#it puts me at precipitous risk of getting fucking got Tumblr posts

[fauvester]

i think my coworkers and friends think its a little excessive that Im so militant about my sleep schedule but its hard to describe the extent to which the terrors fucking get me if my circadian rhythm is even a little fucked up

[ashintheairlikesnow]

BTHB: Traumatic Touch Aversion

@comfy-whumpee​ requested “Traumatic Touch Aversion” for Antoni and here it is! Antoni’s first meeting with Nat when he came to stay at her safehouse. Also listing @wildfaewhump​ who loves all things Antoni.

CW: Referenced burns/scarring, touch aversion, conditioning, pet whump reference, box boy, self-injury (reopening wound at the end)

They meet in what was supposed to be a brand new subdivision, back before the recession scattered the developers and contractors to the wind and left this grassy cleared patch of ground just outside the city, complete with poured paved little road and a few poured concrete slab foundations, like grave markers for the homes that were never built here, the people who never had the chance to move in.

A reminder of the world where you can do everything right and the whim of a few individuals, who live so far away from you, can create an avalanche that buries your plans. Nat is old hat at that, of course - she’s buried her plans twice now, and built new ones right on top of the old. She was going to work in journalism, and then she was going to be the best marketing director WRU ever had, and then…

And then she walked away.

Bought a house with some of her inheritance from her dad, fixed it up for a few months, and... started over.

She likes this life just fine, because it leads her here, to places like this, to clandestine meetings after dark.

Nat’s truck is parked in a cul-de-sac that loops around empty grass, where they might have built a playground, if the neighborhood had gone up. Or put in a pool. Ahead of her is the SUV of the man she’s meeting, so far out in the sticks that she doesn’t worry about being seen, not here. Not in the evening light, with the sky burning down to night. 

She hops down from the truck, short and strong, her long brown braid smacking in the middle of her back as she goes, in her signature flannel over a t-shirt and jeans. You look like Kurt Cobain’s mom, Jake had told her once, and she’d pointed out that she’d be Kurt Cobain’s little sister, thank you very much, she was in Driver’s Ed when all that happened, and hadn’t that blown his mind for a while. 

She’s smiling, a little, as the breeze picks up. It’s the time of year when the hottest winds blow, licking through her hair and over her skin. Like living in a kiln. Nat feels like she cracks a little more each year in the heat.

Still can’t give up her flannels, though. She’ll be cold in the ground before she wears anything else, ever again. Flannels and sensible sneakers or work boots, and that’s the farmer in her that just refuses to fade away.

Those years wearing suits and heels, she felt like she was playacting, wearing a costume picked out by someone else that didn’t fit. This is who she is, and she can’t be anything else. She wouldn’t be, not ever again, anyway.

“Evening, Nat,” One of the two men she is here to meet calls out, and she raises a hand in greeting. Paul is in his fifties, ten years or so older than Nat herself. He’s been living the lib life for decades, was the one she used to call fifteen times a week with a thousand crises she didn’t know how to solve. 

Now she’s the one the younger safehouse owners call, and it’s kind of funny… in a lot of ways, 42 still feels like 24 felt, only she’s less confused and gives a lot less of a fuck about fitting in or following the expectations set out for what makes a good life.

The other man standing next to him is younger, and doesn’t look up. That’s the one that Nat is really here to see. That’s the rescued runaway pet she’s here, in the end, to try and save.

Nat moves to the older man without hesitation and crushes him tightly to her in a hug, listening to his deep, rumbling laugh. “Paul! How was the drive? Was it good weather all the way?”

“Long,” Paul answers, sardonic as always, patting her back. “Started out rainy, as Washington likes to be up by the coast, and I don’t think I’ve seen an ounce of precipitation since we stayed overnight at the hotel. You’re starting to sound Californian, you know. That Midwestern accent’s slipping away.”

“After twenty years, you’d think it’d be gone.” She laughs, unbothered. “You’re grayer than last time, too.”

“Look, at my age, you’re just happy the hair is there at all, Nat. Where’s Jake? He didn’t want to ride along this time?”

“Hm? Home with the others. He’s talking about going back to college, and so he needs to study, and then we’ve got this new rescue who’s still healing up from some serious injuries he underwent, so Jake doesn’t want to leave... and I don’t blame him. Our newest rescue’s a flight risk in a big way. He wanted to send his greetings, though.”

“Well, tell him I said hi in return.”

“Will do. I was surprised to hear from you, I didn’t think you did out of state drives anymore.” 

Paul clears his throat. “I don’t. But we’ve got a situation, and we had a donor step in and pay for the gas and hotel money.”

Nat nods, her smile fading and moving back to seriousness, as she looks around Paul at the second man, just younger, standing hunched against the side of the SUV, clutching a single small backpack that hangs off one shoulder. “This is the situation?”

“Yeah.” Paul sighs, rubbing at his face with one hand. “This boy popped up at my door a couple of weeks ago, half-starved and pretty clearly abused, and he’s being strenuously hunted. We’ve had three close calls in a week. I had to make a choice, and… you know, I trust you to keep him safe, and I had to get him out of state, as far as I could go. I hate to uproot him when he hadn’t even settled yet, but…”

“Yeah, no, yeah, I get it. I just had a bed open up, Trevor moved in with some roommates in Nevada, did I tell you? All of them former rescues, too, so he’s got good support right there. There’s a coffeeshop owned by someone whose daughter is in the movement who agreed to train him as a barista.”

“Good, good. Trevor’s a good kid, I liked him. This one…” Paul takes a deep breath. “He’s sweet, Nat. But... he’s scared.”

“They all come to us scared,” Nat says, unbothered, giving a shrug and putting her hands in her pockets. “Any memories?”

“Nope. He’s blank, still. I haven’t… he hasn’t even been with us long enough for therapy. But, here, let me introduce you.” Paul steps back, and the young man with the backpack steps forward. He’s wearing the rescue uniform, more or less - sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, nearly every ounce of skin covered, only his neck and face visible, the backs of his hands. “He named himself a couple of days ago. This is Antoni.”

He’s like them all, in his way - nervous and wide-eyed, young and beautiful, afraid of her and drawn to her. She can see the signs without even having to consciously notice them - the mop of dark hair in bad need of a good cut, the fear in his eyes, the way he’s skin and bones even underneath the baggy clothes designed to hide a body that didn’t belong to him for too long. 

“Hello, m-ma’am,” The boy says, quietly, his dark, slightly feline eyes flickering from her to Paul, seeking reassurance or praise for making the right choice. 

Nat’s head cocks to the side, and she notes the way the boy flinches a little at the quick movement. He’s a skittish one - that usually means violence was a part of his daily life, and he’ll need to learn how to live without fearing it. “Does he have…”

“An accent? Yeah. Eastern European or Russian or something. Says he only speaks English, but... sometimes he speaks something else. He doesn’t seem to notice when he does it.” Paul turns, and holds out his hand, gesturing the young man forwards. 

Nat watches the boy give a wide berth to Paul’s hand, the way his long fingers clutch more tightly at the backpack strap on one side and the hem of his shirt. He turns to look towards the entrance of the subdivision that never was, watching for cars who might have tracked them, and Nat’s eyes widen - and then she forces her expression back to neutral before the boy can notice - as she sees the bright red, still-healing circular burn on the side of the boy’s neck. “Paul, are we dealing with-”

“Don’t know.” Paul sighs. “Hasn’t even been safe long enough to get a doctor out to give him a checkup. We’ve kept him moving from house to house to house without even taking a deep breath, so… he could use a rest.”

There are deep, deep shadows under the young man’s eyes, settling above his starkly carved cheekbones, and she… she can’t argue with Paul’s assessment. This is a boy who needs a week of sleep, a month of safety, to even begin rebuilding. “Fair enough. You go on ahead, we’ll give it ten or fifteen and then head out.”

“Perfect. I’ll give you a call in a couple days, see how he’s settling in. That sound all right?”

“Works for me.” Natalie watches the new rescue - Antoni - as Paul climbs back into his SUV, turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to nearly-silent life. Antoni doesn’t look back at him like some rescues do, desperate for a final glance. He only steps away, to give the vehicle more space, as Paul gives them one last wave and drives away.

The boy’s expression is unreadable, as Paul’s SUV turns left out of the subdivision, and he disappears into the growing night. She can’t tell if he cares, and she can’t tell if he doesn’t care. There’s nothing in his eyes at all but that same darkness.

Nat sighs. Well, they’ll figure it out as they go, or they won’t. “Okay, Antoni, my name is Natalie Yoder. I’m house mom for a safehouse you’ll be staying in from here on out.”

The boy looks back at her, and his dark eyes are fathomless and deep. “Okay, Natalie Yoder,” He says, and yes, that’s definitely an accent that softens his vowels, changes the consonants a little. She can’t quite name the accent, but… he definitely has one. 

“Call me Nat. I live down in the city-” She gestures behind her, vaguely. “And I’ve got a house there with some others like you, all right? We can keep you safe here. You did the first big thing, you walked away. Now it’s up to us to help you with the rest.” She holds out her hand, and - just as she thought - the young man jerks violently backwards, nearly tripping on himself, his shoulders hunched defensively nearly up to his chin.

Nat lets her hand drop.

“I, I do not… touch,” The young man says, clinging to his backpack strap. Nat lets her hand drop, watching the fear tightening his features, setting his jaw to trembling, flashing a hint of his teeth. “Please, please, I do not-... I do not touch.”

Nat puts both hands up in an I’m innocent gesture, taking one step back and then another, giving him some space to get around her. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, not with me and not at the house, not at all.”

The boy stares at her, and the sun is setting rapidly this far up in the hills, taking the hint of golden light that falls across his face and dimming it. “Please,” He whispers, and the sound barely carries to her. “Please, I, I cannot-... please-”

“That’s just fine,” Nat says, pitching her own voice lower, soothing. “You’re still fine, Antoni.” When he doesn’t relax, Nat swallows against her own reflexive distaste and adds, “You’re still a good boy.”

There it is. His shoulders relax, and he lets out a breath, an audible exhale, stepping a little closer to her. “I am? If I do not touch, still?”

Nat presses her lips together, wondering if Paul’s report that this new rescue was a Domestic holds water at all. Not that designations mean shit to people with no empathy and total control over another human being… “Yes, Antoni. You’re still good. Let’s get in the truck and head back, yeah? Can you get in the truck for me? I’ll stay right here.”

Simple, easy directions, and a safe distance. Antoni moves around her to the passenger side of the truck, and she gives him the time he needs, pulling her phone out from her back pocket to text Jake that the new rescue is here, and she’ll be heading home with him shortly.

Cool ok, comes Jake’s fast reply. Kauri’s a mess. Fever’s up and he took all his clothes off and got in bed.

Please don’t tell me your bed.

What do you think? He’s back on the couch and dressed though. I gave him something for the fever. Call Masood in the morning? This shit isn’t strong enough.

Nat knows how that feels.

By the time she gets into the driver’s seat, Antoni has himself settled, seatbelt buckled, hands in his lap, and… his backpack is firmly stuck between the two of them, right in the center of the seat, a slight barrier but a barrier nonetheless. 

He’s only been out for two weeks. He probably has some toiletries and a change of clothes or two in there, and that’s it. Maybe a book if he was allowed to remember how to read. But any way of giving himself space is better than no space at all.

When she reaches down to shift gears, Antoni flinches away, pressing himself to the inside of the door, his dark eyes locked on her hand.

“It’s a stick shift,” Nat says, softly. “I’m going to do this a lot. I’m not trying to touch you.”

His eyes move, reluctantly, from her hand to her face. “Please,” He says, and his voice is soft, and perfectly pitched. He’s been trained to beg, Nat thinks - she’s seen that before. She’s heard this voice before. “Please, please do not touch me. I will be good, whatever you need, just… do not touch.”

Nat takes a deep breath and rests her foot on the gas, cautiously moving out of the cul-de-sac and back onto the road, leaving the subdivision that never was, with its overgrown grass and brambles and the hot autumn winds blowing hard enough to rattle the dried-out leaves in the trees, behind. 

One new rescue, still sick from an infected wound, who can’t stop trying to touch everything that moves and has tried to talk Jake into bed at least three times - and one new rescue with an unmistakable cigarette burn on his neck who is so scared of being touched he starts begging before Nat can even get him home.

“This should be fun,” She mutters, not aware she’s even spoken aloud.

I am sorry. Antoni mouths the words, but Nat isn’t looking at him, and she doesn’t see him do it. As they drive down the hills towards the city, with its twinkling lights, he watches out the window, looking he hopes towards the north, wondering if he can ever apologize enough to earn forgiveness for the choice he made to leave the woman behind and run.

His right hand moves, pressing into his left arm, rubbing his thumb again and again over a certain spot just inside his wrist, rubbing right through the ribbed knit of the cuff of his sleeve, pressing and pressing and pressing until he feels the healing burn break open again, the bright flash of pain.

He relaxes a little, eyes closing, leaning heavily against the door as Nat turns on the radio and grumbles about what counts as classic rock now. 

It’s not that the ashtray, who has chosen the name Antoni, hates being touched.

It’s that he doesn’t deserve touch that doesn’t hurt.

---

Tagging @astrobly​, @finder-of-rings​, @burtlederp​ @slaintetowhump​ @moose-teeth​ @dhiabori @oofowouchies @doveotions​

[aaluminiumas]

Mercenary

The man called Wango failed to spot the female mercenary: he neglected and despised the drastic change of weather – such occasions were rather frequent in this part of the world. However, he did feel an obscure threat in the snowstorm whirling around him and attacking him from different angles – it almost behaved like a human being.

The blizzard quickly reacted to his attempts to defend himself from snow: whenever Wango turned away from the fluke of wind, the invisible enemy followed suit; every time he tried to cover his face from the snow, the microscopic particles became more persistent and aggressive, making their way into his eyes, nose, and ears, grazed across his skin as if in hope to dig underneath it or leave painful, bleeding scratches.

“Don’t be in a hurry, Wango.”

A derisive female voice cut the blizzard blinding the victim. Ambush seemed too insipid an action, so Monet, an advanced Devil fruit user, made her presence absolutely evident. She naturally played with the weather; her fingers, much like Doflamingo’s, pulled invisible strings causing various changes. A gentle move to the side and a gust of wind slapped the man across the cheek. A rough swat down – a wad of snow hit him powerfully in the temple. A clenched fist – and a white fortress formed around the man who had been lippy enough to try to double-cross Doflamingo himself. Not only that – he seemed to be on the take; some other pirate had bribed him to pry into the Donquixotes’ secrets.

“The fuck?!” the man cursed, looking around, his optics narrowed, a woolen scarf wrapped around the lower part of his ashen face with a large mole on the left eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Genuinely fascinated by the game, Monet did not reply; the snowstorm abated. Using the slack period to his advantage, Wango fished out the map; a moment later, and a powerful gust of wind yanked it from his frozen fingers. Then, relying on his memories and summoning the images of the juxtaposed landmarks, the man endeavored to orient himself. Unfortunately, most of them were concealed underneath thick layers of snow. Perplexed, he made an irresolute step towards the nearby forest – he wouldn’t dare dart directly into the grove, but the trees may be a good enough bolt-hole. He couldn’t stay there for long, sure, but it’d certainly save him the trouble and give him a brief respite to collect his wits and regain his composure.

Plowing through the newly increasing snowstorm, Wango, panting, headed towards the woods, the distant howl of the wind reverberating in his skull. He’d seen extreme conditions, he’d been to numerous islands with harsh climates, but nothing could compare to this. The more he struggled to muddle through the snow, the weaker he became – he sensed he couldn’t achieve his goal. The forest seemed to remain in the same spot, or even farther than he initially thought; almost falling down to the ground, the man estimated whether he was able to crawl to it. Or was it all a mirage? How could a tree grow here, in this ice desert?.. And that voice that called him through the sleet – it wasn’t real, was it?..

Monet chased him unceasingly, surrounding the man by the amplifying snow walls and thus cornering him, so he had no escape route. The forest appeared a risky enough destination as he might skulk through the spreading branches and eventually get lost, so the woman amassed all her energy and lured him in the wrong direction, occasionally leaving a vague track of footprints in her wake to instill a vain hope in him. As devious as Doflamingo himself, Monet had devised a beautiful plan, worked out the kinks, and now she knew perfectly well what to do next. In fact, she needn’t go into detail with a man like Wango as he meant no harm to her, a strong soldier trained by the topmost members of the Donquixote Family, but she nonetheless wanted it to operate without a hitch. Monet put much time and effort into reducing possible jeopardy to a bare minimum, and she would loathe seeing it go to waste. Nobody checked Wango’s liaisons as of late, and the woman felt little to no desire to involve his potential companions or partners. She had a task to accomplish, and in this case, collateral damage would not be welcome.

Unable to squelch a bout of ominous mirth mixed with obvious gloat, Monet let out a quiet chuckle. The man, distinctly alert, turned around to face nothing but a pair of bleak curious eyes gazing at him through the white veil of snow.

“Who the fuck are you?” Wango exclaimed, clearly disoriented and frightened. “What are you doing here? Chasing me?”

Monet did not reply immediately. Instead, she used the protracted pause to savor the victim's sheer consternation.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “A Marine?”

“Marine. Funny.”

Monet emanated a quiet chuckle – it was immediately muffled by the wail of the wind. Bewildered, flabbergasted, the treacherous pirate staggered back, his face a grey mask of dismay. Mesmerized by the yellow orbs, he couldn’t dragoon himself to look around and impel his brain to work.

“As I have said, don’t be in a hurry.”

Wango gasped, stumbling further, retreating. In a moment, he realized he wasn’t moving anywhere – his only escape route was cut off by a large wall made of snow.

“Who are you?” the man demanded again in a desperate attempt to buy some time, his brain working frantically, contriving a plan to escape his fate. “What are you?”

Monet let out another chuckle. The pirate, breathing heavily, rapidly examined the walls around him. After all, she – if it were a she – couldn’t be invincible, right? Everybody had weaknesses, and all he needed to do was to discover and hit them. Fiercely. Or, at least, to find out what made her tick, so he could play along, deceive her and flee while he still could. Unfortunately, he knew precious little about Devil Fruit users, so all his suppositions regarding the apparition’s powers were limited and may not evince the status quo. Of course, if Devil Fruits were indeed a thing, not an old legend told by nostalgic pirates embellishing their adventures with details that never existed. Anyways, he should use the bits of information he’d occasionally picked in his numerous trips abroad and do it right now – otherwise, he’d be buried underneath snow dunes.

The walls of the improvised fortress moved an inch closer towards the man. Unable to pinpoint the source of the chortle, the man kept gyrating and swerving in all directions. There must be a crevice, a tiny hole, a crack that would ruin the whole citadel when pressure applied. The wall seemed bleak and monolithic, save for a minuscule seam between two snow slabs. Wango wondered if he could break it by a powerful push, but as the plates irrevocably tightened around him, he stopped hesitating and leaned onto the junction.

The woman was watching him intently, her avian eyes fixed on the man’s pale face and his miserable endeavors. She clearly enjoyed the game and already envisioned the climax she had already acted out in her head: nothing could surpass the beauty of the scene her brain generated. If only Doflamingo could see it, he would be delighted. He’d savor the cruelty she precipitated on the disloyal pirate.

Wango, shoving the impregnable wall, spotted a glimpse of extreme atrocity in the yellow orbs glowing under the snowy veil. Albeit the pretty face outlined by the wind didn’t reveal any particular emotion, he was sure that this woman – or whoever the hell she might be – would not let him go. He needed to outwit or defeat her, and the latter option appeared far-fetched: she already used her power on him. He needed to rely on his street smarts, nothing else would help.

“Who sent you?” Wango demanded, his shaking hands pushing the wall.

“A friend of yours. Our mutual friend, to be exact,” came a singsong answer.

A spark of recognition. It couldn’t be– it couldn’t be, right? He was offered protection, given guarantees – after all the risks he underwent, after all the hindrances he’d overcome?.. He thrust the plate with his body, but it didn’t budge – though it did prevent the wall from moving.

“What friend? I don’t have friends,” he snapped, “Might be another self-assured prick thinking he can order me about.”

“Might be.”

Her voice dispersed in the roar of the wind that slowly abated. The snowflakes no longer seemed ferocious – instead of viciously scratching his skin, now they gently caressed the weather-beaten face and got interlaced with the eyelashes. The irresolute moonlight tickled the treetops and descended onto the ground illuminating the ruins of the snow fortress around him. The forest resembled picture-perfect tranquility, an exile from the frenzied world concentrated on wealth and glory – he should definitely ponder such an option over.

Monet approached him from behind. Quietly, she sashayed over to the man, her spidery hands tenderly lying onto his shoulder, cold breath hitting him on the skin already bitten by the frost.

He did not fight back. Chained by overwhelming consternation and panic, the man certainly planned to talk his way out – even though he didn’t have a knack for speaking, eloquence was certainly not his strength, he nonetheless hoped she’d hear. Actually, he intended to plead – to beg, to gravel, if needed; once proud and arrogant, Wango realized that the outcome depended solely on her mercy – or lack thereof. Monet succeeded to inculcate fear in him, but instead of the fight or flight reaction she expected, Wango palsied, his limbs stymied, only the greenish orbs were desperately swerving around.

“How many people have you already betrayed?” the woman asked nonchalantly, the smarmy voice penetrating his ears. The woman did not look threatening; something in the tone was lulling him to sleep while the snow sucked in his boots and crusted. “Weren’t you taught the basic human virtues? Honesty, sincerity… shall we say, loyalty?”

The wench might be opiating him by her quiet voice and the insidious warmth her skin exuded. Or was it his own body?.. Nevermind. He must wrench free from her viselike grip, or he’d end up freezing here to death – he already felt drowsy. Plucking out his feet, Wango mustered all his strength and remaining stamina to jump back. It did not help: he realized that he was trapped, that the ruins of the fortress stood there unharmed, and the space between him and the woman was so narrow that he could barely plan his maneuver; his panic-stricken brain hardly reacting to command.

“You just don’t understand,” he mumbled, imploring, his tongue hardly moving, “Please, listen to me, whoever you are,” his optics uncontrollably circulating, “It had to be… I had to do that! They’d kill me if I hadn’t–”

“Death is a release, isn’t it?”

Monet sounded half-sardonic, half-joking this time; there was a note of seriousness in her voice, though it was mostly concealed by the emotion she failed to properly convey. Still, a tinge of crystal clear disdain trickled into the words.

“I’m a poor man,” Wango whined, “I’m a poor man abused by many–”

His senseless wailing started to get on her nerves, and for a second – just a second, not more – it diverted her attention. Using that short respite, the man turned around, darted forward, and seized the woman by the chartreuse-colored hair. Hauling her over to him, the man licked his chapped lips and pulled out a rough shiv pressing it to her underjaw.

“You think you can play me, bitch?” Wango hissed, his hazel eyes burning with untamed ferocity.

“I most certainly do.”

Another grin distorted her lips, and the woman dribbled through his fingers – her green locks, her face, her body slowly morphed into snow that materialized behind him. Her hands clawed into his shoulders, clamped him tightly against her lean frame. Wango, unable to have forestalled such an action, tried to kick her in the legs, but the holdfast tightened, her icicle-like talons piercing his flesh.

“Death is a release,” Monet intoned into his ear, her whisper drowning in the shrill of agony and extreme anguish. “Soon you’ll see.”

Swiftly, she fished out her elegant dagger and slashed his throat in one methodic, steady gesture while propelling Wango away from her. The gaping wound splayed open, almost beheading the man. Shocked, dumbfounded by the fierce and rapid attack, he choked and hastened to put pressure on the cut but to no avail. The blood was already gushing all over his trembling hands, momentarily soddening his clothes and splattering across the snow forming a crimson trail in the direction of the looming forest in the distance.

In several minutes of ugly convulsions, he was dead. The tranquility, not disturbed by the brief melee, finally reigned.

“And salvation too, isn’t it?”

Stepping over the corpse, the woman squatted beside him and pulled a ring off his middle finger: Doflamingo had indicated his trust by giving the jewelry to the man. Wiping her fingers off the blood-soaked shirt of the cadaver, Monet left the place. If her Young Master had any doubts regarding her loyalty, by now they most likely dispersed.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

SKIN DEEP—a fic

So Rainbow had a pretty funny exchange on Twitter yesterday about the Watford crew and teenage acne, and in particular if Baz would have acne. Which she said he most certainly would. So, being me, I had to go write a fic about it. Because I have no chill and even less self control. So here is a slightly crack-y fic, set at pre-canon era Watford, as hormones start to surge and Simon becomes pimple obsessed.

Screen shots of Rainbow’s tweets at the end of this post, to prove this lunacy had a real life prompt.

Simon and Baz fourth year, as the ravages of adolescence commence. Pimples, blemishes and spots. Questionable concoctions. The roots of Baz’s immaculate skin care regimen. Some things even a vampire can’t avoid.

Skin Deep

Year Four

Simon

I’m just about to splash water on my face when I notice them in the mirror. I mean, I’ve been expecting this to happen. I saw the older boys go all spotty at the homes. There’s no way I’d be lucky enough to be spared.

But fuck it all. I’ve got one on the side of my nose, two on my chin and one right between my eyebrows. How did I get all these pimples in one night?

I’m half tempted to think Baz spelled me. But that’s not his style, he doesn’t sneak about doing something like this, even though he’s a prick and a plotter. No, he did things like this when we were first years, but now when Baz spells me he wants everyone to know what he’s done.

Makes a production of it, the wanker.

Like when he knocks my boater off. Spells my shoes untied during class, so I trip when I stand up. Or seals the lid on the butter dish at breakfast.

If Baz was going to spell me spotty he’d do it in on a Monday, right before class, when everyone would notice. Not in our room, on a Saturday morning, when we’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go.

He’s still asleep so if he did do it, it must have been in the night and really what would be the bloody point of that?

I have to reluctantly admit it’s probably not him this time. It’s me. I was just hoping this particular stage of puberty would just pass me by.

The other milestones have been coming one right after another though, so I guess I’m not that lucky.

I’ve got hair in more places now.

And I grew three inches this summer (Baz grew four, the tosser, so he’s still taller than me).

He’s taller but it’s like he fits in his body. Glides when he walks. Smooth as silk on the pitch. Bloody infuriating, is what it is.

I feel like a marionette on a string, my arms and legs all out of sync, knocking into furniture and tripping over my own feet, even when my shoes are tied.

And my voice has been doing that stupid thing where it gets all deep mid-sentence, and then it goes up so high I sound like Madame Bellamy. It’s bloody awful. Baz always gives me shit about it --“going to break into song for us, Snow?”

He’s such a prick.

I lean in closer to the mirror. The ones on my chin are small. It’s the nose one that’s a disaster.

No help for it. I’ll ask Penny if there’s a spell at breakfast. Though I doubt there is, seeing as Agatha’s been spotty for weeks and I know she’d use a spell, if there was one. Penny says Agatha spells her hair to be that straight and shine like it does. I wasn’t sure I believed her but some days it’s got a bit of an uneven wave to it so I wonder if Penny may be right.

*******

“No, Simon, there isn’t a spell.” Penny is using her patient voice with me, which means she thinks my question is unbearably stupid. She leans across the table to peer at me over her glasses. “You’ve hardly got any.”

“I might only have four now. But just you wait. They’re bound to get worse. With my luck I’ll be covered in them.”

“You don’t know that. And even if they do get worse it’s human nature! The universal teen experience!”

I groan.

“It won’t be that bad, Simon. Besides everyone’s spotty.”

“Baz isn’t spotty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not Baz again, please.”

“Have you seen him, Penny?”

“I see him every day, Simon.”

“Yes, but have you really looked?”

“Obviously not as intently as you.”

“I live with him!”

I get another eye roll.

“He’s not got one spot! I tell you, it’s proof he’s a vampire. You can’t go through normal adolescence and be as pristine as all that.”

“Everyone goes through puberty at different times. He’s probably not at that stage yet.”

“He’s taller than me!”

“He’s always been taller than you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“It’s not like he has any control over that, Simon. It’s genetics.”

I know that. I know height isn’t something that you can magick. But it just doesn’t seem fair that each time I grow enough to catch up to him, he grows too.

He did it last summer. Did it again this summer. Even grew over the Christmas holiday this year, the jammy bastard.

And now I’m sprouting pimples right and left and he’s across the dining hall with his flawless, pearly grey skin. Not a spot to be seen.

Typical.

****

I can tell I’ve got more when I wake up. Bloody hell. The old ones dry up and get crusty and new ones take their place.

My face feels heavier this morning. I grimace and I know there’s one on the side of my nose again. It pinches when my cheeks move so it must be massive. And the one on my chin itches— it’s probably grown overnight, red and welted around that nasty white center. I can’t even imagine what my forehead looks like.

I’ve tried everything.

Washing my face twice a day.

Alcohol to try to dry them out (didn’t do a thing, except make my skin all flaky so I looked like I had dandruff and the pox).

I borrowed some ointment off of Gareth. (He’s worse off than me, the poor sod, just a face full of them.) (Which should have tipped me off that whatever he was using wasn’t working.) (Got an earful from Penny about that.)

I had some sort of allergic reaction when I used his, so my face was itching, red even in the areas between the spots, and felt like it was on fucking fire.

Practically scrubbed my face off trying to wash it away.

Of course, Baz walked in right as I came out of the en suite. Did a double take at the sight of me, the wanker, then raised that eyebrow of his and curled his lip up in a sneer. Leaned forward and studied me for a moment. My face got even hotter. I don’t like it when he stares at me like that, all intense and focused. Like he’s plotting the best way to end me without triggering the Anathema. Makes my stomach twist, it does.

Made me wish my wand wasn’t half way across the room.

But I know Baz won’t risk the Anathema. He’s never done anything remotely threatening in our room. (It’s another story out of our room.)

He’d crossed his arms over his chest after he was done inspecting me and smirked, the tosser. “You know, Snow, between the excessive quantity of moles, infinite number of freckles, and extraordinary collection of pimples you have on your face, I don’t think I can actually see anything resembling skin anymore.”

He’s going to make me trigger the Anathema one of these days.

I ended up having to see the nurse for it, when I couldn’t stop scratching at my face. She rolls her eyes almost as much as Penny. It’s not like I can help being there so often. I’ve got missions. Important work for the Mage. It’s what I do.

She’d shaken her head at me and cast some spell that made the itching go away but didn’t do a thing for the bloody spots. Looked bored and put upon even doing that, she did.

This teen experience is a bloody nuisance.

I’m more and more convinced Baz is a vampire. The entire class looks poxed except for him. Like we’re in the middle of a plague while he’s all alabaster skin, unblemished and smooth, immaculate and bloody flawless.

Perfect, just like he always is.

Wanker.

Baz

Snow is an absolute spotted mess. It was entertaining at first, to watch him peer at himself in the mirror, hear the muttered curses as he would catch sight of each new blemish.

But I’m actually finding myself almost feeling sorry for him now.

Almost.

He’s standing at his mirror, turning his face this way and that, grumbling to himself as he inspects his reflection.

It’s something he does on a daily basis since his skin condition deteriorated so precipitously. I should probably stop needling him about it.

But I won’t because he actually seems quite bothered by it. Can’t let him think I’m going soft.

I wasn’t joking the other night, when I mocked him. I don’t think he has a span of skin left that doesn’t have some manner of spot or blotch or freckle on it. At least he’s stopped with the alcohol washes. He was shedding more than a snake when he was doing that, leaving errant flakes of skin all over the bathroom sink.

Disgusting.

Whatever he’s doing certainly isn’t making anything better. Making it a far sight worse by my estimation.

He’s literally a textbook illustration of acne vulgaris. The full range: from red and bumpy spots, to glaring pustules, to crusted over, scabby craters.

More like a walking dermatologic visual in actuality. You could slap a label on him: progressive stages of teenage acne and the entire range of pigmented facial anomalies.

Although they weren’t really anomalies before the acne got to Snow. His moles and freckles just seem to fit with his tawny skin—vast arrays of constellations scattered across his face, mapping out patterns against the smoothness of his complexion.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. What absolute nonsense. Snow’s freckles are a travesty.

And he’s anything but smooth complexioned. He’s more of a lunar landscape than Shakespeare’s damask’d roses.

I can’t be arsed to mess with him now though. I’m too comfortable under my blankets.

It’s far too early for anyone to be up, but Snow’s probably readying himself to head off on one of the Mage’s blasted missions again. Despite the fact that it’s a Sunday morning and by all accounts he should be doing what the rest of us are—having a lazy lie-in.

I watch him from under half-lidded eyes, the blankets pulled up to cover the bottom half of my face. He growls one last time, savages his curls in an attempt to tame them, and then charges out the door. It slams shut behind him, further proof that Snow has no regard for the niceties of sharing a room.

Thanks to all his thumping about, I’m now wide awake. I try to go back to sleep, try to will myself into a drowsy oblivion, but that ship has sailed. No Sunday lie-in for me and I lay the blame directly on Snow.

I stay under the covers for a bit longer, dreading the chilly walk to the en suite, but eventually my need to piss outweighs the comfort of the bed.

It’s not until I’m washing my hands and happen to glance up at the mirror that I notice.

There’s a pimple on my nose. Not just on my nose—at the very tip of it. Right in the fucking center of my face. If it were anywhere else—my forehead or my cheeks, for example—I’d have some chance of hiding it. But this. I can’t hide this.

And I can’t hide the one on my chin either. Bloody hell.

I shouldn’t even have pimples. I should by all rights be immune to this. I don’t get sick, I’m not prey to infections—how the bloody hell have I ended up with acne, for Crowley’s sake? It should be one of the perks of being undead—imperviousness to the ravages of teenage skin eruptions.

For half a minute I wonder if Snow has spelled me, in retribution for my insensitive commentary on his facial imperfections. But there is no possible way Snow could have managed a spell this precise, this nuanced. I’d be covered in boils, like Job himself, if Snow had attempted to pox me.

That’s not to say that this is acceptable. It most assuredly is not. And there’s no bloody spell for it. Dev’s been spotty since last year and he and Niall have yet to find anything that does more than slightly diminish the redness.

It’s fine. This is fine.

It’s not fine.

I need to call home and talk to Daphne. Surely she’ll have some advice for me.

Simon

The sunlight filtering through the window wakes me up. I’m still knackered from yesterday. Didn’t get back until well after midnight and I’ve got class in just a bit. I stretch and groan as my shoulder pops. I wrenched it trying to free my sword from that basilisk’s skull last night. I roll my neck and pull myself to a seated position.

Baz is already up. The door to the en suite’s closed but I don’t hear the water running.

My stomach growls. I’ll have time for seconds if I get to breakfast early enough. I’m just about ready to head down there when Baz comes out of the bathroom, steam drifting behind him and bringing the scent of his shampoo with it. It’s some posh brand, in sleek, artistically shaped bottles.

Penny says it smells like cedar and bergamot. I’m not sure what cedar and bergamot smell like. All I know is that the scent is unfairly pleasant.

Unlike Baz, who isn’t pleasant at all.

He looks murderous at the moment, eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed. He’s an arse in general but more so in the mornings. He’d sleep late if he had the chance—he’s rarely out of bed before nine on weekends, the tosser, not unless he’s got exams to study for or an away match.

I’m trying to stay out of his way as I leave but I make for the door right as he crosses the room to his wardrobe and we do this awkward half step to avoid each other.

And that’s when I see it.

He’s got a pimple on his nose. Right at the tip of it, where it comes to a bit of a point. It’s nothing compared to any of mine. I’d hardly notice it on anyone else but this is Baz.

It’s stark against his pale skin, raised and just slightly reddened.

Fuck. He’s got one on his chin as well. Two, actually.

Baz has spots.

Trivial and hardly noticeable ones, but still.

I open my mouth to say something then think better of it and hightail it down to breakfast.

I still can’t quite believe it.

Baz has spots.

Penny is disappointingly unimpressed by this unexpected and highly irregular development.

“Simon, we all have spots. This is not some earth-shattering revelation. It’s puberty. A normal part of human development. We’ve been over this.”

“No, but this is Baz. Baz, Penny. He’s not human.”

Penny rolls her eyes again. She rolls her eyes rather a lot, I’m thinking. “He is if he has spots, Simon. I’d say this disproves your vampire hypothesis for good.”

“Maybe vampires aren’t immune to acne.”

“Simon.”

“Maybe it’s some plot. He probably magicked them up himself, the scheming prick.”

“You’re relentless! First you’re outraged that he doesn’t have spots, now you’re complaining that he does! For Merlin’s sake, Baz has finally shown himself to be as imperfect as the rest of us, so let it go, Simon.”

“He’s not imperfect. Far from it. Even his pimples are impeccable—small, unobtrusive, uh . . . restrained.”

Penny stands up, takes her plate and glares at me over the top of her glasses. “That’s enough, Simon. You’re being absurd. No one has perfect pimples.” She stomps across the hall to deposit her dishes, turning back to give me a disapproving look.

I scowl at her. Baz walks in as Penny goes out.

She’s wrong this time. Penny’s not wrong about much, but she’s wrong about this.

Baz’s pimples are fucking perfect.

It’s so fucking unfair.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383057

[chernoblank]

Some day, tell us about stories incubating in WIPland, like a Neutral Evil version of you

Oh sure! I’ll do it for Chernobyl, since it’s the fandom we share.

WIPs I abandoned (enter at your own risk):

5 times two of Boris, Ulana and Valery almost had sex with each other, and the one time they did

All pairs, Abandoned at 5k

Technically I DID publish the second part of this as my latest Valana (Deer in the headlights), but it was originally divided into 5+1 parts. In each of the first 5, they fantasized very vividly about fucking the other until something made them snap and realize they’d been imagining stuff, which is very very embarrassing, and entirely inappropriate. So all the parts had smut, except some of them were imagined.

Valery fantasizing about Ulana when he asks her to go to Moscow in the bar scene

Ulana fantasizing about Valery when he hosts her in Moscow

Boris fantasizing about Valery one time they got drunk in Pripyat

Boris fantasizing about Ulana after they fight in the abandoned building

 Valery fantasizing about Boris in Vienna (this was going to include an actual kiss)

And  1. Ulana and Boris get together, in the depressing aftermath

I mean, in theory I’d still love to write all this (especially especially the Vienna Valoris, possibly going all the way), and it was only abandoned last month, but the lack of feedback in the fandom (plus considering I write het) made it not worth the effort, really. Also, this fic was supposed to use a lot of ideas from the other discarded WIPs in this list.

 Boris and Ulana hate sex after the abandoned building

Uloris. Abandoned only at 500 words, but I had it all mapped out until the end, very annoying

 After the tense meeting in the abandoned building, they have to stay in Pripyat for one night, and Boris corners Ulana and pushes his way into her room. They fight some more, Ulana goads him into admitting he’s into Valery, it’s very dub-con that turns to very very very con in the middle of it. They are really enjoying themselves but then they notice a movement in the balcony: Valery heard fighting, thought it was maybe the KGB attacking Ulana so he tried to come in the room, saw what was happening, and stayed for the show. He is now calmly smoking a cigarette. It was going to end with B and U very mortified but also wondering what this means for the future. This was abandoned because I found a more satisfying way to write Uloris, I guess, but damn I really liked this idea.

 Groundhog day AU

Valana. Abandoned at 900 words because lost motivation

This was a groundhog day AU where Valery relives April 25, 1986 over and over until he figures out what it is he has to do to stop the disaster. He tries many things, like going to Pripyat himself, trying to reach Boris (and getting ignored). Nothing works. One day he decides to just take the train to Minsk on a whim, he buys flowers for Ulana and shows up at her lab. She knows his name but thinks he’s lost his marbles, but Dmitri convinces her to at least listen to the man over coffee. I was going to have him convince her that stuff is going to happen at Chernobyl, and you know her, she jumps on her car, they have a long drive there and manage somehow to stop the stupid test. Over the course of their daytrip, he confesses the groundhog day situation, Ulana doesn’t’ believe him at first but he sure knows a lot about her and there’s a lot of familiarity there, and it was going to end with Ulana asking if they were something, in his alternate universe (they weren’t, but Valery wished they were).

 It had lovely things like:

“There’s a man here to see you,” Dmitri says, sounding a little bewildered. “He has flowers.”

“What?” Ulana says, lifting her eyes from the paper she’s reading. This sounds like a joke, but Dmitri has the sense of humor of a dried cod. “Who?”

 "Valery Legasov, from the Kurchatov Institute.“

 "Professor Legasov?” she repeats, disbelieving.

 "That’s what he said. He has flowers. For you.“

 "Yes, I got that the first time. But why would he be here? We weren’t told he’d visit.”

 "He’s here to see you.“

 Alright: she needs to put a stop to this, because Dmitri seems to be developing a belated sense of humor, and yes, it’s true she hasn’t been out with a man in over five years, but she isn’t about to the laughing stock of her equally awkward assistant.

 "Send him in,” she says. “And make yourself scarce.”

 "Understood,“ Dmitri says, and winks at her.

   Let’s Be Alive together, part 3

Valana. Abandoned at 4k, sigh. Loss of motivation, lack of feedback

Well, this one was always meant to exist, as I always meant to do a Valana trilogy. It was going to follow after the other 2. But yeah, almost no one reads Valana, it makes me annoyed to look at the low kudos every time I post one, so I gave up. It was also very difficult to write emotionally? I left them in a very difficult position in Part 2, and Ulana really doesn’t feel like forgiving him. I also did it from Valery’s POV and boy is he a difficult character when he’s a dick (which he was for a large part of this fic). It was all “but she’s so UNFAIR, why does she come to my house and fight with me” etc etc. I was not impressed with him. Anyway I think I was making some progress towards reconciliation, but just… gave up.

The gist of it was this: when Ulana visits Valery in Moscow, after he refuses to lie and they have their awful conversation, she has a plan B: let’s warn the operators of the other power plants about the graphite rods so that at least this mistake is never repeated again.

“Sure,” he says, as petulantly as he can manage, and crosses his arms across his chest. “Let’s hash it out. What are you suggesting, that we drive around the country to every nuclear plant with an RBMK reactor, knock on their door, and tell them, ‘By the way, did you know there’s a deadly flaw in the equipment you handle every day?’”

He has to give it to her: she doesn’t miss a beat as she answers, “Essentially, yes. Are you with me or not?”

“And Charkov and the KGB will just smile and nod as we go on our little crusade?”

“Oh, they’ll notice us. I don’t think this crusade is a return trip, Valery.”

 So off they go, and I took painstaking care to map out where the RMBK reactors were and what was the best route for them to go. Essentially a long road trip where they will slowly  make up (because boy is Ulana still not fond of him right now). Of course, Charkov notices what they are doing when they are on the way to the last few plants, but they are intercepted by Boris instead (this was close to Ukraine) who yells at them for being stupid and finds a way to smuggle them out of the country, at great risk, so that they aren’t caught by Charkov and co. Valery and Ulana live out a few years together, moderately happy.

 The Great OT3, aka the Canadian escape

OT3 for real! Poly. Abandoned at 5k because of serious characterization problems.

 Around late 1987, Valery is miserable in Moscow, a Canadian secret agent acoasts him on the street and offers to smuggle him out. He agrees on a whim. Once he arrives in Canada, he finds Ulana there, who explains that Boris arranged for this with some of his contacts (through her, as not to be implicated himself). She decided to join him on a whim too.  

I described it to @pottedmusic yesterday so I’m just going to paste what I told her here with some more details.

 U and V slept together at least once during the canon. V and B were veeeery close to things but never really got anywhere. V is bi and willing, but B never indicated he was anything other than het so V gave up during the series.

 V and U get hitched because of cabin fever while waiting for their refugee paperwork. B was going to try to join V but he was undecided because of his family, so V and U aren’t really expecting him. But he does come, and agreements have to be made.

 U isn’t thrilled about V/B but he got them out of the country so of course he has to live with them. And well, B is old and sick (but getting better, all are getting ~magically better~) so it’s not like they’re having vigorous sex every night - never mind his het sexual hang ups. I thought something with a lot of emotions, cuddling in bed, talking a lot etc. V is very patient and knows whatever time together is a gift. V and U, otoh, have much more of a sex life and B hears sometimes and doesn’t like it but also DOES, you know? I stopped a long time before I got there at all, but I was going to use the het sex to lure Boris in and make him more comfortable with the idea of Valery as a sexual being. And U and B didn’t have a sexual element in the past but were going to grow into it.

 I was going to have them relocate to Alberta, where there is a nuclear station, it’s suitably snowy. They would all live in the same house. Because paperwork made it easier, Valery and Ulana were a married couple (this was awkward at the beginning and is what precipitated their getting together). When Boris comes, Ulana suggests he could be her father on the paperwork, which everyone hates, but it kinda works. So they all live together.

It was going to be 1. Valery POV, mostly Valana, until Boris arrives, at which point it becomes 2. Boris POV, Valoris + Valana, and finally 3. Ulana POV, Uloris and OT3 happily ever after for 10 years.

I do love this AU a lot. I wish I had managed to find a way not to make them sound OOC. As it is, I hate everything about this and can’t even find anything worth quoting from it.

 Drabbles from Discord that I was supposed to develop more, but never got around to:

 Minister/Miner, first time

 In a scenario similar to the ot3 above, where they are all together and live with each other, Valery and Ulana compare notes on Boris and the way they all have sex with each other

 So there you go. For the ones I still like, I wish the fandom was still active (and cared about Ulana in sexual configurations)

[jaehyunspeachparty]

I would like to preface this by saying that I am a big fan of your work and find it admirable of you to constantly be putting out work consistently. But in the last few updates I’ve developed some thoughts about the character of Jaehyun. Firstly, the character’s constant high libido. This of course is not weird in anyway but the way he goes about it is somewhat unnatural I find. His partner has just given birth and gotten pregnant again, these kinds of pregnancy pose high risks to both (1)

- mother and fetus so I found it very unnatural for him to be constantly asking/proposing penetrative sex as the mother’s doctor would have most likely have said little strenuous activity (even less than a normal pregnancy) to reduce any chances of miscarriage and the first thing in the father’s mind would most likely be the health of the mother and fetus so they would put it first. Moreover, with young children the main focus of the parents would be on the upbringing of the children (2)

- and they would actively try to spend as much time as possible with the children especially with his job requiring him to be away for periods of time. These are just some of my thoughts that come from a constructive criticism point of view as these things just, to me, made some posts difficult to read and they would not naturally happen in real life. Again I wanna say I love your work 💕

First of all, thank you and I am always happy if someone likes to read my stories. I am really very sorry that you have had a hard time reading the last chapters. I totally understand your approaches and it is natural that all of this may not come across as real. I think criticism is good and I think that you can only get better with constructive criticism. So thank you that you took your time to write to me so much. But since I only write for the story, I still want to explain my thoughts a bit.

I started writing the Christmas series when Y/N was pregnant with Sunoh. I don’t plan my stories in the long term. And I just wanted to give you guys something back as thanks for your supporting. This shouldn’t be realistic, there should be just naughty and nice stories. If the Christmas Series ends, then will be there not so much smut.

Sometimes I just love to write smut lol But I’m actually in my private life a lot under pressure and I don’t know, I find it relaxing to write smut – it helps me actually – also when I know some things are unrealistic.

And I never said that they didn’t have enough time for the children ;) In the story works Jaehyun actually not much (because of the Suji problematic).

Sex (and sports) is not dangerous for a pregnant woman except the doctor told you so. A lot of women enjoy sex much more in their pregnancy because your vaginal area is better supplied with blood and some are because of their hormones super horny.

And I can’t speak for all pregnant women, but I knew some. One friend of mine gave birth for two years. I lived with her in a dorm, she had a risky pregnancy because she had a few years ago brain cancer but she and her boyfriend fucked the whole time. Omg I was so annoyed, but her doctor said it is fine to have sex and they enjoyed their time. And besides my study, I worked for a few years also as a nanny and assisted women during pregnancy and after birth. I had a very good relationship with all of them (with some I’m still friends) and they told me a lot of things and were super open. They told me also about their sex life, about risks and miscarriage. I saw a woman who drunk during pregnancy, I saw a woman who had 6 miscarriage, I saw a woman who had an eating disorder during pregnancy, I got told about couple who were super horny the whole time also when the woman was pregnant with the second child or with twins, I got told that some woman or husband doesn’t want to fuck during pregnancy.  I just write from experiences and take it from there. I am also not experienced and don’t know much because I’m not a doctor or something. But I could see that every couple and every pregnancy is different. (By the way, I knew one pregnancy where she wasn’t allowed to have sex and this was because she had a high risk of precipitate delivery).

This isn’t supposed to be a defense, I just wanted to be an insight into my thought construct. I hope that after the Christmas Series you will enjoy the chapters better and I think it will be more realistic again. Thanks anyway for your support ❤️

❤️❤️❤️ Katy

[littleredroseonthevalley]

An Opera on Separation - Chapter 16

Prologue | Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 | Ch. 15 | CH. 16 | Ch. 17 | Ch. 18 |

Summary: With Beau and Kassidy arrested, Nathan and Emily carry on with their lives. A misunderstanding, however, forces them into a precipitate decision.

Rating: T - Content not suitable for children.  Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2465

Notes: So, it’s been a couple of weeks/months ever since I last posted it, and it was because I was rethinking my ending. Since I got to no conclusion, I sent it all to Hell and decided to go on with it as planned.

I hope y’all enjoy it.

Blue Danube

Out of all stupid, crazy and adrenaline-high things she had ever done, this one took the cake.

Hartfeld is a rather large city, yes, being in southern New England and at a comfortable distance between both New York and Boston. But at one hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, mostly concentrated around the university, it wasn’t hard to meet an old face running errands.

Which was why she had to raise up the stakes.

She could not risk anybody seeing her with a pregnancy test. It would be the talk of the university in a few hours if such a thing passed. She had no car, and couldn’t very well ask someone to drive three towns over to go to a pharmacy, especially when there was plenty of those at walking distance.

So she went down to the drugstore, put on a bunch of beauty products on a basket and covertly hid a pee stick box on her overcoat, paid for the cosmetics and bailed out of there.

The only thing worse than having your poster girl pregnant out of wedlock is having her shoplifting a drugstore while pregnant out of wedlock. That shit would be on every paper and local TV station in inland Connecticut.

She rushed home, downing bottle after bottle of water. She ran through her apartment door and shut herself in the bathroom.

Both her roommates were out, having classes and projects of their own, which meant she could wait the test out in peace and no risk of being caught with a, God forbid, two-lined pee stick.

Or a soft cheese, sushi and vodka party, which is what she was planning for her evening tonight.

She pees on the stick and leaves it on the bathroom sink waiting for the most agonizing ten minutes of her entire fucking life. What would she do? She is a college girl. A broke one, for that matter. She had no job and a mountain of student debt.

She could not care for a child! She was stupid and irresponsible, as the situation clearly shows. How would she care for an infant at the same time she has to work to keep a roof over their heads?

Jesus Christ, she is so screwed.

Her phone beeped the end of the ten minutes, but she didn’t have the guts to look at it. She stayed there, leaning against the door and contemplating herself on the mirror, the tear-stricken face and the hair sticking out. She should be giving up on her vanity, anyways. If she was really pregnant, the baby would disfigure her entire body.

She finally had the guts to go over to the counter and take the paper that was covering the result away. And it was just like she expected.

Two lines.

Rebecca Davenport was pregnant and alone.

Nathan, as he often did these days, woke up with a smile.

He was young, handsome, rich and intelligent. He had a hot girlfriend who satisfied him in every sense of the word. His parents were off his back, and he had had the pleasure of enacting his come-uppance over Beau Han.

There was absolutely no reason for him to be unhappy. He was flying high as a kite and would not come down any time soon.

Yesternight, he and Emily went to this ethnic Brazilian steakhouse in Danbury, some fifty miles away. The food was good, even if they had the tendency of eating overcooked meat.

After they came back, Emily invited him to stay over for the night and do some… evening activities. Her roommates were out doing their own thing, so they had the place all to themselves.

The thought of sleeping a mild, late-Spring morning was very tempting, but his natural needs were asking for his attention. He disentangled himself very carefully from his redhead bedmate and tiptoed his way to the bathroom.

After his urges were taken care of, he walked over to the sink to brush his teeth. It would be a pleasant surprise for his girlfriend receiving the first kiss in the morning tasting like mint rather than steak-induced mouth grime.

It was then he saw it. The pregnancy test. The positive pregnancy test.

His breath hitched. It could not be Emily’s, could it? He was careful enough to always use protection, and his girlfriend had said she was on the pill.

He could not deal with that on his own. Much to his displeasure, Nathan needed some help. He finds a plastic bag and places the stick on it, careful not to touch the ‘peed-on’ area.

Racing back to the room, the blond quickly put on his clothes. Looking at the sleeping girl nested on the bed, he leans over to kiss her forehead goodbye, but stops himself only short.

If it was the truth, if this is nothing but a scam for his money, then Emily was not as special as he thought she was.

“We’ll pay her off to abort.” It was the pragmatic solution from Nathan Sterling.

The father, not the son. The two of them sat at the senior’s study on their home in New Haven. Soon after his discovery, the youngest blond hopped on his car and drove straight to see his father.

The relationship between Nathan and pretty much all of his family was strained, to say the very least, but they were certainly on his court this time, given the circumstances. The Sterlings had an image to maintain, and an estate to protect. Bastard children wasn’t conductive to neither.

His father was the young man’s first choice. Lois Sterling would not pass on a chance to demean her enfant terrible, and he didn’t quite trust his extended family not to crave a knife to his back like some pitiful interpretation of Richard III.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.” The son argued. “It still can all be an accident. If we corner her, she would react badly and it would be worse.”

“I follow your reasoning, but I don’t think the family’s welfare is your true motivation for coming after me for advice.”

The youngest hold on a snort at the word ‘advice’, preferring asking: “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “Nathan, be honest with me, do you even want to break up with this girl? Even if she has planned all this from the beginning just to trap you into a shotgun wedding?”

“Of course I do!” He defended, on a high tone. “I mean, if she’s not a gold digger, I prefer to maintain the relationship, of course, but if she is, then I don’t think how we can still be together.”

The man chuckles bitterly and paces around the room. “Son, look at me. I’m not particularly handsome. Not now, not ever. I wasn’t the brightest student my day, either, and people find me to be dismissive. But there’s one thing I am, which is rich beyond every measure.

“When I met your mother, I thought she was the prettiest woman I’d ever meet.” The young man looks at his father with disgust in his eye. “Don’t make that face. She’s never been very sweet, but she still is a very pretty woman. Anyways, of course I wanted to woo her, and I managed to do that with basically my affluence alone.

“And money, Nathan, money and lineage never go away. Looks fade, intelligence get boring and sympathy is tiring, but material goods are forever.” He smirks, take a deep breath and continues: “I know me and Lois aren’t the paradigm for a successful marriage. I know your mother married me just so she could finance her stupid researches. I know she would dump me in a heartbeat if she thought she could get away with it. But I am happy. Isn’t that what matters most?

“If you love this woman, marry her. You don’t have to care if she loves you back or if she just cares for your money, the important thing is for you to want her. We’ll tie her with an iron-clad pre-nup and be done with it.”

The patriarch sets a ring box on the desk, straight in front of Nathan.

“I know you haven’t had much joy in life, son. Allow yourself some now.” The man smiles softly.

The young man took the box and pocketed it. The conversation, as disturbing as it was, gave Nathan much to think about.

Emily was standing by the mirror, contemplating her figure on her wedding dress some half an hour from the actual ceremony.

The Sterling manor house in Martha’s Vineyard was handsomely decorated with the fairest white lilies you have ever seen. The guests congregated on the wide lawn, while the pastor waited by a gazebo overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and Nantucket Island. On the menu, Uruguayan steak or Danish trout, tiramisu as dessert.

On the guest list, besides Emily’s closest friends and her diminutive family, the entire Sterling clan, business associates, their A-list neighbours at the island and members of European royalty.

It was a dream wedding, planned around her wildest expectations to an absurd level of detail. Nathan gave her completely creative control and bottomless funds to make it happen. His only demand was a short engagement: he wanted to get married on Labour Day, which was around three months after his proposal.

And, yet, Emily cannot help but feel a deep, heart-wrenching misery slicing her soul.

“Emily, honey.” Queenie calls from the doorway. “We’re ready for you.”

She can’t help but let a few tears slip through her cheeks. “Mom…”

“Oh, my, honey! Why are you crying?” The woman runs to her daughter, a tissue at hand.

“I… I…” She hiccupped. “I can’t get married, mom. I just can’t.”

“What are you saying, Emily?” The matriarch shot the girl a piercing glare. “Is this about that nonsense again?”

“It isn’t nonsense!” She defended, raising her voice. “Just… just ask Nathan to come here. I need to speak to him.”

Queenie sighed and looked warily at her daughter. “Fine, but you’re making a terrible mistake.”

The blonde woman left and the redhead tried to recompose herself, wiping the tears away.

“Emily?” The groom pops his head into the room. “Are you alright? Your mom asked me to come and talk to you.”

She smiled melancholically at him. “Nathan. Come in, please.”

“Fine, but if it’s unlucky, I’m blaming you.” He smirked at his own stupid joke, walked over to his bride and they sat on a sofa. “What is it?”

“You know I really love you, right?” The woman said, throwing a forlorn look at him with her wide eyes.

He smiled sweetly and kissed her hands. “Of course. And I love you, too.”

“There is something I haven’t told you. Something important.” She said, gravely and firm.

That was it. She would finally confess she was pregnant. Nathan waited and pressed her to confess the whole summer, but she never once gave indication that she would cave in. Nevertheless, today was the day.

The man nudged for her to speak, and so she starts: “I don’t think I ever told you about my senior year in high school.”

“No, you didn’t.” He confirmed.

“I was a different person back then. I was brash and rebellious and opinionated. The Queen Bee type, you know.” She laughs, nervously. “I was head cheerleader and I dated the football quarterback, like some stupid cliché on a Saturday morning special.

“On my Senior-year homecoming ball, he and I had sex. It was my first time, and like every stupid teenager, we ended up forgetting all about protection. A few weeks later, I felt sick and you probably can guess what it was.

“It was legal on the state of Rhode Island to make an abortion back then, but my dad was very sick at the time and we couldn’t afford to go to Providence and pay for the procedure. So my mother and I decided to improvise.

“She went to the drugstore and bought me some vermin medicine and I took three tablets.” Tears started slipping through her eyes once more. “It worked. I aborted the foetus. But I wouldn’t stop bleeding, and we raced to the ER.

“I almost died. We claimed it was a natural abortion; the doctor was suspicious but didn’t confront our version. He did, however, say that my uterus was much too hurt.”

“Wait,” Nathan cuts her off. “Are you saying…?”

“I can’t get pregnant, Nathan.” Emily confesses and cries copiously. “I’m so sorry I never told you. I was afraid that you’d leave me over it, but I know how important bloodline is to your family. I noticed you have been hinting at children after we’re married. If you want to call off the wedding, I totally get it.”

The blond smiled placidly, digesting the news. “Emily, do you know what my dad said when I told him we were engaged? He said for me to do what makes me happy and worry about the rest later.

“You make me happy, Emily. So let’s get married today and worry about children and pregnancy and annoying Sterling aunts later.”

The redhead embraced him and kissed him hard, until them both were breathless and had their faces smeared by the lipstick. “I love you so, so much. And I swear I’ll be the best wife on Earth for you.”

About half an hour later, Nathan stood next to his mother on the altar as the string quartet played. First, enters his dad and Queenie, arm-in-arm. Then, the three bridesmaids: Abigail, Kaitlyn and Madison.

Nathan had no groomsmen, as his closest friends, if they can be called as such, were currently serving time for the rape of a dozen girls of all ages. He didn’t feel comfortable asking other acquaintances or relatives, and Emily didn’t want for him to feel obligated to ask any of her friends. A small blessing, as he held little but contempt for a NFL dunderhead, a faux-talented YA writer and Mr. Dean’s List.

Finally, the bride appeared through the flower arch, on the other end of the long aisle. She was beaming like the Sun that shone blessings over them that morning.

There was not a single reasonable observer that thought this wasn’t a happy bride.

Hours later, as the reception dwindled, but yet shortly before the newlyweds departed for their European honeymoon, Nathan was looking for Emily, who had slipped away from the celebrations some time earlier.

Following the indicative of the caterers, he was crossing the kitchens when he finally saw the bouffant white dress standing on the service door. Before he could call her name, though, he saw she was hugging someone.

A very pregnant Rebecca Davenport.

And, then, it all made sense.

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An Opera on Separation - Masterlist

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[freshoutofthegutter]

Jackets

He laughed!

He had the fucking audacity to laugh.

The warm breath from his mouth, forming precipitates as his dusky pink lips grinned.

She didn't even bother turning her head to spare him a mere glance. Another car zoomed past them reminding her of the lack of clothing on her arms.

"I will squeeze your knees", she hissed.

This time he threw his head back and laughed. It was so far back that she prolly thought that he would tip over.

She started her March across the now empty road. Just as the signals shifted.

It took a moment for him to realise that he was alone and the evil vixen had crossed over to the other side. His driver approached him, distracting him. It was in that moment he lost where she was.

"Yes felix", he murmured.

"Car's ready sir". He informed.

"Have a spin then", he gestured spinning his finger as he crossed, j walked across the road. Barely missing a car.

Lifting his hands up in apology but a shit eating grin said otherwise.

"Idiot", she cursed. As she watched him risk his life casually strolling across the road. A kid in the small yet packed cafe was mesmerised by her two tier anarkali dress. As her mum waited in the line for a bite to grab. The bangles on her wrist was what had her hooked. She smiled at kid and hoped that her pursuer had fucked off.

"Are you allergic to flowers?", she asked the kid who appeared to be 7 ish. The kid shook her head which was covered by a neon pink cap.

"Here, you can have them", she smiled taking the jasmine and rose bangles off her wrists.

The kid's face lit up with joy. The mother was keeping an eye on her kid. As everyone was busy looking as the woman in traditional Asian festive drab. After a quick polite conversation the mother and daughter duo were out.

She moved in a corner away from the window. Stealing a glance at the clock it was ten past eleven. She had been in here for the last ten minutes. Reaching for strength the battle the cold weather outside. She dived into the reservoir of anger she held against her parents for what they had said to her this evening. She looked outside and rubbed her arms. That had goosebumps but no hair because of lazer. She Took her time release the veil that she had pinned earlier and placed it around her shoulders well aware that it wouldn't offer any protection from the cold. The front door opened, gush of cold wind and an overjoyed "there you are".

He walked up to her putting his phone in the pocket of his bespoke jacket . Every eye  followed him. Hoping for drama to unfold and drama did he serve.

"How did you find me?". Voice venomous.

"I just asked followed the breadcrumbs, well in your case the smell of the flowers", he. Smiled tilting his head to the side which only provoked icy glares from her.

"Oh, look at my sweet model throwing tantrums",  he teased.

She gave him a puzzled look. A man to her left offered her help if the suit was being bother some. Which she declined with the shake of her head.

" she is my muse. I'd never bother her", his eyes fluttered with mischief. "I was merely hoping that she would return back to me so I could praise and marvel her beauty for the rest of the night", he placed a hand over his chest signet glinting at the faux offence.

" stop it", she warned. Glancing outside.

"Oo. Grumpy. I get it you haven't eaten. I know those pesky photographs dont want you eating during shoots and you dont like to be filmed when eating", he pointed at her. Oozing cheekiness.

"Well, let me rectify that", he murmured turning to the menu being particularly unimpressed. " do you want a chocolate muffin or walnut darling", he inquired keeping his hand on his chin.

He didn't hear a reply.

Someone pointed out to him that she had left. He followed hot on her trail.

"How were you planning on paying?", he called keeping a meter of distance between them.

"I wasn't ordering anything". She called back. He took this as a positive sign and happily walked up to her side.

" really. Not even a coffee?", he was puzzled. "I certainly could use one". He pointed out sliding his hand into his pocket.

" I'm not throwing a tantrum", she spoke.

"Really", he wasn't buying it.

"You have no idea the amount of self control I'm showing not to punch you". She smiled at him. "I deserve a reward". She spoke to herself.

"What time would that be around because I have an invitation for breakfast because I managed to unconsciously impress an uncle of yours",

"Do me a favour and dont go", she commented.

"Only If you invite me to your reward thing". He offered.

"Whatever it's your loss, Probably would want you to invest in a project", she dismissed with the wave of her hand.

"I'll do whatever I see fit", he spoke. Throwing her words from earlier.

"Wow", she mocked. Folding her arms across her front amazed that he would do this.

"Yes you look stunning, dressed in lace and anger. This is definitely working for me". He gestured to her 5'5" hundred pounds frame.

"Why did you come?"

"Because I was invited"

"Next time decline". She hissed. Stroking her arms.

He automatically assumed that she was cold.

"Its amazing how all this anger is keeping you warm. If not hot". He stroked her bare shoulder and unfolded her arms grabbing her hands. Finding them ice cold. He stroked her fingers.

He pulled her closer to him. "Have I mentioned it's working very well for me", he winked. She shivered again. Breaking eye contact.

" next time we will colour coordinate". He grinned.

"There will not be a next time". She clarified.

" there were several of your cousins. I'm pretty sure. One of them could decide." He began.

"I'm next and if not me then Tina", she managed to verbalize as a rush of cold air managed to shake her pin straight hair.

He lost his cheeky edge for a moment. That caused his security to take a step in their direction. She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and he stared at her.

"I volunteer". He spoke.

Naturally she punched him smack in the middle of his chest. Now his security was standing to his left as he laughed. And she hugged her hand close to her chest.

" Ivon. She is a foot shorter than me do you really think that was necessary", he scolded.

" fuck you", she hissed.

"Ooo role play in public, I just have to figure how to get under that....." he was practically devouring her. That straight hair and braty behaviour entertaining him enticing.

"Run along Ivon". He nodded to his left.

She was clearly embarrassed to have a witness to this behaviour.

"I'll be....", she trailed off walking into an incredibly pricey high end store. Where only 9 articles were on display.

"You know my employees sign an NDA so you dont have to worry about anything", he stood next to her and settled his hand at the base of her spine.

A platinum blond approached them with glossy smile offering help. She didn't even look at her. He politely told her that they are still looking. She kept her distance.

Stroking the fur of a peach jacket smiled to herself.

"Care to share". His voice floated through the soft notes of the piano.

"Tina always said that stores that display eleven  items always over price". He nodded in agreement as he observed the lack of price tags.

" are these all?" Tirza said gesturing to the rack.

"We have more, these are just our best sellers". The attendant smiled.

" what is madam looking for". She asked trying to get an idea.

" a puffer coat perhaps", she said nodded.

" a silk and wool evening coat with a belt, preferably cream". He smiled.

" right this way", the woman turned on her heel.

"How much do you have on you?" Tirza asked. As she fixed her non functional veil for the third time.

"So you're letting me buy you a jacket", he delighted.

"No. I'm buying myself a jacket and am temporarily borrowing money from you", she clarified. "Black", she said as the woman held up two puffer jacket options.

"I dont see silk or wool in that", Oliver commented.

"One moment please", Tirza smiled quickly at the attendant and dragged Oliver away by his arm.

" look I can't accept an over priced jacket from you that I'll wear for just 30 minutes". She explained.

" it takes 15 to get to mine and 25 if you're walking".

Groaning she cried, " why is this fun for you?".

" because I got to spend a lovely evening observing you, looking absolutely delicious and angelic", his lips hovered over her cheek. " also it was my first time at an Asian engagement party, I throughly enjoyed myself".

" that's a first. I didn't know", Tirza hummed.

"Plus the ladies were pretty to look at". He joked.

" ofcourse", she swatted him on his arm.

" tremendously physical aren't we this evening", he murmured huskly grabbing her wrist.

" I'm just annoyed, itchy and cold", she sighed, " but proud" she added.

" because...." his eyebrows raised.

" because I wore flats". She raised the skirt to show her feet.

" cold I can fix, now where is the itch?". He teased eyeing her.

" no just drop me home", she said rubbing her hands on her arms.

" no. You're coming with me", he spoke sternly.

" Oliver", she warned. He raised his eyebrows at her taunting her.

Fine two can play dirty.

" home", she poked at his arm.

" no", he refused to look at her.

" I need to change out of this itchy top I'm pretty sure my boobs are scratched". She stated looking at his face. Waiting for information to click in.

" pardon", he was pretty sure his misheard her. Did she just say boobs out loud?

" Tirza, are you telling me that you haven't got a thing under that?" He pointed to her front.

"Yes. That's why I needed to get a jacket because I'm cold and you...", she was about to say something that would potentially have them kicked out of the store.

" Angi. I want the champagne silk and wool French style coat with a belt". He stared at her challenging her to defy him.

" but she asked for the puffer Oliver". The woman argued.

" I know what she asked for. But get me what I want. You've been dealing with us for ages please dont let your reputation waver", he almost snapped.

" absolutely, right away". She scampered off.

" cool. She knows your name", Tirza pointed out coolly.

" yes" he looked at her briefly and his eyes dipped south. She caught that. " benefit of being non existent" she joked.

" they are plenty enough for me". He groaned.

" did you know?". She smiled wickedly at him.

" no", he spoke after a deep breath.

"Honestly I didn't notice it until you mentioned so", he gestured to her front.

" because darling if I'd known then there would have been no way that I would have let you parade on the streets in this balls freezing cold".

"I kind of like the cold", she commented. " gives me time to think",

" about being an infuriating tease", he remarked.

" whatever". She rolled her eyes.

" shall we?", he offered her his arm.

"Why thank you Sir", she accepted it.

He directed her to the modern glass counter to pay. Like he did on those rare moments when he accompanied his mother.

The duo stopped before a behemoth mirror that was two stories in length approximately.

He readjusted the jacket and tucked at his collar. " you look fine", she patted his hand. A frown had settled on his brow. " mighty fine I may add and its absolutely working for me", she added using his arm, and her tip toes to reach his ear. But missed by a few inches.  She looked so cute. Tiny and pratically engulfed by the bottom of her outfit. She met his gaze in the mirror. "Okay. I look good too", she said shyly

"Ah, yes. But we could have matched and it would have been ever better". He murmured scratching the very mild beard on his face. " I wasn't even sure you were going to show up", she sighed.

" or else I would have matched my knickers" she blinked innocently at him.

" ofcourse you would have," he smiled sarcastically.

" Angie," he called the woman was next to him in less than  a blink. " I'd like to take the puffer and cream trench coat, do not place that on the family's account but on mine". He slipped his arms from Tirza to pull his wallet out.

" absolutely", she complied giving him a secretive smile.

" baby. we only need one. Tell her to put one away before she tags them". Tirza tried to reason.

" yes. One. You picked and the other I'm buying for you", he spoke placing a kiss on her hair.

" could I please have the bill?", Tirza asked.

The attendee immediately turned to see what Oliver had to say.

With a quick scan of their purchase. Tirza turned on her heal the bottom of her skirt twirling.

" I'm charging this to Tina", Tirza frowned.

" I have a better option", Oliver offered. As he kept her attention on her skin that she wouldn't look at both the articles being packed and halt the process.

" what may that be?", she thought.

"Charge Drew, I'm sure he can handle the damage and I'll tell him I got you something and his Aries ass will want to top that off", his eyes were overflowing with mischief.

"And buy Tina more shite and then they would fight". Tirza completed. Disappointed.

"Thank you Angi", he smiled taking the purchases.

" oh, love do try them on", he offered her the bags.

" everyone is staring at us", she observed.

"So let them", he shrugged taking the cream coat out of its casing.

"Not wearing that",

"But it compliments your dress, that's why I picked it", he explained.

"It costs more than everything in wearing". She cried moving outside.

"Tirza you're awfully upset, it's just a jacket", he tried to calm her. As she started to walk again.

"Jackets, plural", she corrected.

"Fine. Jackets, you know I like to get you nice things", he said offering her the cream coat once again.

" now you sound like a sugar daddy. An investor, and I sound like a brat kept", she exclaimed. On the verge of cryin on everyone. Including myself", she began. Wiping a tear quickly. "I know I should be reasonable and accept the Jackets because its freezing I may end up catching pneumonia and die", she laughed at the end. Quoting Emerson.

His reaction was glacial at that statement but at least she was talking and he wanted to hear what she had to say.

"I've turned into this over analysing and controlling bitch just by being with them all for a few hours".

" That's enough, stop belittling yourself", he warned.

" why are you yelling at me?", she spoke through the heavy lump in her throat.

" oh luv, I'm not yelling at you. Please come with me". He begged stroking her cheekbones.

"You should leave before their", she paused and laughed. " my madness spoils what we have, I've turned into this controlling freak and telling you not to go places. I mean we are just seeing eachother". She spoke on a sneeze.

" excuseme", she heard him say. In a tone he had never used with her. Which only made her cry more.

"We have been together...we have been exclusively together....", he corrected himself.

"No one asked you to", she rebutted.

That was his limit. He had enough of this outburst.

" you listen to me Tirza", he transferred the bags to his forearm. With a firm grip on her waist he pulled her to him. " I'm aware that you're upset", he stroked her face. " I'm sorry that people say rude things. But, I'm in love with that over analysing brain of yours", he lifted her chin with his finger and placed a firm kiss on her forehead.

"Your family do have an effect on you, because that's how families are. You have had no one except them. And frankly speaking they guilt trip you into doing what you wouldn't possibly want to do", he signed. As she took a cold breath. Nodding. Casuing the remaining tears to slide down her face.

Which he wiped with his thumb.

" I choose to love you and be with you and this isint because of your family bullying me into loving you, it's how I feel towards you, what i feel is so intense that whatever happens when i meet your family. It will always be greater than them",

" I'm afraid of being the controlling woman", she croaked, "and being selfish".

He had silenced her with a kiss. What a sight it was. A woman  in a fancy garb experiencing an emotional breakdown while a man consolidated her. As his security watched. She shivered in his embrace as more tears flowed.

She needed to be held. And he held her. Completely understanding her. Slowly pouring strength into her along with warmth from his body.

He was aware that she had issues, so did he. But what they had and his emotions towards her were far too intense to be dismissed away.

The woman in his life was having a breakdown of sorts at eleven thirty-ish. He was honoured to hold her broken pieces until she found the energy to mold them back into a stronger version of herself.

She had shivered twice already. A third one that practically rocked his upper body.

"Tirza", he whispered at her crown. Inhaling the scent of her hair, he smiled because he knew that she had a weird habit of putting a small spray of perfume in her hair.

"Hmmm", she acknowledged, practically melted in her embrace.

"Please put a jacket on?", he requested.

She broke from his embrace. He prepared himself for a protest. He watched her turn around. Her back to him. As she gathered the shimmery barely there veil in one hand.

"Well, hurry up", she spoke as another car passing by caused her hair to whoosh.

"Sorry", he murmured, shoving his hand in the bag and pulling out the puffer jacket.

"Which one?", his hand hovered not daring.

"Cream", she managed inhaling sharply.

"Fucking....", he hurried to get the cream and silk creation out.

"Horse cock", she supplied slipping her arms in the sleeves. As he held her hair.

"Thank you Ivon", he spoke making her face heat up. She stopped and turned around to see that his security was standing two feet away from them. Holding both the bags. He had heard her suggestion.

She didn't dare make eye contact with Ivon or glance in his direction.

Oliver had a bloody grin on his face. Yep. He heard her.

'I hate you', she mouthed at him. Tossing him her crumpled veil. He simply shook his head and smiled at her.

She sneezed. Almost folding in half.

"Here madam", Ivon offered her a wipe.

"Thank you", she said quietly before a sneeze.

"Ivon, car", Oliver hissed as he watched her eyes water. Ivon nodded and rushed off.

Oliver tried to grab her hands but she didn't let him pointing out that there were germs involved.

"Fuck", he hissed. Slipping his hands in the jacket to rub her waist. Only to discover that the inner silk wasn't warm yet.

"Bloody hell', he cursed. Tirza looked at him confused as she was about to sneeze again. He wrestled out of his jacket and was no fighting the no good cream and wool devil off her.

"Ooo strip tease", she teased. As she rubbed her cheek against the warm material of his prized Burberry jacket.

"Now the shirt", she laughed as she watched him fold the jacket she had on formally neatly over his arm.

"You should return that, it's done you no good", she winked.

"Never", he practically growled. Pulling her into his side. Rubbing her arm. In an attempt to provide warmth.

"This is the first time a man has given me his jacket", she murmured as she snuggled him. His heartbeat fast.

"Thank you", she smiled. As she placed a small kiss on the skin right above the collar of his shirt.

"I love you too", he spoke in her hair as he held her closer.

"Madam," Ivon held the door open for her.

"Thank you", she nodded at him as she gracefully slid into the car.

The heated upholstery was a luxury that she moaned with relief.

"Where to Sir?", The driver who's name she couldn't recall asked making eye contact in the rearview mirror.

"Where to?", he asked turing to Tirza.

"Hi and hotel please", she smiled at the driver.

"Absolutely". The driver nodded.

"What floor are you on?", she asked as they entered the lobby.

"7th floor", he answered. As they walked to to counter. She looked at him puzzled.

"Key", he explained as he provided his name to the concierge who immediately provided him with an envelope.

" what's bothering you?", he asked.

"Just wondering who is cashing in on the over night stay?", she admitted.

He looked at her surprised. As he requested a few warm beverages and some fresh fruit for them to nibble on.

"Why, afraid you might run into someone?",

She nodded.

"Coffee or tea?", he asked.

"Tea, chamomile If they have it. Please", she requested. He conved it on.

The concierge informed him that his suitcase had already been delivered to the room.

"When did you get the room?", she asked amazed as they stepped in.

"Ivon did, this afternoon", he answered.

"Bath?", he offered.

"Actually a shower", she declined. Shrugging out of his jacket.

"Sure, I need to make a phone call", he pointed to the jacket that she had taken off.

She quickly showered. Relishing the intensity of the water. Upon leaving the ensuite bathroom she discovered him holding a cup of tea. He was still on the phone. So she busied herself with preparing on herself.

She was halfway done with the tea when he ended the phone call with and walked into the bathroom stripping.

She was surprised to see that the closet was already equipped with his clothes.

"How long are you planning to stay?", she questioned eyeing the contents.

"Two days", he answered startling her.

She jumped and her hand immediately went to the hotel supplied robe. While he wore a towel.

"Oh, God", she huffed. As he opened a closet door to pull out a small black bag.

He looked at her thoughtfully and motioned with his head to follow him to the bathroom.

"You didn't have to pick them up", he commented as he observed that she had picked his clothes from the their designated location on the marble.

"I didn't, house keeping did", explained. "I just handed it to her".

"Ah yes. Claire", he nodded. As he placed the contents of the bag on the double vanity. Which she sat on.

"That's a cute bag", she commented.

He shook his head at her.

"What", she cried dramatically. Getting off the marble.

"Stay", he requested observing his reflection in the massive mirror.

She hoped back on.

"You okay?", she asked tiling her head to the side.

"Yea. I might give up while shaving", he admitted. "If you go". He added.

[reconditarmonia]

Dear Every Woman Writer

Hello, lovely writer!

I’m reconditarmonia here and on AO3 (and have been since LJ days, but my LJ is locked down and I only have a DW to see locked things).

General likes:

– Relationships that aren’t built on romance or attraction. They can be romantic or sexual as well, but my favorite ships are all ones where it would still be interesting or compelling if the romantic component never materialized.

– Loyalty kink, whether commander-subordinate or comrades-in-arms, and the trust associated with it. Sometimes-but-not-always relatedly, idealism. I guess the two combined might be, in general, the idea of nobility of character and what that means.

– Heists, or other stories where there’s a lot of planning and then we see how the plan goes.

– Femslash, complicated or intense relationships between women, and female-centric gen. Women doing “male” stuff.

– Stories whose emotional climax or resolution isn’t the sex scene, if there is one.

– Uniforms/costumes/clothing.

– Stories, history, and performance. What gets told and how, what doesn’t get told or written down, behavior in a society where everyone’s consuming media and aware of its tropes, how people create their personas and script their own lines.

– Eucatastrophe.

General DNW: rape/dubcon, torture, other creative gore; unrequested AUs, including “same setting, different rules” AUs such as soulmates/soulbonds; PWP; food sex.

—

Fandom: Far from the Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy

Characters/Groups: Bathsheba Everdene

One thing that always sticks in my mind about this novel is the way Hardy calls Bathsheba “the young farmer” just as he refers to the men as farmers - which, just saying, is more than most people writing about this story can do - and so, that being the case, what I’m most interested in is something about Bathsheba as farmer. One day in the life or four seasons in the life or five plantings/harvests in the life, or pseudo-academic fic about a case study of a woman farmer in the Victorian era, or a conflict between the farm and nature that Bathsheba has to decide how to solve.

Feel free to bring in other characters if it suits what you’re trying to do, but what I’m really looking for is a focus on Bathsheba’s work, determination, and process of learning. I’d also love to read something like a merchant ship AU (as the first alternate setting that came to mind where it would be not exactly the done thing for her to captain her inherited ship and make commercial decisions herself - although I do have to point out that contrary to popular belief, there were a lot of women on shipboard in the age of sail, may this be useful - but also where nature and luck/fate are as influential as they are in the original setting), or something in which the land, superstition, and ritual were more overtly magical.

—

Fandom: Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett

Characters/Groups: Polly "Ozzer" Perks & Jack Jackrum, Polly Perks & Maladict, Magda "Tonker" Halter & Tilda "Lofty" Tewt, Polly "Ozzer" Perks, Alice "Wazzer" Goom, Jack Jackrum, Mildred Froc

Give me all the loyalty kink for this fandom. Characters rescuing each other from peril, risking their reputation or position or ethics to defend each other, accomplishing the impossible or sacrificing things without even thinking twice because one trusts the other’s orders or judgment. Or A not going off the leash or into danger to defend B because B said not to, to protect A’s conscience or life or reputation. Can be romantic or platonic - I ship Polly/Mal and Tonker/Lofty, but I would also be delighted with Polly&Jackrum, Wazzer&Polly, or other non-romantic twosomes or moresomes in situations of loyalty and trust. Maybe Polly sends Mal on a dangerous mission, or Tonker is captured after she and Lofty burn down another place where women and girls are being abused, or Polly protects Jackrum’s secret/s from someone who could reveal them, or Wazzer ends up in the field again with the general’s retinue and Polly and Mal rescue her from danger (or vice versa!!). What strengths or sacrifices do they have at their disposal for each other?

Pratchett-esque voices would be great. He’s really, really good at sucker-punching the reader with sincerity in an overall satiric mode, and I think that style lends itself well to this sort of thing.

I’m not going to lie, Polly is my fave. I like that this could have been a generic coming-of-age or women-in-war story, where the protagonist learns that she’s brave or worthwhile and then the crisis is past, but instead Polly learns that she’s a cunning bastard and a hell of a sergeant, and being a one-off hero in a country that’s at peace and making slow social progress isn’t good enough for her. That said, just because I’m better able to articulate what I like about Polly doesn’t mean I’d be less excited for fic about anyone else! And I know that we might have matched on single characters, rather than groups, and that’s just fine. I think that’s something I’d want to explore for any of the characters who enlist in the course of the story - what are these women good at? What lets them fulfill their potential? What do they want when their hand isn’t being forced? I guess that for most of the regiment this would be post-canon and for Jackrum or Froc it’d be backstory. How’d Jackrum go from enlisting for Reasons to being the career sergeant of canon? What’s Froc’s relationship to the Duchess been like over the years, as someone who met her in person?

If you’re going the Polly/Mal route, I also love ludicrous levels of sexual tension in a military context (I think it’s the unavoidable proximity + the presence of others making it hard to act on it).

Fandom-specific DNW: vampire romance tropes (such as turning and/or immortality) as focus; non-female pronouns/headcanons.

–

Fandom: Original Work

Characters: Commissioned Officer & Non-Commissioned Officer, Female Re-Enactor Playing Male Soldier & Female Re-Enactor Playing Woman, Chaotic good Berserker & Officer she's absolutely loyal to, Crossdressing Fugitive Princess

Um, so, I’ve never requested original work before, but these are...certainly some options that play well with my general likes. Something that I also notice across these requests, other than the fact that most of them are military-related or otherwise have to do with clothing and/or women doing “man” stuff, is that there are a lot of options for exploring how characters with different skillsets and/or values play together. When there’s a problem to solve, especially in a high-risk and high-emotion situation, what happens when they don’t agree on what to do?

As far as setting goes, I think I’d been envisioning the CO & NCO and Berserker & Officer as taking place in a setting that’s removed from us in some way - whether that’s a fictionalized version of a historic military where women can be soldiers, actual historic settings where both are cross-dressing as men, total fantasy settings or future space settings. Likewise I imagine the Fugitive Princess might work better in a fictional or historical setting. The re-enactor pairing could be in our real present day in a way that might not work for the others, but it could equally well be future people or fantasy people!

Romance between any of these pairs, or between the Crossdressing Fugitive Princess and a female character - whether a rival or tyrant she’s a fugitive from, an old ally, someone new she meets while in disguise - is lovely :D (I neglected to officially DNW this so I suppose I could be screwed, but I don’t want het for these. I’m also less interested in, like, orc or goblin characters if you write a fantasy setting, but I didn’t think to DNW that either. :|)

–

Fandom: Simoun (Anime)

Characters: Neviril, Aaeru & Neviril, Paraietta, Rodoreamon, Mamiina

Simoun somehow ended up being a really weirdly meaningful show to me. I loved how all these women got to be flawed and fucked-up, noble and loyal. How, in the mold of all my favorite epic shoujo anime, it starts off beautiful and fine and then Shit Gets Very Real and that’s actually one of the themes of the show - we had a little debate on FFA as to whether or not Simoun was a military canon, and the fact that circumstances have remade a team of priestesses in fancy quarters and magic flying machines who are there to pray to God, put off their choice of sex, use their talents, maintain or claw their way into a social position, into a military force involved in a war - that’s an idea that the characters themselves struggle with in the show. (Neviril’s scene in the hearing is one of my favorites.) How everyone gets character development, in the sense of learning and changing, and even what seem like annoying mandatory straight subplots actually end up serving that thematic or character development, to say nothing of the more focal relationships between the leads (not just Neviril and Aeru, but also Mamiina and Rodoreamon, Neviril and Paraietta…)

I’d really like to read a fic where an individual character’s development or two characters’ relationship is similarly tied in to plot developments; it doesn’t have to be a plotty fic as such, but I was very interested in the way the developments of the war and the pilots/priestesses’ actions in it precipitated changes in their relationships. So how might Neviril and Aeru’s relationship develop in the other world (what are they doing?), or Mamiina and Rodoreamon’s on the Messis when they’re not the narrative focus before Mamiina’s last mission and the braid thing? (Or if this is more your speed, dig into that and see how a character grows or the relationship between characters develops when that’s not being moved along by outside events in the same way, especially if they’re aware of that being an issue. When Neviril and Aeru are outside the normal flow of time, or Paraietta ends up a civilian, for example.) I’m also interested in all the permutations of loyalty we see in the show - like loyalty to a position over loyalty to a side (as with the Plumbish priestesses’ siding with our Sibyllae), loyalty that develops before liking or friendship, the devoted loyalty to Neviril. I like the show’s military themes despite its magical-girl visuals. I think this is also a canon where it would make sense for sexual first times to be part of a fic - what does that mean for the characters you choose?

I should also say that due to all the magic and timespace warping in the show, I am more than okay with post-canon fic that gets characters back together who were separated by canon, if that’s what you want. You can resurrect Mamiina, or have Neviril and Aeru visit the main reality/timeline again. Or play with timespace even more - time loop fic?

[racingtoaredlight]

RTARL’s 2020 NFL Season Week 10 Extravapalooza

This week’s NFL slate features 5 early games and 6 late games, and allow me to add my voice to the chorus of those asking “Why can’t it be like this EVERY week?” Is it really THAT necessary to try to herd viewers to whatever game Romo or Aikman are calling? Honestly, I hope this is one of the first issues tackled by the incoming Biden administration. If nothing else, a more even game dispersal would make for a more visually symmetrical Extravapalooza, which is a good enough reason for change in and of itself, if you ask me.

My picks are in BOLD, and the lines come to us courtesy of our friends at Vegas Insider. I use the “VI Consensus” line, which is the line that occurs most frequently across Vegas Insider’s list of sportsbooks. Your sportsbook of choice may offer a different number, and if you’d like my opinion on said number A) you are insane, and B) leave a comment below and I’ll try to answer at some point before things kickoff today.

EARLY GAMES

Houston Texans at Cleveland Browns (-4)

Much like Cleveland’s last home game (a 16-6 Week 8 loss to the Raiders), this game is going to be played in extremely shitty conditions, with strong winds and rain expected. The Browns were TERRIBLE offensively in that Raiders game, but this week they’re getting both studly RB Nick Chubb and G Wyatt Teller back, which should be huge for their run game. Facing the Texans’ worst-in-the-league rush defense won’t hurt either. The wind is likely to rob us of the majesty provided by DeShaun Watson-to-Will Fuller bombs, which is a real bummer both for us as viewers and for the Texans as a football team attempting to win games.

Washington Football Team at Detroit Lions (-3)

The Football Team has a pretty good pass defense as it is, and this week they get a somewhat scuffling Matthew Stafford leading a Kenny Golladay-less Lions offense. If the Detroit braintrust were smart, they’d run the ball a bunch and D’Andre Swift would get the bulk of these carries. The Detroit braintrust is not smart. Alex Smith is starting this game for Washington and I hope he makes it through without getting his leg pulverized into ham salad.

Jacksonville Jaguars at Green Bay Packers (-13.5)

Here we have another game expected to impacted by high winds and precipitation. Fun! I’m putting my faith in Mother Nature and Jacksonville’s very decent run game conspiring to keep this one within 2 TDs. The fact that Green Bay’s best defensive player, CB Jaire Alexander, is unlikely to play certainly helps.

Philadelphia Eagles (-4) at New York Giants

The Eagles are getting RB Miles Sanders, DT Malik Jackson and LT Jason Peters back from injury for this one, and they might also get RT Lane Johnson back. This is after getting good-looking rookie WR Jalen Reagor and TE Dallas Goedert back recently. Philadelphia is getting healthy, and it really seems like they should pull away from their truly horrific division mates as the season winds down.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers (-6) at Carolina Panthers

Man, Tampa Bay got their asses WHOOPED by New Orleans last week. Does that mean they were extra motivated in practice this week and they’ll be super fired up to redeem themselves with a big win on Sunday, or was their performance an on-field manifestation of a locker room beset by strife and disharmony beginning a downward spiral that will last the rest of the season and cause everyone involved in the team’s various splashy roster moves to regret their choices? It’s probably the former, but the latter would be immensely entertaining for me, personally. 

LATE GAMES

Buffalo Bills at Arizona Cardinals (-2.5)

I don’t want to say that Arizona’s defense is good, because they really aren’t, BUT they do have a bunch of ball-hawking, risk-taking guys in their secondary that are likely salivating at the thought of snagging one of Josh Allen’s patented “Fuck it, I’m goin’ deep!” attempts. I’d like the Bills’ chances a whole lot more if their defense was playing anywhere near the level they were at the previous couple of seasons, but for whatever reason they’ve been thoroughly average at best here in 2020. This game has so many wildly entertaining ingredients that I can’t imagine it being a dud regardless of which way it goes.

Denver Broncos at Las Vegas Raiders (-3.5)

The Broncos have been plagued by slow starts this season, and have found themselves down double-digits at halftime in 5 of their last 7 games. The Raiders are seemingly built explicitly to play with a lead, so if it happens here they should be able to grind the injury-riddled Denver defense into dust with RB Josh Jacobs as the game clock, as well as the life of anyone watching, dispassionately bleeds away.

Seattle Seahawks at Los Angeles Rams (-2.5)

The Rams are 5-3, but their wins have come against the 4 NFC East teams and the Bears. They are true bumslayers. On top of that, it genuinely appears that Jared Goff cannot make any decisions on the field without Sean McVay barking them into his helmet, which is truly hilarious. Fortunately for Goff, McVay, and the Rams, this week they get to run it up against a Seattle team missing the top 3 CBs from its already cataclysmically shitty defense. Russell Wilson, D.K, Metcalf, and Tyler Lockett are great, but the L.A. defense is no joke and I think they’ll be able to prevent Russ from cooking enough to feed everyone. That analogy doesn’t even make sense, let’s just move on.

Los Angeles Chargers at Miami Dolphins (-1.5)

Oh hell yeah, we’ve got ourselves quite the sexy young QB matchup here. The Fins are smoking hot right now, having won 4 in a row and 5 of their last 6, and it’s long past time for me to move them from  “Frisky” to “Actually Good” in my personal Power Rankings. The Chargers will have G Trai Turner on the field for the first time since Week 2, and T Bryan Bulaga appears to be good to go after leaving last week’s game with an injury. This will be very helpful for QB Justin Herbert, imo, especially against Miami’s 8th-ranked pass defense (according to Football Outsiders). Common sense says that Miami should be the pick, but my desire to see Herbert actually WIN one of the rollercoaster games his team constantly finds themselves in has commandeered this selection. This game will be a good place to park your eyeballs.

San Francisco 49ers at New Orleans Saints (-9.5)

I’m trying not to overreact to a single game, but I can’t get past how thoroughly the Saints wrecked the Buccaneers last week. In particular, their defense was GREAT. If they’re gonna start locking teams up anywhere near that completely on a consistent basis, all of a sudden they’re firmly in the mix to win it all. I think they keep things rolling defensively against a Niners offense missing its top 2 RBs, its All-World TE, and its #1 WR, all with a backup QB at the helm.

Cincinnati Bengals at Pittsburgh Steelers (-7)

I’m picking the Bengals based on nothing more than the Steelers’ insistence on keeping practically every game close. For as good as Pittsburgh is, the only blowout win they have this season is a 38-7 beatdown of the Browns. They’ve allowed teams like the Giants, Broncos, and most recently the Garrett Gilbert-led Cowboys to hang around for a full 60 minutes, so I don’t see why my man Joe Burrow can’t keep his squad in it til the end.

SNF: Baltimore Ravens (-7) at New England Patriots

I have visions of Baltimore racing out to a lead early and Cam Newton and the Pats offense trying to play catch-up against a good defense for the bulk of the game. It’s not a pleasant thing to think about and I don’t enjoy it. I think that’s what’s gonna happen, though. New England hilariously has 17 players listed as Questionable headed into this one. We might get N’Keal Harry back, though!!!

MNF: Minnesota Vikings (-3) at Chicago Bears

Man, this is a tough one. One one hand, inexplicably getting trounced by a team that’s lost 3 in a row and will be without its starting RB and possibly its #1 WR would be an extremely Vikings thing to do. On the other hand, the Bears are currently being quarterbacked by a man whose play drove Troy Aikman to the brink of homicidal insanity a week ago. I guess I’ll go with the team who can complete forward passes at a reasonable clip, but I don’t feel that great about it. A fun wrinkle to this game is that due to the aforementioned absence of Chicago’s primary ball-carrier, Cordarrelle Patterson is expected to get extended work out of the backfield as a runner. This may really only be exciting for myself and Soused, as we’re longtime Cordarrelle fanboys. WE WILL BE VINDICATED.

Last Week’s Record: 4-9 (Shit!)

Season Record: 58-63-4

[icyxmischief]

Thor: Ragnarok Review

The strength: the brothers’ chemistry. The weakness: tonal disjunctions and choppy pacing.  Overall rating: B/B+.  I was both disappointed in ways that I expected to be, and pleased in ways that I didn’t.   If you are a Loki fan, see this movie.  If you are a Thor fan, see this movie. If you are a Loki’s Resistance member or someone who has suffered from family bullying, abuse, or neglect, maybe be careful about seeing this movie.  It could trigger.  

See under the read-more for a breakdown. 

--Before I say another thing: I am SO PROUD of Loki.  Even though he is STILL LOKI, who deceives, changes, and shifts convictions, he also REPEATEDLY, thanklessly and without recognition tried to save Thor’s ass, both when Thor was first forced to be a “contender,” and when he arrived on a giant ship that boarded the Asgardians safely from a Surtur-burned Asgard, AND when he risked his life to release Surtur at Thor’s request.  Loki, who is not a hero, still did heroic things. And the tension between his trickery and his capacity for goodness remains.  And that delights me.  

--The recurring motif of Thor and Loki and Loki casting a doppleganger/illusion, the idea of him “being there” and “not really being there,” is wonderful, and is indexical on a deeper level of Loki’s willingness to let down barriers against trust, out of love for Thor.  More on that Later.  

--The only thing that I miss about Loki’s characterization is his ferocity.  He seemed a little TOO benign in this installment.  It’s subtle but Loki is vicious and I missed the viciousness.  The only time we catch a glimpse of it is when he’s talking to Bruce (which is a brilliant moment).  

--I DESPISE that we were never given an explanation for Loki’s “death” or how he could “fake it” so profoundly well.  I also feel like it might have been nice for someone to recognize that what he did, whether he faked his death and ran off to take the throne or not, was still done out of love for his brother. 

--The entire Dr. Strange scene was pointless advertisement for another MCU character, done I am convinced because Dr. Strange did hideously in the box office and needed a signal boost, and was implausible given Loki’s lifetime of training in sorcery.  Given that Loki fell to his attempted death of suicide in the  first film, it is insensitive and unnecessarily cruel to make him “fall for thirty minutes.”   The worst part is that it interrupted the narrative flow and took time away from Odin’s death scene.  

--I’m on the fence about Hela being Thor and Loki’s older sister.  It drastically alters the sibling dynamic. This may be something I just still need to get used to as I’m fresh from the movie.  I wanted to see more of a thing pushed where Thor realizes that Loki, UNLIKE Hela, is still invested in the welfare of their family and home.   --I am surprised and ultimately pleased at Odin’s gentler, more redeemable characterization.  I am pleased that Frigga talked to Odin through the separation between Valhalla and earth and obviously got through to him about a number of things.  I am pleased that Odin called BOTH Thor and Loki his “sons” (which obviously had a positive effect on Loki) and said he loved them and failed them, finally owned up to his culpability in the family’s messed up dynamic.  And I loved that he went to Norway and that Norway is probably where “New Asgard” will be.  At the same time, I feel like it was too little, too late.  Did he really have to be so rigid and machinating through his whole life and leave both his sons so scarred?  So it’s bittersweet. 

--Odin to Loki: “Your mother would be proud.” :’)  --Thor losing an eye was shocking, but I ultimately like it, and hope that it implies that he will follow in Odin’s footsteps but with greater compassion.   --Heimdall also finally won me over in this installment, rescuing and caring for the Asgardians after Hela took over.  

--I do not agree with or understand why Loki was portrayed as a glory hounding lazy monarch.  It’s antithetical to the fastidiously hard working obsessive character we’ve seen before. Yes, the big statue was funny, and yes, the play was (mostly) funny, but I cringed a little bit at how OOC it was, just to provide a joke.  I was also disappointed, though I knew I would be, that Thor and Loki’s reunion was rushed and made funny.  At the same time I loved how Thor was perceptive to Loki’s deceits; in an odd way it shows how close they are. More on that later.  --Also, a thing about the play that rubbed me the wrong way was the part where Loki’s written or sanctioned it so that the Odin actor openly discusses his real racial heritage???? Because he’s???? A very private person, and used to be utterly ashamed of that part of his identity???? And I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m GLAD he’s evidently learning to move past his internalized racism, but it also seems like a huge jump in four years????? And also not something to joke about in the first place?????  --Which leads me to the humor for which this film has been praised. I both agree and disagree.  The humor was largely effective, but in parts, felt like an unnecessary strain on a scene that should be serious.  For instance, things that brought the epic characters down to a relatable level, like Thor hitting himself with the ball he threw against Hulk’s wall, or Hulk’s disappointment at not being allowed to kill Surtur, or Valkyrie being so drunk that she fell off her hovercraft, were hilarious and great.   --My main complaint is that there were too many flashy fancy action sequences, which make for a fun movie, but crowd out potential scenes to show character background and development.  All the scenes we got with Thor and Loki were solid gold, and yet they went by at 30 second to 2 minute intervals and I was left thinking “wait? what? it’s over already???? come back!”  --Hela was a badass with so much potential but her characterization was extremely flat.  We were shown that she was ambitious and iconoclastic, but we got no window into what made her that way, or the nature of her relationship with Odin.  And I attribute that flaw to the issue above.  --Same goes for Valkyrie. Wonderful potential. Adore her.  Also think she’d be better shipped with Bruce than Thor but that’s neither here nor there.  But I wanted more than Loki’s magical mind-reading flashback of her last battle with Hela to see what sort of person she’d been and could be.   --Bruce’s scenes were touching and enjoyable. I’ve always loved Bruce and his self-sacrificial act of Hulking out again during the battle with Fenrir was deeply moving. --I love Jeff Goldblum, he was delightful, and his portrayal of the Grandmaster was a salient and much needed satire on political leaders who are really greedy glorified entertainers (read: Donald Trump) but I also felt like he was over-utilized at the expense of other characters, and, again, for the sake of humor, when both jokes and action sequences were already well covered.   --I found it contemptible that Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun were killed so quickly and unceremoniously--again, to cram in more flashy action sequences.  That was jarring and sad, even though I know it fulfills the events in the comics. Skurge’s death was made more meaningful than theirs and that felt wrong. Also, why was Sif missing???? 

--I love the notion that “home is not a place but a people.”  Personally, I really needed to hear that.  

Now to the most controversial issue: Thor and Loki’s relationship: I believe that Thor was frequently unfair to Loki and did not recognize how his own hasty words and actions precipitated Loki’s now hardwired bad habit of dodging and double-crossing.  When he blamed Loki for Odin’s death and Asgard’s fall into disarray, that was unfair.  Let’s not even go into how Odin’s parenting directly contributed to Loki’s depression, caustic jealousy, and instability.  Beyond that, Loki did not kill Odin or even make him uncomfortable; he left him in an old folks’ home with a benign memory loss spell. And he sure as fuck did nothing to release Hela; Odin was dying already because IT WAS TIME FOR RAGNAROK, NO MATTER WHAT, AS THOR HIMSELF LATER REALIZES. LOKI DID NOT PRECIPITATE RAGNAROK.   And that Thor never acknowledges this later is poor writing.   The fact that Loki reaches out verbally to comfort Thor in that moment, when a storm is brewing, and Thor responds with that overblown accusation, is also kind of awful.  

Later, when Thor is trapped in the room with the other warriors, and Loki appears in doppleganger form, and Thor throws objects through him while he’s telling him that he put a wager on him, and to be careful, and survive so that eventually the two of them can assassinate the Grandmaster and get out, that whole scene is a nice touch.  

You already all know what I think of the elevator/lift scene and “Get Help.”  It’s painful but it also shows that for centuries these two have worked together and know each other inside and out.  Same goes for the anecdote of Loki turning Thor into a frog and the anecdote of eight year old Loki turning into a snake and Thor picking it up and Loki surprising him with a knife lol.  

The very worst moment for me was indeed when Thor used the shocking implant on Loki.  It wasn’t even that Thor did it, because yeah, Loki was gonna sell him back to the Grandmaster (though I doubt Loki thought Thor would live out his life and die on Sakar).  What bothered me was HOW LONG he left him lying there writhing in EXCRUCIATING AGONY.  I also found it ironic that Thor is preaching on about how Loki “could be better but doesn’t want to change” (though it’s true, I admit!) when Thor literally could say the same words verbatim to and about himself. :/  And the way he was taunting Loki, it was....very cold and ooc for Thor.  

It’s important to note how Loki tried to bring attention to other people so they could empathize with his situation.  He isn’t even asking people to feel sorry for him, he JUST WANTS THEM TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE UNFAIR ODDS.  From “feels bad to be lied to, doesn’t it?” to “THAT’S what it’s LIKE!” about the Hulk smashing. 

I teared up and laughed happily when Thor conducted all his lightning into blasting Hela off the balcony of the palace, and Loki looked up mid battle and smiled with such knowing pride. I DIED!!! In that moment!!!! <3 BROTHERS!!! 

Also, note that Thor says “You’re late!” to Loki, which implies that even though he slowed Loki down on Sakar, he never expected Loki not to eventually join and help him.  Loki does NOT deny it, he simply says, with a bit of fussy concern and amusement, “You’re missing an eye!” 

You can argue that their relationship is salvaged later, and certainly by the end of the film, they are in a better place than they’ve been since before the first Thor movie.  The only thing that bothers me is that Thor seems to take that for granted, as the way it always should have been, without acknowledging how far they’ve come, or how often Loki has tried to meet Thor halfway without compromising his own agency/selfhood.  

However the whole movie was worth it for me for a scene in the last five minutes.  “I’m here.”  What more do I need to say about that wonderful moment? When throughout the film and all the implied earlier films a major point of their friction has been Loki’s absence, his evasion, his two-faced deceit, and instead, here, he chooses to make himself vulnerable, to be honest, to be present, in order to comfort his big brother.   <3  The hug DOES happen, guys. It’s just off-camera.  :’)  

[the-voice-of-hell]

The Septagram

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***

Rosemarie Miller was walking a cart of looted groceries home through relatively barren streets.  A few homeless anarchists were grooving at a public fountain, hopping through the water to cool off as needed.  She was jealous of their easy-going ways.  The reason the pigs all high-tailed out of the region was always on her mind.  Would she see the murderers?  Would she have to deal with them?

The only reason she’d stayed behind was because she was trying to find her best friend, Jennifer Smith, and ended up missing a window of opportunity for an evacuation escort.  She certainly wasn’t going to risk the wilder stretches of highway without an armed guard, so it was safer just to stay at home, in the flat part of Renton.  The worst part of missing the opportunity was when she finally did find Jennifer, and learned the weirdo had stayed in town for the chance to rip wicked bicycle moves.  Thanks, Jen.

The sky was hot and blue.  That part of Renton was so flat that it felt like being at the bottom of a bowl, decorative hills off to the sides, infinite scorching void above.  She looked at the new stainless steel apartments along the way.  Should she just steal one?  Was that where the anarchists were sleeping at nights?  There was no evidence the door had been jimmied, so probably not.  She reached her apartment, set down the groceries, and fished out her keys.

Suddenly, a distraction.  That dragonfly sound of a bike chain speeding her way.  As much as she knew it was Jen in her head, in her heart it was the murder clubs.  She whipped around to see that goof zipping her way, dorky chipmunk teeth smiling, bleach blonde bob whipping the breeze, big light eyes behind dark-framed nerd glasses.  Her frame was typical of a short, slightly pudgy person, but her limbs were bulging with creepy muscles.  If she dehydrated enough she could do bodybuilding competitions.

“ROSIE!  WHAT DID YOU GET ME?”

Rosemarie wasn’t going to play the shouting game.  She waited until her friend was close enough to hear above the chains.  But Jen didn’t stop, was heading straight toward her now at full speed.  Rose cringed, falling to one knee.

Jen hit the brakes and twisted the bike’s frame in just the right way to spring off the ground with the momentum, spinning three times horizontally as she flew over Rose, and landed with her bike across her shoulders like Jesus carrying the cross.

“WHAT THE FUCK JEN!?” Shouting after all.

“What?  That was fucking sick.  You used to like my stunts.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me!”

“I hope not?  I’m still sorry about that, and I’ll say it as much as you need me to.”  She dropped the bike and sent it rolling to rest by the building’s stoop with one hand.  “I wub you, come on!”  She went in for a hug.

“No!”  Rose held her back with a talon-like finger.  “You’re sweaty and disgusting.”  She relaxed.  “I’ll make you something if you want.  But you need to shower first.”

“Bossanova.”

Suddenly out of the clear sky they heard a thunder crack and peal.  It rumbled and dissipated.  Strange notes played in the wake, like the brass section of the world’s worst marching band, but weak as if from miles away.  They were both looking north to Seattle proper.

“Doesn’t look like a storm,” Jen said.

“Maybe they’re gonna drop the bomb.  Come die with a full stomach, loca.”

***

Clark Upton was a fortunate man.  He had lived a long life of excitement and romance as a dancer, dance instructor, and choreographer in some of the gayest cities in the world.  But this was Seattle, and it was starting to feel like the end of his run.  Although his coughing had cleared up since most of the people evacuated (had he just been allergic to exhaust all this time?), there was apocalyptic air about the events that precipitated the change.

And now there was an apocalyptic air in the literal air outside his apartment.  It had been a sunny summer day one minute, and then clouds began to rapidly form - between the buildings themselves.  He was below those clouds on the seventeenth floor, but he could see that there were apartments in taller buildings that would be above them.  The thunder began as soon as the clouds had, as a rumbling vibration through all the buildings, through the bodies of those still living there.  It was building to a climax of some sort.

“Thurston?  Thurstooon?”  He called for his friend, but couldn’t make himself release his grip on the balcony rail.  This wasn’t right.

Thurston Connor was another gay dancer and friend, staying with him while in town.  The tall beautiful black man with his perfectly shaved head did not come to his call.  Clark began to fear he wasn’t even in the same dimension as the guy.

Then the thunder burst out in a great crescendo and red sheet lightning bridged the clouds and the bus tunnel entrance on the streets below.  Something began spilling out of the bus tunnel.  Dark forms, tumbling and spinning and leaping, shiny instruments in their grips.  It was like someone had taken a paper bag full of different noxious species of insects, shook them up to instill anger, and dumped them onto the ground.

The thunder subsided into a rolling menace, but less deafening than its initial burst.  And under that sound he could hear them.  It was a marching band.

“Oh dear.  I’m having a stroke.”

He laid down on the grate floor of his balcony, amid clay pots and chair legs, and he waited to die.  It was a lonely feeling.  As good as his life had been, he’d known many moments of loneliness and he did not love them.  He wished that he’d had a husband - someone who would be there for this.  But then, it was never in his character.

The wind whipped wildly below him, carrying the discordant notes of the hellish stroke band.  What was that tune?  “Inna Godda Davida”?  Yes, it was definitely in there, scored with the skill of Souza and played with the skill of Bob Log III.  But there were other tunes being played simultaneously - pure torture.  Oh no.  One of the tunes was Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

Clark made up his mind.  Death was horrible, and he couldn’t stand it.

***

A thunderstorm had started in the north.  Must be that summer thunder - not very common in the Puget Sound region, in Park’s experience.  It didn’t look like there were enough clouds to cause any kind of rain, but it was hard to tell because it was very far away.

The headache was getting worse.  He was in a previously vacant house they’d commandeered for barracks.  Normally as evening began to fall, he’d be on the roof.  He’d set up tall chair there so he could get a good view of the neighborhood and radio to get extra attention on anything suspicious.  But this night, he found he was needing rest more than usual, and came down after just a few minutes.

For unit cohesion the guys were living with members of their respective agencies.  All the Tacoma PD plus a few State Patrol and other local cops were sharing this house and the one next to it.  More than half of them were on patrol or other tasks at the moment, leaving just a few guys behind.  They were taking nightcaps and gambling in the living room.

“Hey guys.”

“You want in, Park?”

“Not right now.  We got any good painkillers?”

“Legal or otherwise?”

“Watch it, Rickard.”

He ended up taking some Excedrin from one of the first aid kits on the kitchen counter, washing it down with a beer, leaning there under a bright kitchen light.  He thought about joining the guys out there but really he didn’t want to play.  He just wanted to hang out with Infante.  He was afraid he’d made a bad impression earlier.  Why was he being so weird?  He shook his head, regretted it, then gulped more beer.

Infante came in, grabbing a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose out of the refrigerator.  “Hey boss.”

“Hey, Infante.  You don’t have to call me boss.  Hell, I think we have the same salary.”  He tried to smile but it looked like something crinkled and painful.

“Eh… It’s just easier.”

“I don’t recommend drinking that all by yourself.  Gotta stay in fighting trim.”

“I know.  I was gonna split it.  We got glasses on the table.”

“Good man.”  Why do I keep saying that?  Christ.  He had to get some air again, but up on the roof was too much tension, scanning the horizon for any sign of mischief.  He went out the front door without saying goodbye.

The sky was getting dusky.  People were having a lawn party across the street.  A few children waved at him but mostly they didn’t like police.  One even put his hand on the top of a baby’s head and turned it away from him.  It didn’t bother him too much.

A dark-skinned woman in badly stained clothes staggered in the direction of the party.  Her hair was long with puffy curls of varying sizes and shot through with little bits of plant matter.  She was holding a hammer.

Park resisted the urge to pull his gun and quickly stepped between her and the party.  “Ma’am, please.  Stop.”  Palms up.

She looked at his gun then looked at his face, scowling deeply.  “I need to go.”

“That’s fair but maybe you should lose the tool and clean up a little.  There are children over there.  You’ll scare them.”

“Don’t care.  I need to see Elijah.”

She started walking again and he hustled in front of her.

“At least give me the hammer.  I’ll hold it for you.”

She looked confused, thought about it, picking up the hammer as if she’d forgotten she was carrying it, and then handed it to him.  “I’m gonna need that back.”

He nodded and mutely accepted it, then followed about fifteen feet behind her.  The hammer looked like it had been used to smash up a green compost heap.  New, but recently rendered disgusting.  He shook his head.

She walked up to one of the houses, stood at the porch for a moment scanning the crowd, then went inside.  He hustled to close the distance and stood inside the door, trying to hold the hammer out of sight.  Two little black kids played video games, but the house inside looked too nice to have children.  Visitors.  Park just watched her walking the house, looking for someone, listening to hear if she got in trouble.

Someone almost bowled him over coming inside.  “Excuse me officer.  Need more soda pop.”

“Elijah?  Eliijah?”

The pop seeker yelled.  “He ain’t here!”

She came back into the hall and stepped closer to her.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well what the fuck are you doing in his house?!”

“Hey!  Calm down!  There’s a cop riiight theeere.”  She pointed at Park.

The messy lady was a little more clearly visible where the light of the kitchen came into the hall.  She was thin, with thick and strongly curled eyelashes but thin eyebrows.  She looked like she hadn’t changed clothes since the evacuations began.

“OK, fine!”  She gestured angrily as she spoke.  “Why are you and these boys in Elijah’s house?  Why are those people on Elijah’s lawn?”

“He knows us.  We’re just usin’ his food and nothin’ else.  He wouldn’t mind.”

Park waved from the entrance.  “We’re here but our priority is keeping people safe in the neighborhood.  You’re not from around here, but you knew the owner?”

She scrunched up in impotent fury.  “Yes I know Elijah.  I don’t know her!  I don’t know them!”

The boys didn’t like the look on her and jumped up, running past Park out to the lawn.  The game beeped and yelled at nobody, controllers on the scuffed up old hardwood floor.

Park took a step toward her and offered a calming gesture, palm down.  “You’ve been out there, right?  Fighting your way here to find your friend?  Listen.  You can just stay in this house.  Take a bath, wear some of his clothes, catch some real rest, OK?”

The soda hunter said, “Mm-mm, that’s between y’all.  I’m just gonna get this soda pop and get, alright?”

The skinny lady blew past Park to head outside again.  He turned to follow her.  She started asking party goers.  “You know where Elijah is?  You know where Elijah is?”

Park held the hammer behind his back and offered a sympathetic look to the people.  To a woman nearby, he quietly offered, “I can do something about her if you need me to.”  She shook her head.

“Ippy.  I know you.”  A Q-balled thirtyish guy with strong arms regarded the skinny lady.  Nobody turned down the music - some R&B diva going off the rails.

“I don’t know you.”

“We went to high school together.  You me and Elijah.”

“I don’t remember you.  Do you know where Elijah is?”

“Maybe he was at work when the shit went down, ended up evacuating before he got home.  I haven’t seen him since it all happened.”

She shook her head slowly and looked stricken.

The bald guy looked kindly, “Aw girl, it’s OK.  He’s probably fine.”

“I don’t have anyone.”  She turned around and went past Park back to Elijah’s house.

The guy looked hurt.  “What am I?  Chopped liver?”

Park followed her into the house.  In the living room, he got assertive.

“Ma’am, stop.  Look at me.”

She stopped in the hall and slowly turned.  Park did not like the look on her.  He’d seen the expression on other people before - like they had their own lives, whatever was going on was the most important thing in the world, and that every cop in the world could blow away and they wouldn’t care.

“You don’t have to stay here, you can do what you want.  But get a grip.  Clean yourself up.  I am not gonna let you have this hammer back unless you show me you aren’t unhinged.”

“Then keep it.  Go away.”

He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Iphigenia was glad to be rid of the cop.  A chance to go cry in peace.  She knew she’d never see her people again.  Everyone died or left her behind.  Her mind was spiralling the drain.  She went to Elijah’s room and walked toward the bed.

There was a big dark shape there - another woman, old, sleeping?  She had her eyes closed, head on a pillow.  But her breathing was steady and easy - not the kind of racket the average person made in their sleep.

No, Ippy did not have time for other people, awake or otherwise.  She went to the poorly maintained guest room.  It had a bunch of half-folded laundry on the bed and she just flopped across the top of them in that slimy stinking condition.

Park had dropped the hammer in a garbage can on his way back to the cop house.  Inside, he saw the poker game had ended prematurely.  Only Infante and Rickard remained, sitting on the couch and looking through a book of DVDs.

“Wanna watch a movie now?  What happened to the game?”

Rickard said, “I don’t know if I wanna watch something, really.  Just...”

Infante said, “The game just got … not fun.  We all started to get the creeps.  Maybe just ‘cause somebody mentioned it, then we all started feelin’ it.”

“Huh.  Yeah,” he looked at some kind of green stain on his hand from the nasty handle of the hammer, “It’s pretty creepy out there.”  He looked back to them.  “But that’s kinda strange.  You guys alright?”

Infante dropped the book, leaned back, and looked at Park.  “You alright?  You look like you’re sleepwalking but somebody wired your eyes open.”

Park felt like he was blushing and looked away.  “That bad, huh?  Fuck it, I’ll try to go to sleep.”  He made a few stops along the way, grabbing a harder beverage from the kitchen and looking around for more useful medicines.

There was still daylight coming through the windows and he shut the curtains as well as he could.  He took off his gun holster and hung it near the bed with care, then stripped to a tank top and boxers.  He turned off his radio, swallowed a ZzzQuil with a glass of ill-tasting rum, and settled down.

A few minutes later, still wide awake.  It was like his eyes didn’t want to shut, were made of lighter material than that.  He sat up, went to a corner and turned on a fan, then returned to bed.  The white noise helped, and eventually the chemicals did too.

***

Maddy and Jason had to hike up a very steep hill to get out of that neighborhood.  Exhausted, they took a rest stop at a lake.  It was surrounded by private residences and they didn’t know which might have some paranoid lingering homeowners with guns, but there was also a senior care home on the lake, and it felt a bit more safe.  There was just nobody in sight.  Not a soul.  Only a few ducks and geese wandered the surface, off in the distance.  Jason felt like splashing some of that water on his face, but knew it would be full of bacteria - and he still had open cuts from the crash.

“A place like this has gotta have a nurse, right?”

“Safe to say she’s out of town, daddy.”

“Ah, but I bet she left some supplies in her office, right?”

“I don’t wanna break and enter.”

“It’s alright.  Anyone would be understanding, given the circumstances.  We can’t exactly motor on over to the nearest urgent care clinic and get patched up, can we?”

“I guess.  But let’s do our best to not surprise anyone, OK?”

They knocked, they yelled, and they broke and they entered.  The place was bereft of human life.  Fortunately, as with most of their journey, there weren’t any corpses either.  Safely evacuated.  They improvised some medical treatment, ate some food, drank lots of water, and ultimately decided to call it a night.

In a room with two beds alongside each other, they laid themselves out.  Maddy insisted to leave the light on, but they lowered the blinds.

“We’re doin’ good, hon.”

“Oh really?  I don’t think so.  I messed up pretty bad today.”

“I would’ve done the same thing at the wheel.  Don’t think about it.  Listen.”

“What?”

“We should steal a car tomorrow.”

“Whaaat?  No!”

“It’s gonna be a reeeally long hike down I-5, Baby.  We shouldn’t have to do that.  You know I avoid talking about the … bad men, but do I have to remind you?  The plan was to breeze by them.  Eighty em’s pee aitch.  Can’t do that on your Keds.”

“They’re New Balance and… I just don’t think it’s good.  Everyone is going to come back, and lots of people are gonna find stuff stolen.  We shouldn’t make anyone go through that.”

“Well listen then, I got an idea.  When we take the car we write down the license plate and make, all that.  And then we use the information to find the people, let ‘em know we’ll cover the damage.  Right?”

“...I guess.  I guess so.”

“OK, snuggle up buttercup.  Let’s catch every Z and make ‘em our bitches.”

“*snrk* That’s horrible.  Good night, Daddy.”

“Good night, Princess.”

Outside the blinds, outside the glass, the night air swirled in an unnatural miasma.  The world was changing.

***

Ippy had cried herself to sleep, hugging Elijah’s clean laundry, making it filthy.  But in the night, her eyes popped open.  Somebody was mumbling.  The old lady in the other room.

She sat up, felt like her body was turning into a statue and she interrupted the process rudely.  It protested by making her movements embarrassing and stiff.  She staggered into the hall, footsteps as light as she could manage, and leaned against the wall outside Elijah’s room, listening.

The lady’s voice was quiet as if she wasn’t talking to anybody, expecting anyone to hear.  And yet, she said, ”Iphigenia.  Come and hear.”  Ippy’s body threatened to freeze solid, her eyes widened.

She went inside, feeling along the wall, not sure if she should turn on the lights.  She decided not to.  “Yes?”

“The Sibyls sing.  Will you listen and understand?”  Her body was still.  A shape.  She was breathing evenly between her quiet pronouncements.  Eerie.

“Not like I have anything better to do.”  Ippy almost choked on her words, but then she took halting steps forward, tried to bend her ear.  The old lady was so quiet.

“They never mattered.  You do.  The murderers will come to you, come to die.  They will break upon you like water.”

“What?  How?  What do you mean?  How can I--”

“It doesn’t matter.  They didn’t matter and their deaths will not matter.  But you do, Iphigenia.  If you only think of them you won’t understand.”

She was standing loose in a midnight blue void.  No light, no understanding.  “Fine, fine.  What do I need to understand?”

“The murderers opened the door.  What comes through will change the world.  But you will decide.  Your hand will decide what that means.”

“I don’t care what it means.  Not now.”

“The die is cast.  Alea iacta est.”  She moaned louder than anything she had said, moved fitfully.

“Ah, are you OK ma’am?  You need help?”

The moaning almost sounded like crying for a moment, but then faded away.  She propped herself up.  “Oh girl.  Can you help me get to the bathroom?”

“Yes.  I can do that.”

It wasn’t easy.  The old lady was closer to four hundred pounds than three hundred, but she put in enough effort of her own to make the move possible.  “Oh Honey,” she said.  Her voice had dropped to the soft tone of her prophesying.

Ippy listened close in case there was anything else to glean.  “Yes?”

“You smell really bad.  God love you, but you need to wash yo ass.”

***

Park’s skull was a house and he was living inside.  He had no curtains.  The miasma of the changing world could pour right in if it wanted to.  Maybe surface tension kept those clouds at bay.  There was a light behind them as well, like the brightest sun trying to get through.  He didn’t want to experience that sun.  He knew it was going to hurt.

He sank into the bottom of his cranium, ass wedged into the dip where the brain stem passed the bony cage.  He covered his eyes and hoped it would go away but the light was getting stronger.  He dared to look and up above, his fontanelle was opening again.

The plates of the upper part of the skull were coming unseamed, a star-shaped light streamed through.  The miasma didn’t reach up there, only that illumination.  With the photons came sound waves, rippling through his body, pinning him in place.  A ring of swarthy old white men stood at the edges of the opening, looking down on him.  They were wearing various togas or standing nude but for sandals.

“What the hell?  I’m trying to sleep!”

One opened his mouth, then another, then another.  A humming sound increased.  He began to know things.  He knew they were the Oracles and that their light was going to consume him whether he wanted it or not.

The light, the knowledge, took shape.  He beheld a vision.  At first it was a relief to escape the weird scene in his head, but he still felt the vibrations and heat passing through his body, and knew it was just a vision of the future.

He was in a throne room.  Infante was suspended from his wrists, stripped to the waist, sweating.  A pale, smiling, red-haired white woman was seated on the throne towering above him.  The throne itself was carved to resemble a camel, head snaking up from between her legs, and a massive bone crown sat above her heavily painted face.  She looked ten feet tall, wide at the bottom with huge thighs, spoke in an unknowable voice.  Every word she said caused Infante pain and he jerked on his chains.

Another creature was behind her, even larger, horned, cloaked in shadow.  And then someone stepped in front of her, holding a familiar hammer.  Park couldn’t see her face but he recognized her big black hair, her dark brown hands.

Then Infante began to scream, distracting him.  He turned around and saw the young man’s body tense, muscled, dripping with sweat.  And his face was taut, wracked.  Something terrible was going to happen.  Park felt his pain and his heart almost burst.

Snap.  Back in his skull, then rolling out of bed.  He hit the floor face first and hurt his mouth and ribs.  Did he bite his cheek?  No, but the inside of his lower lip was pressed between teeth and the floor enough to break skin.  And he needed to go to the bathroom badly as well.  He used the bed to climb up to his feet and staggered that way clutching his belly.

After finishing his business there but before cleaning up, the cop sat on the toilet, his head in his hands.  Must’ve been the ZzzQuil.  He’d never used that stuff before.  But somehow he knew that wasn’t true - knew that he’d seen the future.

“The oracles sing,” he said quietly.  “The story is already written.”

Somebody knocked on the bathroom door.  “You alright in there?”

“It’s occupied, Rickard.  Fuck off.”

***

Morning sun coming from on high in the east, streaming over the hill down into the valley of ghost cows.  The red manure haze hadn’t been kicked up yet, fog still clung to stands of trees near houses and around the road.

Blood and glass covered the road like marble.  Alongside the road, along and under.  The mud was red.  It could all be blood.  There could be so much blood that it would mean somebody was surely dead, and you wouldn’t know because the mud was so red.

Tangled roots in the embankments just teased at a notion of escape but there could be none.  They were too thin and the earth too loose to offer a sure grip.  You’d just be pulling carrots too easily, like Bugs Bunny having a good day.

Maddy was in that muddy ditch again, but it was deeper and the car was more mangled.  She was so worried about her father but he was hard to see through the spiderwebbed glass and maddening distortions of the twisted metal.

Plus she had the monster up on the road to deal with.  What had it been?  Had it lived?  Would it come for them?  She kept glancing up there, half sure she was seeing glimpses of it.  No, she thought.  She would get daddy out and he would be able to stop it.  She knew he would be OK because she had already done this before.

“Just another minute, Baby.  Gotta adjust my baby seat, haha.  That’s all.”

He just kept making inane statements of blithe positivity.  Things that didn’t even make sense.  Was he crazy from blood loss and shock?  Would he go into a coma?

“Nobody keeps a good man down.  I’m like a rodeo made outta dynamite.”

“...I’m working my way up to it.  I’ll get out of here and do a tap dance just to show you how OK I am.  Or make a sausage outta one of these cows.”

“You never knew your mom as well as I did.  She could turn a Vietnamese submarine into a pretzel with her nose.  She was my queen, Princess.”

She banged and slapped the metal, shrieking, hoping he would hear her over his mad droning, knowing he wouldn’t.  She left red handprints up and down the car doors.

Suddenly the car door popped free and open.  She fell against the embankment, looking in at her dad with a sense of fear that she didn’t understand.  He was just sitting there coyly, hands in his lap, thumbs together, smiling.

“Hi, snookums.”

“You have to… to get out...”

“I told you I could do it.  Just let me stretch my legs for a minute.”

He started pushing himself free of the driver’s seat using only his legs.  He kept his hands clasped over his belly, body leaning back in that casual pose.  His legs finally popped him free of the dashboard and began lifting him into the air.  They were too long, too thin - and covered in bark like birch trees.

Maddy woke in a panic, but settled down once she remembered where she was and once she realized she’d been dreaming.  She composed herself and dragged Jason out of bed.

As she tried to penetrate his foggy morning demeanor, she became possessed by a worry that the longer they took getting to the Beacon Hill safe zone, the more things could go wrong - the worse the situation would get.

Jason kept up his sunny demeanor, but went along with her demand for urgency.  They decided that cars from businesses or apartments would be less likely to have angry shotgun grandpas protecting them, and set to finding one.

At last they found a business with a garage that they were able to break into.  The sun outside had just finally fully risen, but they were in relative darkness.  Jason found the key that corresponded to the company car they were going to steal - a charcoal grey Prius advertising pest control on the doors - and pushed its buttons.  With a beep the thing came to life, signal lights gleamed on their lowest setting.

“Paydirt.  And the phone number for the owner is right on the side.  How do you like that, Baby?”

“Thanks for listening, dad.”  She poked around in the gloom for a button to open the garage door.  They were able to get their bodies in through a side door, but would need the big one rolled up to get the car out.

Suddenly they both became aware of a sound growing, coming closer.  A marching band?  One so big it shook the earth.  Maddy had found the switch she needed, but she didn’t dare flick it.  Instead, she gripped an exposed structural beam for dear life, half expecting it to grow into an earthquake.  She looked at her father and he looked at her face, etched in confusion and fear.

The rumbling definitely was coming from whatever was making that music.  It was a cacophony of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “March of the Gladiators,” and … Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball”?  The sound and the vibration made it clear, this band wasn’t just marching down the thoroughfare - they were a line stretching from one horizon to the next.

At its horrid climax, the sounds were from all around them, they could hear bodies and metal slapping against the outside of the garage, hear feet running over the roof.  Maddy jumped and collapsed as shadows began to fall in front of the nearest window - the players leaping down from the roof to continue their mad dash over the world.

And just when they thought it was for sure moving away, that their fear could diminish, they heard a joyous voice cry out - echoed by another a hundred feet away, and another.

“QUEEN BYMAAN WALKS THE EARTH.  THOU ART HEREBY SUBJECT TO THE AUTHORITY OF EXALTED LUCIFER!  YOURS IS NOW THE KINGDOM OF HELL!”

The voices died down, piping up again barely audible in the distance, following behind the line of the great unholy band.

“Baby, um… Oh no, Baby!”

She was collapsing under the weight of terror.  He jumped over the car hood to get to her as fast as he could.  Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape, head lolling.  Jason took his daughter in his arms, kissed her sweaty temple, held her close.

“Don’t worry about that, Honey.  It’s nonsense.  Just some… nonsense...”

***

 -   Next    -

     -

[disaster-goose]

This is the story of how I tried to access mental health help in the United States and how it only made everything so much worse. It’s not meant to discourage anyone from asking for help or from taking medication if they need it. I just need to write it down, because at the moment I am on the verge of a panic attack and I need to do something with my hands. So I’m going to tell you the story. 

This is a long post, so I’ll save you all and put it under a “Keep Reading”

Content warning: This post contains discussions about mental health, including suicidal ideation and self harm. 

A little background: I was diagnosed with depression and PTSD when I was 14. I spent my teens and early twenties on various SSRI Antidepressants that only made things worse. I was extremely emotionally unstable. I was so unstable that I had a modified education plan in high school. My therapist had meetings with my school. That’s how serious it was. 

Sometime in my twenties, I stopped taking medication. I went to therapy. I got a degree in Psychology. I went to grad school. I left my abusive ex. I came out to my family. I got away from the toxic people in my life. My depression went into remission. I say remission because once you have depression, you’re always at risk of another episode. That’s just reality. 

Last fall a lot of things went wrong all at once. I had a huge falling out with my family after I put my foot down and refused to tolerate my mom’s manipulative behavior. I was on the verge of going no-contact. Two weeks later my dad was diagnosed with cancer. I was consumed by guilt. 

At the same time I was dealing with financial problems, physical health problems, and a variety of life stress that I wasn’t coping with very well. 

In October I spent two weeks in my home town while my dad received cancer treatment. Being in my home town was hard. I revisited a lot of painful memories. 

In November... Well, we all know what happened in November.

In December I called my mom. It was a few days before Christmas and I called for a friendly chat. I had decided we wouldn’t talk politics. She decided that we would talk politics. It was bad. I hung up the phone and fantasized about all the ways I might kill myself. I can’t even remember Christmas. 

In January I saw my primary care physician (Lana) for a follow-up on my various health conditions. In the fall I’d been told that I was critically anemic, so anemic it might kill me if I didn’t get it under control. By January not much had improved. Because I’d previously disclosed a history of mental health issues, my appointment included a depression screener. I was severely, dangerously depressed. 

Lana said she would refer me to the in-house counselor (Bret) who would then refer me to the in-house Psychiatrist (Colleen). Both of these people were so overbooked and overworked that it would be months before I could see them. I was hopeful. I wanted counseling. I wanted someone to sit with me while I unpacked my guilt and grief. 

Lana warned me that she was leaving the practice soon and that while she would be comfortable prescribing medication for my depression, none of the other doctors in the practice would prescribe psychiatric medications until I saw the Psychiatrist (in three months). 

I didn’t know how I would survive those three months of waiting, but I didn’t want medication either. I just wanted a counselor. I told her about how bad I reacted to SSRI antidepressants. I told her about the instability, the self-harm, the constant suicidal ideation. She agreed that SSRIs were a bad option for me, she thought I had Bipolar 2 (which is like classic Bipolar except the manic episodes are less severe. People with any kind of Bipolar disorder should not take SSRI medication alone. It causes exactly the kind of mood destabilization I’d experienced. 

Lana told me about a drug I’d never tried before. Lamotrigine. It’s a medication for seizures that has shown some promise in treating bipolar disorder. Before agreeing to take it, I did tons of research. A lot of people liked it. A lot of people called it a miracle pill. It had very few listed side-effects, as long as you weren’t one of the rare unlucky people that got a potentially deadly rash. 

I filled the prescription for Lamotrigine, but I waited to take it. I wasn’t sure. I had managed to get an appointment with Brett sooner than I’d expected, so I waited to see him. 

In the meantime, my most recent lab results came back. I was still severely anemic, and apparently I was also severely vitamin D deficient. Anemia can cause symptoms that mimic depression and low vitamin D can actually cause depression. 

I had my first appointment with Brett. I hated him instantly. He was smug. He didn’t listen to me. He was more concerned with filling out his case notes than actually talking to me. He was upset that I hadn’t started the Lamotrigine yet. He was dismissive of my concerns. He put “Noncompliant” in my chart. He talked down to me. I told him that I had gone to grad school and studied counseling psychology. He still talked down to me. 

Lana had said that Brett would do an intake and refer me to a counselor. “I just have to suffer through one intake with him,” I told myself. As it turns out, there are no other counselors. There isn’t a single other counselor within 50 miles of me that takes my insurance. The “counselor” Brett referred me to was himself, and because of the overburdened mental health system, I was entitled to just 20 minutes of “counseling” every two weeks. Five to ten of those 20 minutes were spent on a depression screener and the rest were consumed by Brett tapping away at his computer to fill in his case notes. 

During one session Brett told me to choose a word that represented a “safe place” and to repeat that word to myself when I was anxious or upset. In another session he told me to dunk my head in a bucket of water when I was having a panic attack. 

After a particularly bad session wit Brett, I go home in tears and call my insurance company and every counselor in my town. No one accepts my insurance. No one can help me. 

In four months of bi-weekly sessions with Brett, he has never once asked about the events that precipitated my depressive episode. He never asks me about ANYTHING except my work life and my relationship. Every session he forgets the details of both. 

After two horrible sessions with Brett, I caved and started taking the Lamotrigine out of pure desperation. Because of the risk of a life-threatening rash, I had to increase my dosage very slowly over the course of two months. In those two months nothing improved and my anxiety actually got worse. 

In May I finally increased my dosage of Lamotrigine to a theraputic level. I met with Colleen (the psychiatrist) and liked her immediately. She listened to me. She respected my autonomy. She considered the physical, psychological, emotional and social aspects of my depression. She told me to give Lamotrigine a try and see her again in two months. 

It’s June and I’ve been on a therapeutic dose of Lamotrigine for a month now. Every day feels worse than the last. I am so anxious that I have to take sleeping pills to get to sleep at night. I’m so depressed that I just want to lie down and go to sleep in the middle of the day. I cry over small frustrations. I am plagued by intrusive thoughts and obsessions (new symptoms that I’ve never experienced before). I put clothes in the dryer and obsess over the idea that the dryer will catch fire. Car headlights flash in my bedroom window and I am consumed by the idea that home intruders are coming to kill us all. 

In the evenings when I’m done with all of my responsibilities, I obsess over the idea that if I just cut myself I’d feel so much better. The thought replays through my head over and over, like a fucking Linkin Park song that won’t get out of my head. 

I feel dull. I feel flat. I can’t enjoy anything. I feel emotionally disconnected everyone around me. I have two emotional states: numb and angry. 

I try to distract myself with my hobbies, but I’ve lost interest in everything. I play Stardew Valley for hours. I don’t enjoy it anymore, but it’s calming. It’s something to do. It’s something to keep my hands occupied. 

Besides all these psychological symptoms, I’m physically sicker than I was before. I have headaches every day. I grind my teeth and now have to wear a night guard so that I don’t wake up in excruciating pain. My neck is so tense that I can’t turn my head. 

A few days ago I had another session with Brett. I tell him all of this in detail. I describe the intrusive thoughts, the new symptoms, the misery. I tell him I feel worse than I did before. He taps away on his computer, sending a message to Colleen. 

Brett reframes my statements and says that my mania is well controlled but that my depression is lingering. I wasn’t manic to begin with, so how is my mania now well controlled? I tell him firmly that this isn’t lingering depression. This is something new. It’s horrible. It’s intolerable. It’s worse than it was before. I look at his screen as he types away. I’m now “high risk”. 

This morning I woke up to a call from Colleen. Despite all my efforts to explain things clearly to Brett, the message he sent her includes none of my own words. He’s told her that the medication is controlling my mania very well and that I have lingering depression. His notes don’t include anything about the new symptoms, the obsessions, or the intrusive thoughts. 

I spend 30 minutes explaining myself all over again, but Colleens’ judgement has already be clouded by Brett’s assessment. I can already imagine exactly what my case notes say. “Non-compliant, poor insight, high risk.” I know what my case notes look like because I had peers just like Brett when I was in grad school. Arrogant pricks who couldn’t listen to what their clients were saying. I wouldn’t be surprised if my file also includes something like “suspected borderline personality disorder” because even though I don’t meet any of the criteria, I’m a woman, I’m queer, and I have a history of self-harm. Often, that’s all it takes. 

Fortunately, Colleen isn’t like Brett. She respected my autonomy, and though her tone indicated that she thought I was making a mistake, she respected my decision when I said I wanted off the Lamotrigine. I explained to her that I wanted to consider the possibility that this depressive episode was triggered by physical problems (Anemia, Vitamin D deficiency). She said she understood, but she seemed skeptical. She gave me instructions on how to safely discontinue the Lamotrigine, and what dosage of Vitamin D to take. 

I see Colleen again in a month.  She will probably be waiting for me to crash and burn before I agree to try another medication.

I see Brett again in two weeks. He will write “Non-compliant” in my case notes again and probably tell me to stick my head in a bucket. 

I still have no access to a counselor. 

[allyinthekeyofx]

Affirmation 4/5

Missing scene and post ep En Ami

Part one Orison here

Part two Per Manum here

Part three Sein Und Zeit here

This chapter contains possible TRIGGERS.  If you are at all unsure please PM me for clarification.  Scant fluff in this one - just raw, angry, hurting from Mulder’s POV

Four

I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt angrier at her,

In fact, anger doesn’t actually even go halfway to describing how I feel. Try hurt, disappointed, unimportant, insignificant even; incensed to a point where I was afraid to even fucking look at her for fear of what I might say as I braced myself rigidly against the door frame in my apartment, listening to the shock and disbelief in her voice as she tried to persuade herself that the risks she had just taken had been worth it. To her, to me and to the whole of the fucking human race, promises and assurances made to her by a man who has wrought more pain, more destruction and more suffering on both of us than should ever be reasonably possible; a man who has shattered our lives – her life – in ways that are unimaginable.

And yet she trusted him.

She fucking trusted him.

More than she trusted me it would seem.

I had received the call from her, finally received it when she was around an hour away from DC. Not when she got in the car to start the long drive back, not when she had put a reasonable distance between herself and that black lunged double-talking fucker who had duped her so effortlessly, not even when she had stopped to fill the car up with gas when she got halfway home. Instead, for reasons best known to herself, Scully had instead given me another five hours of frantic worry as my panic grew when Frohike reiterated for the hundredth time that they didn’t know how to find her, that she had covered her tracks so adeptly that for all intents and purposes, she had simply just disappeared. Ditching me far more effectively than I think I had ever managed during our long and chequered partnership.

In fact I don’t think I have ever felt a time when raw fear began to overtake me so completely that I literally began to fall apart from within. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function on any cohesive level as a million different scenarios flew through my mind, refusing to be quietened, refusing to be stilled, as I paced like a caged animal, backwards and forwards, trying to deny the unspoken truth that hammered at me relentlessly; that she was dead, that this time she wasn’t coming back. That the incomprehensible risk, the blind faith and blatant stupidity had sent her right to him, the fact that she had gone willingly the hardest for me to reconcile.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

And when she finally arrived at my door I couldn’t even bring myself to open it because for the first time since I have known her, I truly didn’t want to see her, afraid of how I would react, disappearing as I was in the destructive force of my own anger. Instead I ignored the sound of her knuckles against the wood, fucked if I would give her the satisfaction of seeing the relief that would surely emanate from every cell of my body just to look at her face, to see that she was indeed whole. She didn’t deserve that level of emotional exposure from me. So instead, after throwing me a bemused glance, Byers did the honours, greeting her in that soft, respectful way of his, that was this time, tinged with just a hint of regret that he was the one to welcome her back, that he knew it wasn’t what she expected.

But what did she expect? I mean really? 

Did she even have an inkling of what she’d done to me? She had started toward me, her eyes searching for mine even as I steadfastly refused to allow her that contact, ignoring her whispered imploration that wrapped itself around me as she spoke my name.

“Mulder”?

Instead I had briefly shook my head, turning away from her and heading into the kitchen; putting a distance between us, trying to calm myself enough so as not to wound her more than she would shortly be wounded.

Because I knew.

Oh yeah, I knew that she had been played. And that right then she didn’t.

And if I’m completely honest with myself, as I watched Langley reveal the truth that I already knew, that the disc she had risked her life for, risked our partnership and risked everything we had begun to discover about each other, was empty, finally speaking as I watched her plead with him to try just one more time, begging him with words unspoken to give her at least some tangible justification for allowing herself to be so truly and completely taken in. That she had behaved like a fucking rookie with no thought to her own personal safety, disregarded everything she knew, had been taught, had experienced at the hands of this power hungry lunatic, to blindly follow him; on a promise from a man who trades in lies.

“Enough”

And it was.

That one word, laced with more venom directed at her by me than I thought was even possible, was enough to stop her in her tracks, to make what little colour she had retained in the face of so much continued antagonism from me, drain from her countenance, as she abruptly closed her mouth and turned her eyes on me once again. Eyes that now glistened with unshed tears and which almost sent me across the room to crush her against me, to allow myself to forgive her for what she had done; for what she had risked.

Almost.

But I didn’t. I simply folded my arms against my chest and leaned against the doorframe, fighting myself to remain where I was, to not allow myself the luxury of telling her that it was okay, that everything was fine.

Because it wasn’t fine.

And it wasn’t okay.

In fact it was possibly the most heinous fucking thing she had ever done, even more so given the events over the preceding months that had finally been given voice and acknowledgment from both of us. The night in that dingy motel room where she had literally come apart in my arms, the aftermath of Pfaster threatening to tip her right over the edge, finally allowing ourselves to admit our own version of the truth to each other; a truth that had writhed and burned within us both for years and which had finally broken through the walls that we had so carefully constructed and kept patched up for so long.

The gunmen had certainly sensed the undercurrents; even Langley began busying himself with the equipment they had brought over at my request on learning just exactly what it was that Scully had in her possession – or rather what she thought she had – packing it away, unplugging leads, knowing that it was more than time for the three of them to leave before the storm that crackled ominously in the air finally broke. Because they knew that it was coming, oh yeah they knew.

Langley was the first to leave, almost running out the door in his haste to get away from us and under normal circumstances I might have found if amusing, but at the time nothing seemed very funny. Frohike was pretty quick to follow, but surprisingly, Byers paused, stepping right up to where Scully still remained standing, looking at that damn disc as though sheer will power alone would suddenly bring it to life in front of her, and he briefly laid his hand against her cheek, an awkward gesture of comfort given by this most reticent of men in response to my indifference of the circumstances and one which angered me and twisted something inside me in about equal measure. But I remained silent, non-reactive as he dropped his hand away and spoke the first gentle words she had heard since she walked through my door.

“I’m sorry Dana”

She nodded, before quickly turning away from him, a defensive action I had come to know all too well; a response precipitated by a desperate need to not show weakness when in the company of others. To close down any form of communication, be it verbal or physical that might elicit an emotional response from her.

And I ignored the pointed way he frowned at me as he paused in front of me, eloquently telling me to get a fucking grip before it was too late; to stop being so wrapped up in my own pain that I refused to even try to acknowledge hers. Because I didn’t need him or anyone else telling me how I should be feeling about the fact she had chosen to ignore the last three fucking months as though they meant nothing.

I remained in my position even as she stepped towards me, but now that we were alone I allowed myself to finally look at her, really look at her, watching her recoil as every emotion I had fought to keep control of must have shown themselves to her all at the same time, because I felt them, actually felt them break free from somewhere deep inside me, burgeoning, uncontrollable, destructive, forcing words from my mouth that snapped in the air like gunshots between us. In fact I think pulling my gun out and shooting her might have been easier on her.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Mulder…”

I didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear her excuses because there was a part of me that was afraid I would hear the same words coming out of her mouth that she had heard so often from mine, excuses given for all the times I had chosen to ditch her over the years. I’ve lost count of the amount of times she’s come after me to haul my sorry ass out of whatever proverbial creek I’d managed to get myself stranded in, what injuries I had sustained, how I had risked myself. But the difference, the fucking difference, was I had never once done any of it for purely altruistic reasons; unlike her, I had always taken one for the cause; not for myself or for my own selfish reasons.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

So instead of allowing her to answer, to give her the opportunity for justification, I simply turned away and grabbed at my coat from where it hung over the sofa back where I had thrown it earlier; when she was still missing; when I thought she was dead.

“You met him in offices in DC?”

Scully swallowed and nodded slowly, miserably casting her eyes to the floor, knowing now that it wouldn’t matter what she said, even if she counter-attacked with anger, that what she had done was wrong; and she at least had the sense at that moment to not challenge me on either my anger or my conviction.

“Let’s go.”

XXXX

I guess it was unfortunate that as my anger towards Scully started to fade, unable as I was to keep throwing verbal punches at her as the realisation finally began to hit her that she had been duped so thoroughly, hers began to build. Anger at me, anger at him, anger at herself, but mostly I think anger at this whole ridiculous situation; finding herself as she had, on the receiving end of my own desperate insecurities. Because it hadn’t been lost on me in the weeks since my Mother died that Scully was all I had left; my only safety net between myself and absolute freefall, that if I lost her I lost everything.

It had been a rough couple of months for us both I think – beginning with the whole Pfaster mess and my associated guilt which precipitated a strange period where once again, I was desperately afraid for her as she dipped and spiralled downwards as she fought against the way the whole experience had tainted her, finding then that even though she hadn’t fully healed, suddenly I was the one who needed saving as I fell apart piece by harrowing piece following my Mom’s suicide and the revelations brought to me that finally gave me closure on my sister’s fate. I had told her I had found peace and truly, initially I thought I had; until the guilt started right back up again, my dreams plagued by accusatory visions of those I perceived as having failed, Scully amongst them and I lost count of the amount of nights I woke up sweating and shaking; calling out to her in the darkness, bereft when I realised she wasn’t there with me.

But for the most part, despite ourselves, we had retreated from each other once again, neither one prepared to call the other into question as to what the hell had happened that we couldn’t seem to get past the final barrier that we had built up between us; denying ourselves anything more than the most minimal affirmation of everything we now knew we meant to each other; I have no idea as to our flawed reasoning and I know Scully has been as confused, as defeated as I have. And if I’m honest I know exactly why she chose to go with that chain-smoking bastard; because maybe by doing so she would finally deem herself worthy enough to be loved; finding affirmation that all the pain, all the hurt and all the sacrifice over the years might actually have been worth it.

That she was prepared to die for it; to give the whole fucking struggle some kind of meaning.

The knowledge makes me turn to stone inside; because this is Ed Jerse all over again. Only this time she really meant it; had been so intent on proving herself to be valuable, deserving of finally being able to make a decision that to her at least, actually meant something, that all commonsense just flew out of the window. And the fact I had been so wrapped up in my own misery, I hadn’t seen it coming; had lost sight of her somewhere along the way and the relief at her return had been so huge, so encompassing that I just couldn’t handle it and had instead turned it inwards, spun it on its head to give me justification for denying to myself everything she had come to mean to me, to rage at her when I should have been the one on my knees begging her forgiveness.

And I am terrified that my duplicity has now destroyed everything we fought so hard to build and which I sent tumbling down around us tonight when instead of actually listening to her, I waited until we were back in my apartment and then pushed her against the wall, blinded by a need to finally claim her, to take ownership, to wipe the thought of that cancer ridden bastard touching her out of my mind; grabbing her wrists in one hand while I roughly covered her lips with my own, running my free hand up and down her body, tugging at her clothes as she fought against me with a growing futility that finally stilled her as she began to cry, huge gasping sobs that finally, before I totally lost control, brought me to my senses as I dropped her wrists, stumbling away from her, appalled at such a monumental loss of control that I had only barely managed to keep in check.

And I almost collapsed when I saw the pain on her face as she dumbly turned her wrists over, seeing the fresh welts beginning to bloom against her pale skin caused by my rough, animalistic need of her; this woman who I would die for, who had only ever known or expected careful, reverent handling from me, stared at the fucking bruises that I had given her, inflicted upon her to add to the multitudes she had already received during her allegiance to me.

I didn’t even attempt to prevent her from leaving. Because what the hell could I ever say to make this right?

XXXXX

I can’t really remember getting to the bedroom; have no concept of when I decided to stop pouring the contents of the whiskey bottle down my throat. I keep it for medicinal purposes because really, I can’t stand the fucking taste of it unless it’s joined by copious amounts of lemon and honey, but tonight, since my mouth was tainted by the bitterness that can only be brought from the certain realisation that I had blown it; that finally I had succeeded in pushing away the one person on this earth who actually cared whether I lived or died, that I didn’t even taste it. I just wanted to sink in to oblivion for a few short hours.

I had almost called her, had almost called a cab to take me to her so that I might plead with her, to apologise; to seek an absolution I knew I didn’t deserve. But I didn’t. Because when it came right down to it I was just too ashamed to face her; afraid that she would just confirm my certainty that I had finally lost her for good.

The amount of alcohol I had consumed did numb me to a certain extent although I was painfully conscious that it was merely a temporary state; that tomorrow nothing would have changed. But it enabled me at least to sleep fitfully; to lose myself for a few short hours. But at some point I must have fallen in to a deeper sleep, because I didn’t hear her enter the apartment, didn’t feel the slight dip in the mattress as she slid in beside me, but I awoke to the feel of her arms around me, her body spooned against my back, one leg entwined with mine as I felt the soft hitching of her breath as she shed scalding tears that made me burn with shame; shame that she had found a strength to save us when I hadn’t been able to. Dana Scully, my light in the darkness and a thousand times stronger than I could ever hope to be.

And as I brought my hands to entwine with hers, silently thanking her for trusting me enough to be able to even do this, I knew that right now we weren’t okay. We were a million miles from being okay. But we were together. And maybe, just maybe, we would find a way to stay that way.

Concluded chapter five

[lillieminaya51-blog]

Vanished Orlando Full Listing

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