going to sleep –

‘I love you’.

But why does it feel the same? The same as that day. The day he was in a marui pod like this one, young, bare skinned and short haired, kneeling before his own karyu. His chest tightens, the walls of his throat closing in on one another. He can feel it creeping up his spine. The flashbacks. The tremors. The nausea. Rushing to his feet, he makes his way over to the shelf well-stocked with bottles of ‘fermented fruit’ – pxir [beer; alcohol].

A poison to many, but an antidote to him.

Dust had settled on the bottles since the last day he reached for them. The day you became his tanhì. That’s why he had never brought you up here, he never wanted you to see the truth. The way he copes with his emotions – bottling them up and then chugging it down when they became just too much.

The bottle opens with a pop, strong, bitter scent wafting up his nose, replacing the scent of you in his lungs. He takes a quick swig, baring his teeth from the sting of it trickling down his throat. “Ahh.” He sighs a breath of relief, feeling the alcohol already taking effect, loosening his chest, and clearing his throat.  

Yet he can still feel the shiver of his spine, and the churn of his stomach.

“Shit.” he curses, taking another swig. Cursing himself for trusting another after he made the vow to never trust again. Another swig. For facing the part of him that he’s denied since he came into adulthood. Another swig. For letting someone in. Another swig. For allowing himself to love you.

Alas, a clear mind and body – rid of the memories of his past.

He readies himself for his bath, something he often did to relax. Just like he did last time you left him.

----

Time is of the essence. With no idea of when Jake will be back, you move quickly. You weave through the webbing of the mangrove roots, ducking and dodging those that jut out. You take a short cut, bouncing over the netting of a cluster of marui pods on the way to Ralak’s.

Eyes guardedly stuck to your feet, you bump into Ka’ani, the man who replaced Ralak’s role as fisherman – faceplanting into his bare chest. Arms instinctively wrapping around you, he holds you close until you regain your balance. Admittedly, he’s a little too close for comfort, his face nestled in the crown of your head. You hear quick, nasally breaths, muffled by your hair.

Is he... sniffing me right now?

You shove him off you, probably a little too rough to be considered friendly, and take a few steps back. “Sorry, Ka’ani.” you mutter, gingerly walking around him.

“No problem, at all.” he smirks, raising his hands and making space for you to leave.   

With a quick shake of your head, you continue making your way to Ralak. The closer you get, the more a giddy smile spreads across your face. Though you were the bearer of bad news, you can’t ignore the flutters in your stomach. The same flutters you had when you first laid eyes on him – the day Eywa herself told you he’s the one.

Your mate.

Your legs move faster, as fast as they can go, until the sand slackens your steps. Silky, fine sand – always the first thing to let you know that you’ve arrived. You can’t help the excitement bubbling from your tummy and up your throat. “Ralak!” you blurt out, eager to find your love.

A tall figure in the distance catches your eye, it looks as if he were going into the cave. You wave your hands above your head, shouting his name as you lope towards him. “Ralak!”

The figure stops, turning around to acknowledge your calls. He stands still for a minute, before walking towards you with a stagger in his step. Tail perking up instantaneously, your hand flies to your bare hip, searching for your medicine pouch. You’re running on the tips of your toes again, concern and worry replacing the flutters low in your belly.

“Wha-t is it?” you shout, voice wavering as you close the distance between your bodies.

You crash into him with a smack, making the typically sturdy giant wobble. Now your ears art alert, perturbed by his odd behaviour. Gently pushing you away, his large hands grip your upper arms, fingertips touching once another. Blue, hazed orbs peer down at you, extra glossy and lidded.

“Are you sick? Wounded?” you question, resisting his gentle pushes to search his body. 

Nostrils flickering above his pursed lips, he leans into your neck. He pulls back with a huff, blowing hot air through his nose, onto your face. Your eyelashes flutter, face of concern quickly morphing into one of confusion.

Everyone is sniffing me today.

Head snapping to the left, his eyes search the webs of the mangrove roots off in the distance. A guttural growl rumbles deep in Ralak’s chest, thinned lips curling over his canines, flashing them before your eyes. You watch in awe as his brows lower, knotting together to turn his eyes beady. Ears flat against his skull, the scent of another na’vi scrunches his nose.

That’s a new look.

“Ralak.” your voice is breathy and small – laced with fright.

His growl grows louder, coming from the pit of his stomach, deep and powerful. Lengthy fingers tightening around your arms, he spins you around and tucks you behind him in one swift move. His name slips off your tongue once more, quick, and unsure. He has one hand perched on the dip of your waist, holding you close behind this towering frame.

“Come out.” he growls gruffly, straightening his spine to present at his full height.

The two words double-knot your stomach, sending you wiggling into the sink of his back, face peeking through the crack of his arm and side. Your eyes flicker from side to side, looking for whatever – whoever he’s talking to. Meanwhile, your fingers grip the band on his loincloth, the only thing available on his body to hold.

Silence.

“Or I make you.” He rasps the warning through his four, pointed fangs.

Perhaps if Ralak wasn’t here the knots in your belly would have tightened by now, to the point where you would feel queasy. But the hiss fizzling from the back of his throat puts your nerves at ease – your body sensing its safety in his presence.

Out comes a brawny, wide na’vi, from behind the large, thick roots of the mangroves. His hands are splayed out, representing something of caution. No – surrender. He approaches Ralak slowly. Warily.

“Sorry, brother. I did not know she was yours.” Ka’ani says impishly.

Jaw snapping open, his hiss comes out full force. It’s loud and thick, almost grating. Much like a roar. Though you knew it wasn’t for you, it shook you up, tugging at the string in your grip as your body jolts forward into his.

“She belongs to no one.” His top lip twitches as he spits the vile words, stinging your heart in the process. Am I not his? What about last night? You think, tightening your grip on the band of his loincloth.

“It looks as if she belongs to you, Tak.” Ka’ani leans to the left, chin jutting out as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. “Look at her, holding on to your –”

“Lewng! [shame]. Tracking her scent.” Ralak hisses, turning his body to hide you from his predatory eyes. “Leave.”

“Ah. Come on now, brot-” He spreads his arms wide, walking around Ralak towards you.

Ralak takes a step forward on his last word, nearly coming chest to chest with the shorter na’vi. A moment of silence passes between the two, as Ralak stares him down with vengeance in his eyes. A hand flies up to his hip, gripping the knife sheathed in its casing. “Now.”

Ka’ani straightens his back, eyes flickering between Ralak and yours that peek from behind him. His hands retract, hovering either side of his head as he retreats. Ralak maintains his position, with a hand keeping you tucked away whilst the other rests on his hip. Once Ka’ani’s figure is no longer visible, Ralak sighs, and turns his heel to make his way back to his much-needed bath.

“Thanks...” you huff, walking close behind him.

“You women and your heats.” he mutters as he walks faster, ripping his loincloth out of your grip.

“Ex-cuse me?” your words bounce as you try to keep up with him. “You have no –”

“Do you understand what would have happened had I not been here? Do not be so reckless.” He tsks, as his feet come to a halt, balling his hands into fists.

“Reckless? All I did was walk here!” you shout, almost bumping into him again.

“Because you left to begin with.” he whispers through clenched teeth.

“What?” the question is breathy, hands perching on your knees to rest.

He turns around quickly, prompting you to stand at full height. Breathing heavily, he presses his warm body against yours, chin tucked into his chest to peer down at you. Instinctively, you perch on the tips of your toes, eyes lidded in anticipation of a kiss. Instead, he brings your wrists up to his nose, heated lips pressing against your supple skin.

“He scented you.” he mumbles quickly, lips pulling into a thin line before letting go and backing away.  

“Why? How? I only bumped into him.” you walk towards him, watching him turn his heel again. “Hey –” you reach out for his arm to pull him back around.

First you leave him this morning, then come back scented by another na’vi. He shrugs you off, hands now fiddling with the knot above the base of his tail as he nears the entrance of the cave. The knot of his loincloth comes undone, heavy, sheathed hunting knife silently making impact with the sand.

“Because he wants everything that’s mine.”

So, I am his. You think, one corner of your mouth curling upwards into a smirk.

“Oh, Ralak.” You stand at the cave’s opening, waiting in silence for a response.

He continues to keep his back turned to you, dips of his clenched glutes on full display. Despite last night, seeing him naked still makes you shy, cheeks turning red and hot from the blood that rushes to them. You watch him hastily put his hair in a sloppy bun as he submerges himself in the water.

“I need to speak with you about this morning” you mumble, eyes locked onto the ripple of his back muscles.

“No need. I understand.” he answers lowly, shimmying over to the bottle of fermented fruit propped on a rock in the cave.

“Understand what? It’s about –”

“You made a mistake. It was your heat. It is fine.” he mutters quickly, taking a swig at the last word.

A mistake? My heat?

The realization hits you, hard. You’d been so out of it, so delirious from your heat you hadn’t given a second thought about his confession. His trauma that he confided in you, in this very cave. It’s like stones in your heart – no, boulders. Weighing it down so heavily that it feels like there’s a pulse in your stomach.

How could you be so cruel? So thoughtless? So insensitive? To not even wake him and utter the words to his face. To allow him to wake up to an empty bed after letting down his walls and being so vulnerable to you. To be so caught up in your own head you couldn’t even bat an eye at the man who helped you through your first heat.

“Oh. Oh, Lak. No. No, it’s nothing like that.” you sputter out a trembling voice, sliding into the water to rush over to him. You rest your hand on his upper back, taking in the warmth of his skin. He feels feverish – hot to the touch.

What is he drinking?

You rub his back gently, bioluminescent freckles dancing from your caresses. Yet, he’s rigid. Cold. Distant. He’s not the Ralak you know, swaying side to side as he brings the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

“Stop, my love.” you coo, sliding your hand up his raised arm as you walk around him.  Pulling the bottle away from his lips, you cautiously place the pxir on a nearby ledge. “Ralak.” you whisper, staring up at him with worried eyes.

The sound of his name falling from your lips tilts his head back ever so slightly, like it pained him to even look at you. Curly, loose stands of hair frame his face, accentuating his angular features. He attempts to fix his mask of indifference to his face, but you can see through it. You see the anguish glossed over his lidded, inebriated eyes.

Ocean blue eyes.  

tw: flashback

His mind is elsewhere, dissociating back to the day of the incident. The night of his iknimaya celebration, where his own karyu cornered him in his family marui, engulfing him with her pheromones. Manipulating him with her heat to take care of her. To touch her.

He can hear the waves crashing into the shore, the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of the marui, the roll of the thunder – her whispers in his ear, ‘I’ve been waiting too long for this. You are officially a man now. Make your karyu feel better, right here...’.

The smell of her pheromones is suffocating, more potent than any fermented fruit he’s ever had. It frightened him, feeling like he had no self-control. No way to stop his movements, no matter how much he screamed at his body to move, run – anything.

It is what made him vow to never lose control of himself. His composure.

He can feel the heaviness of his body. The lethargy. The way his lungs refused to fill, no matter how hard he tried to breathe. When he woke, he was alone, sitting in the corner in a pool of his own sweat, curled in on himself. His karyu left, to never return. Leaving nothing but the lingering smell of her heated scent behind. 

tw: end of flashback

“My karyu” you hum softly, placing his hand on your chest.

When you first called him that, he almost grimaced. But as time passed, you made the word bearable. You gave it a new meaning, a new feeling. Eventually filling him with eagerness to hear it fall from your flushed lips. In tones of excitement, frustration... pleasure.

You hold his thumb, and give it a squeeze, trying to bring him back from wherever he is. Your heart weighed even heavier, seeing him drift away and detach when he’s right in front of you. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. Feel me. Feel my heartbeat. Focus on it and come back to me.”

The words echo in his skull, reverberating between the thick bone. He can hear you, feel you. With each thump of your heart, the heaviness of his body lifts, the scent of her fades, the pitter-patter of the storm subdues until nothing, but that thump can be heard. His eyes finally flicker down to yours, ears and brows twitching at the pulse of your heart.

Only a bottle could do that for him. Bring him back. Yet, you did it with the mere sound of your heart.

“I’m sorry, Lak. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I was so thoughtless. I’m sorry... that happened to you.” the words are shaky, flowing over your quivering bottom lip. “I would never. Ever. Ever. Ever –” you blubber, shaking your head, “Ever, do that to you. I-I had to leave because of my father. He’s punishing me. Forbidding me from seeing you. Having Tsireya teach me instead. I should have woken you.”

Another arm snakes around his waist, bringing him in closer to you. You slump your head into his chest, letting the tears flow and stain his skin. “I don’t regret a thing. I meant everything I said. I-I see you, Ralak” you sputter, breath hitching from the crying.

“Tanhì” he croaks, kissing the crown of your head as he wraps his arms around you to hold you closer.   

“I love you” The three words are said in unison as you cling onto one another.

Alcohol still coursing through his veins, Ralak’s heavy body slumps into you, slowly shifting you both against the cave wall. He presses your back against the rocky surface, unwrapping his arms from your waist to support his body weight with a hand on the wall. He leans in, brushing his cheek against yours.

“I will miss you.” he whispers huskily next to the shell of your ear.

“I’ll miss you, too.” you whisper back, head pulling back to meet his gaze.

Your eyes lock for a moment, an undeniable tension now budding in the air and making your breaths quicken. He inches even closer, lips brushing against yours as you exchange the same hot breath until you’re light in the head.

He kisses you roughly – sloppily.

Tongue slipping into your mouth, you get a taste of what he’s been drinking all day. It’s a little sweet, with undertones of various fruits native to the reef people. But once the sweetness wears off, the bitter aftertaste makes your brows gather. He pulls away, revealing heavy-lidded eyes with thin blue rings for irises, flickering side to side as they stare into yours.

Chests heaving in synchrony, you both struggle to catch your breath. Hands cupping each other’s face, your lips crash into one another again, body language hungry and desperate for each other’s touch. Ralak shoves his knee between your legs, providing you with the friction your body has been begging for. Your body moves on its own, humping at his thigh as best you can in the water.

“I-I want... you.” The desperate words part your bruised, flushed lips, hand sliding up his back to caress his kuru [queue].

He shakes his head, brows gathering tightly. “Not now. Not here. We do it the right way.”

“Then...” you pant, voice laced with desperation as your hands make their way to his hips, dainty fingers wrapping around his hardened girth, “...give me something else.”

Breath turning raggedy, he struggles to maintain his composure. The influence of the alcohol surging through his body proves it to be an even more difficult task. He takes a deep breath, withdrawing his knee from your legs to spin you around in one quick motion. Ralak tries his best to be gentle with you, shoving you into the wall to press his aching cock against you.

A soft moan parts your lips; thin, fuzzy tail wrapping around his thigh in attempts to bring you closer. Eywa, did that push him closer to the edge. Your tail had been one of his favourite things about you from the day you first locked eyes, so slender and delicate. Nothing like his. It not only fascinated him. It aroused him.

It makes him push into you even harder, tip of his cock throbbing against your lower back. He craves to be even closer to you – to be inside you. To rut into you until your voice becomes so hoarse from screaming his name. Over and over. Again, and again. Fingers hurriedly fiddling with the knot of your loincloth, he pants a few greedy, rough kisses along your upper back.

“Oh! Ralak, I-I think –” you moan lowly, his touches throwing you into a daze.

“What?” he huffs, fingers coming to a halt in fear that he’s being too rough with you.

“I think I’m still in heat.” you lie, or maybe it wasn’t a lie. You feel so woozy in the head that you’re not even sure what’s going on anymore. All that sits at the forefront of your mind is him claiming you as his.

“Is that so?” he lets out a breath of relief, a chuckle if you will.

“Yes. Can you help me?” you pant, trembling voice feigned with innocence.

“Ah. Let me check, little one.” He buries his face into the nape of your neck, pulling back with a loud sigh through his nose. A growl rumbles in his chest and up his throat. “I can still smell him.” The scent of another so deep into your skin makes him want to mark you. To sink his lengthy canines into your neck for the smell to seep out, only to be replaced by his.

“Then fix it.” you breathe, head dipping forward to open yourself up to him.

“Oh?” he smiles open mouthed, brushing his pointed fangs against your silken skin, making your back arch on instinct. Submitting to him and his touch. Open mouth lingering over your neck, his jaw closes to graze his teeth against you. He sucks lightly on your skin, puckered lips pulling off with a pop.

Of course, he’d make you wait for that too. He was only ‘helping’ you, right now.  

He kicks your feet apart, spreading your legs for him to settle in closer behind you. A string of your slick connects your thighs together, breaking apart when he rubs his cock against your bare cunt. He begins rubbing his face into the back of your neck, scenting you as his.

“Mine. Yes?” he growls, thrusting himself against your slippery slit.   

“Yes.” You spread your legs further apart, standing on the tips of your toes to provide him with better access. “Please.” You let out a pathetic mewl.

He grunts in frustration. He wants nothing more than to thrust himself inside you, stretching your pussy out with his huge cock. And with those little, sweet pleas, it’s almost too hard to resist. But he does. He pulls away, gaze snapping down to the rope of wetness connecting your most intimate parts together.

Cocking a brow, his hand comes between your sticky pelvises, fingers coiling around the string of slick before they glide over your pussy and spread your folds. Your wetness drips down his digits, pooling in the palm of his hand. “So wet. Maybe you are in heat.” he mumbles, pressing his lips against your back, peppering kisses down the curve of your shoulder.  

Ralak fondles with your puffy clit, rubbing tight circles into it with his slickened fingertips. Your hips squirm around from the white-hot pleasure tightening your core. It’s just not enough. Perhaps it’s just residual heat, but you feel so, so empty. A yearning deep in your womb, to be filled and stretched. Your hips buck forward, slipping his fingertips to prod at your entrance, before pushing back on him to try and sink them inside you.

Needy body language riling up the giant behind you, his harsh kisses move their way up to your ear. “Say it, tanhì.” he groans lowly, positioning his finger at your tight hole.

“I n-need you inside of me!” you cry desperately, shoving yourself back into him.

“You listen so well, paysyul.” he exhales a hot breath into the shell of your ear, sinking his thick finger inside you, twisting his wrist so that he can curl it right into your sweet spot.

“Oh, shit.” you moan breathily, cheek pressed firmly against the rocky wall.

“That is why you learn so quickly.” He fingers you roughly, expertly working out a squelch with each curl of his digit.

The feeling is like heat, shooting down your spine and pooling in your pelvis. It makes your hips spasm, chasing the fiery sensation in hopes to put it out. His finger brings relieve, satiating the itch as your sweet spot swells from pure bliss. He knows exactly where to touch, and how to touch.

Yet, it still isn’t enough.

“More! ‘ts not enough!” you cry, writhing underneath him.

He finds your little cries amusing, letting a chuckle evade his lips. How could something so small act so mighty? He slides another digit in, feeling your tight pussy walls stretch to accommodate him. He hears the little whimper bubbling up your throat, letting him know you need a moment to adjust.

“Taking my fingers so well, hm?” he praises you with a shaky voice, planting a gentle kiss behind your ear.

“Mmmn! Please!” Another plea falls from your lips, a plea for him to move – to make you cum. He sets a relentless pace, stimulating the sensitive spot in your gummy, hot walls, working lengthy moans and mewls from you.

With the way he’s fingerfucking you, it feels as if your nerves are on fire. The coil tightly wound in your core ready to snap any second now. Your brows pinch together in fervour, mouth falling open to allow heavy, hot breaths to escape.

“Close! So close! Gonna! Gonna –” Your words catch in your throat, leaving you breathless and tense around his fingers.

“Make yourself cum.” he orders gruffly, stopping all movement once he feels you tighten around his digits.

You gasp, hips moving on their own to chase the orgasm he just took away from you. “No, no. You know I can’t. Please.” you sputter, pushing against the wall to ride his fingers.

“You can. And you will.” he growls, bending his fingers as encouragement.

You quickly accept your fate, holding on tightly to whatever pleasurable feeling remains and running with it. You push back on him, squirming around as you try to make yourself cum. Closing your eyes, you tune into your body, feeling what feels good and where. But the position that you’re in makes it even harder to do it yourself.

“Just fuck me!” you cry desperately, frustration so pent up you couldn’t help the outburst.

“Language.” he hisses, shoving his fingers so deep inside you that your slick coats his knuckles.

“Fuck! Please.” you beg, reaching behind you to grab his wrist.

“No.” he smirks, looking down at how your cunt sucks in his digits, listening to your pleading and begging.

He just wants to hear a little more. To hear how badly you want him. He loves the way you squirm around, sputtering nonsense from being so fucked out by just his fingers. He loves the little noises your pussy makes for him and can’t wait to hear how they’ll sound once his cock is stuffed inside you.

“Ralak. Please. Please make me cum!” you cry, using his wrist as leverage to fuck back into him.

He slides his hand down your stomach, fingers playing with your swollen, neglected clit. He’s pumping his digits in and out of your dripping cunt, feeling your slick dribble down his hand. It doesn’t take long for you to near your climax, pussy walls clamping down around his fingers.

“Let go. Cum for me.” he groans, swollen tip of his cock oozing beads of precum onto your lower back.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuck!” you let out a hoarse cry, entire body shuddering underneath him “Cumming! Cumming!”

“That’s my girl.” he hums proudly, scissoring his fingers open to stretch you out.  

You let out a high-pitched whimper, hint of pain making your eyes water. Then a wave of ecstasy ripples through you, leaving your legs trembling beneath you. He snakes his arm around your waist, holding you up while you ride out of your high, sprinkling your shoulder with kisses.

Once you come down from your high, you lean back into him, resting your head against his chest. Huffing and puffing, you try to catch your breath as you turn around to cup his swollen balls. “My turn to make you feel good.”

To your surprise, he rests a hand on your arm, pulling it away from him. He looks down at you through blown pupils, arousal plastered all over his face. Beads of sweat trickle down his temples, wet strands of curled hair stuck to his cheeks, he sighs the words. “Not today, tanhi. I must get you back, now.”

[takataapui]

master post of all the ttrpgs I've made!

Tēnā koe, this is a master post of all the ttrpgs I've made! all my games are free/pay what you want/koha unless said otherwise. all profits from my games go towards my top surgery fund!

'so, you're a small patch of moss in a big bog...' is a solo-journaling game about being a patch of moss in a wetland facing your future of becoming peat. explore grief, mortality, and inevitability.

'the bog eternal' is a solo-journaling game about being a bog fighting against people trying to harm you, with only your natural traits. totally not an allegory for anything beyond that… I’d totally tell you if it was, deeeefinitely not an allegory for transness, nope.

'you’re going to your ideal wetland’ is a solo-journaling game about creating and traveling to your dream wetland, emotions about climate justice, and naming that wonderful place.

'We Are But Worms On a String: a one word rpg' is exactly what it sounds like! Are you curious about what that word is? Read to find out!

'Two Graves' is a solo-journaling game about revenge and what comes after.

In this game, you write as someone who's recalling parts of their life that are sitting uneasily. You'll explore your life before you were Wronged, the moment of being Wronged, the revenge itself, and the future you can have after you've done the thing you once swore to do.

(Two Graves is available for $2)

'johnny bogg: a boggy shopping trip adventure’ is a solo-journaling game about going to a plus sized masculine clothing store that happens to be in a bog. play to find out what strange bog things happen to you there. will you make it out unchanged? or will you get some cool boggy clothes? don't forget to fill out your customer satisfaction survey!

’it is a beautiful day in the wetland and you are a horrible bittern’ is a solo-journaling game about being a menace of a bird, harassing those stinky humans coming into your wetland, and dealing with the consequences of your actions. play to find out whether you’ll be able to bring back the restorationists after you’ve scared them away.

'these little delusions' is a one-page rpg approximation of my experiences with delusions as a symptom of my schizophrenia. I do not recommend playing this game. sorry if you find yourself playing anyway.

[riaki]

santa claus and his treats | satoru gojo x f!reader pt.1 of christmas event! wc: 3.4k oops i went overboard | cw: petnames, literally j pure fluff ur both STUPID in love, he’s the cutest! happy birthday pretty boy 🧸

"'toru?" you called, voice filling the dimly lit room as you peeked your head in through the door. the curtains were drawn, the iridescent green tinsel dotted with soft yellow lights framing the doorway of your bedroom scratching your neck as you spotted the white-haired boy sitting on your shared bed, picking at something on his lower lip.

you took a moment to drink in the sight— his soft white hair that fell over dazzling sky-blue eyes, the color of the lake dotted with fragile crystalline snowflakes that melted into fresh spring streams that fed nature with new growth and fresh flower buds, a tangible warmth when his gaze fell on you and an easy smile stretched across his pink lips. a little too easy, you think. easy enough for you to miss the way he swipes a coffee brown crumb from his cheek; the smile has too much sugar and cream for you to buy it.

your eyes slowly drift from his charming grin to the rest of the room. there's a forest green tuft of leaves hanging from the ceiling on a thin golden string; you recognize the crimson red berries and waxed leaves with spots of pearl dotting as a bunch of mistletoe, hanging right over the mattress. clearly, he thought ahead.

you snuff the flush from your cheeks as he perks up at the sight of you, straightening his back. "hey, baby! you must be my present from santa this year," he laughs, holding his arms out, an invitation for you to crawl into his arms and curl up on his lap like two warm cats by the fireplace. you almost gave in— until you remembered why you were looking for him.

"you're getting coal this time, satoru." you said, huffing as you walked over to the mattress and put your hands on your hips, attempting to come off as intimidating in front of your boyfriend as you leaned over and stared down at him. he just giggled that sweet, boyish laughter of his, scooting closer and capturing you between two strong arms to tug you onto the bed with him. the sheets were soft, and they smelled like him as he pulled you onto his lap and cuddled you like a life-sized plushie, all warmth and soft comfort that he craved so much.

"aww, really? but it's my birthday today," he sighed loudly, shaking his head as he firmly planted his hands on either side of your head to prevent you from worming away and planting a loud smooch on the top of your hair, before laughing as you pulled away from his grasp and gave him a glare. “besides, you’re anything but a bad gift.” he smiles.

“don’t sweet talk me, ‘toru. you’ve been naughty this year.” he wiggles his eyebrows at that, and you shoot him a sharp glare which just earns you a light scoff, but there’s a smile mirrored on both of your lips.

(maybe they’ve met so many times in the past that they know how to copy the other flawlessly.)

"but you're already here, my love. lookin' all pretty like the angel on top of our tree." he hums, crossing his legs and holding his ankles as he rocks back and forth; the teddy bear he won you from the arcade on your first date is face planted into the pillows by his side, donning a festive red santa hat. the white fluffy pom pom looks like satoru's hair, and you stifle a laugh at the thought.

"how kind of you, satoru." and you mean it— he looks like his own christmas angel; snowy hair and pretty blue eyes clad in a loose black tee with cheap printed red and green christmas lights over his chest. he looks unfairly attractive with those gray sweatpants on, too. you wouldn't mind wrapping him up in yellow ribbon and presenting him to your parents this year as your holiday present from santa, and then having your own fun with him later. you suppose you must've been perfectly good to land him; so pretty and fun, bubbling laughter that speaks of his care in volumes. and he’s their soon-to-be son-in-law, after all. and he’s a golden catch.

but it’s time for this white betta to be put in his place; he’s gone snooping where he shouldn’t have— or rather, scavenging would be the more appropriate choice. and he’s about to be skinned for entering the lion(fish)'s den. your matching red-green plaid pajama pants won't save him this time.

"sorry, baby, but you can't talk yourself out of this one." you said firmly, scooting closer to him as you sat back on your knees and gave him a look as pointed and narrow as the icicles melting on the frosted awnings. to anyone else, you might look like a wet, angry cat— but to satoru, it was enough to strike fear straight into the center of his heart. his fight-or-flight response kicked in (it only ever did with you)— and it was as if you could see the change in his demeanor. his eyes voluntarily softened, lids drooping as a lazy smile drifted over his lips like fluffy white clouds over a pale sun on a winter's morning.

"aww, don't be like that. my princess looks so much prettier when she's happy," he coos, all milk and honey as he reaches out and catches your wrist, rubbing his thumb over your pulse beating beneath your soft skin as he brings it to his lips and kisses your knuckles. so he chooses to fight, and you almost fold— almost.

you twist your arm in his grasp, eliciting a whiny yelp of pain; getting him to let go of you as you quickly flick his forehead. even so, he lets you-- he never turns infinity on around you, even at the price of his own sanctity.

you sighed when he gave you a dramatic pout, sticking out his bottom lip as he hung his head low in defeat like a golden retriever being scolded by his owner, soft hair falling over his pretty blues. his hands come up to cradle his head, rubbing the spot where you'd knicked him. "don't play around, satoru. where are the cookies i baked last night?" you asked, reflecting his frown with a pointed glare. if looks could cut, he'd be a red christmas on the cloudlike sheets. you were tired of beating around the bush, especially when satoru had a knack for making it utterly exhausting. nevertheless, it went on.

"maybe santa came early," he quipped, giggling at his own joke. "you never know, huh? he's an unpredictable old geezer. likes his milk and cookies, or so i heard."

"didn't know santa claus had the six eyes." you deadpanned, crossing your arms over your chest and looking him square in the eyes. "and he shaved his beard off, apparently." he feigns hurt, holding a hand over his heart in mock anguish.

"i'm no thief! it hurts me to know you think of me so low, sweetheart." he sighs dramatically, shaking his head. outside, the snowy wind howls in agreement. "besides, it's my birthday. you're suffocating the spirit, honey." he drawls.

you just roll your eyes at that, crossing your arms and shifting to sit closer to him. you will your irritated expression to soften, and it's reflected in the way satoru immediately relaxes, shoulders sagging as the anxious look in his eyes vanishes like the wilting ghost of fall on a christmas eve, leaving behind the scent of bluebells and frost on the wind. he thinks you've forgiven him.

that's just what you need. for him to let his guard down so you can spring the trap on him. santa may be able to get away with his yearly trespassing, but satoru's entered the property of more than your heart this time, and it's time for his holiday retribution.

"give me your hand, satoru." you said softly, voice barely a breath above a whisper. he obliges almost immediately, scooting closer on the bed so that his knees graze against yours, and you hear him suck in a little breath at the contact as your hand finds his.

you take his palm in your own; his hands are considerably bigger than yours, but you still manage to run a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles, gently massaging the soft skin over weary bones. a sweet little noise leaves his breathless lips; it's almost like a purr, and when you glance up at him he's almost as red as the glittering velvet bulbs dangling from the primmed branches of your christmas tree. he looks away, a subtle pout weighing down on his lips as he coughs loudly, as if the amber sap of a pine tree has caught in his throat, scratchy like tree bark.

"what are you doing?" he whispers, voice rough and hoarse, like someone took a fireplace stoker and poked his throat. almost a protest.

but you can feel him melting into you, and soon enough, he’s sandwiched you between his warmth and the fluffy blankets, the scent of apples and cinnamon weaved between the strands of his soft white hair as they tickle your flushed skin. his lips are soft and pliant and warm against your own; he's all over you, hands finding your wrists to trace tender, wobbly circles over your thrumming pulse with his thumb. he's robbing your lungs of air, needy in the way he cages you between his lanky limbs, lock and key with his free hand threading through your hair. he can never get enough of you, and he throws his inhibitions to the frostbitten wind if they mean learning to resist you.

it's spread around you like ripples on the surface of a misty lake, and when he draws away to stare down at you, eyes blown wide with a certain shine in his eye that reminds you of glowing embers, jumping from the lively blossom of fire on the grated dark metal of a hearth, there's a cheeky lopsided grin on his glossy lips. his fingers are slender, pale and callused, a gentle flushed at the tips.

"there was a mistletoe," he says breathlessly, as if that'll excuse him. as if he needs an excuse to kiss you. you just laugh, reaching up to trace his jaw with a finger, and he shudders despite the heater inside your room. the bunch of green leaves and red berries hanging above you sways in agreement.

but you can't focus on the dreamy look on his face; that lazy smile that dances over his lips and illuminates his features like twinkling christmas lights catching on each edge of a carefully cut snowflake, the sky's jewels. every time he looks at you as if you've crafted each intricacy of his world; patched the colors together and taught the light to reflect, you feel as though there are bubbles in your throat, and you have to cough them away when they're accompanied by a familiar rush of heat to your face.

it's all overpowered. strongly, by the rich taste of cinnamon. rich, sweet, distinctly festive, mixed with brown sugar and cookie batter; flour on the matching aprons satoru bought for the two of you, except the 'he' on 'he cooks' has been messily crossed out and replaced with a scribble that says 'she', and vice versa. it's on his tongue, his lips, the little dips on the corner of his mouth that makes him look like a kitten every time he grins. it tastes like wearing matching christmas sweaters, sampling sweet treats fresh out of the oven and laughing cheerily in your little cozy kitchen of warmth when he burns his tongue, a sour look on his face that wrinkles his nosebridge.

but, most importantly, it tastes like condemnation.

you sit up, briefly (and painfully) knocking foreheads with him when he's too slow to mirror your actions, but the complaint that's ready to stain the air like chimney soot dies on his tongue when he sees the look on your face. you look the same as you did the first time you found out he'd forgotten to pick up megumi and tsumiki from school. in other words, pissed.

"hey, pretty girl. you should smile; you look less like an ogre when you do—" he hastily starts, laughing nervously as he runs his hands through his messy hair. you've noticed that whenever you neglect to toy with the silky soft strands when you're tangled with him, whether it be kissing, cuddling, or... something else, he'll do it afterward as if to emulate the feeling of your fingers in his hair, even if it 'screws it up'. apparently, his skyscraper ego is too fragile to ask for headscratches.

"just a minute, satoru." you cut him off through gritted teeth, lips that should be stretched in a wide smile pressed together in frustration. your eyes narrow as you straighten up, sitting back on your ankles. "you ate them, didn't you?" your fingers dig into his skin, pinching his cheek. if his skin wasn't already stained crimson with boyish excitement, it would be an angry red now. you give killer pinches; he knows firsthand.

which is why he should've thought ahead and listened to the angel on his shoulder when you were knocked out earlier, curled up in a fluffy blanket on the couch, snoozing away. what was he to do? the cookies you'd made were calling his name. and it was for his birthday, and they were made for him. so why couldn't he indulge?

this was why.

and you know you've pinned him with your accusation like a throwing dart on a cork board; the way his gaze bounces around the room and his smile turns a hint sheepish and a handful guilty speaks volumes enough before he can even protest. but he can feel your wrath like an entire mine's worth of coal in his stockings, so he quickly throws his hands up, shimmying away from your angry pinch. the sheets bunch beneath him.

"listen, sweets, i just thought that— well, i'm sorry, baby, they just looked so good. and i only ate a few! i swear." satoru says solemnly, getting on his knees and throwing himself before you. he knows you're unamused— sitting there, crosslegged, looking down at him as if he's some chewed up gum you found on the bottom of your shoe. he might as well be. blueberry flavored, maybe? or mint, he's fine with that too—

"so you did." you just sigh, flicking his hunched shoulders, before you go soft again, and he sees pink. you reach forward, fingers creeping beneath his chin to tilt his face up. his skin is soft and warm beneath your skin, thrumming with a life and heat the poor overworked radiator in your room could never measure up to. and when he does look up, his starstruck gaze meets your own; you look ethereal in the warm light, and he wonders why he hasn't put a ring on your finger or started a family with you yet. maybe that can be the last gift to top off the cake of your overflowing knitted stocking, hanging from the kitchen counter; a mahogany box with golden hinges who's shine pales in comparison to the diamond ring in the center of the velvet.

he tucks the idea into his mental notes and grins, a cheeky flash of teeth. "so you forgive me, right?"

wrong. he should know better than to push his luck. especially when it comes to you.

the hand beneath his chin creeps up his face to squeeze his cheeks together, forcing his lips to pucker like a fish out of water as he tries to escape to no avail. you glare down at him, all needles. not at all in the holiday spirit, if you ask him. his face is squishy as a pillow beneath your fingers, and a smile resurfaces on your lips after a long struggle to keep it submerged.

he opens his mouth, no doubt to wail like a newborn, and you quickly withdraw, knowing better than to continue your assault. "geez! okay, fine. sorry. i ate them, you grinch." he grumbles, rubbing his squished cheek as he pouts and looks away, shrinking in on himself. his shirt is bundled beneath his arms, slipping off one of his shoulders to expose a pleasant flush on his neck. "seriously! you're such a killjoy. there's no fun in waiting," he smiles mischievously, wiggling his toes and nudging you with his foot. the fabric of his fuzzy reindeer socks bumps against your thigh, and you make another face at the red pom poms on the crudely-knit rudolph face.

"apologize." you emphasize each syllable, letting them fall off your tongue. they jut into his side like blows to his ribs; he falls back onto the bed for extra dramatics, letting it squeak beneath his weight.

"oh, the horror! to think that i'd be reduced to such a state—"

"satoru."

"—that i, head of the gojo clan, the honored one—”

"satoru gojo."

"should be forced to bow to such pious customs at the foot of scrooge—"

"gojo!"

you reach over to threateningly pinch him again, and he rolls away, tossing a fuzzy pillow into the air and kicking it at you like he's playing some cursed form of tennis. you scowl, catching the cushion and tossing it back at him. it lands square on his face, and he whines, crying about how you've ruined his beautiful, youthfully full, gorgeous face; how is he ever going to pretend to be santa and let pretty girls sit on his lap now? —and that one earns him another pinch to his arm.

"okay, okay! i'm sorry, my love. you're not the grinch, or scrooge, and i shouldn'tve eaten the cookies." he sighs, excruciatingly slow as he inches towards you again, wary of but wanting your warmth all the same. it's too cold to be alone this morning, anyway.

"without me." you corrected, unable to wipe the light grin from your face, and you watch as his face lights up, like a kid seeing his dream christmas present in the window display of a bright shop, hidden behind frosted glass and cold air.

he sits up again, scooting close and opening his arms once more. this time, you oblige, throwing yourself onto him and wrapping your arms around his neck. now he’s the one with his back flush against the mattress, soft as a cloud of cotton candy. he laughs, and it rumbles through his chest when his hands find the back of your head and he tucks your head beneath his chin, cradling your neck.

"without—" punctuated with a kiss to the top of your head, "you." satoru finishes, and you can hear the grin in his voice, cheery as a christmas carole. his arms snake around your waist, squeezing lightly as one hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt to gently rub your back. his fingers against your skin feels like the touch of a butterfly, wings like stained glass.

"how about this, pretty? we can make more together." he suggests, resting his chin on top of your head. you're smushed into his chest, the printed material of his christmas light t-shirt scratching your face, and the only thing you can manage to breathe is the cheap cologne you bought him (you don't understand why he uses it when he could afford the best of his own), but suddenly you can't bring yourself to mind. so you nod, and he chuckles.

"d'ya still wanna do cinnamon?" he asks softly, slipping his free hand into your hair to play with the strands, holding you close and cozy in his embrace. the burning heat of friction between your numb hands or a roaring fireplace don't compare to the warmth he brings you, soft and sweet and painfully human. and you can't really make yourself feel upset at the pretty boy with snow-white hair holding you anymore.

"nah. let's do peanut butter chocolate chip." you hum, muffled, and he laughs, hearty and full, the kind that makes his entire body tremble a little. and you can feel it, so you tilt your head up to peer up at him. there's a stray pine needle in his hair; must've been from your hazardously decorated christmas tree. he looks down at you and smiles, brushing your hair from your eyes and leaning in to kiss your forehead. it’s like a crimson wax stamp sealing his love letter to you.

he cuddles you close, tufts of his soft hair tickling your face like a tacky christmas sweater. "sounds unhealthy. but whatever you want, baby. santa's gonna give you all you ask this year." and this time, he doesn't use the mistletoe as an excuse to brush his lips against yours when you move to pick the pine needle from his hair. he smells like vanilla, swirled like espresso with a hint of cinnamon.

he may have enjoyed his cookies and milk without you, but there's nowhere else he’d rather be— no one else he'd rather share the rest of his time with, be it baking, decorating, or lazy naps in each other’s arms. after all, half the jolliness of the holiday season comes from being with you.

fish analogies went crazy… happy bday gojo !!! my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

[baldurs-gape]

Looooooong Road Home

Here was the thing; Astarion hadn't seen many Chosen in his long life. Then again, his haunts didn't usually include places that Chosen would opt to visit. His nocturnal nature forced him to only emerge during the night, when everything was hues of greys and despair. Despite not having laid eyes on a Chosen, he had heard stories, how their devotion and a God's favour warped their appearance. Part of him thought it was a load of rubbish. Then the Nautiloid happened.

Out in the sunlight, Astarion marvelled at all the colours, the heat that soaked into his scant fur. Most importantly, his string had been cut. The thread that always led back to Cazador was short, ending abruptly not too far in front of his nose. For the first time in 200 years he was a free worm-on-a-string. Nobody held the other end of his string, nobody dictated what he did.

Then he encountered the broken portal and met Gale of Waterdeep. Who looked like an ordinary, purple furby - minus the circular bare patch at the top of his stomach and a few delicate lines that were barely visible under his fuzz but still curled past his beak and up to his eye.

"You're a bit short for a Chosen of Mystra," Astarion had scoffed and Gale actually looked crestfallen at that.

"I used to be a lot longer, you know. Proportionally probably three times your length for your size."

"What happened?"

It was a tale for another time. Astarion's wait for it was as short as Gale himself. Dribs and drabs came out in conversation. Gale's constant need to be fed magical items because of the bald patch he called his 'orb'. It was a foolish endeavour that he pursued in the name of proving himself to Mystra, wanting to gain the ultimate length that matched hers. He wanted to be a God's equal. In a way, Astarion could respect that ambition.

As they travelled, Gale's magic grew, so did his length. At first it wasn't noticeable. Astarion could noodle past him without being detected on his hunts for blood. Except moving past Gale took longer and longer, which was when he realised that Gale was growing.

The orb was stabilised by the longest furby Astarion had ever seen. He could easily wrap around their campfire while munching on cheese with unashamed "yuuuuum yuuuuum" exclamations. If they ignored Mystra's demand that Gale wrap himself around the heart of the Absolute and squeeze until he ruptured the orb, things were actually quite fine.

Employing his stealthiest caterpiller crawl, Astarion thought he could avoid his campmates until a blue illusion of Gale popped into being next to his head and made him curl up in fright. The invitation to join Gale was strangely welcome. They gazed at the stars Gale had conjured into being and Astarion realised he could comfortably lie on Gale's back now and bask in his warmth without his nose or tail getting chilly.

The strange sense of pride Astarion had watching Gale in the Shadowcursed lands was unfamiliar and confusing. There was majesty and poise in the way Gale moved so confidently, cast spells. Facing off against Myrkul's avatar, Gale had encircled Astarion and kept him safe from the 'bone chill' that threatened to engulf him.

In Baldur's Gate, Gale had eagerly dragged him to Sorcerous Sundries where they encountered the abomination that was Lorroakan. Astarion had truly thought he'd seen everything until that moment. To see a furby, artificially longified through spells and constructs was disturbing in a way little else had been. They didn't have much time to shudder at the memories of artifical fur sloughing off the metal frame of a Gondian design. Other goals were to be pursued. Most importantly, lopping off the hand that puppeted Astarion.

Cazador had so many strings wrapped around him, it was a miracle he could still fly. But, as all sky dancers, he remained dangerous, no matter how encumbered. A lone string flapped loosely, undoubtedly the one that should have linked Astarion to him. Fighting him and his minions wasn't easy, the trolls and boglins put up a good fight. But, in the end, they fell to the vicious desperation of Astarion's friends.

Orin and Gortash were also defeated. Then came the netherbrain and all that entailed. Falling out of the sky, Astarion was glad Gale had looped around him, they crashed into the Chionthar together and resurfaced as one. Bedraggled, Astarion didn't immediately realise that his fur wasn't just drying out in the dawning sun's light but was burning. Pure white turned to singed black and he darted to the nearest place to hide and wait out the day. At least he could console himself that his string was now his own, nobody tugged it and he'd never let anyone wrap it around their figners ever again.

Of course Gale found him. And the pieces of Karsus' crown. Returning it to Mystra meant the orb was lifted and Gale was back to his full glory of longification. It was perfect. He curled up each evening and there was enough room on him for Astarion to nuzzle into the lush purple fur while Tara lounged next to him.

All in all, Astarion considered himself a very lucky worm-on-a-string. So much so that, despite his vows, he offered to tie his string to whatever Gale's furby equivalent was. The fond hum and rocking he got from Gale didn't quite make sense but the happy beak peck to the tip of his snoot did. There was no need to get tied to each other, their love was beyond that kind of requirement. Instead, they each got a golden belt to wear, inscribed with 'I long for you. Always.'

~~~~~~~~~

A huge thank you to @captainneedsnosleep for listening to my ramblings about Wormstarion and Longified Furby Gale! The art of Wormstarion and Longified Furby Gale spurred on the creation of this story. The less we say about Pogostick Withers and Mr. Bucket Gortash, the better. I'm not sure the world is ready for such things just yet.

[cheesycatz]

WORMTON AU MASTERPOST

"Spamton G. Spamton is a computer worm that merely pretends to be a spam program. His species, the malworms, are characterized by their long bodies, many legs, pointed nose, compound eyes, pointy smile, and their parasitoid life cycle. The Sweepstakes worm on a string represents what their larvae look like after they consume and kill their host from the inside out. Spamton himself is the last living member of the BIGSHOT malworm species, still seeking for a way to restore his kind and take control of Cyber City once more. He created his disguise and spam program persona in order to collect information, but inadvertently caught the attention of a group of addisons. He definitely only sees them as a resource to exploit. He is absolutely not attached. He is NOT terrified of what will happen if they find out what he really is. He's above some... kind, thoughtful, considera—PATHETIC advertisements. Obviously."

This AU exists mostly in the form or art and text posts, but I am currently working on a fanfic about Wormton and the addisons, which will start being posted to ao3 once I finish the entire rough draft.

Links below to all: lore, art, question answers, marketable plushies, and fic updates ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

Lore (art included)

WORM LORE PT 1

- The basics. Describes the general characteristics, infection process and behavior of malworms. Also describes the extinction of Spamton's species, his origins, and the setup for his interactions with the addisons.

WORM LORE PT 2

- More information on malworm culture/biology and Spamton's specific species (the BIGSHOT malworm).

WORM LORE PT 3

- In-depth look at malworm life cycle, some biology, information on their nests, their hunting process, and a bargain bin of random facts.

Random Biology Tidbits

- A sketch dump showing a size comparison between the addisons and masked/unmasked Spamton. Also features some general sketches of BIGSHOT malworms and some more information on their biology.

Spamton before he met the addisons

- A sketch page + text on some scenes from Spamton's life from before he met the addisons.

General info/designs of malworm genera

- Not much Spamton here. It's just a look at what the other types of malworms might look like.

Art (sometimes a smidgen of lore)

Disguised Wormton Reference Sheet

True Wormton Reference Sheet

Too Many Legs (Comic based on the fic)

Spamton and the addisons (pre-reveal)

Annoying Mouse Room™ Infinite Food Hack

The Worm Nest

How Wormton's costume works

Pros of not having a spine

Late night worm posting

What a Wormton NEO would look like

Wholesome Wormton Content

Hatchling Spamton my beloved

Do Not let him in (worm sketches)

Do not buy his car insurance (apple sketches)

Creature Feature (worm sketches)

Paradox (painting)

YOUR VOICE IS NOT YOUR OWN (painting)

Malworm Hoodie Design

Apple Worm Shirt Design

Askbox

My asks are open, so feel free to ask me any questions about my AU or art in general (within reason, obviously)! I like drawing responses when applicable, so feel free to give me a wormton drawing request and I might consider it.

Asks from Instagram about lore

More Instagram asks 🔥

Can malworm/wormton fanart be made? (Yes pretty please I would love fanart)

Maximum lifespan of malworms?

Would darkners have access to a movie like Alien (1979)

(Submission) fanart by Smieska

Plushies

I have so many of these things god help me

My Worm Collection

Spamton Plush Wormton Outfit

16 ft long Life-Size Wormton Plush

The Making Of: Life-Size Wormton Plush

Fic Updates

Sometimes I post art and some thoughts about the Wormton AU fic I am working on. I won't be publicly posting it until I finish the rough draft of the entire story. I'm doing my best, but I'm also dealing with life's responsibilities and making other art. I have no idea for a release date yet, but I don't plan on giving up.

Once the entire story has reached a first-draft state, I will finish each chapter one by one and post them as I do. As previously mentioned, chapters will be released on ao3 once finished.

86k words update

100k words update

111k words update

120k words update

132k words update

142k words update

150k words update

160k words update

170k words update

180k words update

190k words update

200k words update

Thank you for enjoying my silly little AU, I love reading your tags

[embry-call-fan-club]

Embry Call X OC

Prologue chapter to my fic Cozy on both Wattpad and Fanfiction.net

Tropes:

Slow burn

High school crushes

Popular guy + Shy Socially Awkward girl

Winnie’s POV

Someone should have told me that my crush was that obviously in plain sight for anyone to see.

I somehow convinced myself that I was mature about it. I thought I kept my crush mostly to myself. I thought I was careful not to do double takes at him, or try not to sit in the desk next to him whenever we had a class together.

I didn't let myself like Embry Call.

I tried my hardest to avoid him in the halls, I never mentioned him—let alone told anyone—I didn't even look at him. I had my back to Embry all four years of high school.

But everyone within ten feet of me knew the whole time. No one told me how bad I actually had it for Embry Call.

I was mortified when my friends first told me how I should go to a party because Embry was suppose to be there. They said it so casually, so knowingly, as if they were talking about the weather. While I was so speechless that my mouth dried up. I barely managed to ask them how many people knew ten minutes later. They shrugged me off, they were sure I knew everyone in our grade already knew I liked Embry since middle school.

I was so humiliated I just hid in their bathroom till it was time to go. One of my friends did her best to apply makeup on me in the car. She was so excited for Embry to see me with eyeliner, blush and lipstick that was shakily applied in a dark car. I barely remember if it turned out scary or decent because it was the least mortifying part of that night.

With a reservation as small as La push, most parties often end up at the beach. Everyone in the school always shows up to the beach parties. No parents, and plenty of space and the beach keeps people entertained, which all make it the perfect party venue. It was the last day of summer, the first day of school started in just twelve hours. The entire three hundred something student body packed the beach, half of them already in the water and the rest building bonfires or serving out the jungle juice. That was local tradition, each student had to bring a bottle of any kind of liquor to mix in or be shared. La Push jungle juice never tasted like fireball and gummy worms; it tasted like cans of beers and stolen booze from our parents, and it guaranteed the worst hangover of your life. Only the strong could handle it. Tourists can barely endure a cup.

I didn't.

"You're not gonna forget this night." My friend Skylar laughed, but looking back at it now I should have taken it as a warning. She was right. I never did live this night down.

I can still feel the sand in the night air brushing over my exposed shoulders whenever I think about this night. I feel the heat blasting on my skin where hands squeezed. Then immediately the hordes of laughing and ridicule.

I'm not going to play victim, and tell myself that was the worst night of my life. It wasn't. God knows I've had dozens of harder nights. But it's the night that changed everything, and even after all these years La Push won't let me forget it. Till this day I'm still known as the Drunk Girl on the rez.

All my friends thought Embry and I was such a cute idea. They were all supportive, but at age fifteen it was more pushy than helpful. Skylar lent me her bikini, and swapped for my regular one piece that was one size too small for her, which showed off the beginnings of her new boobs. While me, who barely hit puberty barely filled out her baby blue, triangle, stringy two piece. They had to triple knot the measly string before we all got into the car.

Even now I still won't wear a bikini.

Anyone and everyone could see how red my body flushed when I was swimming in that two piece. An embarrassingly orangey-pink blush that I couldn't hide. All I could do that night was tugged the bottoms as high they would go and pray the knot held over and over again.

After being clued in, I felt like everyone noticed when I found Embry in the crowd when we first got there. He was surrounded by his friends on a blanket, all of them still long haired and boyish. Sixteen year old me thought everyone was staring, and they were...just not yet.

My friends figured if everyone knew, then what was to lose if I tried talking to him? Then I realized the worst right when I walked up to him; what if Embry knew I liked him? He was nice when I froze up and walked off. He offered me a wave while his friends snickered in the midst of me running away to the nearest cluster of people for an exit; the makeshift bar.

That was my first mistake.

I downed at least three cupfuls by the time I got in the water. I couldn't walk straight anymore. I figured the next best thing was to float and bobble till I could feel my knees again. I nearly sunk like a rock when I saw Embry drop his shirt at the shoreline. I swear the water got warmer when he swam in.

I'd usually pretend I didn't see Embry, then probably get out of the water for good measure. But young and drunk is a bad combination. Instead I swam up right next to him.

"Hey Winnie." He was nice enough to say hi when he noticed me, because Embry is too polite and sweet for the average teenager. His hair was down, the long brown mane stuck to the back of his neck and shoulders.

"Hi." For one measly word, I managed to slur it. I still turn red at the memory of that goofy grin I gave him.

"You look like you're having a good time. Are you good?" He chuckled at how drunk I was. He made my school girl dreams a reality when he inched closer to put a supporting hand at the back of my neck, just in case he had to pull me up if I went under.

"Super." I barely held my head up over a wave. The tide almost sent me drifting, but Embry's hand caught me before I got swept off. A firm hand holding me at the curve of my shoulder, another keeping me close by the small of my back. He pulled me in so close our knees kept softly colliding underwater, and I could see the water sticking to his lashes.

"I know you're a tough girl and all, but being this far out when you're this tipsy isn't the best idea." Embry looped an arm around me, his hand going from my lower back to the curve of my hip. I was so wasted I didn't remember how I let out a pleased hum till the morning after. "Let's get you to the kiddie pool."

"Embry, I should have asked you ou—"

The ocean pulled back far, then a wave silenced me. Half the beach was pushed back towards the shore. It crashed on top of us, flattening us into the sand. Water burned up my nose while mouthfuls of it were so cold then salty it stung like battery acid as it forced its way down. The tides flipped me against my will, threatening to pull my neck in the opposite direction of my body was dragged towards. Just when I thought I found the ocean floor, a second wave landed on me. The only thing I could do was thrash and hope I figured out where the surface was.

"Winnie!" Embry and I were ripped apart. But he went back for me. He pulled me up by my elbows, helping me up to feet. "You're alright, you're alright..."

The rush of cold wasn't what made me figure it out. No, the piercing wolf whistle was the giveaway. Then the laughing broke out.

The wave knock off the bikini.

The top was drifting towards shore, while the bottoms were dragged off towards the sea.

I was too scared to even cry or shout. All I could manage was a dunk back into the water in a weak attempt to hide. I grabbed what I could, reached around and clutched with a white knuckle grip till skin threatened to rip.

The whole beach was laughing at me, even the sea was cackling. The louder they laughed, the more exposed my skin felt. The entire student body saw every inch of my body. They saw all of it, all tongue, cheeks, and lips. No matter how much more I sunk into the ocean, they couldn't unsee it.

If I had just one or the other half on, I would have made a run for it. But both my hands were only enough for one of the other, not that much skin. I wasn't sure if the salt in my eyes or the humiliation that made the tears well up.

"Look at me." Then there was Embry, blocking me from the crowd as much as he could. I only caught a glance of him before he came in and out of my blurry vision. A sweatshirt billowed around me and resisted the water before being weighed down then sinking. The fabric was cold rather than comforting from all the water.

"Just look at me." Embry assured, pulling the sweatshirt as far down as it'll go before helping me to my feet. I didn't even know he ran to shore and back to get this.

Our hands clutch at each other as I stumbled back up shore. I was so wasted, if I let go I felt like I would land into the sand. I didn't even bother to get my stuff. Instead, I immediately rushed across the beach, hurried past the parked cars and ignored the pointing and cellphones as much as I could. I picked up some speed when the sand gave away to solid dirt and grass.

Even far away from everyone, and I still felt completely naked.

"Winnie," Embry slowed down, pulling us to stop. The humiliation sobered me up, and the realization had hit me so suddenly a headache rushed to the front of my head. I pulled back, only to find out how much I needed the support to stand up straight. My head aware but legs were still drunk, I stumbled over my own feet till I landed into a tree.

"I'm not gonna bother even asking if you're okay, when I know you're not. Can I drive you home? Take you to get some food?" Embry reached for me, offering a hand like he done all night. It was then I noticed he was shaking, still shirtless to the waist down, he was soaking wet.

"The whole school just saw me naked." I rasped, nearing hyperventilation. I could feel the burn of the alcohol again, only this time rising back up instead of down.

"At least you're drunk." He didn't answer. Not with a lame lie about how no one saw me to spare my feelings, which I appreciated the honesty more than the fleeting comfort. But he didn't say yes either.

"Help me change schools. Or dump my body somewhere." I keeled over, not sure if I was going to throw up or just needed a place to hide. I couldn't stand it. Every curve and inch of my body felt polished, pinched and rubbed from all the eyes. I felt violated.

"I'm sorry, Winnie. I'm so sorry." Embry apologized, hugging his arms across his chest, sending water everywhere.

"You didn't have to. It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't your fault either." Embry pointed out. "Is there anything I can do? Anything?"

"Not unless you can go back in time and drown me instead," My legs finally gave out from under me and I landed into the grass with a thump that made Embry jumped. "I'm just gonna sit here."

I needed a moment from all the running, from all the laughing, from all of the last few hours of my life. The party could still be heard from the beach, the music and crackle of the bonfire floated over the treetops to us.

"You don't have to have to stay." I said to Embry who instead lowered down next to me. Not too fast though, as if it'll make me motion sick.

"Not a chance." Embry's hand landed on my knee, then gave it a squeeze that made me even dizzier. "I'm staying till you feel better."

"I just flashed the entire school, and all in front of the guy I like. I'm not gonna feel better till I graduate."

"Lucky guy then." Embry chuckled, the rumble made my stomach do an excited leap. Then immediately lurched afterwards like I might throw up. "You should have taken him out to dinner first, Winnie."

"I doubt he'll say yes if I ask now." I clutched my legs to my chest, and hoped it would help lessen the nausea.

"No, he'll definitely say yes now. He'll be crazy not to. Who wouldn't want to see you from head to toe again?" My heart jumped so hard it rammed into my rib cage. The earth tilted on its edge, and nearly sent me toppling over into the grass. I had to hold my breath so I wouldn't have gasped.

"Whose the guy you like? Do I know him?" Embry asked, his voice threatening to crack a bit at the end like puberty. Drunken me had the urge to say him of course, apparently the whole school knew, which meant Embry should have known too. Yet, I still couldn't live with it. How was I suppose to even say, 'I know that you know I like you.' Let alone even ask a boy out? I was fifteen and hopeless and awkward like everyone else. Then I was fifteen, hopeless, awkward, and butt naked to everyone on the Rez.

"You know him." I slurred the ending. "You definitely know him."

"So I'm guessing someone in our grade." Embry thinks it's over, his face going serious. "It's Jared Cameron isn't it? Every girl has a crush on him. But Kim had first dips since preschool—"

"It's not Jared Cameron," I shook my head to myself. "It's someone I've liked since the fifth grade. Then tonight my friends clued me in on how everyone already knew I have the biggest crush on them. Which just makes this night that much more humiliating." I buried my face into the tops of my knees, ready for the ground to swallow me whole. It felt like finding out you're actually the biggest idiot in the room and everyone had been laughing at you the whole time, but add nudity to that nightmare. I've never felt so hollowed our before.

"Don't tell me it's Paul Lahote." He groaned, throwing his head back. If half the girls in our grade haven't liked Jared Cameron since kindergarten, then the other half had a crush on Paul Lahote. "I didn't take you for one of those people who like a bad boy type."

"No, Lahote is too much of a hot head." If it hadn't been such a humiliating night I would have laughed. "The guy I like is the nicest person I know. My favorite thing I like about him is how he's the sweetest guy to anyone and everyone."

"Sounds like a winner," Embry nodded solemnly, grinding his foot into the dirt.

"He helped me tonight." I heard the slurred words before I realized I said them. A long silent moment passed before the implications of my words weighed me down. I almost cursed but everything was slowed down and delayed by the alcohol. I didn't turn red till his eyes locked on mine, "No, wait—"

I didn't get to finish, Embry closed the gap between us. He hesitated, stopping against my nose. Every hair on my body stood up on end, my body threatening to shake. He swallowed, leaned in further, with his hands reaching up to grasp me around my hips then he hesitated once more, and dropped them.

Our eyes locked, the longing gaze the only thing between us.

Embry didn't hesitate again. He closed in on me, not stopping this time till our lips met. He cupped my face to bring me in closer, the other getting tangled in my wet hair. Just as we were about to deepen the kiss there was a burst.

"Yeah, get it Call!"

"Call is making out with the school slut!"

We didn't break apart, we jumped apart. A group of drunk boys hooted and cheered as they broke through the tree line, the phones shining lights on me as they recorded everything. I stumbled back, I felt naked all over again. But this time naked and damned like a burning woman at the stake.

"Hey!" Embry squared his shoulders, shielding me as much as his scrawny fifteen year old body could. Him being shirtless made everything seem worse than it actuality was. It was almost as horrible as the beach just twenty minutes before. I didn't wait for the boys to stop recording, or for them to hoist Embry on their shoulders or whatever.

I bolted.

Wasted, humiliated, wobbly and sore from the entire night; I ran.

And I never spoke to Embry Call again.

[words2livebyblog]

INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GET OVER HIM

Friday, August 5, 2011

On the first night…

Imagine a monster the size of a house outside your building. See it rise out of the East River on a cold December night and settle next to your bedroom window, Manhattan lights from across the river dancing along its scales, two explosions of steam shooting from its nostrils and fogging the glass. Imagine that it loves you and will tear the flesh of those who don’t. Imagine it will never leave you. Let this inexplicably lull you to sleep.

In the morning…

Forget about the monster. Play Tetris in bed. Play well. Decide that if you score over 100 lines then he still loves you. Final score: 99.

Later…

Cry on the F train. Make it look like you’re resting your eyes, or concentrating on the music in your earphones, but feel something move from your chest to your throat, like a worm through an apple and let your eyes swell, get fat with tears. Then count the stains on the floor of the train, see them blur and drown, change shape. Trust that the strangers around you assume you have bad allergies this morning. Decide it doesn’t matter. Let them look at you and wonder.

Reach 23rd Street and feel suddenly haunted by two words. Let them arrive like a car accident, a violent Subaru running a red light. Hyper. And sensitive. Put them together and feel your hands get wet. Look up at the digital letters glowing red above the heads of standing passengers, hear the woman from the future’s voice through the loudspeaker. The Next Stop is Hyper Sensitive. Stand clear of the Hyper Sensitive.

Think of your Hyper Sensitivity as a condition, like asthma. Or a limp. Imagine the rest of your life with a limp.

That night…

Have a cigarette by your window and blow smoke at a faded moon. Play a sad song on your stereo, a woman’s voice, or guitar strings. A violin. Try to let it comfort you, knowing it should be his hands playing notes against the back of your neck, rubbing your scalp maybe, or pressing his thumbs into your shoulders. Feel your skin plead for his touch, every small hair on the surface reaching, like a nest of birds, newly hatched, starved.

Don’t enjoy the cigarette. See the smoke camouflaged and lost against your cream colored walls, making it feel like it doesn’t count.

Then…

Call a friend. Tell her everything:

You: He said I was a nightmare.

Her: You gave him nightmares?

You: Probably. But what I think he meant was being with me was a nightmare. Working with me was a nightmare. In fact, he said, working with you is a nightmare. You are a NIGHT. MARE.

Her: Ouch.

You: Do you think I’m a nightmare?

Her: Um…

Wait for her to answer.

You: Well, do you think working with me is a nightmare?

Her: Um…

Tell her thanks for listening, but that it’s time to take your dog for a pee. Feel like you swallowed a large boot. Imagine vomiting it into her lap.

Her: You’re not a nightmare. You’re… sensitive.

Walk the dog. Stay a few steps behind her, following like a piece of toilet paper stuck to a shoe. Imagine letting go of the leash and floating away. Know your dog won’t notice, her senses occupied by things living in the dirt and concrete that are more appealing than the smell of your sadness. So float away. Watch your dog get smaller and smaller and keep going. Until all you see is the roofs of buildings, squared shapes like a game of Tetris. Fit them together and watch them disappear. Try to make the world below you disappear. Create an empty canvass of black. And when there’s nothing left, fall. Never landing.

In bed…

Keep the monster from the East River by your window for another night. But this time it is discovered! Sirens and flashing lights, helicopters. Bombs exploding, the monster roars. Create a force field around the monster. Ride it’s back and terrorize Brooklyn.

Sleep and dream of something else entirely. Arrive at your old high school in your mother’s 1987 Volvo station wagon. Get out of the car and realize you’re naked from the waist down. Pretend this is normal, but feel yourself travel through humiliation like a ship through a dense fog. See him among a crowd of loud teenagers and realize you are there to pick him up from school. He is strolling, wearing a backpack full of books. He is happy and talking on a cell phone. He is beautiful. He sees you and his smile fades. He tells whoever is on the other end of his call that he has to hang up. Get scared that your presence is not expected, nor welcome, that you’re a stalker. But then he greets you, kisses you. His lips are withholding. Wake up and realize that every kiss in the real world was like this. Withholding and afraid.

Walk slowly to the F train, a boot in your chest, a bloody corpse handcuffed to your ankle.

During your walk…

Add up your flaws. Organize and separate them physically in your mind like cutlery. The forks from the knives from the spoons from your envy and your resentment from your suffocating loneliness from the smaller spoons and oddly shaped spoons from your angry righteousness and your very conditional loving from the sharp knives and the dull knives from the strange shape of your penis from the chopsticks from the can opener.

Put your flaws in an imaginary box, neatly arranged and placed according to their shape and size. Throw the box in the East River and watch it float away. Imagine shooting at it with a handgun, trying to sink it. Miss. Watch it live loudly on the surface of the water, floating past the Statue of Liberty, bobbing in the wake of the Staten Island ferry, washing up on the shore of a beach somewhere, discovered and opened by him, who recognizes the items in the box like bad memories from his childhood. See him bury the box in the sand.

Get off the F train.  Climb the stairs of the subway station, drag your corpse up 6th Ave. Turn onto 26th Street and run into the last person you’d like to run into.

Them: Heyyyy! How are youuuuu?

You: Goooood. How are youuuu?

Them: I’m greeaaat! You look tired

You: Yeah?

Them: Someone special keeping you up late?

You: Only creatures from the East River.

Them: Huh? You’re crazy.

You: Yeah.

Them: Hey, you still seeing that guyyyy?

You: It didn’t work out.

Them: Awwwwwwwwww, that sucks. You working?

Shrug and sweat. Try to find the courage to push this person into moving traffic. Fail. Realize that your shoulders have reached your ears and that it’s hard to swallow. Hate this person. Lose track of what they are saying because you are watching them die an excruciating death. Get caught.

Them: Um. Are you okay?

Imagine answering no and breaking, shattering into a million pieces of you, an exploding hourglass, dried up rose pedals crushed in a fist. See your self stuck to the bottom of people’s shoes rather than swept away by the wind.

Them: Cheer up, will you? And come see my show!

Go see the show on the off chance that he might be there since he knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who’s in the show. Take a seat in the back row. Notice you are tripping and bumping on your way to sit down, your limbs clumsy and slow, unable to keep up with the speed of your heart. Keep your eyes on the floor and the backs of people’s heads. Every now and then pretend that something has called your attention and forced you to look up. Then search for him and feel the layers of your skin flash hot. Don’t find him. Feel a mixture of relief and misery. Wait for the lights to go down and take your first breath. Be careful not to breathe too deep because at the bottom of your lungs is a sob.

In the dark, watch a show about a young girl who meets an older man. They are both searching for home and find it in each other. They are afraid, but drawn to each other like magnets, like a newborn to a breast. They try to destroy each other. The man understands that in order to save her he must make her leave, so he hurts her, so deeply she barely survives. Weep. Wipe tears from your neck. Allow your face to make different shapes of grief in the dark.

Next…

Mary your emotion with inspiration, with progress. Board the train back to Brooklyn and study the strangers around you. Love them. Each of them. Give an older woman your seat and have a better view of everybody from where you’re standing. Die for them, give them everything you have. Feel your toes pulling your socks away from the soles of your shoes to contain your elation, press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and clench your teeth to suppress a stupid smile. Watch a child holding a silver balloon. Imagine buying the child one thousand more.

Walk home from the train with a strange tickle in your groin. Remember the first time you saw him, sitting near him and studying his feet, the amount of hair on his head. His nervousness. The moment you caught him noticing you and the air beginning to sing.

Remember being amazed by all the details, subtle communications, by the way he leaned against a counter and watched a fly travel across the plastic surface of a table.

Enter the front door of your apartment and embrace your dog. Speak to her in a ridiculous voice. Feed her treats. Get on your computer and write enthusiastic emails. Tell someone it’s been too long, make plans. Tell someone else they’ve been on your mind, that you look forward to clinking drinks together in a place with loud music and candle wax dripping onto a bar.

Get on Facebook. Study people’s profiles, read their status updates. “Like” them, post comments. Type his name into the search engine. Look at his profile picture. See a handsome picture of him on a mountain, smiling in a green world. Remember the trip and the moment the picture was taken. Notice the picture has been cropped to remove you from the foreground. Read the posts on his wall. He is making plans. He is going dancing. He will meet a guy named Roger who is shirtless, who has muscles and a gotee. Scroll further down. He is reading about Buddhism. He is discovering Kandinsky. Scroll further. There is a quote:

“A girl can wait for the right man to come along but in the meantime that still doesn't mean she can't have a wonderful time with all the wrong ones.” CHER

Lose touch with the lower half of your body and feel the boot turn to solid steel in your chest. Hear a strange sound behind you. Turn and see that your dog has vomited a thick yellow substance onto the floor. Clean up the vomit.

Get in bed. Hold your pet close to you. Close your eyes but they feel violent behind your eyelids. Listen to your pet’s breathing and consider her death, the inevitability of it. Feel stupid for loving something you know you will outlive.

Stay in bed. Wait for the monster to visit you. Wait until morning.

Stay in bed.

Beg for the day to end, for the hours to blow by without size or significance. Hate the weight of your head, the feel of anything against your skin. Listen to the sound of a neighbor waking and showering, the whistle of a teapot. Hear it mocking you. Know if you get out of bed you will feel the cold chill of shame hiding in your bathroom tiles and pushing against the naked bottoms of your feet. You will see your image miserable with an electric toothbrush in its mouth, you will wish you could shower and be dissolved, melt the skin off your bones and kill the heart that can’t be loved.

Stay in bed. Plead into a pillow. Make the mistake of slipping into sleep. Dream of your mother. She is alive. She is wearing a hat and you can’t see if she is crying. Beg your father not to leave her. Look into her eyes when she offers you a plate of food. Know that if you refuse it, you will lose her again and again and again.

Wake up.

Listen to your phone ring. Listen to it not ring. Wait for the monster.

Another neighbor leaves his/her house. Your dog is scratching at the floor, it sounds like the ugly heart inside you. Stay in bed.

Buy a new game on your iphone. There are zombies and you can shoot them with a number of different weapons. Advance to a high level and buy a chainsaw. Saw their heads off, split them in two and step across their remains. Kill 1,572 zombies. A high score. Get out of bed.

Go to the bathroom. Take your iphone with you. Kill more zombies.

Walk the dog. See zombie bloodstains on the sidewalk. Hear zombie killing music in your head.

Continue walking. Make your way to the river.

When you get there have this fantasy:

There is a small dinghy tied to a dock. You get in it with your dog, untie the knot and float out to see. The world disappears quickly and soon you and your animal are surrounded by water. Heavy, melancholy clouds hover and you can’t distinguish the ocean from the sky in the horizon. It is endless. It is the end.

Your heart is peaceful. Your dog rests her head on the edge of the raft, ears alerting every once in a while to any passing activity on the surface of the water. You fall asleep and dream of nothing, only the presence of water. When you wake up, it’s night out. It is pointless to open your eyes because you can see nothing in the darkness, only the sound of the sea and it sounds like nothing. You can feel the warmth of your animal against your body and your senses strive for something more, reaching for a noise or a shape but can find nothing, only the water and the darkness.

Float further and further out to sea. The darkness burns away and you see the sun rise over a dead calm. An enormous shadow appears from below. The surface bubbles and is broken, the calm is shredded and the monster rises from the deep and is before you, a silhouette of hugeness dripping wet and framed by the kind light of the sun. Have this conversation with the monster:

The Monster: What are you doing here?

You: I’m not sure. Where have you been?

The Monster: Yeah, um…

You: I’ve been waiting for you.

The Monster: Sorry. You brought your dog?

You: Well…

The Monster: Is she hungry? Have some of this.

You: Thanks. You’re very kind. Are you ever coming back?

The Monster: Hm.

You: I sleep better when you’re around.

The Monster: I understand.

You: I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if you don’t come back to me.

The Monster: Don’t make this weird.

You: Sorry. I’m not myself these days. Or maybe I am myself, maybe I’m exactly me and that’s the problem.

The Monster: Well that doesn’t sound very healthy.

You: That’s what I’m trying to tell you.

The Monster: Right.

You: Can I stay here with you?

The Monster: Um…

You: I like it here.

The Monster: I don’t think it’s such a good idea.

You: Why not?

The Monster: Don’t cry.

You: It’s just… Things aren’t really working out. I’m not sure I have anything good to contribute.

The Monster: Hm.

You: You don’t really want to hear this, do you?

The Monster: It’s not that.

You: It’s okay. I get it. Maybe I should just go.

The Monster: No. Stay a while.

You: Really?

The Monster: Sure.

Spend the day with the monster. Watch it do tricks in the water, turn the surface of the ocean into a Vegas fountain. Talk about things that aren’t painful, things that float through the air like flakes of skin. Sit through silences between the two of you. Watch the color of the air change, the calm of the water reach a stillness that freezes your reflection like a photograph. Stare into the water. Ask the monster to show you the bottom of the sea. Feel surprise when it agrees to. Then take its hand and sink. Think of Virgina Woolf with stones in her pockets, of Holly Hunter with a rope tied to her ankle and attached to a piano.

Go to the bottom of the sea.

When you get there ask for some time alone. The Monster will reluctantly agree and fade from you like a memory.

Sit at the bottom of the sea. Do some thinking. Relive a happy memory. Invent the details that are missing to keep it from slipping away. Think of a childhood pet, the first time you tried a doughnut. Stealing gum from a candy store, getting caught. Remember the fourth grade. Missing every Friday recess because you could never find a way to behave. Remember the first time you learned to hide something in your heart and understand that your very first secret has been hiding inside all this time, shaking just under the skin, afraid of his touch, but longing to be held, released. Set free.

Feel your thoughts lift and float to the surface, your pores flooding and the pain inside squeezed out of you like the final remains in a tube of toothpaste.

Finish the fantasy here.

Take your dog home. Feed her dinner. Make something for yourself.

Call your local cable company. Order movie channels and recording options in preparation for the lonely nights ahead. Forgive yourself for this.

Think of writing some of this down but have a cigarette instead. Forgive yourself for this.

Forgive yourself and eat some ice cream. Do some online shopping, watch porn.

Wake up in the morning one day closer to having cable television. Brush your teeth, take a shower. Walk the dog.

Think of the sea.

Finally…

Ride the train into the city. Sit across from a handsome man. Feel ignored. Look for the attention of a different stranger each time the sliding doors close. Give a woman your seat. Say your welcome after she thanks you. Imagine her scolding the boys that don’t love you back.

Feel the safety of all the people you don’t know on this train ride, of having them near you. Let them protect you. Let them love you. Until you reach your destination.

Posted by Pedro Pascal at 2:40 PM

[paradoxicallemurs]

THINGS I'D LIKE TO WARN TRANS WOMEN ABOUT AS A TRANS MAN:

If you wear just a bra, then sit down to pee (this is specific to sports bras in my experience but I imagine all bras do it) make sure the lid is all the way back against the tank before you sit down because that fucker will grab the band of your bra and won't let go

Panties are not always comfortable. My whole life I've preferred boy short style underwear because it's way harder to get a wedgie. If you do want panties that are comfortable, I recommend cotton or breathable material. I really like the brand Pair of Thieves, they're based on making men's underwear but they do have a bikini style that looks a lot like panties!! (Link: https://pairofthieves.com/products/solar-rotations-3pk-superfit-bikini )

Fishnets!!! Thigh highs are great for around the house and certain outside outfits, but fishnets are great for almost everything! Punk look? Style them under ripped jeans. Club look? Little black dress and fishnets. Casual party? Cocktail or bodycon dress and fishnets!! They're so versatile.

Now, I've never worn a dance belt (got nothin to put in it) but from what I understand (which may be wrong pls forgive me) they compress your hookah smokin shroom sitter for support kinda like a sport bra for your worm on a string, so consider getting one for every day wear if you're worried your shrimp cocktail is too noticable

There's no shame in a pair of jeans! Finding your size in women's is extraordinarily difficult for no good reason. Go to a thrift store, find a pair that fits the way you like, write down the brand, fit and size. Not every pair will fit the same but then you have a good place to base your purchase off of!

Adding to that, if you don't want to try on a million pairs of jeans, typically if you hold the jeans up to your body, if the seams on the sides line up to just about the center of your hips, there's a very good chance they'll fit you, just be careful to do the same type of maneuver with your thighs if you're a big girl (don't trust charts that convert men's size to women's, women's sizes are literally never the same between brands)

Other people let me know if your experiences have been different, these are just mine!!

[words2livebyblog]

Friday, August 5, 2011

INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GET OVER HIM

On the first night…

Imagine a monster the size of a house outside your building. See it rise out of the East River on a cold December night and settle next to your bedroom window, Manhattan lights from across the river dancing along its scales, two explosions of steam shooting from its nostrils and fogging the glass. Imagine that it loves you and will tear the flesh of those who don’t. Imagine it will never leave you. Let this inexplicably lull you to sleep.

In the morning…

Forget about the monster. Play Tetris   in bed. Play well. Decide that if you score over 100 lines then he still loves you. Final score: 99.

Later…

Cry on the F train. Make it look like you’re resting your eyes, or concentrating on the music in your earphones, but feel something move from your chest to your throat, like a worm through an apple and let your eyes swell, get fat with tears. Then count the stains on the floor of the train, see them blur and drown, change shape. Trust that the strangers around you assume you have bad allergies this morning. Decide it doesn’t matter. Let them look at you and wonder.

Reach 23rd Street and feel suddenly haunted by two words. Let them arrive like a car accident, a violent Subaru running a red light. Hyper. And sensitive. Put them together and feel your hands get wet. Look up at the digital letters glowing red above the heads of standing passengers, hear the woman from the future’s voice through the loudspeaker. The Next Stop is Hyper Sensitive. Stand clear of the Hyper Sensitive.

Think of your Hyper Sensitivity as a condition, like asthma. Or a limp. Imagine the rest of your life with a limp.

That night…

Have a cigarette by your window and blow smoke at a faded moon. Play a sad song on your stereo, a woman’s voice, or guitar strings. A violin. Try to let it comfort you, knowing it should be his hands playing notes against the back of your neck, rubbing your scalp maybe, or pressing his thumbs into your shoulders. Feel your skin plead for his touch, every small hair on the surface reaching, like a nest of birds, newly hatched, starved.

Don’t enjoy the cigarette. See the smoke camouflaged and lost against your cream colored walls, making it feel like it doesn’t count.

Then…

Call a friend. Tell her everything:

You: He said I was a nightmare.

Her: You gave him nightmares?

You: Probably. But what I think he meant was being with me was a nightmare. Working with me was a nightmare. In fact, he said, working with you is a nightmare. You are a NIGHT. MARE.

Her: Ouch.

You: Do you think I’m a nightmare?

Her: Um…

Wait for her to answer.

You: Well, do you think working with me is a nightmare?

Her: Um…

Tell her thanks for listening, but that it’s time to take your dog for a pee. Feel like you swallowed a large boot. Imagine vomiting it into her lap.

Her: You’re not a nightmare. You’re… sensitive.

Walk the dog. Stay a few steps behind her, following like a piece of toilet paper stuck to a shoe. Imagine letting go of the leash and floating away. Know your dog won’t notice, her senses occupied by things living in the dirt and concrete that are more appealing than the smell of your sadness. So float away. Watch your dog get smaller and smaller and keep going. Until all you see is the roofs of buildings, squared shapes like a game of Tetris. Fit them together and watch them disappear. Try to make the world below you disappear. Create an empty canvass of black. And when there’s nothing left, fall. Never landing.

In bed…

Keep the monster from the East River by your window for another night. But this time it is discovered! Sirens and flashing lights, helicopters. Bombs exploding, the monster roars. Create a force field around the monster. Ride it’s back and terrorize Brooklyn.

Sleep and dream of something else entirely. Arrive at your old high school in your mother’s 1987 Volvo station wagon. Get out of the car and realize you’re naked from the waist down. Pretend this is normal, but feel yourself travel through humiliation like a ship through a dense fog. See him among a crowd of loud teenagers and realize you are there to pick him up from school. He is strolling, wearing a backpack full of books. He is happy and talking on a cell phone. He is beautiful. He sees you and his smile fades. He tells whoever is on the other end of his call that he has to hang up. Get scared that your presence is not expected, nor welcome, that you’re a stalker. But then he greets you, kisses you. His lips are withholding. Wake up and realize that every kiss in the real world was like this. Withholding and afraid.

Walk slowly to the F train, a boot in your chest, a bloody corpse handcuffed to your ankle.

During your walk…

Add up your flaws. Organize and separate them physically in your mind like cutlery. The forks from the knives from the spoons from your envy and your resentment from your suffocating loneliness from the smaller spoons and oddly shaped spoons from your angry righteousness and your very conditional loving from the sharp knives and the dull knives from the strange shape of your penis from the chopsticks from the can opener.

Put your flaws in an imaginary box, neatly arranged and placed according to their shape and size. Throw the box in the East River and watch it float away. Imagine shooting at it with a handgun, trying to sink it. Miss. Watch it live loudly on the surface of the water, floating past the Statue of Liberty, bobbing in the wake of the Staten Island ferry, washing up on the shore of a beach somewhere, discovered and opened by him, who recognizes the items in the box like bad memories from his childhood. See him bury the box in the sand.

Get off the F train.  Climb the stairs of the subway station, drag your corpse up 6th Ave. Turn onto 26th Street and run into the last person you’d like to run into.

Them: Heyyyy! How are youuuuu?

You: Goooood. How are youuuu?

Them: I’m greeaaat! You look tired

You: Yeah?

Them: Someone special keeping you up late?

You: Only creatures from the East River.

Them: Huh? You’re crazy.

You: Yeah.

Them: Hey, you still seeing that guyyyy?

You: It didn’t work out.

Them: Awwwwwwwwww, that sucks. You working?

Shrug and sweat. Try to find the courage to push this person into moving traffic. Fail. Realize that your shoulders have reached your ears and that it’s hard to swallow. Hate this person. Lose track of what they are saying because you are watching them die an excruciating death. Get caught.

Them: Um. Are you okay?

Imagine answering no and breaking, shattering into a million pieces of you, an exploding hourglass, dried up rose pedals crushed in a fist. See your self stuck to the bottom of people’s shoes rather than swept away by the wind.

Them: Cheer up, will you? And come see my show!

Go see the show on the off chance that he might be there since he knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who’s in the show. Take a seat in the back row. Notice you are tripping and bumping on your way to sit down, your limbs clumsy and slow, unable to keep up with the speed of your heart. Keep your eyes on the floor and the backs of people’s heads. Every now and then pretend that something has called your attention and forced you to look up. Then search for him and feel the layers of your skin flash hot. Don’t find him. Feel a mixture of relief and misery. Wait for the lights to go down and take your first breath. Be careful not to breathe too deep because at the bottom of your lungs is a sob.

In the dark, watch a show about a young girl who meets an older man. They are both searching for home and find it in each other. They are afraid, but drawn to each other like magnets, like a newborn to a breast. They try to destroy each other. The man understands that in order to save her he must make her leave, so he hurts her, so deeply she barely survives. Weep. Wipe tears from your neck. Allow your face to make different shapes of grief in the dark.

Next…

Mary your emotion with inspiration, with progress. Board the train back to Brooklyn and study the strangers around you. Love them. Each of them. Give an older woman your seat and have a better view of everybody from where you’re standing. Die for them, give them everything you have. Feel your toes pulling your socks away from the soles of your shoes to contain your elation, press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and clench your teeth to suppress a stupid smile. Watch a child holding a silver balloon. Imagine buying the child one thousand more.

Walk home from the train with a strange tickle in your groin. Remember the first time you saw him, sitting near him and studying his feet, the amount of hair on his head. His nervousness. The moment you caught him noticing you and the air beginning to sing.

Remember being amazed by all the details, subtle communications, by the way he leaned against a counter and watched a fly travel across the plastic surface of a table.

Enter the front door of your apartment and embrace your dog. Speak to her in a ridiculous voice. Feed her treats. Get on your computer and write enthusiastic emails. Tell someone it’s been too long, make plans. Tell someone else they’ve been on your mind, that you look forward to clinking drinks together in a place with loud music and candle wax dripping onto a bar.

Get on Facebook. Study people’s profiles, read their status updates. “Like” them, post comments. Type his name into the search engine. Look at his profile picture. See a handsome picture of him on a mountain, smiling in a green world. Remember the trip and the moment the picture was taken. Notice the picture has been cropped to remove you from the foreground. Read the posts on his wall. He is making plans. He is going dancing. He will meet a guy named Roger who is shirtless, who has muscles and a gotee. Scroll further down. He is reading about Buddhism. He is discovering Kandinsky. Scroll further. There is a quote:

“A girl can wait for the right man to come along but in the meantime that still doesn't mean she can't have a wonderful time with all the wrong ones.” CHER

Lose touch with the lower half of your body and feel the boot turn to solid steel in your chest. Hear a strange sound behind you. Turn and see that your dog has vomited a thick yellow substance onto the floor. Clean up the vomit.

Get in bed. Hold your pet close to you. Close your eyes but they feel violent behind your eyelids. Listen to your pet’s breathing and consider her death, the inevitability of it. Feel stupid for loving something you know you will outlive.

Stay in bed. Wait for the monster to visit you. Wait until morning.

Stay in bed.

Beg for the day to end, for the hours to blow by without size or significance. Hate the weight of your head, the feel of anything against your skin. Listen to the sound of a neighbor waking and showering, the whistle of a teapot. Hear it mocking you. Know if you get out of bed you will feel the cold chill of shame hiding in your bathroom tiles and pushing against the naked bottoms of your feet. You will see your image miserable with an electric toothbrush in its mouth, you will wish you could shower and be dissolved, melt the skin off your bones and kill the heart that can’t be loved.

Stay in bed. Plead into a pillow. Make the mistake of slipping into sleep. Dream of your mother. She is alive. She is wearing a hat and you can’t see if she is crying. Beg your father not to leave her. Look into her eyes when she offers you a plate of food. Know that if you refuse it, you will lose her again and again and again.

Wake up.

Listen to your phone ring. Listen to it not ring. Wait for the monster.

Another neighbor leaves his/her house. Your dog is scratching at the floor, it sounds like the ugly heart inside you. Stay in bed.

Buy a new game on your iphone. There are zombies and you can shoot them with a number of different weapons. Advance to a high level and buy a chainsaw. Saw their heads off, split them in two and step across their remains. Kill 1,572 zombies. A high score. Get out of bed.

Go to the bathroom. Take your iphone with you. Kill more zombies.

Walk the dog. See zombie bloodstains on the sidewalk. Hear zombie killing music in your head.

Continue walking. Make your way to the river.

When you get there have this fantasy:

There is a small dinghy tied to a dock. You get in it with your dog, untie the knot and float out to see. The world disappears quickly and soon you and your animal are surrounded by water. Heavy, melancholy clouds hover and you can’t distinguish the ocean from the sky in the horizon. It is endless. It is the end.

Your heart is peaceful. Your dog rests her head on the edge of the raft, ears alerting every once in a while to any passing activity on the surface of the water. You fall asleep and dream of nothing, only the presence of water. When you wake up, it’s night out. It is pointless to open your eyes because you can see nothing in the darkness, only the sound of the sea and it sounds like nothing. You can feel the warmth of your animal against your body and your senses strive for something more, reaching for a noise or a shape but can find nothing, only the water and the darkness.

Float further and further out to sea. The darkness burns away and you see the sun rise over a dead calm. An enormous shadow appears from below. The surface bubbles and is broken, the calm is shredded and the monster rises from the deep and is before you, a silhouette of hugeness dripping wet and framed by the kind light of the sun. Have this conversation with the monster:

The Monster: What are you doing here?

You: I’m not sure. Where have you been?

The Monster: Yeah, um…

You: I’ve been waiting for you.

The Monster: Sorry. You brought your dog?

You: Well…

The Monster: Is she hungry? Have some of this.

You: Thanks. You’re very kind. Are you ever coming back?

The Monster: Hm.

You: I sleep better when you’re around.

The Monster: I understand.

You: I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if you don’t come back to me.

The Monster: Don’t make this weird.

You: Sorry. I’m not myself these days. Or maybe I am myself, maybe I’m exactly me and that’s the problem.

The Monster: Well that doesn’t sound very healthy.

You: That’s what I’m trying to tell you.

The Monster: Right.

You: Can I stay here with you?

The Monster: Um…

You: I like it here.

The Monster: I don’t think it’s such a good idea.

You: Why not?

The Monster: Don’t cry.

You: It’s just… Things aren’t really working out. I’m not sure I have anything good to contribute.

The Monster: Hm.

You: You don’t really want to hear this, do you?

The Monster: It’s not that.

You: It’s okay. I get it. Maybe I should just go.

The Monster: No. Stay a while.

You: Really?

The Monster: Sure.

Spend the day with the monster. Watch it do tricks in the water, turn the surface of the ocean into a Vegas fountain. Talk about things that aren’t painful, things that float through the air like flakes of skin. Sit through silences between the two of you. Watch the color of the air change, the calm of the water reach a stillness that freezes your reflection like a photograph. Stare into the water. Ask the monster to show you the bottom of the sea. Feel surprise when it agrees to. Then take its hand and sink. Think of Virgina Woolf with stones in her pockets, of Holly Hunter with a rope tied to her ankle and attached to a piano.

Go to the bottom of the sea.

When you get there ask for some time alone. The Monster will reluctantly agree and fade from you like a memory.

Sit at the bottom of the sea. Do some thinking. Relive a happy memory. Invent the details that are missing to keep it from slipping away. Think of a childhood pet, the first time you tried a doughnut. Stealing gum from a candy store, getting caught. Remember the fourth grade. Missing every Friday recess because you could never find a way to behave. Remember the first time you learned to hide something in your heart and understand that your very first secret has been hiding inside all this time, shaking just under the skin, afraid of his touch, but longing to be held, released. Set free.

Feel your thoughts lift and float to the surface, your pores flooding and the pain inside squeezed out of you like the final remains in a tube of toothpaste.

Finish the fantasy here.

Take your dog home. Feed her dinner. Make something for yourself.

Call your local cable company. Order movie channels and recording options in preparation for the lonely nights ahead. Forgive yourself for this.

Think of writing some of this down but have a cigarette instead. Forgive yourself for this.

Forgive yourself and eat some ice cream. Do some online shopping, watch porn.

Wake up in the morning one day closer to having cable television. Brush your teeth, take a shower. Walk the dog.

Think of the sea.

Finally…

Ride the train into the city. Sit across from a handsome man. Feel ignored. Look for the attention of a different stranger each time the sliding doors close. Give a woman your seat. Say your welcome after she thanks you. Imagine her scolding the boys that don’t love you back.

Feel the safety of all the people you don’t know on this train ride, of having them near you. Let them protect you. Let them love you. Until you reach your destination.

Posted by Pedro Pascal at 2:40 PM No comments: 

Thursday, December 31, 2009

UNTITLED (part one)

“Does it have to be cancer?”

“Well…”

“I mean does it have to be brain cancer?”

And then silence at the other end of the phone. Pete had drawn out the vowels in the word brain, his voice dipping into his belly so it sounded like bruuhayyn cancer instead of just brain cancer, but Pete felt strongly that that was the only way it could sound, a word that grabbed hold of your vocal chords and dragged them to the floor.

The girl on the other end of the phone, her name is Grace. And Grace has known Pete for a very long time.

“Well. What do you mean?” Grace asks Pete, her oldest friend.

“I mean – What I mean is.” Pete was holding his breath now because Pete is always holding his breath. “People aren’t dying of cancer anymore, are they? Not bruuhayyn cancer anyway.”

“Well. What are people dying of?”

Pete noticed that Grace was starting every question with the word Well: Well. Did you read it? Well. What did you think? Well. What should I do? But unlike Pete, Grace was not holding her breath, rather using her word Well to empty all the air out of her lungs.

“Depression. That’s what’s killing people nowadays. All the young people anyway. And your guy, he’s young. And I don’t think he needs cancer to die. Nobody needs cancer to die.”

“Well. What do they need?”

“Getting out of bed everyday, reading the paper.” Pete wasn’t listening too hard, maybe because his body kept refusing oxygen. “Counting strollers instead of trannies in Meat Packing! That’s enough to kill anyone.”

“Right. But…” and Grace allowed a small silence here before continuing so Pete felt for a second that he wasn’t being very helpful and this was maybe Grace’s intention. “This just isn’t that kind of movie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I think it’s a great movie, I think you’ve written a great movie.” Pete thought he might cry.

“Thanks.”

“I guess I just meant that, um…” he swallowed now because suddenly his mouth was watery and Pete considered for a second, while he swallowed, that the entire conversation might have been more successful, that he could have been more “helpful”, if he had a coloring book or if he knew how to knit. But he didn’t know how to knit and had no coloring books, no crayons, so he continued, stealing small amounts of air from the room. “I mean that people, people, most people, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you find that most people nowadays are sad? And not because they have cancer?”

More silence from the other end of the phone. And this time Pete wonders in the darkness of this momentary silence Grace is ruthlessly imposing, when exactly he had started using the word Nowadays? Saying things like Most people nowadays, and decides it’s because he’s 30 and living alone five years with his dog Guillermo in a one-bedroom in South Brooklyn with two large windows facing rooftops and a church tower, a playground that keeps the air scored for most of the day with the sound of children playing and disobeying their parents, children with their mommies and daddies everywhere now outside his windows, making it impossible to do certain things during the day, like watch porn or have loud arguments with Guillermo. And because of this, because he is alone and like most people nowadays, quite sad, Pete can’t help but recognize that he is sounding more and more like a strange person. Or how a strange person might sound to Pete, using words like Nowadays because he is so lonely. Loneliness makes people strange and Strangeness, Pete decides, is the only way of coping with being alone.

“Well.” And on the intake of breath Grace manages: “Can you be more specific?”

But instead of “helping” or breathing Pete is blaming Grace for opening these doors to self pity, enforcing these interminable silences when his words are just mistakes, inadvertent and lonely.

“Cancer is corny.”

“Corny?”

“Yep.” And Pete was prepared for the next silence, had imagined it already before it arrived.

Pete looks around his room, at Guillermo, at all the objects placed in corners or on the wall and feels ignored. So many possibilities when it’s quiet Pete is beginning to understand, so many limitless possibilities.

“Listen… Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“The guy has cancer.” Grace forgave Pete. Was always forgiving Pete. “Okay? He has cancer and he’s going to die of cancer. Brain cancer.”

Pete’s lungs ask for air but everything in his body doesn’t want to move or it might run into more loneliness.

“And the girl in my movie? Her life sucks. And then she meets this guy, she falls in love. And he dies.”

“Of brain cancer.”

“Right. And that’s what happens. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And then you come in at the very end, and your name is Noah. And you’re the dead guy’s best friend like you’re my best friend and you know everything there is to know about him like you know everything there is to know about me and you meet the girl and you save her life. I guess. And everything is going to be okay because of you. Understand?”

“Yes I do.”

“So you want to do it? Because I really want you to do it. You want to? Because I really want you to.”

“Of course.” And no more silences at the other end of the phone now, no more holding breaths and strange words. “Of course I’ll do it!” says Pete, his eyes burning wet with loyalty. Because cancer is great! And dying of cancer is great! You can count on me, Pete imagines himself saying into the phone, like that movie You Can Count On Me. Because Pete loves Grace, always has. Always will. They are best friends. And that’s why the story of a girl who falls in love with a guy who dies of brain cancer is just about the best fucking thing Pete has ever heard.

to be continued…

Posted by Pedro Pascal at 7:09 AM No comments: 

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Untitled

“Do you want some more pasta?” my sister’s husband asked me, so I stabbed him in his left temple with a small fork. Which means I’ve ruined my own “kind of” vacation and my sister will probably never speak to me again (even though down deep she understands it’s not entirely my fault). He didn’t bleed a huge amount. Not like in the movies or in stories people tell you where they’re clumsy and then had to faint because there was “so much blood!” He just had to go to the hospital and it was expensive. Big deal. He has a good job. But they have two babies now so that’s why my sister is very angry. I told her that if the two babies had been in the room at the time I wouldn’t have done it, I promised her. But she just looked at me like she was mostly sad instead of angry and like it was all her fault anyway, which makes me really wish I hadn’t done it.

The wedding was more than two years ago and I made a speech and everyone cried. First my sister’s husband cried, then my sister, then everyone. It was sad and I meant every word. Good sad, like “everything is getting better now” sad, the “we’re all going to be all right” sad, like Bob Marley and green leaves and sunlight sad. Sad like when you’re hugging someone extra long and you’re crying but the person you’re hugging doesn’t know it unless you make a sound in their ear or if your body shakes a little when you breathe so then they hear you and you look at each other and you’re both crying. It was that kind of wedding. With music and tears and “it’s all going to be okay now” dancing.

But now, only two years later, my sister’s husband will have a small scar over his left temple because I stabbed him there with a small fork. And you’ll be able to see the scar because he likes to shave all the hair off of his head. So my sister will look at her husband and always remember that I stabbed him in the head. And all he did was ask me if I wanted some more pasta.

Sitting in my sister’s and my sister’s husband’s apartment, waiting for my sister to come home from the hospital and ask me why I stabbed her husband in the head with a small fork, all I can think about is the wedding. My sister wore a dress that looked like someone’s favorite story or place or paradise and my dad gave me some tequila and cried a little bit, I think, when he told me that he loved me. My little brother made a circle with his friends near the DJ and danced only when the music was reggae and my other little brother walked around the wedding describing to everyone exactly how drunk they were behaving. Then the moon came out like it was paid for and an old friend of my mother’s told me she could see my mother’s ghost sitting on a wave or something in the moonlight, and that she hadn’t cried yet, but that after tonight she would cry when she thought about my mother and how she missed this beautiful wedding. But that it was probably so beautiful because of her. That sitting on a wave or somewhere, my mother’s ghost was making sure that my sister and her husband love each other right in the moonlight.

Normally when someone comes through the front door of my sister’s and my sister’s husband’s house a little white poodle will bark several times in a row (so loud for a dog her size) then hide under a couch if you try to stop her, where she continues to bark from where you can’t reach her. But they got rid of her like they’re getting rid of me, so now the house is quiet when my sister comes through the front door with her husband and his bandages. My sister’s husband goes upstairs to rest, I guess, and my sister goes into the kitchen and makes a phone call to someone I can tell she doesn’t want to talk to because it makes her voice lie a little like she’s trying to talk normal while someone has their hands around her throat. They didn’t notice me when they came in, which is normal, since it was dark and for a moment I consider hiding under the couch and barking like the little white poodle that doesn’t live here anymore. But I decide that it’s too late for the joke to work and be funny and maybe, if timed correctly, it still wouldn’t be funny, but confusing and upsetting.

My sister finishes her phone call and I think knows that I’m sitting in the dark when she goes upstairs and probably isn’t going to ask me why I stabbed her husband in the head with a small fork, or, she already knows why and doesn’t have anything to say about it. So I’m alone and sitting in the dark like someone who stabbed someone else in the head and I figure I should leave and not just go for a long walk but leave and leave for good. I don’t get my things from upstairs because getting them would be noisy and it’s not that late out even though everything is so dark, because I run into the landlord’s wife in the elevator and she smiles big at me without taking off a pair of sunglasses that she likes to wear indoors and after the sun has gone down. She asks me if I am who I am and if I like it here and I say, “Yes, very much” in her language and she smiles bigger with her sunglasses on and tells me that I must miss my sister living so far away and then I pretend to have trouble understanding what she’s saying because answering her might make me cry and she doesn’t look like the kind of person who would know what to do or understand what’s happening because she’s wearing sunglasses and her voice is friendly, but nervous, even though I’m sure my sister hasn’t told anyone what I’ve done.

Outside I go left instead of right when I get out the front door of my sister’s and my sister’s husband’s building and wonder for thirty-something steps what might’ve happened to me if I had gone right instead of left, if maybe somebody good would’ve seen me and made up a reason to talk to me and like that I’m not from here and take me somewhere and kiss me on the mouth and be on my side after telling them my story of having stabbed my sister’s husband in the head with a small fork.

“He deserved it.”

“But all he did was ask me if I wanted some more pasta.”

“That’s not what he meant.”

But I’ve gone left instead of right and when I look at someone who is looking back at me it’s like they know I’ve done something terrible so I have to look away, though they are usually looking away first.

And no one comes after you when you leave and have nowhere to go. No one will call your name real loud so that everyone around you can turn and bare witness to the long embrace, the wet cheeks and the promise that they will never let you go. So I keep walking in what could be the wrong direction, the way away from anything that might forgive me. But if I could look at tropical fish or something maybe it wouldn’t feel so bad. If I could stare at fish in a tank with the right kind of light then maybe feeling bad would feel good. But feeling bad feels bad when it’s street corners and crosswalks, store fronts and cafes full of people who would be appalled to know that I stabbed my sister’s husband in the head with a small fork.

I should go inside somewhere, get on a bus maybe or sit in a station and be next to someone and explain myself. Rest my head against the shoulder of a woman wearing a head wrap and holding a baby.

“Wanna know what I did?”

“Whud’ja do? Gamble all your money away?”

“No…”

The fantasy helps and I buy a bus ticket from a man who never looks up from his computer screen. Even when I ask him if he takes dollars instead of pesos, he answers yes, and holds out his hand for bills that are not from his country. He places a very thin pink piece of paper against a shiny surface and when I reach for it, it slides back in his direction. He catches the piece of paper between his fingers and holds it out to me this time. I tell him thank you in his language, but he doesn’t look at me or say anything and if you ask me what color his eyes were I couldn’t tell you.

“You like wine?” asks the blond lady I’m sitting next to now who is not wearing a head wrap and has no baby, but jewelry and a pony tail.

“I’m Teresa,” says Teresa.

I’m lonely, but I don’t say this out loud.

Then Teresa doesn’t blink or drink her wine but instead wipes what could be a little spit from the corner of her mouth and is still not blinking. “They don’t do ‘to-go’ here which I guess is kind of nice,” says Teresa. “Not for coffee, not for nothing,” says Teresa, then she looks down to poor some wine into a paper cup from a bottle that is hidden in her purse.

“I’m from New York,” says Teresa. “But I like it here. It’s not New York but it’s like New York. You know?”

I don’t have to answer because Teresa is swishing her wine and not blinking at stuff in front of her.

“I could move here,” says Teresa, looking out her window this time. The bus isn’t moving because the traffic light is red and on the corner is a bar and full of people and one kind of light and Teresa watches them. “Yeah. But I can’t drink spirits. Only wine. I’ll get sick if I don’t drink wine and they’ve got lots of wine here. Lots of it. Lots and lots and lots and lots.”

I’m nodding and she’s not blinking.

“Do you speak English? Do you understand me?”

“I understand you.”

And Teresa starts to cry with her eyes wide open and looking out and everything is moving now and passing us by and I get the sad feeling suddenly that if I’m not stabbing someone in the head with a small fork then I’m making them cry.

“Wanna know what I did?” Teresa asks me and I say yes I do. “I work in television,” and now she’s drinking her wine and if she’s drinking her wine then she’s closing her eyes. “I go around and buy things and then you see it on TV. That’s what I do. That’s not so bad, is it?”

I’m shaking my head “no” and I’m squeezing my shoulders because when she’s tasting her wine or turning her head towards mine she’s closing her eyes.

“I see all kinds of things, like stuff they shoot in Figi or cartoons about cucumbers fucking a slice of pizza. I see stuff in German and really sad shit from China. People are dying all over the place. Did you know that? And I just thought maybe I’d meet interesting people or make out with somebody in South America…

* * * *

The fork had a plastic handle sort of. Blue plastic like something shiny you glue to your forehead.

“And I saw this one movie like this short movie. A film …

* * * *

The fork had three tines instead of four or five. Three tines instead of five and a low capacity for violence.

“In the film a lovely, lovely woman is picking up a young boy at a train station who turns out is her brother, home from school for the summer…

* * * *

The fork wasn’t heavy and could be used only to pick up pieces of meat cut into very small portions and fed to a baby.

“And they’re walking home together, not driving cuz they’re French and it’s a small town with everything green and really pretty light…

* * * *

If you held the fork in your hand it might feel like a small action figure. Or a seashell.

“It’s her younger brother and you’re never sure what’s up with her cuz she’s too old to be in school and she’s not married and she’s teasing her brother about girls and it turns out he’s very smitten over someone in particular so she teases him some more but really sweet even though maybe she’s a little bit sad and why does she have to bug him so much about it we don’t really know…

* * * *

My sister’s husband sat there for a second and for a second it looked like he might continue serving himself, or me, or my sister more pasta with a small fork stuck in his head. But only for a second.

“So finally he says yes, yes! he’s very much in love so they go and sit in this place in the woods, like on the way home there’s a place they go to, this place that maybe they played in when they were little but you don’t really know cuz you don’t really need to know even though it’s probably very important. Beautiful. Where they sit is beautiful,” and Teresa is holding my hand now and her fingers feel small and alive like they might hatch into babies of something.

“And she starts helping her brother rehearse the right thing to say to a girl if you’re in love with her basically because she knows of course, if you’re a girl you know what the words are. You understand?”

I understand that Teresa would probably never pick up a small fork and stab anyone in the head with it.

“But her brother’s not so good at it because he’s young and he’s nervous and it’s his sister so he’s embarrassed but only for a little while because after screwing it up a few times and some coaching from his sister who’s sitting on a log I think and holding her knees and smiling kind of but a little bit sad, he starts saying everything perfect, and it gets really quiet except for the boy’s voice, his perfect French voice and he’s saying all the right things but only because he means them and everything on his sister’s face kind of softens and becomes really quiet and there’s no more laughing like there was before when it was mostly a joke but not really,” and Teresa is doing a little more crying and looking anywhere now and lights going by, her face blue, then orange, then gone.

“So he’s done and without really realizing it he gets to the end of describing what it’s like to be in love I guess because he is in love I guess and he knows exactly how it feels because his sister was teasing but actually helping make sure that he’s going to love someone right, you know? But only if he really loves her and he really does love her because of everything he just said and he’s finished now and he looks down at his sister who is still sitting on the log and he asks her is that okay? Does that work? And it’s still really quiet and her face and her eyes are very soft and not just a little bit sad now but a lot sad now and quiet and she tucks a little piece of hair behind her ear instead of saying anything and nods her head yes a little bit, like really small and hardly enough for her brother to notice and she looks away and squints a little bit in the light I think to keep from crying, like I’m sure to keep from crying and before she starts crying it’s over, the screen goes black and big white letters spelling un film de some French guy. The end.”

Teresa is looking only down now and into her cup, holding it with both of her hands, shaking her head just a little so that no one on the bus will notice but me.

“So you wanna know what I did?”

Teresa did things that I haven’t done and all of it spoken into her cup that stays two sips from empty until her story is finished. Then she lifts her cup from her lap and swallows the last two sips, leaving the cup empty and Teresa full.

“We’re here. You wanna go make out in an elevator or something?” Teresa is already lifting herself from her seat, her purse over her shoulder and I think another bottle making noises against the empty one hidden inside. “They have nice elevators in this city. We’ll cast our shadows onto every floor as we pass it. You watch. It’s very French.”

Outside Teresa is holding my hand with both of her hands and walking funny because of her shoes and the wine and both of us are not speaking. She’s thinking I think of everything she told me on the bus, and I’m thinking of what she might be thinking and hoping she won’t be angry with me later because of everything I know about her now. “Leave,” she’ll say to me later unless I confess too. But quickly it becomes quiet long enough for nothing to be said now and I’m confessing in my head:

I’ve done worse things than stab my sister’s husband in the head with a small fork and Teresa squeezes my hand with both of her hands even though I haven’t said anything out loud. I’ve done worse things. I sat with my mother and forgot to tell her everything so that she wouldn’t die. Like maybe it won’t be me anymore after you die, Mom, and I’m squeezing Teresa’s hand. It won’t be me and people will stop looking me in the eye because it’s not me. I’ll say strange things into the corner of a room and call only the wrong people in the middle of the night, reach my hands out to you from my bed when I know you’re not there. I’ll hate people I’ve never met and break things in my head, always breaking things in my head.

* * * *

When Teresa is asleep or awake, there’s something she wants to share with you, a story she needs to tell. So I understand and I am leaving for good again without making too much noise because it’s dark and Teresa is next to me in the bed but still sleeping and very far away. It’s so dark and I can’t see but I know her body is turned away from me so it’s time to leave.

Outside it’s not so dark but kind of purple like something under a burn. I don’t remember rain but on a corner where it’s wet there is a boy wearing boots and sitting on a curb. His head is between his legs and he is staring down. I think his eyes are open. He’s wearing purple boots but I don’t notice for some reason until he is looking up at me because I’ve come close enough.

“I didn’t think you would come,” says the boy wearing purple boots. But I’m quiet and that seems to be right. The boy is squinting one eye more than the other when he offers me a cigarette, holding one further out than the rest and looking at me with his good eye. He lights the cigarette for me, using his other hand to protect the flame from the still and purple air.

“Did it rain?”

“I don’t know,” says the boy wearing purple boots and smoking. Then he holds the smoke in his lungs to look at me funny because I’m still standing and not sitting next to him on the curb that is wet and picking up light even though no one can remember the rain.

We sit together and it’s quiet.

“You remind me of some one,” I tell him.

“Who?”

“My mom.”

“Where is she?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. Because now when I go anywhere it doesn’t matter that I’m there.” And he’s quiet now because it’s quiet. And he’s quiet for a long time and I’m waiting for the colors to change and the shadows to move and the purple to burn away from us and bring me back, but the air stays and the boy doesn’t move and I can feel words in my throat and on my teeth and they are shaking.

“Once,” and my voice is a sound and the sound is an instrument, like a small piano, abandoned and alone in the street. “I was little and I found a book in my mother’s drawer. My mother used this book to write in, but not fancy or a small lock or pictures, just her words on the page and she would separate the syllables to every word but I don’t know why. There were gaps in the middle of each word, small leaps away from the paper, her hand floating funny and I have no idea why. And sometimes the letters come closer together to describe the bad part of a dream. Like when once she was locked in a bathroom or a closet or a box and she couldn’t get out. Not because the door was locked or stuck, but held shut by someone on the other side. And in her book for writing and the letters coming closer together she is convinced that the person on the other side of the door is me. But I keep reading and she writes it down. She says it’s me and the gaps in the words are disappearing because it’s me and I don’t let her out. And once I had a dream that I never wrote down. And in my dream my mother sits in a chair in my room and in the dark wearing a mask. Nixon on her face or a plastic bear, two holes for eyes and she watches me but I will never write this down. I ask her if she’s my mom and she says yes but won’t take off the mask in the dark and something in her lap, holding something in her lap and I will never know and I will never write this down.”

It’s so quiet.

“And once,” I say after the last bit of smoke rises from all the silent ash, “I was on a train and going home. You could hear the wheels of the train taking corners and screaming like it hurt. And you could feel the shape of the walls outside and we get to the tunnel that goes under water to get us to the other side and you can hear the weight of the water above. Like how it would sound if the sky fell. I’m listening to how dark it is above us and I notice that everyone on the train is sleeping. There are seven other passengers and they all have their eyes closed and I’m the only one awake while we move through the loneliest place on earth to get home. Together. That ever happen to you?”

“Yeah,” says the boy wearing purple boots. “They were dreaming. They were all having the same dream.”

“Or nightmare?”

“It doesn’t have to be a nightmare,” says the boy wearing purple boots. And then he says “Are you ready?” and he puts his cigarette out on a piece of light that is breaking and in pieces against the pavement. I tell the boy yes, I’m ready.

The streets are empty, like paintings in a room after closing time, images on the wall, bodies unfinished and colors disobeying their boundaries. It reminds me of the time I was on the train and going home and everyone on the train was sleeping and having the same dream. And in this dream a man who has done worse things than stab his sister’s husband in the head with a small fork, had read his mother’s words living like secrets unattended to on the page, divided and out of reach and he will never know why and he will never write this down, follows a boy in purple boots to the top of the stairs to a door that opens above a silent city below that forgives him. He watches the air weaken from purple to gold and everyone that has loved him gathers to wave goodbye or hello for the first or very last time, so the man’s heart can finally break and spill, join the shades that surround him and then finish, like vanishing smoke.

Again, he might cry, the memory of a stranger sharing loneliness in a paper cup, or his sister in her wedding dress removing tears from just beneath her eyes and smiling, his brothers sometimes listening to him from across a table maybe, certain and trusting, like it were the one story that promised peaceful sleep, and his sister’s husband preparing pasta, insisting there’s enough for you, and if you’re still hungry, there’s always more, all of them playing inside the walls, chewing their way out to the other side. But if he cries it won’t happen. He will have to stay, solid lines never bleeding out and into other places, places rushing, rushing by. So he holds back the burn in his eyes and feels sick, too much of something inside.

Are you ready?

Yes. I’ve never felt so brave. I can look anyone in the eye, even while disappearing.

Posted by Pedro Pascal at 6:24 AM

sksksk What does your cards say about this? @firsttarotreader biphobia only post women never post this or other proof that make you wrong.

To the 😈 person who replied to my post, thanks, keep up the good work! 😈😈

[waterfall-ambience]

I blame a TikTok I saw for this, but Evil Xisuma giving Worm Man a life-size worm on a string plush they made for him? I have a feeling afterwards he even makes a tweet like that one meme with the giant mareep plush. Anyway, I love your art and I hope you have a good day! <3

oh you have NO idea how excited this prompt made me

[lezleila]

Could you write sapnap angst? Any plot or idea you like! ^_^

sapnap x GN reader

warnings: angst

a/n: i could not get into the angst headspace to write this :,( but i hope this is okay <3

if had been 6 months since sapnap had last seen you, yet every night you plagued his dreams.

“i just don’t care about you anymore, you staying here is pointless. why can’t you get it through your head that i don’t want you in my life” you bit down on your lower lip, eyes laser focused on the ground as you tried to stop the tears that threatened to fall.

he knew that he was doing the right thing but it didn’t stop the emptiness that seemed to overtake him whenever you were mentioned.

“i thought-“ you furrowed your brows, trying to find the words to express just how you were feeling. “i thought that we were forever, you said you wanted to move in together i just don’t understand where all this is coming from”

every day passed by in a blur, he couldn’t remember how he’d managed to go day by day before he met you. all he could hope was that you were doing better than him, he hoped that you were happy. it was what you deserved.

“well i don’t, i wish you’d just leave. hop on a plane and disappear so i don’t ever have to fucking see you again” his words just kept cutting, deeper and deeper. the strings of the life you’d envisioned for the two of you severed by every sentence.

sapnap opened up your social media for the third time that day, scrolling through your posts, his heart swelled at the smile you wore. he relished every piece of your life he could get, watching from a screen as you did all the things the two of you had always talked about.

you were tangled up in sap’s bed, a mess of blankets and pillows, his arms wrapped around you as you both tried to keep your voices quiet. “oh- and we could live off campus, in one of those cute little apartments!” “do you know how expensive a good sized apartment is?” you rolled your eyes at his pessimism “no one said it had to be good! we could live in a cardboard box for all i care, smushed together like worms in a can-” “is this about me loving you as a worm again?” you punched his chest, the both of you breaking into giggles as you dreamed of the future.

when the admission letters had arrived you’d both waited anxiously to open them together. the squeal you’d let out at your acceptance was short lived as you realised that only one of you had gotten in. sapnap knew just how crushed you were, despite your smile and the way you tried to brush it off he knew what going to this college meant for you. he’d tried to convince you to go without him yet you’d been insistent on rejecting the offer, determined to stay with him no matter what. guilt knawed away at him, he couldn’t let you throw away everything you’d worked for, for him. no matter how much it hurt he would just have to settle for loving you from afar.

[garciaasfluffypen]

The Birthday Disaster

wc: 1.8k pairing: sara lance x ava sharpe  warnings: NSFW (MDNI i will chase you with a broom), the legends are chaotic, sara and ava really just want some alone time goddamnit

Christmas was probably one of Ava’s favorite times of the year. She wasn’t sure why, but it made her so happy to see the whole team get excited about decorating the galley. Even Zari, who technically didn’t celebrate Christmas even got in on the spirit, and everyone always made sure to put out halal foods for her so she could be included. For Ava, the closeness was probably the best part of it. Growing up, she had never really become close to people in her life, unless you count her mother and father. It wasn’t until she met the Legends that she had realized what being close to people meant, especially when it came to all of the shenanigans that they all ensued this time of year. From ugly sweater contests to see who could drink the most eggnog before they noticed Mick had spiked it, Ava had never felt like she had belonged. But now, she had a group where she did belong and celebrate the things that made her happy.

She was helping Nate hang some string lights in the galley when she happened to overhear Zari and Amaya talking as they walked in to get a drink. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she heard Sara’s name and was automatically intrigued. Sure, they hadn’t put a label on what they had become yet, but something told her this was something she and Sara had to do for themselves – something she knew the blonde assassin would probably be annoyed with but would smile through it nonetheless.

“Nate,” Ava started, “What does Sara like?”

“Huh?”

“Like, candies, chocolates, that kinda stuff.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Well she likes gummy worms, some sort of chocolate covered espresso bean shit… never understood why, if I’m being honest. Oh, she likes Pixie Sticks too.”

“Sweet, thanks Nate.” Ava patted him on the shoulder and scurried down the ladder she was standing on, practically running out of the door.

“You’re welcome?”

                                                          -----                                                                

Everything was going to plan. Ava had told Sara to come to their room on the Waverider after dinner so they could hang out, just the two of them. Smoothing out yet another invisible wrinkle, Ava sat herself down cross legged on the bed and placed the box she had got Sara in front of her, filled to the brim with her favorite candies and topped off with a bow. The only wrapping paper she could find was an obnoxious hot pink paper covered in unicorns, which clashed horribly with the lime green bow she had found shoved in the depths of Zari’s closet. Either way, the sentiment was there, and she knew that Sara would get a kick out of it either way. She nervously tucked some hair behind her ear, swallowing the lump that was in her throat. She could get through this. She could make her surprise work. It had to work. She didn’t put three hours of planning into what outfit she was going to wear today for nothing. A small jump overtook her body as the door to their bedroom opened, Sara walking in with a sly smile on her face.

“What’s this?”

“Well, I overheard it was your birthday tomorrow and I wanted to do something special, just the two of us. Since we have things planned with the team tomorrow, and… I- yeah.”

“Aves, you didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to.”

Ava held out a hand and took one of Sara’s in her own as she sat down on the bed, lightly nudging the box towards her. Sara raised an eyebrow and took it, hints of a smile forming on her lips as she saw the wrapping paper. Ava hid behind her hands as she heard the paper rip, trying to hide her blush as Sara opened the box. Various candies and small baggies with the chocolate covered espresso beans were scattered throughout crinkle paper (or “Easter egg grass!” as Gary liked to call it) and small bite size pieces of chocolate were scattered in as well. A pack of Pixie Sticks was sitting in the bottom as well, and a small handwritten note was taped to the lid of the box. Sara carefully took the note off of the lid and opened it, smirking as Ava watched her read it through her fingers.

“Babe, this is - wow. Thank you.”

“You like it?”

“Like it? Aves this is one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.” Sara put the note down on her bedside table and crawled across the bed to Ava, placing herself on her lap. “But there’s one gift I’d love the most.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well,” Sara took the bow from her present and looped it around Ava’s neck, slowly pulling the blonde closer. “It starts with an A, is five foot nine, and hopefully is wearing something sexy under that robe.”

A small scoff fell from Ava’s lips as she wrapped her arms around Sara’s midsection, pulling the smaller blonde as close as she physically could muster. The two of them became a tangle of limbs as she pushed Sara back so they were laying down, the box of treats forgotten as it fell to the floor. Ava’s robe was practically ripped off of her as they continued to kiss, the robe being long forgotten as Sara threw it somewhere in the room. Fingers trailed over porcelain skin as Ava made her way down Sara’s jawline, using her free hand to push some hair out of the way as she came closer to her neck. Ava’s hands came to rest on Sara’s hips as she waited for Sara to shimmy out of her shirt. Once the shirt was discarded, Ava resumed her trail of kisses, stopping to put a singular kiss on each breast. She slowly continued down Sara’s body, taking the time to kiss each and every one of Sara’s visible scars, and even trace over the small tattoo she got of a black canary -- Ava guessed it was to symbolize her sister. Sara started squirming under her touch and Ava let her tongue slip out in between her lips, making her trail down her body painfully slower than it was. When she finally got to where she wanted to be, Ava slowly ran her hands up and down Sara’s thigh, waiting for the assassin to give her the go-ahead. When Sara practically started pleading with her, Ava inched her way towards the hem of Sara’s undies, pulling them down her legs. She could practically feel the heat radiating off of her, and smiled as she pushed hair out of her face, making her way down.

Sara felt the fireworks in her body as Ava finally got where she needed her to be, her back arching as lips and tongue danced across her skin. Sara let her hands get tangled in Ava’s long locks, her face covered in expressions she had no idea existed until she met Ava. Toes started curling and Sara’s breaths got closer and closer together as Ava reached up and grabbed at Sara’s breast, pulling it out of the bralette she was wearing and playing with it. Sara started shaking in anticipation as she got closer and closer to climax, letting out a long moan as her back arched off of the bed, Ava’s hands sitting firmly on her hips in an effort to keep her in one place. Before she knew it, Ava was back up by her face and kissing her, causing Sara to wrap her arms around the blonde as she played with the hooks on Sara’s back, slipping the bralette off her tiny frame as they switched positions. Sara barely had time to register what was happening before she was on top of Ava, desperately trying to undo the corset that was tied around her midsection. Sara had seen Ava’s body many times before, but every time she was astonished at how perfect Ava truly was, inside and out. She finally got the corset untied and tossed it off to the side, pausing a moment to take her girlfriend in.  She bent down to place a kiss on Ava’s lips, smiling into it as she did so.

“Hey, I heard you guys had chocolate and pixie sticks OH MY GOD!”

The door to their bedroom slid open to reveal Zari and Nora, both of them in the stupid matching Christmas pajamas Nate had convinced everyone to wear (“Come on you guys, it’ll be cute!”), except Zari was just in a plain white crew neck with a donut on it. Zari automatically went to cover her eyes as Sara fell off the bed, taking the sheets with her. Ava, in her frightened state, grabbed a pillow and shoved it in front of her body, hoping and praying to anyone out there that it was covering her whole body. Nora froze in her spot, the half eaten Hershey’s bar Ray had gotten her falling to the floor.

“I clearly stated that Ms. Lance and Ms. Sharpe were busy, Ms. Darhk.”

“Yeah I didn’t think you meant they were busy doing each other!”

Sara popped up from her spot on the floor, doing her best to wrap the sheet around her body as she glared daggers at Nora and Zari. “What about ‘knock on my door if you need me’ do you not understand, Darhk?”

“Well, in our defense, Nate told us you had candy.”

“And whipped cream.”

“But now I see what you guys were doing…”

“I don’t think I want to know where that whipped cream was going to end up.”

Ava huffed. “No, you really don’t.”

“Both of you, out!”

“I- yes captain.”

Zari pulled Nora away from the door, shooting Sara a small apologetic smile as the door shut. Sara and Ava sat in their spots, staring at each other for a few moments before Ava cleared her throat.

“Well that was a disaster.”

“I-yeah.”

“We really need to invest in locks.”

“I- yeah.”

“I’m sorry, this was supposed to be perfect and-”

“Aves, hey.” Sara crawled back onto the bed, pushing some hair out of Ava’s face. “No matter what those idiots did or will do, tonight was perfect. I-I haven’t really celebrated my birthday in a while so being able to at least do something that made it special makes it perfect in my book.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes. Anything you do for me is perfect, Ava. I mean it.”

“So you’re not mad that Nora and Zari both just walked in on us having sex?”

“Oh no, I’m fuming. Actually fuming. But like you’ve told me, I can’t let my anger get a hold of me over something we’re never going to speak about again.”

Ava chuckled. “I’m really rubbing off on you, huh?”

“You truly are, Ms. Sharpe.” Sara smiled, pecking her on the lips. “I hope you know that I know get the liberty to walk in on both of them while they’re having sex with their respected partners as payback, yeah?”

“I couldn’t stop you if I tried.”

[rosy-cheekx]

for the soulmate prompts! 5: you have a colorful mark where your soulmate will first touch you

This definitely isn’t like my usual fics, but it was a ton of fun to write!! I hope you enjoy it! I am here for the Martin angst.

Fingerprints on the Soul

Martin has never believed in soulmates. Or, rightly, he has never believed he has one. He has a mark, sure, an opalite shimmer in the shape of a hand, small and slender, circling his wrist. It grows with him, and Martin assumes, this alleged soulmate.

But it doesn’t feel right for him to have a soulmate. He’s never had time for it. Leaving school at 16, his mother has been his world, the only point of connection in his life. And regardless of how they get on (or rather, didn’t), he couldn’t see himself having room for another person to care for. He barely had time for himself.

When he was 8, his best friend was named Rachel. They got married in the playpark one day; Martin’s jump rope and Rachel’s Raggedy Ann the witnesses to their elopement. They didn’t kiss, gross, but they pressed their hands to each other’s soulmate marks. Rachel’s hand was too chubby for the kid-sized hand on Martin’s wrist, and she couldn’t quite get the angle right. Rachel’s mark was on her hip, five delicate purple spots her mum told her were probably fingerprints. “Someone very gentle,” she repeated her mother’s words with pride. Martin wondered what a whole hand on the wrist meant. Probably bad. His mother grabbed his wrist when he was in trouble, dragging him to the timeout corner. That never felt like true love, what Rachel said soulmates were supposed to be.

When Martin was 19, he watched Terry, a Northern boy with shaggy hair dyed a black so dark it was almost blue, grab his wrist and pull him into the stockroom of the Tesco’s, and for a moment his heart lifted. But as a boy who smelled like deli meat and tasted like cigarettes kissed him, hands on his waist, he realized it was the wrong hand. He kissed back, of course, though he knew it wouldn’t last.

Martin was 21 when he decided not to think about a soulmate anymore. There are plenty of dating apps, people sending pictures of marks to see if they match in color or trying to string together a narrative that rationalizes any sort of reason their touches could be each other’s. He’s always wondered if it’s all self-imposed, someone you like touches you in the right spot and your brain convinces you it’s been them all along. It’s naïve, Martin thinks, Childish.

His mark is hard to hide; the wrist is fairly conspicuous. Martin has taken to wearing long sleeves, watches, bracelets, even a very brief leather cuff stage, anything to minimize the glaring brilliance of an opalescent handprint, radiating against his freckles skin. Sometimes when Martin is in his flat, in the quiet and the dark, he traces the fingertips with his own, trying to imagine a scenario in which his wrist is held in such a manner, the fingers at such a strange angle. The rainbow of color shimmers in light, hypnotizing to behold.

Martin was 24 when he joined The Magnus Institute, though he said he was 30. He wasn’t sure why that lie had slipped out, but it had felt right to give himself a boost in years, if nothing else to make sure there was sufficient time for all his “degree work” to have been completed. Elias seemed to believe him. Made him seem more professional too, to be a 30-year-old looking for a job, rather than a measly 24. Silly, really. His actual age wouldn’t have made a lick of difference in the things that mattered.

Being 28 years old when he is moved to the Archives wouldn’t have changed the way Jon treated him, for one. Martin was a pro in being accommodating, especially to the people that held power in his life, but damn if Jonathan Sims didn’t make it difficult. The harsh criticism, the sneering glances, the biting words he thinks Martin doesn’t hear every time he listens through a statement for details to research. It all hurts.

(Sasha hugged him warmly, in that first week working in the archives, promising it would get better; he saw the light blue mark on her palm. Tim had one to match, he noticed the following day, when he had handed him a Chinese takeaway. He had laughed at Martin’s sputtered realization, flipping his hand over for Martin to see and loudly declaring it “the most boring sign of love,” grinning at Sasha’s desk as he said so. He didn’t ask about Martin’s.)

His age wouldn’t have changed, he doesn’t think, his insistent motivation to make Jon proud. To prove that he is not a waste of space, the way everyone seemed to think of him; that he is clever and capable and he earned that fake degree, godammit. It certainly wouldn’t have changed his choices that night, he’s certain of that. No matter what age he could have been (granted, young enough to climb/fall through a window), Martin is fairly certain he would have always gone back to that flat that night, seen the form of Jane Prentiss for real, in the flesh…or what was left of it. Being 28 or 45 or 30 wouldn’t have changed the viscerally terrifying two weeks he spent locked in his flat, stuffing towels under his door and checking his skin compulsively. His mark was a ridiculously glamorous beacon through it all, like a diamond necklace on a corpse.

Initially, Martin wasn’t sure Jon had a mark. That would require him caring for another living soul and, besides the warm banter he seemed to exchange on occasion with Tim and Sasha, he didn’t seem to be an affectionate man. He wasn’t sure, at least, until he was back in the Archives, trying not to shake as he told Jon what had happened, and he listened. Not only did Jon listen, but he believed him, cared fiercely, making him a cup of tea, buying him takeaway, and demanding to Elias that Martin be able to stay in the archives. One night, when Jon was working late and Martin was sitting on the floor with him in flannel, caught up in a debate on whether or not all things could be classified as “bowls” and “soups,” (“a file is a bowl for statement soup!” Martin had insisted, unable to hold back the grin) he felt that delightful, horrible twinge deep in his gut, and shit. Of course he would develop a crush on Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, His Boss. But how could he not? Jon’s face was a delightful mix of irritation, erudition, and humor as he tried to entertain Martin’s inane theory. And being there so late all the time had taught Martin to notice little quirks about Jon: his insistence to please others, especially Elias; his stubborn refusal to take care of himself (Oedipus complex much, Martin?); how adorably squished his face looked when he fell asleep on his desk, lips parted in a pout.

Martin let it sit. It didn’t matter. Hard to take someone on a date when you’re living in the basement of your workplace. And besides, he knew Jon didn’t like him, so what was the point? It was great poetry fodder, anyways.

God, but then it happened, like he knew it would. The worms and the screaming and Jon and Sasha. He had been frozen in a moment of fear and confusion, unable to make out the words Jon was saying as he grabbed Martin’s wrist and pulled him to safety, tugging the larger man along behind him. And then they were running and the worms were leaping and oh god they were everywhere. Martin faintly registered the ever-growing circular patches on Jon’s trousers, the glimpses of blood-slicked silver like a bullseye.

And then they were safe for the moment and Martin had his corkscrew and cuts open Jon’s trouser and all he could say was I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it hurts as he carves into the flesh of Jon’s leg, wishing he could block out Jon’s whimpering cries of pain. It’s not until he and Sasha can wipe away the blood soaked into Jon’s leg that Martin sees it, underneath his crimson-slick fingertips, precisely under them: iridescent fingertips and a distinct heel of a palm, under and around the first wormhole, where Martin had braced the skin for the first incision. He sits back on his heels and glances down at his own wrist again, where Jon had pulled him along behind, and realized that, even as they were running for their lives, something had slotted into place in his mind, a sense of peace and knowing and yes. He hadn’t noticed it, what with all the death. Jon must have sensed it too. How was that the first time Jon had touched him? 

Martin didn’t say anything, and tentatively lined up his hand with the mark again and still. It fit. Even with the strip of Martin’s shirt they’ve tied around Jon’s leg to stem the weeping wound. Martin sighed, in relief and exhaustion and fear, and Jon weakly held out a hand for Martin to take. They watched Sasha peer through the window in the door and squeezed the hand of the other tightly, a message of hello, and I know, and I’m here. If they ever got out of here, they would discuss it. Figure things out.

Maybe even get a coffee. 

[ddarker-dreams]

Puppet Strings. Yan Ghost Josuke x Reader [COMM]

Warnings: Josuke’s temper flaring, typical yandere elements, brief alcohol mention. Word count: 3.1k

i.

You didn’t think much of it when you saw your window wide open. 

No, it wasn’t that particular moment that sent alarm bells ringing. It’s remarkable what the human mind is capable of scrounging up to justify an otherwise horrifying situation. Moving from one place to another is an exhausting effort -- you reasoned to yourself -- maybe you reopened it and forgot. That sounds perfectly plausible. Sleep came easily to you that night and all was forgotten the next morning. There were some other minor occurrences, cabinets being open, the television flickering. Nothing incriminating, nothing to worry about. 

For a time, this logic worked in your best interest. The last straw was when your personal belongings started going missing. Lip glosses, shirts, and even some sketchbooks. Contacting the police served to be no help. When they asked who could hold a vendetta against you, you had no solid leads. You’d only been in Morioh a little over a month. Earning an adversary in that short a time felt unlikely, if not impossible. Classmates were interviewed, their alibis clearing them of possible suspects, the investigation stagnant. Your neighbors hadn’t seen questionable figures lurking around your home. Days went by, and a few patrols later, the police claimed there wasn’t much else they could do. There were no signs of breaking and entering, no fingerprints, no leads. 

No peace of mind.

You’ve explored every logical avenue. Not knowing what to do next is the worst part, it’s what serves to frustrate you the most. Sighing, you dry your hands off, mulling over what to do next. Now that you’ve finished washing the dishes, there are no other chores to procrastinate with. Guess I better get started on that project, you think. God, but it’s so hard to focus anymore. 

Without noticing it, you felt drawn to the living room. Anyone would understand, that from the stress you’ve suffered, it’s fine to take a break. A distraction from reality sounds great right about now. Your PlayStation 2, which has been collecting dust, can finally get used. The multiplayer games are bugged -- a Player 2 shows up even when you play it with yourself -- so you haven’t used it in some time. Scanning over the various game choices, you never get a chance to pick one out. 

“Huh, so they released a sequel to that?” An unknown voice, masculine and lighthearted, chimes in behind you. Your immediate reaction is to whip your head back, searching for the source. Heart pounding, you realize this is exactly what you feared. That whoever was stalking you would eventually come to settle things for seeking help from law enforcement. You don’t see him, even though the voice had been close enough to assume he’s behind you. There’s no way you imagined it. Where is he? 

That’s when you see him. 

Whether or not it was intentional, he stands blocking your path to the kitchen, where your phone is. A young man of imposing size, easily dwarfing you. His style throws you off, it’s like he was ripped from another time. That hair… a pompadour? Narrowing your eyes, you stand from your kneeling position, preparing to hold your ground. He might be blocking your ability to call the police, but there’s still the option of running out the front door to alert your neighbors. It’ll be fine, you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. Just don’t panic. 

“Who are you?” Is the first question that slips past your lips. There’s unfiltered hostility in the words, despite your hesitation to aggravate him. Your eyebrows furrow when he puts his hands up in defense. It gives an impression of mockery in an otherwise grave scenario.

“Woah, calm down there,” he lets out a nervous chuckle that further irks you. “You can call me Higashikata Josuke.”

This person -- Josuke -- is acting too casual about this. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s the source of your torment these past few weeks. How else could he be standing in your home, acting in such a deplorable manner? For your own best interest, you bite your tongue, that’s dying to hurl numerous insults his way. In contrast to his polite speech, he’s dressed like a stereotypical delinquent. Who knows what Josuke would do should you provoke him. You’ve heard rumors of rambunctious youths in the area and don’t want to test the validity of those claims. 

“Alright, Higashikata-san, I’m going to ask you to leave. This is my house. If you just… leave me alone, I won’t contact the police. Alright?” You feel like your proposal is a considerate one, even if you don’t intend to follow through. Once you get to safety, like hell you’re going to let this punk get away with it, he just doesn’t need to know that yet. Josuke shifts weight from one leg to another, contemplating your words.

“I can’t do that. Besides, the same way you feel this is your house, I equally feel like it’s mine.” Josuke replies, scratching his cheek. His tone almost sounds… apologetic. As if it isn’t completely within his control to leave. You gulp when you realize your approach might not work. Maybe he’s not mentally sound? That’s the most plausible solution. Taking a deep breath, you shift to a less combative posture, still hoping to talk him down.

“Is there someone I could call? A guardian, a friend? Let’s figure this out.” You will yourself to keep each word steady to lure him in. The innocent inquiry doesn’t have the intended effect, Josuke frowning as soon as the word guardian left your lips. Shit. Was that a sensitive topic? The scowl is gone in a split second like it never existed. He takes a step closer to you and you take a step back.

“There’s not much to figure out. I’ll be honest then since I’m sure you’re freaking out right now. Which makes sense. I’d be freaking out too…” he trails off, going deep into thought. Finally, Josuke manages to choose the proper words. “How do I go about this? Alright, I’ll just come out and say it.” 

“Well, to put it in simple terms, I’m dead.” 

You blink. Tilting your head, you conclude that this Higashikata Josuke is not mentally well. Getting in contact with a professional is your new top priority. Josuke picks up on your hesitant body language and rushes to give credence to his claim.

“I know, crazy, isn’t it? I’m sorry about your stuff, by the way. Felt like the best way to understand my new housemate without sending you running right away. I’ll return it now,” Josuke’s demeanor doesn’t give you the impression of a liar. Still, a spirit? You don’t know what to think anymore. He sighs at the sour expression on your face. “How to prove this to you… ah, I know. Hey, check this out.” 

Josuke points to the controller sitting on your couch. Not a second later, it starts levitating in the air, your jaw-dropping at the unfeasible spectacle. Josuke lets out an airy chuckle at your bewilderment. “Sorry, that was pretty lame. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“There’s… really a spirit, in my house.” You struggle to say it aloud. The people living in Morioh could be superstitious, a view you attributed to living out in the country. This paranoia, or sometimes reverence, never fell in line with your beliefs. There was no solid proof that the supernatural existed. It made for riveting local stories, for youths to gossip and movies to adapt, but the line was drawn there. A timeline plays in your head of the past few weeks. It would explain how no one in this active community spotted an intruder, or how the police never found physical evidence. 

“Our house, actually.” He corrects with a beaming smile.

ii. 

Maybe it’s not so bad. 

Josuke, with whom you have an unusual relationship, makes for decent company in your otherwise uneventful life. You still can’t help but feel on guard around him for his earlier behavior. As he explained it, borrowing your belongings was just a way to get to know you. He apologized wholeheartedly for the stress he put on your life. It felt genuine, but an apology doesn’t make everything go away at once. Little by little, Josuke’s grown on you, worming his way into your heart. Memories and feelings fade, your first few weeks after the move are no different. 

“Have you seen my red scarf anywhere?” You call out, peeking underneath your pillow. Josuke appears from thin air -- an element that took some getting used to -- helping to look around your room. One of your conditions for remaining here was that he’d show up in your room only when invited, a condition Josuke was more than happy to agree to. You guess everyone is lonely in their own way.

“It’s not over here,” Josuke yells from beneath your desk. “What do you need it for, anyway? Can’t you just turn the heater on?” 

“Well, I could, but that wouldn’t do me much good. Some friends invited me to karaoke tonight, and the weather report said it’ll drop to four degrees celsius.” Feeling defeated, you plop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. Josuke leans over, popping into your line of sight. He’s lacking the trademark smile you’ve grown used to seeing. For such a minor change, it packs a punch. Josuke sulks like a kicked puppy.

“Karaoke, huh?” He mutters, more to himself than you. “My old classmates used to do stuff like that. Sounds fun.” 

You sit up and cross your legs. Josuke’s tone is a longing one, wishing to fulfill a dream that can never be, visage painfully bleak. Guilt bubbles up in your stomach for the insensitive comment, not realizing he has a lot on his mind too. Josuke’s bubbly personality stood on a thin sheet of ice, ready to plunge into the depths at any moment. You wrack your mind to try and appease him. 

“It really isn’t anything that exciting. I was going to say no, but they insisted. Just imagine it as a bunch of tone-deaf people drunkards belting, that’s all it is.” You console. Josuke doesn’t light up at your joke, his eyes hollow. From what you know about spirits, if they linger in this realm instead of moving onto the next, that means an obligation is holding them here. You’ve never asked Josuke why he hasn’t passed on. That leaves room for speculation, numerous hours spent ruminating over theories. Maybe he’ll tell you one day, or maybe he won’t. Either way, it’s still tragic he never got to live his life.

“Mm… guess so, yeah.” He isn’t paying attention to your words. Guilt as sharp as knives slices through you at Josuke’s gloomy mood. For a split second, you consider canceling with your friends, to stay home and cheer him up. He always loves playing games with you or just speaking over trivial matters for hours. You push the idea away. Fraternizing with a spirit on the daily isn’t enough to supply your social needs, only friends of flesh and blood can fill that role. 

“Hey, I’m sorry for mentioning it. If you want to talk about--” 

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “Go ahead. Go live life.” 

You don’t offer a rebuttal. Josuke probably needs time to think, you decide. We can talk about it later.

iii. 

“What’s up?” 

You lean against the wall, payphone pressed against one ear and your hand covering the other. Music blares in the background, terrible acoustics of the crowded bar making it difficult to hear the other line. One of the workers grabbed you, saying you had a call, your guesses of who it could be next to nonexistent. You scrunch your nose up when you hear Josuke’s distinct voice on the other side.

“It’s late,” you hear him say. His voice is muffled, but the exasperated tone is hard to miss. “Shouldn’t you be back by now?” 

Sighing, you struggle to rationalize why Josuke’s pestering you like this. You never gave a time when you’d be home, not thinking it was necessary. “I was going to leave soon. I don’t have class in the next few days, so it’s fine.” 

“It’s dangerous to be out on your own--” 

“Josuke,” you deadpan, rubbing your temples. “I appreciate the concern, really, I do. But I used to live in Tokyo, remember? If I could survive the city at night, I can survive here.” 

“That’s not the point here,” Josuke counters, voice dropping dangerously low. Your patience is wearing thin at his attempts to police your autonomy. It’s not his place to enforce a curfew on you. “You don’t know what kinds of danger lurks in Morioh.” 

Josuke’s statement is full of bone-chilling conviction. Almost like he was speaking from firsthand experience. You take a deep breath, remembering that you’re speaking to someone who likely died in a traumatizing manner here. Maybe extending a little grace wouldn’t hurt. It’s a shame to cut the night short, but it’s not that big a deal.  

“Okay, I get it. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk back home. I’ll see you soon, alright?” 

Softening your voice seems to have the effect you intended. Josuke takes a second to consider, the two of you waiting in tense silence. This is the first time you’ve gone out with friends, maybe he just wasn’t sure what to make of it. You hold no intention of bending to his every whim, but this one time, you’ll offer him peace of mind. There’ll be major boundaries set up in the future. 

He sighs begrudgingly. “... Right.” 

iv. 

This is getting ridiculous. 

Josuke’s behaving no better than an entitled child, your paper-thin patience starting to give way. The circumstances you’ve been placed into were unusual enough, to begin with, but they never felt malicious, not until Josuke’s personality seemed to switch in the blink of an eye. What you can only describe as sabotage has become a regular occurrence. It perfectly parallels the problems you had upon first moving into this house, only now you know the one responsible. He’ll act none the wiser, claiming innocence in what has to be his doing.

Cut phone lines, missing shoes, personal journals disappearing into thin air, nothing has been spared. Maybe you were foolish for trusting a spirit. You’d like to have thought you were on solid terms with Josuke, your mortal mind doing its best to wrap around the otherworldly events. You’re at your wit’s end, now fully prepared to confront him on this unacceptable display. It’s a shame it came to this, you think. Confrontation is the worst.

“Josuke.” 

“[First].” 

The two of you sit in the living room, on opposite sides of the couch. Ever since the karaoke disaster a few weeks ago, Josuke’s attitude has taken an undesirable turn, as evidenced by how he’s acting now. Never did you imagine he could be so petty. You straighten out your posture, squaring your shoulders, and placing your hands on your lap. He stares at you with faint interest, cerulean eyes shining at your attention. 

“I’ve tried my best to be understanding,” you wince at how dramatic your words are. It almost sounds like you’re breaking up with a partner. “If I did something that upset you, please just be honest about it.” 

Josuke gives a nonchalant wave. “Nah, it’s not that important anymore. I recently made up my mind, so I don’t feel too concerned about it.” 

There weren’t many expectations in place for this talk, but Josuke dismissing you this fast wasn’t an outcome you envisioned. It feels like a slap to the face after you spent days dreading this talk. What did “recently making up his mind” even mean? Irritation rises in your throat like bile, words snapping out before you can stop them.

“You don’t just get to be that dismissive,” you point out with a scowl. “I know what you’ve been doing. Taking my stuff again, right, Higashikata? I’m fed up with this shit. Maybe I should just move out--” 

Your sentence gets cut off by the coffee table’s glass shattering. The high pitched noise makes you jump, shards flying in multiple directions on the floor. Glancing from the mess back to Josuke, you find the sight of him as a stronger cause for worry. He looks thoroughly unimpressed with your emotional outburst. Thick eyebrows knit together, his face contorting from friendly to enraged. You gulp when a sudden chill in the air sending shivers down your spine. With how friendly your relationship with him had been up to this point, you forgot to watch your tongue, the initial reverence wearing off long ago. 

Josuke stands up, flaunting his towering build. Looking down at you through lidded eyes, he reaches down, and you catch a glimpse of light blue and pink. Huh? What was that? A trick of the lights, maybe? As fast as it was destroyed, you watch in awe as the pieces return to their original place. Broken glass, chips of wood, screws and all, become whole as if it was a movie playing in reverse. Is this something else a spirit can do? 

“Y’know, [First],” Josuke begins with a humorless laugh. “This is great. I wasn’t sure how to do this part. Now I don’t have to worry about that, so let me cut right to the chase.” 

You feel the blood draining from your face, goosebumps dotting your skin. This is wrong. Whatever he’s doing now, you can’t stand another second of it. “Josuke, you’re scaring me.” 

“That’s fine by me.” He smiles. There’s a palpable thickness in the air, tension elevating as each second crawls by. Your mind trips over itself in search of a solution to this, but deep down inside, you’re filled with dread. A dread that this damage is beyond repair and that you’ve made a fatal mistake. Would screaming even help you? Could you outrun a ghost? Your heart pounders against your ribcage and you pray it isn’t Josuke who’s trying to rip it out. 

“You saw that table,” Josuke points to the once destroyed furniture, now neatly put back together. He frowns at your lack of confirmation, pressing further, voice increasing in volume. “Right?” 

You somehow manage to nod. Your throat and tongue are too dry to use and the room feels like it’s spinning. 

“That makes this simple then,” Josuke sits back down to his spot from before and stretches his arms. “There’s a lot I’m capable of. Way more than I’ve shown you. Breaking things apart and fixing them is my specialty, but… that last part can easily be omitted.” 

Josuke turns to face you, eyes peering into the depths of your soul.

“Threaten to leave me again and I won’t even bother to put you back together.” 

[nntssy-old]

Writer’s Month 2021, Day 1 - Protective

Fandom: One Punch Man Characters/ships: Garou/Metal Bat (not really shippy though), Zenko, Tareo, Bang Word count: 1709 Rating: T?

A/N: Assume they’re  already on friendly terms, and Garou occasionally hangs around Metal Bat’s apartment/house.

*****

Tareo was about to answer when Garou sensed some sort of intrusion incoming. From above. On instinct, he stooped down, spreading his arms and keeping the little ones behind. Just in time to shield them from some sort of projectile landing just in front of the three.

No one was moving until the dust settled revealing someone's lower body sticking out of the ground in the middle of a little crater.   

No one would survive that.

There was some lingering sense of deja vu though. 

Still, Garou straightened up and was about to lure reluctant Zenko and Tareo away — the rule about violence and all that, and kids should have no business with corpses in general — when he heard some groans coming out of the pit as the legs clad in a dusty black wiggled.

Well, not many.

"Big brother?" Zenko's uncertain voice broke the silence further. Tareo looked at her in confusion and disbelief. Garou only quirked his brow. 

As if in response, the waggling of the black-clad body intensified, as the person was apparently trying to get out of the entrapment of the earth. Garou came closer to grab the legs and pull them up.

"Big brother, indeed," Garou commented smugly as he recognized the mess of dusty clothes, blood and swears that was hanging upside down in his hands and squirming violently. No wonder the butt looked familiar. "Not many people will survive diving headfirst into the asphalt." 

"Now, will ya put me the hell down, you @$#*&%@?" Garou was all too happy to oblige, and the hero was unceremoniously dropped the next instant.

Zenko rushed to her brother as he was straightening himself up, still looking at Garou angrily and muttering things under his breath. The string of curses stopped the moment Bad noticed her presence. His face quickly turned to concern as he noticed Tareo as well.

"Ya should get outta here, now! It's dangerous here!" he shouted looking at the sky in a mild panic — supposedly in the direction he came falling from.

As if on cue the city siren went off. It meshed in with the sound of buildings crumbling as a giant worm-like something emerged above them.

"Get the kids outta here!" Bad repeated, preparing to get straight back to fighting whatever that was, despite his sister clinging to his leg. Now it was directed at Garou.

"Maybe it's you who should crawl to safety," the other answered, glancing the hero up and down, "and I will deal with the monster." He looked at the worm-like creature looming in the sky. "You're already pretty beaten up, might not be up to the task," Garou finished with a grin.

"We don't have much time to lose." The creature started to move seemingly in their direction. "And running isn't exactly my speciality, so…"

"What is that suppo—" Garou started, but a loud screech interrupted him. At the same moment, he felt Tareo's trembling hands on his right leg.

"Quick!" Metal Bat was already shoving Zenko into Garou's arms, but she protested and didn't want to let go of her brother's jacket. "I dunno whether it can see or not, but I think I pissed it off big time, so it might come for me." He unclutched Zenko's hands. "Now, go!" Bad said with the kind of finality in his voice and eyes that perhaps only a parent figure would develop.

The worm-like monster was now pretty determinedly rushing at them. Indeed, there was no time to lose. Garou threw Zenko over his shoulder, picked Tareo under his other arm, and took off doing what he had done way too often in his life — running away.

***

Bang was coming back from his brother's dojo when the sirens went off. He started debating with himself whether he should assist with the threat — he was retired, after all, but still couldn't just walk away when people were in danger.

But his line of thought was interrupted. His former disciple — the same disciple he hadn't seen since that day — just ran past him — strangely, not in the direction of the most danger — carrying two kids. Garou was arguing with the girl over his shoulder and therefore didn't notice his former master.

Suspicious, Bang decided to investigate what could potentially be a kidnapping. Because Garou was involved, and he still felt responsible for his former protege. What were the chances he would just run into Garou like this another time? 

They have probably dispatched several heroes to handle the situation already.

***

Putting what he considered a safe distance between them and the monster, Garou stopped. They were up on a hill in some park in the next city. It had a nice view over a city that was being ravaged.

"Alright, this should be far enough," he said lowering both kids on the ground.

But the girl did not let go of him completely, still clutching at his shirt, the sharp and determined look on her face not unlike her brother's.

"Go help him."

"Help who?" Play dumb. It will buy you some time.

Zenko only glared in response though. Those dark eyes of hers looked way too much like her brother's at the moment. Fierce. Stubborn.

"As much as I hate to admit it, your big bro can take care of himself, Little Bat," he said, looking in the direction where supposedly the fight was. "Not to mention, if anything was to happen to you, I would need to find another place to freeload." He made a quoting gesture in the air. No. If anything was to happen to Zenko, that would be the least of his concerns. Metal Bat would hunt him to the ends of the continent and maybe even farther, he was pretty sure of it. In the past, Garou would've been excited at the prospect, but now… not so much. Moreover, he wouldn't want the kid to get harmed. He looked down on Zenko, who was glowering at him with arms crossed, and Tareo, who was watching the monster's rampage from afar and sweating profusely. Either of them.

Another building fell in the distance. Could be either the monster's or the hero's work with more or less equal probability.

"Go help him," Zenko said again with pleading eyes, "please."

Oh, she has decided to change her tactics.

Garou was trying to look anywhere but on her face, while coming up with a convincing response, but truth to be told, the current monster was almost the size of the Elder Centipede who was taken down with a combined effort of several S-class heroes, or so he heard, and Bad had been already looking like shit when they had left him, and it had been half an hour already since…

"We will go to the nearest shelter. There should be one nearby… Really close..." Zenko kept piling up arguments, while yanking at his pant leg.

Garou's eyes were glued to the horizon. With every passing minute, the idea to return seemed more appealing. He wasn't one for patience after all.

"There are probably other heroes there already." It was the only thing he came up with in response. 

Garou was so distracted thinking about what was happening far away that he didn't sense someone approaching until it was too late. Too late to hide, that is. 

"My-my… It seems every time we meet you get more children around you..." a familiar elderly voice interrupted his thoughts and Zenko's nagging. All three of them tensed and were looking towards the approaching old man — his old master, Bang.

Suddenly, with one audacious thought, it all clicked together. Instead of seeing another problem to solve, Garou's mind came up with a solution. So before the old man started with uneasy questions, he took both kids by the hand and pulled them towards Bang. 

"Hey, old man… You wouldn't mind looking after these kids for me for a little bit, would you?" And before anyone could say anything, he took off.

His relationship with Bang wasn't the best, but he knew there were very few places safer than in his teacher's care.

Unless you were a criminal. Or a monster. Or both.

***

Going back was faster without an additional load of two kids, one of which was very much against leaving. Finding Metal Bat shouldn't be hard — he probably was in the epicenter of the destruction, no doubt causing at least half as much damage as the monster.

It seemed, Garou found him just at the right moment: Bad — apparently slammed into the ground previously — was about to stand up, and the worm-like monster was gearing to dive down and swallow the hero. Even a single thought didn't pass through the former Hero Hunter's mind before the instinct took over. In a split moment, he dashed forward. The monster hit the ground, but the two of them were already a dozen meters away.

***

In one second Bad was trying to gain his footing, in the next he was swept away again. This time it was different though. When the world stopped moving, he was able to make out the golden eyes and a familiar wolfish grin through his dizziness. He was held by Garou. Bridal style.

"The hell are ya doing?"

"I just saved you, dipshit."

"Put me down!"

"A 'thank you' would have been nice. But as you wish…" And Bad was unceremoniously dropped down.

"Where are the kids?" he asked standing up.

"Safe. We ran into Bang. And your sister insisted that I come and help you." Garou quickly glanced over Bad. "You look like a bloody shit, by the way."

He felt like that too, but he would agree with the Hero Hunter only over his own dead body.

"So," said Garou as they both stood now — half-facing each other, half-facing the giant worm who tore back up through the ground, "what do we have here?"

"Don't remember agreeing to yer help," argued Bad slinging his bat over the shoulder.

"No one was asking you." The other stretched his arms with a crunch.

A loud screech rang through the air.

They never fought together before, only against each other. 

This can be interesting.

[sincerelybluevase]

Careful, Madam Chapter Seven

A/N: Here it is, the final chapter! Thank everyone for being so patient with this one (the first chapter was published in June 2020, insane how time flies) and for the lovely comments; they mean a lot to me! For a gorgeous preview made by @thegirlisuedtobe, click here. Tagging @alice1nwond3rland, @need-not, @mlletina, @msmaryadmitrievna, @solattea, @halewynslady.

Maxim was the first to speak. “Steady, Mrs Danvers. You wouldn’t want to shoot me.”

Mrs Danvers did not waver. She held the gun steady. Not a muscle in her face moved so that she seemed hard and resolute to me, marble-made. “Let go of Mrs de Winter, sir.”

He released my arm with a theatrical motion, raising splayed hands in mock surrender.

“Come to me, Madam.”

I went so quickly I nearly stumbled. I wished to clutch her arm, to feel the reassuring solidness of her long lean limbs, but I was afraid of what might happen; I didn’t want to set off the gun by accident.

Maxim looked at us with hatred. His face had turned cold and masklike with it. “Now what?” he asked. “You’ll shoot me, Mrs Danvers?”

“I will if you force me, sir,” she said.

“And then what, Mrs Danvers? What happens then? Have you thought about that? Should you kill me, you will hang; the law won’t take pity on you for being a woman. They’ll string you up by that thin neck of yours until you are dead.”

“They won’t if they know what you are, sir.”

“And what am I?”

She glanced at me, at my reddening cheek. “A murderer and a wife-beater.”

He laughed coldly. “That’s no reason to shoot me, now is it, Mrs Danvers? I think you and I and the law can all agree on that.”

“It is if you provoked me, if you threatened your wife and unborn child, sir.”

The laughter petered out. Still he smiled, showing his sharp canines. “You’d have to aim well then, Mrs Danvers, and kill me with one shot, because if you leave me well enough to talk, you’ll be done for. Who do you think the police and lawmen will believe: me, a gentleman with an impeccable reputation, or you, a mad, old, sexually-frustrated maid with unnatural tendencies?”

I wished to speak so I could defend her, but fear held me in its grip, petrifying and silencing me.

Mrs Danvers set her jaw and tightened her grip around the gun. “I’m a good marksman, sir. If I aim to kill, I shall.”

“Perhaps,” Maxim jeered, “but are you certain? And are you absolutely certain that, even if you kill me, you won’t go to prison? They’re harsh places, prisons. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cold, damp room, with only a strip of sky to remind you of what lies outside?”

Still Mrs Danvers held the gun steady, her joints seemingly locked into place. “Here’s what men like you don’t understand,” she said softly, “I gave the best years of my life to your first wife; I’m willing to lay down what years remain to me for your second.”

My love for her made a pain rise in my throat. I swallowed against the tears. I looked at Maxim, thinking he would refute her or curse at her. He did no such thing. Instead, he began to yawn, making a great show of it, his mouth opened so wide I could see the fillings in his molars. When he was done, his eyes watered. He brushed the tears away with a fingertip, then turned to me. “You shall stop this nonsense right now,” he said. He spoke as if I was a naughty child.

I shook my head. I could not speak.

A vein at his temple began to throb. I could see it jump around under the skin, writhing like a worm. “Oh, but you shall. You shall stay here, with me, and we shall forget this moment of madness. Mrs Danvers shall have to go, of course, no sane man would keep a housekeeper who pulled a gun on him, but I shan’t press charges. I’ll even give her a good reference. A woman with her qualities can work for any fine family in England. But you, my little darling, shall remain here, by my side, as my wife and the mother of my children.”

“No,” I whispered.

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I don’t want to stay.”

He laughed in disbelief. “You don’t want to stay? Do you understand what you’re saying? Before you met me, you had no friends or kin, money, no prospects. You were an old lady’s plaything, her little whipping boy. I raised you up out of darkness. I gave you a name, a house, a reputation to uphold. Without me you have nothing and you are no one, just a grubby little schoolgirl with bad nails and a name no one can spell. Do you hear me? You are nothing!”

“She won’t be nothing. She’ll be my mine,” Mrs Danvers said.

With a roar, Maxim lunged at her. She pulled the trigger, but he knocked the gun out of her hand. The shot went wild, the bullet damaging one of the plaster leaves on the ceiling, causing crumbs to rain down dryly. The gun fell to the floor, skidded, came to rest not a step away from me.

Maxim punched Mrs Danvers in the face, once, twice, thrice. Her head snapped back. She staggered. Blood poured down her mouth and chin. She made a soft choking sound, coughed. Drops of blood flew from between her lips.

“Stop!” I meant to scream it, but it came out as a whisper.

Again Maxim struck her. This time she stumbled and fell, her skirts billowing around her like black sails. He bent over her and continued to beat her. His fists came down on her face and throat again and again and again, dull slaps of flesh against flesh.

“Maxim! Maxim, stop! You’ll kill her!” I screamed. The sound carried, though for all the good it did, I might well have kept my tongue; Maxim continued to brutally, systematically beat Mrs Danvers. She tried to sit up to fend him off, but he pushed her down. Again she rose, again he beat her down.

As a child, I had witnessed our cat playing with a mouse. It would let it run, only to smack it down with its paw before it could get away. The mouse didn’t stand a chance, yet it persisted hopelessly, just as Mrs Danvers would persist in trying to sit up until she could rise no more.  

There was only one thing to do. I bent down and took hold of the gun. It was still cool despite Mrs Danvers’ grip. I raised it and found it surprisingly heavy for its size; it almost slipped out of my clammy hand. With one eye closed I aimed the gun at Maxim, but I was shaking and dared not fire for fear of hurting Mrs Danvers.

I brought the gun to my temple instead. “Maxim, look at me,” I shouted. “I’ll kill myself! I’ll kill myself and your unborn child if you don’t stop!”

He looked over his shoulder. His face was spattered with blood, his lip curled into a snarl. He let go of Mrs Danvers’ dress, causing her to thud to the ground, and came to his feet. “Don’t!” he said. “Don’t you dare!” He stumbled to me, his hands outstretched to wrest the gun from me.

I pointed the gun at him, closed my eyes, and shot.

*

All of this happened many years ago. My life now is very different from the one I led at Manderley. I’ve said goodbye to England and now have no estate to call my home, no husband to lord over me. Here, my name means nothing, and my face, once plastered over every English newspaper, is just another face, easily forgotten. No one need know that I once was the second Mrs de Winter, the one who everyone knows because she killed her husband. An act in which she was justified, of course, since he had murdered his first wife and now wished to kill her, too, before putting a bullet through his own brain, but that never made the case any less sensational. Whenever I think of it – which, when I am honest, is seldom but still too often for my taste – I can’t help but smile wryly. After all, there is a cruel sort of irony to the whole affair; Maxim killed Rebecca to safeguard Manderley’s reputation, but her murder proved to be the first link in a chain of events that would lead to a nationwide scandal. If I close my eyes, I can still see the reporters pressed against the gates, pen and notepad in hand, clamouring to see me.

There are no reporters in my new life. They do not know where I am, and to the local ones I am of no interest. I live in a cool little cottage, painstakingly paid for with the money I earn with my drawing lessons; I have given away everything I inherited upon Maxim’s death, for I never desired his money even before it became tainted with murder and madness.

Every day is much the same, but that I don’t mind. There’s comfort in familiarity, safety in routine, and after all that we’ve lived through, Danny and I have a certain hankering for comfort. Besides, raising a child together provides plenty of challenges and excitement, we’ve found.

Dear Danny. She’s wonderfully patient with me. I fear I am not always easy to live with. For all my efforts, I’ve not been able to banish the past completely. It still inhabits and possesses a part of me, one that I can fight when awake but must succumb to in slumber, so that, at night, I walk the grounds of Manderley once more. In my dreams, the house and grounds have fallen victim to rot and ruin. The lawn has gone to seed, sickness has turned the chestnut tree into a bleached husk, and the rhododendrons have reared to the fantastic heights of fairy-tale briars. The house itself sags to the side, its walls pockmarked by sour rain, the windows dirty and broken.

But for all its neglect, it is not uninhabited. I do not talk of the birds and bats roosting in the rafters, nor of the mice living underneath the floorboards and the silverfish who slowly eat away the wallpaper.

The library, with its masculine smell of leather and smoke and newspaper ink, is his domain in death as it was in life. There, he paces up and down, up and down. All that pacing has worn the carpet to threads. Each night I must go to him. It does not matter that I am unwilling; my mind and feet betray me, and take me to him. He knows that I am coming and awaits me with impatience, smoking cigarettes in quick succession, littering the ground with ash and butts. His face, once so handsome in a peculiar, medieval way, is ruined by the shot that killed him. It turned his left eye to pulp and smashed the orbital bones to pieces so that the area around the eye is curiously dented.

There must have been no time for Maxim to realise my betrayal; the bullet bored itself into his brain, killing him instantly. The Maxim of my dreams, though, gives me an amused, cruel little smile. Then – just as my life has become routine, my dreams have, too, and so this next moment never varies – he opens his arms to me. I don’t want to, but I must step into his embrace. He pulls me close to him until my head rests against his chest, against the fabric of his tweed jacket turned sodden by blood and the jelly leaking from his burst eye.

“My little love,” he murmurs as he strokes my hair, his breath stinking of the grave, “you didn’t think you’d ever be free of me, now did you? I shall never let you go.”

It is then I wake, gasping and sobbing.

Danny aims to soothe me, kissing my face and folding her long arms around me. I cling to her so tightly it must hurt. She’s no longer as strong as she used to be. No one would be after what Maxim did to her. He damaged her left eye to the point of blindness. During the years, it has turned milky white. She has taken to wearing a velvet eyepatch over it to keep out the light, for even the flame of a candle upon her left eye can trigger a mighty headache. Even covered up it pains her, but she never complains.

She holds me well after the shaking has subsided, kissing my hair. I kiss her throat in return, her chin, her cool sweet mouth. I always hesitate when I reach the scars Maxim left on her face. He embossed her cheek with his signet ring, the M and W intertwined. Yet whenever I hesitate, she brings her mouth to my ear. “No need to be careful, Madam,” she whispers, and then I know.

I have someone in this world to call my own.

I have someone to love.