#is he a time traveler or just a man wild enough to confront a mail truck about time travel? I'll never know

[zenathezee]

Today I drove past a shirtless man arguing with a postal worker and only caught the last bit of the argument, when he stormed away from the mail truck and yelled "Well you don't believe in time travel, so that's that."

[spidercakes]

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Warnings: Peter is underaged (17), mentions of abuse/ abusive relationships, feminization (Peter).

*

Peter looks adorable in flannel pajama pants and a baggy shirt that says ‘I survived New York.’ His hair is messy and he looks younger than he is but it’s a good look or maybe Tony’s just a little in love. Its way too soon for that kind of thing but he’s never really been known for doing anything small so its not like he’s surprised at all by his feelings, even if he’s not about to admit them.

“So um. May confiscated all the lingerie she didn’t know I had,” he says, curling his knees up to his chest.

A mental image Tony didn’t need at the moment if he wants to concentrate on the subject at hand but he does his best regardless. “Well that’s disappointing,” he says and Peter laughs, shaking his head.

“You should see your face. You look like someone slapped your mother with a wet kitten,” he says and Tony snorts.

“Where do you even come up with this stuff?” he asks.

Peter shrugs, “no clue, it just comes to me. But um, I’m grounded until further notice so that sucks,” he says, pouting.

“If you’re grounded how the hell are you on the computer talking to Tony?” Rhodey asks from behind Tony and he jumps.

“God damn Rhodes, make a noise!” Rhodey rolls his eyes at him and Tony chooses to ignore that rudeness.

“I need the computer for school so I bartered to keep it,” Peter says.

Rhodey snorts, “man I wish I had white parents,” he mumbles, walking away. Peter frowns a little but Tony gets the feeling May isn’t terribly strict more because Peter doesn’t give her a reason to be than letting her kid run wild the way his parents did. Well, alright, Howard didn’t care if he ran wild but if Tony broke some kind of expectation of his he didget his ass beat about it so its not like things were peachy.

“In May’s defense,” Peter says as his door opens. Tony tries his best to convey to close the damn window with his face or something but Peter doesn’t get the hint, “I don’t think she’s very good at grounding me.”

In the background May looks damnunimpressed. “Well apparently I’m going to have to get better at it,” she says and Peter’s eyes go wide as he whips around to face her.

“May!” he says, surprised. May stalks forward, eyes on Peter’s computer and he whirls back around, “okay love you Tony, bye!” he says and closes the computer, effectively ending the video call.

Tony stares at the screen for a few moments in shock when Rhodey walks back in. “Wait, aren’t his parents dead? How the hell did you manage to offend them? What’d you do, pull out a Ouiji board?” he asks.

It takes a second to get through Tony’s clouded brain to think for a moment. “Um, no. I pissed off his aunt. Got caught with my hand in the metaphorical cookie jar,” he says and Rhodey lets out a long sigh.

“What did I tell you about locking doors, man? It will save your ass from a crazy ass priest with a shotgun one of these days,” he says like that’s not a highly specific to him kind of experience. Well okay, highly specific to him and Carol but they were being chased off for wildly different reasons.

Tony rolls his eyes at him, “you remember that when you’ve got your arms full of hot omega and get back to me,” Tony tells him.

“Oh my god, no wonder omegas think we don’t know how to think past our junk. Stop giving us a bad name,” Rhodey tells him.

“In his defense I’ve been there. Not fun, but good for you man,” Carol says, giving him a thumbs up from the doorway. “Next time risk sexiling Rhodey again, probably less consequences that way.”

Rhodey frowns at her, “whose side are you on here? I would never get my damn room back if I allowed Tony to just have his way with it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Rhodes, I have class,” Tony points out. And so does Peter, plus travel time. He’s got plenty of time in here all things considered.

Rhodey squints at him, “I have class withyou asshole. Don’t listen to Carol I willfind a way to make your sexiling not worth it.”

“No he won’t,” Carol says, dodging a sock Rhodey throws at her head and laughing.

*

Peter sits awkwardly as May paces back and forth. He knows she’s worried but she shouldn’t be, he knows what he’s doing. Kind of. Well okay maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all but does anyone?

“Peter,” she says softly. “What is going on with you?”

“Nothing May, I’m fine.” He tries to put on an air of more fine for her sake because he doesn’t want her to worry about him, not when the one shitty thing that was in his life still is gone.

May doesn’t look like she believes him though. “Are you sure? Because you haven’t been acting like you lately and I’m getting worried here. Is this some sort of… I don’t know, latent reaction to Ben because you know you can talk to me, right?” she asks.

Peter clenches his jaw and looks away because he didn’t really need a reminder of that. He misses his uncle and if he’s honest he hasn’t totally made peace with his death but that’s not influencing his actions. “No, its not that,” he murmurs.

May sighs and sits beside him, wrapping an arm around him. He leans into it, pressing his face to her shoulder because it feels like its been a long time since they’ve done this and he kind of misses it. They used to do movie nights, but Ben was always the one who chose the movie and when they realized too late they kind of fell out of the habit. He thinks that neither of them really wanted to take his place. “Peter,” May murmurs. “In the last couple months you have broken up with a guy who by all accounts did not seem to treat you right and I suspect I don’t know the half of it, then you pretty much immediately moved on to someone new and I don’t want to consider what the two of you have been doing together, I found a bunchof lingerie in your room and I don’t even know when or even howyou got it, and you’ve been doing an awful lot of sneaking around lately. I’m sure you can see why I’m worried.”

Okay, from her point of view he gets why things might seem so off. “Its not like… I mean yeah Quentin pretty much sucked and yeah I know I moved on a little fast but Tony’s really great, you should give him a chance. He’s smart, and funny, and he’s really supportive and sweet and I really like him. And also you can buy things online,” he says in way of explaining the lingerie. Liz’s dad still has a PO box in the city so they all send their goods there and Liz picks it all up before anyone else can and distributes it all. Peter has no idea why Ned thinks his Star Wars collectibles count as contraband, he was a little surprised to discover that MJ mostly got her cousin to mail edibles from California, and he and Liz share a love of all things lacy. Their system works pretty well or at least it did until May busted him. Not that she knows about the PPO box thing and he’s not about to rat everyone out. No one is even sure anyone knows about Liz’s dad’s PO box in light of him going to jail and they aren’t about to say anything either.

“Peter,” May says softly, squeezing him a little. “Are you… sureabout this guy you’re seeing? Because I did find you two in a pretty compromising position,” she points out.

They’ve been in more compromising positions than that but Peter doesn’t mention it. He figures he will spare his aunt and also himself from spreading that knowledge around. “Yeah, I am. Like I said, he’s really sweet and supportive and stuff. You’d like him.” Probably better than Quentin, no one had liked him but both Ben and May let him come to his own conclusions even if their facial expressions told him all he needed to know about what they thought.

“I sure hope so because you told him you loved him before you closed your computer,” she says and Peter’s eyes probably triple in size.

“Please tell me you’ve told me that as some sort of cruel and unusual punishment,” he says, horrified. They haven’t even been together that long, definitely not long enough to go professing his love even if its true he’s going to die.

May frowns, “no, you said that.”

Maybe if he feels enough shame he can use it to power himself back in time and undo this mess.

*

Peter is distant but Tony figures that’s mostly because he’s been banned from most of technology on account of his aunt is trying to actually ground him. Tony has decided he should bridge the gap because he missesPeter and MJ is a good conspirer if he bribes her with driving time in her choice of car so he has it on good authority that Peter will be brought right to him. He looks at his phone, considering pulling a fire alarm to speed this process up when students start pouring out of the school. Yeah, he doesn’t really miss high school not that he went for long. Genius brain and all that, he got to skip out early.

Peter is walking with MJ, Ned, and Liz predictably and when he sees Tony he looks panicked. He’d be worried, but MJ has already informed him that his accidental declaration of love has freaked him out and Tony suspects MJ hasn’t told Peter he feels the same way because she likes the drama of it all. She will deny it, he’s sure, if he confronted her about it, but she doeslike the drama. So she and Liz shove him forward and Ned quickly takes his place in the line so he can’t try and slip behind them.

Tony grins and reaches out for him and that seems to be enough encourage Peter to come to him. He all but runs over, launching himself at Tony and he catches him easily, happily kissing him as he holds him up. “I love you too,” he murmurs when Peter pulls away. Its so worth it to see the look on Peter’s face because he glowswith happiness.

“I love you,” Peter says back, pressing in to kiss him again and Tony could do this for the rest of his life, hold Peter in his arms like this.

Someone lets out a soft ‘aw’ and Tony pulls away, noting the small crowd around them. Ugh, okay. He wrinkles his nose a little and lowers Peter back to the ground not that he pulls away much. He pretty much stays glued to Tony’s side, arms around his neck beaming at him. A slow clap to his left catches his attention and he looks over to find, presumably anyway, Peter’s ex standing there looking superimpressed about this whole thing.

“Great, Peter. You’ve made your point, now get rid of this guy,” he says and Tony squints.

“Its been months buddy, take a fucking hint.” He knows he texts Peter a whole bunch too not that Peter complains much. He suspects he doesn’t want to trouble anyone with it and Tony thinks that’s a bit of a mistake but he’ll mention that to Peter if he ever choses to say something about it.

Quentin, if Tony’s remembering the guy’s name right, doesn’t even bother to look at him and that kind of pisses Tony off. Especially since he’s decided to look at Peter like he’sthe authority on the situation as if he doesn’t want Peter to just do what he wants. “I’ve told you like a milliontimes that we’re done and we have been for months can’t you just give it up?” Peter asks, sounding exhausted.

Quentin takes a step forward and Peter is pulled from his grasp by Liz, who’s giving Quentin suspicious looks and ohTony so does not want to get in a fight with this guy. First of all he’s like a foot taller than him, which isn’t hard because he’s so short, but still. Peter mentioned football and Tony doesn’t like the idea of constant training to keep in shape. Not, he supposes, that he’s lacking his own. Lab equipment isn’t exactly light but that isn’t the same thing and he’s not much of a fighter. He prefers to keep things a battle of the brains, no risk of him losing that way.

“Why don’t you just admit that you don’t even know how to deal with Peter and go away,” Quentin tells him.

Tony rolls his eyes, “seem to know how to handle him much better than you given that he was in myarms like four seconds ago,” he points out.

God, this is why Rhodey tells him to keep his mouth shut but he can’t help it if its true. If the truth pisses this dude off so much maybe he should have grown the fuck up and pulled his head out of his ass. Its not Tony’s fault he didn’t. “Yeah, you don’t know shitif you let him walk around dressed like that,” Quentin says and Tony knows he’s making some type of face because people start laughing. Mostly omegas, he notices, not that he’s surprised by that. Alphas would be more likely to sympathize with Quentin for some stupid ass reason.

“I don’t give a fuck what Peter wears, its hisbody. Besides, unlike you apparently I figure when Peter wakes up in the morning and goes to look at his clothes he thinks to himself ‘I like this piece of clothing and it looks cute on me, I’ll wear it’ rather than ‘every alpha in the immediate vicinity will assume I’m sexually available and simultaneously try and get up my skirt while also degrading me and treating me like shit. I will wear this because I love being verbally abused and treated as a sex object! Its my favorite past time!’ Use what little brain cells playing football hasn’t knocked out of your head and consider how fucking dumb you sound,” Tony tells him.

Its not the right thing to say because he ends up crowded against his car and oh this is sonot an ideal position to be in but true to his personality he can’t just keep his mouth shut. “What the fuck kind of intimidation tactic is this? Feels more homoerotic than intimidating,” he says, leaning further into Quentin’s space and reaching up to touch his face. “I wish I could quit you,” he says in a bad southern accent that gets him shoved away for it and Quentin lurches forward but Tony panicsand he doesn’t mean to, really, but its like his hand moves on its on accord and the heel of it slams into Quentin’s face.

The results are crunchy and immediate as he falls back, clutching his face. “What the fuck?” he yells, blood falling from his hands. Tony looks at his uninjured hand because that was a fluke of some epic proportions and he already knows it was mostly Quentin’s own momentum that resulted in a broken nose. The fact that Tony managed to get the angle right and not injure himself is pure luck.

“No!” someone yells off to the side and Tony turns to find MJ throwing her book at the ground. “His throat was rightthere! Fucking throat punchhim! Is no one ever going to do it!” she yells, throwing her hands into the air.

*

They’re all driving back to Peter’s house silently and Tony’s real worried he over stepped his bounds because that seems like the kind of macho shit Peter has shown a distaste for and its not like he meantfor any of it to happen but-

“‘I wish I could quit you?’” Liz asks, leaning forward from the back seat of the car with questions all over her face.

Tony shrugs, “because he looks like that guy from Brokeback Mountain. The one that wasn’t Heath Ledger. You know the guy. Seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says, wincing. He gives a small glance to Peter, who isn’t looking at him at the moment. Shit.

“That’s… hilarious,” Ned says and they all start laughing, including Peter a little bit so Tony feels a little better.

“His face!” MJ wheezes out. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so pissed.”

“That whole bit about being sexually harassed being Peter’s favorite pastime,” Liz says. “Great way to put that.”

“The look on Tony’sface when Quentin implied he should control what Peter wears,” Ned says.

“Yeah, that was funny but leads to some worrying questions about Quentin’s relationship with Peter,” Liz says, effectively ruining the mood.

They go back to being silent for a few moments before Tony speaks, “yeah, I don’t care what you wear. Its not my business and unlike that ignorant ebola virus I think your skirts look greatso I would be real fucking happy if you continued to wear them. But if you do or not is your choice,” he says. “If you do though those long socks look really nice with them,” he adds.

Peter frowns, “thigh highs?” he asks and Tony shrugs.

“If that’s what they’re called,” Tony says.

“Who doesn’t know what a thigh high is?” Ned asks.

“You’re only jealous because you can’t find a pair that fits,” Peter tells him, laughing a little.

Ned lets out an offended noise, “it is not my fault that the beauty industry discriminates against thighs as bountiful and beautiful as mine, okay?”

*

Peter figures he should maybe do some thinking about whyTony punching his ex is so attractive to him but for the moment he works on keeping it to himself on account of it’d be pretty embarrassing for everyone to get a whiff of that. Tony’s polite and walks him to the door of his building though so Peter figures he’ll let go of the pretenses and drag Tony into a kiss. He makes a surprised noise as he wraps his arms around Peter’s waist and lets Peter pull him in. He lets out a soft moan as Peter moves a hand to his thigh and Tony pulls it up to his hip.

“Fuck, who cares what your shitty ex thinks you’re sofucking hot like this,” he murmurs into Peter’s mouth. He moans, curling his fingers into Tony’s hair as Tony’s hand flexes on his thigh a little.

Tony lets out a soft noise as he pulls away, “okay, okay. I um. Maybe should go before I get arrested for public indecency,” he says, giving Peter a lusty once over.

Peter glances into the building to see if anyone is there and winces when he notices May standing in the lobby and she doesn’t even look angry or disappointed, she just looks worried and that’s worse. “Um. Yeah maybe for the best,” he says. Tony looks over, sensing the mood change, and winces hard. Yeah, this isn’t looking very good for him. He goes to pull away but Peter pulls him back into a kiss for a moment, “I’ll try and sneak out to see you soon, I have plans,” he murmurs against Tony’s lips. His face brightens significantly so Peter feels better about leaving him like this.

“Great!” he says enthusiastically.

*

May paces back and forth, clearly worried and Peter wilts under her gaze. “Do I need to have the talk with you?” she asks and Peter swears to godhe almost gags.

“No, I’m good thanks. We got plenty of that in school,” he says. Also Ben had awkwardly explained a few things a few years ago and he’s pretty sure they both would have liked to have been spared from that.

“Are you sure? Because it really seems like I should have the talk with you,” she says.

Peter is going to die of embarrassment. “Its fine May, I know what’s going on and it’s a little late anyway,” he says accidentally and May’s eyes basically double in size before she presses her hand to her forehead. “Can we please act like I never said that?” he asks fast.

“No, we can’t. We really can’t pleasetell me you’ve been using protection,” she says, looking horrified to be having this discussion.

She isn’t really alone there. “Yeah May I know what a condom is and how to use them can we drop this now?”

He can see her consider it and he really hopes she stops considering it because this is awfuland he hates it. “Okay, for now fine. What were you doing with your boyfriend? You’re grounded, remember?”

Shit, right. “Can you call the school and do something about Quentin because he won’t leave me alone and its been monthsand he keeps sending all these texts and he almost got into it with Tony and it would be really nice if he just backed off,” he says, tears springing to his eyes fast.

May frowns, sitting down beside him, “Peter whatdoes that have to do with anything? And how come this is the first time I’ve heard about any of this?”

Peter throws his arms around her instead of answering, letting her comforting hug back calm him a little before he explains some things.

[ivyveil]

Love is the Punchline 3

the one where you're on Harry's doorstep and he's just got home from the grocery store

A Continuation of LITP (masterlist here)

Silence.

You knocked on the door again - three taps.

If your shaking hands weren’t proof enough, you were there. In California, in front of Harry’s flat, on the scratchy doormat, next to the potted plants, massively jet-lagged from your rushed flights. Fatigue could only do so much to pull you away from the blatant panic thrumming in your lungs.

Your stomach growled, unsatisfied by the dinner of bagged peanuts and soda. The post-flight griminess sensation had absolutely taken over the feel of your skin, the idea that your eyeballs could possibly fall out of your head. What was mainly keeping you from rest, or the possible clean-up before surprising your best-friend-maybe-possible-lover was the fact that...no, you hadn’t booked a hotel room. Quite stupid, really, but you had been in the unfortunate position of needing to tell your cab driver an address, or exiting the vehicle to find your way around an unfamiliar, chaotic city for the remote chance of an open room.

Your plan could have been more thought-out, you realized. Harry’s tour was beginning in a few days, after all, and you had somehow expected him to be home, alone, doing nothing but waiting for you to rush in like it was a Hugh Jackman rom-com? Highly unlikely. You had realized this first when the cab driver, Thomas, had commented on the extreme wild night events that had been featured for that weekend. Your cheeks had maintained their approximate level of ‘so red they’re burning in hell’ since then, a precursor of embarrassment to the inevitable mortification around the corner.

You only had one bag, too, and it was mainly full of books to read, as an attempt to calm your nerves on the trip over.

Was the hallucination of love truly worth this? Had you actually flown to a different country with the intention of sweeping your best friend off his feet, when he was days away from taking off? Your thoughts had clouded together, morphing into a congealed entity of discussion and no over-riding conclusion. Basically, you were massively done for.

“Y/N?”

Bewilderment had become a tangible smoke, crawling through his bones and evaporating from his words.

It felt cold on your skin.

Your hand was halfway in your purse, halfway to shoving your phone back in after you had checked the clock for the 400th time. Your other hand had been shoving your hair behind your ear, a half-noticed coping mechanism you had when particularly distressed. That was when you turned around, an attempt at a smile wordlessly exhausting itself on your lips.

The nerves were actually going to kill you, you decided, your stomach practically eating itself in stress. Poor Harry, he would have to watch you physically crumble into the wind if your heart-rate didn’t slow the heck down.

“What are yeh doing out here, love?”

He was wearing a plain black shirt, jeans, and a cap that had his hair carelessly stuffed inside. Several locks had found an escape, which obviously was annoying as Harry blew out of the corner of his mouth at it, frowning. His hands were full, with cloth bags that were, in turn, full of groceries.

Harry stepped closer, setting the bags down on the porch so he could access his back pocket for his door keys. The bags clinked with glass. The keys jingled quietly. His eyes never left yours.

He looked, in the whole sense, shocked – perhaps not quite believing you were genuinely in California, waiting on his porch-step, with one bag and a grimace still plastered on your face.

“I’m not on the phone.”

“No, I suppose you aren’t,” he allowed, moving closer.

Not even the devil could smell that good.

It was only at the last second his glance shifted from you to his door, although it seemed rather reluctant. Maybe he believed the moment he was to look away, you would dissipate into the LA night. You weren’t entirely convinced he was wrong in that.

He moved past you, his shoulders blocking the view but you still heard the click of the lock, the opening of the door. You knelt down and gathered a few of his grocery bags along with your travel one, appreciative they would hide the shaking in your fingertips and the continual urge to take you back home, far away from confrontation and vulnerability. With everything you’d put into this plan, you still had yet to find the right words to start out this mess of a conversation.

Harry was soon behind you again, arms full of the leftover bags. You both walked into his home, you moving against the wall so Harry could close the door with his foot and lead the way to the kitchen.

It felt almost normal, which in itself felt incredibly wrong. You were there to break what had been normal, the secrecy and the allusions to what could have been. You were there to be everything you hadn’t.

The silence in the kitchen had transformed somewhat. He had begun shelving the food, working methodically and without really acknowledging you. It didn’t seem like he was out-right ignoring you, more as if he were waiting for you to start the conversation neither one of you knew how to begin. The ball was in your court, as it were.

You felt like you were waiting to be validated, in the strangest sense of the word, reaching out so long your arms felt infinite. Was he okay that you had showed up extremely unexpectedly? Was it too much, did he mean more separation than he implied in the voice mail? Was he waiting, just to reject you in the way you had to him?

You couldn’t express the correct words, your mind stopped your lips from moving so your soul could stay intact for a few moments longer. All preservation, all defense. Putting off the real moments, for the version you had felt before.

“When did you land?”

It was lightly worded, casual and common courtesy to ask, but the way his eyebrows were drawn together and his stare was kept strictly on the cans of black beans being shoved a bit harshly into his pantry – it wasn’t. The stitches were unraveling, one of you was about to become completely, and entirely, undone. The tension was there, thick ropes of it - who would be hanged first?

“Two hours ago. Bought tickets when..I...the night I called,” you finished lamely, hands motioning behind you gently. As if it could ever be behind you. Everything seemed too present to be real.

“I think about us.” The words left before your mind could register the danger in them.

He raised an eyebrow. Eyes shifted to the lettuce. The fridge opened. Lettuce placed gently in the drawer.

You continued, clarifying what you felt.

“I think about us more than I, perhaps, should.”

Harry was quiet, more for an absence of anything to say. His bags of groceries lay, forgotten, as the focus became the one he was anticipating. He kept his eyes downcast still, but you could tell he was paying extremely close attention to your words. His fingertips softly traced against one another, his feet shuffled on the hardwood floor.

The fridge closed.

Everything felt grossly explicit.

You closed your eyes briefly, recalling how gentle his touch was on your cheek. He had cared at one point, which hopefully meant some had transferred to the present. Your arrival couldn’t be entirely unwelcome, not when you realized his hands were trembling equal to yours, and not when desperation wracked itself around each word you spoke.

“I wish I didn’t call you..how I did..I wish I had told you everything sooner. I don’t want you thinking it was some drunk call because I couldn’t say it to your face.”

“Couldn’t yeh?”

You realized you preferred it when he wasn’t making eye contact. They were challenging yours, silently begging to know why you had let him drown, that night in the garden, and come back to help, arms loaded with more tubs of water for him to choke on.

He shook his head, clearly unimpressed by your silence.

“What are yeh doing, Y/N?”

You shrugged, too overwhelmed to say much of anything else. The line of vision was limited to his floors, the worn fronts of his shoes. Exhaustion rippled against your spine, begging to say ‘forget it’ and rush out before everything felt more intense. It already felt too much.

But.

This was Harry. The man who made the world make sense, the boy who saw in you more possibility than you knew what to do with. And he deserved the world twice over, he was worth it. He was worth it, he had never been anything less.

With somewhat renewed confidence, you managed to continue.

“Thank you, for being honest with me, before. I appreciat-”

You jumped, startled.

Harry had interrupted with a laugh. It was wrong, coming from an angel like him. It clawed at your heart, dripping ice into your veins.

“’Thank you’? Thanks fo’ what? Thanks fo’ bleeding out to yeh? Thanks fo’ trying again and again to be honest, after years of pretending? Thanks for taking the rejection so nicely, Haz, I appreciate you letting me confessing my love when I’m drunk off my ass and you can’t do anything about it, because you’re a bloody country away?”

The words “I’m here now” were hollow in his kitchen, a million years late.

Harry nodded, briskly turning his face to the side and biting his cheek. The anger he felt simmered too close to the surface to be properly contained, or even checked by his heart to see if Y/N even deserved it. His heart had taken a vacation, though, or perhaps permanent leave, and the scrapings of a hollowed chest could hold together for only so long.

She was still so beautiful. It only added to his anger, how he could feel angry at her when he looked in her eyes. How could she look so pretty, when she had caused him so much hurt? He knew she hadn’t meant to, but what was done couldn’t be changed. Apologies felt like breath wasted. He couldn’t keep tossing his heart out to the wolves, expecting something different and growing more displeased when it was ruined.

“Yeah, and what is it yeh want?”

“I-I believe in you. More than anyone else. You scare me, sometimes, how brilliant you are.”

It didn’t ring like most compliments to his ears, although it was absolutely intended as one. Confession weighed down the corners, kept the words from flying at soft as they might’ve if your vocal chords weren’t knotted together in the echo of an un-tuned instrument. There was a truth somewhere, a revelation you were dancing around, struggling to appropriately address.

“I felt like both an impossibility and a limitation,” you stressed loudly, as if only remembering to speak up after rolling partially through an inner monologue.

“I couldn’t. Everything just, Haz, it felt like...I never knew what a body felt like before I touched yours. And the possibility of that, matched with the possibility of reciprocation – it all seemed improbable. And even if we had properly figured it out, and went steady or whatever it is kids do-” he rolled his eyes, not finding your rant particularly amusing “-the chance that we would last, it would have been infinitesimally small. You’re brilliant, H, and I could never bear to lose you. To limit you to me, to make you realize your mistakes, that would hurt both of us.”

“Yeh actually think that’s true?” You flinched at how violent his words clashed into one another, the disgust writhing against his tongue and snarling his face into the sharp essence of revulsion. You glanced up. His arms crossed over his body, mouth set in a firm line.

Analyzing could’ve only get you so far, the true emotions were validated just by existence. Your biggest trial was to take the jump, the fall, the risk, whatever it was, into having faith that you both could make something beautiful. Before you could even begin to try and respond, he continued.

“I was honored to be there, to be with yeh, to have yeh in my life. I couldn’t say what I did to deserve you, but whatever it was...I’d do a million times over.”

He took a step forward, his hands retreating to his sides. You had remained standing against the counter, across the kitchen from his position near the fridge. The neutral ground between you could be riddled with minefields, and it would only be moments before they went off. Harry stepped carefully.

“You’re beautiful because you’re every poem I’ve ever read. You live in the movies in my head, you’re on my mind when I do so much as wake up, or go to bed, or tie my shoes, or go for a walk. I can’t get yeh out.” His eyes flashed, as if they had gone mad, helplessly looking into yours.

He had been trying to get over you, although the concept was still as foreign to him as it had been when Jeff sat him down and told him sometimes life wasn’t fair, and all he could do was take care of himself.

After hearing your voice mail, though, the thoughts consuming Harry’s mind were of helping you, supporting you and introducing how goddamn possible love was for you. How you were love, personified, and how can someone deny the existence of themselves? You were bitterly human, and all he felt was more love for you, for that reason. The stoic response you had to his almost-confession in his kitchen had kept him from understanding your humanity, but he slowly understood where your hesitancy lay.

“Look in meh eyes,” it was a demand, insistent and his hands reached out to grab yours and you could feel every edge of his fingerprints digging into your wrists and his eyes were so clear, fuck, they were blurry but it was on your end, not really his and -

“Do yeh see it?! Do you see any fucking disappointment?” his words were seething in their low tone but he shook his fists, your wrists moving rapidly with them, “I’ve seen everything, I was there when yeh couldn’t leave yeh house for months and I was there when the only words yeh knew were the labels of those fucking glass bottles in yeh kitchen. I was there with you, I saw you, I love you. Why can’t it just be us, and we properly show each other the love we have? How can you love me and turn me away?”

The silence returned, utterly unwelcome yet your mouth couldn’t properly work to break it. Your heart, startled anew by the copious quantity of caffeine you had chugged during your travels, pounded at its cage, demanding your brain to fight the logic of his words. There was nothing you could argue, you were emotionally naked and this was it. It was all out on the line.

He stepped away, let your wrists go.

“Okay.” was all he said. Your heart was throbbing with frustration, your mouth opening and closing, a finale of sorts.

Looking up, you were unsettled. The skin under his eyes was puffy, his cheeks flushed and his lips bitten. Perhaps he had been in a similar state before, the devastation still lodged in his eyes and the motion of his throat, and you hadn’t seen it beyond the glaze of your own tears.

One let go from his left eye, drifting down his cheek.

“Don’t cry,” you whispered, your voice feeling rather raw against a throat that had continuously felt boarded-up throughout the night. You brushed the tear off before it could bother his lips, his eyes were trained away from you. It was an act of trust, letting you so close, to ignore the anger and let himself fall apart.

He took another step backwards, shifting his shoulders a bit towards the hallway door. The memories from the kitchen flooded back with screeches, like brakes working in place before the fatal crash, the horror of losing him again forcing your both to act instinctively.

“Please,” the sobs were close in his chest, you felt them like you would a torrent of rain, “I can’t listen to it again. I-I can’t listen to you cry and not do anything, I can’t, I can’t let go again. It-it would wreck me, I’m already half gone and you’re the other half, fuck Harry you’re the other half, please don’t leave. The words won’t come out right, I keep trying, I promise, I promise – god, please stop crying, please, please stop. I love you so much, so, so much and please stop, oh god you’re crying-”

You drew nearer to him, holding his cheeks with the palms of your hands and moving your fingers to loosely draw away his tears. You couldn’t be too sure if you were remotely accurate, your own vision obscured. It was a scene of pathetic sorrow, exhaustion drenching you both and loosening the screws of your spines, slowly, slowly.

He had remained still for a moment, being simple in letting the fear loose from the corners of hie eyes. He hadn’t been sure how to interpret your silence, going back to the idea of rejection and confirming that you had flown out to California to continue a conversation that, he felt, had no good end.

His hands grazed the sides of your hips. Barely, at first, and then again. Once more, feeling the curves of your body and resting against them. He seemed hesitant, expecting you to tell him off, or move back, or to take his crying as an excuse for a feel, but it wasn’t sexual. It was his way of pulling you closer, of accepting that, yeah, maybe you didn’t know the words yet but you knew his body.

Although the tears were not stopping, he sniffed and nuzzled your hands out of the way so his head could burrow into your neck, arms wrapping tighter for a fierce embrace. This, you knew how to communicate back with.

Without a second thought, your arms held onto the nape of his neck, curled up in the short hairs that were sticking up under his cap. Your head was against his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as you listened carefully to the motions of his body wracking with silent crying.

You hadn’t noticed it, but Harry felt your body shaking as well, the traveling and the emotions of the past few days having taken a massive toll on your energy levels. You two stood there, a torpedo of love and misunderstanding, anger and passion, forgiveness and empathy.

“I’m not drunk, and I love you. I love you, I love you, I’ll tell you every second of every gosh darn day how much I love you, you’re everything, and it is so real. And I don’t think I mind,” you quietly mumbled against his shoulder, grinning slightly and doing a weird cry-laugh.

“Yeh horoscope said you’d be a bit emotional this week. Jupiter’s in some library, I think.”

You pulled your head back, bewildered at the fact Harry would even know your horoscope, much less be intrigued enough to check in on how the universe was treating you in the midst of your fight.

He pulled back, as well, to give you a cheeky grin that had snuck its way against the grains of the slowing tears. Harry half-shrugged, pulling you in again to squeeze you, tightly against his chest. It was then that it really sunk in for him, how physically you were there – how, physically, you had traveled across the world because you love him. You. Love. Him.

(If he started goofily beaming like a goddamn 12-year-old who saw a naked girl’s chest for the first time, it wasn’t for anyone to know but him.)

You were a giggling mess, high off the intense emotions that had played with your heartstrings like a puppet marionette. Part of you wasn’t convinced it had been real, that the night would give way to a morning that showed you, alone, in your bed back at home.

It sure felt real, when Harry slid his hands up your back, cupping your cheeks, and moving in to kiss you. Perhaps it still felt too intense, everything occurring within such a short time span, but what the hell, you and Harry were never good at making things easy.

His lips tasted like mint. It was all you could properly focus on, the rest of your mind growing increasingly foggy with weariness and a craving to know if his body tasted the same. The two sides fought against one another, especially when Harry’s hands drifted downwards and his tongue quickened in pace and grew sloppier, down the side of your neck and marking that spot behind your ear – but eventually the stifled yawn could remain so for only so long.

You and Harry were alright. The nerves had quelled, the heartbreak had healed. Harry’s heart had returned, after all, better than ever after a restful vacation. He had understood your fatigue, he himself having been victim to it for years, and you two drifted, together, towards his bedroom. Laughter kept bubbling up between your lungs and his lips, mixing together in a harmony of tear-dried giggles and fits of inexplicable amusement.

Love really was the funniest thing.

- 2 months later -

Harry had left that morning, dashing to the airport in a flurry of glitter, satin, and something he called ‘pussy bows’ that you 100% felt were not supposed to be called that, under any context ever. He had quickly kissed you goodbye, made it to the doorway, before smirking and wandering back over, kissing you proper.

Jeff had made a gagging noise by the front door, but you were fairly sure he was secretly pleased with how things had turned out. Probably wasn’t even so secret, considering how he drunkenly boasted about how he “was the catalyst that began them, true and honest” during one of the concert’s after parties.

You had toured with Harry a bit, for what you could with your limited vacation days. He had appreciated every moment of it, soaking in the praise at night and the extra bits in the morning. You were a perfect fit in his tour life – a genuine poker competitor with the rest of his band (which reminded him, Mitch owed you $20), a real help when it came to sound and light check, and a fantastic roommate after the shows.

Things hadn’t been as strange as you had feared, nothing in your relationship with Harry changed fundamentally – except that Harry’s compliments were now far more X-rated than before, and he hadn’t typically bought you so many presents when you were only platonically involved.

Speaking of, there was a litter of them scattered around your shared apartment, waiting for you to find them throughout the day. You groaned at each one, sending H a pic with “lol” being the general go-to caption and his faux indignant response that you were not properly appreciating the wonderful comedian Harry Styles could be.

To be fair, they were generally funny. A Post-It was next to your cup of coffee, reading Words cannot espresso how much you mean to me. Even though it wasn’t an espresso, it didn’t stop the flattered smile digging into your dimples for the rest of the morning.

In your work email, there was a receipt from a company working to Save the Bees from Extinction. They had thanked you profusely for your contribution. Immediately sensing the Styles aura from the letter, you sent a screenshot to Harry with a bunch of ????s.

We bee-long together. :-)

Haz.

Plus you never shut up about the damned bees, they’ll be fine now.

 Your particular favorite, though, was the teddy bear that would find its way to your doorstep, with a bright pink bow and custom teddy bear Gucci suit, its lapel reading “Can’t bear to be apart. See you soon. x.”

That gift in particular promised the quick arrival of your lovely, perfect, wonderful, understanding, and yes – perhaps even funny – boyfriend.

 -----------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Check the masterlist of LITP here, and let me know your thoughts if you would like!  

[scientifically-strange]

Flicker

AU where Danny is haunting the Tower after the Battle of Manhattan, anyone?

---------

The Avengers really couldn’t tell you when all of the weird things started happening. Partly because they were busy stopping the next crisis, and partly because they just never really noticed.

Not until Clint complained about it being cold, and if Clint was cold then Steve was tense, and Tony Stark made it his job to look after his team. He had silently accepted the role of being a sort of Den Mother to them, paying for their equipment and providing shelter and whatnot. So when Clint complained he was cold, he had the thermostat turned up.

“Dude, did it get colder?” Clint asked. He was shivering now, and Tony could see his breath. He glanced over at Steve, who was now standing up, looking around. Looking for someone to confront. The chill running down his spine was unnerving.

“What’s happening?” He asked Tony. A sounds started reverberating around them, and it took a few moments to realize it was a sort of laugh.

“Dude,” Clint said, eyes wide, “Is your place haunted?”

“Last time I checked, no,” Tony said. He was worried, eyes darting around and waiting for something to jump out at him. And then, just as quickly as it had come, it left.

“Jarvis, did you get any of that?” Tony asked his favorite disembodied voice. If Jarvis had a body he was sure he would shrug.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Jarvis said. “My cameras seemed to be experiencing some technical difficulties.”

“Classic ghost sign, guys!” Clint said. Steve shook his head.

“There’s no such thing. Besides, even if they are real why would anybody want to haunt us?”

“Maybe because some civilians died a couple weeks ago during the invasion and want to pin the blame on us?” Clint offered. “Dude, we kind of knocked over a few buildings and caused major property damage.”

“That would make perfect sense if ghosts were real,” Tony said, waving Clint’s wild suggestion away. “Scientists have proved their existence to be fake time and time again.”

“I’m just saying,” Clint said, “It would be wise of us to keep our minds open.”

-----

The next time something happened, it came from the basement where Tony was, working on another one of his newer Iron Man suits. He hadn’t been able to sleep much, but Tony assumed it was voluntary. This was normal for him, even before the cave, and before the arc reactor in his chest. He didn’t notice that anything was wrong. 

At least, with his mental health anyway. His physical health, on the other hand, was suddenly in jeopardy as a familiar, cold tingle traveled its way down his spine. He let out a breath, one that he could see, and turned around. 

Standing before him was a figure, in dirty, torn clothes. He had black hair and blue eyes, and seemed to be struggling to stay. His form was flickering in and out of existence, and it was obvious the boy was wearing himself down trying to keep his form. He took a step forward, his hand outstretched, and then flickered away one last time. 

The temperature went back to normal, and he could no longer see his breath when he let it out. He had no idea he had been holding it. 

But right in front of him was a blank monitor, and he saw his expression. It was a complete stranger. 

Tony’s eyes were blown wide with fear, and his hair stood on end. He was shaking slightly, and it took him several moments to calm down and get his thoughts in order. 

“Jarvis?” He asked. 

“Yes, Mister Stark?” His personal disembodied voice answered. 

Tony was about to call for a meeting, but decided against it. Clint had said to be open about the thought of ghosts actually being real, and with what he saw today there was no doubt about it. But he didn’t want to freak anybody out. He didn’t want people to think he was crazy, and that maybe this place was haunted. So he made the executive decision to not say anything just yet. 

“Nothing. Just glad you’re okay.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis answered. He sounded almost pitiful.

------------

It was about two months later the next time the kid showed up. He had sifted through hundreds of files about missing kids or dead kids around his area, and so far nothing had come up. But maybe, if the ghost had more strength this time, he could ask. Maybe even get an answer. 

He had been in this kitchen this time, drinking slowly from his coffee as Clint discussed all of the stupid uses straws were good for with Steve and Bruce, who was doing more listening than he was talking. 

“-And that’s not even the half of it,” Clint was saying. “That same day, the guy shoved it in-”

He cut himself off, because now he could suddenly see his breath. Steve’s eyes went wide, and Bruce was practically gulping down his tea to stay calm. In front of them stood the boy that visited Tony last time. He hadn’t changed a bit. 

The boy, however, seemed a little brighter. He wasn’t as dim or run down as his flickering image from before. Now he was able to stay put. He looked around at the figures looking at him, and waved. The boy’s face split into a grin as he didn’t flicker away like last time he had tried to move. 

“Ha!” Clint said, breaking the silence that had swept over the dining room. He almost scared Bruce half to death with the sudden outburst. “I told you ghosts were real!”

“Who are you?” Tony asked, ignoring Clint. 

“My name is Danny Fenton,” Danny replied. His voice bounced off the walls, echoing like no other. It sent chills down all of their spines, despite his warm smile. “And I want to say thank you.”

“Thank us?” Tony asked. “For what?”

“You saved the world, and my sister. We were here taking a vacation when everything happened. She’s alive because of you guys.”

“But you’re not,” Steve said. He had a pained, guilty look on his face. 

“You guys are six people trying to keep the world safe. There’s only so much you can do. Besides, I can walk through walls now. It’s not so bad. But, um, can I ask you guys to do something for me?”

All four of them were staring at him, waiting to continue. For this ghost, the one of several that they couldn’t save, they would do anything. At Tony’s nod, Danny continued. 

“I dropped something, when we were running away. It was right in front of your building, and since it’s still under construction I hope it’s not to much to ask.”

“What did you drop?”

“A necklace. My sister gave it to me as a going away gift even though she was the one going away. Just for college, she’s studying psychology. But I think that’s what’s keeping me here. The necklace is green and has a little ghost charm on it. If you could just mail it to Jasmine Fenton for me I’d really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, we can look for it, and mail it,” Tony said, sipping his coffee. It was cold. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I could also use some help with one other thing.”

------

Jasmine Fenton sighed as she moved the last box into her dorm room. It had been three months since she and Danny went to New York, and three months since she came back by herself.  It still hurt, and no amount of books could console her, but she was okay. After all, Danny had saved her life. 

When she went downstairs again to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, the student at the main desk called her over.

“This just came in for you, Miss Fenton,” she said. Jazz thanked her and took it up to her room. When she got there, she looked at it. 

It was a nice, fancy package, that was a shipping label and a red ribbon on it. 

“Tony Stark?” she asked herself out loud. “But why?”

When she opened up the package, though, she knew exactly why. 

Inside the necklace she gave to Danny a few days before he died. Stark was returning it to her. She clutched it to her chest, and tried to keep the teats from coming. She didn’t want to keep feeling the pain in her chest every time she thought of Danny. 

After a moment or two, she looked at the box again. Inside was something she didn’t catch the first time. It was a note, written in a hand writing that she didn’t recognize. 

“Jazz,” it said. “I know you won’t really believe this when you first read it, but here me out. I’m a ghost, now. I’ve been stuck in New York for months, and have only recently gained enough power to communicate with Stark and his friends long enough to get them to hunt down the necklace and return it to you. 

“We did some research about ghost stuff. I can’t stay here forever, Jazz. That being said, I’m sorry for what I’m about to ask you next. I need you to burn the necklace you gave me. It’s the only thing tethering me to this plane, and I can’t move on unless you do it. 

I love you, Jazz. Thank you for being there for me when mom and dad weren’t. 

Love, your favorite little brother, Danny.

P.S. Tony Stark wrote this since I can’t hold a pencil. And he said that if you needed anything to give him a call.”

Jazz looked on the back where a phone number was messily scrawled on the back. When she looked up again, her breath was cold, and her brother was flickering in front of her. 

“Hi, Jazz,” he said. 

“Hi, Danny,” she said. She couldn’t hold back the tears this time as she pulled a lighter out of one of the boxes she brought in. She looked at his smiling face as she flicked it on. 

When he burned away, he looked at peace, and Jazz sniffed, still crying.

“Bye, Danny.”

-------

I’ve deadass had this in my inbox for almost  year. That being said, I’m really happy with it

[jenniferisacommonname]

Voiceactors in my Head

One of my many contradictory feature sets is a silent, circumventing stubbornness paired with a pathological fear of confrontation. I will get what I want, and I will not stand my ground if verbally pressed on it. I concede points like it’s an Olympic sport. But as long as everyone's still smiling—gently, snidely, or otherwise—then I can go on forever. Case in point, I once trolled a stranger on the internet for over a year. (Don’t worry; by the end of the story you’ll be on my side again. And if you’re not, well, I mostly agree with you.)

It all started with a CD which was, at the time, exclusively available through the record label’s website. This was back in 2005, when online retailers still ran on frontier justice and only fools uttered the words “free shipping.” Needless to say, I did not have an existing account.

But we do what we must. So I bent the knee, and delivered my modern-day rogation of name, email, and PII governed by the Sarbanes-Oxley Act in order to receive my one CD—then I defiantly wasted that effort by never patronizing their establishment again. I mean, the album was fine, and I’m sure they had other struggling artists whose work I would have enjoyed, but apparently I’m against creative expression and the American small business owner or something.

Anyway, five years of blissful non-interaction go by. Then one day in 2010, I get a mass email from the founder of this little indie record label. It was—or at least it aspired to be—a classic “starting a new chapter” kind of announcement, letting everyone know that he had sold his (incredibly!) successful company, and was using the proceeds to start a charity that would bring music lessons to inner city children.

And, hey, I thought, that’s cool. Music is great for kids. Except… the tone of the email was weird. It was more than just casual; it was chummy. The concept of a YouTuber didn’t exist back then, but here was its primordial ancestor, testing the beachhead with its nascent flipper-legs of peppy chic.

“Yo, J-dawg, how's it hanging? Remember back in [mail-merged year] when you bought [whatever]? What a great album, am I right?! Anyway, it's been so long since we rapped, I thought I'd update you on my sitch…”

Obviously, I’m paraphrasing, but that’s how the voiceactor in my head performed it. And it just rubbed me so hard the wrong way. I mean, look, I get it—we live in a promotional society, and there's no avoiding that. I’ve done my fair share of book pimping, and if you have a legitimate fan base the intrusion can even be a welcome one. So, fine. Tell me about your thing—once—and maybe I'll buy it. But don't act like we're friends, like I have some kind of obligation to you beyond this basic consumer relationship that we've established.

So my gut reaction was a hard pass, pleading children’s eyes be damned. But the email didn’t include a link to unsubscribe. This spammer was so brazen, he had sent the message from his personal email account, as if threats like “more updates to come!” belonged in anything but a ransom note font. If I wanted my name off the list, I would have to actually write him back, creating exactly the kind of low-stakes, one-on-one confrontation that we all know is worse than torture.

How would I even phrase it, knowing that his overture was from the heart and my rejection would travel right back along that path? “Listen, amigo, I know you probably spent an hour composing this raw, honest self-reflection on your priorities, but it’s garbage, and I never want to hear from you again. Please keep in mind that while you have failed to inspire me, you’ve also failed the children. Because you’re a failure.”

The actual words wouldn’t matter; I was sure that’s what he’d hear. In fact, I would argue that a polite rejection is often worse, because it leaves no option for the rejectee to write off the loss as a dodged bullet. They really were a nice person, and you’ll probably never find anyone so humble again, you loser.

So instead, I got out my favorite piece of social armor: the ironic “yes, and.” In improv theater, if a scene partner implies that you’re the best of friends, you don’t argue with them. You commit to the bit. So I did.

“Oh my God, Steve, it's so good to hear from you!” I wrote (except I used his real name, of course.) “I can’t believe you still remember our special album. Makes me weepy just thinking about what it meant to us. Anyway, here’s what’s been going on in my life...” Then without warning, I dumped several years’ worth of emotional trauma on him—about severe autism, and how hard day-to-day life was, and how each treatment brought hope and frustration in equal measure while somehow never easing my crippling fear of the future. It was a therapy session on steroids, directed at a stranger under the guise of bitter sarcasm. My flippant sign-off left no doubts about my true feelings: “Anyway, as I’m sure you can imagine, we are flat broke with medical bills, bruh! So I'm gonna need you to take us off your list. But in the meantime, here are some autism charities that you could donate to on our behalf, since we're such good friends.”

To be clear, open snark isn’t remotely in the spirit of “yes, and.” But it felt better in that moment than honest rejection, and I figured he’d take the hint.

Instead, the guy wrote back.

“Wow, what an amazing story!” he said. “Crazy world we live in. I'll go ahead and take you off the list, but I do hope you'll think of us in the future.”

Ugh. He had met my bad behavior with empathy, and I felt moderately ashamed. Then again, you couldn’t argue with results, and at least I knew this ordeal was behind me.

Except he didn't take me off the list. A couple of weeks later, I get another fake-personal email, which I must again paraphrase, though I remember with furious precision the way it made me feel. “Heyyyy Jenn-ster, it's me again! I know how much you've always loved music, so I know you're gonna want to hear about this...”

BITCH. YOU. DON’T. KNOW. ME.

“Steve, what happened?!” I wrote back. “You used to be such a good listener! I think the money's changed you, man.” And I asked once again to be taken off the list.

This time, he ignored me. No reply, and the spam kept coming.

So I just decided that this was going to be our thing. Every time he sent me an email full of stuff I didn't care about, I was going to send him an email full of stuff he didn't care about. Except I kept pushing it a little farther each time, like, “Ooh, potty training's not going so great, let me tell you all about it...” And at the end of every email I'd always remind him, “Hey, anytime you want to stop getting updates on my son's bowel movements, all you have to do is take me off your list.” Sometimes I bolded it; once I super-sized it into a 40-point font. But he never did.

This went on for over a year.

But I won.

It’s a trite saying, but sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words. The last email I ever got from this guy was short, which was unusual for him, and it said something like, “Great news! We've just graduated our first class of students—check out these pics!” (Why am I paraphrasing so much, when email is forever and I could just go back and give you direct quotes? Stop asking questions and roll with me for a minute.) Anyway, embedded in the email, like already loaded and filling the screen HTML-style, was this giant picture of… I don’t know, a kid kissing a trumpet or something. It was probably super cute, to be honest—but I was on a mission.

“Great news!” I wrote back, trying as always to mimic the exact structure of whatever he had sent me. “My son just had a colonoscopy—check out these pics!” And I pasted the actual medical photos of my child’s rectal passage into the email, pre-loaded and filling the screen, so he’d be forced to view them against his will, just as I’d been forced to endure his endless marketing crap.

Sure enough, he never emailed me again.

Pretty good story, right? And that closer—I mean how can you top sending medical photos to a complete stranger just to gross them out? Unfortunately (or fortunately; I’ll leave it up to you,) this one has a weirdly philosophical denouement. If you like your narratives sassy and single-layered, I suggest you duck out now.

Around 2015, I was trawling my past for wild stories that could be condensed into a tight three minutes for open mic night, and ‘that time I emailed colonoscopy pics to a spammer’ was an obvious contender. Once I had the basic structure written down, more or less exactly as I remembered it, I went digging through those ancient emails to finalize the details.

And what I found was… not what I remembered. The story I told above clearly had some emotional embellishments (see: paraphrasing), but it was fundamentally true in circumstance, I thought. And, yes, I really did send this guy two pictures of my son’s colonoscopy, though they were just thumbnail attachments, not embedded. But the text of my actual emails to him barely came off as snarky at all, and I never once told him in clear terms to take me off his list. There are a few lame hints at irony that you can pick out if you really squint, but by and large I was just… writing him back. Like we were friends.

Which is a good thing, because his emails to me were even less accurate in my memory than mine had been. He hadn’t cut me off; he’d replied to every single email I’d sent, in a way that made it clear that he’d watched every video and read every article. He was cordial, empathetic, and seemed genuinely interested in my kids. It was a therapy session on steroids, all right—minus the steroids.

BITCH.

YOU. KNOW. ME.

And in return for all this kindness, I had sent him horrific medical photos for no reason. To which he had replied (and this time I’m not paraphrasing,) “Thanks for the update on your son. I appreciate it. Keep up the good work. All the best to you both.” The updates from him had indeed ceased after that, but from what I can tell it was just a coincidental winding down of that particular enterprise, not a removal of my name from any specific list.

Eventually, I ended up emailing him again, this time as a penitential mea culpa to ease my own conscience. I explained the situation, and apologized for my unfair judgment of years past, plus of course the unsolicited sigmoid landscapes. He thought the whole thing was hilarious, and admitted that he’d never once picked up on my poorly-conveyed bitterness.

More important than the personal amends, though, was the lesson I had to swallow about how emotions don’t just cloud memories—sometimes they invent them out of whole cloth. I swear, I swear I remember a photo of a kid graduating from his charitable music lessons, but I can find absolutely no evidence of it anywhere. My brain made it up to retroactively justify my behavior: yes, I sent a photo, but only because he sent a photo first. It’s not even a remotely good justification, but I guess it took the edge off just enough to keep seeing myself as a good person.

It was an important lesson professionally, too. History is nothing but a mashup of inherently self-serving memories, and multiple perspectives can only draw a narrative closer to objective truth by half-steps, never to fully reach its destination. Even hard evidence is fallible, because my emails as written did not accurately represent how I felt when I wrote them, which is an important part of the story in its own way. Misinterpretations and flawed perspectives are inevitable, but they’re also necessary, and stripping them out as a historian is just as wrong as taking them at face value. A story is both what the participants think it is, and what we know it isn’t—especially when those two conflict—and every non-fiction piece I write is just somebody else’s therapy session on steroids.

[korkrunchcereal]

The Bane of Man, Part One

The morning's sun came upon a crimson stained horizon, foretelling of the battle to come. Its sanguine streaks promised bloodshed, whilst the angry clouds upon the horizon were attempting to swallow the light. It was a foreboding dawn for the Gilded host that had assembled, for as the light of the sun rose over the distant lands of Wyrmstorm, the army made ready for war. Spears and bows were gathered, while war-bred horses stomped impatiently upon the grass and dirt.

Aurelian had awakened at the sun's rising, lacking of both wine and much of his gold he had come with. Swearing off both alcohol and cards for at least a week, the man had sent for his servants in a sleep filled haze to dress their lord. Thus the finery of silks gave way to the hardened plates of steel, their alabaster hue catching the faint glimpses of the sunlight as it shined through the folds of his tent. When he had emerged from his tent, the host was ready to march.

It was not a long ride, some several hours, before the army had reached their chosen position. It was a grim march, the host painted red in the scarlet dawn. For Aurelian's pounding headache, the sound of plate against cobblestone boomed in his ears, causing him to nearly wince with each step. However, by mid-morning his headache had begun to fade, and by the time the army had reached the border of the Oakenwald, it had disappeared completely.

As Aurelian had surmised and remembered from his travels in these lands, the grasslands between the Oakenwald and Ebonwood held no small amount of hills and rises. The series of hills lay closer to Ebonwood's border, and it was here the army would make its stand. Overhead, the sun's radiant glory began to be swallowed by darkening clouds that had sailed across the horizon.

Their arrival was a cacophony of sound; of men barking orders amidst the shuffle of leather and mail, whilst horses neighed as steel met whetstone. Aurelian heard all of this and more as he stared from utop his horse. The grasslands extended far beyond his sight, met only by yet more hills and all manner of nooks from which his enemy may be hiding. Though he could not see them, his gut told him they were out there.

It took the better part of an hour for all the preparations to be completed, and the battle lines drawn. By now the sun had reached midday, always chased by the clouds that sought to hide its warmth. Upon the hilltop were the archers, bows held at the ready. Stakes had been driven into the side of the hill, while below even that were the lines of spearmen, swordsmen and other infantry set to keep the trolls away from the elven archers. Upon each flank were unfurled the banners emerald, white, violet and teal; the cavalry guarded each side, ready to chase away any troll that sought to encircle the elven army.

Aurelian was just beyond the wall of spearmen, still upon horseback and striking a heroic figure. His cape rustled in the wind, along with that of the plumes of both his helmet and his horse. Dal'endal was unsheathed, the sword held loosely in Aurelian's grip. Handsome features were exposed, his impressive war helm tucked in the nook of his arm. His emerald gaze stared out upon the field, eyes narrowed. To his left and right were Lord Eyvor and Lord Ventosus, each adorned in their paraphernalia of war. Gardesia had taken up with the infantry on the left flank; there she would form a solid anchor that Aurelian could trust to get the job done.

"Think they're coming?" Serigal asked, both hands gripping the reigns of his steed. He dressed near impractical, so ornate was his armor. Indeed it was better fit for ceremony than any battlefield.

"Give it time." Aurelian answered.

"What if they're circling around us to hit Meadowbrook?"

"Unless they travelled far to the south and risk the eyes of my rangers still guarding the border, we would see them. They would waste hours going north as well, and my scouts would find them. From there we'd hit them in the rear or whilst they are unprepared." Eyvor explained. Whereas Aurelian was seemingly relaxed, Bal-Varos cut a stern figure, grimace set into his hardened features.

"You seem certain your scouts would find them."

"I am."

"Indaris, what do you think?"

"I agree with Eyvor. It would take them too long to try and circle around, and the defenses to the south are still manned. We would at least have word."

"If you believe so then; still, I hate this waiting."

"Nervous, Serigal?" Aurelian teased, flashing the man a smirk. Serigal shot daggers at the man, straightening himself. The rustle of jewelry was evident with each movement, for the man was ostentatious to the extreme.

"Not at all. It is simply I have other things I’d rather do. The sooner we're done with this mess the better." There was a pause, the only sounds now being the soft wind against fabrics, the rustling of plate, and the whine of horses.

"Say Serigal," Aurelian began, breaking the silence. "I bet you three hundred gold pieces that I will, by the end of the day, kill more trolls then you." Serigal scoffed, placing a delicate hand upon his chest.

"A wager? Come, add some weight to it. A thousand gold pieces says that not only will I kill more trolls then you, but I will be the one to kill their warlord." Aurelian blinked, eyeing the man.

"You? Preposterous. I'd almost consider it insulting that you believe yourself capable of claiming such from me. You have a wager, Serigal." A small smirk formed on Serigal's features, barely cracking upon his features. It was the kind of smirk that spoke of a devious nature or plan, and knowing the man that was absolutely the case.

"Now, when you lo-"

"Quiet." Bal-Varos interrupted Serigal mid speech, eyes narrowing to the horizon.

"What is it, Eyvor?" Aurelian asked. Bal-Varos merely held a finger to his lips, ears twitching.

"Listen; it's very faint." The two other lords perked their ears, attempting to hear whatever Bal-Varos heard. Aurelian furrowed his brow, unable to pick out whatever Bal-Varos was listening to.

"I hear nothing." Serigal announced haughtily.

"Because you're not used to battle, Ventosus. You're not confronted with the rigors of combat regularly. It's faint, but I can hear it."

"What is it then?" The annoyance in Serigal's tone was clear.

"War Drums." Bal-Varos' eyes widened, the man gripping the reins of his horse. "They come; our lines must be ready!" Aurelian pulled on the reins of his horse, turning it around to face the gilded host.

"Serigal, Bal-Varos; we remain in the center to draw their chieftain to us. We must do everything we can to get his attention upon the three of us. Our lines will hold while we cut off the head of the beast." Both gave a nod, riding to the battle lines. Serigal moved his horse through the ranks, pushing to near the backline. Aurelian was thankful to the predictability of trolls; even though this one was a demon in disguise, he would have to fight as a troll to hold up the illusion to his army. The young lord had faced enough trolls and would be warlords to know how they act.

Savage. Primitive. Simple.

Now Aurelian could hear it, ever so faintly. The rhythmic pounding of the drums; of bone upon hide, echoing with the promise of bloodshed and doom. Soon the drums would be near enough to reverberate to his very bones, for the forest trolls of the Wild Woods specialized in the creation of so called "terror drums"; those made to bring fear into the hearts of their foes. He estimated the trolls were some ten to fifteen minutes away. The archers at the top of the hill would see them in five minutes, for the hills beyond this one were smaller and therefore could not hide forever the vast trollish army.

Others began to hear it now; the deep booming like an approaching storm. Each strike upon hides was like thunder cracking in the distance. The soldiers shared looks with one another, an unease stirring. Men would die that day, and they wondered if they were to be the ones to do so. Who would be killed in a gory fashion? Whose head would be ripped clean from their neck by savage strength, or body hacked to pieces by crude blows. The drums brought terror because of what they promised, and what they promised was death.

"Steel yourselves, children of Quel'thalas!" Aurelian sounded out. Various eyes turned to face him now, their shuffling and murmurs quieting. "Hear not the drums! Nay, hear my voice! Today will not be a bloodless day. Today will not be an easily won victory. What today brings, however, is a chance to remind them our heritage as children of both nobility and blood." Aurelian tapped his feet against the horse's sides, letting the beast walk along the battle lines. Nervous gazes followed him as he rode, eating in his self-indulgent words.

"The trolls dare to think themselves mighty; dare to think themselves masters of these lands. We fought the trolls seven thousand years ago, and we broke their lines. We fought the trolls three thousand years ago, and we broke their lines. Again today they try to fight us. Again today they will try break our lines. Again today they outnumber us! And again today, I say to you, we shall not fall! For we are the scions of these Gilded Lands and of Quel'thalas!! Our heritage is born of empires, and it will take more than primitives to ever threaten that. In their arrogance, the trolls have forgotten this fact. Shall we remind them the price of their mistake?"

A chorus of voices shouted in response as Aurelian drew his sword, the tip catching the sunlight as he raised it upwards. The horse's pacing had stopped once more in the center as Aurelian placed his helm upon his features. The long plume of his helm trailed down his back, rustling softly against his cloak. His horse moved between the lines, stopping behind the second line of spearmen. He pulled the reins to turn his steed, staring out to the hills. The drums were booming; any moment now...

A long wail cried out behind him; a war horn sounded among the archers. They had spotted the trolls then. Aurelian gripped his reins tighter, narrowing his eyes behind the slots of his helm. The hill before him was almost a thousand yards away, well out of the range of his archers. Soon it would give way to a sea of brutality; of clattering bones and savage howls. He grit his teeth as the first figure came over the hill, for he was certain this then was their leader.

Aurelian could see even from this distance the size of the figure. The creature was near as tall as the lumbering berserkers of the trolls, a shock of red hair blazing to the heavens. Elven eyesight was superb, yet he could not make out all the details. The figure had to be their leader; the demon in disguise. Aurelian heard muttering behind him, marveling at the troll's size. He was not alone for long however, for a stream trickled beside him. The stream became a flood of moss and muscle, all manner of trolls carrying vicious weapons. it was a band barely organized yet held together by the promise of warfare and elven blood. More and more moved forward past this large figure, and part of Aurelian wondered if it would end. By the time the last of the trolls had moved over the hill there must have been several thousand. They were six hundred yards away; a hundred yards further and they would be within range of the goose feathered arrows of the elves.

Aurelian's ears perked as he heard Bal-Varos pull his horse up beside him. The man was as grim faced as ever, though worry now pulled at the hard lines of his features. His fingers fidgeted with the hilt of his sword still sheathed at his side. His lips pulled into a thin line, before the man spoke.

"A little more than I expected."

"You can flee if you wish, Eyvor." Bal-Varos shot Aurelian an incredulous look.

"You insult me, Indaris. There will be more deaths this day however. We'll have to fight smart if we want to live, that much is sure." He went silent for a moment, the corner of his lip pulling upwards as he spotted the troll leader moving his way forward. "Look at the size of that bastard and...wait...whose that beside him?" Aurelian blinked, leaning forward in his saddle. Sure enough there was a woman marching beside him, her gait powerful.

"Priestess of some kind? Look at her outfit." Bal-Varos swore beside him. "What?"

"It's a Warchanter." Aurelian raised an eyebrow in confusion, tilting his head.

"A what?"

"Warchanter. They live in the ruins of one of their temples deep in the woods. We've only faced a handful at best over the last several hundred years, but every time they've been some of our bloodiest fights. They direct the bloodlust of their people and weaponizes it; makes their soldiers as tough as nails. I've seen them shrug off arrows through their damn skulls."

"how can you be sure it's a Warchanter?"

"Look at her weapon, and her mask. They all wear the same mask and wield those kinds of warhammers. Bah; this will be ugly business that is for sure." Aurelian saw the woman raise her hands, hammer slung across her back. The warlord beside her stepped forward, pointing a finger. A guttural sound ripped forth from his throat, and his army answered. The warlord began to chant, voice carried by the stygian sorcery of the Warchanter. His army answered with chants of their own, slapping their hands against themselves in rhythm.

"Are they dancing? What are they doing?"

"Have you truly not faced a troll war party? They're building themselves into a frenzy. Their 'dance' is meant to intimidate. Listen, and you can hear their chant."

"I understand very little of the forest troll dialect. What are they saying?" Bal-Varos scoffed, shaking his head.

"We shall eat the elves; we shall eat them and dance upon their bones. When the great sun sets and the moon weeps its stars we shall light a pyre. Upon this pyre we will roast-"

"I get the point." Aurelian interrupted, rolling his eyes. "How barbaric and cliché."

"Don't underestimate them, Indaris."

"I do not, but I will be damned before I let these primal brutes claim victory." The two watched the trolls perform their ritual, a part of Aurelian curious by the barbaric display. He could not fathom how it would intimidate anyone, though he imagined it was to do with the size of the force; the larger it was, the louder the sounds and chants. When at last the ritual ended, let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. yet the brief silence after was just that; brief. A loud cry echoed forth from the warlord's lips, and the horde charged forward in a great, thundering mass.

"Spearmen, at the ready! Archers, knock bows!" Aurelian's voice called out, the order being passed along the lines. By the light they were so few compared to the horde that charged forward. Would it be enough? He had to be confident to his men and to the other lords, lest they view him a coward or become demoralized. But this? This would take finesse and perfection.

Both were things Aurelian strived for.

The trolls were nearly within the kill range now, and from here he could make out more details. Skull faced savages charged beside hulking masses of muscle, while gibbering milk eyed lunatics chanted beside fire-bidden women. This was a host made up of all the disparate tribes of the Wild Woods, born of nightmares Aurelian had never seen. Surely the entirety of the woods was emptied here upon these grassy plains. The trolls that were here however were growing closer. Just a few seconds longer...

"Fire!" A wall of arrows sailed overhead, and before the first volley had landed the second was already released. Death came by steel tipped points, crashing down into the troll ranks. The first several lines of the horde collapsed, brought low by the arrows of the elves. To Aurelian's amazement, some kept charging or indeed got up with arrows protruding from their body. Eyvor had been right about the potency of the Warchanters.

Closer and closer the trolls drew, stretching out to try and flank the elves. Aurelian had to trust the cavalry to do their job; to harass and keep them at bay. Cries grew out from the trolls, their death throes a wail of pain as arrows rained down from the heavens. The trolls were now close enough to return fire, their crude stone tipped arrows a match for the steel of the elves, if only due to the volume. Screams of dying elves echoed in his ears, their bodies punctured by the trolls.

Aurelian ears perked as he heard horns sound on either side, signaling the charge of the cavalry. The horns quickly faded however, giving way to the crash of melee as the trolls reached the spear line. Bodies of muscle smashed against the steel shield of the elves, only to be skewered on the long, leaf shaped spears of the elves. the elven archers were forced to trade with the trolls own ranged forces, leaving their melee combatants free from arrow fire. The elves had reaped a bitter harvest, yet not as much as Aurelian had hoped. Many that had charged into the wall of spears were littered with arrows that should have killed them.

Aurelian upon his horse saw over the battle lines, spotting the troll warlord a small distance from the front lines. For now he seemed content to watch the fighting. of the Warchanter there was no sign, though her magic had already done plenty. The trolls surged against the wall of spears and shield, only to be repelled by the glittering host. The flanks seemed to be holding their own, though undoubtedly they were embroiled in bitter combat. Aurelian watched as the cavalry upon the left flank smashed into the troll horde, both horse and rider wreaking havoc. Before the trolls could swarm them they pulled out, yet some were surrounded and so perished.

His attention turned back to the front lines. The elven line was starting to be forced back, both by weight of numbers and by casualties. Overhead the air crackled, as elven sorcerers scattered amidst the archers fought a battle of will against the dark magic of the trolls. Violet winds blew away choking fogs that their hexxers brought forth, while wailing spirits halted ball of fire. It was pure and utter chaos, and Aurelian could only trust the sorcerery of the elves would triumph. He was confident in them, for Amalta was among their number.

Yet the battle of mortal means still raged. Bal-Varos had dismounted, charging in to reinforce the crumbling center. His sword gleamed in the sun, arcing its way down into the troll ranks. He could not let Eyvor have all the glory, and so dismounted from his own steed. He held his runeblade with both hands, Dal'endal craving the blood of the trolls.

"Second line! Reinforce the front!" Aurelian charged forward with the second line, reinforcing the front and bringing their own blades to bare. Dal'endal was a blur as it sliced into trollish muscle, bringing forth great spurts of blackened blood. Yet despite the brutality of the fighting it was a graceful weapon, and cut through both armor and flesh as if it was parchment. Spears thrusted forward beside him, stabbing any troll who came too close.

Here the melee began; the screams of the dying mixed with the clash of steel and stone. Bones splintered and bodies were trampled, the grass growing slick with blood. Both elves and trolls tripped over their fallen compatriots, only to join them as their foes sought to exploit such opportunities. Yet despite the casualties, the line held, anchored by both Bal-Varos and Aurelian. Both were a flurry of motions, as swords hacked and cleaved through the trolls.

Various horns sounded out, signaling charges and retreats and all manner of movement. It was easy to get lost in the chaos of it all; to become frozen by the overwhelming nature of battle. In this fighting, Aurelian had no sense of the world beyond the edge of his sword, and the sea of trolls before him. An axe blow came down, only to be parried by his blade. The counter was a quick slice, severing the brute's arm. Aurelian moved with the motion of the sword, bringing it from the troll's arm to another's neck in a single motion. It was graceful, as if a dancer and with each blow came death.

Yet the combat was growing closer, as bodies pressed together. His sword weaved through, cutting down trolls dressed in bones and others in bright feathers and leathers. Before him some of the trolls parted ranks, a great behemoth of a creature charging forward. Aurelian whirled to face it, cloak fluttering with the motion. The behemoth swung with its arm, forearms the size of the Eversong tree trunks. Aurelian barely ducked under a blow that would have smashed his bones, swinging his sword upward. It cut into the chest of the beast, but did not kill it. The creature roared, spittle flying from rotten teeth before it raised its arms up to smash downwards. Before it could bring them down its skull caved in, bursting in a torrent of gore and brain matter upon Aurelian. The corner of Aurelian's lip pulled up in disgust, the scarlet falling upon his golden armor. The trolls temporarily fell back from him, giving him a few needed seconds to breath.

"You looked like you could use a hand!' Serigal's voice was filled with arrogance, and despite not facing him Aurelian could feel the smirk on the man's face.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Assisting my niece; Gardesia holds the flank, but only barely. Aurelian, they're pushing us back. They outnumber us too heavily, and we'll lose the right soon. One of their chieftains is there and creating a wedge into our ranks."

"Stay here and help hold the center then. We're slowly giving them ground, but if our flanks cannot hold then our plan crumbles. I'll deal with this chieftain. Hopefully that will get their warlord's attention."

"Go, and quickly then!" Serigal waved his hand casually, the trolls that had begun to refill the gap left by the berserker collapsing in agony. Aurelian grimaced at the display, though nodded as he fell back, pushing his way through. His horse had, luckily, remained for its master. As he mounted back upon it he gasped as he looked out to the battle. It was ugly business, and Serigal was right. The cavalry was being worn down by the constant counter charges in order to keep the trolls from circling the elves, and though the archers had won their fight they had run low on arrows.

"Quickly Daranir; to the flank!" The horse neighed but obeyed, sprinting down the back line. everywhere the elves were barely holding against the trolls, their skill the only thing holding back the overwhelming forces. As he drew nearer the right flank however it was a different story. The various infantry lines were mostly islands of steel amidst the sea of trolls, the center broken open by a group of hulking monstrosities. At their forefront was the chieftain Serigal had mentioned. She was clad head to toe in armor, some elven in nature and undoubtedly stolen and other parts trollish. The great axe in her hand cleaved through elves, creating showers of crimson. Most striking was her bald features, for they were sunken and painted white like a skull.

Dealing with her would be little issue, yet the berserking creatures that fought with her would be a large issue to deal with. He could not let them carve their way through his battle line however, and so in typical reckless fashion he charged in, his armored horse digging into the grass with each stride. One of the berserkers noticed him, letting out a feral roar as it smashed its way through to him. Armor crumpled beneath its meaty fists, leaving only gore stained pieces upon the earth. Its fist intended to smash into Aurelian, yet he ducked beneath the blow and stabbed upwards. The blade pierced the bottom of its skull, digging into its brain before Aurelian pulled it out and carried forward with his horse. The behemoth collapsed with a resounding thud, sending up dust. The others noticed now, including the chieftain.

"Good! I was wonderin when de shining elfy was gonna come 'ere." She licked her lips, charging at Aurelian with a shriek. The other behemoths focused upon the spearmen still holding the line. Aurelian's horse barreled forward as the troll swung, yet before contact could be made a great flash of arcane smashed into the soil before the two, sending the horse back upon its hind legs and the troll flying backwards. Aurelian barely held on, following the source of the blast, eyes widening in recognition. Amalta had moved from the archers, lending her spells elsewhere. The troll rose up, hissing in anger.

"How dare you little elf girl. I'm gonna car-" her words were interrupted as Amalta pressed her hands together, and mirroring the action arcane winds smashed into the troll chieftain. Her armor did little against the arcane force, its volatile nature rippling and crackling as the troll's body shattered much as the plates did. Her crumpled form collapsed, Amalta's gaze crackling with sorcery.

"I had that." Aurelian muttered. Amalta did not listen, bringing up her hands. Tendrils of magic swirled around them, before shooting forward like violet spears. They skewered several of the berserkers, in an instant, before slithering back to their host. "And that..."

"You are needed in the center, Aurelian. Taka marches now with the intent to kill Bal-Varos and crush the center, and should he succeed we will all perish. Go now, quickly! I will hold this line." He could see the sweat beads upon her brow, and the fatigue that had begun to set in. Before Aurelian could answer she hovered forward, for she rarely placed her bare feet upon the world. Bolts of arcane crashed into the trolls, forcing the hulking behemoths back. Aurelian forced his horse around, once more charging back into the center. He assumed Amalta had used some form of sorcerery to see the battle lines from her position or at least to see Aurelian.

He saw the warlord then, letting out a string of curses. He was already among the front lines, and from the looks of it was annihilating the elven forces. The elven ranks were so thin by now, their proud and beautiful bodies shattered amidst the grass along with innumerable trolls. The elves had put a large dent in the trolls, of that Aurelian at least was certain.  Come on, just a little closer...

A glass vial shattered against his right side, its contents splashing over his armor and cape. He turned his head, eyeing the sickly pale liquid. Eyes widened, and he gasped as it began to eat the fabrics. Even his armor was damaged from the liquid in only a few breaths, despite its enchanted nature. He was certain if it was not enchanted the armor would have been ruined, just as his cloak was. Distracted as he was, he failed to see the large spear that sailed through the air, until it was too late. As large as he was, it smashed into his shoulder, sending him flying off the saddle in a heap.

[marjaystuff]

B.J. Daniels Interview by Elise Cooper

Rogue Gunslinger and Rugged Defender, the second and third books of the Clementine Sisters series by B. J. Daniels blends a great plot, setting, and characters. People cannot imagine how this author can improve, but each book in this series just keeps getting better.

In Rogue Gunslinger, T.J. Clementine is a mystery author that is being stalked. Receiving mail from one particular fan escalates into threats because she is not following their writing advice. Hoping to escape from possible danger she travels to her childhood home to be with her other two sisters in Whitehorse Montana. Coincidentally she again meets in Montana, the man, Silas Walker, who either saved her or pushed her into an on-coming truck while in New York City. Deciding to investigate Silas, she realizes he protected her, and that as a former policeman he can actually help her find the culprit. This loner and mountain man becomes not only her savior, but they form a bond, while trying to keep each other safe.

The next book of the series, Rugged Defender, focuses on the third sister, Chloe.  She lost her job as an investigative reporter.  Now in Montana for the holidays she decides that sitting around is not for her.  Realizing that a high school classmate, Justin Calhoun, left in disgrace with many unanswered questions about his brother’s death, she searches out the truth. Chloe and Justin decide to team up to find out what really happened to his brother, having their lives threatened in the process.

As a recap, the first book in the story, Hard Rustler, begins with a city gal, Annabelle (Annie) Clementine, traveling back to her home town of Whitehorse Montana. After high school, she decided to escape the monotony to become a famous model, leaving her love interest, Dawson, behind. Now, thirteen years later, she is back to sell her late grandmother’s house and to get out of town as soon as possible. Confronted by someone who wants to find something in that house she realizes her life is in danger. Annie and Dawson must sort out the mystery and determine what her grandmother was hiding.

These books are about estranged sisters coming to terms with the past and making amends. It’s a love story and a mystery, with a lot of suspense. Each sister in their own way are strong independent women who know themselves and end up knowing what they want out of life.

Elise Cooper:  You were spot on with the interactions of the three sisters.  Please explain.

B. J. Daniels: I wanted to be able to write a book that is sister oriented.  I do not have any sisters, but I do have a sibling.  For me the dynamic of families is interesting.  I did meet a lot of people who had sisters so I was able to observe them and how they got along. I also think that someone’s profession has an influence.  TJ being a writer never wants to be in the spotlight, while her sister Annabell, a former model, enjoys it.  The other sister, Chloe, an investigative reporter, enjoys digging for dirt.

EC:  The boyfriends from previous books just get a cameo appearance?

Daniels: I hope each book stands on its own.  Because of that, if people do not read the books in order they might not know about the hero.  In addition, by the third book there would be too many characters to include so I basically kicked the previous boyfriends off to the side.

EC:  Since TJ is a writer is that you?

Daniels: There is some of us in our characters even if we do not like to believe it. In Rogue Gunslinger, I got into what it is like to be a writer, including all the demands.  I have often told my agent I just want to write books, but was told that is not possible.  TJ and myself are not fond of social media.  I have said, ‘the day I quit it will be because of social media.’ If someone reads a book and likes it that is when readers go looking for the author.

EC:  Which of the three sisters are you most like?

Daniels: Of the three sisters, I am most like TJ. In high school I was a day dreamer as she is.  Sometimes the story feels real to life for me.  For example, I moved things around in a town to represent how I saw it. When I visit there, some things seem out of place. TJ and I had writing choose us with our characters taking on a life of their own.  

EC:  The suspense part of the story has TJ stalked?

Daniels:  I have never been stalked.  I remember writing another book where a character was attacked in a grocery store parking lot at night.  I had just read something about the ways a woman could protect themselves and what to look out for.  A friend of mine stated, ‘I never knew you were attacked.’ But I hadn’t been.  What I want to do as a writer is put myself in that place, show the reader how it works, and make it real enough for people to believe it.

EC:  In the last book, Rugged Defender, the relationship is based around that kiss?

Daniels:  I have fallen in love and often felt that it is real after that one kiss.  Anyone who has had one of those kisses knows what I mean.

EC:  TJ says throughout the book she is not like her character Constance?

Daniels:  I think TJ and I have that in common where our characters are braver, more loyal, and become heroines. As writers, there are so many times we are hidden away from people while characters like Constance are out there kicking butt.  

EC:  TJ speaks of how she wakes up at night with characters getting into her head?

Daniels:  Yes, that is true. My characters do talk to me.  There are days it seems they have come from outer space and I just type.  I will be working on one book and then a character from another book pops into my head and starts talking to me.  Then I always write it down.  I hear scenes and just start typing.  Sometimes I feel I have painted myself into a corner and just wait for the answer to come to me.  The characters come to life.

EC:  How would you describe TJ’s boyfriend, Silas?

Daniels:  He is a big tough guy.  TJ realizes he actually led the life she writes about but never lived. I think he is in awe, intrigued, and captivated by her. I compared him to a mountain lion because of his intensity.  When TJ comes in contact with him, it is dangerous like coming across a mountain lion.  He can be protective but also thoughtful, gentle, and charming.

EC:  How would you describe Chloe’s boyfriend, Justin?

Daniels:  He is trying to make amends.  Strong and independent.

EC:  Montana is very prevalent in all your books?

Daniels:  I live in the prairie and just as with the town of Whitehorse you can see the Little Rockies in the distance.  I weave in the real life of the small town.  We don’t even have stop lights and the nearest Target is three hours away.  People love to dance and often go to bars to do it.  It is also true that guys wear jeans almost any place including weddings, funerals, and churches. I once wrote ‘a guy wearing a suit is either an undertaker or a lawyer.’ I describe in the books as I see Montana with “the wild prairie, the endless sky, the wide-open places… The peace and quiet. Not one siren to be heard. No traffic. No honking taxis. No loud music from the apartment next door.”  I meant it when I said ‘I just love this place.’

EC:  Next book?

Daniels: Unfortunately, these characters will not come back.  I understand people fall in love with them and want to see them again but there is no easy way to bring them back.  My next book will be out in November, titled Wrangler’s Rescue.  It starts out with Cyrus falling off a cruise ship and believed dead.  He is from Montana and his gal did not believe that he had died.  She goes in search of him, which lands them in the Caribbean. I hope readers feel it is a fast-paced novel.

THANK YOU!!